Ianto fumbled the keys in his hand and swore as they fell to the pavement. He leaned against the door for support as he groped after them, not trusting himself to bend at the waist without falling. He felt utterly exhausted. Not physically—he'd come through the day relatively unscathed, considering the deadly peril the world had once again been in—but mentally, emotionally, he was completely drained.

He made it through the lobby door and was stumbling toward the stairs that led to his first-floor flat when a frail voice stopped him. "Good evening, Mr. Jones," called Mrs. Abner, who lived in the flat directly below his. The elderly woman was leaning on her cane by the mailboxes, envelopes in hand. "No soldier tonight?"

He didn't know what she meant by that, so he just returned a bland smile. "Good evening." He hoped she didn't keep him for a long conversation; she was a nice enough old lady, but he wasn't sure how long he could trade banal pleasantries without becoming uncivil.

Mrs. Abner hobbled a few steps closer. "It's quite late, isn't it? Have you been at work all this time?"

He shrugged. "We had a bit of an emergency. All sorted now, but I had to stay late at the, um, office."

"I do hope you'll get some rest. I worry about you sometimes, Mr. Jones. I know how hard you work."

Ianto thought that unlikely, considering she didn't even know what his job was, but he chalked it up to senility and politely excused himself.

It felt as though an extra dozen steps had been installed between the ground and first floors, because his legs were aching by the time he reached his flat. He let himself in and collapsed on the first upholstered surface he encountered, which happened to be the couch.

Before he could even kick off his shoes, his mobile rang. With a groan, Ianto dug it out of his pocket. "'llo," he mumbled into the handset.

Gwen's voice didn't sound much better than his own. "Ianto, sorry to bother you, but did Tosh go home with you? I saw her car was still at the Hub when I left."

Ianto grunted an affirmative. "I drove her to her place, made sure she got inside all right. She was still pretty shaken up after everything that happened."

"Poor lamb. I don't know how she's coping with all of this. She was so upset last night when Owen died, I thought she'd never stop crying. And then to have him come back like that, possessed…"

"Yup. I was there, Gwen."

"…and then everything that happened at the hospital…"

"Was there for that part, too."

"She must have been wrung in knots by the end of it. Not that it was a picnic for the rest of us, but it's worse for her. You know how she feels about Owen."

"Everyone knows how she feels about Owen, except Owen."

"Sorry, I know I'm running on." Gwen's words faded into a yawn. "Rhys is still cooking, so I haven't told him everything yet." At the mention of food, Ianto's stomach rumbled. Had he eaten today? "Anyway, I'm knackered," Gwen went on. "You must be, too."

"Yeah. Long day." Ianto rubbed his eyes. "Was there anything else?"

"No, I just wanted to check that Tosh made it home okay. I'll see you in the morning, then. Good night."

"Good night, Gwen."

Ianto shoved the mobile back in his pocket and threw an arm over his eyes. Jack had sent everyone—the living, at least—home to rest, but despite his mental fatigue, Ianto didn't really feel like going to bed yet. He supposed he was too keyed up from the weekend's events. Owen's death had hit them all hard, and his unexpected revival had been a nightmare of an entirely different kind.

At least Jack would think twice about using any sort of alien resurrection device in the future, assuming any other pieces of the set had survived. Ianto fervently hoped they hadn't, not least because he wasn't sure he could continue coming up with names for them. "Risen Mitten" was enough of a stretch; what would he christen a boot, or a helmet? Renew Shoe? Undead Head? He groaned and vowed to find a rhyming dictionary before he was required to name any new artifacts.

But in spite of Jack's ill-advised decision to revive Owen, it had all worked out in the end. The world had been saved, and somehow Owen was still ambulatory despite being dead, and Martha had agreed to stay until they figured out exactly what was going on, so all was as well as could be expected. Another fine day's work at Torchwood Cardiff. Another tally mark in the "World Saved" column for Wales' unsung heroes. Another bruise, another stiff neck, another corpse to hide. Or a dozen—in the last twenty-four hours, Ianto had processed paperwork on enough bodies to populate the cast of a small zombie film. Copley's, then Owen's, then all the victims Death Incarnate had taken from the hospital.

