This is a story featuring Jack and Owen. It came about after I'd read some of the stories posted around Remembrance Day: I wanted to do something of my own about wartime and those who fought. Don't be alarmed, though, it's not a hugely sad tale, quite funny in parts (I hope). Hope you enjoy.
Uncle Peter
The day was coming to a close and Toshiko took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. It had been busy since early morning with a number of minor alerts that had the others chasing all over Cardiff while she'd been staring at her screens, checking CCTV footage and tracking all manner of encroaching aliens. Her eyes were aching and she was planning to stop at the supermarket on the way home to get some drops to ease them.
She looked across the Hub. Ianto was sitting at his desk on the other side of the large space, doggedly updating the daily log. Gwen was with Jack in his office discussing a report for UNIT. Owen was at his desk, muttering obscenities under his breath. She smiled; the doctor was not subtle and it was abundantly clear that whatever he was trying to do on his PC was not going well. He had been fiddling about for the past hour.
She cleared her throat. "Um, Owen? Are you all right there? Need any help?"
He turned suddenly in alarm. "No, no, I'm all right. Just something I'm trying to do." He smiled falsely and turned back to his desk.
At any other time, and on any other day, she would have pursued the point but this night she was too tired to care. "Okay then." She picked up her bag and put away her glasses and the half eaten packet of sweets. She checked her gun was in its compartment: never knew when she'd need that. "I'm off. Will you tell Jack, when he's free?" There was no reply. "Owen!"
The man turned again, looking at her in confusion. "What?"
"Will you tell … Oh, never mind." Gwen had just left the office. Toshiko put her head round the door. "Jack, I'm off. I've done all I can for now on the Charles Simpson case."
"Great. Thanks, Tosh. You get on home." Jack smiled and went back to the papers on his desk.
Toshiko took her leather coat off the peg and was putting it on when Gwen joined her. "You off too?" asked Gwen. "Feel like a drink?"
"No, sorry. I'm for a hot bath and bed."
"Don't blame you, day we've had. Owen, you want to come for a drink?"
"Nah, busy. Bye." He waved a hand in their direction but didn't turn round.
"Never thought I'd see the day," laughed Gwen. "Night Jack. Night, Ianto." She led the way to the cog door and the two women were gone.
Silence descended as the three men continued their tasks for the next half an hour. Ianto stirred first, closing the program and turning off his PC. He stretched and made for the work area. He glanced at Owen, unusually industrious for this late at night, and entered Jack's office. He sat in the visitor's chair.
Jack looked up at him, putting his pencil down to mark the place he'd reached in the report he was checking. Gwen still used police jargon – 'I was walking in a westerly direction when …' – and he tried to change it before it went higher up the chain. "How are you?" he asked.
"Tired. Okay if I leave now?"
"Of course, it's late. Want company?" He smiled when he saw Ianto's hesitation; the man still found it hard to refuse the boss. "It's okay, I'm happy to clear some of this while it's still fresh in my mind." His hand indicated the piles of papers in front of him. "How about I join you for breakfast?"
"I'd like that. Sevenish? I'll cook." He stood, smiling down at Jack.
"Seven it is." He glanced through the window next to him and saw Owen still slaving away. "I'll walk you out." He got up and followed Ianto to the work area. "Owen, I'll be back in five."
"Okay." The doctor did not look up from his work.
Jack shrugged and walked out with Ianto. They took 10 minutes to say goodbye in the Tourist Office before Jack returned to the Hub. He climbed the steps and thought about making a coffee but decided not; he'd wait until some more of the paperwork had been done. In fact, the more he thought about it, perhaps tonight it would be cocoa. He was smiling to himself as he came up behind Owen and idly glanced at his screen. He didn't mind what his team used the equipment for, as long as it was not blatantly illegal. He assumed Owen was searching for new porn sites but he was stopped in his tracks when he saw what was on the screen.
"Owen, what are you doing?" He stood behind him, hands on the back of his chair.
