Previous part of Shades of Ianto - Series 2.

***

So many people.

Jack stared out over the city of Cardiff from his perch on the rooftop of the Millennium Centre, his home for the sunset. He couldn't feel his nose, his ears, or his cheekbones, but he'd long forgotten about the dull ache, letting it blow away in the wind with everything else. Light was quickly falling, leading in the night with icy fingers; Jack closed his eyes and turned his face into the wind, any remaining tear tracks freezing to brittle spun sugar pulling his skin.

At the memorial, there had been too many people watching, too many people needing. But up here, on the rooftop overlooking the city, he was alone. Here it was that he indulged in a few private moments of personal sorrow. Perhaps a few more than a few moments, but he was no longer counting, just existing, breathing in the now and not thinking of who wasn't with him to steal the warmth of his greatcoat.

So many people.

It was supposed to have been small: family, Torchwood, a few from Avalon. Jack had prepared for small. He was only supposed to speak for small. "Just a few words," Gwen had said. "You knew him best."

Gwen was wrong; he didn't know Ianto best. None of them did. Once he'd thought he understood the man. Just as he'd thought he'd gotten a grasp on the mind behind the mask, Ianto changed again, another splash of color buried beneath coal black suits and patterned ties.

He'd spoken, but said little. He'd said what everyone knew, what everyone had known, about Ianto.

Everyone. Fuck, so many people. And each had greeted him, one by one after the memorial, drawn for some reason to him like moths a flame. They didn't burn though, or perhaps he was the moth, flying towards so many lit candles, soaking up the warmth from every group, every collection of memories.

The place had been rich with memories.

Not his, but every single person who had ever known Ianto, and even then, some who hadn't, who'd somehow come across the information and shown up uninvited but not turned away to Lana's. Maybe holding it at a club eliminated it from being a technical 'memorial' service. A wake, then. Jack had been to plenty of wakes. It had been early in the morning, not too early for drinks, but then, a wake without alcohol was like a dragon without scales.

And it was well documented just how many scales a dragon had.

So many people.

Lana's had filled early; Lana herself had pulled some strings, got a few of the neighboring businesses to open for overflow until there was room at her club for the next batch. Someone (Jack assumed it had been Tosh) had set up a live-feed, capturing all the going ons at the club and transmitting the pictures to the overflow buildings. And the stories hadn't stopped, not for hours while Jack stood with a seemingly unending drink beside him to wet his throat, listening to every person that came up to him and encouraging others to speak when all they did was stare or hug.

It wasn't a surprise that Avalon showed. It had surprised Jack that all of Avalon showed. Lots of graduates, from all across the globe, remembering Ianto from their school days; current students remembering the man Ianto had become. Hundreds of stories, of the trouble he'd caused with Jean-Luc, of always excelling ahead of the gifted students despite his lack of gift, of playing card games with the kids after the attack and letting them win. What frightened Jack to stillness was their knowledge.  They knew Ianto, felt connected to him in a personal way Jack couldn't understand -- not until a young boy explained in quiet German that they had all been with Jean-Luc during the attack and they'd touched Ianto.  That made him like a brother to them all.

Jack had taken the boy in his arms and hugged him until the boy giggled, weaseling out to tumble with the other kids. Even now, standing on the roof in the freezing wind, Jack could feel the boy's laughter warming him, watching as he ran off to play with the kids, a small connection to Ianto. All of them were. Living, breathing connections, sharing a tiny piece of his spirit that Jack clung to when the world did its best to strip it away. He made a promise to himself, standing tall on the Millennium Centre, to keep track of those kids, of all of Avalon. He wouldn't obsess, but he'd just make sure they were all taken care of. It was the least he could do, or maybe it was the only thing he could do.

The stories didn't stop after Avalon passed. As the Avalon crowd dwindled (and Jack had never realized there were so many), armed security, mismatched to different agencies but efficient, cleared the immediate area around the bar, making Jack wish he'd perhaps drunk a little less than he had given the polite conversation he assumed was coming.  Various British and foreign dignitaries or their representatives passed their condolences, talking about their first contacts with Mr. Black or sharing their gratitude. Jack was pretty sure he'd bowed to people he shouldn't have and might have accidentally groped the French President (he'd been honestly reaching for his drink), but he hadn't been expecting politicians and he'd always left dealing with them to Ianto. Plus, today he wasn't particularly feeling like turning on the Harkness charm.

As if they were standing in queue, the international Torchwood-like groups came next, chatting with the representatives they knew and approaching Jack like they were long-lost brothers or sisters sharing their grief over a passing family member. Perhaps, in a way they were, sheltered and hidden from the rest of the world for so long, practicing their protection in secret, building close bonds among the team which defied most groups. But Torchwood, they were alike. They knew and had believed the same things the international groups had, the same things scorned by billions and decried as madness.

And, Jack remembered, some of these groups had lost many of their own when the dragons had first attacked. Perhaps a kinship. And as Jack received yet another tearful hug, full of more stories of their relief when Mr. Black had contacted them, a figure from the 'outside,' proving that they weren't crazy or that the devices they had found really were alien, supporting their work and acknowledging what they had done for their country, he found himself making promises he wasn't sure he could keep, but felt overwhelmingly determined not to let those relationships slide.

Except for Sheppard, who just insolently drawled as he leaned against the bar that Mr. Black would be missed, a brave man and a damned fine kisser. The tall man with dreds (Jack remembered him, name was Ronon, fine gun) just laughed and made some comment about a McKay and Kirk. Jack would have commented but was too busy fighting the impulse to slug Sheppard ... or maybe kiss him just to see if he still tasted of Ianto.

Impossible, but sometimes Jack wondered if he hadn't spent the day just shy of rational.

Jack had grabbed a stool between Tosh and Elaine by the time the remains of Torchwood One had quite literally piled on him and Torchwood Three. It was almost uncomfortable at first. Jack wasn't sure what to say, and the others of Torchwood Three had no idea who the group was. This was a group who had seen death and destruction on a scale few else in the room had, excluding Jack and quite possibly Sheppard and Ronon. And ... they were the survivors. The Survivors Club. Ianto had been a member but Jack had never known who they were, really, much less the kind of relationship he had with the remaining few of Torchwood One. He resisted the urge to offer his own condolences for their losses, instead waited quietly as the group gave him, Torchwood Three, Elaine, and Lana the eye. "Oh, he was right," one of the women began, speaking to another in the group. "Jack in scuba gear would be divine."

That set the tone for the rest of the conversation, as Jack felt himself pulled into laughter, whether he wished it or not. It was contagious, their apparent reaction to any situation. Not uncommon; Jack had seen it before, but it'd been a long time since he'd experienced such expression of life in face of death. The Survivors Club was an extremely tactile group, setting Jack a bit on edge, but it was hard to resist the joviality after so much serious before. Even Owen began to smile after a particularly lewd anecdote from one of the women about Ianto, Lisa, a Torchwood One Christmas party dance, and spiked punch. They didn't know him much from his days at Torchwood One. ("bunch of secretive no-good posh braniacs hiding in their gilded tower beneath so many layers of security it'd take years to find a zipper, much less strip 'em out of their suits for a proper shag." The group had agreed with the woman before she'd amended "but not our dear Ianto. He was the nicest of the lot. Never took on airs of the elite like the rest of 'em.")

Tosh had fallen off her stool at that point with a squeak; Jack laughed into the wind as he remembered her surprise at Ianto's former occupation, though why it should have come as such a surprise, Jack wasn't sure. Owen had known, though how he'd known was beyond Jack. He hadn't thought the two were confidants, but maybe there'd been some shared understanding; Owen wasn't as crass and ignorant as he might pretend. Quite the defense; Jack had used a similar rouse back in the day, worked well when people underestimated based on first impressions.

And had Jack ever been wrong about the Survivors Club. He'd feared more weeping and wailing, another member lost. But while there was sorrow behind their eyes, their entertaining praise of the life of Ianto Jones was heartening. They had their stories of Ianto that Jack had never heard: of reuniting with the group, of their day spent drinking and reminiscing on the anniversary of the battle of Canary Wharf, of their delight at their reenlistment and their assistance to Ianto in the dragon attack, and of their adoration for the man who was 'one of them.'

They had all absorbed it like a sponge, all of Torchwood Three. The Survivors Club was more of a legendary hero to Tosh and Owen; Gwen and Rhys had no preconceived notions, but they were an impressive bunch, battered and broken as they were, re-pieced together by some indestructible fragment of human spirit. Jack believed it had been an honor for them to come, to share their memories of Ianto.

And in Ianto's honor, they had.

Torchwood London left, retreating to a far corner of Lana's club with a few bottles of alcohol. Lana didn't even argue and actually called one of her barmen to bring a few more up from the cellar. She had only smiled at Jack's querying eyebrow, raised at the names being rattled off, old names and old years, and politely informed him that it was her club and she could serve whatever to whomever she pleased, before promptly plopping a glass of water in front of Jack.

It took Jack begging through conversations with the owner of the local coffee bean supplier from whom Ianto had purchased all his magnificent blends and the various local merchants Ianto preferred for Torchwood business (and dinners) before Lana finally relented and returned his glass of whisky.

Jack had thought once the merchants and various stragglers from others groups of individuals who'd either known Ianto in a passing fashion or were just there to offer condolences (and more than one who just wanted to see the infamous Torchwood) had all passed, that it was done. He felt worn thin by the day, stretched over so many surfaces that he didn't have the capacity for more talking, more listening, and was sorely wishing to escape to a private place where he could mourn alone. He'd hardly had time since his return. First there was a rather intense and awkward goodbye with the Doctor (not Martha, Martha had been sympathetic and understanding to a fault) almost immediately after arriving, then explaining his absence, doing his best to comfort the team, and talking with Ianto's family -- they had seen just like the rest of the world, but Jack had felt responsible to call as well.

He'd never been alone, not for one moment. And he was looking forward to at least an afternoon and evening. Not to sleep, no he couldn't remotely consider sleeping. Just to simply be.

But more came. So many people.