Ianto reached for the remote control and made a halfhearted attempt to find something interesting on the telly, but the programs he found seemed to require more mental effort than he was willing to invest. He considered putting on a film he'd seen before, but for once even his old favorites didn't tempt him. The gun-blazing antics of James Bond sounded a little less thrilling after Ianto had watched his friend and colleague die from a bullet through the heart.

Ianto's thoughts turned back to the scene at the Pharm, and once again he marveled how near death they had all come. Of course, they faced danger every day, but Owen's death had made him realize how narrow the margin was by which they survived. Had Copley's aim been a few centimeters off, the bullet might have missed Owen and hit Tosh, or Gwen, or Martha. Or himself.

Ianto shivered as he wondered what might have happened had he died there, instead. Would Jack have tried to resurrect him with the glove? Would Ianto have returned with an unwelcome spiritual hitchhiker, the same way Owen had? Would he have possessed the courage or the fortitude to defeat Death itself?

If he had died, would Jack have mourned him, or just moved on?

But all this speculating and wondering was pointless, and was only exhausting him further. He needed to ground himself in reality—preferably by putting something solid in his stomach, as his midsection reminded him with another audible growl. He rolled ungracefully off the couch and padded into his kitchen in search of food.

Normally his meal schedule was determined by when he carried food in to the Hub, but they had been so preoccupied with the impending destruction of all life on earth that he hadn't made his usual takeaway run. Ianto couldn't remember the last proper meal he had eaten. He probably needed some protein. Or, he decided as he scanned the disappointing contents of his refrigerator, perhaps a beer.

Ianto stared at a bottle of lager, remembering Owen's lament that he could no longer drink, and sighed. More than anything, he needed a distraction. He needed comfort. He needed…

Well, no. Strictly speaking, he wanted Jack. That was an important distinction, and one he had to keep making to himself. Whatever undefinable limbo their relationship existed in, he couldn't afford to become too dependent on Jack. Ianto cherished their intimacy, but he sensed that trying to pin Jack down into any kind of traditional relationship would spell the end of whatever it was they had together.

With an effort, Ianto pushed thoughts of Jack away and began rooting through his pantry. He was weighing the relative merits of spag bol versus beans on toast when he spotted a dark bottle lurking at the back of a shelf. Frowning, he brought it into the light and examined the label. It was an expensive claret, one of Jack's favorites, which Ianto had bought on a whim and had been saving for some elegant evening that he'd never quite gotten around to planning.

Something about that bottle… Ianto closed his eyes and felt the feather-tips of a memory brush his thoughts. He tasted sadness, frustration, anger, longing… What was it about the bottle that stirred his emotions? What pressed him with such a sense of urgency?

Why couldn't he remember?

Ianto wiped a layer of dust from the bottle, and was suddenly overtaken with an irrational desire to share it with Jack immediately. Tonight. But that was a ridiculous idea; the last two days had been hell on their nerves, and he knew both he and Jack were exhausted, so tonight was hardly ideal timing for the relaxing, romantic candlelit dinner he'd imagined.

On the other hand… he was rather hungry, and he was reasonably certain that Jack would not have eaten, either. And if Ianto craved a distraction after the day's events, he knew Jack would be desperate for one. And that wine had already been collecting dust in his pantry for months. If he waited for Torchwood to grant them perfect timing, it would turn to vinegar before they ever had the chance to open it.

Ianto slapped his palm flat on the countertop, expelling his indecision. If there was anything he had learned from these last two days, it was that life was fragile and uncertain, and every moment of it was precious. He fished out his mobile and cradled it against his shoulder while he began clearing clutter from the kitchen table. "Jack? It's me. Yup. No, everything's fine. I was just wondering… Have you had supper?"

Jack's reply hummed against his ear. Ianto set two wine glasses beside the bottle and smiled. "Want to come over to mine? I've got something special."