The Life You'll Never Have
Title: The Life You'll Never Have
Author: crystalshard
Rating: PG
Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Jack/OC, Owen/OC, Owen/Tosh, Ianto/Lisa, Gwen/Rhys
Warnings: Spoilers up until 2x07, Dead Man Walking.
Summary: A piece of alien tech causes the Torchwood team to dream of the lives that they could have had.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood, it belongs to the BBC.
A/N: Many, many thanks to my wonderful betas jadesfire2808 and miss_zedem, who never let me get away with anything.
Many thanks to laurab1 for making this gorgeous piece of artwork for me.
On a deserted Cardiff back street, a small patch of air glowed white. It hesitated for a moment, then spat a round lump out into the evening drizzle. As if offended by the weather, the light disappeared as swiftly as it had arrived.
* * *
"The tracker says that there's traces of Rift energy somewhere around here." Through the rain, Jack could see Tosh as she fiddled with the scanner for a moment, evidently hoping to get more definition out of it. "It's somewhere within a three-metre radius. Sorry, guys."
"It's great, Tosh. I know you're still fine-tuning that thing," Jack reassured her. "At least it's fairly flat around here. No need to check whether it landed on a - window sill, or something." Jack shied away at the last moment from mentioning roofs. No need to bring that ill-fated search back to Tosh and Ianto's memories. From the ironic look that Ianto gave him, the other man had caught the substitution, but Jack doubted he'd mention it.
The darkness made it harder to see, but their torches were good ones. The powerful beams criss-crossed each other as the three searchers tried to find the object that Tosh's scanner had picked up.
It wasn't long before Jack heard Ianto's triumphant cry. "Got it!" Ianto straightened up from his crouch, holding out the object. It looked like a seamless beanbag about the size of his hand, covered in fine grey scales that were almost the exact colour of the cobblestones. No wonder they'd missed it at first.
Tosh held out her hand for it, cradling it in her palm as she ran the scanner over it. "That's strange," she muttered, almost to herself. "The scanner can't decide whether it's organic or technological. Seems safe, though. No explosives, no electromagnetic signals, no poisons or corrosives. There's a tiny bit of hydrochloric acid in it, but the concentration isn't strong enough to cause serious damage. Still, organic technology? We don't see this kind of thing too often." Her eyes were alight, and Jack suspected that she couldn't wait to take it apart. "Energy reading just fluctuated - look!"
The two men looked as directed at the beanbag in Tosh's hand, watching in fascination as it slowly turned the precise shade of her skin.
* * *
"Did you get it?" was Gwen's first excited question as the rain-bedraggled trio stepped into the Hub. Jack grinned and threw the beanbag to her as Owen climbed the stairs from the autopsy room. "Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present the Chameleon Pod. Guesses are still being taken as to what it does. Gwen, Owen, any ideas?"
"It's soft," Gwen said in surprise. "Oh, that's strange . . . ah, a child's toy, maybe?"
"Could be experimental," Owen suggested as he watched the beanbag change colour again. "You know, a test to see if the chameleon thing works."
"Could be either," Jack admitted. "Owen, run some tests on it first thing tomorrow. See what you can find out. Tosh's scanner thinks that it's organic technology."
"Work that doesn't involve slicing up dead aliens. What a nice change," Owen said dryly, snatching the pod out of Gwen's hands. "Ianto, can you find me a secure storage container? Don't want this thing waking up in the night and causing havoc."
* * *
Later that night in the all but deserted Hub, the box on Owen's work bench began glowing with a strange amber light. If anyone had opened the box, they would have seen that the light came from the silvery pod inside - a pod that apparently had no intentions of remaining in its current shape. It seemed to be metamorphosing into a tiny golden tree, with five branches twisting out from the main trunk. The branches shivered in the non-existent wind, seeming to reach for something intangible.
In his bunk below his office, Jack moved restlessly in his sleep.
* * *
Jack's key clicked in the lock of his flat and he ducked inside, escaping the driving rain that seemed determined to drown most of Cardiff. The smell of cooking hit him, and he sniffed appreciatively as he closed the door behind him. "I'm home," he called into the warmly lit flat.
"Hi, Jack." His partner emerged from the kitchen with a towel and threw it at him, smiling. "How was work?"
Jack mopped at his sodden hair with the towel. "Oh, not too bad. We got a call about a few Weevils down by the docks, but other than that . . ." He shrugged.
"No apocalypses? No end-of-the-world scenarios? No threatened invasions?" His partner chuckled. "You're slipping."
"Hey!" Jack feigned indignation long enough to reach out and pull his lover into his arms. The towel fell unheeded to the floor. "Not everything we encounter could bring about the end of the human race."
Jack tilted his head down and was met with a quick peck on the lips. "Well, that's a relief," his other half teased.
Jack stole a kiss in return, then turned a hopeful look at the kitchen door. "Is that lasagne I smell?"
"Yes, it is. It should be nearly ready." Amusement lit his partner's eyes. "It'll be nice and hot. You need warming up."
"I can think of a few more ways to do that," Jack suggested slyly as he allowed himself to be led to the kitchen.
