A/N: I had this idea when I was writing Caput-sihil, but I couldn't think of a way to work it into that story. Besides, writing this fic as a separate piece allows me to use different POVs.
CARDIFF, 1983
When the car wouldn't start, Dylan Jones knew, he just knew, that his son was going to be born under a bad sign. So he wasn't surprised when the roads were blocked on the way to the hospital. However, he was filled with a tremendous desire to strangle the person responsible for that mess. (It was only later that he'd learn that it was special ops. Someone had mentioned something about Torchwood, whoever they were.)
When they had finally had gotten a taxi, the driver decided to take a "short cut," ignoring all of Dylan's instructions, and of course, they got lost. (Bloody foreigner!) Meanwhile, Lillian Jones huffed and puffed and howled in pain while squeezing Dylan's hand so tightly that he feared that she would crush his bones.
And because things weren't frustrating enough, they never made it to the hospital. Little Ianto just couldn't wait to be born. He had to insist on coming out into the world whether or not the world was ready for him. (Jesus Christ, what was that boy so eager to do?) And without consulting the expectant couple and rather than picking up the pace, the driver pulled into the car park of a café where he had the audacity to tell Dylan to go inside and call an ambulance while he jumped into the backseat to take a look. To top it all off, Lillian -- perhaps seduced by the driver's matinee-idol looks and American swagger -- told Dylan to do as he was told. She even took off her knickers and spread her legs for him without so much as a who-do-you-think-you-are? Like a complete idiot, Dylan went along with the plan without knowing who the fuck had his hands all over his wife's lady-bits because despite being just a driver, the man radiated authority.
But the shit did not stop there. No, sir. The universe had another kick in the balls for Dylan Jones. When he went to the counter to ask to use the phone, a skinny, scrawny, pimply young scrap of a man promptly told him, "You have to buy something first."
Oh, that was it. He had already been undermined by an irresistible taxi driver who made him feel strange in places he didn't want to feel strange. He would not be defeated by this horse-faced git. Dylan slammed his fists on the counter and shouted, "My wife is having a fucking child in the fucking taxi in your fucking car-park. Now give me the bloody phone!"
In a corner booth, a child started to cry while her mother looked at Dylan with disgust.
At least he got to use the phone. And Mr. Pimple-face offered him a cup of coffee… on the house.
While he waited for the ambulance to arrive, Dylan watched the driver as he urged Lillian to push. By this point, he felt too numb to care. He simply accepted the fact that his son's birth was a cliché. Actually, that wasn't true. There was always a grain of truth to a cliché, and he'd never met anyone whose child was born in the back of taxi. No, his son's birth was not a cliché. It was the stuff of urban legends. He'd tell the story to his neighbors and to his family, but nobody will ever believe him. It was the general consensus that beguiling American taxi drivers with dazzling smiles don't know nothin' about birthin' no babies. Such a being was about as likely to exist as an alien getting lost on Earth and asking to phone home. And yet, that gorgeous creature was safely delivering the baby from the mother's womb with those large hands of his.
The moment that the baby cried was so completely unreal. Dylan had to pinch himself in case he was actually dreaming.
"Hello, you," the handsome driver whispered. He looked very close to breaking out into tears himself as he held the fussy sprog close to his chest.
"Sir?" Lillian asked. "Sir? I think he'd like to be with his mother."
The driver looked around as if he couldn't remember where he was. He awkwardly handed the newborn over to Lillian, and while he smiled tenderly at both of them, his eyes were inexplicably drawn to the baby's wrinkled, slimy face.
Dylan was about to take his place alongside his family when the driver announced, "Guess it's time to cut the cord."
Right. Because the impossibly sexy hunk of man knew how to do that as well.
Dylan sighed when he heard the ambulance finally make its approach. Then, he laughed. He had a son. He had a son with all of his fingers and toes and with a good set of lungs. He grabbed the driver and kissed him soundly on the lips before crawling in the back seat with his wife and child.
