Chapter 1

2006

In a one-bedroom flat just south of Cardiff, Imogen Jones woke to the smell of coffee and fresh croissants. Sinead, the owner of the flat and one of the few friends Imogen had left in Wales, stood above the sofa and held a mug of coffee out. The mug was old and the design chipped, but the red of the dragon was still clearly visible,

"I don't do this for just anyone, you know."

"I know. I appreciate it," Imogen replied, sitting up and taking the mug in two cupped hands. When she'd moved to London four years ago- pretty much as soon as she'd turned 18- she didn't expect to ever be back in her home country. She enjoyed her London job, at least, she did until she was fired. Now she was faced with the old familiar prospect of crashing on a friend's couch and, once she'd swallowed her pride, asking her brother for help. Imogen wasn't sure exactly where he was or what he did, the most she'd gleaned from the letters her older sister sent (when she read them) was that it was something in the government. He was relatively successful, she thought, for a 22-year-old,

"When you off then?" Sinead broke Imogen from her train of thought,

"Maybe today?" The floor was suddenly very interesting, "I'm not sure,"

"You can't put it off forever. Or there's your sister?"

Imogen scoffed. She'd cut her legs off before she went to Rhiannon for anything. They'd never got along, not even before. Rhiannon tried, she wrote letters every month, but Imogen wouldn't crack. It felt almost unfair, because she was trying, she really was, but it was too little too late as far as Imogen was concerned,

"Or not," Sinead put her own mug down, "Get dressed and I'll give you a lift into town,"

"Thanks, 'nay." Imogen stood up and folded the quilt over the arm of the sofa, "I do really appreciate you letting me stay."

She did as well. When Imogen left for England, she'd broken contact with everyone she knew, including Sinead. So a few days ago, when Imogen sent her a message on Myspace, she didn't exactly respect a reply, let alone such willing hospitality. She told herself that Sinead probably just pitied her, as she expected her brother would, and possibly always did. In a family of fuck ups, Imogen still managed to get it wrong the most. At least Rhiannon was somewhat happily married with kids and at least Ianto had his whatever-it-was job. She now had to face that she was returning home, like a little kid, having fucked up her chance of freedom that she'd pinned so much on. If she'd had expected to have to come home, she perhaps wouldn't have burned all her bridges so quickly, after all, it only made admitting she were wrong all the more difficult.

.

The coffee was quite bitter and disgusting- it was some instant crap that Sinead probably got from the corner- but she swallowed the last of it and headed to the bathroom where she splashed some water on her face and took in her appearance at the mirror. Given the last few days, her skin was okay if a little blotchy in areas. The bags under her eyes were a different story, and she dabbed an amount of concealer to soften them. Still visible, though a less obvious indicator of her last few sleepless nights. She tied her hair up into a ponytail and puffed out her cheeks. It would have to do. Back in the living area, she dressed in a pair of bootcut jeans and a tank top before pulling on her converse. They were still the pair she had from school; black with doodles and names written in tippex pen. Imogen paused on the right shoe and ran her finger over a particular inscription left by her ex-boyfriend- a messy, lopsided heart and the name Lloyd. It pained her to see the shape of his name, more so to think that a bit of white paint on her shoe survived him. Though the converse were a bit tight and pinched at the toe, she knew for that reason she could never stop wearing them. The emotional and physical pain of them were bearable; the shoes were the last thing she had of Lloyd. She smiled and tied the lace,

"Ready, 'nay," Imogen called out. A jingle of car keys let her know that Sinead had heard her,

"A'right- Operation Find Ianto is go!"

Figuring it was the safest bet, Sinead set out with the intention of driving to the bay. Imogen was silent in the passenger seat, and she couldn't tell if the queasy feeling in her stomach was travel sickness or nerves,

"God I've not seen your brother since school. He was an odd one, wasn't he? I know he's your brother, but-"

"Mmm," Imogen agreed, "Me neither- seen him since school I mean,"

"What?" Sinead turned, "How?"

"It wasn't just you I lost contact with, 'nay. I just…" Imogen paused, struggling for the words. She picked at her already chipped blue nail polish and continued, "I kind of cut off contact with everyone. It was meant to be a fresh start. After… everything." Sinead nodded. She got it,

"Are you nervous?" Sinead glanced away from the road and to Imogen, who was still picking at her nails. She'd always liked to think she got Imogen, more than many others did at least. At school, where her classmates had seen Imogen as exhibiting a general unbothered-ness, Sinead saw a hard exterior- a wall built with years of effort. Imogen had been popular and yet with popularity came a certain anonymity- the counter-intuitive fact was that the more popular you became, the less people actually saw you. Sinead had never been all that popular. She wasn't, by any means, completely tragic, but she'd taken care to avoid the shallow ladder-climbing game that was high school popularity. Still, her and Imogen had been friends through primary school and remained so in high school. And while Imogen was pretty and well-liked throughout their teenage years, Sinead, being unpopular, got to see her as she really was: a kid with a guard up and a point to prove against somebody, most likely her parents. As far as she was aware, the only other people Imogen really spoke to- in the sense where speaking is more than idle small talk- were Ianto and Lloyd but now, since she left Wales, who knew?