* * *
Jack awoke, panting. The dream had been so vivid, so real - he could still smell the lasagne that had been cooking, although he couldn't remember the face of . . . whoever it had been. He couldn't even remember the figure's gender, and bodies were something he usually appreciated immediately.
For a brief moment, he wished that he could have that life. Someone to come home to, someone who understood Torchwood but was outside of it. He never could, of course. He'd never willingly put anyone in that kind of danger.
If Jack could have seen the tree, he would have noticed that hanging from one branch was a clear jewel that hadn't been there moments ago.
* * *
Sitting amidst an ocean of music and light in his flat, Owen sat still, his eyes wide open, drinking in the flickering, silent images on his TV. He didn't sleep now that he was dead. As he'd told Tosh, even closing his eyes reminded him of the blackness.
He wished it was summer, so that the sun would rise earlier. Of course, he couldn't feel the sun's warmth any more, but he could remember a pale echo of its touch. Staring up at the ceiling, he imagined the summer.
* * *
Owen raised his head stiffly, enjoying the summer sunshine that beat down on Bute Park. His seat on one of the park benches gave him a good view of the young children whizzing by on their hoverboards. It was something that always made Owen smile, as he was possibly one of the few people in the world who really knew where that technology had come from.
His watch vibrated against his skin in a discreet pattern, and he sighed. Time to go. Groping for his walking stick with a withered hand, he didn't notice the figure sit down next to him until the person spoke.
"Still here, Owen?"
"I like Cardiff, all right?" Owen growled. "Just because you couldn't wait to get out of here, Jack, doesn't mean that we all think like you." He waited a beat, then added, "Besides, the grandkids like to see Grandpa Owen."
"Great-grandkids too, I hear."
Owen looked sideways at Jack, who seemed to have finally given up on the Air-Force-greatcoat-and-braces ensemble in favour of more contemporary dress. The man didn't look a day older, damn him.
"Congratulations, by the way," Jack added.
"Huh." Owen refused to be drawn out. "What're you doing here, Jack?"
Jack shrugged. "Checking up on my old teams from Torchwood."
That wouldn't be the full answer, of course. With Jack, it never was. "Right. Well. Now you've seen me."
Jack gave him a look then, the one that Owen still couldn't decipher after all his long life. "Right. Oh, and Owen? Happy eighty-fourth birthday."
And then Jack was gone.
* * *
Owen's eyes snapped open. He didn't remember closing them, and that unnerved him. He was fairly sure that walking dead men didn't get hallucinations.
A second gem grew, sparkling softly in the amber light.
* * *
In her double bed, Tosh reached up to the reading light on the wall and switched it off. Reading was fine, really it was, but it didn't take away the loneliness. She shut her eyes firmly, hoping to lose herself in the arms of sleep.
* * *
The two computer-generated translations scrolled across side-by-side on Tosh's monitor, and she frowned at them. If one was accurate, it was a poem about someone standing on a road. If the other, it was a list of troop movements. It could be both, or neither. Perhaps a fresh pair of eyes would see things more clearly.
She tapped the intercom button that went to her outside office. "Janine, I need to ask you a few things."
"Yes, Sato-san," the girl answered promptly. Tosh smiled as the connection clicked off. Janine was a recent university graduate, recruited to the newly built Torchwood One less than six months ago. She'd insisted on using the Japanese honorific ever since Tosh had welcomed her into her department, and truth be told, Tosh liked to hear it. Even after years heading the Translation and Communication section in London, Tosh still enjoyed the echoes of her childhood language.
The door swished open, and Tosh looked up to see Janine. Tosh scooted aside in her chair and pointed at the monitor. "Janine. Good. What do you make of this?"
As the girl compared the scrolling translations against the original text, Tosh's desk phone rang. Tosh grinned as the caller display lit up, gesturing to Janine to continue with the translations as she reached for the phone.
"Hello, Owen," she said lightly, her eyes tracking Janine's progress as the young woman highlighted sections of the alien text.
"Hi, Tosh. Look, you didn't really want to go to that restaurant, right? We could get pizza instead. Rent a film. You know, have a quiet night in."
"I take it you couldn't get a reservation, then?" Tosh inquired, amused. This was the third year running that Owen had tried to book at the last minute.
"Packed solid." Owen sounded disgruntled. "Bloody typical."
"Pizza sounds fine," Tosh told him, hoping that Owen couldn't hear the grin that was stretching her mouth.
In front of her, Janine gave a quiet exclamation of triumph. Tosh peered at what Janine had done to the text, and her eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. Five languages, using a common alphabet, not just one. Five.
"Owen, I'll have to call you back. I think we just found the alien equivalent of the Rosetta Stone." Tosh pressed the disconnect button before Owen had a chance to reply, and leaned forward avidly.
Several hours later, Owen turned up with pizza. "Hey, Tosh. Figured you'd be hungry."
"Owen, you're a lifesaver," Tosh said gratefully, leaving the cluster of eager exolinguists huddled around the main screen.
"Only for you would I fight my way past your braniacs at this kind of hour," Owen informed her, leaning forward to kiss her briefly. "Good thing I didn't get that reservation, though. We'd have missed it anyway."
Tosh threw a guilty look at the clock, then laughed. "Very true."
