Ianto winds up with something that is essentially fried fish sandwich (he really had wanted that sandwich) and a cup of dense, creamy soup he suspects might be Nadril's equivalent to a chowder. He's seeing a lot of fish for them in their future here, but he doesn't really mind. So long as they're not serving him anything fermented. He's got a fairly adventurous palate, but he's not going to go that far.
Shrugging out of his jacket and boots, he untucks his own set of photographs and sets them down as well. Moving to sit cross-legged on the bed and playing with his sandwich as he tries not to let himself look over John's things without the other man in the room. 'That guy', John says, and Ianto can't help but feel a little amused to hear him refer to Jack in such a way as that.
"Before that," he replies, turning to glance at the bathroom door over his shoulder. "My boss at Torchwood London. Yvonne Hartman." He turns to glance down at his hands, moving to shuffle back to the photograph of the pair of them in her glass-walled office at the top of Torchwood tower. God, had she always really shown off quite that much cleavage?
no subject
Shrugging out of his jacket and boots, he untucks his own set of photographs and sets them down as well. Moving to sit cross-legged on the bed and playing with his sandwich as he tries not to let himself look over John's things without the other man in the room. 'That guy', John says, and Ianto can't help but feel a little amused to hear him refer to Jack in such a way as that.
"Before that," he replies, turning to glance at the bathroom door over his shoulder. "My boss at Torchwood London. Yvonne Hartman." He turns to glance down at his hands, moving to shuffle back to the photograph of the pair of them in her glass-walled office at the top of Torchwood tower. God, had she always really shown off quite that much cleavage?