After the people he'd remotely recognized had passed through, hundreds more seemed to pour through the doors of Lana's, hundreds that Jack didn't recognize, and from the confused faces on the others' faces, hundreds they didn't recognize either. Jack presumed they'd been in one of the overflow businesses, probably passed some kind of message that the queue had opened for them. And join the queue they did, a blended group of the old and young, men and women, business dressed and gothic punk. He'd never seen such an eclectic group, and he hadn't been mistaken when they did in fact number in the hundreds.

The first woman who approached him, a child of about six or seven clinging to her hand with enormous blue eyes and a shock of dark hair, sent the first irrational wave of panic that maybe Ianto had a kid Jack didn't know about. The woman's soft greeting and identification had left Jack struggling to breathe as he looked over her shoulder at all the people standing behind her and he couldn't deny the tears prickling annoyingly at his eyes.

These were the families of Torchwood One's victims. Every single family and relation who remembered Ianto from their own loved ones' memorials, services, and wakes, who were determined to share the same compassion he had shown their families. Introduction after introduction -- Jack wouldn't remember any of their names but he'd remember their simple hugs or hand shakes, their repetitions of the words spoken by Ianto, words of praise for their duty and the honor of their work, their dedication to Britain and the sorrow for their loss. One woman in particular introduced herself as the nurse who had helped Ianto, Stephen, and Jean-Luc escape the London hospital when they had sought aide for their injuries. She thanked whomever it had been for returning her vehicle more clean than when she had purchased it and handed Jack a cap, saying he could keep it; she hadn't let anyone else wear it anyway.

Gwen had fled to the loo after the first twenty-five or so had passed through the line. Rhys excused himself not long after to go looking for her. Tosh simply smiled while Lana wrapped an arm around her after refilling her glass of wine, comforting better than Jack could what with the absence of Jean-Luc at her side as people introduced themselves, made their connection, and shared their memory before moving on, another stepping up in their place.

So many people.

So many facets of Ianto they had never known.

And never would. Fuck, he was gone.

Jack turned his face to the sky, wishing it would rain so he could pretend it really wasn't him crying, merely the weather sympathizing his mood. A million lifetimes, he had possibly a million lifetimes and yet he had less than one to truly know a person he loved. It didn't seem fair, but then, whether immortal or not, death never was. He just hated regret and it swam about him as cold as the frigid air.

But it was more than that, Jack knew as he stared out over Cardiff, the wind whipping his coat around his legs as he stuffed his hands in his pockets for warmth. Each person he talked to, be it stranger, teammate, or friend, knew Ianto differently, identified with him on levels the next couldn't understand but offered their own unique perspective in reply. And he could see it reflected in the people who greeted him, the teammates who cried on his shoulder, and the family proud and grieving.

Ianto's life; a myriad of experiences, tragedy, and love; a life touching so many.

So it had been Ianto's life Jack spoke of when he'd stood awkward on the stage in front of far more people than he had ever intended to speak to, to eulogize the man so many had loved and respected. "A wise man once told me that in the 21st century, everything changes," he'd begun, staring down at the glass in his hands, a welcome distraction from the people staring back. "Ianto was right, you've changed." Jack snorted, which may have sounded suspiciously like a sniff but he reassured himself it was only the microphone, and quickly amended. "We've changed. Because of him."

Jack finally gave up staring at the glass, glancing for the first time to face the crowd staring back, silent but for sniffles or quiet coughs. Perhaps they were expecting something profound. But he didn't do profound great speeches any better than Owen, and the thought of that nearly made him laugh. And wouldn't that be inappropriate. "I could try to tell you why I loved him, or why if you didn't you should, but that wouldn't be half of who Ianto was. All you really have to do is look about this room, because each of you reflect a piece of him. Someone he's loved, someone he's cherished, someone he's protected or considered family." He smiled, doing as he'd said to do and truly looking at the faces smiling back.

So many people.

"We're all just beautiful shades of Ianto."

***

Epilogue

One year later...

Jack leaned on the railing overlooking the Hub, legs crossed casually, feeling every bit his age (extended as it was) but yet content.  And most certainly amused. Elaine and Broderick had arrived nearly an hour earlier, bringing along Bryce and Gareth who, after greeting him, instantly began pestering Owen. What odd sounds, children's laughter, to be heard in the Hub. And they were at the perfect age: smart enough to know how to get into trouble and young enough to get away with acting innocent. Jack remembered that time well, brief as it had been. He'd lost his innocence early, though he presumed Bryce and Gareth understood far better than other kids their age.

They'd lost as well.

The twins drove Owen mad, which was half the reason Elaine had brought them along, Jack imagined. Not that they bothered Owen. In fact, if Jack were to be asked, he rather thought Owen enjoyed playing with the twins who were probably of the same mentality. They got on well and shared Owen's fascination with alien bodies. Disturbed Elaine, but the twins both were determined to carry on in their father and uncle's footsteps.

Elaine and Owen; an odd pair. Jack didn't think there was anything going on between them, and Jack prided himself on knowing when people were shagging. They smelled different, pheromones pouring off in waves. But if Owen was taking it slow, courting Elaine? He wasn't sure if Ianto would have approved or not, so he was torn between laying into Owen to back off Ianto's sister or encouraging him because Elaine was probably the sweetest person who had actually taken an honest interest in him, Diane notwithstanding.

But, Jack could be reading more into it than existed. Ianto's death had shaken Owen far more than Jack would have assumed. Their constant sniping had always led Jack to believe the relationship was eggshells and razorblades. But maybe it had been more brothers than enemies, a skewed and twisted camaraderie but an underlying protective respect.

Jack should have realized that with the aftermath of Lisa.

Elaine and Owen had bonded after the memorial service, drowning life and memory in alcohol and stories. Jack had found them curled up on the Hub couch, asleep. He'd covered them with a few spare blankets, made sure there was water and a bottle of aspirin on the end table, and left them in peace. He had checked on them periodically between sitting in his office, busying himself with whatever he could find. He froze in surprise, though, when he caught Tosh tucking the blankets tighter around Elaine and Owen. She gave a small, tired smile and sat at her desk, starting up reports or whatever the hell she'd found to busy herself with.

Jack hadn't returned to his office, choosing instead to sit at Gwen's desk and beat all of Gwen's scores on Minesweeper, just because.

His office had been far too quiet and held far too many memories.

Elaine waved up to Jack, smiling at some story Owen was sharing with Broderick while the twins spun on the office chairs. Jack waved back but remained where he was, watching.

He'd probably heard the story anyway and he was still suspicious as hell of Ianto's father. Torchwood had taken to hitting the pub, as the team had apparently done between his absences. The first time. Before he'd been found at Torchwood Four. It was a good habit, the first few times a bit rough, but that was to be expected. Jack understood the stages of grief and could categorically list and estimate the proper time it would take to pass through each given the individual. In the future, they had specialists who were assigned to the friends and family, trained, better than the psychology of today. They helped and guided. Jack slipped himself into the role easily; it gave him more to do, more feeling of accomplishment that he was doing something. When left to his own devices he had felt so utterly lost and helpless.

So to Lana's every Wednesday night, stories coming easier and more personal as the weeks passed. Jack learned a bit more, every week, though he kept most of his memories close to the vest. And if people thought it was odd that Jack used the women's loo instead of the men's, no one commented. The staff and customers just let it go, regulars understood there was something important and let him be, and the others just blushed at the sinks as Jack joined the women in washing his hands. If there was any trouble, Jack assumed Lana had taken care of it because he'd never heard a whisper.

A delightful girl, good head on her shoulders that Lana. Good business as well. The servers knew the team and had their drinks ready before they'd even sat down at their table. Torchwood's table. No one sat there on Wednesday nights. In fact, Jack wondered if anyone sat there at all. There had only been one mistake with the drinks early on, though Jack thought Lana devious enough that she might have intentionally done it. It'd taken the mix-up before any of them realized Gwen was drinking straight cola, she'd fessed up to the pregnancy once Owen had blurted something about raging hormones and her short temper.

They'd toasted to Gwen and Rhys that night, the first time it'd been anything but Stephen or Ianto since that day.

Lana's had joined in the cheering at the announcement as well, cheering again when she'd announced it was a boy, hushed to silence when she said that she and Rhys were going to call him Ianto.

Jack's voice might have cracked as he led that toast, but he'd fled Lana's before anyone could comment or ask him the inane question 'was he okay?'

Of course he was fine.

Jack had to be, for his team and for all the rest of the world looking at him.

The baby had been born four months ago, a beautiful baby boy with all his fingers and toes. Owen had commented that he looked like a mini-Winston Churchill, but Jack didn't really see the resemblance aside from a few baby wrinkles and a squalling cry. The little tyke really looked more like an old friend Jack had back before the Agency, dark hair, big brown eyes.

Jack called baby Cooper-Williams "Gizmo."

No one commented. Tosh copied him first, then Owen. Wasn't long before all of Torchwood called the little kid "Gizmo." Good name. Gizmo had caused plenty of trouble with Jack back in their days; he was sure the kid would do the same, especially if Jack taught him a few tricks.

He smiled as Gwen and Rhys came round from the conference room, Gwen with one of those baby slings and, he assumed, Gizmo tucked away inside given the way the sling was squirming. That or they had yet another alien incursion; Jack wouldn't be surprised. Seemed like this would be the day when Rift activity sky-rocketed and aliens made another attempt on Earth.

The invisible lift activated, drawing Jack's attention from Gwen and Rhys. Laughter echoed around the Hub, partnered with a distinctly feminine squeal and a barking laugh that Jack had come to know from various phone calls and meetings. As the lift continued to sink, he smirked as he saw the cause of the laughter. Two bodies made for close quarters; three was a tight fit (and how they had ever managed to not fall off when the team had ran from Lisa Jack couldn't figure out). Jean-Luc had his arms wrapped tight around Tosh and Sheppard, holding them close as they descended -- probably not entirely necessary but the trio appeared to be enjoying themselves, so who was Jack to complain. Pretty picture as well, and Jack was going to complain even less about that. It'd be prettier if he were in the middle, but he'd settle for watching the three laugh, better even then the finest Narcian wine, harvested at the peak season amidst pink skies and colored rain.

It had taken Jean-Luc so long to laugh again.

