A/N:

The Muses continue to dance in my head… although realistically, I did need to wrap up Kutner's funeral...

Important Note: I've altered my original timeline for this story slightly (originally this was set BEFORE my story Reunion, but what I realized is that it should probably take place after because of the nature of the events of CoE… and no, I haven't seen it yet, I'm just assuming it's pretty big.)

I did break my promise to myself and read just a few tiny spoiler threads on one of the Doctor Who lists I'm on (no, no spoilers here, just the personally very surprised comment that the reception for CoE, at least on that particular list, has been truly dreadful, they hated it, which seems at odds with other things I've heard... unfortunately, the link sent by the very kind reader didn't come through. FF zaps out external links on offical communications... but it's just a few more days now. The only reason I'd consider watching it "early" is to see the whole thing in one go!)


Chapter Six

"One owes respect to the Living.
To the Dead, one owes only Truth."

Voltaire


Bobby found his former boss in the latter's office, staring at the whiteboard on which he'd jotted down every conceivable reason he could think of for one person to kill another. It was the whiteboard he usually used to write down symptoms, a habit Bobby had picked up and taken with him to Cardiff.

"It wasn't murder, you know," the Australian said. He was dressed in a black suit, dark tie, pastel shirt. Dress shoes. "Kutner…"

"I know," House cut him off. "The idiot shot himself."

Bobby crossed the distance between them and perched himself on the edge of the other man's desk. "Are you coming to the funeral?"

"No. And don't they use chairs in Cardiff? Or are the Welsh just that uncivilized?"

He chuckled. "Wales is a perfectly civilized country, thank you." He picked up the small rubber ball House kept on his desk and began tossing it lightly up into the air and catching it.

House snatched it away. "Get your own."

"Maybe I will," he smirked. Although on second thought, he wondered if it was too small, a possible choking hazard to Torchwood's pet pterodactyl, because goodness knew that dinosaur had no concept of 'not yours'. The last time he'd cleaned out her alcove, Bobby found one of Jack's shoes, a tie of Ianto's that had gone missing when he still lived in the Hub, and two deflated basket balls. Myfanwy was more like a bloody magpie than flying reptile… not that dinosaurs were really exactly reptiles… "So why aren't you going to the funeral?" he asked, rather than spend any more time contemplating the Hub's pet.

"Funerals make me cranky."

The younger man rolled his eyes. Truthfully, he hadn't expected House to attend, he just wondered what his excuse was going to be. "How's your patient?"

"Dying. Both of them," he said, slamming the ball hard against the wall…it ricocheted off and he caught it. Realized how hard he'd thrown it. House landed his next hit a little lighter. He wasn't used to losing. They'd diagnosed the wife, but it was too late to reverse her condition. The husband had always been dying, he just did it a little slower for a few days.

"I'm sorry," Bobby told him with sincerity.

House shrugged. "You win some, you lose some."

"Still, you lost three in one week—"

"Kutner wasn't my patient. He wasn't my friend, either—Bobby," he informed the blond, popping the 'b's deliberately.

It didn't faze him. "Yes he was. You said it yourself, you saw him every day—"

"That doesn't mean I feel guilty for him killing himself," House cut him off, his tone bitter.

"I never said it did. Or that it should." He got up. "A couple of us are going out for drinks later. Wanna come?"

"No," said House, but they both knew he would show up anyway. It would be his last chance to attempt to pump his former colleague for more information about his job with Torchwood. Tomorrow Bobby and Wendy were headed back to Cardiff.


Tim McGee glanced at the woman sitting in the seat next to him, engrossed in a graphic novel she'd borrowed from Jack. He smiled. They were flying business class from Cardiff to D.C.—and he had a flock of pterodactyls flapping around in his gut over the trip.

It wasn't flying. It wasn't even the nagging fear that aliens would descend on Cardiff while four of the team were on the other side of the Atlantic—besides Bobby and Wendy would be back late tomorrow, he reminded himself. What could possibly happen in…he glanced at his watch...in just a little over twenty four hours? Jack, Ianto, Mickey, Sara and Gwen could man the Hub and manage 'Rift gifts' for that long on their own, even if Ianto was still officially on family leave and Gwen was on light duty owing to being pregnant again. Jack had done it with only three other people for almost three whole years before signing Ianto and then Gwen onto his team. Torchwood and Cardiff would be fine for a few days without him and Abby. (He knew how he sounded, even to himself, but really, what could possibly happen in twenty four hours? And even something did happen, they could be back in less than a day.)

It was time to think about something else.

Mrs. Abigail McGee… or would she keep her last name? Abby McGee didn't have quite the same ring to it as Abby Scuito, that was for sure. She didn't even look like somebody who should be called Missus anything, but McGee? She didn't look like a McGee. Maybe she'd do like Gwen and Ianto, both of whom had adopted their respective spouses' surnames officially (although in the Welshman's case, he'd hyphenated), even if unofficially they usually used their own original names. He had to admit, introducing oneself as Ianto Jones-Harkness was a bit of a mouthful at parties… or at least that was what Ianto said. Jack didn't seem to mind that his partner usually just used 'Jones'. If Jack didn't mind, he shouldn't mind, either, he decided. Abby could call herself whatever she wanted to.

