When Ianto first left Cardiff, he did so with very little to his name. A moody and sullen teenager—with plenty of reasons to be that way—he'd ended up in a shitty flat with a shitty job. Until Torchwood came along. He stayed in that shitty flat for a while afterwards, until Yvonne set him straight, and his job could no longer be described as shitty—it was dangerous, now, and exciting, and everything he had ever wanted.

But deep in the bowels of the single suitcase his mum had given him was a tin lunchbox. It had a photo of James Bond on the front—Connery, naturally—and a dent on the left side. Ianto never used it for food, but Lisa had gotten a good laugh out of it when she'd first seen it.

The lunchbox, when Ianto returned to Cardiff, rode back in a box with the rest of his knickknacks, nestled up near the Star Wars duvet he hadn't used in ages and some Star Trek posters he'd only just put up again after Lisa had admitted to liking the series.

It didn't see the light of day until Jack had volunteered to help Ianto sort through his closet. To make room for some stuff of Jack's, but that part was only in Ianto's head. It would stay safe there until Ianto himself felt safe enough to broach the subject with Jack. For the moment, what mattered was the clutter—and getting rid of it.

Jack had already gleefully shouted out "You're a nerd!" several times.

First at the Star Wars duvet—still soft as ever, thank you very much—then at the rolled-up posters—not quite wrinkle-free, but with a certain charm for their age—then at the collection of old films—some of which he smiled knowingly at—then finally at the lunchbox.

"You know," Jack said before Ianto could open his mouth to make excuses, "I think I have one of these stashed away somewhere. I think you'd like it."

He got distracted by some antique figurines soon after, ones that didn't belong to Ianto but had inexplicably come with the flat, and soon began acting out scenes between them. Ianto laughed and forgot about the cleaning—and he knew that it had been Jack's goal to do that upon seeing the shadows in his eyes at remembering his old interests.

The Ianto that had unashamedly bought the duvet and the posters and the lunchbox had been different. Still haunted, yes, but differently, running towards something instead of running from it, and Jack... Jack got that. Memories were funny things.

The posters were directed to the nearest secondhand store, as were the figurines—once their play had finished—but the duvet and lunchbox received honorary places in the cupboard and on top of Ianto's dresser, respectively.

It was months later that Jack made good on his promise, when Ianto returned the favor and sat on the floor of his bunker, watching Jack look through old boxes. They were dusty and filled mostly with photos—discolored but clearly loved, wrinkled and worn around the edges as Jack had taken them out and reminisced over the years. A few had clothes in them—nice hats, funny ones, handkerchiefs, boxes upon boxes of cufflinks. Some were filled with mementos, nestled closely and carefully together, separated by often-replaced tissue paper, and it was on one of these that Jack stopped.

"Here," he said, breaking the silence and expecting Ianto, who had sat and listened and taken it all in, imagining the vastness of time in a way he never had before, to answer.

The metal lunchbox was closed and boasted an image on the front, similar to Ianto's; its right side was dented but not disfigured, and although there was a healthy coating of dust on top distorting the picture, giving away Jack's imperfect storing conditions, it had once clearly shone.

"I know you don't like them, but think of it as a birthday present if you don't want it just be a gift." Jack chuckled. "Or the other way around."

He leaned forward and kissed Ianto's cheek and left him with the lunchbox in his hands, then turned back to the other boxes. Ianto had almost expected Jack to forget—he didn't dislike birthdays, not really, but there was something about them that made him feel off, melancholy in a way, and Jack had picked up on it, clearly, and had thus not taken Ianto to a celebration but had invited him into his past.

Ianto would take that over a real gift—no matter that he'd gotten the lunchbox anyway—any day.

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