He'd woken about a month after the memorial service, physically weak and disoriented. But Jean-Luc had known. He'd known without anyone speaking of Ianto and Stephen. Jack had seen many things in his day, more tragedy and horror than filled the shelves of a video rental store, but he hadn't been prepared for that, for the complete unraveling of a powerful empath and telekinetic, and neither had all of Avalon. Hell, the whole world knew when Jean-Luc had regained consciousness. It'd taken almost an hour to collect themselves enough to begin attempting to get through to Jean-Luc that every alien in this galaxy was probably weeping, much less the people of earth, and that really, the lightning storm outside had to end before it burned down yet another Avalon building. Tosh had finally succeeded in getting close enough to Jean-Luc to touch, signalling for Jack, Owen, and Healer Solaine to leave them be.

Tosh. Brave Toshiko Sato, stepping in while the room spun in disarray, rushing to Jean-Luc's bedside despite the danger because he most certainly wasn't in control. Or maybe he was, and it was more a gifted-fueled tantrum. Jack couldn't blame him either way; they'd all had their moments the past month. Jean-Luc was due his, though he could have done it without the freak lightning storm thatmade Jack's hair stand on end and the threat to one of his team.

Tosh surprised Jack time and again, though by now he should have known better than to underestimate the quiet ones. She was uncomfortably perceptive, bringing him tea in the evening after everyone else had left and just ...sat with him, sipping tea and occasionally joining him for dinner. She claimed her flat was too quiet, but she kept coming, even after Jean-Luc woke. When that piece of tech from the ninth quadrant of the Pfktrains system had been accidentally activated by a determinedly housekeeping (nesting) Gwen, and the injured Tosh had been stuck in bed for days, Jack had missed their tea time.

Until Jean-Luc had shown up unexpectedly and inexplicably, smirking as he'd held bags of Chinese take-away in one hand, saki in the other, waltzing up to Jack's office like he had access codes and free reign to the Hub. Which, he didn't. None did, except Torchwood Three. Uninvited, Jean-Luc sprawled in the chair across from Jack, setting the cartons on half-finished paperwork and poured the saki into glasses far too large for the beverage. "Tosh kicked me out of the flat for the evening," was all Jean-Luc said before grabbing a drink, chopsticks, and a carton of what smelled like beef lo mein.

Jack hadn't believed him for a minute, but selected a carton for himself. They hadn't spoken that entire night, just got drunk on saki and stained the paperwork with soy sauce.

He believed Jean-Luc even less when he'd shown up the next night and ever night thereafter, even when Tosh was back on duty.  When he'd questioned Tosh, she'd just smiled a teary smile and patted his chest before returning to her computer screens. Jack hadn't missed the way her hands shook when she picked up her tea, but he hadn't asked again. Not even when the occasional dinner became nightly and Jean-Luc joined them every time.

The grin Jack wore as he watched Jean-Luc, Tosh, and Sheppard faded into a slight frown, mind adding all the other moments throughout the past year, from the mundane to the larger gestures. Fresh flowers at the memorial stone every day matching the flowers which appeared on his desk -- he'd checked the internal CCTV footage and could never find the culprit -- a book of photographs of Ianto taken at various points in time of what Jack assumed both doctored CCTV footage and personal camera, not left on his desk but on the bed in Ianto's flat where Jack had taken to staying at night when he'd needed to (a secret indulgence he'd thought he'd kept hidden from everyone else). The list was endless, but had a touch of Tosh in the elements.

He supposed that perhaps he hadn't been quite as good at hiding things as he'd hoped. That and Tosh was ... Tosh. Tech genius, medically trained, sharp with a gun, and periodic caretaker of an immortal. He should feel embarrassed by the thought, but really, it just left him pleasantly warm.

Jack nodded a greeting to the trio when Sheppard waved up at him. The relations with the United States alien fighting group had continued. Sheppard had pretty much ensured it would when he'd appeared (somewhat sheepishly, if Jack were to be asked) at Torchwood's doorstep with various alien tech, including a familiar Diadem sphere: the missing objects from the Archives that Wilson had snuck off premises. Jack had been stunned at first, then ordered Owen and Rhys to fetch a dolly to move the alien tech to the Archives.

Not only had Sheppard returned the tech, but he'd also brought a contract of sorts, a document that had Ianto's prints all over it, figuratively and literally. A unification treaty for all countries, something Ianto and Sheppard had been working on after the first dragon attack. Jack vaguely remembered it from then, but it had always been a distracting piece of politics that he'd done his best to save Ianto from, engaging him in after-hours activity which then required showers and naps. Jack hadn't realized it'd been finished, but he signed it without really reading it. It was Ianto's work. He didn't doubt the integrity of the treaty or question what responsibilities Torchwood and Britain would have. The newly appointed Secretary of Research and Resource Allocation should probably have signed it as well, but Jack didn't wait, penning his name at the top.

Sheppard looked good in his dragon hide pants, coat, and boots, Jack absently noticed as Tosh and Jean-Luc lead the way to the conference room. Even the eye patch looked like it was made of dragon hide. On anyone else, Jack would have called the tanned hide offensive and demanded the immediate removal. But on Sheppard, Sheppard could wear it. And wore it with honor.

Jack thought of creating a complete look in dragon hide for himself. It'd last him years, plus he'd wear it better. Sheppard had no ass and his legs were too skinny.

That was everyone, if he counted right. Lana had sent her regrets, she had her club to run on the holiday, but had supplied all the spirits (lemonade for the kids) and food for the celebration. Torchwood London (Torchwood Five, if anyone was still counting) was bogged down in some sticky mess of alien goo, what had appeared an innocent box had been booby-trapped with a tar-like substance and they were still cleaning up the mess in their new facilities. They promised to share a drink -- Jack was pretty sure that was code for drink until they passed out, but he wasn't going to question their actions. Wasn't his duty, at any rate. He had Torchwood Three to look after, and that was more than enough on the best of days.

Staring out over the Hub, Jack's fingers curled tight on the railing as he felt the calm settling over the home he'd known for years. Decades. Twice over in an odd turn of time lines. This was why they fought, Torchwood and the rest of the world, searching for that moment of quiet peace that even the Rift refused to interrupt. They'd survived for a year, all of them, and Jack supposed that was something.

"Are you coming, Jack? Hurry up, party's to start without you!" Gwen's voice carried through Torchwood Three, reminding Jack of the reason everyone had gathered.

They'd all survived. Except the one who mattered most. But, that was Jack's destiny if he were to have one. And better to have loved than never to have known it, to quote the old adage. Not that it made the pain less or him more willing to try again, but it helped soften time as it slowly passed, aging those around him while he remained.

The churning songs of the TARDIS startled Jack, surprising him mid-step as he was turning to join the others in the conference room. She slowly materialized in front of the Hub's rolling door, the familiar blue Police box dissolving then reemerging clearer than before until quiet again fell over the Hub, sounding loud to Jack's ears.

"Jack! Not late are we? Got caught up throwing tea in a harbor to make a mer-creature happy and we nearly forgot. Well, I didn't forget, but Martha mentioned picking up a bottle of wine from New France and I discovered the dreadful hospitality of monks who were really alien minks selling human-skin coats. So, right then. Where's the party?"

The last vestiges of Jack's surprise slid off, spurring him to action as he rounded the stairs to stand in front of the Doctor who rocked back on his heels, hands stuffed in his pockets with the familiar grin upon his face. Martha joined the Doctor, a bottle of wine in her hand (vintage 4369, good year for a New France wine, one of Jack's favorites), looking as beautiful as the Doctor was whimsically handsome.

"Doctor, I believe you've made him speechless."

Remembering his manners, Jack kissed Martha's cheek, welcoming her to Torchwood Three. 

The Doctor continued to bounce in place, whistling as Myfanwy flew overhead, drawn by curiosity to the Doctor.   Jack could only wish to command that kind of allure, though he thought he did rather well for a mere human if he did say so himself. He caught himself mimicking Ianto's arched eyebrow of query, smiling to himself. "Don't take this the wrong way, Doctor, but why are you here? You didn't know Ianto."

Jack watched as the smile disappeared from the Doctor's face, morphing not into a scowl but a serious look usually reserved for imminent universe collapse barring a half-strung solution. For a moment, Jack honestly believed there was a threat again to the Earth and that was the true reason the Doctor had come. Call it irony, call it karmic, call it the goddesses mocking his very existence.

"But you did," the Doctor finally said, extending a hand to touch Jack's cheek, a surprise in and of itself. He never touched. Never. Not if he could help it, not that Jack had seen or felt. To Jack, it seemed as though the contact was too much for the solitary figure, last of his kind in the known universe. Maybe it was, or maybe the Doctor had been alone for so long the sensation was overwhelming. Or maybe he believed himself unworthy of it.

Or maybe Jack should just quit attempting to figure out a Time Lord whose consciousness and experience put his to shame.

The touch was gone almost as quickly as it'd come, leaving Jack with the faint impression of the Doctor's fingers upon his skin, a warm reassurance surpassing normal, fleeting touch. Loss and understanding, sympathy and hope, and a touch of exhilaration at the spirit of the human race for amazing the Doctor time and again. Somewhere in there a sense of familiarity, not of kinship, but a connection spanning time. The Doctor couldn't explain Jack, had no answers beyond assumptions and theories, but Jack would be around for a very, very long time. And in the Doctor's existence, that was a very rare thing indeed.

Jack smiled, nodding in agreement with all the things the Doctor didn't say and everything Jack couldn't comprehend but figured he'd agree with anyway.

"Splendid." The Doctor's face broke into a broad grin, nearly dancing on the balls of his feet in excitement. "So let's go celebrate this Day of Black."

***

Jack nearly laughed at Elaine's expression when he, the Doctor, and Martha strolled through the door of the conference room, full with people, food, drinks, and a digital photo montage on the screen at the far end of the room. Jack wandered towards it, curious, seeing pictures from the photo album as well as others he couldn't place. One particular black and white caught his eye -- Ianto slouched long in a chair, dark suit coat tossed over the arm, tie loose, and white collar unbuttoned. His eyes were closed, hands clasped in his lap. Jack at first thought he was asleep, but his features were too taunt, too drawn for sleep, stress and tension radiating off his body clearly in the black and white image. Jack stared longer, spotting another object in the picture, the small alien iPod device peaking out from Ianto's clutched hands, thumb on the advance button, shadowed grays highlighting his cheekbones, curling over his fingers and playing hide and seek with the lighting.

