Fandom: Torchwood

Characters: Ianto, Jack

Author: m_findlow

Rating: PG

Length: 3,154 words

Content notes: none

Author notes: Written for Challenge 337 - Feast or famine

Summary: Jack and Ianto have completed negotiations but there is still one big sticking point not yet addressed.

I gently prod the meat on the plate with my fork, trying not to make the action look too obvious. It sort of looks a bit like fillet mignon but I’ve learnt that it’s best not to ascribe Earth-based similes to food on alien worlds. It usually ends in disappointment. Nobody likes a failed promise of bacon, especially not a Welshman.

There’s an awkward silence around the table. Negotiations are over and this is meant to be one of those formal celebratory things, even if our hosts don’t feel they have much to celebrate. But when representatives from the Shadow Proclamation are asked to step in and steer those negotiations, there’s a customary obligation to be friendly. Or at least not unfriendly. There’s certainly enough food on the table to suggest that we’re meant to be perceived as welcome guests. I’m just not stupid enough to believe it. They say the art of diplomacy is saying “good doggie” whilst looking for a bigger stick. After tonight, I’ll just be glad to get out of here.

I cut away a piece of meat. I mean, it looks like meat, even if it’s bright orange. It smells like meat too, and right now, I’m starving. It’s been a long day and food wasn’t on anyone’s minds. That and arguing with Jack always saps my strength. Scarcely ten minutes alone in our quarters before we were summoned to join the delegation for dinner, but still time enough for an argument.

We can arbitrate the most bitter of arguments between warring nations, but we’re still not very good at keeping our own relations civil. I want out of here, Jack wants to stay and pick a fight. I know that this is totally outside of our remit, and Jack doesn’t care. The only thing we can both agree on is that despite having brokered an agreement, there’s still so much that’s wrong and in need of fixing.

The trouble with working in a diplomatic capacity is that Jack sometimes isn’t very good at it. Diplomacy has its place, but so does knocking heads together, if you’re Jack. His body language is like an open book if you know the signs. Tonight they’re all there, that tension in every muscle and the way his smile doesn’t meet his eyes. Just the fact that he has nothing to say speaks volumes. It’s taking everything he has not to open his mouth. Fortunately, moments shall talk between the other delegates has started up, creating a low him that will hopefully give him something else to focus on.

I bring the fork to my mouth. It’s not quite beef, nor the best I’ve ever had, but it’s okay. I get the full profile of flavour from it because it gets chewed an awful lot longer than usual. Hungry as I am, my attention is fixed on Jack. Please don’t say anything. It’s hard enough to convey that with a look across the table. It’s harder still just to somehow telepathically get the message to pass through the air like a radio wave hoping to get picked up by a satellite dish.

Jack’s cutlery slams down on the plate at just the wrong moment where there’s nothing else but silence for the sound to cut through. Everyone has turned their head to look at him, perhaps hoping it was just a case of butterfingers, but given the way negotiations have been going, I think they’re likely to have other presumptions.

I swallow hard, feeling the lump on meat struggle to work its way down, like there’s a whole bunch of bile in front of it, wanting to travel back up in the opposite direction. ‘Jack…’ trying not to make that one syllable sound snippy and confrontational is challenging. One of us needs to stay calm.

Jack’s steely blue gaze meets mine. ‘No, I’m not doing this.’ His head turns to the other seven people seated around the long table. At first I assumed that the seating arrangements were done so that we were on opposite sides, able to engage both the top and bottom bends of the table in conversation. One knows it’s rude to raise their voice to someone four seats away, but now I see it in a different light. One to my right, and three on the left, Jack diagonally opposite in the same three and one formation. It’s strategic. Flanked on both sides and kept far apart at the same time. Perfect if what you want is to prevent any civil unrest from your guests who are not precisely welcome, but tolerated.

‘We’re sitting here feasting on the best your little state has to offer whilst hundreds of thousands of your own people are out there starving to death.’

I cringe. Hello elephant in the room.

The delegate to my left, a tall and thoroughly dislikable man, sets his own cutlery down with a slow, annoyed patience and narrows his eyes at Jack. ‘The people have a choice to work and earn enough to procure food. Those that choose to strike must be made to see that the protectorate will not bow to protests. You came here to negotiate our mining rights from our… neighbours. Now that we’re forced into a state of giving up a third of our production, we cannot afford to pay them any more for the same work. If we cannot use their manpower to extract the minerals upon which our economy is dependent, then our own people must take their rightful place for the good of everyone. I feel we have made that clear.’

Jack’s hands balled up into fists on the table. ‘Your people don’t want to be slaves.’

‘It was their fault that the Callinaan government even discovered the encroachment past their borders from our mining operations. We prevented outright war with the Callinaan. They should be grateful.’

