Ianto glances up from the photo he has clutched in his hands -- a tent on a beach, Ianto running after a dog in the distance while Lisa sits laughing at him in the foreground. It's barely light enough to be able to make the scene out in the pre-dawn light, but he remembers the moment clearly.
He reaches to take this second photograph from John as he holds it out to him. Recognizing the scene in the image as well, if not the moment itself. Himself and Yvonne, in her office at Torchwood Tower. He looks -- young, so young, dark suit, white shirt, red tie, clipboard in hand. Working something out with her as Yvonne clutches a coffee he's brought her in one immaculately manicured hand as she no doubt quips something at him in return. She looks perfect, in her skirt suit, not a hair out of line.
And there are more photographs of his past there on the ground in front of them. Their camp in the Beacons, with the whole team sitting around the fire they never actually managed to light. Jack laughing at his own stupid joke, everyone else cringing, and Ianto mostly just looking uncomfortable. And another, of himself and Jack standing together in cold storage over a body. Jack leaning back against the drawers behind him. Ianto remembers this moment too. Some day we're gonna run out of room. And one more photo, this one of Ianto down in the cells while in the background a creature crouches and snarls at him in return.
He splays the photographs out in front of him, taking a moment to process it all, before he replies, "It's bloody bizarre is what it is. How did they get these photos? I know for a fact there weren't any cameras there at the time of some of these shots."
Edited (image links... maybe this is finally right now... if not gives up and goes to bed...) 2018-08-06 02:28 (UTC)
John could say the same thing. He carefully tucks the stack of his own photos out of the way inside his jacket for a moment, focuses his attention on the ones Ianto has spread out on the snow.
"Cute smile," he says, and gestures idly to the creature in the cells with Ianto. "Had some good dental work done there."
It's the first thing John picks up on, largely, because it's the most unusual thing in the range of photos -- and the least obviously personal. Anything else Ianto wants to talk about, that's his call. John has learnt a degree of caution in pushing him too much.
Ianto glances aside at the other man at the comment, offering him a light-hearted rolling of his eyes in return. Trust John to make a comment like that. He and Jack really would get along. Or hate each other in that way that truly similar people seem to do.
"That," Ianto says, gesturing to the alien in the photograph, "is a Weevil. Or that's what we called them, anyway. One of several we've got in the cells at the Hub. Jack likes to call her Janet. God only knows why." He shakes his head at the photograph, looking a little exasperated even with the memory as he repeats, "He always said it was because Barbara just never seemed right."
"No, she's definitely a Janet. He's right about that. Looks kind of cranky, though. She an unfriendly sort, or just got one of those faces?"
You know, stuck in a smile but actually a sweetheart underneath it all? The fact that she's in a cell implies otherwise but -- well, you never know. Todd was technically an unfriendly, creepy looking sort who they often held in a cell but he wasn't all bad.
"Oh, she would definitely rip your throat out if given half the chance," Ianto replies easily. "That's why she's in the cells, she was one of the first to go rogue. There's a whole colony of then under the streets of Cardiff, in the sewers. They eat -- well pretty much anything you can imagine you might find in a sewer, really." He glances aside at the other man. "It's the ones who venture out and develop a taste for human flesh that we had to keep on the watch for."
He studies the photograph for a moment, before continuing, "You know, they're actually quite intelligent. And telepathic, near as we can figure. And empathic. They can..." He hesitates, debating how much to explain about this moment in time, before deciding, "They know when another of their kind is suffering. So we try to keep them as comfortable as possible in the cells, once they become a danger to the public as a whole." He shrugs. "I suppose they understand that it's better than the sewers, anyway."
"I've had bad experiences involving intelligent creatures with bad teeth that get in your head. Only ours are a lot paler and more 90's goth."
Black trench-coats, evil villain speeches, creepy screams. You know. Generally, going full ham on the villain of the week vibe. They also do somewhat less literal eating of people, more... life-sucking. Which begs the question, what do they actually use their teeth for? John isn't sure he wants to know the answer, honestly. Probably creepy.
"90's goth?" Ianto raises his eyebrows a little at the image it creates, immediately trying to imagine a Weevil in much the same attire, but he just can't picture it in the end.
