Dinner had been pleasant, filled with laughter and good company. Miranda and Jack regaled Ianto with stories of Torchwood passed. Miranda had even told him a story or two about her own history. Under other circumstances, it would have been fun but Miranda could see the strained and worried look in both men. Both showed signs of long term stress and significant sleep deprivation. That was one thing for Jack but for Ianto it was not healthy. And Miranda, who had once been the shop girl to an herbalist in southern China, knew exactly what to do. Before dinner she had slipped into the study, unlocking the small glass curio cabinet and pulling out a tiny amber bottle, sliding it into her pocket.
Ianto had insisted on making the coffee but Miranda had insisting on serving it. The two men were waiting for it and the tray of pastries in the parlor. She reached into her pocket and put four drops of the deep red liquid into their coffee. Even though both men took their coffee black, she added half a teaspoon of sugar to hide the bitterness of the extract. It had been a secret formula of the old herbalist. Miranda had learned much from him. The ingredients were common but its preparation was complex. It was a gentle sedative with one special quality, the sleep it produced was dreamless. She put the mugs onto the tray next to the pastries and headed back to the lounge.
Ianto was sitting on the sofa next to Jack. Jack had his feet in Ianto's lap. He quickly removed them when he saw Miranda enter the room looking very much like a guilty child.
"Here we are, boys," she said, attempting to feign innocence as she distributed the mugs, watching them take sips of the drug laced liquid.
"What are you trying to slip us, Will?" Jack asked, looking into the mug.
Miranda sat down into the wingback chair and gave Jack an innocent look, "Jack, I have no idea what-"
"Oh c'mon, Will. Don't give me that look. You haven't been innocent since God was a child."
"Fine. It was the valerian extract. Just a few drops," she said.
Jack got to his feet and shouted, "Dammit, Will! You can't just drug people without-"
Ianto interrupted, "Jack! Calm down! It's just an herbal remedy for insomnia. It doesn't work well. My Gran used to use it-" Ianto broke off and shook his head to clear it and then cast an angry look at Miranda. "On second thought-"
She glared angrily at both men, her voice rising. "Goddess below! Whinging like babes taken from their mother's tit, the pair of you! It's an ancient recipe for a dreamless sleep. There is no nefarious intent here other than to get you two daft pricks some rest!" She round on Jack, "I understand you acting like an ass being pulled to market about your own health, but your catamite-"
Jack cried in outrage, "How dare you!"
"His what?" Ianto asked confused.
"She can tell you what it means!" Jack said through clenched teeth.
"I'm sorry, Jack," she said, having regretted uttering the slur the minute she'd said it. "The extract will ensure a proper night's rest. You're both about ready to drop."
"I'm fine, Will-" began Jack loudly.
Ianto leaned back slightly at the venom in Miranda's voice as she shouted, "That's bollocks! I've known you nearly eighty years, Jack Harkness! My supper was the first proper meal either of you have had in weeks, nay probably a whole month! Just by looking at you, Jack, I can tell you've been surviving on naught but coffee and booze, haven't slept in a fortnight and that you've died nearly 6 times in the past few days! Now, will you let me do my job as Torchwood's doctor and get you two sods some rest!?"
Both men looked down at their feet, slightly chastised.
"That settles it then," she said, pushing the tray of pastries at both men. "Eat something, finish your coffee and then head up to bed."
The remainder of the evening was spent in silence. She noticed Jack hadn't taken more than the initial sip of his coffee while Ianto had finished his. Barely a few minutes after the mug was empty, Ianto's head began to droop.
"Let's get you upstairs, Ifan," she said. "I'll be back in a minute, Jack."
Miranda led Ianto up the stairs. At the top of the stairway, she turned right towards the bedroom. It was furnished with heavy wood furniture. The large four posted bed dominated the room. She sat Ianto down on the edge of the bed and pointed towards the half open door behind her.
"That's the en suite. Fresh towels in the cupboard in the hallway. If you need anything, just ask." She patted his knee and turned to leave.
"What was it you called me earlier?" he asked.
Miranda flushed with embarrassment and looked away. "It was an old Victorian slur. I'm sorry, Ianto. It was unworthy thing to do."
"Does it bother you? Me and Jack?" he asked.
"I was born long before Victorian prudishness and Judeo-Christian sexual oppression," she said. "Jack likes to joke about our 'quaint labels' but such things are a modern invention to me. Nos da, Ifan. Cysga yn dawel."
"You speak Welsh?" he asked with surprise.
"I live in north Wales, Ifan. Of course, I speak Welsh." She knew that Jack had never bothered learning the local language. She gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."
She headed back downstairs, confident that Ianto would be asleep soon. She found Jack had moved from the sofa to his usual chair by the fireplace.
"Did you decorate in here?" he asked.
"In here and the kitchen."
"You kept my favourite chair," he said, finally sipping at his coffee.
