1
Jack doesn't remember tossing the alarm clock with such force it shattered to a hundred pieces, but he hears the sound.
Groaning, he turns in his bedding. With winter approaching, all Jack wants is to stay indoors and hibernate in peace. This Boeshane boy misses the warmth of the sun already.
After some deliberation, he flings the sheets aside and rises, ignoring the debris of his alarm clock in one corner, which joins a thousand other pieces of its brothers and sisters. Mentally reminding himself to clean the mess up later, he drags himself into the shower.
The hot water jolts him awake, but he still feels grumpy.
He lumbers out of the bath, managed to find some warm clothes, and heads for the kitchen.
The penthouse suite of an expensive serviced apartment keeps Jack warm and well cloistered with most things being on-line shopped. On general principal, he abhors company of any sort.
I suppose sentimentality's the real reason I can't force myself to move out.
Jack likes order. Can't stand chaos, and even if his former mate, Ifan, died a decade ago, he keeps everything the way it was. The placement of the furniture and the picture frames never left their place —like he's just frozen time, except nothing's going to bring back Ifan.
I get that now… and I know what you're thinking.
Yes. He might be a little insane, or simply sad, but he doesn't give a fuck. In the kitchen, he slots a capsule in the expensive coffee machine and fire up his laptop while waiting.
The company board still forwards him important emails, but he mostly leaves the running of the business to them.
I bet some of the junior executives don't recognize my face.
To them and the media, Jack is just the enigmatic millionaire who had that catastrophic melt down years ago—never seen since.
The double espresso smoothly goes down his throat. He listlessly scroll through e-mails, wondering why the hell he bothers getting up this early when an unread message catches his eye.
It's a response to the ad he anonymously posts on Craigslist each year when December rolls around.
Well, before technology happened, I used to post on newspaper ads.
Every year for the past decade, he got the same response. Nothing. No bite to the bait, except this year there's an answer.
For a second he thinks he's hallucinating. That's what happens when one drinks several cups of coffee a day his therapist tells him, but the little unopened envelope icon remains there, taunting him.
"Fuck me," He mutters to himself. Despite his reservations, he clicks it open.
A handsome young man in uniform looks back at him from the screen. He's built with lean muscles and ink, dark hair shaved close to his skull, but that's not what lures him.
Even before I meet Ianto Jones, I know I want him.
He pines for Ianto for all the wrong reasons—because he looks like the exact replica of Ifan. A roughly-hewn copy maybe, but the resemblance is striking, except Ifan doesn't possess the shadows under Ianto's eyes. The haunted young man looking back at him can either be an offering or a trap.
Jack's gaze shifts to the artful black-and white wedding photos on the living room. In all of them, Jack's laughing, arm around Ifan's shoulders and Jack is smiling—another him in a different life.
"Tell me to stop this. That this isn't a sign from you," he croaks at the silent frames.
In all the shots, Ifan's eyes crinkle slightly, as if he's sharing a secret joke with the photographer. The secret to happiness maybe, but he's keeping it to himself, hoarding it like a treasure.
Jack picks up the seldom-used cell phone and ring up his security guy—well, woman. Tosh picks up on the first ring. "Can you run a check for me?"
"Is someone after your life, boss?" Tosh asks, concern evident in her voice.
"Nothing of that sort," Jack quickly answers. He gives her Ianto Jones' name, if that was even his real name.
The next few passing minutes feels like an eternity. Jack is sweating in his thin, piece-of-cotton shirt. When Tosh calls again, it turns out Ianto used his real name. Tosh doesn't ask any more questions, but knowing her, she's bursting with them. Like the paid professional she is, Tosh keeps her silence after giving him the information he asked for.
After cutting the line, Jack stares at Ianto's picture for a couple of seconds.
I know my request sounds shady. Hell, a little crazy, but I never expected anyone to answer my ad.
Either Ianto is really desperate for some quick cash, or he has ulterior motives. Jack is hoping it's the former.
Trusting his gut instincts Jacks cracks his knuckles and types a curt response.