It was the corpse that convinced Ianto to move on.  That there was no choice but to move on.  The corpse rudely interrupted his holding pattern and reminded him that this was Torchwood, and Torchwood, by its very nature, demanded forward momentum.

The corpse would be, in retrospect, irrelevant, but it brought heavy emphasis to a situation that should have needed none at all.

There was a name, Bruce Fairlus, and an address, but no obvious cause of death.  Bruce’s neighbours – who were apparently very much into live and let live, and chose to ignore the discoloured fuzzy peachiness of their fellow citizen – stated that he was kindly and benign in nature, and generally kept himself to himself.  So, no inter-galactic feuds brought to this planet, no local squabbles, and (Ianto and Gwen were assured by certain contacts who knew more than them on the matter) because of the length of time Bruce had been on Earth, he was highly unlikely to be reacting to anything in the atmosphere.

But the poor creature’s demise had been agonising if the grimace on his twisted features was anything to go by.  The last thing anyone needed was a new strain of disease to spread amongst the alien population of Cardiff – there was every chance it would mutate and transfer to humans with catastrophic results.

“I don’t recognise the race,” Jack admitted before his attention drifted, as it did more often than not these days.

“So…?” Gwen prompted.

No answer from Jack; Ianto took up the slack and stated the obvious.

“We need to know what he is and, more importantly, why he keeled over so spectacularly.”

“I could call Martha again,” Gwen suggested, “although…  We can’t keep dragging her away from her own work every time we’re stuck for an answer.”

“We need a doctor,” Ianto agreed, ignoring their mutual pain, and they both looked to Jack; he was lost in his own thoughts, staring at the spot on the floor where Toshiko Sato had died in his arms.  “Jack,” Ianto snapped, and Jack’s head jerked up.

“What?”

“We need to hire a new doctor.”

Jack gazed at Ianto blankly for a few seconds before blinking hard.

“A doctor.  I could ask Martha…”

“We need someone here full time.”

Another pause, and then Jack looked from Ianto to Gwen, and back to Ianto.

“Yes,” he said vaguely.  “Yes, I’ll…  I’ll get onto that.”

The captain wandered away to do nothing about anything, and Ianto and Gwen exchanged the last in a series of increasingly concerned looks.

“Shall I—” Gwen started and stopped.  There wasn’t anything she could do to help Jack.  She’d tried.  And, if she was honest, she could barely help herself, frequently feeling as lost as Jack appeared.  “What do we do, Ianto?”

Ianto took a few seconds to think.

“I’ll bag up this body and put it on ice.  We’ll send it to UNIT.  They’ll have to deal with it because…”  Ianto took a deep, depressed breath.  “Martha will understand.  Can you let her know what to expect while I arrange transport?”

Gwen nodded and hurried off to contact Martha Jones, relieved to be useful, and grateful to have an excuse to talk to anyone who wasn’t Torchwood and grief-riddled.

…

The day didn’t get any less frustrating.  It was long and heavy and demanding.  Lonely.  At midnight Ianto finally allowed himself to stop – just stop – and settle on the Hub’s ratty sofa, Jack’s head cradled in his lap as the man slept heavily and, one could only hope, dreamlessly.

They were all miserable.  They were all struggling.  But Jack…

Jack had been incredibly strong at first, offering the support his friends desperately needed, but, as Ianto and Gwen made tentative, yet gruelling, steps toward recovery, Jack seemed to regress.  Nothing Ianto or Gwen did or said made any difference to Jack’s increasingly fragile state of mind, and eventually Ianto could offer little more than this: comfort.  He was Jack’s comfort.  Not always successfully, but, without a shadow of a doubt, necessarily.

Of course, Ianto was anxious to know if this was normal, if Jack was reacting to the tragic loss of his colleagues – half his team – in the way he usually reacted, and…wasn’t it was soul-destroying to think of any man having a ‘usual reaction’ to something so terrible.  How did Ianto discover the answer without asking direct questions that might be too painful for either of them to handle?

The subject had been tentatively skirted around, just the once and purely by accident: Jack’s response gave Ianto the impression that he wasn’t aware of how he was acting.  So, slowing down – shutting down – or forgetting what day/month/year it was, could have been completely normal for Jack under these circumstances, but Jack might never have noticed he was doing it; post-mourning, he might have found it too difficult to look back and scrutinise his behaviour.

