“Go home, all of you. Get only what personal things you need from upstairs. Don't touch anything else. Go and don't come back until the day after tomorrow.” Jack's flinty voice broke the calm that followed the rain of gunshots.

Owen cocked his pistol.

“That means you too, Owen. Out.”

Owen flashed Ianto a final venomous glare before turning on his heel and vanishing. Gwen looked hurt. Toshiko surprised him, though; her expression was definitely sympathy and a grim kind of understanding.

Ianto couldn't bring himself to care. Besides, for the second time in less than six months he'd lost everything he had, and what would she know about that?

Jack circled the room, looking here and there, taking in every piece of equipment Ianto had brought in, every book he'd read to her at night, every tool and every bottle of painkillers and every last broken promise spilled out red and sticky on the floor. Ianto watched, paralyzed, as Jack raised his weapon and fired eight shots into the control box of the conversion unit.

While Ianto was still trying to figure out what, exactly, Jack was doing, Jack vanished into the hallway. He returned moments later with an ancient fire ax with which he carefully and precisely chopped and smashed the remaining cyberconversion apparatus into a pile of useless metal. The sound of each impact clanged and echoed in the empty space, and Jack's face was as blank and emotionless as one of the cybermen themselves.

Ianto huddled against Lisa's body against him like a shield, looking at anything but Jack and the way her empty skull lolled heavily on her neck. Deep in his mind, a giggling, hysterical voice wondered how he'd not pissed himself.

After the table was nothing more than a pile of sharp-edged fragments, Jack threw down the fire ax and stalked out of the room. Ianto held his breath, waiting, waiting...

Nothing.

He should go. He really should go. The door was open and if he'd make a run for it he might have a chance of living to see the next sunrise and maybe he could get past Jack—

Instead, Ianto bent his head over Lisa's body and wept.

When his sobs and shaking petered out to mere trembling, a voice sharp as broken glass rang out. “Give me your weapon.”

Ianto blinked painful, red-rimmed eyes. He pushed himself into a kneeling position over Lisa, hating Jack Harkness with every fibre of his being.

“Give me your weapon.” Jack's voice was a little stronger, a little harsher. “Now.”

Slowly, slowly, Ianto took his pistol out of its holster. It felt heavy and cold in his hand. He turned it, looked at it. The safety was off.

Fuck Jack Harkness. Fuck Torchwood. Fuck the Cybermen, fuck the Daleks, fuck the bloody pterodactyl. Torchwood punished the treasonous with death, and what he'd done was treason by any measure, as bad as if he'd hidden the bloody Doctor in Jack's basement. If he was expected to die, damn it, he was going to die with his head up and fighting, not bent over execution-style with a sadistic madman pulling the trigger.

He cocked the pistol and started moving it to his head as his finger made its way to the—

Ianto didn't even see Jack move before he was pinned to the ground with Jack's knee pressing on his stomach and Jack's hand grinding his wrist into the floor. Fucking hell, it hurt.

“I don't think so,” Jack hissed as he snatched up the pistol out of Ianto's splayed-open hand and ejected the clip right on Ianto's chest. Without ever taking his eyes from Ianto's face, he swung his arm around and firing the chambered round into the mess of wire that had been the control unit.

Ianto grabbed at Jack with his free hand, trying to knock him off balance and shake himself loose. Jack was prepared, though, and before Ianto really knew what was happening, Jack flipped him over, twisted his arm behind his back, and hauled him by his collar to his feet.

Feeling dizzy from standing so quickly, Ianto staggered and fell back against Jack's chest. While he struggled and fought to get his feet underneath him properly, Jack tightened his grip on collar and arm and frog-marched him down the hall, through the Hub, and into his office. Retcon, then, since Jack had already passed up two opportunities to put a bullet through his brain.

Ianto's heart dropped to his feet. Given the choice between death or retcon, Jack would choose the crueler of the two options.

The hatch to Jack's quarters popped open with a hiss. “Inside,” Jack ordered, pushing down. “At the bottom, you will put your hands on your head and face away from me.”

Once Jack was down the ladder, he twisted Ianto's arm behind his back again and pushed into him to the small bathroom. “Strip.”

The spark of defiance he'd felt on the floor of the basement roared into angry life. Ianto spun around and bellowed, “Christ, Harkness, you're a sick pervert! Is murder how you get your rocks off?” He threw another punch at Jack.

Jack caught his fist and squeezed until the bones in Ianto's hand ground together. Very quietly, he hissed, “Strip.”

“Fuck you.”

“Your choice.” Jack released his hand and pushed him against the tiles. While Ianto cursed and fought, Jack turned on the spigot and shoved Ianto into the shower, clothes and all. “In you go.”

Blood, sweat, and cold water trickled down Ianto's face. “Fucking bastard. Bet you're happy,” he spat. “You've been wanting me like this since the moment we met.”

