If every leaf on every tree
Could tell a story, that would be
A miracle
~ The Miracle, Queen, "The Miracle"
Words: 1449
In the garden of Ianto's flat was an old oak tree. Old and wise, as oak trees often are, it took the brunt of weather and construction, its large branches either providing shade or creaking under copious amounts of snow. It both heard and saw everything, its layers of thick bark the perfect secret-keepers of embarrassing childhood stories and the secret locations of lovers' rendezvous.
It was an afternoon in May, the kind when the sky was clear and the sun was shining, but it was still too early in the year for the weather to be unbearably hot. And, on that peaceful May afternoon, one of the windows in the building had been thrown open. Funnily enough, this particular window led into the flat of one Mr. Ianto Jones, and it was just at the level of the oak's middle branches.
"What on earth is that?" a small, quite young, leaf heard a voice say.
"Pancakes," another voice answered cheerfully. "Come on, Ianto, you can't tell me you haven't had pancakes before!"
"Of course I've had pancakes before," the first voice, clear and Welsh—like the oak tree—replied. "But Jack, they're green!"
Frankly, the leaf didn't understand why the pancake being green was such a bad thing. Green, as far as it knew, was a lovely color, and, thank you very much, one should be very pleased to see it.
"So what?" and, it appeared that this Jack fellow shared the leaf's sentiments.
"So," Ianto said as if it was the plainest answer in the world, "Green is not the standard color for Earth pancakes, not without food coloring."
"Well, I suppose your milk was a bit lumpy—" here, Jack was interrupted by a sigh. "But milk's always lumpy on Venus Delta."
"Earth pancakes, Jack," the leaf could feel Ianto roll his eyes.
As far as the leaf was concerned, encounters of this kind were fairly common. Not coming from other open windows—everyone had their own story, afterall—but certainly from this one. This Mr. Ianto Jones was fairly predictable, as least to an oak as old and wise as this one, even if he did talk about Weevils and kept outrageous hours.
Winter was, overall, a calm season for the tree, even if the temperature was too many degrees below zero. Few people were outside, and the ones that were only hurried through the cold and were of no interest to the oak tree. No one opened their windows in the winter, and no children played outside, possibly because no children lived in the oak tree's flats. It was quiet.
"Was" being the operative word.
A certain Mr. Ianto Jones had taken up residence in the flats, and this certain Mr. Ianto Jones kept odd hours and either behaved like a stern and mature adult or like a lovesick five-year-old. This second personality came out to play at odd times, and often with no warning. So, it was very likely for the tree to observe Ianto, wearing mittens, playing the fresh winter snow with his odd Captain Jack Harkness.
It was dark, as winter evenings often are, and the oak stood bare in the garden, snow falling from the cloudy sky. There was already snow on the ground, from the morning's snowfall, but the oak tree didn't mind a few more inches. Yes, it was cold, yes, it was heavy, and yes, winter was rather lonely, but the oak tree, old and wise, knew of the silver lining.
And, yes, there it was.
The esteemed Mr. Jones, following his Captain, was making his way to the garden, which, although it was christened and referred to as a "garden", was really a courtyard. The two men were wearing thin winter coats, which kept them warm but allowed for mobility, as well as boots, hats, scarves, and gloves, or, in Ianto's case, mittens. When they reached the garden, Jack broke into a run, crying, "Catch me if you can!" and bounding through the thick covering of snow.
Ianto wasted no time in rushing after him, and they waddled this quick game of tag until Ianto caught up to Jack and threw them both into the snow. Jack emerged, sputtering, and placed a kiss on an unsuspecting Ianto's nose, which had already turned bright red.
Ianto laughed.
The two frolicked some more in the quiet snowfall, chasing each other, running, getting caught, and pelting each other with well-aimed snowballs. Jack took shelter behind the trunk of the oak tree, but Ianto found him there, and claimed his prize as a kiss.
Jack caught him up in a stumbling, impromptu waltz.
They always left a pair of smiling snowmen next to the tree, never one, because, as they had once explained to whoever was listening, leaving one was leaving it alone.
The only time bleaker than winter was fall. Everything was dying, leaving, slowing down. Nights became longer and colder, and people rushed past way too fast. They spared glances, maybe minutes, for the fiery changes of colors, but as soon as the novelty had worn off, they became too focused on their increasing workload and on the hassle on upcoming holidays.
The oak tree, as it admitted, shed just as much as its peers did, and with no more grace. Its browning leaves fell in clumps onto equally bleak grass, and it was days before anyone bothered to move them. Autumn was a time when there was no time.
It was autumn, the tree observed, when its old acquaintance, Mr. Ianto Jones, lost focus and often left when he was still half-asleep. He would return hours later, still exhausted. This, the tree knew, happened before its green leaves witnessed Ianto's playfulness with his Jack.
It was autumn, and just like Cardiff's other residents, Ianto was cold and distracted. He exited his flat and made his way to the front door through the courtyard. He wore a suit—the tree doubted he owned any other clothes—and, over it, a black overcoat. His hands, most likely gloved, were deep in his pockets, he equally deep in thought.
Ianto didn't seem to be paying attention to where he was going, but he hadn't strayed from the cemented path. The tree shadowed him, Ianto's already somber face darker because of the blocked sun.
Yet, for all its age and wisdom, the oak tree could not figure out what it was that caused Ianto's distress. He stepped on a stray leaf, and it cracked under his leather shoe.
At the time, the old oak tree had no idea about Ianto's feelings, or about the weight in his heart, and didn't connect the dots of his loneliness to the sudden disappearance of Ianto's Captain.
The next autumn was just the same. Wet, cold, dreary, and too foggy for its own good. The tree, as it did every year, shed its leaves and was almost perpetually soaked through because of the constant rain. The summer had gone, disappeared so suddenly that the tree could have forgotten about it. But it didn't. It never forgot, it doubted trees had the capacity to do so.
It definitely didn't forget the disgust people showed to any sort of fungi or moss growing upon it, or their crinkled noses when they saw mounds of rotting leaves on the ground. They were the ones who didn't move the leaves because they had no time or desire for it, yet they always blamed the people around them. The tree scoffed and its remaining leaves fell to the ground, one landing on the head of a passing Ianto Jones.
"Ianto!" he whirled around, and the tree recognized the voice of the caller as that of his Captain.
"Yes, Jack?" Ianto sounded mildly exasperated, accompanying the words with a roll of the eyes.
"You have . . . a little something . . ." Jack caught up to Ianto, panting, and pointed towards his lips, "Here."
"Wh—" he was cut off by Jack pressing their lips together. He laughed. "You know that's the most cliché trick in the book, don't you?"
"I know," Jack smiled back. "But, you know, you really do have something"—he brushed his hand over Ianto's hat—"here."
He handed the red leaf to Ianto with a flourish, landing on one knee and holding it aloft.
"You're ridiculous," Ianto took the leaf, despite Jack's theatrics, and pretended to smell it as one would a flower. He pressed it to his chest and twirled around. "Thank you, Captain Harkness!"
"Anytime," Jack got up with a grunt.
"Getting old?" Ianto teased.
"Shut up," Jack lightly swatted him.
The leaf fought back the urge to laugh at their antics.