Hidden from view, Jack patiently – well, perhaps not so patiently – watched the Tourist Office.  He’d been back on Earth for five hours and twelve minutes, approximately nine months after he’d disappeared, the closest to his time of departure that the Doctor could bring him due to the Rift’s instability.  Back in Cardiff, once transport had been arranged and the optimum observation point secured, Jack hadn’t moved from this spot for a single second.

It was only a question of time, no matter how late Ianto chose to work.  Eventually he’d walk out of that door, lock up and…  What if he’d moved into the Hub?  What if, in Jack’s absence, he’d appropriated Jack’s living quarters and now lived there?  For whatever reason - although Jack could think of a few he’d like to believe – Ianto could live in the Hub, and he wouldn’t walk out of that door, and Jack wouldn’t see him or…  What if he wasn’t there at all?  Resigned.  Sacked for shooting Owen.  Again.  Ousted and RetConned, with no memory of Jack Harkness.  Worse still, what if Ianto had been the one to get shot?  Or stabbed, or mauled, what if…  He could be dead.  No Jack to step in and save him, breathe life into him, and he could be frozen and lying in one of Torchwood’s mortuary drawers.  The once warm, beautiful Ianto, now cold and inflexible, blue-tinged and…

Ianto Jones, alive and in one admirable piece, exited the Tourist Office; after checking the door locks several times, he turned and headed for the car park in Stuart Street.  Getting on with his life, a life without Jack.  Such an understated and familiar scene that, as the incipient panic attack over Ianto’s welfare faded, Jack ached with longing, taking an automatic step forward but a faster step back.  He was not about to present himself and blurt out the first thing that popped into his head, that was bound to be disastrous, and not just because Ianto - despite being a tender and sensitive soul beneath the rigidly controlled exterior – had a fiery Celtic temper and a right hook that should be avoided at all costs.  Although, on consideration, Jack would willingly take a beating if it helped, it might even make him feel less guilty about deserting the young man he was presently spying on.

But here and now was about the perfect approach, and he had to find the best way to re-enter Ianto’s life, preferably without wounding Ianto any more than he already feared he had, or coming across as the fixated and needy stalker he appeared to have morphed into somewhere along the way.

Ianto hesitated for a moment, turning to peer suspiciously in Jack’s direction, his instincts evidently sharp enough to sense that he was under observation.  Jack froze and broke into a cold sweat, wary of a confrontation despite thinking how glorious it would be to be discovered and put out of his misery.  A very long minute passed before Ianto seemed satisfied that it was his imagination playing tricks on him; he glanced at his watch, gave a rueful half-smile and shook his head at himself as he resumed his walk.  Jack slowly released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and began to tail Ianto.

Inside the car park, Ianto slid into his car, a sleek black Rover saloon that Jack didn’t recognise but dearly longed to christen the back seat of.  The sound of the Rover’s engine purring into life sent Jack running for his own vehicle; he knew the route to Ianto’s home but needed to follow the man nevertheless, a pretence of carrying out a little necessary reconnaissance.  If this was as close as he could get for the time being, he wasn’t about to waste a second.

…

Jack parked a short distance from Ianto’s home.  A lot of properties in the vicinity had been modernised at some point or converted into flats, but Ianto’s was a roomy two-bedroom, end-of-terrace Victorian house, bought outright, Jack knew, with a large slice of the compensation that Torchwood had awarded post-Canary Wharf.  The building had plenty of quaintly charming original features; the fixtures and furniture were, however, strictly contemporary: off-whites or dark browns, clean lines, highly polished where polishable, and extremely comfortable where comfort was called for.  Jack had only been here once, bringing Ianto home after the team’s ill-fated excursion to the country.  He’d spent the night on the sofa, tense and waiting for the first indication of nightmares so he could spring into action and rush to comfort Ianto.  The opportunity never arose, and Jack remained fidgety and un-sprung.  By morning Ianto was apparently recovering well, ignoring the aches and pains as he clung to the familiar territory of his pristine kitchen, routinely catering for Jack’s needs regardless of Jack’s desire to be the one dancing attendance.

Now Jack watched Ianto climb from his car, stopping to brush a few non-existent specks of dirt from the bonnet before hurrying up the path to his front door.  Before he went inside there was another hesitation; as Ianto carefully checked out his surroundings Jack sank down in his seat in a bid to be a little less conspicuous, but luckily Ianto was distracted by a phone call and, providing that call didn’t bring the other members of Torchwood racing to this spot, Jack would hopefully remain undetected.

With Ianto safely ensconced for the moment, Jack played out various scenarios in his mind.  He could be the brash Jack of recent years, taking charge and sweeping Ianto off his feet.  Chances of success?  Probably nil.  He could be the Jack of old, seductively conning his way into Ianto’s heart and bed.  Chances of success?  Probably the downside of nil.  How about a contrite yet logical Jack, who could reason—  Nope, wasn’t worth even considering that one.

He could be the Jack of now, who was a little of all the Jacks, with newly resurrected sensitivity, vulnerability, empathy, insight, a whole array of pluses that Ianto might see as minuses, depending on what he wanted.  If he wanted.

Maybe, Jack deliberated, he should act RetConned.  Let Ianto discover him wandering around the Plass and feign ignorance of his time with Torchwood.  There was no doubt at all in Jack’s mind that every one of his team would take pity on him and do their very best to provide the necessary clues to jog his memory.  Hell of a pretence to maintain, though, and if the truth ever came out his life wouldn’t be worth living.  Still, it was tempting, if only to discover the lengths that Ianto would go to to revive certain memories.

