Gwen and Toshiko were sitting together on the sofa, thumbing through a pile of magazines and making notes about all manner of wedding paraphernalia.  It was a welcome break amid a scary wave of Weevil madness, and a much appreciated distraction.

Owen was hobbling around, trying to pretend he was well enough to carry out his duties should the unthinkable happen and necessity dictate he do something radical, like move at more than a painful shuffle or raise his left arm more than twelve inches.  Owen and Weevils: depending on what and where, they were either uncharacteristically submissive or overly hostile toward him.  Unfortunately, he’d most recently been on the receiving end of some heightened aggression and very nearly paid for it with his life.

Jack wandered from his office and watched Owen’s struggles to get comfortable at his work station.

“Why don’t you go home?” Jack asked.

“I don’t want to.”

“You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to feel better, I want to feel alive.”

“And why, precisely, are they mutually exclusive?”

“I can’t go home while we’re one short,” Owen continued.  “Jack.  We need to bring someone in.”

The challenge Owen defiantly stared at Jack was ignored; two months ago such a suggestion would have been met with barely contained rage, but now Jack could be seen to stop and think over what had been said.

“How did you manage last year?” Jack asked curiously.  “One short.”

“Fuck knows.”

“Why didn’t you replace me?”  Owen gave a surly shrug and ouched loudly.  “I was gone for a lot longer than this,” Jack pressed on, “so…?”

“We didn’t want to,” Gwen cut in.  “There was every chance you’d come back, and…you did.  You came back.”  She gave Jack a flat smile and returned to her lists.

“But you all want to replace Ianto?”

Jack’s voice was reasonable and calm, but the look in his eyes reflected their perceived betrayal.

“Not replace Ianto,” Owen said with guilty brusqueness, “any more than Gwen could replace Suzie.  But there’s a position to be filled, and if we’d had someone coordinating us the last time we were out…”

The obvious was left unsaid.  Jack stared at Owen’s bruised face for a long moment before turning on his heel and marching into his office, referring to something on his desk, then returning.

“Tomorrow I’ll talk to Human Resources about additional personnel.  Meantime…  Gwen.  Saturday, thirteenth of June.”

Gwen thought about the date: it didn’t ring any bells.

“What about it?”

“I want you to organise a memorial service for Ianto.”

A ripple of shock ran through the team.

“Are you sure?” Gwen asked quietly.  “Really?  That’s what you want?”

“It’s not for me, bear that in mind.”

“But, still…”

The coldness in Jack’s voice became icier still.

“Six months to the day, I think that’s suitably respectful.  I want to know where and when but the rest is up to you.  There are people from the present Torchwood One who’ll want to attend, make sure you include all of the Canary Club.”

“Canary Club?”

“The remaining survivors of the attack on Canary Wharf.”

“Of course, yes.”

“And if Ianto turns up after the thirteenth of June, I reserve the right to fire every one of you, okay?”

“You’re kidding!” Owen protested.

“You think?” Jack tossed over his shoulder as he retreated to his office, slammed the door behind him, and disappeared down the ladder into his private quarters.  A stunned silence prevailed while his colleagues each explored their own miserable thoughts.

“He’s allowing us to let go,” Toshiko whispered, as if she were afraid to disturb the uncomfortable atmosphere.

“Good,” Owen insisted, stubborn to the last.  “It’s necessary.”

“It’s the week before the wedding,” Toshiko continued in the same subdued tone.  “Will you be able to cope with that?”

Gwen stared at her blankly for a moment before blinking hard, finding the guest list in her notebook and offering it to Toshiko.  There, included as a couple on Gwen’s side of the family, were Jack and Ianto.

“I let Jack convince me,” she explained.

“There’s still time.  If Jack’s right…”

“Oh, come on,” Owen interjected, “if Jack still thought he was right about Ianto turning up he wouldn’t be letting you arrange a service.  The fact it’s the week before the wedding?  His way of letting you move on without the past hanging over you.”

“Like that’ll work.”

“He needs this as much as we do, y’know.”

Gwen stared at Owen with impassive curiosity.

“Are you glad that Ianto’s gone?”  Not goading: an honest enquiry.  “The two of you didn’t get on.”

An odd expression passed fleetingly over Owen’s face; his answer was as restrained as Gwen’s question.

“There was every chance that, one day, he was going to kill me.”  Both women fervently objected.  “You don’t get it,” Owen smiled ruefully as they finally quietened.  “I miss that.”

Leaving bewildered faces behind, Owen hobbled off to find a little quiet privacy in the deserted Tourist Office.

One floor below, Jack lay on his bed, Ianto’s red tie twisted around his left hand, the fingers of his right tightly gripping his revolver.  The temptation to put the barrel to his temple and pull the trigger was overwhelming.  The grand gesture he was forbidden to make, despite the promise of a few minutes respite, despite a grain of hope that the Doctor’s prognostications were incorrect and there could be a final death.  The prospect of an eternity of nothing was so sweet it made Jack ache with longing, but even if it were possible, how could he ever rest in peace without knowing Ianto’s fate?

Jack set the gun aside.  His attention switched to the computer strapped to his wrist, specifically the burnt out vortex manipulator.  Maybe it was time to start working on attempt eighty-three to repair it.  And maybe it was time to start looking further afield for Ianto.

If Owen was in any way correct about Jack doubting himself it wasn’t in regards to Ianto: it was more about his future with Torchwood; more about his future on Earth.

Attrition 34       Attrition Index       Attrition Notes

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