After faking her death only a few years into their tumultuous marriage, Jack had put the house up for sale, furniture and all. She'd bought it under an alias. They'd taken long weekends up here after Jack learned she still owned the house back in the 70's and he hadn't been inside since the 80's.
"It's your house too, Jack," she said.
She moved to the mantle and reached for the antique silver picture frame she'd placed face down before she'd let Ianto into the house. She stood it back up and wiped some dust from the glass. It was their wedding photo, the same photo that sat in Jack's tin. The groom was seated, unmistakably Jack despite the lack of signature outfit, looking handsome and proud. Miranda had stood behind her new husband, her hand on his shoulder. Her dress had been the latest fashion, tea length lace with a cathedral length veil and satin gloves. Jack had spared no expense on the wedding. Miranda had teased him for his extravagance.
In the few moments of silence, Miranda wondered at the broken look on Jack's face. She hadn't seen him look like this since Lucia had stolen his daughter from him, a heartbreak that made Miranda thank all the Gods and Goddesses that ever were that she could not bear children. She took his hands and guided him towards her usual chair. She sat down as Jack sank to the floor, pillowing his head in her lap. He said nothing for a long time and Miranda wondered if he had fallen asleep even though most of his drug laced coffee was still on the small side table.
Jack's voice shook as he spoke, "I found Gray… he found me. He wanted revenge. He blamed me and he was right. I failed him… Tosh… Owen… They're dead and it was my fault… it's all my fault…" he broke off as sobs shook through him.
He'd told her years ago about his brother and the monsters who had taken him. Miranda let him cry, whispering soothing words in her native language and running her fingers through his hair. She didn't bother with false assurances or empty promises. Lip service would mean nothing to Jack. He would continue to blame himself for how ever long he felt necessary be that years or centuries. She knew nothing she said would make Jack feel any better.
Finally the sobs quieted and Jack fell silent. His shoulders were still trembling and his voice cracked as he asked, "Have you ever been buried, Will? By accident…"
Miranda shivered at the memory. "Yes," she said softly. "What happened, Jack?"
He told her. He told her about John and Gray and the bombs. He told her how Tosh had died in his arms. How Owen had disintegrated at the nuclear power plant. He told her about Gray's revenge and being buried under Cardiff in 27 AD. He told her how Torchwood had dug him up in 1901 and how he'd ridden out the rest of the 20th century in cyrostasis. And he told her that was where Gray was now, slumbering in a cryodrawer never to wake.
She just listened as the story ran out of him like a flood. She didn't ask him anything. She didn't ask him what it was like. She knew. Being buried was every immortal's greatest fear. In Miranda's long life it had happened to her several times. The worst time had been when she'd been living in California in the 19th century. The local town had a law that required the immediate burial of foreigners to prevent the spread of disease. Miranda had revived in a crude pine box several feet underground. She'd made numerous attempts at escape but without success. Her first deaths were from carbon dioxide poisoning and hypoxia. She was never sure how long it had taken before the dehydration and starvation had set in because by the time they had, she'd become delirious. Her world had turned into incoherent thoughts and hallucinations, snatches of nightmares and the voices of the dead. She tried not to think about how long she could have been down there if it hadn't been for a flash flood. The water had unearthed her coffin, smashing it open on some rocks. Miranda vaguely remembered reviving for a moment laying on her side in muddy filth surrounded by crude wooden coffins and half rotted corpses. Once she had physically recovered, she'd learned the horrific truth. She'd been buried for over five years. The trauma had taken her decades to overcome and she still panicked when she revived in the dark.
After a long while, she leaned over to retrieve the coffee mug. She handed it to him wordlessly and watched him quickly drink down the rest. The extract began to work almost immediately, a testament to his exhaustion. She led him stumbling up the stairs and into bed next to Ianto.
She spared a quick moment to glance at the sleeping Welshman and smiled. He looked younger in sleep. He was laying on his back, his mouth hanging open and his hair sticking up in odd ways. He was snoring softly. Miranda thought he looked adorable. She turned her attention back to Jack as he began to snore and started undressing the sleeping man. Miranda gave into a somewhat naughty impulse, lifting the blankets a little more than necessary to slide Jack underneath them so she could catch a glimpse of Ianto's nude body. Exquisite taste, Jack, she thought, smirking at the well endowed and toned physique of Ianto Jones. The two of them must be a sight to behold. She was surprised that Jack had yet to suggest a threesome. It was probably yet another testament to Jack's fatigue and grief. Maybe I'll save them some trouble in the morning. She cast a nostalgic look over Jack's own nude body before covered him with the blanket.
She quietly took out a pen and paper from the bedside drawer and wrote a quick note, "Gone for a long run. Be back later." She put the note onto Ianto's side of the bed knowing the Welshman would wake first. The extract always hit Jack quite hard. Then she reached for Jack's trousers and rummaged through the pockets. Paydirt, she said to herself. She placed the small packet of lubricant on top of the note, knowing Ianto would get the hint. She left the room quietly. The last thing she saw before closing the door was Ianto roll in his sleep and drape his arm across Jack's chest.