The man was beautiful.

Which led Jack to the next question of who had spied upon him to take such an intimate photo.

Laughter distracted him, Tosh's echoing giggle pulling him away from the photos to focus his attention to the people in the room. The Doctor looked abashed and Elaine smirked in such an echo of her brother the effect was startling.

"I'm just saying, if I were to adhere to Torchwood protocol, you'd be taken into custody and held until I'd extracted as much information from you as possible, Enemy of Torchwood."

Jack stepped forward, belatedly remembering what was defined in those protocols. The others didn't appear alarmed, however; his team appeared more amused and Martha was certainly struggling to maintain her composure.

"Enemy? Now that's a harsh word. Well, I've never been one for protocol. And you, Ms. Blue?"

"Nope." Elaine smiled indulgently, waving a hand to brush aside the mere notion of the politics. "My brother rewrote some of the old protocol anyway. You're now honored, Doctor, for your involvement in the Battle of Canary Wharf."

"He was there?" The Doctor asked, and Jack couldn't help but beam with a bit of pride for Ianto, surviving that horrendous experience -- more than survived, he'd returned stronger after the defeat (though the defeat had truly taken time to fully pass, and Jack still couldn't believe he'd managed to sneak the Cyberwoman into the Hub). That simply was Ianto. Unexpected but desperately needed, stumbling but growing with each battle until he became one of legend, a king among men. Because that's what he was now, one year later, and there was an international day of celebration in honor of his sacrifice. Jack had even witnessed kids in the street, playing Torchwood and Dragons, fighting over who got to be Mr. Black. It'd hurt, if it didn't make him so damned proud.

"The air grows thin when viewing life from so high, doesn't it, Time Lord?"

Jack's gaze, as well as everyone else's snapped to Broderick, smiling happily as he poured himself a glass of cognac instead of the champagne poured for everyone else. Not for the first time, Jack felt like he'd been stunned by a blaster from Gragenok in conversation with Ianto's father, though he did have to admit some relief that the words weren't directed at him.

The Doctor seemed equally as taken aback, staring at Broderick like he'd completely overlooked him the first time he'd entered the room. Perhaps he had, Broderick was easy to overlook in the elderly paternal sense. "I meant no offense, only admiration. Sorry, have we met before?"

"You never do." Jack didn't fail to notice that Broderick hadn't answered the Doctor's question, but from what he knew of Ianto's experiences with his father, the man never did answer a question. Well, if anything, this dynamic would provide the entertainment for the evening, and Jack would be happy to sit back and watch, if only to glean a little more information about the enigmatic father of Ianto Jones. "I believe toasts are in order to begin our evening. Elaine?"

Elaine stood and everyone else followed, a room full of people set to honor Ianto on this Day of Black. Worldwide, others were doing the same, all having witnessed the same events, the same story as it had unfolded before his teams' eyes and his own. Jack didn't know of another international holiday, based on an individual, celebrated by all religions, all creeds, all politics, and walks of life.

Fuck, even in death, he had managed to unite them all.

"When Gwen told me she was organizing this little soiree, she asked me to lead the first toast in honor of my brother and the leader before me." Elaine paused for a moment, chewing her lip before continuing. Jack couldn't blame her; Gwen had asked him to speak as well and the mere thought ran ice cold down his spine. Across the table, Jean-Luc had his arm around Tosh's shoulder, Gwen and Rhys held hands, and the twins seemed to know something serious was being said because they held themselves more still than Jack had ever seen them stand. Martha sat to his left with the Doctor two spots down, still staring at Broderick like he could extrapolate an answer from Broderick's grin. Sheppard sat to his right, and Jack swore he could smell sulfur off the jacket Sheppard wore, though it was probably his imagination, and Owen sat just beyond John.

After a moment to collect herself, Elaine went on. "Honestly? I've learned I didn't know him half as well as I thought I did. Oh, I knew to the core what kind of person he was. But until this day, one year ago, I didn't know what he did. And as much as it terrified me to watch, I knew my brother and his oaths. He kept each and every one."

Jack glanced around the table, not missing the few subtle sniffs, accidentally catching Jean-Luc's eyes as they bore into his -- a frightening moment had Jack not been accustomed to the intensity of the man's gaze after so many evenings together.
 
"So, I ask that you raise your glasses in toast: to Ianto, a son, my brother, an uncle, friend and lover, who by his life protected us all."

A chorus of cheers echoed around the table. Jack raised his glass and sipped his champagne even as the hair on the back of his neck rose. Someone was watching. A quick glance at the Doctor indicated that he had noticed it too. Subtle looks around the room as they all drank their champagne revealed nothing, and suddenly it was Jack's turn to speak, elbowed in the stomach by Sheppard who apparently knew the preset order for the toast.

Jack stood, somewhat reluctantly, if not for the speech but the unease. The base's alarms hadn't sounded yet, there was no reason to believe anything was amiss, but the Doctor was looking about, as was Broderick. A wary hand on his belt and ready for his gun, Jack raised his glass to say the words he'd planned the night before, carefully crafted to give proper respect. He owed it to Ianto. But while the group watched, words escaped him, fled him so quickly that the air felt pulled from his lungs.

Everything he meant to say sounded so trivial, so diminished in comparison of what he intended to say.

"Jack, something's wrong."

Careful not to jerk in reaction, Jack calmly considered what to say while dealing with the touch of Jean-Luc in his semi-public mind. He'd never felt the direct touch of Jean-Luc's power before; the only contact had been the attempt by Tosh ever so long ago. Empathic sharing was one thing, but this? No wonder the man had almost struck Ianto dead with his panicked cry.

No wonder he'd led Avalon in their attack against the dragons.

"I had a whole list of things to say tonight, to toast Ianto. Truth is, he'd've hated it, which makes me want to say even more." Jack continued looking about the room, as unobtrusively as possible, passing off a sincere look at everyone at the table in name of understanding. He'd not actively used any psychic skills taught by the Time Agency in years, but he drudged up what he could remember to converse with Jean-Luc at the same time. "The Doctor and Broderick are aware as well. Can you sense what it is? What's the danger? We have children here as well as Ms. Blue."

Jack smiled at the table, not missing Martha's hand wrapping around his free hand, lending him the resolve to continue. "Ianto was ... despite everything ... I was furious when I returned with the Doctor." Jack heard the Doctor snort and Martha squeezed his hand; they both had felt his ire for that period between remembering and seeking revenge. "But I realized what he'd done ... I couldn't..." After repeated starts and stops, Jack just stopped himself, his loss of words embarrassing for his age and education.

"Can't tell. There's something ... here."

With a grin that betrayed none of his wariness and the slight tinge of fear, Jack summed up his babble. "I loved him. Just as everyone else who ever met him. So, to Ianto Jones, reminding us of love, reminding us all to live." Jack sipped his glass, catching something fly past the door, just in the corner of his eye.

Shit.

The glass dropped as a flash of lightning blinded the room, followed quickly by a clap of thunder that set the baby Gizmo screaming in fear (Gwen too, but Jack wasn't going to pressure himself to remember that). Jack had his gun pulled and he was out the door faster than any other could respond, though he could feel Sheppard a step behind, the Doctor beside Sheppard and everyone else following in suit. "Gwen!" Jack shouted above the wind whipping around the Hub, fuck he knew what was happening. "Take the kids and Ms. Blue! Keep them safe!"

He could hardly breathe for the wind. Another flash of lightning smelling of ozone electrified all his nerve endings until he jittered. The storm was in the Hub, no rain, but the savage blast scraped his skin like sandpaper, his gun would hardly stand a chance in the force of the gale. But almost as suddenly as it began, the tempest dissipated, falling off to an uneasy still as though they'd all entered the eye of a hurricane. It wasn't natural, nothing about this storm was natural. There should be no wind, much less lightning and thunder, and where the hell were they?

Jack spun in a quick circle as they entered the main section of the base, staring up and around as the others fell in position behind him. None were armed, save for Sheppard and the Doctor and his trusted sonic screwdriver -- a device Jack definitely needed as it never failed, it always seemed to work exactly as the Doctor wanted.

Could probably stun an alien or two, maybe.

Or perhaps a faery.

"Show yourself!" Jack shouted, his voice sounding so lonely in the quiet hum of the Hub. Paper littered the ground, spun up by the storm, and a few items appeared to have been knocked to the floor, light enough to have been carried by the wind, or struck down by a childish hand. "I know you're there, show yourself!"

High-pitched laughter bounced off every surface within the Hub, setting his every nerve on edge. His fury was so intense he almost missed Sheppard's query as to 'What the fuck was going on?' Jack had more than a few things he wished to say, more than a few things to ask. He remembered it all. All their watching and stalking of Ianto. They may be an old power, but that wouldn't stop Jack from asking why?

"Bloody faeries." Owen swore, and Jack really had to agree. Apparently Sheppard hadn't the pleasure of meeting the creatures; hopefully this wouldn't draw their focus to the United States if they'd not had an interest before. He was in for a treat; the faeries hadn't let Jack down yet.

And of course, it had to be that day.

Rapid flitters of paper-dry wings crackled over the sound of the water tower, drawing Jack's eyes up yet again. This time he wasn't disappointed as no longer were the faeries hiding away in the shadows, away from direct line of sight. They exposed themselves in all their bulbous green glory, taunting Myfanwy in spiralling concentric circles and playing in the water. No surface was too small or too vertical for purchase. Their hands and feet landed briefly on stone and metal only to spring off and swoop down over their heads, making all duck except for Broderick and the Doctor, who remained disgustingly unaffected while everyone else clung to their weapons (or, in Owen's case, his drink).

Smart man.

"Enough!" Jack pitched his voice loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the faeries and nervous hum of the Torchwood crew. A flash of black at his side drew his attention and Jack cursed every deity across countless millenia. The black dress was the last thing he wanted to see in the main Hub area with the situation rapidly cascading out of control. "Elaine, go back to the conference room with Gwen and the kids."

"Think you can order me about, do you Jack? I'll not cower and insult my family. Find me a weapon and show me why the hell I so heavily fund Torchwood."

