Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Who-verse. That honour belongs to RTD (the TW arm at least – Miracle Day, what were you thinking?), Steven Moffat (I am not worthy) and the mighty and glorious BBC. I merely play here occasionally and try to set right the terrible wrongs inflicted on Jack and Ianto...
Thanks, as always, to my beta Orion for managing to squeeze this in amongst all the major stuff going on at the moment.
I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Mickanella as a reward for reading my TW back catalogue in two days flat and by way of an apology for my tardiness.
Thank you to everyone for reading and, as always, feedback is very welcome.
Forty-five minutes later as Jack and Ianto lay in a tangle of exhausted limbs on the floor of the wet room, Ianto's head resting heavily on his chest, Jack had to allow that for a bathroom of such limited size the shower was surprisingly accommodating.
He leaned his head back against the smooth stone tile of the shower wall listening to Ianto's breathing gradually steady and slow, inhaling deeply and savouring the smell of the spicy scented shower gel that Ianto had used to wash the foul smelling canal water from Jack's skin, mingled with the even more heady aroma that he recognised as being uniquely Ianto. The younger man's head shifted against Jack's chest, seeking a more comfortable resting place. After a moment he stilled, with the faintest sound of a sigh of contentment. At the sound Jack's arms tightened around him.
Jack grinned, lifting his eyes skywards to the dripping shower head as he offered a silent prayer of thanks that he had been lucky enough to find a partner who not only was an impressive lover, as had just been ably and skilfully demonstrated to him, but also had the foresight to install the biggest water tank the Myfanwy could hold without sinking. Even if it was now as dry as a bone.
"We really should move." Ianto's voice was sleepy and muffled against Jack's chest. "You can't be comfortable."
"I'm fine," Jack said reassuringly, trying to ignore the slow but inexorable cold chill permeating into his back from the tiles. He arched slightly, hoping to find a spot still warm from the water and failing.
"Liar," chuckled his husband, raising his head to look up at Jack in amusement. "I don't mind if you want to move somewhere a little more comfortable." As he spoke he pulled his legs out from where they were trapped beneath Jack's and sat up with a groan. "I should have gone for a more comfortable finish. Rubber maybe..."
Jack gave a choking cough. "You, me and a rubber room...every shrink's field day." He pulled his knees up to his chest, acutely aware of the loss of Ianto's warm weight, and shivered.
Ianto climbed slowly to his feet, glad that his legs still had the strength to support him, and turned to offer Jack his hand.
"Look, you go get into bed. I'll find something to warm us up a little." Jack grasped the offered fingers and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Following Ianto out into the bedroom he practically dived underneath the duvet as Ianto, offering up a magnificent display of smooth skin and exceptional arse disappeared into the living area only to reappear moments later clutching a bottle of single malt and a single plain glass tumbler.
"I'll light the stove later, but this'll do for now," he said, slipping into bed alongside Jack and leaning back against the headboard. Handing the glass to the older man he opened the bottle and poured a generous measure into the glass before securing the top and putting it down beside the bed. Without taking the glass from Jack's hand he raised it to his lips and took a mouthful. Then he turned to meet Jack's lips, his own lips pressed together in a small seductive smile.
Jack's tongue darted out to lick Ianto's lips, savouring the peaty smokiness of the spirit which coated them. As his lips met Ianto's he could feel Ianto's lips pressuring his, demanding entrance into his mouth. He complied, opening his mouth wide. Ianto's lips parted in response and there was the unexpected eruption of warm, fiery liquid washing into his mouth, a trickle escaping down between them in a warm stream. Jack's tongue joined Ianto's in heady battle, the warm liquor exciting his taste buds and burning his throat as it swept back and forth between them. His free hand caught round the base of Ianto's neck, dragging his head forward, fusing their mouths, giving no chance of release. As the last of the whiskey seared his throat he swirled the tip of his tongue around the roof of Ianto's mouth, stealing the last smoky drops from his lover and returning them to his own mouth. In response Ianto dragged his lips down across the barely perceptible stubble on Jack's chin, tasting the sticky trail of escaped spirit. Reaching the end of the trail Ianto's lips dropped still lower onto Jack's neck and chest, seeking out any drips which had eluded him.