Cold fury flashed in Jack's eyes. He lifted his chin and snarled, “I have seen hundreds and hundreds of naked human bodies in my life.” His lips curved into something that could in no way be called a smile. “You know, like the two that I get to strip and shove in the morgue when I'm done with you. If you think your body is special or different from theirs, you're wrong.”

Ianto winced.

“Now get your goddamn clothes off and get cleaned up and hurry the fuck up about it,” he snapped. “I've got work to do.”

God, if Jack had asked him even yesterday, he'd have stripped right to the skin and been grateful for the privilege, Lisa or no.

Fuck. Ianto peeled off the remainder of his ruined suit layer by layer, stopping at his boxers. He couldn't quite be completely naked, not now...

He had to have some pride, after all. Everything else he had was gone.

Ianto soaped up, feeling fresh tears run down his face. Jack had a finger on his earpiece, talking to somebody in an undertone.

Once he was finished washing, Jack pointed at a pile of clothing sitting on the floor—a plain white vest, old sweatshirt, soft pajama bottoms, and socks. Still unwilling to be completely naked in front of Jack, Ianto wrapped the towel around his waist, shucked off his wet boxers, and pulled on the pajamas. Then he dropped the towel and put on the rest of the clothes.

Jack pointed to his bed. “Sit here. Put your hands on your knees.”

“Do I have to look at the floor and think of England?”

“I don't care where you look, but if you move your hands off your knees, I'm going to cuff them to your ankles,” Jack snapped. He walked to a plain wooden armoire off to the side, opened the door, and pulled out a clean set of clothes on a hangar, all without ever taking his eyes off Ianto. Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out another vest and a pair of shorts. Without preamble he stripped to the skin and tossed the bloodstained clothes to the side. A dark red mark—a burn—marred the skin where his neck joined his shoulder. His lip was split from where Ianto punched him.

Ianto swallowed and looked down.

Jack jumped into the shower stall and turned the water back on, never once taking his eyes from Ianto. He soaped himself with the most perfunctory of movements, unblinking, with a tension about him reminiscent of a lion poised to leap. When he finished bathing, he got out, dried off using the same towel Ianto had left discarded on the floor, and started pulling on the clean clothes he'd laid out.

“Get up,” Jack barked. “We're going for a drive.”

*****

Jack swung the SUV into a car park and slammed on the brakes in front of a pair of sliding glass doors. He got out, opened Ianto's door, and dragged him inside, where a middle-aged nursing sister looked up from behind a desk. “May I help you?”

“I'm Captain Harkness,” he said tersely. “I called you about twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh,” she said. Looking at Ianto, she added, “This is Mr. Jones, then?”

“Yes.” Jack's hand tightened on his shoulder. Ianto tried to elbow him in the ribs. Jack merely stepped aside.

“Right.” She picked up a telephone and said, “Patient escort to the front desk, please.”

Ianto looked back at Jack, who was watching the nursing sister.

A pair of doors swung outward, opened by three male orderlies wearing hospital scrubs. One of them pushed a wheelchair ahead of him.

Ianto suddenly fought back the urge to laugh hysterically. If he had been in a children's show on the telly, a light bulb would be flashing over his head. Not taking his eyes off Ianto even for a moment, the clothes he wore, having to keep his hands in sight, handcuffs, no shoes, a hospital where—

Oh god, was this how Jack planned to dispose of him? Lock him away forever, where everything that ever happened to him would be dismissed as lunacy?

“Before we do anything else,” Jack said, “do you have a room where Mr. Jones and I can talk in private?”

The nursing sister said, “Only if one of the orderlies goes with you. It's for both your safety.”

“Fine,” Jack ground out.

The tallest of the three orderlies looked at the sister, nodded, and said, “This way, please.”

Jack steered a struggling, resistant Ianto down the corridor behind him to a spartan room with a table and chairs in the middle. After closing the door behind them, the orderly pulled out a chair for Ianto and another for himself.

“Sit,” Jack ordered.

Ianto dropped into chair nearest to him. Across the table, Jack sat down and folded his arms across his chest.

“You're having me sectioned,” Ianto accused.

“Hey, somebody ate his Weetabix this morning! Got it on the first try.” Jack leaned back in his chair and spread his arms wide. “Welcome to Providence Park, Ianto Jones. If you have anything to say, say it right now.”

Panic gave way to fury. “You should be the one in here, not me. I'm not the psychotic bastard in the room.”

“Spare me the bullshit. I'm not the one who put a loaded weapon to my head an hour ago with every intention of pulling the trigger.”

“What, my life's suddenly a concern of yours? Bit bloody late for that.”

Jack's jaw tensed and his eyes darkened. “You'll be here a minimum of five days. More if there's reason to believe you're still a danger to yourself after that. Now, for the last time, is there anything you want to say to me?”

Ianto stared back at him sullenly. “Piss off.”

Jack shoved back from the table so hard that the table slid forward and jammed Ianto painfully in the ribs. He tossed a pair of silver keys to the surprised orderly and said, “Get him out of my sight.”