Nothing of which helped Ianto, who stroked Jack’s hair and tried not to feel as if he was watching his beloved captain slip away.

…

Ianto was moving on, as Torchwood demanded.

The fuzzy corpse had been whisked away, Gwen was checking in with the local police force for any other inexplicably dead aliens, Rhys was in the Hub helping them catch up on some of their more routine paperwork, and Ianto was frowning at the monitors in front of him as he sat at his newly appropriated workstation.  Jack was…  Today, Jack was making an effort, effort being the operative word.  Everything was so visibly an effort for the man.

“How are you, Ianto?” came a soft, familiar question as Jack paused to dither a short distance from his partner.

The truth didn’t bear mentioning, and would only drive Jack away, so…

“Busy,” Ianto sighed, stretching out to catch Jack’s fingers and draw him closer.

Jack nodded approvingly.  It had been decided – entirely by Ianto, although Jack and Gwen were probably under the impression the decision had been democratic – that Ianto would develop his technology skills and cover the more routine aspects of Toshiko’s work.  He was spending every spare moment on his training, being tutored and expertly guided by a man named Thomas Caldwell, who had voluntarily retired himself from Torchwood Glasgow as the last embers of Torchwood London were being extinguished at Canary Wharf.

“How’s that coming along?” Jack asked.

Ianto regarded the keyboard in front of him and the frown gradually became a smile.

“Slow start, you know that,” he told Jack, “I was hardly in the mood to learn at first, but…I had a bit of an epiphany along the way, a moment when I finally understood that I was looking at the whole subject from the wrong angle – outside in, rather than inside out – and it works much better for me if I see it from the inside out.  Does that make sense?”

“Perfectly.”

“Plus I underestimated how much I’d learnt from Tosh.  She was always showing me things on the computer, little tricks she’d discovered, formulas that would find the short cut in a long slog, and…I took it in.  I never realised back then, but I took it in, not everything, but enough to make a difference.  It’s like…”  Ianto’s enthusiasm for his subject faltered; he swallowed hard.  “It’s like she knew.  That one day I’d have to do this.”

The fingers around Ianto’s squeezed.

“Don’t fool yourself,” Jack said airily, determined not to let Ianto dwell on anything too upsetting and willing him to play along.  “She was showing off.”

“You think?” Ianto asked with an equally determined air.

“And why not?  She was a genius, I found myself a genius.”

“Well, you haven’t got another one here, but for a surprising amount of what we need I can cope.”

“And you’re still learning.”

“Yes, I am, and I think that’ll be never-ending, but, as I say, I can cover the basics.  As for the world-saving, advanced stuff…”

“You’ll get there.”

Ianto held back the urge to laugh long and loud.

“I was thinking more on the lines of…”

“I believe in you.”

“I know.  Thank you,” he smiled at Jack.  “Meanwhile, for the times we need someone slightly further along the path to genius, Tom is there to help.  And he will.  Providing, he says, that he never sees another ghost or cyberman as long as he lives.”

Jack considered the proviso.

“If we need him we’ll pretend we can promise him that.”

He followed his cheek with a brief flash of the infamous Harkness grin, and Ianto’s stomach flipped in response: there were no words to describe how much he’d missed that smile during its prolonged absence.

“Jack…”

“Here you are, lads,” Rhys cheerfully interrupted, thrusting Starbucks cups into their hands.  “I’ll rustle up something to eat later, decide what you want.”

Ianto impatiently watched Rhys make a bee-line for Gwen, then turned with barely concealed urgency to Jack, eager to pursue the glimpse of the old Jack he’d spotted.  But Jack was staring at the cup in his hand as if trying to remember how it got there, barely in the moment, effort spent.  As Ianto drew breath to speak, an alarm diverted his attention.  Inwardly cursing, he checked his readouts.

“Rift activity.  Leckwith Woods.”

Gwen immediately shrugged on her coat.

“Which part of the woods?”

“No,” Jack snapped, suddenly invigorated.  “I’ll go.”

“We can handle it,” Gwen assured him.  “Ianto?”