With a growl and grin of pure possessiveness Jack reared up, pushing Ianto flat onto his back and swiftly straddling him, one knee either side of his husband's waist. Then with slow deliberation he allowed a tiny trickle of whiskey to fall from the glass onto Ianto's chest, lowering his head to lap the liquid which pooled in the hollow at the base of Ianto's neck. His tongue darted out, teasing Ianto's flesh with the lightest of touches. The younger man swallowed convulsively, sending a tiny rivulet of liquid cascading over his collarbone. Jack's tongue followed, laving the warm spirit from his skin, growls of appreciation rumbling from low in this throat. Ianto answering moan was barely a whimper, his lungs suddenly devoid of breath. With the spill cleaned away, Jack's mouth returned to the hollow at Ianto's throat, his tongue now swirling in spirals across the damp skin. This time the Welshman's entire body convulsed, almost frantically rearing up to meet Jack's own flushed flesh. Jack used his weight to push Ianto back against the bed, his hips grinding down, searching for and finding the friction they both sought. He heard Ianto's sharp intake of breath at the contact, released in a long slow exclamation of his name, a desperate plea for more. Nipping the skin at Ianto's throat between his teeth, Jack allowed one hand to trail down Ianto's heated skin, his fingernails raking a path that would be clearly visible in the morning. Above him he could hear Ianto's breath coming in gasps, his name and a plea for more repeated over and over in a litany of need. With each utterance he felt his own need to possess the man below him grow.
His fingers settled at Ianto's waist, trailing teasing circles that, for Ianto, remained a few frustrating centimetres from where he needed them to be.
"For fuck's sake, cariad," he swore between clenched teeth, even to his own ears sounding more like the begging it was.
Jack raised his head, shuffling back to sit upright and pin Ianto's thighs to the mattress. Smiling innocently down at Ianto's writhing body his fingers began to drum out a tantalising tattoo on Ianto's belly. Ianto moaned again, his stomach tautening with each beat of Jack's fingers. Jack's smile grew devilish, his eyes flaring at the sound. His fingers stilled, millimetres above the flushed expanse of skin drinking in the sight of his husband's eyes raised pleadingly to his, their slate blue dark with barely suppressed desire, tinged now with loss of the rhythmic beat of Jack's fingers against his flesh. Jack could see he was so close now. A few more beats, a single caress, and the young man beneath him would fall spiralling over the edge, shouting his name to the darkening sky. He lifted his hand higher, watched as the loss in Ianto's eyes turned to dismay, only to be replaced by curiosity as Jack leant over sideways, his hand disappearing over the side of the bed.
He brought his hand back up, the quarter-full whiskey glass clasped by the rim between thumb and forefinger. Transferring it to his other hand he stared at the contents contemplatively and then gently rested the glass on Ianto's stomach in the space his fingers had vacated. The taut muscles bucked at the sudden cold of the glass, sending amber liquid sloshing up the sides, a single drop spilling over the edge to slowly glide down the polished surface until it finally came to rest against the trembling skin at the base. Jack watched its progress, as did the man beneath him. Ianto breathed heavily, trying to focus on the progress of the single drop of liquid as though that would stop him shattering like the glass in front of him would surely do if it fell as far as he knew he was about to fall. As the drop of whiskey seared his stomach he transferred his gaze back to Jack, reading Jack's intentions in the flashing azure eyes.
"Water of life," Jack said softly, not taking his eyes from Ianto's. "Very appropriate." He lifted the glass from Ianto's stomach to his lips, noting his husband's muscles, starkly defined beneath the smooth pale skin, grow even tauter. Ianto's eyes were begging now, flaring with a need that was familiar and yet somehow new, telling Jack that he couldn't hold on much longer and that he wanted Jack with him when he fell, holding him, surrounding him, catching him as he came crashing down.