"Weevils seem to take to these boiler room jumpsuit sort of affairs," he explains, gesturing to what Janet is wearing in the photograph. "Like a janitor from hell, I suppose. They're not all that communicative, which is probably for the best in the end. God only knows what they think of us. We hear enough about all the problems with humanity from the other species from around the city as it is."
Ianto looks up at John as he stands, before back at the photographs in turn. As odd as it is that they exist in the first place, the idea that he wouldn't keep them sets him on edge.
"It doesn't really seem right to leave them lying about," he points out. "Even if they don't exactly have annotations of what they all mean, it's still..." He gathers the photographs in hand before moving to stand. "Their memory deserves better than to be abandoned out in the snow like trash, I suppose."
He shuffles through the stack of photographs once more. "It's a bit of a random selection," he observes. Yvonne. Suzie. Lisa. He glances up at the other man again before inquiring, "What about yours?"
What about them? John hesitates uneasily for a long second, struggling against something, then draws them out of the inside of his jacket with a slight wince. Stop hiding everything, he thinks aggressively, and takes a deep breath.
"Pretty weird mix too," he admits, and frowns down at the top of the little stack -- turns them toward Ianto. "You already know Holland," he says, as a vague sort of lead in.
Holland. Ianto takes a step closer to John to look at the photograph John holds out towards him. Recognizing one of the other man besides John, having -- well, not met him exactly, but -- seen him in John's memories the first few days they'd come down onto the planet. As he had lay dying on the sand before them. It sets a little pang in his chest, the bright expression on Holland's face in the picture, the look on John's.
He gives himself a moment to study the easy camaraderie between the little group of men photographed, their surroundings, their attire, since John has given him the opportunity to do so. He wonders whether the moment should mean anything to John in any way, or significant if only because it captures this friendship between them, as he glances up at the other man's face and comments, "He seems like quite the character."
He was, and even now John still feels the pain of loss. It may be buried deep, but John still misses Holland.
"That's -- Mitch, and Dex," he carries on, pointing them out in the photo. "They were, uh, killed outside Khabour. Chopper took an RPG when it touched down for med-evac."
Which is... a pretty definitive way to go. There was barely anything left to bring back for a military funeral. It's been so long since he's seen their faces and that he doesn't know how to feel, only that it's strange. Almost like a photo from another life, something that no longer feels real. Holland he's been reminded of recently, if unwillingly. This is a different sort of pain, a confusing, detached one.
Ianto studies at the faces of the men in the photograph and tries to connect them all with the ends he knows they met out there, in that desert. How it must feel for John to look at something like this and know that he was the only one to make it out of there alive. What were the odds of something like that, he wonders? How many other friends had he lost out there besides?
"I'm sorry," he says, which is probably the wrong thing to say, but he feels as though he should anyway. It feels a bit heartless not to, though he does his best to continue on to ask, "Did you all work together?" They certainly all served together, that much is obvious from the matching fatigues. But then again, Holland and John hadn't been in the helicopter when it went down. Ianto doesn't know enough about how the service works to understand it all.
They worked together. Flew together. He takes a deep breath, tilts his head for them to keep moving and stares blandly at the photo as he begins to walk. Carefully separating them he moves shuffles out the one underneath, picks it up and vaguely holds it out toward Ianto.
"That's Elizabeth I'm standing with. She was our original expedition leader. She was -- good. Not military, she was a diplomat. Smart, way smarter than me. Spoke a ton of languages, always had a level head on her. She cared."
Which was important to John. Atlantis was always a little more lax and human with its military regulations under Elizabeth, and that's the way he liked it.
Ianto steps up to walk beside him, reaching out to take the photograph from him to study it closer as John holds it out to him in turn. Their poses are easy together. Relaxed. Not that John isn't always sort of relaxed in some way, but this is his boss in the picture with him. Another 'good' person, in John's description. It's obvious from his words that he'd admired her. He tries not to think about the way he's speaking about her in the past tense and what it might mean for this Elizabeth in turn.