* * *
"Owen?" Tosh muttered sleepily as she blinked her eyes open. The light of her alarm clock caught her gaze, and she realised that it was barely an hour later. She was still alone in her bed, and Owen was still a walking dead man. Oh.
She pressed her face to the pillow, ignoring its increasing dampness.
Three gems now, reflecting hints of red, yellow and purple light.
* * *
Something thumped into Ianto's door, and he tensed.
A childish giggle, muffled by the walls, came to his ears, and he relaxed. Getting up, Ianto opened the door that led into the corridor outside, well-lit even at this hour of the night. He had to leap aside as a red-haired ball of lighting streaked past him. Grabbing his keys, Ianto chuckled.
"Bit late for you to be up, Benny," he called into his flat.
A two-year-old boy peeked out from behind the bathroom door, grinning as if it was all a huge joke. "Mam thinks I'm asleep," he said gleefully.
"But you wanted to stay up, right?" Ianto grinned back. "Used to do the same thing myself. My mam said I was a little terror."
"Yeah. I'm not tired!" This statement was spoiled a minute later by a huge yawn from the little boy.
Ianto smiled again and crouched down. "C'mon, Benny. I'd better take you back to your mam before she starts worrying about where you are." He scooped the tired child up with minimal protests from the boy, then carried him back to the door of his mother's flat.
Benny's mother answered the first knock on the door. "Oh, Ianto, thank you," she said with relief. "I'd just gone to check on him, and when I found him gone . . ."
"Well, no harm done," Ianto said easily as he passed the warm little body back to his mother. "See you later, Julie."
"Thanks again, Ianto," Julie said gratefully.
Back in his flat, with the door locked against any more late-night intruders, Ianto let out a yawn of his own. Suddenly feeling too tired to make it to his bedroom, he managed to make it as far as the sofa before he fell asleep.
* * *
"That right, Darren. Come to Daddy," Ianto coaxed, his knees beginning to ache from kneeling on the hardwood floor of the living room in their London flat. He should have pulled a cushion off the sofa next to him to kneel on.
At the other end of the sofa, Lisa was holding their son upright. Darren's little face had an expression of childish determination on it as he stumbled away from his mother's hands, his feet uncertain on the smooth floor. Ianto watched in mingled pride and worry as the little boy concentrated on this unfamiliar method of locomotion.
With a giggle of delight, Darren fell into Ianto's outstretched arms. Ianto gathered his son to him, still amazed after all this time that he and Lisa had brought a child into this world. Torchwood, aliens, spaceships and defending the British Empire all seemed secondary right now when his son was smiling at him. Darren had inherited his mother's dark hair and dark eyes, but that little smile he'd developed was all Ianto's.
"The child-minder will be here soon," Lisa reminded him softly, bringing his attention back to the outside world.
Ianto sighed and got to his feet, picking up Darren as he did so. "I know that Grace is very good at looking after Darren, but, he's our son. I just wish we could spend more time with him.
"So do I, love," Lisa told him as she stood up and walked towards them. "But Yvonne Hartman wants us both on the New Hope project. Research and Development has been working on a new power source ever since the Ghost Shift machinery failed, and it looks like New Hope won."
"Hmmm, yes. I'm a little surprised - I was betting on PALADIN being the winner, even after that, ah, setback they had."
"I think that's why they picked New Hope. It's not in danger of exploding." Lisa smiled, mischief lighting her bright brown eyes.
Ianto handed Darren over to her, smiling back. "Did I ever tell you that I love you, Mrs. Jones?"
That drew a real laugh out of her as she attempted to remove her necklace from Darren's grabby hands. "Oh, only every day, Mr. Jones."
"Nowhere near often enough." Ianto leaned over to kiss her, the mint of her toothpaste overlaying the warm, human taste of her.
The spell was broken moments later by the ring of the doorbell.
* * *
Ianto jerked awake, convinced that he'd heard a doorbell ring. But no, it was the chime of the clock striking two. The taste of mint and Lisa was still in his mouth, and for a moment the London and Cardiff flats blurred confusingly into one another. Then it was only Cardiff - a Cardiff without Lisa, without the child he'd dreamed of. He felt as if he'd lost his son, made worse by the fact that the boy had never been there in the first place.
This time, he managed to shed his clothes and make it to his abandoned bed before falling asleep again.
Four.
* * *
Gwen snuggled down with Rhys, contented and warm. Rhys was so good to her. And now she had both Rhys and Torchwood, the best of both worlds. She wasn't sure that she could give up either, but then again, she didn't have to.
Distantly wondering what the beanbag would turn out to be, she drifted into dreams.
* * *
". . . and then Andy radios in, just to hear that they caught the bloke half an hour ago! We'd been standing in the rain for half an hour, looking like right prats, all dressed up in our fluorescent jackets, and they couldn't even be bothered to tell us we weren't needed anymore. 'Sorry, Gwen, must have been a communications glitch.' Huh." Gwen took a swig of her beer, still stewing over the incident.
"Does it happen a lot?" Lindsay looked as if she was desperately trying to hold back laughter, and Beth wasn't much better off. Gwen glared at her two friends, then relented. Maybe it was a bit funny, after all.
