A/N: When I originally wrong "Aftermath", it wasn't beta-read, or particularly grammar checked. It was written, as I explained in my LJ, because I needed a way to deal with everythin that happened in CoE, and because I needed to give Jack something to ease the pain. And this was born out of it.

Later, I realized this story will be the bridge between my current two long fics, so I decided to review it, write it in the correct tenses and with the correct narrator-point of view. I felt tempted to change a lot more things, but I decided against it: I like the raw emotion in this piece. So, I asked my good friend Kirvash over at LJ to beta-read, and she did a cracking job at it. And here it is. Beta read, and improved, and hopefully still as emotional as always. And ready to be the bridge I need between my long fics, one of which will be posted soon(-ish).

Memories

It takes a lot of determination to open the front door and step in. He's been watching the place since... He swallows the knot on his throat, putting the spare key Ianto kept under a loose stone in the garden in his pocket and closing the door behind him. Closing his eyes, tears run down his face, and memories flood his mind. Ianto complaining about him leaving mugs on the coffee table without a coaster, with that half smile that told him he wasn't really in trouble. Falling onto Ianto's huge bed, sometimes so exhausted they didn't even get out of their clothes, sometimes so entangled on each other the world could have ended and they wouldn't have noticed. Ianto stepping out of the shower, towel around his waist; that half surprised look the first time he found Jack cooking dinner instead of waiting for the takeaway or the pizza.

Blinking furiously, he puts down the cardboard boxes he's brought with him. There may not be a Hub for Ianto to rest, there may not be a Torchwood Three to speak of, but he isn't doing this to follow rules and regulations. This... this he owes to Ianto. It's what he would have wanted. Over the counter that separates the kitchen from the sitting room, the pot of coffee they never had time to drink is still waiting. Grabbing one of the boxes, struggling to transform it from its flat-packed form to a proper container, he steps into Ianto's bedroom. The room they had shared most of the nights they had been able to slip away from the Hub and the Rift for a few hours.

Ianto's wardrobe has always been impeccably organized: suits, shirts, ties, carefully pressed and hanging in meticulous order, so he could get dressed in the morning with an astounding economy of movement and thought. As he walks around the room, rummaging through drawers and boxes, he is suddenly aware of how obvious his presence in it in the past months is. A half read book he will never finish lies on one of the bedside tables. His toothbrush and razor in the en suite. Scattered clothes in need of dry cleaning lying on the floor, where Ianto would have glared at them if they had had time to think about it the last time they were here.

Taking off his coat, he sits on Ianto's side of the bed, and opens the bottom drawer on the bedside table. Reaching down, he takes out a small wooden box. Ianto's memory box, he called it the first time he saw it. Should he open it? Ianto never made a secret of it, but... With shaky hands, he lifts the lid. In contrast with the order or everything that was Ianto – his clothes, his home, everything he touched – the box is a chaotic mix of old pictures (family, friends, Lisa, a suited gang that can only be part of Torchwood One, Torchwood Three back in Suzie's day, one night they finally dragged the new boy out for a drink, a picture of Jack he can't remember being taken), old cinema tickets and event admissions, snatches of paper with faded writing.

At the bottom of the box, lovingly wrapped in crimson velvet, is his stopwatch. The one he threw at him when they were trying to revive Suzie. The one he was happy Ianto never gave back. He punches the mattress, helplessness washing over him as the Cardiff rain has been doing for the last week while he mustered the courage to walk in here again.

Fighting back the tears, the frustration, the pain, he brings another of Ianto's precious possessions out of the drawer. Leather-bound and travelled, Ianto's diary is yet another of those little things that made Ianto different. In this day and age of computers, online blogs and digital information, Ianto chose to write. He always said it calmed him, and that is something Jack can understand. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to read the pages, relieve good and bad times through Ianto's careful record. But the simple act of holding it somehow brings a certain peace to him. Carefully, he slides it into the inside pocket of his greatcoat. His hand closes around the stopwatch still in his hand, and, blinking away the tears, he loses himself in the mechanical task of boxing Ianto Jones' life, and a few of his own tears.

He thinks about staying the night, burying his head in Ianto's pillow and pretending he's there, alive and warm. But he can't get himself to do it. He wishes he had his faithful Webley with him, even if a bullet to the head would only give him a few moments of peace and the mess would make Ianto cringe.