"Trying to get this bit the same colour as the rest. Oh, shit!" He flung the mouse away in disgust. "Why do they make the bloody icons look the same!"
"Why are you touching up an old photo, Owen?" He sensed tension in his colleague. "Just curious, I don't mind."
Owen relaxed. "It's my uncle's. I wanted to touch it up, make it all new like, put it in a frame and give it to him for his birthday tomorrow."
"Nice thought. What were you going to do about the figure in the middle?"
"God knows. See," he held up the original, "he's had it folded up in his wallet for the past 60 years and that bloke's right on the crease. You can see the uniform but not his head."
"I noticed. What's so special about the photo? I mean, why's your uncle carrying it around with him?"
"They were his wartime mates. Flew planes, together. Now he's losing his marbles, well, it's almost all he can remember." Owen looked up, not sure why he was telling Jack all this.
"I may be able to help," said Jack thoughtfully.
"Thank the lord! You good at this Photo Shop thing? Or even better, got an alien gizmo that would do it? " Owen was hopeful for the first time today. He was useless at this kind of stuff, didn't have the patience for it, but he'd set his heart on doing this for his uncle and was determined enough to persevere even if the results were not very good. He'd hoped to have some time during the day to sort it out but instead it looked liked he'd be here all night.
"Better than that. Just a minute." Jack disappeared into his office.
Owen craned his neck to see what he was doing. He'd hoped Jack would just sort it out on his, Owen's, PC but instead he was fiddling at his desk. He straightened up when Jack walked back towards him.
"Here, scan that."
Owen took the offering and stared at it. "But how …" Then he looked closer, in particular at the figure that had been obliterated in his uncle's photograph. "Bleeding hell," he looked up at Jack, "it's you."
-ooOoo-
The two men were sitting in Jack's office, glasses of whisky in their hands, staring at the PC screen behind Jack. Owen had scanned the fresh, undamaged copy of the photograph into the system and it was now displayed so they could both see it. It showed a group of nine men, all in RAF uniform. Five were standing and four sitting. Though it was supposed to be an official photograph all the men were either grinning or laughing at the camera. In the centre of the back row was the unmistakable figure of Jack Harkness.
"So you knew my Uncle Peter?" Owen was still amazed at the coincidence.
"Seems so. I knew him as Nobby, Nobby Clarke." He pointed to the man on the left of the front row, "Him."
"That's right, that's Uncle Peter. What about the rest of 'em?"
"We're going back a bit here, Owen. Let's see if I can remember their names."
"You remembered Uncle Peter's!" pointed out Owen, taking a sip of his drink.
"He was special."
Owen's face blanched. "No, please, don't tell me you fucked him."
Jack laughed at the doctor's expression of disgust. "No, I didn't. He was my co-pilot for half a tour. Being stuck in a bomber cockpit for 14 hours every other day dodging ack-ack fire you get to know a man. It makes an impression on the old brain."
"He didn't say he flew bombers."
"Yep, Bomber Squadron though we were doing small specialist jobs a lot of the time. What would be called strategic targets now. The nine of us were the pilots. Should have been 10 but we'd lost Stinker Harris just before that picture was taken and his replacement hadn't arrived."
Owen sniggered, "Did you all have stupid names?"
"Just about."
"Hang on," Owen was sitting forward, "you must have been the one he called Black Jack."
"God, haven't heard that in a while." He smiled. "Anyway, the others. There was Nobby and behind him is Topper Truman. He used to wear a top hat off duty, that's how he got the name. Now, the guy between me and Topper … what was he called?" Jack thought for a minute or two. "Charlie Johnson. Preacher Johnson to us. He'd been a lay preacher, Methodist, and liked the sound of his own voice. Always lecturing us. On the other side of me is Stephen West. Deadeye."
"Deadeye?"
"Best shot we had, should have been in fighters but had blotted his copybook somewhere along the line so he was with us. And at the end, on the right, is Mick O'Reilly. Irish, so called Mick for obvious reasons. Now the front row. Next to Nobby is Half-Bob, he was a laugh." Jack chuckled at some recollection.