Jack winced a bit at the tone, though he made every effort to hide a reaction. Of course she was a Jones; they were stubborn as Grecian mules (the system, not the country) and refused to listen to sense. No matter how concerned he was for them or their family. Jack might be from the 51st century but damn if some old protective instincts weren't difficult to eliminate via evolution. Especially having lived the past century and a half immersed in this culture.

A handgun was passed forward, along with a snicker from Sheppard because only he would have the audacity to laugh at Jack when he had so many tools by which to punish his team. Elaine looked uncomfortable but determined as she held the gun; Jack had no more time to wonder if it was such a wise idea to have her involved when a soft white light distracted him, separating from the water tower while the faeries weaved in flight around it. It seemed to dance on air currents, drifting and floating down like an autumn leaf, only Jack knew it for what it was: the innocent guise of the faeries, as pure as the children they took for as their Chosen. It was all fake; the faeries were neither pure nor innocent, but maybe they once had been, before time and after all had been destroyed and time ceased.

"I can't stop them; this is an ancient power."

Jack mentally thanked Jean-Luc for his failure, receiving what felt like a fucking raspberry in response. He maintained a steady, unwavering grip of his gun, not flinching as the tiny figure drew close, nor did he gasp when it blurred, elongating in a blurred stretch as the light faded but the body grew. What had been diminutive became full-figured and tall, a head of raven-black hair piled in an intricate weave with curls spilling over her shoulders and nearly touching the floor. Skin pale as Jack felt, though he knew hers to be a natural pallor. He knew her and her appearance was not welcome. She caused trouble and mayhem wherever she went and he'd had enough of trouble and mayhem, especially on this day.

This was supposed to be a day of celebration, of freedom and life.

"You haven't changed," the woman purred while laughing, approaching Jack while the rest of the faeries dropped to the ground behind her, forming a line of rose-green, threatening guard. Jack remained still, even when she raised her hand to touch his hair, the silvered jewels in hers gleaming in the light as she moved. Her robes were a rich, earthy green but held a sheen no human thread could match; they smelled vaguely of roses. Jack managed to fight every bone in his being not to move, though the urge was growing stronger with each passing moment. "Or maybe you have," she amended, tugging at the ends which never wanted to lay flat, though it had when it was longer, tied back from his face. That was the Jack she had known, so long ago.

"Fuck, Harkness. Is there anyone you haven't slept with?"

Jack hesitated to move at all despite the urge to smack Owen upside the head for his question. Jack hadn't slept with Owen, after all. "Ladies and gentlemen," Jack spoke smoothly, never looking away from the green eyes which matched the robes, an intense stare into eyes which held lifetimes (ignoring the Doctor and Broderick chirping in that they hadn't, in fact, slept with Jack, and then the others followed in, with Owen amending, "Fine, alien"). "May I introduce, the Queen of the Fae."

"But ... how?"

Gwen's voice startled Jack, and he turned, despite the danger in front of him, to find her standing with Bryce and Gareth, Gizmo tucked away in the fabric of the sling. "Gwen ..." Jack all but growled, as protective of Ianto's nephews as he would have been had he truly been their 'Uncle Jack.' He was honoree, if anything. Which gave some added strength to his voice. "Get the kids out of here!"

"And no less paranoid," the Queen giggled, a sound echoed eerily in childish tones by the faery standing behind her. "I have not come for the children, though we would gladly accept the offering. They are both beautiful and spirited."

"There'll be none of that, Fae. Two are my kin and you've no claim on them." Jack glanced at Ianto's father, standing beside Elaine and looking, quite frankly, scarily defiant with his arms crossed, the two providing a fearsome defensive wall in front of Gwen and the children. The look passed as quickly as it'd come. Broderick's face lit in a smile that left Jack blinking in wonder at the rapid change, the surprise making him hesitate just long enough for Broderick to slip past to embrace the Queen, being so forward as to lay a kiss on her cheek. "But you are looking beautiful, my dear. The years have only blessed you."

Martha's alarmed "what?" echoed precisely what Jack wished to say, only with a cuter accent.

"Jack, what do we do?" Tosh whispered, standing with a hand clasped in Jean-Luc's. Owen and Sheppard looked equally as befuddled while the Doctor just looked intrigued. So much for help from him, Jack noted, wondering what action was the best to take. He still had his gun; they could put up a fight but he was inordinately curious as to why the faery had come. At the very least, he wanted an explanation from Ianto's father.

Broderick had already moved, resuming his post beside Elaine after sweeping one of the twins into his arms, the other clutching his hand and staring wide-eyed at the faeries. (Jack wasn't sure which was which, he still wasn't able to tell the twins apart.) They didn't look scared, just surprised. Which was good -- children in the Hub were enough while a threat was present, screaming children would have just put Jack over the edge.

The Queen stepped forward, moving into Jack's personal space, and he didn't miss that the others stepped away in reaction. He held his ground, though; he'd dealt with her before. A lifetime ago, but familiar territory all the same. He still didn't trust her, and he was pretty sure she would only use or manipulate him for her own purpose.

"Are you not curious why I'm here?"

She seemed to float as she moved, a rustle of leaves seeming to follow in her path as she trailed a finger over his chest, over his shoulders and back as she circled. Jack squared his jaw, biting back what he wanted to say in favor of provoking, something far more rewarding in that it at least squared her attention on him and none of the others. Not to mention, a bit more fun. "Not really. This is a private party, by invitation only. So unless you've got a glossy card with the time and date, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Jack would have laughed at the tantrum that followed -- once a child, always a child, from the foot-stomp to the frustrated wail -- if he hadn't been swept up by a gale of wind as though he was simply a feather, air currents swirling around him so fast Jack found himself suspended in mid-air, thrown away from the others as the Queen raged below.

What was he saying? It was still rather amusing.

The world dropped away as he felt the wind die, the suddenness taking his breath away as he plummeted to the ground. Jack forced himself to relax. The height wouldn't kill him if he was careful; he was more concerned for the twins viewing the violence than for himself. He closed his eyes, but the collision with the floor never came, although he experienced as much of a shock as the actual impact would have been, almost bouncing in the air as he could practically feel the particles vibrating around him.

"I would suggest using a more sensitive approach next time, Jack."

Grinning despite himself as he carefully regained his balance to stand again, Jack opened his eyes to Jean-Luc's, so piercing pale blue despite being halfway across the Hub that they almost seemed lit with power. He nodded his thanks before turning to the Queen as she stalked towards him, the other eight faeries trailing behind her like little ducklings.

"You try my patience."

Jack raised his chin, offering her his patented Harkness smile. "I've been told that before, but usually it involves fewer clothes." The Queen's lips pressed into a thin frown, the bitter look one Jack had seen before. He knew he should have been wary of those earlier smiles and laughter; her core was far more cruel than the lighthearted front had presented. He knew; he'd experienced it and he'd every reason to hate. "You've destroyed people I've loved. Why should I listen?"

"So young. Arrogant." The Queen curled long, red-nailed fingers around his jaw, tilting his face in the light. Jack felt the muscles in his neck begin to tremble with the effort not to pull away and fire every bullet in his Webbly, but he kept still; he preferred his head where it was. "You believe this to be about you?"

Jack had no comment, just a quiet fear he hadn't felt in so long . He didn't necessarily fear death -- that was a fear long lost to spears and starvation and Abaddon. But control was gone, as was any understanding of the situation. When assumed motivations were no longer in play, Jack couldn't act. He couldn't figure a way out, he couldn't second guess or get ahead or out-talk, and he certainly wasn't going to flirt. He had no fucking clue what their motivation was. They had invaded his turf and more than just him was threatened. He felt helpless, and he hated that feeling.

Fear. "What is it about, then?"

A cool finger ran down his neck until it reached his chest, pushing Jack backwards with startling strength so that he had to backpedal to remain upright but he didn't miss what she whispered. "Promises."

The faeries behind her erupted into childish laughter as they sprung up on their gangly legs, so quickly Jack had barely righted himself when they were yards in the air. Swooping and flashing into brilliant light, the tiny pixies Estelle saw hovered like spheres of light around the Queen. She drank the attention and the light, faeries dancing on the palms of her hands, making the silver and jewels in her hair gleam. Quite the display, though Jack wasn't exactly sure for who.

"Jack, what do we do?"

He spared a glance at Gwen and the team, the Doctor and Ianto's family and friends. They were on the opposite side of the tower, the Queen of the Fae and her minions between them. "Stay there." Jack really had no other advice; what did one say to defend against a faery? Close one's eyes and quit believing in them? He addressed the Queen directly, inching closer to her until tiny glowing faeries zoomed in front of him, halting his approach. "I don't understand."

"Of course you don't." She held one childlike faery in her hand, cupping her fingers around it as though to protect, her robes glimmering green as they swirled around her. He'd ask her to teach him that trick, she made the movement look effortless and he always had to work to get his coat to move, but he didn't think she'd be so keen to part with that information. Selfish as ever, unwilling to give up anything she wanted until she had claimed it completely, no matter the cost. Jack hadn't singlehandedly destroyed that kingdom, after all; he'd had a little help. "I had to protect my own."

"At the cost of Ianto!" The tiny faeries clung to his clothing, pulling Jack away from the Queen as he lunged forward, ready to strangle her even if it cost him a life. He tried to shake them off, but they wouldn't budge, clinging to his shirt, his pants, wings flapping so fast they were a powerful blur. "You gave him no choice!"

Her lips curved into a beautiful yet dangerous smile, daring Jack to contradict her, to play her game with all its unknown rules and consequences. "On the contrary, he had every choice. Of course, we lit his path on occasion. Couldn't have him lost now, could we?"

"You manipulated him!" Jack surged forward again, the faeries taunting and giggling as they held him fast, their hands feeling like red-hot needles against his skin. He was dimly aware of Owen, Sheppard, and Jean-Luc creeping towards him -- not so subtly Jack might add, and really, who had they learned their stealth from? Sheppard blended into the background but the other two were due for some training if they survived this.

"Your choice is ours, Ianto," the Queen's voice sing-songed in reply. Jack knew it must have been what was told to Ianto so long ago. Ianto had mentioned it, hinted briefly to Jack as he was now, and a bit more expanded in his past self. But never the words. "And our choice is yours."