"All the best leaders do," Ianto replies. "Make you feel like you're worth something. Even on the lowest rung of the ladder." He glances aside at John, gently holding the photograph back to him. "Did you get along well?" He can only imagine what it must have been like, trying to keep him in line.
"We did. Didn't see eye to eye on everything, but -- we had the same priorities."
Keeping people safe. He takes the photo back and slides it into the stack, wets his lips uneasily as he thinks.
"Maybe we should get that drink," he prompts finally, because all these photos -- they feel like they belong in the same drink-requiring-territory as... everything else on their minds. Everything else unspoken, temporarily boxed up until the right team to set it free.
"I would hardly say no," he replies, glancing at his watch. It's not that early anymore anyway. They'd been at the second ship for a while, and now with the new discovery of these photographs... He feels like they both really do need it, in one way or another. He'd certainly prefer it himself, to be able to sit down and share these stories over a pint rather than out here in the open as they make their way down the street.
"Tell you what," he says, after a moment, sensing that John probably would like the spotlight switched off of himself for a while yet again. "You buy me a drink and I can tell you about my old boss, yeah?" Another one of the photographs in his stack, but probably the least painful loss of all of them. They'd never really been what Ianto might have called close. Maybe some of the decisions she'd made might even horrify the other man. But it would give him the chance to catch a break, for a few minutes at least.
John squints at Ianto in thought a moment, then glances out into the snow as they walk -- tucking the photos back into his jacket again.
"Something we can take back?" he prompts, because he's... not really into the idea of having heavy conversations in public. Not after his more recent track record of handling things in public. Maybe that's weird, but he's given up worrying about if what he says is weird for now. "Can grab something to eat too."
Ianto raises his eyebrows at the suggestion slightly -- he hadn't initially assumed that they would be taking it back with them, no. But it's not like he's got a problem with that. And John's sure to have a reason for suggesting it. Perhaps it really does bother him, talking about these photographs. A part of him wants to point out that he doesn't have to. But if he'll be more comfortable back at their room, he'll hardly argue otherwise.
"Yeah, alright," he agrees. "It's been a while since that porridge anyway." He shuffles through his own set of photographs before tucking them away as well. "A warm sandwich sounds pretty good, now that you've got me thinking about it. Do you suppose they'll have anything recognizable?"
"Porridge was kind of recognisable, so I figure why not?"
He spends the rest of the trudge back idly speculating on what they might have. Fish, he thinks, ice fishing is a thing. Lots of preserved meat. Smoked things. The more he talks about it, the hungrier he gets -- so when they finally get back to Central John is glad of both the warmth once more and the food. He picks up a thick, salty soup he can carry in a cup and some bread -- swipes a few bottles of alcohol and takes it back toward their room. Shouldering his way in John sets the soup and bottles on a side table, drops the wrapped bread onto the bed and begins shrugging off his jacket. The photos splay across the bed beside it as he dumps them out-- John, Mitch, Dex and Holland in their desert gear, Elizabeth and John by the balcony, John standing with two different people on a different balcony, a more harried scene indoors, and a small gathering in some kind of cell with a creature dressed in a way that distantly evokes 90's goth.
John moves to hang up his jacket, then ducks into the bathroom to quickly wash his hands and face a little. To generally clean up and warm up.
"So," he begins idly, "when you say your boss, are we talking about that guy or before that?"
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?
Ducking out the bathroom again John scrubs his face with a towel, pauses by the bed to peer over Ianto's shoulder at the woman in the photo more closely before stepping away again.
London. That rings a bell. When Torchwood London fell, after the smoke cleared, it was like. They forgot about us. So she's probably not alive anymore either. So many photos of dead people.
"She looks fun," John offers, and sets his towel back with his things -- moves to sit on the edge of the bed and begin unlacing his shoes. "More fun than the last boss I had. Richard Woolsey. Liked to try and do everything by the book, but we wore him down."
Ianto glances up at John over his shoulder before back down at Yvonne in the photograph.
"She was a bit, I suppose," he replies, surprising himself. "I thought she was pretty brilliant at the time. She gave me a job. Promoted me up through the ranks to her personal assistant in only a few months' time. And she changed the whole atmosphere of Torchwood from how it used to be anyway."