"Half-Bob? You're making that one up!"
"No I'm not! His name was Tanner, half-a-bob." Owen looked mystified. "A tanner was a sixpence and two tanners made a shilling or a 'bob'. So he was Half-Bob. Can't remember his first name. George, something like that. It'll come to me. Anyway, next to him is Taffy Hughes."
"Oh, I get this now. He was Welsh," said Owen.
"No, he was from Scotland, Glasgow. Tough as they come. Liked his drink, could hold it too. He was one hell of a pilot."
"Hold on. If he's from Scotland why'd you call him Taffy?" Owen helped himself to another slug of whisky. He offered to top up Jack's glass but was waved away.
"To wind him up. Gerald," Jack cried, "Gerry Tanner. Knew it'd come to me. That was Half-Bob's name." He looked really pleased to have remembered it.
"So who was the last one?"
"Tiny Tim Matthews," Jack's voice was soft. "Now him I did sleep with. Lovely man, such a gentle soul, and a looker. He could charm the birds from the trees." He raised his glass in a silent toast to him. "To you, Tim." He drank.
Owen looked across the desk and saw Jack lost in his memories. It was amazing to think that Jack, who looked only a few years older than Owen, had known these men who had served in a war that had ended over 60 years ago. His Uncle Peter, great uncle actually, was an old man – 94 tomorrow - with only the slenderest grasp on reality yet here was Jack, their contemporary at that time, fit and active and going to live for a long time yet. The reality of Jack's situation hit him at that moment and he looked away and took a sip of his drink to hide his sudden emotion.
Owen cleared his throat. "What happened to them?"
Jack shrugged. "Most of them bought it. Mick and Taffy died on our next run, shot down over France. Preacher was injured, burnt when his cockpit caught fire. Don't know if he lived. Hope not, to be honest." He looked down and saw his glass was empty. "I'll take another shot now, thanks." Owen poured another measure into the proffered glass. "Half=Bob and Topper survived the war, went to run a garage together in Chelmsford."
"Together?" asked Owen, eyebrow raised.
"God, you have a one-track mind, Owen. They married sisters, took over their father's business. Had families. Half-Bob died in the 60s, heart attack, and Topper only a few years ago, cancer I think. Lost track of Deadeye. He got back into fighters eventually." Jack took another drink and was silent.
"And Tiny Tim?" Owen could not believe he'd called him by the nickname but it seemed only fitting given Jack's obvious regard for the man.
"Blown up over Dresden. I saw him go down in a ball of flame. Least it was quick." He swallowed the rest of his whisky.
"So Uncle Peter's the only left, except you?"
"And maybe Deadeye." He turned to face Owen, his hands resting on the desk. "Tell me about Nobby. I lost track of him too."
Owen was never sure what made say the words that came out of his mouth but strangely he didn't regret them. "Why don't you come with me tomorrow and meet him. Let him tell you himself?"
-ooOoo-
Gwen was sure something strange was afoot. Owen had come in wearing a suit, so rare an occurrence that she was surprised to learn he owned one. He'd been in a good mood too, laughing and joking with barely a sarcastic jibe at anyone. Jack, on the other hand, was quiet. He'd stayed in his office for most of the morning but whenever she'd looked his way he'd been staring at nothing. Weird. And now, to confirm her feeling, the pair of them were off together and in Owen's car.
"Tosh, you happy to sort out the box?" She nodded. "Good. Gwen, Ianto, you carry on with the search, there must be something in the archives that'll help." Jack looked round his team, content they had enough to keep them busy.
"Where are you two off?" Gwen asked, standing up and moving to stand by Toshiko.
"Out."
Jack stared at her and she dropped her eyes, hating the way he did that to her. Only an old headmistress of hers had been able to do that before, make her feel about an inch tall. She watched as Owen, smirking at her discomfort, put on his jacket and tightened his tie before following Jack out of the cog door.