He leaves a few hours later, not even leaving a note for Gwen to explain he was here. She will know it was him, when she finally comes. His hand closes once again around the cold metal of the stopwatch. He doesn't notice the rain when it hits him.

Reunions

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but materializing in the middle of a barely space-worthy ship was definitely not in the list. Even Jack does have better taste than this; but I guess the man is not thinking straight now. Not that I am either. I always forget how it hurts. Turning around, boots clattering on the floor in a reassuring way, I start moving around, looking for him.

"I came as soon as I could." The words seem to get stuck in my throat when I finally find him in one of the small living quarters, sitting on the floor, back against the wall, greatcoat wrapped around him like a safety blanket, gun in his hands. If it weren't for the lack of blood and gore around him, I'd say he's been killing himself to escape it all. He probably has, just not here. The Goddesses know I've been there, done that. Or at least wanted to do that.

When he looks up, the pain in his eyes catches me off balance. I've seen Jack down, devastated, angry, hurt; I've seen him become an angel of vengeance when those dear to him were taken away. But I've never before seen him broken like this. Tentatively, I crouch down in front of him, and run a hand through his hair. Tears stream down his face again, leaving more wet trails on his cheeks.

"I..." I don't know what to say. And that doesn't happen often.

"He's gone..." It's barely a whisper, the voice of a man who has lost it all and doesn't have any option but carrying on. He's been here before; he must have been, in those long years of his. So have I. But something is different this time. "You've got to help me!" Strong hands fist on my jacket, so lovingly mended not that long ago. "Your Vortex Manipulator works! You can go back, get him out in time!" He moves closer to me, half sitting half standing, a desperate look in his eyes. "He doesn't even have to be there! We can fix this, John!" I shake my head; he knows as well as I do that certain events cannot be changed, much as I would want to. "Please." It breaks my heart to see him like this. But it would be suicide to even try.

"There's nothing I can do." Anger flares in him, and I'm nearly grateful for it, because anger makes Jack do things, however dark and regrettable, but anything is better than a beaten Jack. Anything. The gun clatters as it hits the floor. "You know it as well as I do, Jack. Once a Time Agent, always a Time Agent. At least in some ways." He is kneeling when he pushes me away, hands hitting hard on my chest. I hit the ground with a loud noise that probably should worry me but doesn't; pain is a welcome relief after the numbness that fell on me when I got Jack's call. "Everything that happened is a fixed point, Jack, you can see that as well as I do." He looms closer and pushes me to the ground again, hands curling into fists.

"I don't care!" He's straddling me now, holding on to my jacket again. "I need him back!" It's only when tears fall on my face I realize he's still crying. I wish there was something I could say, but I bloody well know there isn't. I bring my hands up to his neck, steadying him, making him look at me.

"If you feel like picking up a fight with me just to feel better, come on, let's fight." Gently, I push him down towards me; he goes with it, lying beside me, head pillowed on my chest.

"I never meant..." I swallow my own tears. Jack clings to me like a lost child, and I wish we could bend the rules just a little, only this once. But not even I am that reckless. Timelines and universes are fragile things.

"I know." I run my fingers through his hair, trying to provide comfort that nothing, nobody can give him now. He's lost too much in too short a period of time, and not even someone like him, who must have loved and lost more than I can even imagine, could come out of that unscratched. "He knew as well." Of course Ianto knew. He always knew everything, before anybody told him. Perceptive beyond belief, that young man.

"Stay?" So desperate. He nearly pulls away when I place a kiss on his head.

"Of course." How could I not? We've both lost someone we loved. We're good at this, clinging to each other. It got us through Hell before. We'll survive this as well.

Forget-me-not

He can't sleep. His body is tired, aching even, every muscle crying out for rest; his mind drifts from the overdrive of memories to the numbness of denial to the panic of emptiness, and keeps him tossing and turning in his bed.

He can't remember the last time he slept a whole night without waking up, as if from death, heart pounding, hoping it was all nothing more than a bad dream. No, that's not true, of course he can. Closing his eyes, he lets the memories hit him. The last night in the London hideout Ianto found for them, after the Hub was blown up, after Ianto had proven once again that he'd rather die by his side than let him face death alone.