"All the time," Gwen told Lindsay with a grin. "I sometimes wonder how anything gets done."
"Well, at least your wedding's better organised, eh?" Beth said with a shrug. "My round, girls. Same again?" Gwen and Lindsay nodded, and Beth wove her way between the rest of the pub's patrons to the bar.
Suddenly, a howl came from the direction of the men's toilets. It was followed by several thuds and crashes, and the unmistakable bang of a gun going off.
"Oh, my God." Gwen jumped up and ran in the direction of the toilets, shoving through the mass of people who were clustering around the toilets. "Let me through, I'm police," she demanded. Reluctantly, the crowd gave way.
"S'all right!" A man with a London accent slid out of the door, waving a burst party balloon. "Me mate just had a few too many. Don't worry, we'll sort him out." He frowned at the limp scrap of green rubber in his hand. "Idiot fell over one of the balloons."
The crowd dispersed, laughing good-naturedly, Gwen among them. By the time she got back to the table, Beth had returned with the drinks.
"Bit of excitement there, Gwen?" Beth asked, pushing her beer over to her.
Gwen shook her head. "Nah. Thought so, but it was just a drunk guy bursting a balloon."
Beth laughed. "Sound like gunshots, don't they? I remember when my mate Tim . . ."
Gwen let herself be caught up in Beth's story for a moment, until movement caught her eye. The Londoner was holding the front door open as two men dragged a coat-shrouded fourth to the door. She couldn't see the fourth man under the Air Force greatcoat, which had fallen so that it obscured his face, but the other two were clear enough. One was in a suit, far too smart for an evening out at the pub, and the other was wearing grey braces over his shirt. Odd. The bloke with the braces looked almost familiar.
Gwen turned with a shrug. She'd probably seen him around Cardiff or something. It didn't matter, anyway. She was here having a good time with her mates, and she was marrying Rhys in two weeks, and nothing was going to change that.
* * *
Gwen woke, panicking. It had to be a dream. Surely she couldn't have forgotten or made up something like Torchwood? She scrabbled frantically for her phone, checking through her text messages.
There. Torchwood, clear and unwavering on the screen. She hadn't lost half of her life after all.
The fifth and final jewel blossomed on its metal branch. As Gwen's loss and terror were replaced by relief, the amber light went out.
* * *
"Alien black-market technology," Jack said flatly at the meeting in the conference room the next morning. All five of them were staring at the golden tree which had formerly been the chameleon pod. Jack had placed it in the middle of the conference table, and the light winking from the jewels was almost mesmerising.
"Black-market technology?" Gwen asked in confusion. "What's so bad about it? It's pretty."
"It feeds off grief to make those jewels," Jack told her. "The commercial name for these things is 'The Tears of Skuld'. I've seen them before. We're lucky that this is a small one - I've seen ones as tall as me, covered in more gems than I could count."
"Feeds off grief? How?" Tosh asked curiously.
"It latches on to whoever touches it - makes some kind of connection that we can't detect. Then it gives you dreams that - well, different ones do different things. But the victims always feel unhappy when they wake up, as if they've lost something. Some have even driven people to suicide."
"That thing - we all touched it," Ianto said slowly. "I know that I dreamed last night. Is that why . . ."
Jack nodded. "Yes. Five gems, one for each of us. Although I'm impressed that it worked on Owen."
"Thought I was hallucinating," Owen griped, the relief underlying his words clearly audible to Jack.
"As I said, we got off lightly," Jack said grimly, recapturing the attention of his team. "Fortunately, these things are harmless once they've changed shape. Wouldn't do to give the buyers nightmares, after all. So. Ianto, secure storage, please."
* * *
"Was it Lisa?"
Ianto paused, then finished shutting the door to the safe in Jack's office. "Why do you ask?"
As Ianto turned around, he could see Jack leaning idly against his desk. "She meant a lot to you, Ianto. That doesn't go away."
"Yes. It was Lisa." Ianto swallowed. "Was that all, Jack? The main archives are . . ."
"Hey." Somehow, Jack had moved to stand in front of him without Ianto knowing. "Forget the archives. This is more important." He gently tilted Ianto's chin up with one finger, and Ianto gave in and met Jack's eyes. "She was alive again, wasn't she." It wasn't a question.
"We were married, Jack. She was alive, and we were both working for Torchwood. The Ghost Shift technology had failed. The Cybermen and the Daleks had never come through." Ianto's throat closed before he could utter the words, and we had a son.
Jack's eyes were still holding his, and looking away wasn't an option. "Those things show you a perfect future, Ianto," Jack said softly. "But those futures can't happen." He stared for a moment more, eyes flickering over Ianto's face, then dropped his hand and turned away.
"Jack." And now it was Jack turning back to him, a guarded expression on his face. "I did want that life. But if I'd had that future, I'd never have known this one." Remembering an earlier conversation in this very room, Ianto added, "And I wouldn't change it for the world."
The surprised joy in Jack's face was more than Ianto had hoped to see. The tree might have shown him an alternate possibility, but the fork in the road that would have lead to it was long past. This was the living future, and as he stepped into Jack's eager embrace, Ianto vowed that he wouldn't waste a minute of it.
