Ianto/Jacque fic.
Part 8.
You've been told that your dad used to just live at The Hub, but, as far back as you can remember, you shared a two room flat. There's a den with a fold out couch for the times you had friends over, but mostly it's just you and your dad. When he isn't out hunting aliens or at the hub, that is. But the space, while a bit small, is most definitely yours. And it's home.
By the time you get home, you're wiped. This is probably the first time since the night in the sewer that you felt that you might be able to sleep. So you get changed and tidy a bit - and by 'tidy', you mean shove things behind the flags covering the storage in what was once a lower bunk of your bunk bed set - before passing out.
Thankfully, it was friday when your dad decided to come back, so you can spend the day either at home or with him. Potentially both, seeing as how you wake up to him making your favorite breakfast.
So you stumble out in your jimjams, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and glasses askew, and plop yourself down at the table. "Your tea will be ready in a sec. I was actually about to wake you," Jack says from the counter, finishing up the fixings for your tea. "I figured you could use a bit of a day off. If it wasn't a saturday, I might have actually had you stay home from school." He grins, teasing you a bit, and sets the tea, oatmeal, and toast in front of you before sitting one seat over.
"So," you say, sipping your tea, "Mental health day with the old man?"
That just makes him laugh, saying, "I'm not /that/ old!"
You grin and raise an eyebrow, saying, "Uh-huh, how long have you not-died?" You're just curious and are sort of busting on him, but the question sobers him a bit.
"You don't want to know," he replies, getting up to grab his coffee.
"Yeah," you say, "Except that I do." You frown and stab your oatmeal with the spoon he gave you, adding, "I'm sort of in the same boat, apparently... What do I have to look forward to?"
He just sighs, running a hand through his hair, a trait you got from him. "You know, most parents dread having the birds-and-the-bees talk with their kinds."
"But since when are you 'most parents'?" you ask. "Besides. The birds and the bees talk was easy for you. Not exactly shy, are you?"
He smiles slightly, saying, "Yeah... Guess I had to have something tough to make up for it." You just nod, giving him time to think.
"I'm One-Hundred and Seventy-Five," he says, coming back to sit down next to you. "Is that alright?"
You just stare at him, spoon halfway to your mouth. "Um," you say, blinking a few times, "I mean, not much I can do about it. You don't exactly pick that sort of thing." You clear your throat and put down the spoon, just letting that sink in. "My dad is one-hundred and seventy-five years old." You just nod and say, "Alright. I'm okay with that."
He smiles slightly and sits in silence with you, sipping his coffee while he lets you think of what you want to ask. Things like, "How many times have you died," "What happens when you want to have, like, money? Do we get fake identities or something every hundred years," and "Does it hurt?"
All the answers up until then he gives without a hitch, smiling by the end of explaining that it helps to work at torchwood... But then his smile falters and he says honestly, "Every time."