"Where are they going? Do you know?" she asked Toshiko.
"No. Owen booked the afternoon off last week." She was turning the box they'd unearthed, curious about its markings.
"We could follow them on CCTV," wheedled Gwen. She'd still not got the hang of how to use the system so relied on Toshiko's expertise.
"We could but we're not going to. If we need to know, Jack'll tell us. Now, isn't it about time you were down in Archives?" Toshiko pointedly turned her back. She was not going to be drawn into Gwen's speculations.
Gwen shrugged and walked off; maybe Ianto knew something. Ianto did but, despite several questions from Gwen during the course of the afternoon, he professed ignorance.
-ooOoo-
Owen and Jack sat in the car, looking at the Victorian frontage of Raven House. It was set in attractive, well maintained grounds on the outskirts of Cardiff and housed 15 retired folk who needed nursing care. "I'm not sure about this. How's he going to react, seeing me?"
"Like I told you, he's lost his marbles. He's always talking about his wartime mates like they were still around. The nurses aren't gong to take a blind bit of notice if he says anything. Honest, Jack, I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise." Owen tried to stifle his impatience but it was hard.
With a deep breath, Jack opened the car door. "Let's do it then. But if this goes wrong and we end up having to Retcon everyone here, you are cleaning out the cells for the rest of the year." He got out and looked up at the house, thinking it wasn't such a bad place to end one's days.
Owen was beside him. "Come on." He led the way, waving a cheery hand to one old woman who was slowly crossing the hallway, "Afternoon, Mrs Umpleby." He went to the desk where a middle aged woman in uniform was sitting. "Hi, Lorraine." He took up a pen and signed his name in the visitor's book.
"Dr Harper, good to see you again. Peter's on good form today, I'm glad to say." She looked over at Jack and smiled, dimples appearing. "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon to you." Jack smiled back, the full beaming smile, and the woman's eyes sparkled with pleasure.
Owen rolled his eyes. "This is a … friend," Owen explained, "he'll be joining Uncle Peter and me."
"That'll be nice. I'll make sure there's an extra cup on the tea trolley. Still want us to bring that in at 3.30?" She was talking to Owen but looking at Jack.
"Yeah, please. This way, Jack." He led them up the stairs and along a short corridor. He stopped outside a door. "All right then?"
"I suppose so."
The two men entered the room, a pleasing space with windows on two sides. It was dominated by a large bed which was higher than usual marking it's user as one needing medical care. In a bay window overlooking the lawn and flower beds were two wing armchairs and a small coffee table. In one of the chairs sat a small man, face lined with age and hands shaking involuntarily as they rested in his lap. He was dressed in a suit and tie. Owen walked over to him.
"Uncle Peter, happy birthday." He bent and put a hand on one of the old man's and was relieved when the head turned to look at him and he saw recognition in the rheumy pale eyes. "I've brought someone to see you." He gestured Jack forward.
Jack took a couple more places into the room and stood next to Owen, looking down on his old wartime colleague. "Hello, Nobby."
The old man's face lit up, "Black Jack. You got back all right then."
Jack smiled, sat on the spare chair, and took both Peter's hands in his. "Yep, there's no Nazi that can shoot me down." His voice was thick as he took in the remains of a man whom he had known in his prime.
"That's the truth. So it went okay? What about Half-Bob?" The old man was lost in his memories of a time long ago.
"He's down too. Little prang when he landed, still hasn't got that bit right."
Peter laughed. "No, that he hasn't. Almost took Stinker out last month, remember that?"
"Sure I do." Jack relaxed, admitting that Owen had been right; this old man was living in the past. He reached into an internal pocket of his greatcoat. "Smuggled this past the nurses, Nobby. Happy birthday." He handed over a bottle of whisky which was gratefully received.
"Always know where to get the good stuff, don't ya? Thanks." He sat holding the bottle, not quite knowing what to do with it.
"Let me put on your cupboard, Unc," said Owen. He put it on the side, pulling up another chair to join them. "And here's my present."
