I’m thinking ‘I know that voice from somewhere’, and then I turn around and there he is: Ianto Jones. Charcoal-black suit, nice waistcoat, dark blue shirt and matching tie. He looks genuinely pleased to see me. I ask if we’ve met and he says something like ‘actually, no, but I know you because--’. From there it gets fuzzy. I know we talk for ages and we laugh and ignore everyone watching us. It’s weird - almost like Jadzia Dax and Dr Lenara Kahn, pretending they don’t know everyone’s staring at them. Finally we go out into the garden because it’s late and some people are drifting home. We don’t care; we’re still chatting away and then he says something like ‘I hope you’re not thinking of going home’. I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about, so he explains that it’s his house and he doesn’t want me to go home so early.
Had the weirdest dream last night. Not just whoa-what-the-fuck-was-that but completely I-have-to-stop-eating-cheese-or-I-really-will-die-of-the-dream-side-effects.
It concerned myself and a party - a big party. Only when I arrive, my friends and my wee sister are there too. I’m on the doorstep, and then it opens without me ringing the bell (except I know I do). I go in the hallway and one of my mates waves me through to the front room. When I get there, everyone I like is there. Everyone is cool, everyone is happy, and everyone is pleased to see everyone else.
Anyway, I go in and reach the table at the far side - which, by the way, is laden with every kind of alcohol in the universe. Quite literally - there’s a huge punch bowl and it has reinforced legs, as if the contents are unbelievably heavy. There’s a ladle hanging by it with a sign that says ‘do not leave in the drink’, and then underneath that in big letters it says ‘PAN-GALACTIC GARGLE BLASTER. LIMIT ONE PER GUEST. WE’RE NOT INTO MURDER.’
I ignore this and go to the flavoured vodka instead, and they’ve got a Sodastream doing mango-ade (don’t ask). I add this to the mango vodka and I’m happy as Larry - who is standing across the other side of the room, talking to poor Will who keeps getting shot at. Anyway, next thing I know, someone’s trying to get past me to get to the mango vodka - the only bottle no-one else is touching. Whoever it is says ‘sorry, can I just get to the - bloody hell! I didn’t know you’d be here!’
One thing leads to another, and the next thing I know, we’re playing on the PS3. I think it’s Tekken - whatever version there is of that going around. Everyone else has gone home. Eventually the sun comes up and I realise we’ve been playing all night. Then he makes up a bed for me in the spare room and I go to sleep, really not caring about anything.
When I wake up it’s midday and he’s in the kitchen downstairs, making coffee (of course). I go down and we have a friendly argument about tea. I win, he agrees to get a Tassimo machine with English and Scottish Breakfast if it’ll make me come round more often, and then the rest of the dream descends into porn.
Like I said: weird.
I don’t even fancy Ianto. He’s like Sam Tyler. He’s... brother-ish. Kinda. Friend-ish. But there we go. Answers on a postcard, please.
Torchwood ~ Ianto Jones ~ Gareth David-Lloyd