It had been a complicated, exhausting day. Too many recent deaths still in his system, the most gruesome of them driving Ianto's quest for answers and comfort and life affirming sex, just before the realization of what was indeed happening sank. By the time Ianto and he collapsed on the old mattress they shared in a corner of the warehouse, as far away from Gwen and Rhys as they could, in definite need of some well earned privacy, hiding from the horrors of the world under Jack's coat, they were exhausted, cold and in need of each other.

That night seems to be etched in his mind with crystal clear clarity. He can barely remember the days that followed, but every detail of that night – his last night with Ianto – is stored and treasured as the rare gem it is. Ianto's body pressed against his back, arms around him, lips hot on his neck, hands wandering, wanting to map the body he knew so well, committing it to memory once again. Looking back, the quiet, nearly desperate sex they shared that night was full of foreboding and fear and the need to feel alive once more before it all, quite possibly, went to Hell.

His lips curl in a painful smile as little details hit him one by one, each weighing his soul a bit more. The feel of Ianto's hands holding his head in place as they kissed, just like he always did when Jack died, as if to convince himself his lover was really back from the darkness, alive and warm, as if the writhing body under him were never enough. The words barely whispered in his ear, muttered reassurances of life and needs and hopes. Ianto's eyes boring into his, so expressive, so peaceful, no longer bothered by what the world may or may not think about him for who he is and who he loves.

Who he was and who he loved. He stops breathing at the thought, until his chest hurts so badly he gasps for air again. It still hurts to think of him in the past. He swallows hard, tries to force his mind to happier memories of stolen moments in the Hub ever since Ianto joined Torchwood. Even when he found out about Lisa and part of him wanted to believe everything they had shared was nothing more than Ianto's way of distracting him, he never managed to convince himself of it. The smile, troubled but genuine, in Ianto's face when they run into each other in the bowels of the Hub after he returned to work, the involuntary swallowing when fingers brushed as mugs of coffee and takeaway containers were passed around, Ianto's eagerness to stand by Jack and support him in every way he could, told a different story.

Images flash in his head, and, like every night, a sob catches in his throat. Panic sets in when he tries to remember Ianto's reply to a comment and the words escape him. His hands curl into fists and he hits the wall, hard enough to hear bone crunching. Pain courses through his body, and he nearly welcomes it. It takes his mind off his betrayal for a moment. He promised Ianto he'd remember him, and he is already slipping from his memory.

Tears streaming down his face, he gets out of bed and gets dressed, leaving the greatcoat and all the other clothes Ianto bought for him behind. He doesn't want to get them damaged; he doesn't have much left of Ianto, other than those clothes, memories and the few things he collected when he packed up Ianto's flat. With a sigh, he grabs the gun he sneaked out of the armoury earlier and steps out of his quarters. John won't be happy if he shoots himself there again.

Not that he cares.

Decisions

I sigh when I walk into the large storage room and find Jack sitting in a corner, back to the wall, gun still on his hands. Just like this morning; only now he is alive again. It is turning into a habit, finding Jack dead in obscure corners of the ship. This was most definitely not what I intended when I jokingly complained about the mess after Jack shot himself, first in the mess hall, then in his quarters. In hindsight, mentioning how Ianto used to find comfort in order, organization and cleanliness may not have been the best way to get my point across.

I've taken away his gun several times, but Jack is good at getting hold of the weapons I've got hidden around the ship. And it isn't like he needed one to off himself in this space tub he has taken to call "home", with a bitterness in the word I hadn't heard him use before. It wouldn't be the first time I find Jack in a decompressed airlock. After the third time, I had to restrict Jack's access to the main computer; I really don't fancy having to turn around to pick up his body.

Heels clattering on the metal gangways, I make my way to Jack and sit beside him. Complicated problems and situations require complicated replies.

"Why do you do, it, Jack?" No reply comes. Jack has never been chatty – not about things that really merited discussion, anyway – but as of late, he barely says a word. "You come back, gasping for air and hurting, why do it?" Silence hangs heavy in the air as I twiddle with the contents of the left pocket in my jacket.

"Peace". Barely a whisper. "Just a moment, but peace nonetheless." I raise an eyebrow; the pain in Jack's voice makes me flinch.

"Does it...? Do you... feel it when you die?"Jack grimaces, then nods, and mutters something about deserving it. "When you come back?" For the first time, Jack moves, looks at him, eyes full of regret and tears.