"What. Does. That. Mean?" Jack growled, his patience shot with all her games and playing. "What was his choice?"

She stopped playing with the dancing faery upon her hand, throwing it up as one would throw a bird to flight. It fled up and away, pealing with glee as it flew away from the Queen. Jack waited for an answer; it seemed as though the Hub itself had paused, holding its breath as well. Even the individual drops of the waterfall slowed, silencing the melodic flow in frozen time. Her smile was radiant, part-child, part-woman, mother and daughter in the same ancient breath. He could understand why men fell captive to her spell. He saw why kingdoms crumbled as she danced in love and vengeance. And when she turned fully towards him, unnatural green eyes blazing with wisdom and innocence, power palpable as the air swirled around her, lifting the cascade of curls kissing her feet, Jack felt a bit of something like awe.

"Life."

Her hands rose above her head, meeting with a resounding crack as lightning flashed so brilliant that Jack's eyes teared while afterimages danced behind his closed eyes. The storm which had earlier died rose in a fury, deafening with its roar and thunderclaps that sounded too loud and too close. But for all its fury, Jack felt no fear. It wasn't ... threatening, and that was different for all his interactions with the faeries. It wasn't a storm to drown in, it wasn't even raining, and while the wind whipped around him, the current felt little more than a gentle puff.

Growing confident, Jack opened his eyes, slowly at first in case his senses and instincts were deceiving him. What he saw left him staring. Where the water tower had stood appeared a wooded land of tall, ancient trees, the ground blanketed by mist, a mist which swirled around Jack's ankles, creeping up his calves until the entire Hub floor was covered by it. Jack would call it a mirage, but it smelled so real, the crisp sent of dewed greens beneath his feet, the old earth smell of the gnarled trees. The image stretched until the edges blended into the technology of the Hub, a curled, whitened edge like burnt paper. He knew what he was seeing, the lost forests. Out of time, the land of the Faery.

And the edges were shrinking, crackling inwards as the opening rapidly shrank, the sounds of laughter fading away as Jack assumed they returned home, returned after accomplishing what? He quickly glanced across at the team. Gwen still stood next to Rhys with Gizmo around her neck, the twins were still with Broderick. The Faery hadn't been after the children. So they had been there to scare the team? Intimidate him? Truth be told, they didn't have to go to such dramatics to scare him; they already scared him for all their seemingly random acts and agenda.

The Queen had vanished as well, lost somewhere as the winds died down and the hole closed, returning the Hub to its former self, with the water tower cascading down into the pool right where the Queen had stood. But they were gone, they were all gone, just as quickly as they'd come. Jack spun about, counting all the guests and team. Elaine was with Broderick and the Doctor, everyone was accounted for. The mist still lingered, drifting away without the other land to support it. Sheppard, Owen, Jean-Luc, and Tosh were close, staring at their ankles and kicking at the clingy cloud that circled and dissipated.

"Oh my god, Jack!"

He looked up to Martha, who wasn't looking at him but pointing at the fountain where the Queen had once stood. Jack was confused at first, but as the mist cleared, deep red spread over the Hub floor, not everywhere, but in a limited pile, a mound right where she had taunted and teased with half-information and childish games.

That wasn't what stole his breath, though. Jack had seen evidence of the faeries' presence before.

The thin line of pale cream within the red rose petals, that left Jack gasping.

***
***

He woke slowly, awareness impinging on the silent dark with a ferocious snarl. It wasn't painful, it was just insistent, demanding, refusing to permit him solace in the silent dark again. Not that he wanted that -- he didn't think he did, there were important things outside the dark, but the thoughts were wafting through the awareness to disappear into the hazy mists. Important things ... things he must do. And people. Important people. Names slipped his grasp but he knew they existed beyond the dark, beyond the silent, wherever he had been before he was. Or perhaps it wasn't a question of before but a matter of now, amidst the patter of water he didn't hear so much as felt pounding a cascading rhythm upon his eardrums, individual waves blending to one complete sound.

Complete. There were things he needed to complete. To do. Unfinished and never started, existing simultaneously in needs he knew without question were his. He just needed to ...

He remembered. Remembered peace and calm, serenity within the chaos, stretching timeless as the river flowed around stone, unimpeded and undirected, just movement following the currents, never stopping yet never beginning. As it were and as it ever will be.

He remembered.

Memory gave him strength, love and laughter crawling down his fingers, guilt and remorse to his toes, care and concern for family, and something so much bigger than himself warming his middle until he could feel every bend and curve as he lay, knees to his chest, hands gently clasped together in unity making it difficult to pinpoint which finger belonged to each. But the longer he lay, the easier it became. Images joined the emotions, blending with sound until he could recall everything, every whisper and every scream, life and death as it gave and took without mercy in the unceasing cycle that made man both weak and powerful, the gods jealous and petty.

It took little effort to push to his knees and from there to his feet as he remained crouched, hands on his knees while he balanced on his toes, opening his eyes to water falling, drop chasing drop in a race for the finish wherever the flow might take them. Tilting his head, he could follow each individually as they tumbled over the other. As much a metaphor for life as could ever exist, all existing in a single unit moving forward to interact with others on the same path, except for some, bouncing off the thin skins in extraordinary directions. Some up, some down, some straight out and away from the steady stream, only to take up a path at a different point, a different pace in life.

It was then he remembered to breathe.

With his first breath he smelled roses so sharp it was overwhelming, itching his nose until a sneeze crept up faster than he could stop, starling him with sound as though he'd forgotten how to listen. The sneeze shot through his body; he could feel it in his chest and down to his toes, a feeling he'd never truly attended to but in the face of its vehement demands he cataloged every sensation. He laughed in delight as he'd never noticed before the way his muscles trembled or how he could feel the air expel from his lungs and pass through his nose and lips. It tickled; the very notion brought a smile to his lips as he uncurled from his squat and stood tall before the tower of water, hands on his hips just to feel that they existed as did the rest of him.

Raising his chin, he followed the tower straight to the ceiling, a dizzying sight to behold. But at the top, a solid stone roof, a stone which nearly sang its presence to him as the familiar earthen hues triggered yet more memories to push their way to the front, stampeding others as they clamored for attention. He remembered viewing the ceiling from different angles, lounged on the couch or spinning idly in a chair, thinking of answers or waiting for them. With one hand he ran his fingers through his hair, in both imitation of those memories and because he could. Sensations so familiar and new. Each strand felt unique as they slid through his fingers, pausing only when they encountered an object that didn't feel as the others, catching it as it fell from his hair into his hands.

A rose petal.

That would explain the pervasive scent.

He pivoted slowly on heel and toe, smoothing the petal between his fingers, bruising the red satin just enough to release the oils but not enough to damage the fragile curve. He knew where he was. He remembered. And as he spun, smell of roasted bean on his mind and the taste of coffee he craved from habit and comfort, his motion was halted by sights incompatible with his location. Two strangers stood next to his father, the twins and his sister; family he felt running strong and fierce in his blood. The constable with the heart sat on the floor, cradling something as she was being cradled by her rock, the rookie and surprisingly good rugby player. He couldn't quite register their expressions, that comprehension eluded him as their names but he knew them.

He remembered who they were. He remembered what they meant to him. Unfinished, incomplete. The things he needed to do, to complete. He needed them.

Turning further, he saw the medic grasping the sleeve of the warrior who held the brilliant technician in his arms; why, he couldn't figure out. But he was distracted by movement, a figure with pale blue eyes removing his hand from the technician's shoulder as he moved, hands extended out to ward off the air or rose petals or the creatures who left them.

"Stop. This could be a trick."

The figure spoke, he knew the words but words seemed as empty as the letters he knew which spelled them. They were really just a fragment of quantified thought and interpretation, a notion incredibly difficult to move beyond to comprehension. Pale blue eyes moved in front of him, staring into his own.

"Ianto?"

Ianto. That was it. Names collapsed from the upper citadels of his mind, tinkling like shattered glass. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Everyone he'd met, every person he'd researched, every single life and death, some with faces, some without -- just empty words so devoid of explanation or reason. He knew there was a story behind each name, even those without a face. A life behind those words.

And he knew this life, he knew this face.

"Jean-Luc." Ianto's face felt odd as his lips and tongue formed the sounds which meant the words. Stretching, pulling, and pursing, but his voice was clear, feeling as aware and ready as his flesh and bone. He remembered waking in the morning, his voice craggy with sleep as he threaten his alarm clock with permanent harm if it didn't stop.

"How do I know it's you?"

With a smile, Ianto thought an invitation to the mental query, welcoming Jean-Luc to see whatever it was he wished to see. He could stop him, Ianto felt certain of that. Certain memories vibrated in various corners of his mind, teasing him to look, but he wasn't quite sure what was there; he just knew what was there meant he could stop Jean-Luc. But that felt ridiculous at this point, with his friend so close and present within his public mind that it only seemed natural to permit him to see whatever it was he needed to see.

Warmth spread comfort over his mind, the presence of Jean-Luc overwhelming but not threatening as various cues were given to recall memories from their childhood, from their teens, and into adulthood. They were mostly memories shared with Jean-Luc, flashing forward like photographs stacked and flipping, rapidly jetting through time as the images grew darker and stress crackled the edges, burning with dragon fire and on to incredible pain as the dragons attempted to tear through his mind. And then ... peace. Calm. Exploding brilliant white and gold and then ... nothing. Darkness.

Until awareness, lying on the floor.

Jean-Luc hastily withdrew, appearing shaken, and Ianto was certain he should have felt shaken as well but for the moment everything was too much, too overwhelming as too many things clamored to be cataloged and understood, from sights to sounds to smells and touch. Everything was something new or unexpected or certainly taken for granted before. Before ... Ianto wasn't sure what exactly.

"Merde, Ianto. It's really you."

As opposed to another Ianto? He wasn't sure what that was to mean, but Jean-Luc's tight hug left little room for either thought or breath. The contact was different, touch so intense like he'd forgotten what it felt like when something else contacted his skin, a million nerves rapidly firing to define the sensation of pressure. Every point where Jean-Luc's body contacted his was an individual pocket of wonderment and awe. His skin could feel so alive and fresh that he wondered how he ever grew accustomed to the sense.