"A bit. I just don't know what I'll say. God I don't know if I'll even be able to find him, it's not like Cardiff is some tiny, rural village,"

"You'll find him. Cardiff is only so big, and someone will know him. Besides, there is always-"

"Do not say Rhiannon," Imogen glared, "Ianto is one thing, but Rhiannon is quite another,"

"You still blame her?"

Imogen frowned, "No… I don't think so. Blame- it's not quite the right word. But I can't forgive her, let alone ask her for help,"

"I understand," Sinead nodded, then pulled the handbrake and switched off the ignition, "Here you go, Gen."

Imogen unbuckled her seatbelt then opened the passenger side door, "Thanks, really, thank you. And I'm sorry for losing touch, I promise I'll text you,"

"Just promise you'll sort yourself out first,"

"Done." Imogen smiled and shuffled out of the car, "I'll see you soon." She closed the car door and began a slow wander towards the Millennium Centre, not entirely sure where she was going. She wasn't even really sure where any government buildings were, and she figured that something like that would be her best bet. After all, she was sure that was what one of Rhiannon's letters had said. Civil service, maybe? Imogen stopped almost directly below the water tower and glanced around, taking in her surroundings,

"Excuse me?" She called to the only other person around- a man, in his mid-twenties, who looked just as out of place as she did. Perhaps it was because he was wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket or perhaps it was a more general vibe he gave off, but Imogen felt slightly uneasy. He was handsome, though, and even if he weren't, he was the only person around who could give her some help. He turned to her and raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement,

"This is an odd question, but you don't happen to know a Ianto Jones, do you?"

He shook his head, "Can't help you." It was Imogen's turn to raise her eyebrows- he was from London by the sounds of it. So she was right, he was out of place,

"That is not unexpected," she laughed, "Could you point me in the direction of a tourist information desk?"

He laughed, though, what was funny Imogen wasn't sure, "That I can do. Over there, down right by the water on the pier." He gestured vaguely towards the water. Imogen moved forward a few steps in an attempt to get a better view. It could only have been a few moments and yet, when she turned to thank the man, he was nowhere to be seen. She furrowed her brow, "Now where the fuck did he go?"

.

Owen didn't often take the lift into the Torchwood base- despite everything he'd seen and done, heights was one thing he preferred to stay away from. But he needed to get back and he'd just sent the girl from the bay in the direction of the base's main entrance. Besides, he had a flair for the dramatic and picturing the girl's face after he seemingly disappeared into thin air was amusing to him. He repositioned his sunglasses to the top of his head and smirked. A small judder told him the lift had reached its end and he stepped off,

"You're late." Owen rolled his eyes and ignored his boss, sat down at a computer and brought up the CCTV of the area around the water tower. The girl was still stood there, looking confused,

"Who's that then?"

"That." Owen leaned back and put his feet up on the desk as the girl started away from the water tower, heading down to the pier and the tourist office, "That is Ianto's problem."

"Hm?" Ianto looked up from where he stood, having just set down a coffee on Gwen's desk. She picked it up, smiled gratefully, and brought it to her lips. There she stopped, blew on the scalding liquid a few times and asked again, "But who is it?"

"I don't know," Owen mused, "She was wandering around up there. When she saw me, she asked if I knew a Ianto Jones,"

"What did you say?" Gwen took a sip. Owen rolled his eyes,

"I said: yes, he's in the top-secret alien base where I work, do come on down- there's an invisible lift right behind you." Gwen didn't respond. "I said I couldn't help, obviously. Then she asked for the tourist office, I gave her directions."

"And she didn't give a name?"

"I just said didn't I?" Ianto had finished delivering coffees to their respective owners, and now stood just behind Owen. The girl was no longer visible on the CCTV,

"Describe her- what did she look like?" Ianto asked,

"Huh," Owen faltered, "Um…Brown hair, average height or maybe a little on the short side…" he paused and grinned, "…fit,"

"Brilliant, how illuminating," Ianto muttered, and leaned over Owen's desk. He hit a few keys and rewound the CCTV footage back a few moments. The girl Owen described could now be seen, though her back was to the camera and the quality of the image was less than desirable. Still, Ianto recognised that stance, recognised that confident cocked hip. Rewinding the footage a few more minutes saw the moment Owen and the girl spoke. CCTV Owen gestured towards the pier, and the girl's head turned towards it and, more importantly, towards the camera. Ianto hit the space key, pausing the footage. Her features were just distinguishable, "Surely not…" he thought aloud. Ianto couldn't be sure that the girl was his sister. It looked like her, kind of, but the image was low quality and, besides, he couldn't be sure of the reliability of his own memory. It had been four years, and the Imogen he remembered was 18. Then again, he thought, who else would be looking for him? Or, at least, who would be looking for him who wouldn't know where to look, or who wouldn't be able to give him a call? He searched the CCTV image for something that would identify her beyond doubt- a long scar, on her left arm. There was a line, maybe, on the image where the scar should be, but still he found it hard to say for sure,

"How did she speak?" Ianto asked,

"Er… Welsh I think. Quite faint," Owen responded, "You know her?"

