The alarm was allowed one small beep before being brutally slapped by a large, long-fingered hand.

“Cachau bant,” Words muttered from the depths of a navy blue duvet, followed by a groan and more thick muttering, almost exotic in their unintelligibility.

Short dark hair appeared first, a nest of whorls and cowlicks and bits standing up at comb-defying attention. This was followed by a pillow creased face, eyes slitted very nearly closed so only the barest hint of blue pupil appeared, and a full, generous mouth currently pulled in what might have been called a pout had the owner been four years old.

Ianto Jones was not a morning person.

Another mighty groan and the duvet was flung aside as Ianto sat up, then stood quickly, knowing it would only take the tiniest hesitation to put him right back in bed and sleeping.

A huge stretch that threatened to drop his sleep pants onto the floor, a shift of said sleep pants before they could become something uncomfortable and wedgie-ish, and a scratch across chest and stomach, before Ianto slouched off towards the loo, finding his way down the hallway more from memory than wakefulness.

After peeing for an hour, a more thorough scratch and a bleary-eyed glance in the mirror, Ianto shucked his narrow stripe pyjama pants and flicked on the heater for the tub.

As he waited for the shower to heat up, he found himself thinking, not for the first time, about getting new fixtures, maybe one of those new single faucet units. Then he remembered just how much time he actually spent in his flat and dismissed the thought.

A too long shower, and a too quick shave that left a slight rash round his neck (although he was pleased to note the large ‘love bite’ Jack had left just to the right of his Adam’s apple a few days ago was pretty much gone) and then, with a towel slung low round his hips and another one around his neck, he wandered off to the kitchen, still moving slowly, although he was more focused, if not more awake.

He put the kettle on, dropped a bag of Yorkshire into a mug (World’s Greatest Brother! proclaimed the cup; a gift of horrific kitsch, but adequate size for the first tea of the day) and rummaged around in the refrigerator. The kettle whistled cheerfully as he crammed cold lo mein into his mouth and he poured out and added honey while compiling a grocery list in his mind.

Only after he’d finished the entire mug of tea did he consider moving. He was leaning heavily on the countertop and nearly half asleep again.

As he returned to the bedroom, he grinned ruefully as he imagined what the team at Torchwood 3 would think of their perpetually early, completely unflappable and always brilliant co-worker if they could see him now.

He tossed the towels into the laundry hamper with practiced accuracy and pulled on black Calvin Klein boxers and a matching vest (undershirt, Jack would call it, or a ‘beater’—Ianto hadn’t figured out that bit of slang just yet—but he would). Running a comb from the top of his bureau through his hair, he thought about how unfair it was that he seemed to be thinning already, and then, feeling the still damp hairs at the nape of his neck curling up, he imagined Jack running his hands through them and shivered. For once most of the hair was staying where he’d put it, so he opted not to add too much product—just a touch of wax to keep his quiffy forelock from flopping into his eyes—and then turned his attention to the tall maple wardrobe in the corner.

The Next suit was one of his favorites. Not just because the trousers were flat front and comfortably snug, and not just because he thought Jack might notice his bum in them. Certainly not. And not just because the material blend was warm enough for the archives or cool enough to stand next to the subetheric resonator, not to mention flexible enough for a Weevil hunt, if it came to that. And certainly not just because he liked the thicker pinstripe for it’s slimming nature (“Dofydd! Dwi fel coegfalch!” he murmured). In fact, today it was his favorite because he could wear it with the red Zara shirt and double stripe black and red tie he’d just gotten in the post less than a fortnight ago. The one Jack hadn’t seen yet.

‘Red is my colour,’ he thought, slipping the shirt he’d just pressed last night off its hanger and remembering something the saleslady at Next had told him. And with Jack going on all this week about those “cute red UNIT caps”, it only stood to reason that he should choose a little colour for himself. He pulled the shirt on and buttoned it leaving the top two open for the moment. The shirt was a dark, rich colour that he never would have considered wearing back in the day, when starched white and plain Marks and Spencer suits were his ultimate camouflage. But now…

He added the matching pinstripe waistcoat and brushed away a piece of imaginary lint, then finished the job by buttoning it up the front, completing the buttoning of his shirt, and using a half-Windsor to knot the tie.

The cufflinks had been a gift from Lisa, and he was glad that he could finally wear them without feeling the ache of loss that would have made it impossible a year ago. Now he could slip the HARRODS silver and onyx bar cufflinks into his shirt with a small smile, remembering how Lisa had presented them to him on the morning of the first birthday of his that they had celebrated as a couple, and add another wry grin as he remembered how they’d forgotten about them and torn his shirt trying to get him out of it that night.

Although he kept a stopwatch at the ready (just thinking about it brought colour to his cheeks) and had a Rolex that he’d received for work performance at Torchwood One, he slipped on a plain silver Omega with a thin black leather strap instead. It served its purpose and remained unobtrusive. “Like me,” he thought.

He smiled as he picked up one of the three Burberry belts sitting coiled in their basket on the shelf above his shoes in his wardrobe. The ecru plaid was a great belt for denim, the wide brown leather for clubbing, (he had leather pants to match but had as yet not worn them) but to complete his look today, he was going with black.

The thin leather belt had ruched leather ruffle detailing. The buckle was chunky black nickel branded with the trademark 'Burberry established 1856' inscription. And although only ¾ inches wide, it had cost him nearly half a month’s rent.

The thought of Jack’s thick fingers tugging at the prongs of the belt made it worth it.

It was amazing how much disposable income you had once you stopped making payments on a cyber conversion unit.

Smoothing out the waistcoat, he took one last look in the mirror, and then slipped on the jacket. Leaving it unbuttoned for the moment, he picked up his mobile and car keys from the top of the bureau, and gave the pictures of his sister, his mum and Lisa (each in its own small pewter frame) a smile, as he dropped the items into his pockets.

It had nothing to do with jealousy. Nothing to do with having to book a suite at the Barceló Cardiff Angel Hotel for a ‘Doctor M. Jones’ (never mind the name). Nothing to do with Jack telling him that Doctor Jones was a VIP guest who would be staying for an undetermined length of time, or the huge grin and far off look he got when he said it…

It was just another day at work. A day like any other, full of ups and downs, sheer terror and stultifying boredom, subtle flirting and maybe more than subtle flirting, and of course, their special guest. Their special VIP guest. Jack’s special VIP guest…

One last check of hair, suit, shirt, tie; a light daub of cologne (Armani Black Code—Jack had commented on it on a department store stake-out—no aliens, just very cunning shoplifters as it turned out—and he’d gone back the next day for a bottle of it), and he was out the front door and headed for the car a few minutes ahead of schedule. If traffic wasn’t too bad today, he might even have time to stop at Gregg’s for some of those crème buns that Jack had been craving lately.

No visiting-VIP-Doctor-surname-stealing-Jack-grinning-UNIT-commanding-wannabe stood a chance against Ianto Jones in full plumage.