Ianto felt as though he’d barely dozed off when the blaring of the Rift alarm snapped him back to full wakefulness, as effectively as having a bucket of cold water tipped over his head.
“Ugh,” he groaned from where he was slumped on the old sofa beneath the Torchwood sign. “What time is it?”
Beside him, Jack fumbled with his shirtsleeve and checked his watch. “Just after twelve.”
“Would that be noon or midnight?” Ianto asked tiredly, trying to drag himself to his feet ready for yet another excursion to collect Rift junk.
“Who knows? Does it matter?”