"It seems a shame to waste this," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "We'll share it." He raised the glass in a silent toast and then lifting it to his lips, letting the warm peaty liquid fill his mouth. Lowering his head he finally gave Ianto the answer to his plea, sending the young man spiralling into the abyss in a mere matter of moments, the glorious sounds of Ianto's descent ringing in his ears as barely seconds later he followed him down.
Outside, the last of the April afternoon sun had faded, trailing a pale rosy glow over the hills to the West that promised a cold night and a fine day on the morrow. Ianto looked up through the round porthole set into the wall above the bed at the indigo sky which was just beginning to light up with the pale pinpricks of stars and sighed.
"I suppose we should get up and light the stove. Another half hour and it'll be freezing out there." Suddenly aware of the cold air of the cabin, he pulled the quilt up over one bare shoulder. "And I suppose we better eat something sometime."
Jack grunted, begrudgingly pulling his head out of the warm cocoon created by the quilt and the wall of Ianto's chest, and wrinkled his nose at the cold air.
"Eat what? All I saw in that tiny fridge was beer. I suppose there might be a tin of beans somewhere, or were you planning for us to eat out? We passed a pub by that last lock."
Ianto tutted affrontedly. "What kind of man do you take me for, Jack?" He rolled backward until he could look Jack in the eye and put on his best hurt expression. "Firstly, after being married to you for a year, do you honestly think I would not have enough food to feed an army squirrelled away? Secondly, given this is our anniversary and that I went to all the trouble of buying us a boat and an isolated mooring so that we could enjoy it together without interruption, how could you be such a 'twpsyn' to think I would waste one minute of it in a public house surrounded by a load of strangers?"
Jack tried to look suitably chastened at Ianto's retort but it was difficult when all he could really focus on were Ianto's eyes flashing blue flames of indignation. Instead he tried for a winning smile as he queried "Twpsyn?" in an abysmal approximation of Ianto's pronunciation.
Ianto returned his smile with an exasperated shake of his head. "Idiot, cariad," he explained gently. "I said you were an idiot if you though I had any intention of letting you off this boat this evening. In fact I'm having second thoughts about even letting you out of this bed." He leant down, intending to kiss the smug expression of satiation from Jack's lips, but was stopped by a telling and very audible growl from Jack's midriff and pulled back with the laugh.
"All right, I'll feed you first. Your stomach can be very distracting."
"I can't help it," Jack said defensively. "I'm a man with needs, it just so happens right now it's a need for food."
Ianto pushed back the quilt and climbed out into the cool air. Jack watched as Ianto searched in the holdall on the floor at the side of the bed for a jumper and a dry pair of jeans, entranced at the sight of his husband's pale naked skin, almost wraith-like in the half-light of the cabin. It was breathtaking. In this light all the scars, the little imperfections amassed over years of Torchwood service, were reduced to the merest hints of shadows. The toned limbs and torso appeared to be hewn from marble, an echo of ancient gods. It was a sight Jack wanted never to forget, a vision he wished etched on his soul for eternity.
"Do you know how much I love you?" The words tumbled from Jack's lips without conscious thought.
Ianto stood upright, a dark jumper in one hand, and turned to Jack, his breezy reply dying unspoken as he saw Jack's eyes, as indigo as the evening sky above the Myfanwy. Dropping the jumper on the bed he slid back under the quilt beside Jack, lowering his head until his eyes were mere centimetres above Jack's.
"I know," he said steadily. "About as much as I love you. What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Well, nothing really." Jack's face twisted into a half smile with sudden uncertainty. He pulled sharply away, leaning over Ianto to reach below the bed, pulling the leather box from his bag. Leaning back against the pillows Jack pushed the box into Ianto's hand. For better or worse Ianto was about to learn yet another of his secrets. It had seemed such an innocent secret, despite how precious the box's contents were to him, but now he found himself suddenly terrified that his husband might not understand.