“Yes, I’ll just…”

“I said no,” Jack barked, throwing his coffee aside and rushing out through the cog door.  He was back within seconds.  “Where?” he asked irritably.

Ianto printed out the details, fetching Jack’s coat as the captain shared an unfocused glare amongst them.  Ianto took his time, predicting Jack’s burst of energy would be short-lived, and knowing a little stalling would prevent any rash actions.

“You can’t protect us forever,” he whispered as he held up the greatcoat so Jack could slip his arms into the sleeves.

“I have to,” Jack told him grimly.  “I can’t…can’t risk…”

It was as if the strength was sucked from his body: with a shuddering breath, Jack all but collapsed, trusting Ianto to catch him and finding himself enveloped in a consoling embrace.  Ianto was peripherally aware of Gwen taking the directions and leaving with Rhys, but he was preoccupied with Jack, of moving him to the sofa and sitting him down before he fell.

“We’ll catch them up,” Jack said weakly as he slumped, head lolling forward.

“You’re in no fit state.”

Despair radiated from Jack, and this was it, this was the perfect opening for Ianto to ask the questions he needed to ask, about reactions to loss, about the usual.  But Jack’s hand abruptly flailed in his direction, seeking something reassuring and alive to hold onto.  Ianto moved a little nearer and fulfilled that purpose.  He let Jack clutch at him, and he murmured anything he could think of that might help the un-helpable.

The perfect opening to ask his questions?  Really?  There was a choice to be made, and Ianto chose to let necessity be sidelined: he simply wasn’t callous enough to pursue the truth.

…

After the debacle with Gray and John Hart, it soon became clear that Jack wasn’t able to face his old quarters.  Ianto had been watching closely the first time that Jack attempted to make a move in that direction, unconvinced by the man’s would-be blasé attitude when psychological trauma was effectively written all over him, every expression, gesture, sentence.

When Jack had finally exhausted every possible excuse for not descending the ladder, he silently handed his defeat to Ianto on a plate and waited for a solution.

Naturally, Ianto found one and, although its dismantling was a further wound to Ianto’s damaged heart, Owen’s hothouse had to go.

The welfare of the living had to take precedence over the memory of the dead, Owen would have agreed with that vehemently, so Ianto set about creating new quarters for Jack in the comparatively light, open space.  The building firm that had been under permanent contract to Torchwood, apparently since year dot, had been brought in to make the necessary changes from greenhouse to bedsit; after a little speedy renovating, and the reassignment of several large storage cupboards, there had been sufficient available space to make a thorough job of it, adding a small kitchen area and a bathroom that bordered on luxurious after what Jack had been used to beneath his office.

The vast windows overlooking the Hub had been retained, enabling Jack to feel completely in touch with whatever was happening, and also preventing any impression of being closed in, but electric blinds had been fitted so privacy could be achieved at the touch of a button.  The furnishings were either new, or from an antiques warehouse Ianto had discovered by accident – or rather by weevil – and these were liberally scattered with Jack’s personal effects, each item having been thoroughly scrutinised and mentally debated by Ianto, who was determined that, for the present at least, everything Jack set eyes on would have a positive association.

Ianto had been tempted to retain some of the plants because they softened the surroundings, added a little life, and definitely reminded them of better times.  But if the smell of soil – the connotations – were unbearable to Ianto, the effect on Jack didn’t bear thinking about.

…

Ianto helped Jack up the stairs and into his newest quarters, sitting him in the worn leather wing chair that had become his newest oldest favourite; Jack believed the chair to be one of Ianto’s ‘finds’.  In fact, it was one of the few mementoes of his own family that Ianto possessed, a once-posh gift to great-grandfather Jones after his timely rescue of a wealthy pit owner’s young son, whose horse had chosen to tip him into a river.  Another family keepsake was the hourglass that sat upon the hefty oak chest in the corner of the room, an hourglass devoid of sand since the base had been sabotaged by Ianto’s father when he was a mischievous boy.  Ianto had happily gifted it to Jack, and thought it was rather appropriate: an empty hourglass for an immortal man.

“It’s not safe out there,” Jack was still muttering, and he continued to do so until Ianto placed a mug of coffee in his hand and encouraged him to drink.

“I know.  We all know.  They’ll take care.”