"Queen Victoria didn't much care for the well-being of the nice aliens when she established the agency, you see. At least Yvonne..." Ianto makes something of a face, recalling all of the mishaps that had happened under the woman's command. How many people they'd lost. How it had all worked out, in the end. "At least she tried," he finishes, with a bit of a wince, before setting the photograph aside and reaching for his sandwich.
John sets aside his shoes and grabs his cup of soup -- takes a sip and turns sideways on the bed, one leg drawn up a little so he can study Ianto's expression more easily.
"Personal assistant, though? You know, that explains why you're so organised."
What with the fussing about cleaning things and cooking and laundry. He wonders, idly, if this means Ianto is more Moneypenny than a bond girl.
He flashes the other man the quirk of a smile, picking up his sandwich to take a bite of it before he replies.
"Well, I think the fact that I'm organized is more what made me such a good PA," he points out. "Though I did learn a lot. It was a different sort of a job there, from Torchwood Three. I had..." He shrugs slightly, trying to put the idea to words before admitting, "More responsibility, I suppose? There were other teams to handle the worst of the crisis -- usually, anyway. Security, Acquisitions, Research, a proper HR department, you know? We had hundreds of employees, and she was their leader. And I was her right hand man."
He smiles at the sandwich in his hands before continuing, "Of course, then parts of the job were just like any sort of PA sort of affair. Making coffee for Yvonne, checking supplies, doing paperwork, seeing that there were enough biscuits for staff meetings, fielding her phone calls..." He huffs out a laugh, glancing aside at John as he says, "She used to have lunch with the Queen, you know. Liz, she called her. First name basis with the Queen." He shakes his head.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i'm sorry for all the edits...
He reaches to take this second photograph from John as he holds it out to him. Recognizing the scene in the image as well, if not the moment itself. Himself and Yvonne, in her office at Torchwood Tower. He looks -- young, so young, dark suit, white shirt, red tie, clipboard in hand. Working something out with her as Yvonne clutches a coffee he's brought her in one immaculately manicured hand as she no doubt quips something at him in return. She looks perfect, in her skirt suit, not a hair out of line.
And there are more photographs of his past there on the ground in front of them. Their camp in the Beacons, with the whole team sitting around the fire they never actually managed to light. Jack laughing at his own stupid joke, everyone else cringing, and Ianto mostly just looking uncomfortable. And another, of himself and Jack standing together in cold storage over a body. Jack leaning back against the drawers behind him. Ianto remembers this moment too. Some day we're gonna run out of room. And one more photo, this one of Ianto down in the cells while in the background a creature crouches and snarls at him in return.
He splays the photographs out in front of him, taking a moment to process it all, before he replies, "It's bloody bizarre is what it is. How did they get these photos? I know for a fact there weren't any cameras there at the time of some of these shots."
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John could say the same thing. He carefully tucks the stack of his own photos out of the way inside his jacket for a moment, focuses his attention on the ones Ianto has spread out on the snow.
"Cute smile," he says, and gestures idly to the creature in the cells with Ianto. "Had some good dental work done there."
It's the first thing John picks up on, largely, because it's the most unusual thing in the range of photos -- and the least obviously personal. Anything else Ianto wants to talk about, that's his call. John has learnt a degree of caution in pushing him too much.
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"That," Ianto says, gesturing to the alien in the photograph, "is a Weevil. Or that's what we called them, anyway. One of several we've got in the cells at the Hub. Jack likes to call her Janet. God only knows why." He shakes his head at the photograph, looking a little exasperated even with the memory as he repeats, "He always said it was because Barbara just never seemed right."
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You know, stuck in a smile but actually a sweetheart underneath it all? The fact that she's in a cell implies otherwise but -- well, you never know. Todd was technically an unfriendly, creepy looking sort who they often held in a cell but he wasn't all bad.
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He studies the photograph for a moment, before continuing, "You know, they're actually quite intelligent. And telepathic, near as we can figure. And empathic. They can..." He hesitates, debating how much to explain about this moment in time, before deciding, "They know when another of their kind is suffering. So we try to keep them as comfortable as possible in the cells, once they become a danger to the public as a whole." He shrugs. "I suppose they understand that it's better than the sewers, anyway."