Author: crystalshard
Rating: PG
Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Jack/OC, Owen/OC, Owen/Tosh, Ianto/Lisa, Gwen/Rhys
Warnings: Spoilers up until 2x07, Dead Man Walking.
Summary: A piece of alien tech causes the Torchwood team to dream of the lives that they could have had.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood, it belongs to the BBC.
A/N: Many, many thanks to my wonderful betas jadesfire2808 and miss_zedem, who never let me get away with anything.
Many thanks to laurab1 for making this gorgeous piece of artwork for me.
On a deserted Cardiff back street, a small patch of air glowed white. It hesitated for a moment, then spat a round lump out into the evening drizzle. As if offended by the weather, the light disappeared as swiftly as it had arrived.
* * *
"The tracker says that there's traces of Rift energy somewhere around here." Through the rain, Jack could see Tosh as she fiddled with the scanner for a moment, evidently hoping to get more definition out of it. "It's somewhere within a three-metre radius. Sorry, guys."
"It's great, Tosh. I know you're still fine-tuning that thing," Jack reassured her. "At least it's fairly flat around here. No need to check whether it landed on a - window sill, or something." Jack shied away at the last moment from mentioning roofs. No need to bring that ill-fated search back to Tosh and Ianto's memories. From the ironic look that Ianto gave him, the other man had caught the substitution, but Jack doubted he'd mention it.
The darkness made it harder to see, but their torches were good ones. The powerful beams criss-crossed each other as the three searchers tried to find the object that Tosh's scanner had picked up.
It wasn't long before Jack heard Ianto's triumphant cry. "Got it!" Ianto straightened up from his crouch, holding out the object. It looked like a seamless beanbag about the size of his hand, covered in fine grey scales that were almost the exact colour of the cobblestones. No wonder they'd missed it at first.
Tosh held out her hand for it, cradling it in her palm as she ran the scanner over it. "That's strange," she muttered, almost to herself. "The scanner can't decide whether it's organic or technological. Seems safe, though. No explosives, no electromagnetic signals, no poisons or corrosives. There's a tiny bit of hydrochloric acid in it, but the concentration isn't strong enough to cause serious damage. Still, organic technology? We don't see this kind of thing too often." Her eyes were alight, and Jack suspected that she couldn't wait to take it apart. "Energy reading just fluctuated - look!"
The two men looked as directed at the beanbag in Tosh's hand, watching in fascination as it slowly turned the precise shade of her skin.
* * *
"Did you get it?" was Gwen's first excited question as the rain-bedraggled trio stepped into the Hub. Jack grinned and threw the beanbag to her as Owen climbed the stairs from the autopsy room. "Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present the Chameleon Pod. Guesses are still being taken as to what it does. Gwen, Owen, any ideas?"
"It's soft," Gwen said in surprise. "Oh, that's strange . . . ah, a child's toy, maybe?"
"Could be experimental," Owen suggested as he watched the beanbag change colour again. "You know, a test to see if the chameleon thing works."
"Could be either," Jack admitted. "Owen, run some tests on it first thing tomorrow. See what you can find out. Tosh's scanner thinks that it's organic technology."
"Work that doesn't involve slicing up dead aliens. What a nice change," Owen said dryly, snatching the pod out of Gwen's hands. "Ianto, can you find me a secure storage container? Don't want this thing waking up in the night and causing havoc."
* * *
Later that night in the all but deserted Hub, the box on Owen's work bench began glowing with a strange amber light. If anyone had opened the box, they would have seen that the light came from the silvery pod inside - a pod that apparently had no intentions of remaining in its current shape. It seemed to be metamorphosing into a tiny golden tree, with five branches twisting out from the main trunk. The branches shivered in the non-existent wind, seeming to reach for something intangible.
In his bunk below his office, Jack moved restlessly in his sleep.
* * *
Jack's key clicked in the lock of his flat and he ducked inside, escaping the driving rain that seemed determined to drown most of Cardiff. The smell of cooking hit him, and he sniffed appreciatively as he closed the door behind him. "I'm home," he called into the warmly lit flat.
"Hi, Jack." His partner emerged from the kitchen with a towel and threw it at him, smiling. "How was work?"
Jack mopped at his sodden hair with the towel. "Oh, not too bad. We got a call about a few Weevils down by the docks, but other than that . . ." He shrugged.
"No apocalypses? No end-of-the-world scenarios? No threatened invasions?" His partner chuckled. "You're slipping."
"Hey!" Jack feigned indignation long enough to reach out and pull his lover into his arms. The towel fell unheeded to the floor. "Not everything we encounter could bring about the end of the human race."
Jack tilted his head down and was met with a quick peck on the lips. "Well, that's a relief," his other half teased.
Jack stole a kiss in return, then turned a hopeful look at the kitchen door. "Is that lasagne I smell?"
"Yes, it is. It should be nearly ready." Amusement lit his partner's eyes. "It'll be nice and hot. You need warming up."
"I can think of a few more ways to do that," Jack suggested slyly as he allowed himself to be led to the kitchen.