“Is this drugged?” Jack asked, peering into his coffee.

“No,” Ianto answered simply.

“I don’t want to be drugged.”

“It’s just coffee.  The same as I have.”

Ianto gestured to his own mug and made a show of drinking.  After a brief hesitation, Jack followed suit.

“It really isn’t safe…”

“That’s right,” Ianto interrupted.  “It’s not safe, nothing’s safe.  You hate letting Gwen out of your sight, and…”

“You.”

“Yes, I was getting to that.  You hate letting me out of your sight, and when Rhys is around, you hate letting…”

“He shouldn’t be involved, he doesn’t have even the most basic training.”

“Yes, he does.”

“He can fire a gun?”

“I taught him.”  Ianto thought back to the honing of his own firearms skills, care of Jack, and chuckled.  “Not quite the way you’d’ve taught him, granted.”

“Can he handle a weevil?”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that, but, yes.”

Jack gave a grunt of acknowledgement as he drained his coffee, superficially and temporarily appeased.  Ianto took their empty mugs and rinsed them out, back to thinking about questions and answers.

“Do you think they’ve been gone too long?” Jack broke into his thoughts.

“I doubt they’ve even arrived yet.”

“We could catch them up.”

“Jack…”  Ianto slowly returned to Jack and crouched alongside his chair; Jack gazed at him, affection warring with suspicion.  “Have you thought about offering Gwen an out?”

“No.”

“I don’t mean losing her completely, not RetConning her, I mean…well…just letting her leave, letting her go back to as normal a life as possible.  I know nothing is entirely safe, but that would be a lot safer than this.”

“You think I should…”  The mild panic in Jack’s eyes turned extreme, and he was on his feet in an instant, dragging Ianto up and into an uncomfortably tight hold.  “What about you?  Do you want an out?”

Ianto laughed that off, genuinely, and he managed to ease Jack away, just a few inches: he needed Jack to look into his eyes and see the commitment there.

“No chance, you’re stuck with me.”  Jack took a deep, relieved breath and almost smiled at that; Ianto smiled back.  “Where else would I go, Jack?  This – you – Torchwood is my life.  I’m not Gwen, I don’t have a bolthole, I don’t have any reason to not be here.  But…  You and I, we’ve never promised one another happy ever after.  Gwen and Rhys have.”

“I don’t want to let her go.  I don’t want to let anyone go.  If you’d told me you wanted out, I’d’ve…I’d’ve…  I don’t know what.  What would I do without you?  I couldn’t lose you now.”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that, not for a while.”

“But I’ll…I’ll talk to Gwen.  If you think that’s right.”

“Yes.  Not that she’ll listen.  This is Gwen, after all.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“She has to know that we care enough to let her leave.”

Jack’s grip on Ianto redoubled, and Ianto placed the gentlest kiss on Jack’s mouth.  Jack didn’t respond, but that was normal now: no reciprocated kisses.  One more thing that Ianto missed with all his heart.

…

Gwen and Rhys were returning with ‘a visitor’.  Gwen’s voice had been completely calm as she passed on the information, and her attempts to placate an overly worried Jack were appreciated by Ianto but dismissed by the man in question.

“It’s not safe,” Jack repeated ad infinitum, energised by self-condemnation.  “It’s not safe, and it’s my fault.”

“I’m not going there, not again,” Ianto warned as he watched the SUV’s progress on the city’s traffic cameras.

“You think it’s not my fault?”

Ianto groaned inwardly.

“Not everything is within your control.”

“I let a psychopath walk out of here, Ianto, I…”

“At the time…”

“Don’t make excuses for me!” Jack yelled.  “I let a psychopath, a man who laughed over failing murder rehab…”

“Jack, stop it!”

Jack turned to Ianto, arms open in a posture of self-sacrifice.

“How can I?  I’m meant to protect this world, not make it more dangerous.  He kills and I kill.”

“We’ve heard nothing.  He’s done nothing.  We’d know.”

“You think?”

“We’d know,” Ianto persisted, despite suspecting he was being rather economical with the truth.

“He shot Owen.  Almost killed Gwen.  Did kill me.”

“Yes, all right, and that time you let him go.  The time you should have locked him up and thrown away the key, you let him go.  You are not blameless.  Satisfied?”

