III.

Lisa was gone, dead and buried a month. Ianto both dreaded and yearned to return to work now that his suspension was over. It was the place where she'd died, where she'd been murdered (or saved, a voice whispered from his other shoulder), but it was also all he had. Torchwood was all he knew, and all he wanted. Starting over, moving on—it wasn't for him. Torchwood had made him what he was, so it could keep him and finish him off when it was good and ready.

He walked idly down a side street toward his flat, a small bag of groceries in his hand. It would probably be his last home cooked meal for a while, unless things had slowed down while he'd been gone. Then again, he had no reason to stay late at the Hub, no one to check on and take care of. Maybe he'd be able to leave at a decent hour when things were quiet. Maybe he could keep visiting his local, make friends, live a semi-normal life again.

Or maybe he'd stay late and work himself to exhaustion. He felt the pull, the need to do everything he possibly could to redeem himself, as well as the desperate desire to hide in the archives and sort the chaos into order alone in the dark. Because maybe his professional life would bleed over into his personal life; maybe if he could make sense of one, the other would follow.

Something caught his eye as he walked by a large glass window, and he stepped back to gaze inside. It was an antique shop, and a fairly upscale one from what he could tell. An ornate carved chair sat in the window, next to a cherry table set with old china and crystal. Behind it was a wooden coat stand, and hanging from the right hook was a very familiar looking hat. An RAF officer's cap that Ianto knew was from World War II.

He stood on the pavement and stared at it, half wanting to go inside and see it. But it was late on a Sunday afternoon and the shop was closed, and Ianto was glad. He couldn't get hung up over a hat. He wasn't kidding himself anymore that it was about his grandfather, it was definitely about Jack too—about the coat, and the hat, and the man. Of course, a part of Ianto loathed the man at that moment. It would be hard to go back to work and face him every day after what had happened the night Lisa had died. Yet at the same time, many of Ianto's feelings about Jack hadn't changed. He still respected Jack as their leader, admired him as person, and in some ways was grateful to him for not only putting Lisa out of her misery, but for not executing Ianto on the spot. None of which took into account anything he may have thought about Jack as an exceptionally handsome man with an amazing coat.

And an equally remarkable hat. Ianto remembered the night, only two months ago, when Jack had let him try it on. How ridiculous it had looked on him, and how right it had looked on Jack. How they'd enjoyed a dinner of fish and chips together along with great deal of banter and flirting. How things had changed between them after that, with gentle teasing laced with growing affection, innocent touches igniting a growing attraction. More trust, shattered in a millisecond the moment Ianto's secret had been revealed and Jack had held his gun to Ianto's head.

He hated losing Lisa, but she was gone and he was still alive. He hated losing Jack's friendship and trust because Jack wasn't gone. Ianto would have to see him the next day and every day after, and he wasn't sure he could face waking up and dragging himself to the Hub if Jack hated him. He wanted things to go back to the way they were, when Ianto had first found the hat and Jack had let him try it on. He doubted they ever would.

Staring at the grey hat in the window, Ianto sighed and turned for home. It would do him no good to worry about any of it now. The next day would bring answers. Either he would settle back into a bearable existence at Torchwood and work himself to death, or he would Retcon himself out of service. It was that simple.

Mind made up, Ianto also decided that whatever happened, he would return to the shop later in the week to purchase the hat. It would be a reminder to him. Of what, he wasn't sure, but he felt inexplicably tied to the old hat and all it seemed to symbolize.


He never went back for the hat.


Author's Note:

A short one, I know. Such is the nature of short scenes like these.