Peter took the neatly wrapped parcel and attempted to open it but it was hard to make his hands work any more. "Here, Black, you open it for me." He held it out to Jack.
"Sure." He tore off the paper, making Owen wince when he thought how much it had cost, and showed the framed photograph to the old man. "It's us, Nobby."
Peter looked down and a smile lit up his face. "It's all the boys," he said marvelling. He ran a finger over the faces and rested it on Jack. "But Jack was missing. Owen, where did you get this?"
"The wonders of modern technology, Unc. It can bring back people who've faded away." He glanced across at Jack who had stood to remove his greatcoat. Of course, he thought, some people never fade away, they just go on and on and on.
"They were a good bunch of boys. All gone now, except me." He was suddenly back in the present. "And you, Jack." He looked puzzled for a moment, as if realising the incongruity of Jack looking unchanged, but it faded quickly.
"And you were the one all the ladies preferred. I remember you and Enid, behind the pub …" Jack looked at him suggestively, eyebrows raised.
The old man chuckled. "She was a goer. Give her a pair of stockings and she'd come across. Did you ever have her?"
"Uh huh. I gave her a banana." Jack roared with laughter and Peter joined in. "You'd never believe what this uncle of yours got up to, Owen. He had the women waiting in line for him. Whatever happened to Mabel? You were quite keen on her."
"Oh, we made a go of it, after the War. Settled down in Walthamstow, ran a little greengrocers." His eyes took on a far away look, remembering married life in a bygone age. "We had a happy life even though we weren't blessed. Mabel took a shine to young June and she was round to see us every day. That made up for it."
Owen knew about this bit and interrupted, making things clearer for Jack. "That's right, June was my mum, your niece."
"That's right, son. But you had that nice Estelle, Jack. Did you settle down with her?"
"No, no we never did." There was a small silence when Owen remembered the old woman who had chased after faeries and died for it.
Peter was unaware of the silence, he was fingering the photograph again. "Not many of the others lived to see the end. Poor old Taffy and Mick. And Deadeye too."
Jack pricked up his ears. "I never did hear what happened to him after he went over to fighters."
"Was sent to Italy and bought it over there. Didn't you hear? No, no you wouldn't have. You'd left us too."
"I never wanted to go, Nobby, but orders are orders. The Brass wanted me for special ops."
Owen smiled, catching Jack's eye; now he knew where the term had originated. "Unc, I want to know what Jack was like when he was flying with you. He won't tell me anything."
"He was always close mouthed. Don't look like that," he said to Jack, "never a word about where you came from. As to flying," he went on, to Owen this time, and taking his question literally, "he was the best. Knew his crate like the back of his hand and could get it to do anything. Once, when we'd lost an engine and the other was none too good, he nursed it all the way back to base. Rest of us, we all thought we were goners, were getting ready to bail out, but not Jack. He landed as it as if he had all the time in the world." He shook his head at the memory, "When I looked the plane over next day, one of the blooming wings was almost off too. God knows how he brought her in."
"You were my good luck charm. We were a great team."
"It was always fun, flying with you. Never knew what you'd do next! Had us upside down once in the middle of a raid!" He laughed so hard he started coughing and Owen had to thump his back.
"I remember."
The reminisces were interrupted by a knock at the door and the arrival of the tea trolley. In honour of the birthday, as well as sandwiches and a pot of tea, there was a small cake with a handful of candles.
"Here we are," said the nurse, "your birthday tea, Peter." She took a box of matches from her pocket and handed them to Owen. "Better if you keep these, Doctor," she said conspiratorially. She eyed Jack and then walked out of the room, swinging her hips a little more than absolutely necessary.