The orderly hopped to his feet, keys in hand. “Right, mate.” He put a hand under Ianto's arm, gently lifting him to his feet, and said, “Come now, let's go.”

Another orderly was waiting outside the door with a wheelchair. Ianto was pushed to a sitting position, had his feet propped on the pedals, and was steered into the corridors of the hospital. He could swear he still felt Jack's eyes on him, burning a hole in his back.

*****

Ianto lay on his sofa, naked save for his boxers, the hospital bracelet which he hadn't bothered to cut off, and a pair of socks, thumbing through a box of photos. Him and Lisa on a camping trip. Lisa in an evening gown with her family. Lisa mugging for the camera, pretending to bite Ianto's foot.

Lisa, who'd murdered a man who only wanted to help and a woman whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Ianto dropped the box on the floor. A few pictures spilled out.

Toshiko, not Jack, had picked him up at the waiting area of the hospital, all shy and awkward and hesitating. Aside from apologizing for not knowing where he lived and asking him if they should stop at a shop for groceries, her natural reserve kept any unwelcome conversation out of the car on the torturous drive home.

“Jack will call you at four this afternoon,” she'd told him. Ianto had grumbled something biting about how it was nice of Jack to inform him personally. In response, Toshiko did one of those things that she does from time to time; she quietly gathered her dignity, stood on the brakes and gave him a fierce look, saying, “I specifically asked to come pick you up. Otherwise, Jack would have told you himself.” Then, when they arrived at his flat, she gave him a pair of the tiniest thong sandals he'd ever seen simply because she noticed he didn't have any shoes when he left the hospital and it was raining.

He'd blamed the wetness on his face as he tiptoed to his flat in those tiny shoes on the rain.

Ianto rubbed at his foot, tracing his finger along the line where his toes joined the ball. He couldn't apologize to Tosh, even though he owed her one, because that would require speaking and he just didn't have any words left. Not after five days of humiliating talks with overly concerned doctors, hospital robes with velcro instead of ties, nurses or orderlies checking on him every fifteen minutes round the clock, and having somebody watching him every fucking time he wanted to take a fucking piss.

No, Toshiko didn't fucking get any words from him, no more than Jack did. And he still had to talk to that wanker later in the afternoon.

He looked over at the door, where her tiny shoes lay abandoned near his boots, and took another swallow of his whiskey. It was the cheap shit he kept for special occasions like this, the kind that stripped the lining of his stomach and made his head hurt but did a bloody good job at keeping the rest of him completely fucking numb.

As promised, his phone rang at four on the nose, startling him out of a haze.

“Ianto Jones,” he mumbled into the receiver.

Jack's cold voice crackled on the other end. “Listen up, because I'm only going to say this once. One. You're suspended without pay until further notice. If I decide you can come back, I'll tell you when.”

Ianto felt a lead weight settle in his stomach. Left unspoken, of course, was what would happen should Jack decide he wasn't to come back.

“Two. You will call me at this number every day at seven-thirty, one, and ten. You will call me from your mobile, and your mobile only. If you don't call, either Owen or I will be by to check on you.”

“Am I being tracked?”

“You better believe it,” Jack snapped. “Three. Your access to the Torchwood systems is revoked. Try to hack in and you won't even have time to kiss your own ass goodbye before I find you. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have anything you want to say?”

God, why did Jack keep asking that? A long list of things to say zoomed through Ianto's mind, none of which would do him any good. “No, sir.”

“One last thing, then. I'll be coming by your flat in an hour. If you have anything in there that you shouldn't have, whether it was taken from the archives here or you smuggled it out of London or what, put it in a box and leave it outside your door. This is your only opportunity.”

The line went dead.

Ianto drained the last of the whiskey from his glass, set it on the floor by the box of pictures, and got up to find an empty box.

An hour and three minutes later, according to the clock on the wall, morbid curiosity won out over common sense and Ianto opened his front door. The box was gone. He hadn't even heard Jack come or go.

****

A week after the box disappeared, Jack told him to meet him by the Great War Memorial in Alexandra Gardens at three that afternoon. “We need to talk,” he'd said.

Ianto supposed he should be grateful that Jack had chosen neutral turf rather than coming by his flat. It was rather difficult, that gratitude, considering he didn't want to see Jack any more than he wanted a tree to fall on him.

When Ianto arrived at the designated spot at five minutes to three, Jack was nowhere to be seen. He walked around for a few moments before standing against a tree, checking his phone for messages.

“Looking for somebody?”

Ianto's head jerked up and he began casting his eyes about, searching for the source of the words. He saw Jack sitting on a bench nearby, flipping something back and forth between his hands. Jack's voice was bland as cream, but he was smiling, for some definition of “smile” that a wolf looking at a hungry rabbit would recognize.

“You weren't there when I got here,” Ianto accused. “I looked all around.”

“Believe it or not, I've been here since half past two,” Jack replied, patting the bench next to him. “You must not have been looking closely enough. Come have a seat.”

Ianto sat on the opposite end of the bench from Jack.

