Chapter Text
As Jack stands at the rail looking out over the bay, sunrise glittering on the lapping water, he realises how much he misses this city. The place in which he spent the longest in all his many years, it’s the only one that ever felt like home. The only place he ever allowed himself to put down roots, though ultimately shallow and easily unearthed.
He has a headache blossoming from the vortex jump and shakes it off as he strides across the empty Plass. Performing a spot of jiggery-pokery on a cash machine, he secures himself enough currency for this time and place, and notes from the receipt that he’s got the date a little wrong again; space-hopping through time is not the most accurate way to travel.
Thing is, he made a promise and he intends to keep it. It’s the least he can do. But it’s been two thousand years and his memory needs refreshing from time to time. It doesn’t do the timelines any harm just to look. He’s been back six times in total now and it never hurts any less, but sometimes that’s the price you pay to keep a promise. And sometimes the pain is worth it.
He needs to get away from here pretty sharply, conscious that in November ‘97 he is not far away and doesn’t remember meeting himself, or even having a fuzzy few hours that the handy stash of retcon in his pocket could be responsible for. It’s too early in the morning for public transport, and his VM is good for short hops, so he bounces over to Bettws.
He doesn’t know which house, or even which street to look for. He knows they moved around a lot during the 90s, so he lurks around the junction of two road names that seem familiar, feeling more conspicuous than he ever did before, still in his RAF greatcoat, braces and boots. He’s gone through several wardrobes in the intervening years but somehow, he always comes back to this one; something about it just fits.
It’s seven thirty Saturday morning and the estate for the most part is asleep. A few hardy workers peer bleary-eyed through their frosty windscreens, car engines rattling raucously round the muffled morning. A thin mist hangs low to the frozen ground, blurring the focus of the world, and Jack is momentarily distracted by a stray feline shooting out from a hedge and trotting, tail held high, across the middle of the road.
Then, he spots him.
He can’t say how he knows it’s Ianto but he does. A lanky boy on a too-small bicycle with his hood up, khaki satchel slung over his shoulder, pedalling furiously, breath misting up in the cold air. Ianto doesn’t notice him as he swerves left at the junction and Jack takes careful note of the bike - worn tyres, grease-encrusted chain, flaking red paint with rust patches – because he knows he won’t be able to keep up as Ianto swoops right and heads downhill towards town.
Twenty minutes later, Jack’s on Malpas Road, checking for rusting red bicycles. In the end, he doesn’t have to find the bike because he locates Ianto himself. Through the glass, Jack can see him working diligently behind the counter. He loiters outside and watches for a moment, but the smell that wafts out when the door opens is too enticing and he is compelled to go in, the bell jangling above his head as he pushes through into the warmth.
Newport is waking up now and there’s a queue at the counter. Jack slips subtly into a seat at the only table in the small shop. Ianto has his head down and still hasn’t seen him. If he chooses to, Jack can fill a room with his presence – intimidate, turn heads – yet when required, can easily go unnoticed. He fingers the retcon in his pocket; just in case.
Ianto bags up a chicken and ham baguette, hands it over, counts out the change and moves on to the next customer. He doesn’t smile and Jack’s glad that at some point Ianto learns to smile again. Maybe it was Lisa who taught him, or some other friend or lover before her. Whoever it was, Jack is grateful to them.
Ianto’s hair is longer now than it ever was when Jack knew him. It curls defiantly down over his forehead, straggly and unkempt. He hasn’t yet reached his full height or filled out properly – indisputably still a boy. He’s skinny and gangly in his white t-shirt and white apron over ripped jeans and battered Nike Air Maxes. They’re the sort of trainers a boy like Ianto can only afford to buy once, which is why his feet are growing out of them.
“Get a move on Picasso.” His boss’ East End English edges grate against the lilting Welsh of the locals. “It’s a sandwich not a fuckin’ art exhibit.”
Ianto glares sideways at him and goes back to work, carefully arranging sliced tomato on tuna mayonnaise. The queue is getting longer and the patrons are shuffling restlessly but nothing will distract Ianto Jones from perfection – Jack knows this from experience. The perfect sandwich, the perfect cup of coffee, the perfect blow job, the perfect clean-up operation after a weevil attack: all must be carried out in meticulous fashion, unhurried in their precision.
“Can I help you, mate?”