"Here," he said abruptly, his expression suddenly closed and inscrutable.
Ianto's brow crinkled in concern. "What's the matter, cariad?" His hand closed about the box and he held it up. "What is this?"
Jack ran a hand back through his hair abstractedly. "It's an anniversary present. I thought...I was sure..." He faltered into silence.
"Jack?" Ianto pushed, his concern turning to genuine worry. It had been a long time since he'd seen Jack this shaken and unsure of himself, not since he'd confessed the truth about the implications of his resurrection.
"You might not like what you find inside," Jack said slowly. "You'd better open it." He pulled away, moving back to his own side of the bed to warily observe Ianto's expression.
The abrupt loss of Jack's warmth brought a frown to Ianto's face and he shivered slightly. Leaning back against the pillow, still warm from where Jack had laid on it, he flipped open the lid of the leather box. Inside was a silver case, intricately engraved and obviously an antique. It reminded Ianto of a cigarette case but its dimensions were wrong, measuring maybe four inches wide by six inches long and as thick as his thumb. On one long edge was a small plain clasp holding the two sides, hinged on the opposite side, closed. The case, whilst decorative, was clearly masculine.
"It's beautiful," Ianto said slowly, looking questioningly at Jack, whose face was still drawn and pensive.
"Open it," he said quietly and swallowed as if just saying those two words had been a hurdle.
Lifting the case from the leather box, Ianto turned it over in his hands a couple of times, scrutinising the fine decoration. From the corner of his eye he saw an impatient movement from Jack who clearly was desperate and yet dreading him looking at the contents. Swiftly he released the clasp, opening the case like a hard-backed book, somewhat startled as a sheaf of small, photograph-sized cards cascaded into his lap. Looking down, his face stilled as he saw what was on the top card. His own face was staring back at him, wearing a knowing smile, eyes alight with mischief. A moment of contentment captured forever. But not in a photograph. This snapshot of time had been rendered in broad flowing sweeps of dark grey pencil, each strand of his rakishly spiked hair drawn in carefully and deliberately, the fullness of his lips defined by careful shading of light and dark.
Open-mouthed, Ianto lifted the image up to study it in more detail, silently cursing the fading light. The artist had captured him exactly, not just the reality of his face but somehow his soul as well. In those eyes he could see every feeling he had for Jack shining out as clearly as though they were written in words on the page.
He turned to look at Jack, his eyes full of wonderment. "Did you draw this?"
"Look at the others."
Ianto placed the drawing of himself back into the silver case and picked up the next card from his lap. This time it was Sîan's picture that stared back at him, Jack's beautiful daughter sporting a cap and gown on the day of her graduation; another card, Sîan again, this time as a little girl with a cheeky grin missing a tooth; Donna, hair twisted up in a knot fastened with a pencil in deep contemplation; another one of him, but a younger him that screamed insecurity through scared eyes.
He looked back to Jack. "Keep going," Jack said quietly. "You need to see them all."
More cards, this time yellowing with age. A young boy, face alive with curiosity. Steven. Jack's daughter Alice in her twenties, in her teens. A young woman Ianto recognised from Torchwood files as Lucia holding a baby. And still there were more, people that Ianto no longer recognised. Young men in army uniform from the First World War, young women with hairstyles that spoke of the turn of the 20th century and before. A woman in her thirties whose eyes held the same love and wonderment that he'd seen in the first card of himself. The same woman again sat with a young boy little more than a toddler on her knee, playing pat-a-cake. The next three cards were different again. Clearly the oldest, their edges frayed with time, the people portrayed were not of this time or even of Earth. These pictures, of a man, a woman and a boy were the least accomplished, as though the hand that drew them did not have the skill to give their ideas form, but showed numerous additions and amendments as the artist had returned time and time again to try and realise his vision. In the young boy, Ianto recognised the man.