“So, how's Ianto Jones this afternoon?”

Cut the crap, Ianto thought, and mumbled, “Wondering why he's still alive.”

“Do you want to die?” Jack asked. “Because if you do, I can make it happen.”

Ianto snorted. “That's very kind of you, I'm sure, although you could have spared yourself the bother by letting me take care of it last week.”

“Suicide was never one of your options.”

“It was for Suzie,” Ianto shot back.

“Suzie isn't the subject of conversation here, you are. Now, I came here to offer to put this behind us and let you come back to work.” Jack lifted his chin. “Do you want that? Or would you prefer one of the other options?”

Ianto stared at him, flabbergasted. “Are you serious?”

Jack just looked at him.

“You'd take me back?”

“Is that your answer? You want to come back?”

“Yes, yes, I...” Ianto stood up and paced back and forth in front of the bench, flustered, wanting to get away from the force of that stare. Coming to a stop right in front of Jack, he ran both his hands through his hair and said, “If you were following the rules, I'd be dead. Why are you doing this?”

Jack shrugged. “You tell me.”

“Well,” Ianto huffed, stepping away and turning his back to Jack, “the easy answer is you're after a shag.”

To his surprise, Jack didn't seem to take offence. “That is one possible answer,” he replied.

Ianto turned back around and stared. “Or you can't be arsed to find and train somebody new.”

“That's another.” Jack acknowledged the remark with a nod of his head.

Jack certainly wasn't giving him any hints today, just sitting there juggling what appeared to be a very old brass key in his hand. Ianto sat back down and rolled his eyes. “Heaven forbid you don't have somebody on hand scrubbing the toilets and picking up laundry.”

“As I recall, you volunteered to do that stuff. Begged me, even.” Jack's voice had developed a sharp edge to it, which was strangely enough a relief. Finally, Jack wasn't talking to him in that neutral, expressionless voice anymore. “You don't get to be angry at me for my giving you the job you begged me to do.”

Ianto's temper flared in response. “Do I get to be angry that you cared more about a dinosaur than you did about me when I showed up begging for work?”

That sally hit its mark, so much so that Ianto flinched away expecting to be struck. With a scarlet bloom rising on his cheeks, Jack hissed, “Let me see. Ianto Jones tries to fuck his way into a job, smuggles a killing machine into my house, lies to me at every turn and decides to get pissy with me when I call him on it. Pterodactyl flies around a warehouse, petty nuisance to the ovine population of Wales, turns up its nose at a chocolate bar. No, I don't think you get to be angry there either.” He jumped to his feet and walked several meters away.

Fuck. Ianto jammed the heel of his hand against his brow. Put in those terms, the simmering grudge he'd held against Jack seemed beyond ridiculous.

Jack stalked up to the bench and dropped a folded piece of paper in Ianto's lap. It had a telephone number on it. “Call Toshiko. She's been asking after you.” He turned on his heel and strode down the footpath, coattails billowing out behind him.

Ianto sat on the bench for a very long time after Jack left, staring at the monument and wondering whether he'd just been given a second chance and thrown it away.

When hunger and cold grew urgent enough to break through his mental fog, he walked to the entrance of the garden and waited for the bus to take him home.

Toshiko was asking after him. Those halting attempts at kindness during the awful ride home made him cringe, but...

...there was nothing else in his life right now. Nothing at all.

Ianto flipped his mobile open and started pressing the keys.

*****

“Harkness.”

“One o'clock check-in.”

“Already? Huh, I guess so.” There was a pause, and then Jack said, “Okay, talk to you later.”

Ianto snapped his mobile shut and put it in his pocket before walking to the coffee shop counter and ordering himself a very large, very black cup and a scone. He'd come here at Toshiko's urging, after she'd told him that he needed to get out of his flat and go somewhere where the memories wouldn't rip him apart. “It doesn't matter where you go,” she said, “so long as you go.”

When the barista handed him his order, he started looking for a place to sit. All the good chairs in the corner were full. He found a small table by the window, settled into the chair, and opened his book.

He'd just gotten to a good part when a shoebox full of chess pieces slapped down on the table in front of him, causing him to startle. “What!”

Jack was standing next to him, balancing a small plate on top of a mug of coffee. “Do you play?”

Sighing, Ianto put away his book. “I take it you had the tracker on.”

“It's a Sunday, the others are all at home, and I wanted a coffee and a biscuit.”

“And you couldn't have gotten them anywhere else?”

Jack picked up the box and started walking away.

Ianto cursed under his breath. “Captain, wait.”

Jack turned back around, raising an eyebrow. God only knew what Jack was trying, but he was trying something, and that deserved some kind of effort, right?

Swallowing his pride as best he could, Ianto pointed at the other chair and said, “I'll play white.”

Once the game began, Jack made for surprisingly pleasant company. He studied his possible options with care and deliberation, at one point looking at the board for nearly a minute before making his move. His body was relaxed, and he had a thoughtful, shrewd expression on his face. Ianto felt himself relaxing and enjoying himself as well. It'd been such a long time since he'd...