* * *
Jack awoke, panting. The dream had been so vivid, so real - he could still smell the lasagne that had been cooking, although he couldn't remember the face of . . . whoever it had been. He couldn't even remember the figure's gender, and bodies were something he usually appreciated immediately.
For a brief moment, he wished that he could have that life. Someone to come home to, someone who understood Torchwood but was outside of it. He never could, of course. He'd never willingly put anyone in that kind of danger.
If Jack could have seen the tree, he would have noticed that hanging from one branch was a clear jewel that hadn't been there moments ago.
* * *
Sitting amidst an ocean of music and light in his flat, Owen sat still, his eyes wide open, drinking in the flickering, silent images on his TV. He didn't sleep now that he was dead. As he'd told Tosh, even closing his eyes reminded him of the blackness.
He wished it was summer, so that the sun would rise earlier. Of course, he couldn't feel the sun's warmth any more, but he could remember a pale echo of its touch. Staring up at the ceiling, he imagined the summer.
* * *
Owen raised his head stiffly, enjoying the summer sunshine that beat down on Bute Park. His seat on one of the park benches gave him a good view of the young children whizzing by on their hoverboards. It was something that always made Owen smile, as he was possibly one of the few people in the world who really knew where that technology had come from.
His watch vibrated against his skin in a discreet pattern, and he sighed. Time to go. Groping for his walking stick with a withered hand, he didn't notice the figure sit down next to him until the person spoke.
"Still here, Owen?"
"I like Cardiff, all right?" Owen growled. "Just because you couldn't wait to get out of here, Jack, doesn't mean that we all think like you." He waited a beat, then added, "Besides, the grandkids like to see Grandpa Owen."
"Great-grandkids too, I hear."
Owen looked sideways at Jack, who seemed to have finally given up on the Air-Force-greatcoat-and-braces ensemble in favour of more contemporary dress. The man didn't look a day older, damn him.
"Congratulations, by the way," Jack added.
"Huh." Owen refused to be drawn out. "What're you doing here, Jack?"
Jack shrugged. "Checking up on my old teams from Torchwood."
That wouldn't be the full answer, of course. With Jack, it never was. "Right. Well. Now you've seen me."
Jack gave him a look then, the one that Owen still couldn't decipher after all his long life. "Right. Oh, and Owen? Happy eighty-fourth birthday."
And then Jack was gone.
* * *
Owen's eyes snapped open. He didn't remember closing them, and that unnerved him. He was fairly sure that walking dead men didn't get hallucinations.
A second gem grew, sparkling softly in the amber light.
* * *
In her double bed, Tosh reached up to the reading light on the wall and switched it off. Reading was fine, really it was, but it didn't take away the loneliness. She shut her eyes firmly, hoping to lose herself in the arms of sleep.
* * *
The two computer-generated translations scrolled across side-by-side on Tosh's monitor, and she frowned at them. If one was accurate, it was a poem about someone standing on a road. If the other, it was a list of troop movements. It could be both, or neither. Perhaps a fresh pair of eyes would see things more clearly.
She tapped the intercom button that went to her outside office. "Janine, I need to ask you a few things."
"Yes, Sato-san," the girl answered promptly. Tosh smiled as the connection clicked off. Janine was a recent university graduate, recruited to the newly built Torchwood One less than six months ago. She'd insisted on using the Japanese honorific ever since Tosh had welcomed her into her department, and truth be told, Tosh liked to hear it. Even after years heading the Translation and Communication section in London, Tosh still enjoyed the echoes of her childhood language.
The door swished open, and Tosh looked up to see Janine. Tosh scooted aside in her chair and pointed at the monitor. "Janine. Good. What do you make of this?"
As the girl compared the scrolling translations against the original text, Tosh's desk phone rang. Tosh grinned as the caller display lit up, gesturing to Janine to continue with the translations as she reached for the phone.
"Hello, Owen," she said lightly, her eyes tracking Janine's progress as the young woman highlighted sections of the alien text.
"Hi, Tosh. Look, you didn't really want to go to that restaurant, right? We could get pizza instead. Rent a film. You know, have a quiet night in."
"I take it you couldn't get a reservation, then?" Tosh inquired, amused. This was the third year running that Owen had tried to book at the last minute.
"Packed solid." Owen sounded disgruntled. "Bloody typical."
"Pizza sounds fine," Tosh told him, hoping that Owen couldn't hear the grin that was stretching her mouth.
In front of her, Janine gave a quiet exclamation of triumph. Tosh peered at what Janine had done to the text, and her eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. Five languages, using a common alphabet, not just one. Five.
"Owen, I'll have to call you back. I think we just found the alien equivalent of the Rosetta Stone." Tosh pressed the disconnect button before Owen had a chance to reply, and leaned forward avidly.
Several hours later, Owen turned up with pizza. "Hey, Tosh. Figured you'd be hungry."
"Owen, you're a lifesaver," Tosh said gratefully, leaving the cluster of eager exolinguists huddled around the main screen.
"Only for you would I fight my way past your braniacs at this kind of hour," Owen informed her, leaning forward to kiss her briefly. "Good thing I didn't get that reservation, though. We'd have missed it anyway."
Tosh threw a guilty look at the clock, then laughed. "Very true."