"This is Gray," he said slowly. "This is your family."
"These are the people I've loved." Jack's mouth twisted in a pained smile. "The people whose faces I never want to forget."
"So you draw them," Ianto breathed, "because drawing them commits them to memory in a way a photograph doesn't."
Jack threw him a grateful look. "I should have known you would understand. I was so scared you wouldn't. That you might resent the people these pictures represent."
"I'm honoured to be included, cariad," Ianto said gravely, his eyes holding Jack's steadily. In truth he was surprised, not that he'd been included, he had no doubts as to the strength of Jack's feelings for him, but that for a man who had lived so long and had, by his own admission, shagged his way round the galaxy, there were so few people he had cared enough for to include in his precious cache of memories.
Jack's relieved expression gave way to surprise. He plucked one of drawings from Ianto's lap, the one of him looking young and scared. "Do you know when I drew this?" he said roughly, his voice almost harsh, "The night after we caught Myfanwy in the warehouse. We'd met... what? Three times? And already your face was burnt into my memory as strongly as anyone I'd ever loved. I didn't understand why you were so important then. That took about another week."
"Liar," Ianto said, softly mocking, though his eyes filled with wonderment.
Jack shook his head fiercely and pulled out another card from the pile, one Ianto had not looked at before. This one was a profile of him, head down, the roughly sketched background clearly depicting the archives. But whilst the background was hurriedly drawn his own face and body had been drawn meticulously, every detail picked out with stunning accuracy. The person who had placed these lines with such precision had clearly studied his subject at great length. Every stroke of the pencil screamed love.
"I..." Ianto couldn't find a single word. Instead he turned his head to kiss Jack deeply, letting all his thoughts and emotions flow between them.
Jack's hand lifted the case and cards from Ianto's lap and balanced them carefully on the holdall jutting out from underneath the bed before pulling the young man into a fierce embrace, and for a little while at least all thoughts of anything except each other were forgotten.
An hour later, fed, watered, and utterly sated, Ianto lay back against his husband's shoulder, the case and its contents once more laid out on his lap. The cold April night had been banished by the power of heavy curtains obscuring the porthole windows, a warming blaze in the little wood burning stove, and muted lights set into the walls and ceiling of the bedroom, lights which also meant Ianto could properly study the works of art Jack had created.
"How did these survive the explosion in the Hub," Ianto asked, turning the metal case over in his hands. "This doesn't even look scratched."
"I never kept it there," Jack replied. "They were never part of Torchwood, they're part of me. I kept the case in a safety deposit box, in Mary's name.
"Mary?" Ianto questioned.
Jack smiled fondly. "My first wife. She was quite a woman. I think you would have liked her. Gwen reminds me of her in a lot of ways." He paused as he watched a shadow flit across Ianto's profile, clarifying quickly, "I just mean she had that same balls-on, bit-between-the-teeth, never-let-things-drop attitude that Gwen has. Boy, did we row!"
"Did she know? About who you are?" Ianto asked, curiosity driving away any trace of the momentary jealousy he'd felt at the mention of Gwen.
"That I was immortal? Yeah. But not that I was from the future...or from another planet." He fell silent and Ianto waited for him to continue. After a moment it became clear to Ianto that Jack didn't intend to say anything else on the subject. Almost as the thought took form Jack said wryly,
"There is more, Yan, and I will tell you. Just...not today. Can we save that for another trip?"
Ianto nodded, twisting his head so his eyes could meet Jack's in understanding. It didn't matter that Jack wasn't ready to share his memories of Mary yet. He would one day, Ianto had no doubt. His eyes fell back to the case and its precious horde of memories.
"Was this her idea?"