He squashed that thought right back into the dark crevasse in is his mind from which it came and took a gulp of his coffee.

“I didn't know you played chess,” Ianto said.

Jack looked up at him and gave him a warm, friendly smile. “I learned how to play when I was living in barracks. I like it. It's a good game.”

“In London, they had a chess tournament every year around the middle of April. Very cutthroat competition. I think the prize was something like three hundred quid.”

They each made a few moves. Ianto groaned when Jack took his queen.

“I take it you never joined in?” Jack asked. His lips curved into a knowing half-smile.

Ianto chuckled. “No. I wouldn't have survived the first round.”

Jack cocked his head and studied the table. Absently he asked, “Did you ever call Tosh?”

Ianto stiffened at that question. Neither Jack's voice nor his manner seemed to convey anything other than simple curiosity, though, so he forced himself to answer calmly, “Twice now. She came by last night, as well, to pick up the shoes she lent me.

“Check. Tosh lent you a pair of shoes?” Jack grinned at him, stroking the crown of Ianto's captured queen with his thumb. “Did they even go over your toes?”

“Barely. It was when she picked me up from hospital. I didn't have any shoes when you took me in.”

“I see.” Jack's smile fell away. “Are you still angry at me for doing that? You can't make that move, by the way.”

Hand hovering over his bishop, Ianto asked, “Why not?”

Jack pointed at his rook. “That. You're in check.”

Ianto stared at Jack's hand, frowning, before moving a knight.

Jack seemed content to let his question go unanswered, returning his attention to the pieces in play and getting that look of intense concentration again. Now that it wasn't aimed at him, Ianto had to admit that it looked good on him, a fitting expression for a tactician—a captain—to wear. When Jack took a sip of his coffee and licked an errant droplet off his lips, still concentrating on the board, Ianto felt a line of heat shoot from his neck to his groin.

Ianto's fingers clenched in surprise. Somewhere along the line, Jack had seized complete control of their encounter, leaving Ianto staggering and off-balance and struggling merely to keep up. Annoyed, he blurted out, “I don't eat Weetabix.”

Jack looked up at him in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“When you took me in there,” Ianto answered, irritated but slightly relieved that Jack wasn't actually capable of reading his mind, “you said 'Somebody ate his Weetabix this morning.' I don't eat Weetabix.”

“What do you eat for breakfast?” Jack moved one of his knights. “Check.”

Ianto looked down at the board. Jack's bishop and knight were positioned such that Ianto was going to lose either a bishop or a rook, no matter what. “Nothing, usually,” Ianto muttered. “Coffee. Sometimes eggs on toast.” He moved his bishop and sighed as Jack's long fingers swooped in on the rook.

“When I can get them, I like fresh cloudberries.”

Ianto looked at the pieces left. He had three pawns, his black bishop, a rook, and both knights. Jack was missing a rook and two pawns. “Lisa used to eat maize porridge,” he said, trying to rattle Jack's insufferable composure while he figured out what move to make next.

Instead of being rattled, Jack looked mildly interested, the bastard. “I've eaten that before,” Jack said. “Never developed a taste for it.”

Ianto shook his head and moved a pawn. “You're running me all over this board.”

Jack looked Ianto straight in the eye and smirked, sending another line of heat sparking down Ianto's belly. “They say all is fair in love and war.”

Ianto snorted. “Which once are we doing here? Love or war?”

“War, of course.” Jack took his pawn en passant. “We're playing chess.”

“Bastard,” Ianto breathed. He moved his bishop. “I forgot you could do that.”

“Never underestimate your opponent. Mistakes like that always end in tears.” Jack moved his white bishop halfway across the board. “Check.”

Ianto bit back another curse. Before he took Jack's bishop with his rook, Jack shook his head and murmured, “Not that one.”

Ianto looked at the board. If he moved the rook, he'd be in check from Jack's queen. If he moved his bishop, Jack would send a bloody pawn in to put the king in check, and while he could always take the pawn with his king, that would be too humiliating to bear. Instead, Ianto moved his knight in between Jack's bishop and his own king.

“I thought you might do that.” Jack slid his other bishop in where Ianto's knight had been. “Checkmate.”

Ianto's eyes flicked to the clock on the wall behind Jack's head—it had taken Jack less than twenty minutes to win. “Well,” he sputtered, “That was an interesting euphemism for something.”

“Was it?” Jack tilted his head. “I had a coffee and a biscuit, I played a game of chess with you, and I learned that you like eggs on toast. What do you think happened?”

Ianto furrowed his brows as he replayed the encounter in his mind, looking from Jack to the chess board to his coffee cup and back again. They had played a game of chess, and he'd learned that Jack had been a soldier and liked cloudberries. Jack was glad that he and Toshiko were talking to one another and wanted to know if he were still angry about Providence Park.

Jack made a game of chess feel like foreplay. Jack gave him the thrashing he knew he deserved with a bunch of little plastic figures. Jack admitted he'd made mistakes in handling him.