The three men settled to the tea, Owen doing the honours and pouring out the beverage and handing round plates and then food. They chatted on as they ate, Jack reminding Peter of incidents in the past and Owen listening with pleasure as his uncle joined in, his interest piqued and his eyes alive. All too often, his visits had been spent trying to make conversation but failing. Peter wanted to talk about old times to which Owen could only listen and maybe ask questions. Today, Jack was able to share the memories and to add to them, bringing them alive for both the old pilots. To Owen's ears, they appeared to have spent their days playing pranks on one another and their evenings in the local pubs pursuing barmaids and drinking hard. But then there'd be mention of a failed raid, of a lost colleague and Owen appreciated that the high jinks were just a way of making the rest of their lives bearable. Much the same as his own one night stands and drunken nights, he admitted.
"Time for the cake," announced Jack and he put it on the table and Owen lit the candles. The two sang Happy Birthday before Jack said, "Blow them out and make a wish, Nobby." The old man lent forward and with a wavering breath blew hard. Five of the 10 candles went out. "And another one," encouraged Jack. This time all the candles were extinguished. "Did you make your wish." Peter nodded, almost shyly.
Owen cut the cake and they sat in silence for a little while as they each ate a piece; Jack stuffing his in his mouth in two goes, Owen taking reasonably sized bites and Peter crumbling his up and eating just a little.
Owen put down his plate and wiped his mouth on a serviette. "Are they looking after you all right, Unc? Any problems?" He always asked. The home was a good one and as well run as any but appearances could be deceptive.
"They're good girls, always helpful. Bit of excitement yesterday when Mr Bloomberg fell down the stairs."
"What? Your chess partner?" Owen knew the old man from previous visits. He was 10 years younger than Peter but looked as old.
"What was he doing? Chasing the pretty nurses?" Jack was leaning back in his chair wondering when he'd last enjoyed an afternoon as much as this one. He liked talking over old times as much as the next man and had thoroughly enjoyed the trip down memory lane.
"No, he prefers the pretty boys. Like you and Tiny Tim." He looked knowingly at Jack who grinned back. "He was trying to impress Manuel who comes in to do the plants. Bloomberg must use the stairs to show off – he usually sticks to the lift – and goes ass over head and breaks his leg." He paused and added, "Though maybe he got what he wanted 'cos I heard Manuel rushed over to help and was holding him in his arms."
Owen and Jack joined in the ensuing laughter. "Sounds like it's all go here," said Jack, taking another piece of cake.
"Oh, we've got all sorts. Mrs Umpleby was found in the laundry cupboard with Mr Simmonds last week. Neither of them had much on, so the gossip says." Peter was placidly munching on his cake.
Owen couldn't believe what he was hearing, Peter had never told him about these goings-on before. "How come you've never told me about all this?"
"Oh, you're too young, you don't understand. Black and me, we're men of the world." He winked at Jack.
"Why do you call him that? Why Black Jack?"
Peter looked over at him and then at Jack. "Is it okay to tell him?" Jack hesitated then nodded. "It was Half-Bob came up with it, on the night we bombed a submarine base. He was Jack's co-pilot and they dropped their load, then turned away to watch the rest of us. Ack-ack fire all around but Jack still hangs about to see us through. Well, when we'd done our bit the base still hadn't gone up, only Jack's had fallen right on target. As I was told the tale," he looked across to Jack who looked back impassively, "Jack here says 'Fuck this' or words to that effect and flies over the base again and bugger me if, when he's clear, it doesn't go sky high."
Owen look at him then at Jack. "I don't get it."
Peter chuckled, "Nor did Half-Bob, nor the rest of us when we got back. See, Jack here had dropped all his bombs on the first run. All he did, according to Half-Bob, on the second was fiddle about with that bracelet I see he's still wearing. Black magic, that's what Half-Bob called it, would never fly with him again. He was Black Jack from then on." He narrowed his eyes and stared at Jack. "Never would tell us how he did it."
"You wouldn't believe me if I did," said Jack smiling enigmatically.
"Oh, I don't know. Tim had a few things to say about you that seemed odd at the time, and I don't mean your antics in bed! But it was a long time ago, best forgotten." His gaze, which had taken on unusual level of intelligence, moved from Jack's face and faded.