"What?" she asked suddenly, glaring over at him. "Is my eyeliner smeared or something? Do I have gunk on my shirt?" she demanded.

"No! No, of course not, you look beautiful."

"Of course I do," she informed him with a playful grin. They were mid-way between Cardiff and Washington D.C., flying over the Atlantic, not that anyone could see the ocean for the heavy cloud cover. "You're still not being all weird about me wanting to meet Henry are you?" she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. She hadn't really been serious about dropping in on Jack's friend while they were in the states—Toronto wasn't really that close to D.C., it was just closer than Cardiff. And anyway, she'd told Timmy a million times there was no reason for him to be jealous. She loved Henry Fitzroy's writing, his art—she'd loved his work long before she knew he and Jack used to have a thing (and what a sexy picture that painted in her mind!) But she wasn't about to make a play for the guy, even after finding out that he was a real live vampire. Or…real dead vampire… real undead vampire?

"No," Tim lied, "I'm not being 'weird'." He sounded defensive even to himself. "I just… I wonder what the fascination is, that's all."

"Timmy!" she looked around. The cabin wasn't exactly crowded, but still… she lowered her voice. "He was almost the Crown Prince of England!"

"Yeah. Almost. He 'died', remember?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "Why don't you work on your book or something? Don't you have a deadline to meet?"

"Actually," he squirmed nervously in his seat. "Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you," he said quickly, as if he was afraid that if he didn't say it now, he might chicken out and never broach whatever subject he wanted to broach with her.

Abby's eyes narrowed at him again. "What?" she wanted to know.

"It's just… I was wondering… I mean… I just… I'm not saying…that is, I just wondered… I just thought we should talk about…"

"Timothy!"

He took a deep breath and let it out. He hadn't been this nervous when he'd asked her to marry him. "How do you feel about children?"

She gave over a quizzical look. "I love kids! You know that! I love sitting for RJ," she reminded him. RJ was Gwen and Rhys's eleven month old. Usually one of the grandparents was available, but every once in a while it was Auntie Abby to the rescue. The last time she'd had RJ, they spent the entire afternoon finger painting…so what if some of it was directly onto the walls? It was art. "And you know I adore both Jason and Seren," she added. She'd never babysat for either, Sara lived closer, but she liked Jack's son and who wouldn't love Jack and Ianto's four month old? But boy is she going to be a handful when she gets older… Earth of the twenty first century really wasn't equipped for children fathered by a man from the fifty first century…

"No," Timmy was saying, looking as confused as she felt by the whole conversation. "What I meant was, how do you feel about your children?"

"I don't—oh." Abby turned away from him for a moment, chewing on her lower lip.

Tim swallowed. "I just… I was wondering… I mean… I'm not saying I want—"

"You would make a fantastic father, Timothy," she told him in a tone too forceful to be ignored. "And I want kids, I really do—I always have. It's just…this job, you know?" she turned to face him again, green eyes wide. "The chances of even one of us living long enough to see our own children graduate from high school…" she shook her head. They both knew the odds. Tim had read the old files in the archives, she'd seen the database. The average Torchwood field operative lived five, maybe six years on the job. Granted, Jack was doing everything he could to improve those statistics, but… "Gwen has Rhys," Abby told him. "Her children will have their father, even if—when—something happens to her. Ianto has Jack. No matter what, Seren will always have her papa. The only way… there is no way I'm quitting my job, Timothy McGee. There's no way you're quitting either. If Jack has to recon you, I might have to kill him. Twice."

"Jack wouldn't have to—!"

"Yes he would. It would be the only way to get you to quit for real and you know it."

He nodded. She was right. He would never reveal Torchwood's existence, its secrets, but he could never walk away from his job, either. He couldn't watch her go to work every day while he sat home and played Mr Mom any more than Ianto could quit, even though they all knew how much Jack wanted him to.

"Abbs, I'm sorry. I—" he hadn't realized she'd already thought about all of it already. Him. Her. Them. Kids. She had already considered what it would mean to bring a child into their lives and she'd made the logical choice.

She waved aside his apology. "I'm happy being 'Auntie Abby'," she told him in a tone he recognized as forced. She wasn't happy, but she was willing to accept her own decision.

Tim reached over and took her hand into his. "I love you."

She grinned. It wasn't forced. "I love you too. Now go work on your book or something and let me read."

He leant over and feathered a soft kiss onto her cheek before digging his notebook out from his carryon bag. Across from them, a little girl looked up and smiled. Tim smiled back. He supposed Abby was right. Neither of them would realistically live long enough to see a child of theirs grow up...


A/N:

There really is an NCIS episode where Abby says she wants children.