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"I've had bad experiences involving intelligent creatures with bad teeth that get in your head. Only ours are a lot paler and more 90's goth."
Black trench-coats, evil villain speeches, creepy screams. You know. Generally, going full ham on the villain of the week vibe. They also do somewhat less literal eating of people, more... life-sucking. Which begs the question, what do they actually use their teeth for? John isn't sure he wants to know the answer, honestly. Probably creepy.
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"Weevils seem to take to these boiler room jumpsuit sort of affairs," he explains, gesturing to what Janet is wearing in the photograph. "Like a janitor from hell, I suppose. They're not all that communicative, which is probably for the best in the end. God only knows what they think of us. We hear enough about all the problems with humanity from the other species from around the city as it is."
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"Well, remind me not to hire one next time I need a janitor. I could do without the stress."
You know, the stress of being uncertain if they're going to suddenly develop a taste for people. It seems like it's probably not worth the trouble.
"Keeping all those?"
The photos, that is. John doesn't know if they're all... good memories, after all.
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"It doesn't really seem right to leave them lying about," he points out. "Even if they don't exactly have annotations of what they all mean, it's still..." He gathers the photographs in hand before moving to stand. "Their memory deserves better than to be abandoned out in the snow like trash, I suppose."
He shuffles through the stack of photographs once more. "It's a bit of a random selection," he observes. Yvonne. Suzie. Lisa. He glances up at the other man again before inquiring, "What about yours?"
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"Pretty weird mix too," he admits, and frowns down at the top of the little stack -- turns them toward Ianto. "You already know Holland," he says, as a vague sort of lead in.
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He gives himself a moment to study the easy camaraderie between the little group of men photographed, their surroundings, their attire, since John has given him the opportunity to do so. He wonders whether the moment should mean anything to John in any way, or significant if only because it captures this friendship between them, as he glances up at the other man's face and comments, "He seems like quite the character."
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He was, and even now John still feels the pain of loss. It may be buried deep, but John still misses Holland.
"That's -- Mitch, and Dex," he carries on, pointing them out in the photo. "They were, uh, killed outside Khabour. Chopper took an RPG when it touched down for med-evac."
Which is... a pretty definitive way to go. There was barely anything left to bring back for a military funeral. It's been so long since he's seen their faces and that he doesn't know how to feel, only that it's strange. Almost like a photo from another life, something that no longer feels real. Holland he's been reminded of recently, if unwillingly. This is a different sort of pain, a confusing, detached one.
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"I'm sorry," he says, which is probably the wrong thing to say, but he feels as though he should anyway. It feels a bit heartless not to, though he does his best to continue on to ask, "Did you all work together?" They certainly all served together, that much is obvious from the matching fatigues. But then again, Holland and John hadn't been in the helicopter when it went down. Ianto doesn't know enough about how the service works to understand it all.
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They worked together. Flew together. He takes a deep breath, tilts his head for them to keep moving and stares blandly at the photo as he begins to walk. Carefully separating them he moves shuffles out the one underneath, picks it up and vaguely holds it out toward Ianto.
"That's Elizabeth I'm standing with. She was our original expedition leader. She was -- good. Not military, she was a diplomat. Smart, way smarter than me. Spoke a ton of languages, always had a level head on her. She cared."
Which was important to John. Atlantis was always a little more lax and human with its military regulations under Elizabeth, and that's the way he liked it.
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"All the best leaders do," Ianto replies. "Make you feel like you're worth something. Even on the lowest rung of the ladder." He glances aside at John, gently holding the photograph back to him. "Did you get along well?" He can only imagine what it must have been like, trying to keep him in line.
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Keeping people safe. He takes the photo back and slides it into the stack, wets his lips uneasily as he thinks.
"Maybe we should get that drink," he prompts finally, because all these photos -- they feel like they belong in the same drink-requiring-territory as... everything else on their minds. Everything else unspoken, temporarily boxed up until the right team to set it free.