Jack was sitting two feet away from him, holding out what was quite possibly the biggest olive branch in all of South Wales.

Was that all there was to it? Could it really be that easy?

“I was furious when you sent me there,” Ianto confessed. “I think if I hadn't been cuffed, I would have picked up that table and slammed you over the head with it.”

Jack regarded him with a somber blue gaze. “And now?”

“I think you saved my life.” Ianto rolled his toppled king around in a circle. “And I still don't understand why.”

Jack stood and started putting the chess set back in the box. “You wanna know a secret, Ianto?” He collected the pieces with his left hand, using his right to stack his plate on top of his mug. “As bad as it was, the world didn't end.”

While Ianto stared at him, reeling in surprise, Jack said, “I'll stop by your flat in a few days. There's something I want to show you.” With a lopsided half-smile, he added a casual, “Thanks for the game,” and left, carrying the box and dishes with him.

*****

Three days later, Ianto's mobile rang at six-thirty in the morning. The sound broke Ianto out of a bizarre dream about swimming through a river, where the river was in the air and he wasn't exactly swimming and wasn't exactly flying but it was kind of fun in its own way and he couldn't quite reach the phone so he rolled over and went back to sleep.

The mobile rang again, and this time Ianto shot bolt upright. He pawed at the bedside table, smacking various things there until he found the phone and snatched it up. Jack.

“Whaddizit?” Ianto moaned, rubbing his face. “I'm not supposed to call 'till half seven.”

“Field trip today,” Jack announced. “Get up, get dressed, and meet me outside your flat in half an hour. Wear warm clothes.” The line went dead.

Jack had promised to come visit, that Ianto remembered, although some warning and another two hours' sleep would have been nice. He lay back in bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Finally he got up, swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and stumbled his way into the washroom.

Fifteen minutes later, showered and shaved and feeling marginally more human, Ianto dug through his closet until he found a pair of jeans, wool socks, and a thick wool jumper. While he was pulling the jumper on, his mobile rang. Jack again.

“What now?”

“I'm here.”

“It's not even—” Ianto bit off the sentence with a sigh. “Fine. Be right down.”

He took his time meandering down the stairs and out the door. The SUV was idling by the curb; when Ianto got in, he found a brown paper packet waiting on the seat and cup of coffee in the cupholder.

“You ready?” asked Jack.

Ianto shrugged. While Jack drove off, he opened the packet. Inside was a fried egg sandwiched between two slices of buttered toast. It smelled heavenly.

Once Ianto had finished eating and they were winding through the streets—and where on earth were they going, anyway?—Jack asked, “When you were at hospital, who was your doctor? Doctor Harrington?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Ianto shot him a suspicious glance.

Jack said, “She's the one who normally works with the patients Torchwood sends through.”

“Disturbing that this is normal,” Ianto muttered.

A muscle in Jack's jaw twitched.

After a moment, Ianto said, “I'm sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Jack accepted the apology with a nod. “You're not the only one who's survived bad things coming through dimensional breaches. Not by far.” Glancing at Ianto out of the corner of his eye, he said, “You're one of the lucky ones, actually.”

Ianto snorted. “Your definition of lucky and mine aren't the same, I don't think.”

“You're alive, your body is whole, and your mind is your own. I think that counts.”

“Point.” He suppressed a shiver.

Jack turned the SUV into a car park by a marina on the bay. “We're almost there. You don't get seasick, do you?”

“Never have before,” Ianto answered, wondering just what was going on.

They boarded a small wooden fishing boat and set out into the Bristol Channel. Jack and the boat captain chatted easily about the captain's wife and children and the plans he had for rebuilding the boat's engine. At one point, the boat captain nodded at Ianto and said, “New one there?”

Jack shook his head.

They arrived at a small island some twenty minutes later. Jack hopped onto the pier and offered Ianto a hand. “Welcome to Flat Holm Island.” Looking at the boat captain, he said, “Half past twelve?”

“I'll be there.” The man saluted Jack with two fingers and pulled away.

Jack led Ianto to a series of small buildings centered around a lighthouse. Before opening the door, Jack turned to Ianto. “This is the something I wanted you to see,” he said quietly.

Jack's words had a sense of weight and importance attached to them, something well beyond a mere “something to see.” Ianto opened his mouth to ask where they were, but Jack cut him off with a shake of his head. “I won't tell you what it is, because I want you to form your own opinions.”

Ianto looked around, unsure. “And in the meantime, I get to do what?”

“I'll introduce you to a few people, and then you can walk around on your own.” Jack gestured to the top of the lighthouse. “When you're done, I'll meet you in the light chamber.”

They entered the building at the base of the lighthouse, where a very petite Indian woman greeted them. “Captain,” she said. “Always a pleasure to have you visit.”

Jack smiled at her, took her hand and kissed it. Actually bent over and kissed it, like he was in an old movie or something. Ianto rolled his eyes. “Priya,” Jack said. “I trust you're well.”