* * *
"Owen?" Tosh muttered sleepily as she blinked her eyes open. The light of her alarm clock caught her gaze, and she realised that it was barely an hour later. She was still alone in her bed, and Owen was still a walking dead man. Oh.
She pressed her face to the pillow, ignoring its increasing dampness.
Three gems now, reflecting hints of red, yellow and purple light.
* * *
Something thumped into Ianto's door, and he tensed.
A childish giggle, muffled by the walls, came to his ears, and he relaxed. Getting up, Ianto opened the door that led into the corridor outside, well-lit even at this hour of the night. He had to leap aside as a red-haired ball of lighting streaked past him. Grabbing his keys, Ianto chuckled.
"Bit late for you to be up, Benny," he called into his flat.
A two-year-old boy peeked out from behind the bathroom door, grinning as if it was all a huge joke. "Mam thinks I'm asleep," he said gleefully.
"But you wanted to stay up, right?" Ianto grinned back. "Used to do the same thing myself. My mam said I was a little terror."
"Yeah. I'm not tired!" This statement was spoiled a minute later by a huge yawn from the little boy.
Ianto smiled again and crouched down. "C'mon, Benny. I'd better take you back to your mam before she starts worrying about where you are." He scooped the tired child up with minimal protests from the boy, then carried him back to the door of his mother's flat.
Benny's mother answered the first knock on the door. "Oh, Ianto, thank you," she said with relief. "I'd just gone to check on him, and when I found him gone . . ."
"Well, no harm done," Ianto said easily as he passed the warm little body back to his mother. "See you later, Julie."
"Thanks again, Ianto," Julie said gratefully.
Back in his flat, with the door locked against any more late-night intruders, Ianto let out a yawn of his own. Suddenly feeling too tired to make it to his bedroom, he managed to make it as far as the sofa before he fell asleep.
* * *
"That right, Darren. Come to Daddy," Ianto coaxed, his knees beginning to ache from kneeling on the hardwood floor of the living room in their London flat. He should have pulled a cushion off the sofa next to him to kneel on.
At the other end of the sofa, Lisa was holding their son upright. Darren's little face had an expression of childish determination on it as he stumbled away from his mother's hands, his feet uncertain on the smooth floor. Ianto watched in mingled pride and worry as the little boy concentrated on this unfamiliar method of locomotion.
With a giggle of delight, Darren fell into Ianto's outstretched arms. Ianto gathered his son to him, still amazed after all this time that he and Lisa had brought a child into this world. Torchwood, aliens, spaceships and defending the British Empire all seemed secondary right now when his son was smiling at him. Darren had inherited his mother's dark hair and dark eyes, but that little smile he'd developed was all Ianto's.
"The child-minder will be here soon," Lisa reminded him softly, bringing his attention back to the outside world.
Ianto sighed and got to his feet, picking up Darren as he did so. "I know that Grace is very good at looking after Darren, but, he's our son. I just wish we could spend more time with him.
"So do I, love," Lisa told him as she stood up and walked towards them. "But Yvonne Hartman wants us both on the New Hope project. Research and Development has been working on a new power source ever since the Ghost Shift machinery failed, and it looks like New Hope won."
"Hmmm, yes. I'm a little surprised - I was betting on PALADIN being the winner, even after that, ah, setback they had."
"I think that's why they picked New Hope. It's not in danger of exploding." Lisa smiled, mischief lighting her bright brown eyes.
Ianto handed Darren over to her, smiling back. "Did I ever tell you that I love you, Mrs. Jones?"
That drew a real laugh out of her as she attempted to remove her necklace from Darren's grabby hands. "Oh, only every day, Mr. Jones."
"Nowhere near often enough." Ianto leaned over to kiss her, the mint of her toothpaste overlaying the warm, human taste of her.
The spell was broken moments later by the ring of the doorbell.
* * *
Ianto jerked awake, convinced that he'd heard a doorbell ring. But no, it was the chime of the clock striking two. The taste of mint and Lisa was still in his mouth, and for a moment the London and Cardiff flats blurred confusingly into one another. Then it was only Cardiff - a Cardiff without Lisa, without the child he'd dreamed of. He felt as if he'd lost his son, made worse by the fact that the boy had never been there in the first place.
This time, he managed to shed his clothes and make it to his abandoned bed before falling asleep again.
Four.
* * *
Gwen snuggled down with Rhys, contented and warm. Rhys was so good to her. And now she had both Rhys and Torchwood, the best of both worlds. She wasn't sure that she could give up either, but then again, she didn't have to.
Distantly wondering what the beanbag would turn out to be, she drifted into dreams.
* * *
". . . and then Andy radios in, just to hear that they caught the bloke half an hour ago! We'd been standing in the rain for half an hour, looking like right prats, all dressed up in our fluorescent jackets, and they couldn't even be bothered to tell us we weren't needed anymore. 'Sorry, Gwen, must have been a communications glitch.' Huh." Gwen took a swig of her beer, still stewing over the incident.
"Does it happen a lot?" Lindsay looked as if she was desperately trying to hold back laughter, and Beth wasn't much better off. Gwen glared at her two friends, then relented. Maybe it was a bit funny, after all.
