|Tiptoe Through Torchwood
Author: Grayswandir PM
Dr. Beckett makes a trans-Atlantic leap into Ianto Jones. What happens when the body leaper meets the intergalactic play boy? JantoRated: Fiction T - English - Humor/Sci-Fi - Jack H. & Ianto J. - Chapters: 4 - Words: 4,990 - Reviews: 16 - Favs: 6 - Follows: 18 - Updated: 09-18-12 - Published: 08-09-12 - id: 8412912
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Title: Tiptoe Through Torchwood
Fandoms: Torchwood, Quantum Leap
Disclaimer: Torchwood is the brainchild of Russell T. Davies. Quantum Leap of Donald Bellisario.
~ JantoLeap ~
Samuel Beckett, doctor, adventurer, time traveler, had learned to cope with many different launches into many different people for a very long time. He had come to accept that leaping in could lead to some very awkward moments for both himself and anyone present at the time. For once, however, he landed himself into an innocuous situation. He stood before a kitchen sink, rinsing a sudsy coffee mug before setting it aside to dry. He could not help but swallow hard before further inspecting himself. Last time he leapt to a kitchen, he was a woman with three children and a dog. The rubber gloves he was wearing didn't bode well for his hopes of being male.
Sam stepped back from the draining dishwater, slowly peeling off the slightly sweaty gloves, bracing himself for the moment of truth. The suds covered gloves unveiled markedly unremarkable digits. Well, ok. They were his hands, after all. He only ever saw his own unless he stood before a mirror. One thing was noticeable from his hands, however, the nails were undecorated. One mark in the possibly male column. No wedding ring in evidence, another plus to this leap. Spouses were the worst part of any leap. The massively devoted were hard to shake and the inattentive were often the root of the problems. Or at least a nearby source.
Sam groaned as he spied what he was wearing. A flowery red apron was looped around his neck and tied around his waist. Resigning himself to yet another stint in womanhood, Sam set down the gloves and slowly unwrapped the apron from his body. Curiously, as he moved about to remove said apron, the long sleeves of a nicely tailored plum dress shirt had been neatly rolled up his arms. A navy blue vest, midnight blue dress slacks, glossy black dress shoes and a rich dark red tie finished off the ensemble.
Okay. Sam was a severely overdressed housemaid, or an extremely screwy individual of the male persuasion. He had difficulties deciding which of the two he preferred. C'mon, Al, where are you? I need some information. His silent summon yielded no holographic assistance. Well, time to explore.
Venturing out from the kitchen, Sam finally noticed the television set was on at a low volume. The program indicated the time to be roughly two in the morning. In disgust, Sam switched it off in favor of further exploration. Maybe the shock to the leapee's system is delaying Al. Probably think they croaked or something. Mentally slapping himself for such morbid thoughts, Sam continued his journey about the apartment. A short shelf sat next to the recently deactivated television set. Upon inspection it revealed DVDs, mostly of James Bond films. Must be really close to my time. Should make this a very easy assignment to work out.
Sam spied a door off to the side that must have been the entrance, if the variety of locks upon it were any indication. Opposite lay another door, this one obviously leading to a bedroom. Noting that he was feeling a bit exhausted, Sam decided that a relocation was definitely in order. Okay, first time I've leapt in at bedtime. Flipping on the lights, Sam appreciated that the room was orderly like the rest of the apartment. A double bed with a green bedspread and a well-organized closet; a chest of drawers with a neatly set box full of cufflinks. A simple armchair sat beside the nightstand closest to the closet. Very nice. A jaw-cracking yawn precipitated an exhausted groan. Bathroom, definitely. Rubbing his neck, Sam entered the en-suite and froze. The faint glow from the bedroom outlined his current body in the mirror. Stepping in, Sam flipped the switch. The reflection was a pleasant surprise. A young man, perhaps mid-20s, with short dark brown hair and a light five-o'clock shadow and light blue eyes stared back. Confirmed as male. Very good.
Another yawn attempted to dislodge his jaw. Sleep. Definitely need to sleep. Resolving to leave the remaining mysteries for a time when he might be able to concentrate completely, Sam swiftly collected a toothbrush and paste, absently noting the presence of a second, barely used brush as he completed the task. Finished, he dampened a cloth and wiped his face before retiring to the bedroom proper.
Crossing to the armchair, Sam slid the shoes off his feet as he unbuttoned the vest about his torso, carefully tucking the chain of the pocket watch into the vest pocket. Setting the vest down, he started on the shirt. Unrolling the sleeves, he neatly unbuttoned it, loosening the tie before gently tugging the shirt from under his belted pants.
He froze. A hard weight had knocked the small of his back.
Trembling slightly, Sam slid his hand around behind him. Oh, boy! Drawing his hand forward, Sam groaned. A semi-automatic, custom cast handgun emblazoned with the word Torchwood had sat in a holster on his person. Not again!
"Al! I need you right now!" Sam desperately hoped a verbal request might summon the vibrant colored specter. No luck. Sighing, Sam knew sleep was a long way off now. Rifling through the pants pockets, he pulled out a wallet. Unfolding it, Sam spied what appeared to be an ID. It looked different, not American anyway. Jones, Ianto Keiran. Born 19/08/83, Wales. Not good! This was the furthest Sam had traveled from project headquarters. Rifling through the rest of the wallet revealed no further revelations. Could be why it's taking so long for Al to talk to me. It is the first time we've dealt with information outside our own government. Shrugging off the tardiness of his Technicolor angel, Sam finished doffing his clothing, satisfied with his own reason for the absence.
Sliding between freshly laundered sheets, Sam breathed deep. Night, Al. See you in the morning.
A/N: Gyah! Attack of the crossover bunnies! Trust me there are more, but this is the only one that was insistent. No idea when I might touch on this one again.