Chapter 25

Rhys found himself at the corner shop in the middle of the night buying chocolate, ice cream, condoms and a microwaveable lasagne. He was lucky that the manager recognised him, otherwise he wouldn't have unlocked the door. There were still a few opportunistic gangs hanging around on the streets, wandering around taking advantage of the chaos caused by the violent deaths of four high ranking policemen and the reports of vicious creatures on the loose.

Throwing a large bar of Toblerone and a box of Lindt truffles into the basket, intent on making sure there was enough quality chocolate to satisfy his wife's needs, Rhys shook his head as he pondered the events of the evening so far.

He'd been sitting at home, watching a Top Gear marathon on the Dave channel, about to take another swig from his bottle of beer, when the door bell had rung. He wasn't going to open it at first, after all Gwen's text had made it clear that he should stay in, but a quick peek through the spy hole showed that it was that Harper bloke from Torchwood standing there next to his Gwen. She wasn't wearing the same gear as she'd had on when he'd dropped her off earlier so he assumed that she must have got mucky dealing with some sort of messy alien and had to get changed. OK, he'd thought to himself, how many other men got to think that when the missus gets home from work? What he wasn't prepared for was the way she ran at him as soon as he opened the door, threw herself at him and flung her arms about his neck as if she'd not seen him for donkeys' years.

Rhys snorted to himself as he reflected on just how accurate his initial thoughts had ended up being. It hadn't taken him long to notice that her hair was down to her backside, no longer straight, glossy and perfectly styled, and that her feet were bare and in an atrocious state. He figured it was more than a messy alien she'd had to cope with. That's when he'd demanded to know what the fuck had happened.

Seven months.

That's how long her day had been – he'd always moaned about the hours she worked for Torchwood, but this was way beyond a joke. Although it did cross his mind that she was owed a hell of a lot of overtime pay.

The doctor, Owen, had mumbled something about calling her in the morning to check she was feeling alright and then disappeared before Rhys could ask him what was going on. He'd said Tosh was waiting for him in the car and that he had to dash off.

Seven bloody months.

Rhys had managed to peel Gwen away from his side long enough to ask if there was anything he could get for her. That's when she'd asked what was for dinner. He'd not had the heart to remind her that she'd promised to cook that evening, but he did look sheepish when he confessed to having finished off the leftovers that were in the fridge whilst he'd been waiting for her. She'd just grabbed a large packet of crisps from the cupboard and started stuffing them into her mouth a handful at a time, licking her fingers after each mouthful. It was as if they were the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted in her whole life. He could tell that she'd lost weight, a pity as he quite liked to have something to hold onto.

Putting the kettle on and offering to make a cup of tea had been a waste of time, as before he'd got the teabags out she'd already snagged a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured herself a large glass. It hadn't touched the sides as she had guzzled it enthusiastically, washing down the salty crisps. Steering her back towards the sofa, Rhys eventually got her to talk about what exactly had happened.

Bloody Torchwood. That's all he could think as she explained about the bombs and how she'd been stuck two thousand years in the past until Jack Harkness had gone back in time to rescue her. Rhys had rubbed his forehead, feeling a major headache coming on, and got himself a can of beer when she got to that part. How the hell could he compete with that? He'd then asked how she'd managed to survive in the past for that long and that's when she'd gone quiet, very quiet. Tears had welled up in her eyes, which had grown wide as she gave him a plaintive look and very softly she spoke just one word:

"Ianto."

It seemed that his Gwen and Ianto had been stranded together for all that time. Like on a desert island, but without the sun and the sand. Hopefully without the sex as well.

Seven fucking months.

By all accounts Ianto had kept Gwen alive, unharmed and unmolested from what she'd gone on to tell him, and for that Rhys should be eternally grateful. But he felt cheated, he was meant to protect Gwen and look after her – he was her bloody husband after all. He couldn't help being jealous of Jack, that bloody perfect smile and toned body. He was glad when they'd got married and Gwen had made him understand that she much referred a home grown lover to a flashy import. However, Ianto was Welsh; more local than he was even, being from the south as opposed to the more rural north. And he was a good looking bloke. Shit.

As he'd set out from the flat on his mission to gather special treats for Gwen, she'd called him back urgently to whisper 'condoms'. When he'd frowned she'd gone on to point out that missing the Pill for one day was a bit dodgy, but going without it for almost two hundred days was asking for trouble.

"That all?" the corner shop manager asked as he tossed the packet of condoms into the thin carrier bag.

"Aye, that's the lot. Cheers, mate." Rhys handed over some crumpled notes from his wallet, pocketed the handful of small change and then set off quickly for home. He had a large tub of Haagen Dazs ice cream with Gwen's name on it and she'd told him to buy condoms.