Open
Ianto wandered out of the archives of Torchwood Three. It was still disorganized, still mildewy and old, papers unorganized and not put into the computer files yet. He had a file folder with the field report of a 1903 agent open in his hands, so he could read the scratchy scrawl on the yellowed paper as he walked, head bobbing with his ipod. It was a Saturday so he was in jeans and a polo shirt; he didn't expect anyone else to be in, so he was more casual than his usual wont.
He only made it four steps off the concrete floor of the archives and onto the tiled floor of the hotel lobby before he felt the difference on his feet. He looked up from the file folder and took his head phones out of his ears. "...Again?"