Jack bit back the saucy grin, adjusted his burgeoning erection, and got back to thinking practically.  He was mentally re-writing his entrance speech for the twenty-seventh time when his attention was caught by the door to Ianto’s house opening and the man in question emerging, dressed casually and looking delectable, freshly scrubbed, hair damp and tousled.

It didn’t occur to Jack that this was anything more than a night out with the rest of the team – denial, after all, is a wonderful thing – and he waited until he was sure that Ianto was on foot rather than driving before slipping out of his car and pursuing his target.

They passed the pub that Jack was more familiar with and eventually ended up at a quiet little bar off the main drag.  Ianto bought a drink and made his way, very purposefully, to one certain table, slipping off his jacket on automatic pilot and hanging it over the back of his chair, all the time peering through the window into the street.  Typical that Ianto would arrive first and be waiting on the others, Jack thought as he found a dimly lit booth on the far side of the bar that allowed him to watch without risking too much chance of discovery.  He followed Ianto’s fingertip as it trailed through the condensation on his beer glass, recalling the feel of that delicate touch upon his skin, those long, elegant fingers teasing him to the point where lust overpowered every other consideration.  Jack couldn’t see what was spelt out against the dark ale, but Ianto suddenly looked up and smiled, swiping the word away with his thumb.

Eager to see which of his colleagues Ianto had spotted, Jack was crestfallen when a complete stranger joined Ianto at his table.  Crestfallen and…shocked.  Jack blinked hard, blinked again, and…it wasn’t his imagination.  The man was like a badly drawn copy of Jack Harkness at twenty-eight – colouring, hair style, build, posture – and the original found himself straining hard to hear if this interloper’s voice had any kind of accent beyond the obvious.

The stranger sat and slid a hand over Ianto’s, squeezing affectionately as he leant close to whisper a few private words, inciting a wide, delighted smile.  Jack felt that smile through his whole body, his newly mended heart creaking under the strain.  How smug had he been when that smile was reserved exclusively for him?  And how difficult, impossible, devastating would it be to remain here and watch Ianto move on?

…

Distracted from his companion for a moment, Ianto glanced across the bar as the door slammed shut.  He frowned as the disturbing tingling sensation he’d been experiencing since he left work continued to ebb and flow.

“Ianto?” a distinctly Welsh accent pressed for his attention.

“Sorry, I thought…  I don’t know what I thought.”

“Another drink?”

“I just need to…”

Ianto was out of his seat before he had any real idea of what he was doing, finding himself out on the pavement and staring one way and then the other, scanning the road for…something.  He stood there for five minutes before his jacket was slung over his shoulders and a warm hand rubbed the small of his back.

“Thanks, Bryn,” he said distractedly.

“You want to go?”

Ianto looked at Bryn and tried to shake off the feeling of a ghost walking over his grave.  Encouraged by a guileless smile he cupped the man’s face in his hands and gave him a brisk kiss.

“Back to mine?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Bryn helped Ianto into his jacket as they turned and walked away, the fact he’d tied knots in the sleeves completely breaking Ianto out of his preoccupation as he struggled and laughed and was defenceless against Bryn’s wandering hands.

Jack observed from the shadows.  He’d never been jealous of a partner, it wasn’t a fifty-first century concept.  But right now his stomach was screwing itself into agonising knots and he could feel his blood thumping through every vein.  Strangely, despite the clenched fists and possessive rage, he found himself peculiarly passive – enforced passivity because this…  This was undoubtedly what he deserved.

He was the one who’d deserted his lover without the courtesy or consideration of a farewell, he had no right to resent Ianto’s present happiness, especially with someone who clearly adored him.  Understandably adored him.

Jack knew if he were the better man he’d respect Ianto enough to leave him in peace to get on with his new life.

But of all the things Jack had ever been accused of, being the better man wasn’t one of them.

Idly wondering if he could kill Ianto’s new squeeze without causing too much of a stir, Jack stepped out of the alleyway and began a determined stroll in the obvious direction.

…

An all-night vigil wasn’t much of a problem.  The hired car was comfortable enough and it wasn’t like Jack was back in the habit of sleeping yet – a few hours every four or five nights was the best he’d managed so far, but that was a huge improvement on recent years.

Perhaps it would be closer to the truth to say that an all-night vigil wasn’t much of a problem unless Jack was sitting outside Ianto’s flat waiting for a certain man to leave, and yes, that would be the man who was doing too easily imaginable things with Ianto Jones that only Jack Harkness should be doing with Ianto Jones, and yes, that would be the Ianto Jones who was his absolute reason for ditching a high-octane existence with a frigging Time Lord and returning to this shabby, unsophisticated planet.

Not that he was feeling bitter or anything.

Late leaver or early riser, Ianto’s new friend emerged before the street lamps were off.  Jack leapt out of his car and started in the man’s direction, timing his approach perfectly.

“David!” Jack greeted Bryn effusively.  Bryn glanced behind himself before turning back to look at Jack, good manners dictating that he automatically take and shake the outstretched hand despite being thoroughly bemused.  “It’s great to see you, it must be…three years?”

“Sorry, mate, case of mistaken identity.”

“You must remember.  The Morgan twins?  You, me, them, varied combinations…”

“Bryn.  Bryn Price,” came the predicted introduction.  “Wasn’t me with the Morgan twins, although I’m beginning to wish it was,” Bryn laughed.

“Really?  Well, I swear I met your double that day.  Sorry to have kept you.”

“Not a problem,” Bryn assured Jack before they bid each other a cheery good morning and parted company.

The smile immediately dropped from Jack’s face and he made a mental note of the name.  Time to make a few enquiries about Bryn Price.

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