Grateful to whom, I wonder. They were perfectly happy to blow their “neighbours” to kingdom come just to protect their mines. Apparently borders don’t count when you’re two hundred feet below the surface. You can dig just as far as you like under them and call it yours. They were right about one thing though. If it hadn’t been for the mine workers’ protests, Callinaan would never have known they were being taken advantage of, forced to buy ore from a rival state that was theirs to begin with. Sovereign rights to base minerals and resources: that’s why we were even here to begin with.

Sometimes I wish I’d never gotten us into this. Strictly speaking, Jack’s got enough savings stored up that we’d never have to work again with the return he’s getting (not all of it which he pays tax on, but that’s a separate issue). But how long can you just holiday around the universe without getting bored? How long until we’d be at each other’s throats when we should be enjoying ourselves? How many times had we already stuck our noses somewhere they didn’t belong when we should have been sipping beers and working on a tan? It just made sense that we had to do something more. And we already knew people at the Shadow Proclamation. It only took me one call to put it forth as a concept with them.

Being part of their Diplomatic Liaison Group seemed like a natural fit for a bunch of ex-Torchwood employees – decent pay, flexible hours and lots of travel. Less world ending and life threatening danger. Win win. And it would keep our minds active – some more than others, since a DLG ambassador should speak at a minimum the five most common languages in the universe, English not being one of them, and Welsh definitely spoken nowhere else except a few hundred square miles on Earth. But still, personal development, big tick in that box, and keeps our pillow talk interesting, practising in different tongues. Right now though, it would be better if Jack wasn’t speaking at all, regardless what language it was.

The trouble with some of these assignments is that you can’t just stick to the brief. There’s almost always something more going on, but diplomatic immunity only goes so far. Everyone is tolerant when you’re there to broker an agreement for something they want. You always have to represent both sides. You can’t ever just be there to advocate for one party, otherwise talks would fall over in a heartbeat. Whoever has the Shadow Proclamation on their side is bound to hold all the cards. That’s why these things are done in pairs, so no one is ever truly just negotiating for one side. Our differing viewpoints is one of the things that usually makes us so good at this. We work together, even if sometimes that means working apart, one on each side of the table. You don’t accept an invitation to dinner like this unless one of you is attending a similar dinner hosted by the other party.

Tonight was different. The assignment was considered concluded. The border is to be respected no matter how far down it goes, meaning part of the mines now belong to the Callinaan. If the Obrevski want the ore produced over the border they can pay for it, at scarcely more than what it was costing them to extract it themselves. From an outsider’s viewpoint it feels like a no brainer deal. But politics are politics and you never give an inch to your political enemies, even if it won’t cost you anything other than pride. Pride is everything. It’s why so many of these things end up with a petition to the Diplomatic Liaison Group in the first place.

Jack’s about to open his mouth and say something I just know we’ll regret, so I cut him off, changing tact slightly. ‘That doesn’t solve the problem of the working conditions.’

I should know. I’ve done a stint in a labour camp working mines and the conditions were awful. These aren’t much better. But it’s not part of our assignment.

In fact, we’ve been sworn off getting involved on that front. It was in the briefing, all four hundred pages of it. I read it cover to cover three times. Jack… well, he skimmed it, I think. You know what Jack’s like. He knows a lot of stuff about how things work in different parts of the universe. He likes to work on instinct rather than get bored down in tomes historical and political briefings. He just knows stuff; had a feel for things and reading the room. But one of us should have an eye for the details. You never know when one obscure piece of information might come in handy. I prefer to do my homework, even spending a bit of time at the beginning of any assignment requesting access to local libraries and public documents from the planet or country in question, trying to get a complete picture of the political landscape. Sometimes our briefing documents are thin on details. The Shadow Proclamation can’t have a full historical record of every place in the universe. Some petitioners have never even been heard of until they make that first application. What we learn here gets added to what’s already been documented. Jack dislikes that aspect of the job most, but it’s just like the old Torchwood days. Veni, vidi, verbatim – we came, we saw, we documented it all and stored it in the archives in case one day it becomes useful.

One of the council delegates opposite me stiffens and sits a little taller in his chair. ‘The conditions are perfectly adequate. What more would you have us do?’

Jack scowls. ‘More stringent safety protocols, shorter shifts, better wages, or at least subsidised housing and food stamps would be a good start. Your people have their life expectancy cut in half the minute they walk in there. They can’t feed their families if they’re dead.’

All of it’s true, even if not expressed very tactfully. This government is greedy and selfish and completely failing their own people. And now their people are rising up in protest. A hundred history books on the French and Russian revolutions wouldn’t convince them that they’re on the precipice of something that will cost millions of lives in the fighting. Still the people need to fight. They’re out there, unemployed, starving and dying in the streets and we’re all sitting here doing nothing and pretending it doesn’t exist. It’s wrong, but one word against them and we lose all immunity. We could be arrested and tried for treason, sent to a gulag for a life sentence. The Shadow Proclamation would have their hands tied. Sure they’d mount a feeble protest, but one they knew we’d stepped over the invisible diplomatic line, they’d retract any actions to extract us. It’s a flaw in their system, but one you have to accept if you do this work. There’s a rulebook and it has to be followed to the letter. It’s the only way an intergalactic law enforcement agency can hope to operate.