"All the time," Gwen told Lindsay with a grin. "I sometimes wonder how anything gets done."
"Well, at least your wedding's better organised, eh?" Beth said with a shrug. "My round, girls. Same again?" Gwen and Lindsay nodded, and Beth wove her way between the rest of the pub's patrons to the bar.
Suddenly, a howl came from the direction of the men's toilets. It was followed by several thuds and crashes, and the unmistakable bang of a gun going off.
"Oh, my God." Gwen jumped up and ran in the direction of the toilets, shoving through the mass of people who were clustering around the toilets. "Let me through, I'm police," she demanded. Reluctantly, the crowd gave way.
"S'all right!" A man with a London accent slid out of the door, waving a burst party balloon. "Me mate just had a few too many. Don't worry, we'll sort him out." He frowned at the limp scrap of green rubber in his hand. "Idiot fell over one of the balloons."
The crowd dispersed, laughing good-naturedly, Gwen among them. By the time she got back to the table, Beth had returned with the drinks.
"Bit of excitement there, Gwen?" Beth asked, pushing her beer over to her.
Gwen shook her head. "Nah. Thought so, but it was just a drunk guy bursting a balloon."
Beth laughed. "Sound like gunshots, don't they? I remember when my mate Tim . . ."
Gwen let herself be caught up in Beth's story for a moment, until movement caught her eye. The Londoner was holding the front door open as two men dragged a coat-shrouded fourth to the door. She couldn't see the fourth man under the Air Force greatcoat, which had fallen so that it obscured his face, but the other two were clear enough. One was in a suit, far too smart for an evening out at the pub, and the other was wearing grey braces over his shirt. Odd. The bloke with the braces looked almost familiar.
Gwen turned with a shrug. She'd probably seen him around Cardiff or something. It didn't matter, anyway. She was here having a good time with her mates, and she was marrying Rhys in two weeks, and nothing was going to change that.
* * *
Gwen woke, panicking. It had to be a dream. Surely she couldn't have forgotten or made up something like Torchwood? She scrabbled frantically for her phone, checking through her text messages.
There. Torchwood, clear and unwavering on the screen. She hadn't lost half of her life after all.
The fifth and final jewel blossomed on its metal branch. As Gwen's loss and terror were replaced by relief, the amber light went out.
* * *
"Alien black-market technology," Jack said flatly at the meeting in the conference room the next morning. All five of them were staring at the golden tree which had formerly been the chameleon pod. Jack had placed it in the middle of the conference table, and the light winking from the jewels was almost mesmerising.
"Black-market technology?" Gwen asked in confusion. "What's so bad about it? It's pretty."
"It feeds off grief to make those jewels," Jack told her. "The commercial name for these things is 'The Tears of Skuld'. I've seen them before. We're lucky that this is a small one - I've seen ones as tall as me, covered in more gems than I could count."
"Feeds off grief? How?" Tosh asked curiously.
"It latches on to whoever touches it - makes some kind of connection that we can't detect. Then it gives you dreams that - well, different ones do different things. But the victims always feel unhappy when they wake up, as if they've lost something. Some have even driven people to suicide."
"That thing - we all touched it," Ianto said slowly. "I know that I dreamed last night. Is that why . . ."
Jack nodded. "Yes. Five gems, one for each of us. Although I'm impressed that it worked on Owen."
"Thought I was hallucinating," Owen griped, the relief underlying his words clearly audible to Jack.
"As I said, we got off lightly," Jack said grimly, recapturing the attention of his team. "Fortunately, these things are harmless once they've changed shape. Wouldn't do to give the buyers nightmares, after all. So. Ianto, secure storage, please."
* * *
"Was it Lisa?"
Ianto paused, then finished shutting the door to the safe in Jack's office. "Why do you ask?"
As Ianto turned around, he could see Jack leaning idly against his desk. "She meant a lot to you, Ianto. That doesn't go away."
"Yes. It was Lisa." Ianto swallowed. "Was that all, Jack? The main archives are . . ."
"Hey." Somehow, Jack had moved to stand in front of him without Ianto knowing. "Forget the archives. This is more important." He gently tilted Ianto's chin up with one finger, and Ianto gave in and met Jack's eyes. "She was alive again, wasn't she." It wasn't a question.
"We were married, Jack. She was alive, and we were both working for Torchwood. The Ghost Shift technology had failed. The Cybermen and the Daleks had never come through." Ianto's throat closed before he could utter the words, and we had a son.
Jack's eyes were still holding his, and looking away wasn't an option. "Those things show you a perfect future, Ianto," Jack said softly. "But those futures can't happen." He stared for a moment more, eyes flickering over Ianto's face, then dropped his hand and turned away.
"Jack." And now it was Jack turning back to him, a guarded expression on his face. "I did want that life. But if I'd had that future, I'd never have known this one." Remembering an earlier conversation in this very room, Ianto added, "And I wouldn't change it for the world."
The surprised joy in Jack's face was more than Ianto had hoped to see. The tree might have shown him an alternate possibility, but the fork in the road that would have lead to it was long past. This was the living future, and as he stepped into Jack's eager embrace, Ianto vowed that he wouldn't waste a minute of it.