Jack shook his head. "No. I'd drawn the ones of my parents and Gray not long after I arrived back on Earth from the Gamestation. My memories of them were cloudy, no doubt thanks to the Time Agency screwing with my mind, so I drew what I could remember. My memories of them as anything other than those pictures are gone now." For a moment, his face was desolate, then, almost as if he recollected himself, Ianto saw him force a smile to his lips. "I drew the first one of Mary not long after we were married." He pointed at the picture still lying uppermost in Ianto's lap of the woman in her thirties. "When our son was born she gave me the case to keep it and the others I drew of her and him in. I think she knew why I drew them but she never commented on them."
"What did Lucia say when she saw these?" Ianto wondered out loud. From what he had read in the Torchwood personnel archive Lucia had never struck him as the most compassionate of people. He couldn't imagine her embracing an ex-wife, even one long dead.
"She never saw them. Apart from Mary you are the only person who's ever seen them," Jack said quietly. "These are my secret, the part of me Torchwood was never able to own."
"They are wonderful, Jack. But like you said they are part of you, I can't take them from you. They're too precious," Ianto said solemnly, gathering the cards together to return them to the case.
Jack laid a hand over his, stilling his movements. "Yan, they are the only thing I have that's really mine to give. That's why I want you to have them. They're from me. Really from me."
Ianto nodded slowly and, one hand cradling the cards, he clasped Jack's hand tightly, raising it to his lips.
"Thank you, cariad. I'll look after them for you, keep them safe until it's time for you to take them back." He watched Jack's eyes flair with pain at the thought of their inevitable parting some day, but lowered his head to kiss him until the pain vanished behind something more immediate and heated.
"So why a boat?" Jack asked, settling back against the pillows, luxuriating in the feel of Ianto's hair tickling his chest and the soft silhouette of his husband's head and shoulders against the soft glow cast by the wood-burning stove in the living area, now the only light. Despite the late hour, or more accurately early hour, he had never felt less like sleeping. This night, the two of them alone, uninterrupted by any of life's usual distractions, was something precious he didn't want to end. "More specifically why a canal barge?" he continued curiously. "From our previous seafaring encounters I would have described you more as a speedboat kind of guy – all that showing off and outrageous flirting in front of sailors."
Ianto replied with a throaty chuckle. "To be fair, Jack, that was more about showing off in front of you. Generic sailors are not really my type. If you could have seen your face though, your expression was about sixty percent jealousy, thirty percent incredulousness and ten percent grudging admiration."
"Make that ninety, ten and ten and you'd be nearer the mark," Jack growled, his arm tightening around Ianto's chest.
"You realise that comes to more than a hundred," the younger man pointed out in amusement, enjoying Jack's sudden demonstration of possessiveness.
"There's some overlap," Jack countered dismissively. "You still haven't answered my question, Yan. From your dreamy eyed expression every time you look at this boat I'm guessing this is a part of your past."
"My childhood," Ianto confirmed. "The best bit of it...one of the only few good bits of it really." His voice was matter of fact, but Jack could hear an underlying tremor of distress, and he cradled Ianto still closer.
"You've never really talked about your past," Jack said softly. "I mean, I know the facts and important events and dates, they were in your files..."
"I bet that made fascinating reading," Ianto said, his tone scathing and bitter. "Sorry. That was just..." He trailed off and gave a tiny shrug. "Sorry," he repeated.
"Tell me," Jack said gently. "As much or as little as you want. Tonight seems to be the night for letting our guard down a little."
Ianto twisted his head so that he could look up into Jack's face, the piercing blue eyes fixing his with warm encouragement. He knew Jack wouldn't push him, the immortal had far too many secrets in his own past that he wasn't ready to share to ever force him to lay his past out for comment. It was a past he'd gone to great lengths to try and put behind him, deflecting questions with practised skill, even keeping Rhiannon at arm's length for a while, inflicting hurt on both of them. Curiously it had been Lisa's death which had finally brought about the end of the estrangement as, shattered with loss and his betrayal of Jack and the others, he had found himself knocking on her door. It was the one good thing that had come from Lisa's death, mending his rift with what was left of his family. A family that for the last year had included Jack, and if he was honest with himself, for twenty-four years before that. His husband deserved to know, he'd earned the right.