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"Tell you what," he says, after a moment, sensing that John probably would like the spotlight switched off of himself for a while yet again. "You buy me a drink and I can tell you about my old boss, yeah?" Another one of the photographs in his stack, but probably the least painful loss of all of them. They'd never really been what Ianto might have called close. Maybe some of the decisions she'd made might even horrify the other man. But it would give him the chance to catch a break, for a few minutes at least.
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"Something we can take back?" he prompts, because he's... not really into the idea of having heavy conversations in public. Not after his more recent track record of handling things in public. Maybe that's weird, but he's given up worrying about if what he says is weird for now. "Can grab something to eat too."
You know. To help soak up the alcohol.
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"Yeah, alright," he agrees. "It's been a while since that porridge anyway." He shuffles through his own set of photographs before tucking them away as well. "A warm sandwich sounds pretty good, now that you've got me thinking about it. Do you suppose they'll have anything recognizable?"
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He spends the rest of the trudge back idly speculating on what they might have. Fish, he thinks, ice fishing is a thing. Lots of preserved meat. Smoked things. The more he talks about it, the hungrier he gets -- so when they finally get back to Central John is glad of both the warmth once more and the food. He picks up a thick, salty soup he can carry in a cup and some bread -- swipes a few bottles of alcohol and takes it back toward their room. Shouldering his way in John sets the soup and bottles on a side table, drops the wrapped bread onto the bed and begins shrugging off his jacket. The photos splay across the bed beside it as he dumps them out-- John, Mitch, Dex and Holland in their desert gear, Elizabeth and John by the balcony, John standing with two different people on a different balcony, a more harried scene indoors, and a small gathering in some kind of cell with a creature dressed in a way that distantly evokes 90's goth.
John moves to hang up his jacket, then ducks into the bathroom to quickly wash his hands and face a little. To generally clean up and warm up.
"So," he begins idly, "when you say your boss, are we talking about that guy or before that?"
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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?
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London. That rings a bell. When Torchwood London fell, after the smoke cleared, it was like. They forgot about us. So she's probably not alive anymore either. So many photos of dead people.
"She looks fun," John offers, and sets his towel back with his things -- moves to sit on the edge of the bed and begin unlacing his shoes. "More fun than the last boss I had. Richard Woolsey. Liked to try and do everything by the book, but we wore him down."
Or maybe Atlantis as a whole just wore him down.
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"She was a bit, I suppose," he replies, surprising himself. "I thought she was pretty brilliant at the time. She gave me a job. Promoted me up through the ranks to her personal assistant in only a few months' time. And she changed the whole atmosphere of Torchwood from how it used to be anyway."
"Queen Victoria didn't much care for the well-being of the nice aliens when she established the agency, you see. At least Yvonne..." Ianto makes something of a face, recalling all of the mishaps that had happened under the woman's command. How many people they'd lost. How it had all worked out, in the end. "At least she tried," he finishes, with a bit of a wince, before setting the photograph aside and reaching for his sandwich.
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John sets aside his shoes and grabs his cup of soup -- takes a sip and turns sideways on the bed, one leg drawn up a little so he can study Ianto's expression more easily.
"Personal assistant, though? You know, that explains why you're so organised."
What with the fussing about cleaning things and cooking and laundry. He wonders, idly, if this means Ianto is more Moneypenny than a bond girl.
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"Well, I think the fact that I'm organized is more what made me such a good PA," he points out. "Though I did learn a lot. It was a different sort of a job there, from Torchwood Three. I had..." He shrugs slightly, trying to put the idea to words before admitting, "More responsibility, I suppose? There were other teams to handle the worst of the crisis -- usually, anyway. Security, Acquisitions, Research, a proper HR department, you know? We had hundreds of employees, and she was their leader. And I was her right hand man."
He smiles at the sandwich in his hands before continuing, "Of course, then parts of the job were just like any sort of PA sort of affair. Making coffee for Yvonne, checking supplies, doing paperwork, seeing that there were enough biscuits for staff meetings, fielding her phone calls..." He huffs out a laugh, glancing aside at John as he says, "She used to have lunch with the Queen, you know. Liz, she called her. First name basis with the Queen." He shakes his head.
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