It takes a second for Jack to realise the question is aimed at him since he is so distracted by his study of this cruder, embryonic version of the Ianto he knew. He rises and heads for the door.
“No, thanks.”
He buys himself a cup of coffee from the café across the road and waits for Ianto’s shift to end. The ‘J’ is swinging loose from the lettering above the shop, so that it reads “oe’s Sandwich Shop” from where Jack is sitting, on a cheap plastic chair in the window. He grabs an abandoned Daily Mail from the next table and scans through the news, reminding himself.
It’s one o’clock before Ianto emerges and Jack is beginning to outstay his welcome. He pays the disgruntled proprietor for three coffees and a flapjack and heads back out into the street. He stands on the opposite pavement, stock still amongst the shoppers, and watches as Ianto unlocks his bike from a lamppost outside the sandwich shop and wheels it off down the street. Jack isn’t really sure how long to stay but can’t seem to drag himself away just yet. On all previous occasions he’s stayed until circumstances have forced him to leave.
Ianto’s next stop is surprising but Jack should have known he wouldn’t be totally predictable. Jack lingers outside the charity shop and sees Ianto head straight for the books, stopping in front of them and tilting his head to one side so he can read along the spines. He frowns, deliberating, reaches out a finger and pulls out a paperback. He reads the blurb and is clearly pleased with it, but what happens next causes Jack to raise his eyebrows in shock and amusement. Through the fogged-up glass, he catches Ianto glancing furtively around before stuffing the book up his jumper and heading quickly for the exit.
He bursts out of the door, leaves his bike chained to the drainpipe and starts to run. With long strides, half jogging, Jack can just about keep up with him as he pounds down the road and navigates through residential backstreets into an area of untamed parkland on the stretch of green that cuts Bettws off from the rest of Newport. With an air of familiarity Ianto slows to a walk, trudges up a dirt path and slips into the woods.
Jack rests against a tree, the rough bark snagging at his coat, and watches as Ianto tucks himself between two gnarled roots of an old Sycamore tree and lays out the tools for his relaxation. He tugs his satchel over his head and carefully removes a freshly made baguette and a can of coke. Jack can’t help wondering if they are freebies - perks of the job - or if Ianto has simply helped himself. He certainly doesn’t seem to have any qualms about helping himself.
He slides the book out from under his jumper and rests it over his knees as he rummages with one hand in his bag and produces a crumpled cigarette and a cheap plastic lighter. He lights the cigarette, takes a drag and opens the book. As he sits there, smoking and reading, taking sips of coke and bites of baguette, Jack finds himself drawn in, drawn closer.
“Are you going to say hello?”
Ianto doesn’t even glance up from his book when he speaks so at first Jack wonders if he’s actually addressing him. He takes a quick scan but there is no one else around. He freezes. Eventually Ianto looks up.
“You’ve been following me around all morning,” he says, and Jack notices how much stronger his accent is at this age. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”
Jack sheepishly steps forward, knowing now that he’ll have to use the retcon and regretting it already. He can’t quite believe he’s slipped up. Trust Ianto to have been observant without him even realising. “Hi.”
“Are you a pervert?”
Ianto’s next question throws him off balance, but, looking at it objectively, Jack can see where he’s coming from. He’s lost for words – cannot think of a plausible reason for a grown man to be following around a fourteen-year-old boy.
“No,” is the best he can come up with. “I’m not.”
“What do you want then?”
Jack shrugs, helpless. “Just to say hello.” The mistrust in the blue eyes that he once knew so well stabs painfully in his chest.
“I know karate you know,” Ianto continues. “So don’t try anything.” If that’s true, it’s a skill he keeps under wraps as an adult.
Jack smiles and takes another step closer. “Good book?”
“It’s alright.” Ianto smokes his cigarette down to a finger-staining stub before flipping it to the ground. He grinds it out in the dust with his trainer, his toe poking through the fraying fabric. His lace is trailing loose too and Jack wonders if that’s an oversight or part of the image.
“You stole it.”
Jack’s statement of fact causes Ianto to flinch and his eyes widen. “Are you police?”
“Yeah.” Jack chuckles and settles himself down on the bank above Ianto. The ground is damp and carpeted in dead and decaying leaves. “I’ve come to arrest you for stealing a fifty pence paperback from a charity shop.”