"My tad wasn't an easy man to live with," he said finally, turning his head away from Jack and instead directing his gaze to the dark heavy curtains. "He had high expectations of me and...well, let's just say I was found wanting. I wasn't Alwyn, you see."
"Alwyn?" Jack's question was puzzled.
"Alwyn wasn't in the files?" Ianto asked with genuine surprise. "Not as thorough as I thought then. Alwyn was my older brother. He died before I was born and Rhiannon was only a few months old. It was meningitis, one day he was fine, the next day he was dead of septicaemia. There wasn't all the publicity about what to watch out for back then. Mam didn't spot the signs. Neither did tad but he blamed her anyway. He never really spoke to her again after Alwyn died, not properly. I don't think he ever really forgave her, or me for not being another Alwyn. The only thing I can ever remember us doing where I wasn't compared to Alwyn was going to the pictures." Jack nodded, remembering that Ianto had told him about he and his tad visiting the old picture house before.
"Anyway," Ianto continued evenly, "as time went on he seemed to get angrier and angrier. Not just with me, with everyone. He never hit me, it wasn't that kind of anger, he used words instead." He fell abruptly silent. In the semi-darkness Jack waited, making sure that he didn't relax his hold on his husband for an instant. Beneath his arms he could feel Ianto trembling, fighting the unhappy memories.
"I think I would have preferred a beating," Ianto said suddenly, his voice loud in the confines of the small bedroom. "At least that way when the violence stops it's finished with. The things he used to say lodged under your skin, stabbing you every time you dropped your guard. Mam used to try and stop him but how do you stop words, they're insidious. Once they're said you can't take them back, not really. But at least she tried. If it wasn't for mam and Rhi I think I'd have left."
"Yan, I didn't know it was that bad," Jack said in halting dismay. The pain in Ianto's voice as he confessed the history of his childhood was like a knife to his own gut. "I'm sorry I dragged all this up. You don't need to go on."
"No, it's about time I said this out loud," Ianto replied with a humourless smile Jack couldn't see but knew instinctively was there. "I'm sick of trying to honour the memory of a man who's been dead for thirty years. You know, Jack, in the first eighteen years of my life I have two fond memories of my father. One was going to the pictures and the second was going on a bloody barge holiday. Two! Out of eighteen years! How pathetic is that?"
"Yan, don't," Jack pleaded. "You've just said he isn't worth it. He's gone. He can't hurt you any more."
"Don't be so naïve, Jack," Ianto spat bitterly, pulling roughly out of Jack's arms and sitting up. "You know better than anyone how the dead can keep ripping you to shreds, time after time. The only difference between what they did alive and what they do now is that now you can't fight back." With the final word the Welshman seemed to deflate, his shoulders slumping.
"God, Jack, I'm sorry," he said tiredly avoiding Jack's eyes. "Some anniversary this is turning out to be. I didn't mean..."
"I know," Jack said soothingly, taking Ianto's chin between his fingers and forcing the young man's gaze up until he could see the pain radiating from their slate blue depths. "I was an idiot. You were right in what you said, but I just hate to see you hurting, knowing that I can't do anything to stop it." He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Ianto's lips before pulling his husband into a tight hug.
For a moment the younger man was rigid in Jack's arms, then he relaxed against the older man's shoulder, burying his face in the smooth skin of Jack's neck with a muffled choked sob.
They remained there in silence for several minutes as shudders of grief and anger wracked Ianto's frame. Finally they died away and Ianto lifted his head slowly to look at Jack. Without speaking Jack slid down back onto the bed, pulling Ianto with him, pulling the duvet back over them with one hand until they were cocooned under the white cotton, Ianto's head resting upon Jack's chest once more, Jack's arm wrapped snugly about Ianto's waist.
"Go to sleep," Jack said gently. With his free hand he brushed the hair from Ianto's forehead and then caressed one cheek, almost as though he were a child. "You can tell me the rest in the morning."