“But…” Jack countered weakly.  “He saved my life.”

Ianto considered banging his head on the workstation.  Gray would be dragged up next.  It was an endless circle: grief and guilt and fuck knows what, playing in Jack’s mind and destabilising what was left of his rational self.  Ianto was truly sick of both the circle, and its central characters.

“I’ve checked all the systems,” Ianto pre-empted.  “The cryogenic chambers are functioning perfectly.  Gray is absolutely safe.”

“Gray.  Yes.  Gray.”

Jack’s eyes glossed over, and the expected emotional collapse ensued.  Ianto couldn’t bear to see it, not after what Gray had put Jack – put all of them – through.  He concentrated harder on the work in front of him and mentally urged Gwen to put her foot down.

…

“Refuge?” Jack guessed, struggling to concentrate on the alien’s indistinct speech.  “It sounded like refuge.”

“Could it be asking for asylum?” Gwen suggested.  “Does that happen?”

It took Jack three times as long as normal to think that through.

“It happens,” he eventually confirmed.

Ianto checked the translation programme in the main computer: it had been sulky and temperamental since Toshiko’s demise and this afternoon refused to do more than loop aimlessly.  A quick shake of the head to Jack and Gwen, and the two turned their attention back to the creature, who looked, for all intents and purposes, perfectly human, and barely out of childhood.  Big green eyes peering at them through strands of lank brown hair, it sat hunched on the sofa, obviously frightened and intimidated despite everyone’s attempts to appear as unthreatening as possible.

“Do you have a name?” Gwen asked it, going on to point out each person in the vicinity and name them.  When Gwen gestured hopefully toward it in turn, an indistinct word of roughly a dozen syllables emerged from the alien.  Gwen looked around, wide-eyed and hopeful.  “Anyone catch that?”

“How is he?” Rhys asked Ianto confidentially as the interrogation staggered along, giving the barest hint of a nod in Jack’s direction.

Ianto considered.

“Still vaguely Jack.”

Rhys shook his head sympathetically.

“This ever happened before?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can’t you ask him?” Rhys said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, asking the man you love whether he’s grieving, or rapidly losing his mind.

“Could you?” Ianto replied, ignoring the ache in his chest and keeping his voice utterly neutral.

Rhys looked at Ianto, and looked at Jack.  He looked at Gwen and put himself in that position before giving Ianto’s arm a single, blokeish, compassionate pat.

…

Ianto ushered their newest arrival into one of the cells, selecting a vault that was as clean and comfortable as he could make it, away from the weevils and the noise of Hub machinery.

“Sorry the accommodation isn’t nicer,” he apologised, “the usual inhabitants aren’t overly fussy, so…”

The still-unnamed creature went into its cell and sat on the bench without hesitation.  It looked back at Ianto for approval, and he gave it a grateful nod.  There was undeniable intelligence in those eyes, and Ianto wracked his brain for something he could do to open an avenue of communication between them.  Securing the cell door, he promised he’d be back soon, and dashed off to find something clean and dry for it to wear – if by any chance they had a weevil suit that small – and put together what he hoped would be a harmless, digestible and inoffensive meal for the creature.

As Ianto passed through the Hub he looked around for Jack.  No immediate sign, but the burnt-out gadget that seemed to have brought the alien safely through the Rift was sitting, ignored, where Jack had left it for examination, and an upward glance showed the blinds of his quarters to be closed.  Jack was resting, that was good.

“Ianto.  Is there a set procedure for when aliens ask for asylum?” Gwen called from her workstation.  “Anything I can read up on?”

Ianto briefly detoured to locate the necessary information on Gwen’s computer, then got back to caring for their visitor.

The alien, again without hesitation, ate and drank, complete with evident pleasure and appreciative noises that seemed far beyond what a few microwaved vegetables and a bread roll warranted.

“Potato,” Ianto pointed out.  “Carrot.”

“Potato.  Carrot,” came the reply, distinctly clearer than the alien’s earlier speech, and tinged with Ianto’s accent.

“Bread.”

“Bread.”

Ianto touched his own chest.

“Ianto.”

“Ianto,” was acknowledged.  The creature touched its own chest, and there was that long name, once again incomprehensibly rattled off.