Owen recognised that the old man was getting tired and tidied up the plates and cups, stacking them on the trolley and moving it out of the way. "We'll have to be going soon, Unc. Got to earn a crust."
"You're a good boy, Owen. Your mum ought to be more proud you. She shouldn't have treated you like that, no she shouldn't. You've turned out real well. A doctor too, did you know that, Jack?"
"Yeah, I did. He's one of the best," said Jack.
"The best! He's the best. All the doctors here, they know Owen and they know not to mess with me 'cos he'd soon put them straight."
"Oh, come on, Unc, you're embarrassing me." Owen had actually blushed.
"I know what you did to get me this place. Costs a lot of money, Jack, more than my little bit would pay for. It's Owen pays for me and comes to see me regular." He patted Owen's knee, "And I don't say thank you enough."
Owen was highly embarrassed now. He had done all that, and more, for Peter but he hadn't realised the old man knew. He'd thought him too lost in his own world to register his surroundings. "You're going to swell my head, Unc. And whatever I've done it's because I care about you. Got to make sure you're well looked after."
Jack was amused by Owen's reaction to the praise but thought it well-deserved. There couldn't be many great nephews who would take on responsibility for an ageing relative in this way. "He's a good man, Nobby. That's why he works for me."
Peter looked round at him. "That right? Then you'll be all right, son. Black Jack'll look after you."
They sat and talked for another 20 minutes and gradually Peter lost the lucidity he had shown for most of the afternoon and returned to the past where only Jack could join him. As he tired, Owen and Jack stood up ready to leave. Jack put on his greatcoat and Owen found his suit jacket which he'd removed and flung on the bed a while earlier.
"Time to go now, Uncle Peter. I'll come again, next week, when I can."
"That'll be nice," said the old man, not quite understanding what had been said.
"It was good to catch up, Nobby, and to talk over old times. Maybe I'll see you again." Jack leant down to pat the old man's shoulder and found his arm grasped in a surprisingly strong hold and he was pulled down until his head was close to Peter's.
"My wish," he muttered in Jack's ear, "that was my wish. That you'd come and see me again."
"Then I'll make sure it comes true. I'll work my magic for you," whispered Jack. Peter chuckled and released his hold, settling back in his chair. "Bye, Nobby." Jack raised a hand in salute then moved to the door, pushing the trolley in front of him.
"Bye, Uncle. Enjoy the rest of your birthday." He lent down and kissed the top of the old man's head.
"Pass me that before you go." A hand was waving in the direction of the photograph.
Owen passed it over. "Bye. 'Til next week."
The old man didn't reply, he was staring down at the photograph and Owen could hear him muttering the names of the men pictured there. He followed Jack out of the room and closed the door softly behind him.
-ooOoo-
Jack visited the old man over the ensuing months, sometimes with Owen but more often without him. He'd chat to Peter for an hour or so, going over favourite old stories again and again. Occasionally, Peter would want to talk about Owen and he was so obviously proud of him that it was a difficult day when Jack had to tell him that the doctor had died. Peter had cried then, soft tears had fallen down his cheeks and he'd needed Jack's arm round him for comfort. Jack still went to see the old man, even after Owen's death, and made sure that he was financially secure. Now he stood beside his open grave, with Ianto and Gwen beside him. Peter had died on the eve of his 95th birthday. The staff of the home and some of the residents had attended the ceremony but now only the three members of Torchwood were left to pay tribute to the brave old warrior.
Gwen touched Jack's arm. "Time to go, Jack." She led the way back the cars; most of the other mourners were already on their way to a buffet at the home.
Ianto put a hand on his back. "Come on."
He urged Jack away from the grave and the older man went willingly enough. He had done all he could for the old man, as a friend and for Owen's sake. Now Peter was dead, at rest, like all the others in the photograph that had been buried with him, all but one. And he, Jack, would continue to live and to remember them as all old warriors deserved to be remembered.
What did you think? Do let me know.