"It's the worst part." His voice is broken. "There's nothing on the other side. No memories, no regrets, nothing. It doesn't hurt when I'm there. When I come back, I lose him all over again."

I sneak a hand over Jack's shoulders, blinking away my own frustration. I know the pain of losing a lover only too well, even if Jack wouldn't believe me if he said so. I take a deep breath, considering. Maybe, after all, there is something I can do. Fishing the contents of the pocket out, I place it on Jack's hand, wrapping his fingers around it. Jack looks up, questioning, and takes his hand away, rattling the container.

"It will help you if you need to forget." I swallow hard. How will Jack react to the idea? He's already missing two years of his life, he won't jump straight to it as some would, erasing as much of it as necessary only to escape the pain. But the simple act of considering it may give him some perspective.

"Retcon?" I nod. "You think fucking retcon will fix this?" Jack raises his voice. "Do you really think I could just forget Ianto, and Steven, and all the others I have lost, and everything would be okay?" Can't help but roll my eyes, grateful for the anger bubbling in Jack. He's not as dead inside as I feared, if he can still get angry like that.

"I'm offering you a way out. A more effective way to run from your memories than blowing your head up, or shooting up on every lethal drug in the ship, or sticking your head out of a fucking window, Jack." I steal a look out of the corner of my eye, to find tears streaming silently down Jack's face. "If you really want to forget, at least do it properly."

Holding the container in front of his face with both hands, gun discarded on the floor, Jack goes silent again. I take away the weapon, fully intending to lock it up, and wait. I am good at waiting. It's something I learnt first as a Time Agent, then as a conman, the value of patience. It's also something I don't practice often, because it jars on my nerves. I don't need to be a mind reader to figure out what is going through Jack's mind as he stares at the cylinder in his hands. I've been there myself, a time or two after Jack left. There's always a lot of bad things I would like to forget, but not if the price is losing the good memories. I half-smile. The trick, at least for me, is not to forget, but to only remember what I want.

"I promised I wouldn't forget him." I nod, eyes lost in the other side of the open space. "What would be left of him if all who knew him forgot him?" Jack hands back the retcon, but I refuse to take it.

"Carry it with you." Leaning over, I place a kiss on Jack's lips, and nearly let out a sigh of relief when Jack kisses back. It feels as if life is slowly returning to Jack's soul. "It'll remind you that you have other options but chose this." In one swift moment, I stand up and offer Jack a hand. "And if you ever change your mind, you won't have to go far for it." Jack grabs my hand, and I pull him to his feet before turning around and starting to walk towards the door.

"John!" I stops, sensing the question coming. "Did you know I wouldn't take it?" What can I say? I nod. "How?"

"I've been carrying that retcon on me since you left me."

Guilt

He shouldn't be alive. Every cell in his body knows it. Every part of him has known for a long time, yet he has never been so painfully aware of it before. He should have died in GameStation, 198.000 years in the future, over two thousand years ago. Maybe if he had, Ianto Jones, and so many others would still be alive.

He is wrong. Everything, everybody he touches dies. He's grown used to losing those he cares for, those he loves, but that doesn't make it any easier when it happens, over and over again. So many, so quickly, so young... He's left behind, left to carry on, with no other escape than moving on. The crash of metal against metal barely registers in his brain; it takes a while until he realizes it is his coffee mug that now lies in the corner, dark liquid pooling around it. He doesn't remember throwing it.

"Wrecking my crockery won't bring him back." John is leaning on the door frame, looking strangely naked barefoot, without his jacket or his weapons. It's not often that anybody, not even he, gets to see this side of the pretentious Captain Hart. Not even back in their wild days.

"I should be dead." He can't even look at John, doesn't need – doesn't want – the comfort and the care. "I should have died, not him." He can hear John rolling his eyes as he sits across from him. "I've lived enough." He has all the time in the Universe ahead of him. Others would kill for the privilege; he'd give it up if it meant Ianto was still alive. Hell, he'd give it up just to escape the knot of pain on his throat, on his chest, everywhere. "And it is my crockery. My ship."

"Your space tub, yes, Captain. And you said the same thing a year after you joined the Time Agency. Remember?" Eyes closed, he nods, pretending he's not, once again, losing the battle with his emotions. How could he forget? How could he forget her? "She was beautiful, I have to give you that."