Suddenly, it no longer mattered if everybody who heard Dylan Jones tell this story called the man a liar. Dylan knew the truth. And the truth was… that no matter what happened from here on out, this moment would always be one of the happiest in his life.
~*~
Two men sat in a pub, hovering over their pints.
The first man said, "And by the time I got there, the couple had left with the another driver. Can you believe that? One of ours stole my fare!"
"You think that's bad? Somebody stole my fucking car," the man's colleague replied.
~~o0o~~
PALENQUE, 3245
Jack handed Dr. Ortega an uncommon silver thermos. "You said you needed more stem cells."
Like an eager child, she grasped the container with both hands, and carefully opened it at her work station. A small cloud of vapor emerged from the thermos as she pulled out the core from its resting place.
The corner of her mouth contorted in her surprise. "That's an umbilical cord." She returned to her neutral, blank expression. "Yes, I think it will be very useful."
She promptly tested the cord blood, her hands moving with the delicate precision of a woman performing a Japanese tea ceremony. Her expression was just as placid.
Jack found an extra stool in the lab and sat out of her way while his head buzzed with a million and one thoughts. He had met Ianto's parents for the first time under the most ridiculous of circumstances. He had helped Ianto's mother give birth in order to steal the umbilical cord. He could hardly breathe when he thought that he, of all people, was the first to hold Ianto Jones.
He recalled a night when Ianto asked him, "Do you think that the events of your birth leave an imprint on your psyche?"
They were talking about coffee at the time. Jack had laid out chocolate covered espresso beans on Ianto's chest, creating an arrow that pointed to the man's cock.
"I was born in the car park of a café," Ianto said.
Jack sucked up a bean.
"They couldn't get my mother to the hospital in time."
Jack sucked in another.
"They gave my father a free cup while he waited for the ambulance."
Jack swirled his tongue around Ianto's navel.
Ianto played with the stiff ends of Jack's hair. "Maybe, as I was resting in my mother's arms, I learned to associate the scent of coffee with my first happy thought."
Jack looked at him. Raising an eyebrow, he said, "Liar."
"It's what my father told me," Ianto replied. "Believe it or not." The way he laughed led Jack to believe that he made up the story, just as he lied about his father being a master tailor.
But Jack stretched his body beside his lover and listened to the tall tale anyway.
"Tad always drove around in crap cars," Ianto began…
Maybe the conversation didn't happen exactly like that, but it sounded good.
Ortega frowned and muttered. Her eyes were fixed to a chart on her screen.
"Are the stem cells viable?" Jack asked.
"They belong to him," Ortega said.
"You needed more stems; I got them for you."
"I could have altered someone else's. I've been doing that all along. He's almost done."
"Look at it this way. I'm saving you time and a trip to the tissue bank."
She didn't answer. She just sat on her stool and blinked several times.
"Are they viable?" Jack asked again.
"How did you…?"
He walked to her station, and turning on his charm at full blast in an attempt to seduce her, he whispered into her ear, "What would you like me to tell you? Would you even believe me if I told you the truth?"
With her back to him, she pulled her feet on her stool and rested her chin on her knees. She sat shivering like a frightened rabbit and kept whimpering until she heard him take a few steps away. To Jack's best recollection, he never had anyone react to his flirtations that way. He felt rather guilty for making the attempt to get into her knickers, but he also knew that she wouldn't ask any further questions, if only to keep him out of her personal space.
"You're right," she said to the thin air in front of her face. She sounded almost catatonic. "This does save me time. I hate going to the bank. Thank you."
"Are the stems viable?" Jack asked again.
She nodded.
"How long will it be until he…" But Jack didn't know the right word for it. Returns? Resuscitates? "When will he be ready?" That didn't sound right either. It sounded like he was ordering a car.
"With the cells you gave me? Another week at the most."
He could have taken her in his arms and kissed her, just as Dylan Jones had done with him all those years (or hours) ago, but there was no way of telling how she'd respond. So instead, he walked out of the lab and drifted into the elevator. As he went down, he put his hand over his own chest, thinking about that tiny heart beating against his, thinking about the man who was so close to being reborn.