“Always.”

“Priya, this is Ianto Jones, my assistant. Ianto, this is Priyanka Dhume, one of the caretakers on the island. She'll be giving you grand tour.”

“It's nice to meet you,” she said.

Ianto nodded in return, scanning the room. At first blush, it seemed normal enough, if a bit stripped down and bare. Then he looked at it, really looked at it, and noticed all matter of little details with growing horror. The pervasive sadness of the building, the slate board on the wall with names and chalk marks for every hour of the day, the nurses in scrubs, the people walking around in clothing without buttons, drawstrings, or zips—

—was Jack having him sectioned again? He hadn't—he wasn't—but Jack had introduced him as his assistant, right?

“Excuse me a moment,” he said to Priya. “Captain, can we...over there?”

Jack followed him to the door. Before he could speak, Jack raised a quelling hand. “You're not staying here. You're going home with me when the boat comes back.”

Ianto let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He felt his shoulders sag. “What is this place?” he asked in a low voice.

“I'll tell you in a little bit,” Jack replied. “Walk around. Talk to people. Have a cup of tea, sit, explore the island. Just keep an open mind about what you're seeing. When you're ready, you know where I'll be.”

After spending the better part of three hours exploring the building, meeting the patients and staff, and sitting on a boulder staring at the sea, Ianto climbed the stairs to the light chamber. The giant mirror in the middle was gone, leaving only a rusty metal frame and the lamp assembly itself. Jack stood on the far side of the room, hands in his coat pockets, watching something through the glass.

Ianto walked across the floor to stand next to him. Jack moved over a few paces, giving him room. It was strangely comfortable, standing there with Jack in a brightly-lit room overlooking the water, and he had the odd feeling that if he took one step closer, Jack would wrap his arms around Ianto's waist and rest his chin on Ianto's shoulder.

Three weeks ago, Jack had thrown Ianto into a psychiatric ward without a second thought, and Ianto would have gleefully shot Jack between the eyes. Funny how things changed.

“When you were in London, what was the Torchwood motto?” Jack's soft question broke the silence. He was still looking out the window.

Without thinking, Ianto replied, “To do our duty for Queen and Country.”

“Not that one,” Jack said, shaking his head. “The other one.”

Ianto scrunched up his face, trying to remember. After a moment, the answer came to him. “If it's alien, it's ours.”

“And what if it wasn't alien?”

“Not our problem.”

Jack had yet to look away from whatever it was that had captured his attention; out of curiosity, Ianto followed his eyes down and out to see what was so interesting. Outside, the sole child patient on the island, a boy of about six who was missing an eye and half an arm and who gibbered constantly about monsters, ran down the path to the water, followed by one of the nurses.

“Usually, when things come through the Rift, they come through by accident. Only very rarely do things come through on purpose, like the Cybermen and Daleks,” Jack said, his voice cracking slightly. He paused, staring at the water.

Ianto watched him mull over his words.

“Sometimes, people come through by accident,” Jack continued, finally looking at Ianto. “Used to be, Torchwood killed them. Bullet to the head until the mid-seventies and barbiturate cocktail in a glass of milk afterward. A handful were just locked away somewhere, but most of the time they were killed, especially if they were from the future and could potentially cause a paradox.”

“I didn't know that,” Ianto admitted. “In London, I never had anything to do with the time stuff.”

“Did you ever hear stories?”

“Once. About a man who claimed to be from the 1870s who was sectioned in...” He froze. “Ah.”

“Mr. Dafydd Howell, born near Swansea in 1849, went to Cardiff to find work, won the bad-luck lottery when he fell through the Rift from 1878 into 1994. Sectioned to Royal Cornhill Hospital in Aberdeen, of all places.” Jack recited the details like he was reading from a file.

“Is he still alive?”

“Dafydd? Oh yeah. At least he was six months ago, when I last checked up on him.”

“What happened to him? Is he here?”

“He lives in Canada now, in Nova Scotia.” Jack walked to the mirror frame and ran his hand over the old metal. “It was one of the first things I did once I took over the Cardiff branch. The ones who are capable, I—Torchwood—we rehome them as best we can. The ones who are beyond that live here. We don't kill Rift victims anymore. Ever.” He punctuated his words with a slashing gesture of his hands.

“You killed Lisa.” Ianto regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Jack turned and gave him a look of utter disappointment. “Why the cheap shot?”

It was Ianto's turn to choose his words carefully. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, scuffing the floor with a toe.

“In London, we all heard stories about you, about how you'd...do things like that. My favourite one was about how you once stormed into Hartmann's office and had a shouting match with her about the way she was treating some pigeon-sized alien cat.”

“Alien cat?” Jack looked confused for a moment, then smiled. “Oh yeah. I remember that.”

“That wasn't the only story, either. Everybody in the tower to had a different one, about crazy Captain Harkness out in Cardiff. They all thought you were completely barking mad.”

“I know,” he said, not unkindly.