"She was more than a pretty face." Metal clattering tells him John is serving coffee. He should make a snarky remark about it; John has never really liked coffee, claiming it's too soft a chemical for his liking. But he's been drinking it lately as fast as he used to drink hypervodkas.

"Was she?" He grinds his teeth, too tired to try to figure out what John is up to today, what his latest plan to make him "snap out of it" is, why exactly he seems so intent on, for once in his life, helping.

"You know as well as I do, John. She shared your bed as often as mine." Memories, fragments, fly through his mind. "Beautiful, resilient, good fighter, and a brain for the minutiae of Time Travelling that neither of us could match."

"More often than yours, thank you. Have you forgiven yourself yet?" He shakes his head. How could he? She died because of him. Caught up in one of his many fuck-ups. She was only twenty-one. He was new in the Agency, and wanted to impress her."How long has it been?"

Tears stream down his face as he curses John once again. Why is he doing this? Why can't he leave him alone in his misery?

"Two thousand, two hundred, give or take some missing memories."

"And you still remember her." As John rests a hand on his arm, it all clicks in place. But having a good memory is not going to make him feel better.

"So?" Anger flairs inside him, and, for a very brief moment, it even overcomes the pain. "Just because I can't forget them, it makes it all right that I get them killed?" John looks at him as if he were considering slapping him, or shooting him. Maybe it is a good thing he's not armed.

"You love them. You lose them. But you remember them. Oh, come on, Jack. In the end, memories are all there is." The words slap him in the face. He used to say that himself, back in the Agency. "Isn't that why you left?" Without a word, John stands up and leaves. He rests his head on his hands, the mesh of the table surface digging in his elbows.

He may never forgive himself for what happened to Ianto. But he'll remember him.

First touch

He can't breathe. Panic. Images flash in his head. Memories? They feel more like disconnected remnants of nightmares. Breathe. Slowly. It takes a lot of effort. Was he dead? There is nothing but darkness when he dies. He must have been dreaming.

As fragments slowly collide together in his head, a hazy story forms. London. Chaos. Aliens. The Hub destroyed. Ianto dead. His heart stops beating; he swallows hard. Why are these horrible nightmares haunting him?

Because it is a nightmare. It has to be. Panic settles on him, until he notices he is not alone in the bed. He turns around, cuddling against the warm presence on the other side. Taking a deep breath, relaxing a little at the familiar touch. Familiar – but wrong. Wrong shape, wrong build, wrong scent, wrong skin. This is not Ianto.

"Awake again, Jack?" John turns to face him, and he just knows he is smirking. He swears under his breath as nightmares – the real ones – come crashing over him. A hand cups his cheek. "I'll have to drug you if you insist on not sleeping."

He can't find the words he needs, something snarky and hurtful that wouldn't take away the pain but would make him feel a bit less miserable.

"What are you doing in my bed?" He throws as much anger as he can with the words. The thought hurts. Ianto. Dying in his arms as he kissed him. Coming back to life, knowing Ianto wouldn't be there by his side, alive, waiting for him to wake up.

"Excuse me?" Disbelief jumps out of John's words and hits him. "You are in my bed". John sneaks an arm around his waist; he's too close for comfort, yet not close enough. He wants to run, to hide in a corner and pray for death to take him while he mourns Ianto. He wants to lose himself in John, forget the pain eating at his heart ever fucking minute he is awake, and every moment he tries to rest. He wants to remember; he needs to forget.

He doesn't want to think.

So he kisses John, all bite and fight for dominance, older memories reawakening. John was always intense enough to forget the world around them when they clashed. He lets his hands roam, relishing the feel of naked skin – warm, oh so alive skin – under his fingers. He digs his nails in, making John hiss.

Without a warning, John pulls away, a hand firmly on his chest, keeping him at a distance.

"No." He tries to move closer. "I said, no." Frustrated, he rolls onto his back, images haunting him once again.

"Why?" He can barely whisper, the weight on his chest getting heavier with every breath

"You don't want me right now." John curls up his side, hand resting on his arm. "You want Ianto, and he's gone. So you will settle for somebody. Anybody." When did John become a mind-reader? "And you know my rules."