"I think. I can't be sure. You said you sent her to the tourist office?"

"Yeah,"

"Well, then." He pulled his suit jacket down and smoothed it, "I think it's time for me to clock-in."

.

There had been no one in the tourist office, and no one had arrived despite Imogen dinging the bell on the desk a few times. She now stood outside, elbows rested on the railing, looking out at the water. It was like looking for a needle in a bloody haystack. Even if there had been someone manning the information desk, what would she have asked them? It was difficult to resign herself to, but the only real option available to her was her sister. Imogen didn't know exactly where she lived, but she had a draw full of letters- some open, some unopened- all of which had a return address in the top right corner. Imogen looked out again at the gentle wave of the waters below to calm her. Thinking of her older sister made her angry, a feeling that bubbled in her chest and made her skin hot and pink. She was 8 years older than Imogen and Ianto and she'd left home as soon as she could- she practically had her bags packed for her 16th birthday. She'd left them and, years later, they found out she was married with a baby. How old would he be now? 7 or 8, surely. Some of the letters had photos in them, not that Imogen went out of her way to look at them. As far as she could remember, Rhiannon had a little girl now too. They looked happy, at least, and well-cared for. But this fact just served as salt rubbed in an already tender wound. Her anger bubbled over and she gripped her fingers around the railing, her knuckles turning white from the pressure. She blew air upwards, ruffling her fringe, and closed her eyes. Long breath in through the nose, breathe it out through your teeth,

"Imogen?" Familiar welsh tones broke her out of her thoughts and she whipped round to face the voice, feeling almost sheepish, like a child who'd been caught misbehaving, "God it is you as well,"

"Ianto." Imogen furrowed her brow, confused, "I don't understand…You work here?" She gestured to the tourist office he'd just emerged from. Her confusion doubled when she remembered how there'd been no one in the small office only a moment ago,

"It's a long story. I don't think it's me with the explaining to do, though. Where have you been? You don't call, you don't text, you don't-"

"I know. I'm sorry, Ianto," she cut him off, earlier anger being replaced by guilt. The feeling didn't last long, her confusion was simply overpowering, "I'm sorry- what? How did you even…? I've been looking for you and you just- what- appear?"

"In good time. C'mere." She gave in and moved her body towards him, his arms engulfing her in a hug. He seemed taller than before and he'd filled out well, standing much more as a man than a skinny teenager. He'd before been shy and, as Sinead had said, a bit odd and, though he had always been tall, Imogen was used to a boy who liked to keep his head bowed to avoid attracting attention. The man who hugged her had stood up straight, shoulders back, allowing himself to realise all 6 feet of his height. She pulled away and placed her hands on his shoulders, holding him at arm's length and scanning his appearance. Now not only did he stand tall, but he was neat as a pin, wearing a white shirt, suit jacket and maroon tie. Examining his face, she supposed he didn't look too different, really, but it was all in how he held himself, how he dressed now. He just looked…better or, at least, better than she did for their age. More adult, less childlike,

"God, look at you," Ianto exhaled. He'd been taking in how she'd changed, just as she'd been doing with him. For the most part, she remained unchanged, but there was an air of maturity to her. It was hard to put his finger on exactly, but his sister had grown up. She'd left as a kid and returned as an adult- she seemed calmer, less volatile and less angry with the world. There was still a guard up, Ianto could sense it to some extent, but she looked…happier, "You look different," he explained, noticing how his sister had raised an eyebrow at his staring,

"You can talk," she laughed. Her laugh was unchanged, still warm and somewhat infectious. He smiled and blinked slowly- it felt like home.

"It's a good different," Ianto clarified before sighing, "I've missed you, Gen. So much has happened. I..I needed you,"

"I'm sorry. The longer I left it, the harder it was to pick up the phone. I've been running away from everything, I just felt it was the only way," she gabbled, before pausing to compose herself. At this moment she realised she'd left, just the same as she'd always condemned Rhiannon for doing, "I'm sorry. I don't expect you to forgive me,"

"Shut up, you idiot." He hugged her again, letting go much quicker than before, "You're here and we've got catching up to do. I know a café nearby, the coffee is pretty dire but they do a good fry-up. We can talk,"

"I'd love that." Ianto crooked his elbow for Imogen to thread her arm through the gap created, and they walked away from the tourist office instep.