A thought crossed his mind, causing the smile to slip from his face, pulling away so he could look at those familiar pale blue eyes. "Stephen's dead," Ianto sadly informed Jean-Luc, knowing his friend would miss their old mentor as much as he. He couldn't understand Jean-Luc's reaction, however, a flicker of something akin to grief and confusion registering before the face settled into an equally sad expression.

"Yeah, I know." Jean-Luc paused a moment before stepping away, a smirk on his face. "Come on, can't have you naked. You'll scare the kids with your skinny legs. Here." And with a slight wave, a coat flew over the heads of the two strangers and Ianto's family (he remembered, Broderick, Elaine, Bryce and Gareth), flying so quickly it ruffled their hair.

Ianto hadn't even realized until then that he was unclothed. Or maybe he had and he didn't particularly care.

Jean-Luc helped Ianto into the coat, a long coat, wool, and god did it scratch, falling just around mid-calf. While Jean-Luc was buttoning it, Ianto ran his hand over the grey wool, fondly remembering another great coat that held so many memories. The coat was too broad in the shoulders, but he supposed it would do until he could find some clothing that would fit, until he could go back to his flat and fetch some things. And talk with his family because why were they here? And Sheppard? Owen and Tosh were staring, Gwen and Rhys still clinging, a sling of fabric that looked remarkably like a ...

Ianto felt his face stretch into a scowl, his nose pressing into the collar of the coat to make certain he wasn't mistaken, imagining things that he wished were there. Hallucinations were a sign of madness, or so the handbooks said. He sniffed, closing his eyes as his mind nearly overloaded with memory of evenings on rooftops, loos, and that first date, laughter and sex, comfort and passion. It couldn't be, but it was, overwhelmingly so, but it escaped logic to understand how or why. For the first time since he became aware, and perhaps not the last, Ianto felt himself slip into panic because it made no sense. And up until then, while perhaps things hadn't made sense, Ianto had never felt confusion or fear, feelings so deep-rooted he couldn't shake them off or brush them aside, figments of his imagination. But it wasn't the smell that made him fear, it was the missing that was so terrifying. "But I ... this is ... I sent him away."

As soon as he said it, he knew that didn't make sense. But the Jacks in his head were so intermingled as memory crumpled up and threw every image of Jack, every sound and spoken word he wasn't sure what was when and how.

Jean-Luc wasn't helping, uncertain and uncomfortable. But finally he spoke, his accent thick and heavy as his voice cracked. "You've been gone for a year, Ianto." With a nod over Ianto's shoulder, Jean-Luc quit talking, just gently nudged Ianto's arm to get him to turn.

He did turn, though it was somewhat reluctant as the idea of one year rattled about his mind and fought with the truth which stood behind him. It was too much, all just too much and the panic intensified, remembering everything and understanding absolutely nothing. He reached for the calm which had been such a comfort earlier, shakily clinging to that sense of spiritual whole, but as soon as the questions began, they wouldn't stop, tumbling like boulders into the stream, impeding the flow, creating a dam as the confusion rose behind it.

Which was worse, facing the Captain or asking what Jean-Luc had meant? Where he'd been, why he'd been 'gone' from his family and friends? He'd intentionally acted horrendously towards Jack, stolen moments of his life from him and banished him from that period of time. There was no forgiveness in that. But asking Jean-Luc the questions of 'where' and 'how' and 'why' were far worse, begging answers which seemed improbable and in the realm of impossible. It hurt to consider.

That would be dealt with later.

Ianto squared his shoulders, resolve inching towards defiance as he deliberately shoved aside the panic. He'd faced worse (roars, thousands of roars as Tiffany screamed and the air sucked backwards like giant turbine engines -- no. Those memories were for later) than Jack, and if the Captain wished to seek vengeance for Ianto's actions, he was certainly within that right and Ianto wouldn't stop him.

What he hadn't expected was the still face, eyes tracking movement but for all intents frozen in time. Jack's lips slightly parted, the tendons in his neck stretching the skin as it appeared he was torn between stunned stillness and the urge to run. Ianto had been ready for anger, ready for the threat of violence but he hadn't braced himself for Jack's silence, awkward and unnatural while the water tumbled down the tower. "Jack?"

The sound of Ianto's voice, or perhaps the question, was all it seemed to take to melt the fixed visage of the Captain. The shock wore off as his face flashed a million emotions before settling on one Ianto couldn't discern, didn't think he could even if his thoughts had been properly ordering themselves within his mind. Jack moved so quickly. Between one blink he was far away and the next he was so close that Ianto swore he could feel the rush of air currents swirl around him. He was swept up by strong arms in a grasp so tight it drove the air from his lungs. Not that he was concerned for breathing as Jack's fingers curled around the base of his skull, holding Ianto firmly in place, as though he wished to be anywhere else.

Jack didn't say anything, which unnerved Ianto as he waited beneath Jack's stare. Not a stare, Ianto amended, feeling Jack's breath heavy and hot. Smelling faintly of alcohol, he hovered just inches from his lips, connecting with the wild eyes and was he smelling Ianto? Jack's hand shook as it gripped the back of his neck, the other apparently locked into its position around Ianto's waist, pressing the wool uncomfortably into his skin, but he didn't move for fear of breaking whatever this was, whatever Jack needed. Their noses bumped, barely touching, more a tickle of sense than anything definite.

The anticipation was nearly as intense as the touch, from the hands clutching almost painfully and the feather-light grace of skin against skin to the knowledge of something waiting, not hiding but begging to be discovered where every question had answers and needs their fulfillment. Something waiting which had been searching for years. Something suspended by time, alive and glowing brilliant as flame beneath the surface of that flowing river.

Jack had all the time he wished, but Ianto felt time as precious as every trembling touch. He could almost see it, circling, coiling, loop after loop of existence, each point returning to the same position but a new location as nature and fate fought for balance, one holding no hold over the other. Jack, Jacks, didn't much matter, all the same position on the same coil, just a different location, backwards or forwards.

He remembered, a dream so long ago. Asleep and held within Jack's arms at his father's, tucked away warm and safe within his childhood bed. "I'm with you, I am always with you, on every curve and coil."

And Jack, true to his word, had been ... even now, along this new curve of life and time.

Jack.

Ianto moved on intuition and practice, more optimism than anxiety driving his actions because what was important was now, this time with Jack. And when Jack said "forever", Ianto believed it. He'd meant only a reassuring, welcoming press, comforting both himself and Jack, but that thought quickly devolved into less planned and more instinct, a primal kiss that left Ianto light-headed as hands scrabbled for points of touch, contact of skin limited to the captain's neck, face, and scalp as the rational portion of his mind still quietly reminded him they had an audience. He needed to confirm though that Jack was real, that he wasn't imagining things, hallucinating alone in the depths of his mind.

From the frantic, desperate grabs and the frenzied play of his tongue over Ianto's, it appeared Jack sought the same confirmation. He tugged on the greatcoat, using the wool to pull Ianto close, closer, so close that Ianto believed himself, for a moment, as much Jack as he was Ianto. That wasn't so bad, really, except for the seam indentations the greatcoat was sure to leave in Ianto's skin, leaving him patch-worked. Though perhaps that was truly him, pieces sewn together, the snapshots of time. Each experience a new piece, until Ianto was made whole.

He knew who he was, now, smashed against Jack, their hands clutching whatever hold they could find as their lips said everything they never said, their bodies warming to fire as they burned for everything they wanted but never asked.

Life. Love.

Frantic melted away as smooth chocolate dripping slowly down the edge of a cake, glazing the path in delicious hints of cacao and liquor, rich and slow their kisses once they realized that neither was moving or vanishing into intangible dreams. Slow and sure, every touch remembering what it was to feel the other, the taste of the full line of Jack's lower lip, the feel of the shallow dimple of his chin and the delicate curve of his ear. Everything was so very Jack, to the fall of his cheekbones and the angle of his jaw, so real and limited; infinity unmasked and unguarded, exposing itself to the presence of a moment and the dance of their tongues.

Fuck, he was beautiful, even if unexplainable by all human notions. But Ianto didn't care about explanations, nor did he demand commitments or promises because Jack followed on every curve, showed up in every circle of history. All that mattered was now, not the future or the past, only the present because Jack was here and Ianto wanted to never abuse that gift. He supposed it might apply to himself as well if he'd really been gone for a year, judging by the way Jack appeared to be mapping Ianto's face as well as they kissed, remembering and memorizing every detail in actions reflecting Ianto's.

The here-and-now was amazing, fantastic beyond hope, a far cry from dragons and screams, blood and fear as the air retreated in sulfur-tinged flight. Brilliant white and gold as he clutched the blue pebble, warming ominously in his hand as he waited and knew; knew and accepted. Ianto squashed the memory back, shoving it ruthlessly into a far corner of his mind to be left undisturbed for the moment, because time was precious and the Captain was now.

But Jack was no fool, he'd felt Ianto's brief disorientation as he'd choked on the memory threatening to overwhelm him no matter how he'd tried to hide it. Ianto knew Jack hadn't looked into this mind, yet knew what had shaken him. Jack broke away, leaving the two of them audibly gasping for breath, staring at each other for just a brief second before Jack pulled Ianto close for a bone-crushing hug, cheeks pressing so tight Ianto could feel the Captain's stubble scratching against his skin. It'd leave a red mark, but as Jack's hand circled through Ianto's hair in sympathy or protection from whatever nightmares that plagued Ianto's thoughts, he found he really didn't much mind the red marks.

"You're alive."

Ianto wasn't quite sure who was meant to be reassured by Jack's words. Perhaps a little of them both. He smiled as he turned his face against the Captain's neck, pressing his nose against the tender skin behind Jack's ear. "So're you," he all but laughed in reply, tightening his arms, relishing the feel of solid weight beneath his hands. "Jack, I'm sorry-"

"No. No apologies." The touch on his neck grew stronger, reinforcing Jack's words. Ianto would have cringed beneath the touch had it not been Jack's hands doing the touching. "I would have stopped you," Jack avowed, and Ianto didn't doubt the fervor or the promise of what might have been. A determined Jack was an unstoppable man, "and that would have been quite possibly the worst decision I have ever made. Ianto, you are Mr. Black. I just ... I understand now."