“Yeah, well, I thought you were mad too, until...until after. After that I figured if you'd stand up for a cat, then mad or no, we'd have a chance with you. Me and Lisa. That the doctor would be able to fix her, and we'd...”

He glanced to his right and felt the words die in his throat. Jack had gone totally rigid, his arms folded his arms across his chest and lips pressed into a tight, narrow line. The muscle in his jaw was twitching again.

Feeling like he was already three quarters of the way to where he was going and so he might as well finish, Ianto took a deep breath and pressed on. “All I wanted a place for both of us.” Turning to face Jack, he said hoarsely, “Now it's only me.”

God, Jack looked like he was going to cry.

What did I say?

Somewhere downstairs, a bell rang. “Lunchtime,” Jack muttered, not meeting Ianto's eyes. “Let's go eat and then I'll take you home.”

*****

Jack parked the SUV about two blocks away from Ianto's flat. Turning to Ianto, he said, “May I come in?”

“What happens if I say no?”

Jack frowned. “It's your flat,” he pointed out. “Your rules.”

Ianto, still feeling shell-shocked from the island, didn't want Jack to come in, especially after stripping himself bare in the light chamber and getting nothing in return. But—that sense of weight and importance was back, and what did he have to lose, really?

He sighed and rubbed his hand against his neck. “Yeah, fine.”

They walked the short distance to Ianto's building. While Ianto fished in his pocket for his keys, Jack toyed with the blooms on a rosebush by the door.

Upstairs, Jack shucked off his coat and slung it over his arm. At Ianto's nod, he ambled over to the sofa and sat down.

“I feel like I should offer you something,” Ianto said. “Coffee?”

Jack shook his head. “Thanks, but I won't be staying long.”

“Whatever.” Ianto went into the kitchen and started a pot for himself. When the coffee was finished, he walked back into the living room and took a seat on a chair across from Jack.

Jack waited until he was settled and comfortable before saying, “Flat Holm. It's yours, if you want it.”

“Excuse me?” Ianto tried, and failed, to figure out what Jack meant. “I don't think you pay me enough to cover the tax on the property.”

“Cute.” Jack's fingers twitched. “Can please we have a serious discussion now?”

“Sorry.” Ianto took a sip of his coffee.

“When you come back on Monday, Flat Holm will be your new project. You'll be helping me with all the logistics on the island, from laundry to patient transport to chocolate biscuits.”

“Monday? As in, five days from now?”

“Yep. You'll also help me with the resettlements.”

“Right.” Well, that was unexpected. It also explained the sense of importance he'd felt all day, but...

Ianto sucked in a deep breath and pulled his knees to his chest. “Is this to be my penance, then?”

A long silence stretched out across the room. After what felt like an eternity, Jack spoke. “Ianto, you came to me wanting to help somebody destroyed by things not from this planet. This is your chance.”

Their eyes met, and just like that, everything that was missing slotted into place. Here, here, on a Wednesday afternoon in the quiet of his own flat, was the offer for which he'd begged and pleaded and very nearly prostituted himself all those months ago, the driftwood promise of salvation he'd clung to so tightly on all those long, dark, lonely nights in the basement with only Lisa's ghost for company—

Jack said, “I can't give you back what you lost.” He paused, searching Ianto with his eyes. For some reason, he looked very, very old. “But this seems the right thing to do, doesn't it?”

There wasn't anything to say to that, really. Ianto drained his coffee and went to the kitchen to pour himself another cup.

When he walked back into the living room, Jack was standing by the door, a mischievous smile on his face. “Saint Tabitha the Longanimus,” he said.

“The what?” Ianto shook his head.

“Longanimus? It's Latin. It means charitable. Patient.” Jack shrugged his coat on.

Ianto crossed the room, stopping some two steps away from Jack. “I'm sorry, you've lost me,” he said. “I don't keep a continuously updated list of saints in my head.”

“She's the cat I had a fight with Yvonne over. That's what we named her, Saint Tabitha the Longanimus.” Jack's eyes twinkled. “Cheeky little thing lived in Yvonne's office for four days and didn't bite her once. That counts as the requisite two miracles for canonization, I think.”

“What happened to her?”

“Oh, she went to Nova Scotia with Dafydd Howell. I brought them to Cardiff with me at the same time. It was love at first sight. I couldn't have separated them if I tried.” Jack's brilliant smile lit up the room. “When stuff like that happens—oh yeah. So worth it.”

Jack grin was so open and infectious that Ianto smiled in return—and when he did, something in Jack's smile changed so profoundly that Ianto nearly staggered under its promise. Not only was Jack offering him the place in the world he wanted and needed and so desperately craved, he was offering him—

“Here.” Jack took something from his trouser pocket, put it in Ianto's palm, and closed his fingers around it. “I'll see you Monday,” he said. Then he was gone.

Ianto clenched his hand around the stopwatch, the one he'd put in the box of things taken from the Hub. It was still warm from where it had been in Jack's pocket.