“I’m never going to get that,” Ianto apologised.  “You must be wondering why you weren’t lucky enough to be stranded on a planet with intelligent life.”

Having apparently been able to deduce that its full name was never going to work, the creature cocked its head, thinking, and repeating ‘Ianto’ several times, stressing the separate syllables.  Eventually, its own name was offered again, more thoughtfully, and repeated with various abbreviations until…

“El…eth.  Eleth.”

“Eleth?” Ianto jumped on that.  “I can cope with Eleth.”

“Eleth,” Eleth repeated.  “Ianto, Gwen, Jack, Rhys,” followed effortlessly, and Ianto got the impression that Eleth understood the names and their connection to the people involved, this wasn’t simply by rote.

Thoroughly intrigued, Ianto was torn between spending more time with Eleth, and doing all the things he really should be doing.  And if life hadn’t been so horrible for what felt like so long he would have chosen his duties.  As it was, he went and sat in the cell with Eleth, fishing his pen and notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Pen.”

“Pen.”

“Notebook.”

“Notebook.”

“Writing,” he explained, adding a little mime.  He wrote down his name.  “Ianto Jones.”  He offered the pen.  “Can you write, Eleth?”

…

Gwen and Rhys had left for the evening; Jack hadn’t stirred for hours.  After feeding or scanning the information he’d painstakingly gleaned from Eleth into various search programmes, Ianto decided to take a walk along the bay and let the fresh air sharpen his wits.  There was something niggling at him, something to do with Eleth, or her situation.  Her situation.  It had been established that she was more of a she than a he, although…  The Jack of old would have had a field day with this!

Ianto chuckled to himself and leaned on the railings, staring out over the moonlit bay and recalling various tales Jack had told him of past exploits where the whole s/he thing had been somewhat blurred.  The stories were very funny.  Jack was very funny.  Very funny, and adored, and missed.  Despite being severely distracted, the hint of a footfall nearby had Ianto’s hackles rising.  He’d left his gun in his desk.  He couldn’t believe he’d left his gun in his desk.

“Aren’t you going to say hello?”

Captain John Hart leant alongside Ianto, with not so much as a sideways glance.

“That isn’t what I’m inclined to say, no,” Ianto told him coldly.  Ianto had known that Hart was around, he was constantly catching peripheral glimpses of him.  There was a sort of uncomfortable relief that he’d finally made the inevitable approach, Ianto had been on tenterhooks waiting for it.  “What are you doing here?”

“Not much of a welcome back,” Hart observed.  “Anyone would think you’d be a little more civil to the man who saved your—”  Now Hart turned his head to study Ianto.  His voice gained a new edge.  “Your what?  What is Jack to you?  We never did establish that exactly.”

“We never had to.”

Hart grinned.

“Know what I like about you, Eye Candy?”

“Call me that again and I’ll cap you,” Ianto warned.  “Don’t rely on Jack to stop me, he’d be more likely to applaud.”

“I rather like my knees as they are,” Hart laughed.  “Ianto.  Ianto.  Ianto Jones.  You sound as fake as us.  Fake but…fractionally more imaginative.  Ianto.”

“What do you want?” Ianto asked with a deliberate show of boredom.

Hart turned and leaned his back against the railings, staring at Ianto, assessing him.  Ianto met his gaze with a single raised brow.

“You know what I want.”

“I know what you deserve.”

“Jack…”

“Doesn’t want you.  For God’s sake, show some self-respect, move on.”

“We have history.”

“You are history.”

“He needs me,” Hart insisted glibly.  “In ways you haven’t begun to figure out.  Not yet, at least.”

There was that arrogant smile again; Ianto could barely resist striking it from the captain’s face.

“D’you know…  I thought it was a part of Gray’s ruse, this pathetic dependent ex thing you have going on, but it’s real, isn’t it.  No wonder you played the part so convincingly.”

Hart’s smile had wavered; that was undeniably satisfying.

“You’re a cocksure little bastard, but just you wait until you’re where I am.”

“But that isn’t about to happen.  Jack wanted me from the start.  I know that.  I wasn’t something he settled for when he was faced with a choice of one.”

“Think you’re enough for him?  Ianto.  Think this is?  How can you imagine that this tiny, boring life will keep him here?”