The blush started at his ears, creeping forward until it stained his cheeks and Ianto was fairly certain his nose, too. Jack had spoken with such alacrity, such vehemence he couldn't know what he was saying. But Ianto was pulled away from Jack's neck, fingers brushing his stained cheeks before his chin was tilted to see the open honesty in Jack's eyes. He'd have fidgeted but something on the Captain's face made him hold still. Pride? His face flushed deeper, to Jack's amusement, and he had to bite his tongue to keep himself from saying anything childish. "Who was my replacement?"

Jack's smile faltered and Ianto chided himself for his lack of tact. He'd believed Ianto dead. They'd all believed him dead. And perhaps he had been; he still wasn't quite sure. "Your sister, Ms. Blue." Ianto grinned at the idea of another Jones continuing the tradition. "Though I imagine she'll be turning that role back over to you. Never liked the protocol much, or the budgets. Or any of it, really. But she was determined to carry on the family honor." Jack's voice dropped to a whisper, winking. "She scares me too, but don't tell her. She'd quit bringing me pastries when she dropped in for inspection."

Ianto laughed at the idea of his sister scaring Jack, though knowing full-well how frightening she could be when it came to her family and loved ones. With a brow arching, stretching muscles which felt like they'd not performed the action in quite some time, Ianto smoothly straightened Jack's shirt collar. "I suppose you'll need to take to calling me 'sir' then."

The joyous laughter meant more to Ianto than all the praise in the world.

Jack returned the favor, straightening the passants and lapels on the greatcoat. Jack's greatcoat. Ianto paused to run his cheek over the material again, smelling it, grinning when Jack's eyes visibly darkened at Ianto's action. "Go on, you have some people who are probably quite happy to see you." His voice was hoarse, the voice Ianto heard at odd times, be it during sex or when Jack thought he was asleep. Jack smiled, nodding his head in the general direction of all the others as though Ianto wasn't aware of who the Captain meant. "And after that, I am taking you home where I'll give you a proper welcome. Preferably while you're still wearing my coat."

As Ianto was pushed towards the others who swarmed around him like bees to honey once they'd been given whatever sign they were waiting for to release the tide, he turned to look back at Jack, who stood so proud and confident before the water tower, the flowing river framing him perfectly. His mind might still be playing catch up, Ianto knew he and Jack had details from the past to work through despite the relief of reunion, but he knew there was love. And respect. He could never go back to the shadows to hide so quiet as to pass unnoticed. Not with Jack, not with his friends, family and team, and most certainly, not with his duty and responsibility: for Queen and country, for the world and for the city of Cardiff, the place he called home. But even if he could, he wouldn't go back, not now. Some were luckier than others, and Ianto considered himself one of the luckiest.

Like Jack said, he was Mr. Black, more than just a tea-boy.

And he wasn't alone.











***
***

"Oi, that was brilliant!" The Doctor rocked forward while holding on to the bar railing. Broderick couldn't very well disagree. After all, it wasn't every day one's son was awakened from the eternal sleep. But their family had never gone about things in the most sensible of manners, and he supposed death was one of them that may always be a little skewed. "He's your son, then?"

Broderick nodded, waving with a smile at Bryce and Gareth when they looked up to see where he was. He hadn't gone down to speak with Ianto yet, but he would, when perhaps he wouldn't risk a limb to hug his son as the group of family and friends celebrated his return. For once, the tears shed weren't in sorrow, nor were the shouts in grief. Torchwood was a dangerous business, but he only had the heart to comfort Elaine once. He didn't think he could do it again. He avoided looking at the Doctor. No need, really, and besides, he figured the Doctor was doing enough staring for the both of them. A squall rose above the chatter; the girl called Martha took to bouncing the baby Ianto while cooing nonsense to the child. Wasn't but thirty years ago when he was doing the same thing, his own baby Ianto cradled so carefully in his hands, falling asleep to the tales of an old man. "A man of legend."
 
The Doctor's mood shifted suddenly, though Broderick had been expecting it since the Doctor and his companion had entered the conference room. "Yeah, about that. This show," the Doctor waved a hand about, gesturing towards the group standing around Ianto before turning an accusing finger on Broderick. "You knew. How? How do you know what's to come?"

"Come now, Time Lord," Broderick smiled as the Doctor scowled and leaned against the railing, crossing his arms like he was a technological puzzle to figure out. He calmly removed his pipe kit from his pocket, balanced a tin of tobacco on the railing while the Doctor waited for an answer, preparing the pipe he knew Ianto would request eventually. Some things weren't so hard to figure out, his son's comfort in the smell of pipe smoke up near the top. He imagined the full impact of what happened would leave Ianto shaken. Best excuse to start now. And to find the coffee maker; Broderick assumed coffee would be requested too. "I'm a student of myths and legends. Events such as these, they will not soon be forgotten. Oh, the tale might change in time, growing as myths do, generation to generation until you or I would hardly recognize the lad, the king heralding in a new era, a glorious Camelot of the ages when utopia thrived among the people of Earth. But that would just be myth, wouldn't it?"

The Time Lord didn't say anything for some time, just watched the mundane actions of practiced tapping and lighting the pipe. Broderick took but two puffs before Ianto's eyes shot up towards where he stood, the relief clear on his face. Not too early for the comforting smell, it would seem. Finally the Doctor spoke, bluntly and without question. "You don't belong to this time."

"Don't I?" Broderick gestured with his pipe to his family: the twins refusing to let go of Ianto's legs, Elaine clinging to her brother so fiercely he rather feared for his son's ability to breathe, and finally his son, standing so tall in the center of it all, if not appearing overwhelmingly embarrassed by the attention. "If anyone is misplaced, I would say it to be you, Time Lord." His firm defense of his family softened into one of sympathy, miming the Doctor's lean against the railing as he smoked his pipe with thoughtful patience. "Though one might say you've lost your place to belong. It would be a hard life, but at least you're not alone." Broderick smiled at Martha still holding baby Ianto for Gwen and Rhys. "But it's still not home."

Silence stretched between the two men, the Doctor blatantly avoiding Broderick by turning away, one foot on the lowest rung, his elbows on the top rail as he stared at the water tower. Broderick let him be, entertaining himself by blowing smoke rings perfected long ago. Identical circles, one after the other, drifting across the open room of the Hub until they slowly dissipated much as the mists which had wafted in from the ancient forests.

"Let me tell you of a legend of my people, Broderick, father of Ianto." The Doctor's voice startled him mid-ring, ruining that attempt but Broderick wasn't to be deterred. Starting a new one as though he had never been interrupted, he listened, curious as the Doctor continued. "Story says there was one of us, a Time Lord, who led a rebellion against every rule, every advance, every social and political belief, corrupt or not. Ended poorly, the Time Lord standing on his own, the others choosing to be reconditioned or left the city. He was brought to trial for his actions but escaped before verdict, clever man. Only one to ever successfully erase their own bio-data and collective memory from the Matrix ... well, erase it and live."

The Doctor paused a moment; Broderick just waited without response, curious to hear the end of the story. "He fled Gallifrey and none could find him, not even within their minds; presumed dead and swiftly forgotten. But the stories, oh, the stories told about this man." Broderick could feel the Doctor's excitement as it built, the previous downturn of emotion giving way to the swing towards joy in discovery. "It was whispered he lived, lost away on some forgotten world in some forgotten time, meddling in affairs the Time Lords refused to acknowledge or bother with. A bit my hero, that man," the Doctor smiled fondly, his Chuck Tayler-clad foot swinging on the railing. "But, that would just be myth, wouldn't it? Unless, like Mr. Black, there's a real man behind the legend."

Broderick just smiled at the Doctor's poignant look, forming yet another perfect smoke ring, and then another and another in rapid fire, almost successfully joining the three rings. He feigned a bit of surprise, hand jerking the pipe away from his lips before he could inhale the spicy tobacco. "Oh, are you implying me? You're mistaken, I'm just a simple man, Time Lord, with a home in the hills and a lovely family."

"Now, that would be foolish of me, wouldn't it? I'm the last one. I'd know if there was another." The Doctor's voice dropped to nearly a hiss, angry as he tapped his head. "After all that has been lost, it'd be ridiculous to think that any would stay in hiding when only one remains." Instantly, the capricious man's mood shifted, causing Broderick, mostly unflappable he thought, to blink at the shift in tone. "Course, an old friend said I wasn't alone. Didn't believe him at the time, but ... maybe he was right."

"Wouldn't be the first time the Time Lords were wrong." Broderick looked down on his family, Ianto's partner, team, and his friends. Only one was missing from the reunion. He sadly reflected that his wife would have been proud of her son for everything he had accomplished, everyone he had saved. So many lost, so much taken, but she had done what she must. Ianto succeeded her with every respect and honor to their family.

Viviene would have been most proud.

Jack was watching the Doctor and him with a bit of a frown on his face. Broderick smiled brazenly at Jack and waved, knowing it'd unnerve the man. A good thing, given his relationship with Ianto. His son deserved the best, and it wouldn't hurt to keep Jack a little off-balance. More amusing than anything, really. He and the Doctor stood shoulder to shoulder, overlooking the Hub floor and the people still swarming his son with their exuberance. He raised the pipe to his lips, pausing to ask a question before he took a puff. "This legend of yours, did he have a name?"

The Doctor glanced at him, and Broderick caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. At first, Broderick thought he wasn't going to answer. The silence stretched between them, only broken by the screaming laughter of the twins as Owen swung each in the air. But the Doctor's voice carried low, almost cracking in the quiet. "The stories say his name was Myrddin."

Broderick smiled, the soft huff of laughter escaping his lips before he could completely tamp it down, knowing the Time Lord still watched and might take laughter as mockery. In fact, the Doctor had turned away, his usually expressive face staring stoically out at the water tower. Broderick gently patted the Doctor's hand, a pat which turned into a desperate grip as the Doctor turned his hand into Broderick's, the Time Lord blindly clutching despite the apparent inattention.

"Just myths and legends, Doctor," Broderick said softly, watching his son. "In the end, we are all just myths and legends."

Fin

***

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