VIII.
It was late at night, and the world was asleep, dreaming of a better future, safe from aliens and politics. The building before him was dark and silent as the occupants slept peacefully, all except one, the one who would never return. The man on the street gazed at the top right window, working himself up to entering one last time.
He didn't sleep, not anymore. When he closed his eyes, all he saw were the faces of the dead, staring at him with angry eyes, silently accusing him. So many, dead and gone because of him. Which was why he was leaving as well.
Quietly entering the building, he let himself into the flat with his key. The key he'd been given after a flippant remark, a key he'd none-the-less treasured for the invitation it had extended and the trust implicit in that invitation. It hadn't been just a key for the flat, but another step into the occupant's life. He'd accepted the gesture, and they'd celebrated as they usually did, with amazing sex. And then they'd quickly fallen into a comfortable sort of domesticity: cooking meals together, watching movies, occasionally sleeping in. Many if not most of his personal belongings were still in the flat; though he'd lost a lot at the Hub, what really mattered was still waiting for him here.
He stood at the threshold in the dark, unable to move forward, unable to even breathe for a moment. The loss hit him all over again, that Ianto was dead, gone forever. And that it was his fault. Always his fault. Tosh, Owen, Steven, Ianto.
Stuffing a fist into his mouth, Jack stifled his sobs, then steeled himself to keep going. He needed to do this, and he needed to do it alone. Gwen had offered to come with him, had even suggested perhaps Ianto's sister might help, but this was his fault, his job, and his chance to say goodbye. He would do it himself, no matter the cost. He owed it to Ianto.
He moved first to the kitchen, to begin with the easiest task, clearing out the pantry. Bin it all and not worry about ever eating breakfast with Ianto again, or cooking dinner, or sharing a pizza at the counter at two in the morning. But to his surprise the kitchen had already been cleared. There wasn't even any coffee, and Jack fought back tears once more as he realized that he'd never share another cup with Ianto. Not here, not at the Hub, not anywhere.
There was a note on the counter from Ianto's sister, Rhiannon. It was addressed to him.
Captain Harkness,
I went ahead and cleaned out the food since Ms. Cooper said it might be a while before you returned. Please call when it's time to do the rest. I didn't feel right going through the flat when so much might be yours. I know my brother cared about you, and that he died doing what he believed in, by your side. If you need anything, you come over and stay with us.
Rhiannon Davies
Crumpling up the note, Jack stuffed it in his pocket and glanced around. He wanted to keep the coffeemaker, but what would he do with it? He couldn't make half the cup that Ianto could anyway. Yet it been important to them both, and maybe someday he could learn. While normally the entire life of a Torchwood agent was placed in storage after their death, Jack didn't see the need anymore; Torchwood was gone. What use was there for dishes and toasters and hoovers in storage? He'd keep only what he wanted personally, along with any sensitive Torchwood materials. The rest could go to Ianto's sister. So he set aside the coffee maker, and their favorite mugs, and the ridiculous apron Jack had often worn to make spaghetti Bolognese.
He moved to the living room, glancing around and once again feeling the hot tears in his eyes. Wiping them away, he stalked out to the car he'd hired from London and grabbed several boxes from the trunk. Staring at the sky, he took several deep breaths before going back in. He could do this; he had to.
Opening the boxes, he first packed away the few items he'd taken from the kitchen, then began on the living room. Ianto's favorite Bond movie, a few cds, several pictures of his family, of Lisa, of Jack and the team. The shabby pillow from the sofa, a blanket that still smelled faintly of Ianto. A bottle of scotch that they'd shared the night before the children had all stopped and had left on the table.
Three boxes so far, and Jack didn't even know where he'd put them. The Hub was destroyed, and he didn't want Ianto's life lost in a locker somewhere. Maybe Gwen would keep it, until Jack knew what to do with it. Taking a deep breath, he moved toward the bedroom.
It was exactly as they had left it the morning they'd rushed out to retrieve the alien hitchhiker from the hospital. Rumpled sheets and pillows, clothes draped on a chair, the dresser a collection of cufflinks and books and other miscellaneous detritus of their life together. Jack stared at it, his heart pounding, unable to step inside. He couldn't. He would never share the bed with Ianto again, never fall into it together, wake up wrapped in each other's arms. Ianto would never complain about the mess again, never join him in the shower, never kiss him good night or good morning.
What did he keep, what did he let go? He didn't even know where to start, until his eyes came to rest on the closet. He hurried over and opened the door, the organized line of Ianto's suits greeting him from the dark depths of despair. The tears fell freely now, why hold them back? This was worse than anything yet, clean-cut suits with no man to fill them. Jack reached first for the tie rack, taking each one and letting them run through his hands…the blue and grey one, the black and red one, the one that he wore with the pink shirt, the one Jack had bought him, the one they'd appropriated for other activities…
And there on the top shelf, a hat.
Two hats.
A red beret, a grey RAF cap. Side by side. Jack vividly remembered the last time they'd worn them. It had taken Ianto a while to warm up to the idea, but once he'd realized how much fun a bit of roleplay could be, he'd thrown himself into it, like he had everything else in his life. And it had been fun—good, old-fashioned fun. Hot and filled with laughs, which was how Jack wanted to remember Ianto. Not the pain and heartache that had plagued so much of their relationship, but the good times, moments of laughter and hope, love and affection. It some ways, it had started with the hat.
Jack took them down carefully, slowly. He ran his finger along the red beret, remembering how it had looked so perfect perched on Ianto's dark hair. With a sad smile, Jack placed the beret on his own head and gazed in the mirror above the dresser. He almost didn't recognize himself. The red washed him out, leaving the dark circles under his dull eyes even more prominent. With a sad sigh, he went back to his task, leaving the other hat for last. He saved ties and books and cufflinks. A suit, Ianto's own box of mementos, their favorite set of sheets. Some toys, another photo, Ianto's aftershave. And Ianto's diary, which he certainly couldn't open now, not without breaking down completely. He'd read it another day, keep it for a thousand years.
As he made his way through the flat one last time, Jack allowed himself to feel everything all over again: grief, loss, pain, anger. He shouted, he cursed, he cried, he kicked the chair, punched the wall. He wanted to purge all the pain and heartache and leave it behind, carry only the good memories with him. Their short time together, packed into six boxes of his life with Ianto Jones.
He thought about leaving the RAF cap. Perhaps for Ianto's sister, but she wouldn't understand the significance of it. He could give it to Gwen, but she wouldn't understand either, and she'd badger him to explain something that Jack could never tell her. He could donate it, but it was an important part of his life, and he didn't want to think of it being used as a costume prop.
In the end, he decided to keep it with him, as a tangible and sentimental reminder of his life with Ianto. He set the red beret on top of some of Ianto's ties and taped the last box shut, then took them to the car and returned to the flat to say his last goodbye. Ianto's presence surrounded him, and it was all he could do to not collapse from the overwhelming grief. How could he stay here, without him? What was the point?
There was none. It was over. Ianto was gone, and Jack was leaving.
It was time to start a new life, in a new place, with new people, and perhaps someday, a new hat.
Author's Note:
I apologize for the exceptionally late update. I must confess that I wrote this months and months ago, but it was too sad for me to edit. And then it was too sad for me to post…at least, not without an epilogue. Stay tuned. The story of the hat is not quite over. Thank you for still reading!