“I never stop to consider it.  There’s no need.  Jack has made his intentions quite plain.”

“Well, let me make something quite plain.”  In one smooth move Hart’s mouth was against Ianto’s ear.  “Two weeks.  Two weeks, and the press of a button frees Gray.”

Ianto jerked away, battling not to show the alarm that inevitably coursed through him at the thought of Gray being released.

“Impossible.”

“Your security is laughable.  I could have him free in minutes without setting foot in the place.”

“Haven’t you forgotten something?  That without someone to revive Gray, you’d simply be freeing a corpse.”

Hart gave Ianto a horribly meaningful smile.

“Didn’t you know?  That equipment has the ability to zap its corpses back to life.  From deep frozen to raring to go in sixty seconds.”

Ianto adamantly shook his head.

“If that were true I definitely would know.”

“Really?  Even if the facility was dismantled in nineteen-sixty-four because one of the customers was defrosted due to a glitch and died horribly, trapped in their chamber?”

“There would be records for all of this, the incident and the dismantling.”

“Although…it wouldn’t take much for someone who could time travel to nip to, let’s say, nineteen-seventy-three and destroy those records, would it?  Destroy those records, re-draw the schematics so nobody would discover the true extent of that machine’s abilities, then restore the equipment to the manufacturers specifications.  Nineteen-seventy-three because security was so lax, due to the majority of the employees dying quite tragically.”  Hart grinned.  “I can’t imagine who was responsible for that.”

“Why would you go to that kind of trouble?”

“It wasn’t for me.  It was for Gray.  He planned for every eventuality.  He wanted to know everything, inside and out, including your cryogenics.  If your predecessors knew it in nineteen-seventy-three, Gray knew it when he transported in after burying Jack.”

“You supplied him with blueprints?”

“And more.  Everything I could find.  What choice did I have?  With that explosive strapped to my arm…”

“You coward,” Ianto interrupted.  “A better man would have died first.”

“Well, the opportunity to prove that is hurtling towards you.  Alternately, you have two weeks to hand Jack over and live to tell the tale.”

“I will never…”

“Two weeks.  Or in three, I’ll let Gray have his fun before eradicating the opposition, taking what I’m due, and skipping this dreary planet.”

“Jack is not what you’re due,” Ianto all but snarled.

“That whole ‘kill him and he lives’ stunt?  Makes him a lucrative business opportunity.  Let’s say I have plans for him.”

“You think I’ll let that happen?”

“I think…you’ll have no choice.  You, Ianto, will be nothing more than a deserted grave.”

There was a long moment’s stand off, before Ianto gave a humourless laugh.

“People who can, do,” he smiled, taunting.  “People who can’t…”  He swept a derogatory look over Hart.  “Posture.”

With a dismissive shake of the head, Ianto skirted the captain and walked briskly in the direction of the Hub.  Hart’s voice echoed mockingly behind him.

“You never figured it out, Eye Candy: what I like about you.  Tell you, shall I?  You don’t stop fighting.  You don’t, and you won’t.  Not until I have the pleasure of killing you.”

Back in the Hub Ianto relaxed his guard, let a wall prop him up, and gave in to the series of shudders that had been threatening since he’d first heard Hart’s voice.  Association.  Then it was a rush to reassure himself that Gray was where he should be and inescapably so.  He searched for any clue that Hart had been telling the truth about infiltrating the Hub and making changes to their records and equipment, but there was nothing.  Either it was a sensational bluff or Hart had, somewhat unbelievably when the scale of his alleged interference was taken into account, managed to cover his tracks perfectly.  When Ianto turned to Toshiko to ask about further enhancing their internal security, he suddenly found himself reliving past horrors, breathless and trembling, completely overwhelmed by memories and emotions.

So wrong: to think Toshiko and see nothing but blood.  To think Owen and see—

He was up the stairs to Jack’s quarters in seconds, quietly letting himself inside and finding Jack sprawled in bed, more vacant than asleep.  Ianto whispered a choked hello and shed his outer garments, crawling under the covers and huddling close to Jack, neither expecting nor receiving any acknowledgement of his presence.  But it was better than nothing, and nothing was the colder, emptier alternative.