.

The remaining Torchwood members were trying to work out who the girl that their youngest member had left to meet was, realising that none of them really knew Ianto Jones very well. At work he kept himself to himself. He liked to work in the archives alone; he arrived on time, made the coffee, and headed down into the depths of the Torchwood base where he pretty much stayed until it was time to leave. When he wasn't in the archives, he was manning the tourist information desk or 'clearing up their shit', which was how he described sorting out the mess Torchwood left behind. Asides from his role at Torchwood, though, the team knew little about his life,

"Maybe she's his girlfriend?" Gwen mused, jiggling a pencil between her thumb and forefinger. Owen pulled a face,

"A girlfriend that wanders round Cardiff asking strangers where to find you?" Owen shook his head, then grinned, "Besides, she was gorgeous. Way out of his league,"

"A fling, then."

"Ianto? Nah, I can't see it."

"Do you know him? Any of you, really?" Gwen glanced at Tosh, then back to Owen, who returned sheepish looks. Neither responded, but Tosh made a few taps at her computer keyboard. A few moments passed before she looked up and addressed her colleagues,

"I've run the CCTV footage through the facial recognition software. The quality isn't great, but we might get lucky." She turned her screen so they could see. On the left was the paused shot of the girl from the bay's face, on the right flickered hundreds of faces one by one as the software searched for a match. Eventually it stopped, and a window flashed up on the computer to let Tosh know that 10 potential matches were identified. A click with the mouse brought up the results, and she began to scroll through. Her cursor stopped at the sixth. The picture was of a young girl, no more than 15, scowling at the camera in what looked like a mugshot. She certainly looked like the girl on the CCTV image, yet so did all the other results brought up by the computer. It wasn't her face that caught Tosh's eye, though, but her name or, rather, surname. Jones was a very common name, especially in Wales, and so it was probably nothing. Still, Tosh double-clicked to open the profile,

"Imogen Jones," she read aloud, "Born August 19th, 1983." She scrolled down the page further, to the information under 'Family', "There you go. Born to parents Glenda and David Jones, both deceased. They had two other children: Rhiannon Davies, née Jones, and Ianto Jones."

Owen scooted his office chair closer to Tosh's desk, not noticing her quick intake of breath as he did so in the slightly sad anticipation of him just being close to her. As he leaned forward closer to the screen, he was unaware of her urge to touch the back of his head, to weave her fingers through his unkept brown hair, "Sister, huh?" Owen grinned and turned, breaking Tosh's gaze and directing her thoughts away from him and back to the situation at hand, "He kept that quiet,"

"Well," Tosh coughed, embarrassed. She hoped her staring hadn't been obvious. Then again, she knew really that he hadn't noticed. He never did, "According to the system, at least, she's not been seen on CCTV in Wales since 2002. Either the system is flawed, or she's very good at avoiding cameras, or-"

"She's been away," Gwen interrupted,

"Exactly,"

"He did seem surprised earlier. So he's not seen her in- what- four years? Why? And why now?" Gwen's eyes had a kind of sparkle to them. Tosh supposed she had been a police officer, it made sense that a mystery got her excited. Gwen frowned and asked how old Imogen was when she left, and how old she would be now,

"If she left in 2002, she'd have been 18. Now she'd be 22," Tosh replied,

"And Ianto?"

"The same. August 19th 1983- he's the same birthday," Tosh read the bracketed information that appeared by Ianto's name on his sister's profile. "Twins," she said quickly,

"The photo looks like a mugshot. She looks young," Gwen considered. She hadn't asked a question, but it was clear she meant for Tosh to check Imogen's history. Tosh did so, scrolling to the section 'Convictions',

"Arrested and convicted on a number of shoplifting charges in 1998- she'd have been 15. All fairly minor by the looks of it, she was given a few months of community service." Tosh paused, "There's social services reports, medical history etc, but…it feels like an invasion of privacy. I don't feel comfortable reading more,"

"Speak for yourself." Owen went to take the mouse, but Tosh's hand was still firmly gripped to it,

"Tosh is right, Owen. It's Ianto's family, his business. Close the window, Tosh." Secretly, Gwen was dying to read more about Ianto's secret sister, just as much as Owen was. She didn't mean to pry, but she wanted to know. It was unknown information, something to be discovered and solved, and it was sitting right there on the database. Imogen Jones had a criminal record and a personal record with social services, meaning that the dubbed 'tea-boy' was far more interesting that Gwen initially gave him credit for. To keep her position as a sensible mediator and generally better morally than Owen, however, she'd have to supress her desire to read the files. At least, she had to suppress it enough to not read it now, which was almost the same thing.