"You've never much cared for rules." He turns towards John, hiding in his arms, torn between the relief of human contact, of life, and the pain, the loss, the wish that it was Ianto in his bed.

"Only one I've ever stuck to." John places a gentle kiss on his head, and he can only hope he won't notice the tears.

"I miss him..." The words catch in his throat. Missing him is just a small part of all the turmoil inside him. He always knew he would lose him. John sighs.

"Me too." John's voice is full of pain. For a moment, guilt hits him. He's not the only one who has lost Ianto; he's been too lost in his own pain to notice John's...

"Did you...?" He can't get himself to ask.

"It doesn't matter now." A hand brushes his temple. "Don't torture yourself, Jack. He knew all you... all we never told him. At least the important things."

He bites his lip so hard he draws blood, before sleep – or whichever contact drug John just slipped him – takes him over.

Comfort

On the dead of the night, once again, Jack sneaks into my room, leaves his clothes on the floor and curls in bed beside me, body pressed oh so temptingly close to his, a hand over my waist. I pretend to be sleeping, like every night he has visited. Jack still murmurs Ianto's name in his sleep, four months after he called, ten months after his death. I refuse to be just a comfort fuck, a body that just happens to be handy and willing; I want Jack, I always have. And I'll have him. But not like this. Not when neither of them would be thinking of here and now.

What would Ianto have made of us right now? He'd laugh, most likely, that rare laugh of his, sarcastic and honest. He'd probably wonder where this determination, this refusal, comes from. He'd mention that I, like Jack, come from a time when knocking on a neighbour's door and asking if they'd be interested in a new bedroom partner for a while is no more offensive or uncommon than asking for a cup of sugar was in the days when everybody still knew who lived next door. Ianto would look all wide-eyed for a moment if he saw us now, like he always had while listening to some of my (and Jack's) most outrageous stories, but it wouldn't take him long to put it all in context, understand, and truly accept.

I miss the kid. I found him interesting - not to mention drop dead gorgeous - since I first saw him at that quaint little bar, when I introduced myself as Jack's former partner, and the hint of jealousy in Ianto's voice disappeared as soon as it flared. When Ianto stood his ground, even with a gun trained on him, refusing to go into the lift quietly, the jolt of pure want through my whole body had been so intense I vowed, there and then, to take him into my bed. With or without Jack. As soon as I found the time. I had other things in my mind at the time.

I push the memories away. I don't want to remember the thrill of the chase, the banter, the many times the look on Ianto's face told a completely different story to his words, when I had to wondered who the kid was trying to convince that no, he had absolutely no interest whatsoever in Captain John Hart, thank you very much. As if.

I turn around, breathing in Jack's scent, ignoring the tears I know are there. A soft kiss on my lips. I kiss back, all hunger and need for more, need for the sweet oblivion that comes with satisfying sex. Hands claw at me, here, there and everywhere. I trace Jack's jawline with my lips. I can't tell which of us is moaning. Probably both.

"Changed your mind?" Jack's question hits me square on the chest. I pause for a second, a hand tracing idle patterns on Jack's belly. This isn't just a comfort fuck.

"Shut up." Jack is still mourning the loss of what he had. I am mourning the loss of what I had barely started to build with Ianto. I want to snap back, to give Jack a snarky reply, but the words catch in my throat as I bite Jack's neck. Jack rolls me onto my back, his weight a comforting presence.

"You manners in bed are as atrocious as always." Memories flood my mind, only to be driven away again by Jack's kisses. This is familiar, easy, comfortable. The banter, the fight for control, takes me back. Not to happier times. Just to... different times. When we carried other wounds, and other names, and less history.

"Yours haven't improved either." With a well practised move, I send Jack tumbling to the other end of the bed, and I am on him before any of us has time to catch a breath. "Just make sure you cry out the right name, will you?" I nib my way down Jack's chest, amazed at how hands still remember Jack's body, and all those little places that make him moan and hiss in pleasure.

"Just make sure I'm... too far gone to say anything." Jack squirms, half fighting the hold, half surrendering to it.

"Happy to oblige." Eyes closed, I lose myself in Jack, all warmth and heat and presence and need. Blinking away the tears, I hold him close, as we both pretend we are not crying, we are not mourning, we are not wishing Ianto was with us.

Part of me is grateful for having Jack back. Part of me curses that it took the death of Ianto Jones.