I lean forward over the table, still conscious of the fact that I’m surrounded on both sides by so-called heads of state who are now bristling from the audacity we’ve shown in passing judgment on their governance. Mind you, these are heads of state who carry unconcealed weapons at their hips. Everyone around here does. Just not us. We have to remain unarmed and be searched daily. ‘Please forgive my husband’s outburst. He feels very strongly about miner’s rights given my family’s long history of coal mining.’

That grabs their attention so I keep going. ‘On my home world strikes and differences of opinion between the mine owners and their workers are a part of our collective history.’

‘Thatcher has nothing on these people,’ Jack mutters.

I throw a death glare in his direction that very clearly states “do not make this worse”.

The president at the head of the table gives me a curious look. He takes his time to finish chewing, drawing it out before reaching over to take his glass and swirl the alcoholic contents, sipping with equal gravitas. ‘Tell me about these protests,’ he says. ‘Presumably the workers eventually give in? As you say, they are starving out in the streets because they have no income. Work would assure them of that.’

I lie. It’s a massive gamble and now we’ve well and truly overstepped. Jack’s eyes blaze with concern about what I might be about to do and say but I divert my gaze away from them. I need to look these people right in the eye otherwise they’re sure to know I’m bluffing. Diplomats aren’t supposed to lie. That’s all I can bank on right now, that they’ll consider me above reproach.

‘Actually, those strikes forced the mine owners to the point where they were forced to pay well above a fair wage in order to get their workers back. Had they negotiated a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work, in safe conditions, both parties would have ended up coming to an agreement that was acceptable. Most mine owners went under, unable to get a single worker to come back because of their stubborn refusal to meet them halfway. The entire community economy crumbled and the workers moved away. I imagine the miners here might do the same if they were offered better pay and conditions in Callinaan to do the same job. From my recollection, the Callinaan have a free migration border for those who can prove they have gainful employment, don’t they?’

That got them. Half of these delegates are more than just useless politicians. They have their fingers in private enterprise as well. They’re riding the same gravy train as the mine’s owners. Like I said, I do my research before we get here.

The president is still gripping his glass but it hasn’t moved. ‘And they went without pay and food during all that time?’

‘Communities pull together in times of need. You’d be amazed at how long you can stretch goodwill when something is worth fighting for. Strikes can last years before anyone gives in, and those rainy day reserves of cans will only keep a mine going so long before it needs people back in it, pulling ore from the ground.’

‘How long do you think yours can survive?’ Jack asks, about as nonchalant as you like, as if he were asking them what the weather forecast would be for tomorrow, rather than outright asking them how long until a strike action would crush their biggest contribution to GDP. Maybe I have taught him a little diplomacy and tactics after all.

‘It’s… interesting to know some of your history,’ their president quietly replies. ‘Most of our dealings with Shadow Proclamation officials are not so… personal.’ It’s all just dissembling because we’ve made them jumpy and nervous about the idea that maybe they’re not sitting as pretty as they thought.

‘I’m only offering a contextual real life example. Hindsight is a valuable teacher.’ No need to rub it in any further. I think they’ve got the message.

‘We shall take it on advisement as we consider the future of our newly negotiated position. Now,’ the president began, setting his glass back down on the table, ‘I find that I’m rather more tired than I thought and you should excuse me if I take my leave. I suspect you too must be quite weary from so many weeks of detailed negotiations. Perhaps it was wrong of me to insist we all gather for a lengthy dinner. I’m sure you will be keen to return home.’

He stands up and his council of fellows also stand in deference to him. Jack and I are a little slower to stand, though still expected to observe the niceties, but it seems clear that dinner is over by a majority vote. As he exits the room, so too do the remaining delegates.

Jack’s hands find his hips as he puffs out a relieved breath. ‘Wow. For a second there I think you actually made my heart stop. I thought we were going to be spending the next fifty years breaking rocks in some penal colony. It was ballsy, I’ll give you that.’

‘Oh? Says the man who was making Iron Lady jokes.’ If anything was going to get us thrown into prison… ‘We should go. You know, before they change their minds.’

Jack stares wistfully at the table and all that food that has now been abandoned. ‘I was really hungry, too. You don’t think we could just…’

‘No.’ I’ve seen Jack try to take off with napery stuffed full of food like something out of a Huckleberry Finn novel. Shadow Proclamation ambassadors definitely did not steal, not even leftovers. A little hunger would be a fair price to pay for real social change.