“I take them back,” Ianto insists tetchily.
“Them?”
Now it’s Ianto’s turn to realise he has slipped up and Jack observes that he still has much to learn about deception. He wipes his palms on his jeans, a pale, scabbed knee protruding from a rip in the right leg.
“I take one a week,” he explains with a weary teenage sigh. “Bring it up here, read it, take it back. It doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“Ever heard of a library?”
Ianto looks away and probes his fingers into the rip, picking at his scab. “My Dad doesn’t like me using the library.”
“How come?”
“None of your fucking business.”
Ianto’s sudden outburst reminds Jack that this Ianto doesn’t know him yet, doesn’t trust him and doesn’t want him asking questions. And this Ianto is still struggling to understand why his dad doesn’t like him using the library.
“Sorry.”
They lapse into silence and Ianto goes back to his book, trying to ignore Jack’s searching gaze on his face. He grinds his teeth laboriously, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth across the page in a manner which suggests to Jack that he is not really reading at all, but keeping half an eye on him.
“Why don’t you just piss off?”
Jack can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt but he can’t blame Ianto for his suspicion. “Thing is,” he begins, spreading his palms apologetically. “I’m new in town.” He looks over at Ianto hopefully. “I don’t know where’s good to go.”
“Well, I dunno what you’re asking me for.” Ianto lifts the book a little higher and buries his nose in it. Jack should take his hostility as his cue to leave but he just can’t. Now he’s said hello, now he knows he’ll be using the retcon, it’s too good an opportunity to miss.
“Where do you go?” Jack pushes. “With your mates?”
“School?” Ianto suggests facetiously, without looking up.
“For fun,” Jack clarifies.
Ianto lowers the book – Sebastian Faulks’ The Girl at the Lion d’Or - and glowers at him. “Merry Miller, ‘less Johnny’s on the bar,” he reveals eventually. “And then we get cheap stuff in the offie and take it down the rec.”
“Right.” Jack should have guessed that Ianto’s recreational activities would wholly revolve around alcohol. “Will you take me there?”
“The Miller?” Ianto regards him sceptically.
“Yeah.”
Ianto checks his watch; a cheap, chunky black digital one that’s really too big for his scrawny wrist. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”
Jack shrugs. “So?”
Ianto sighs, as though it’s the biggest inconvenience in the world to him, which it may well be, but Jack doesn’t care. He feels entitled to be selfish for once. Ianto slips the paperback into his satchel, drains the last of his coke and gets to his feet. Jack stands up, brushing the leaves from the back of his coat and starts to follow him. Ianto stops and turns around, fixing Jack with a very stern stare, which has him swallowing down a laugh.
“Not too close,” Ianto snaps. “I know karate, remember?”
Jack would dearly love to test out that boast but he suspects that Ianto’s knowledge is based entirely on The Karate Kid and he wouldn’t want him to embarrass himself, so he stays a few paces behind him as they descend from the woodland back to the main road. When Ianto goes to retrieve his bike from the drainpipe outside the charity shop, Jack stops him, fishes in his pocket and hands over a wrinkled five-pound note. Ianto looks at it in confusion.
“Put it in the collection box.” Jack points through the window at the tub on the counter. “And then you can keep the book.”
Ianto’s face puckers into a sullen scowl but Jack is unmoved. Ianto sighs again, as though the entire universe is against him today, and pushes open the shop door. The volunteer manning the till offers him a wide smile which Ianto does not return as he rams the money into the slot. He barges back out onto the street, grabs his bike - saddle and handlebars extended to their limit - and pushes it quickly away down the road.
Ianto remains ahead of Jack as he wheels his bike along the pavement in silence, up the hill and back to Bettws. The silence is beginning to get uncomfortable, when Ianto finally turns off the main road and chains his bike to a drainpipe outside a drab, angular building that doesn’t look particularly appealing, its faded sign swinging despondently in the breeze.
Inside, the community centre furnishings and worn carpet seem to strangely complement the flashing games machine and widescreen television. There’s a sports match showing on it, and a few drinkers are gathered round, staring blankly at the muted action. Two men are playing darts on a peppered board beside the bar. A haze of cigarette smoke and stench of stale lager pervade the air. Ianto shoves his hands into his pockets and turns to face Jack with hunched shoulders as if to say, ‘here we are, what now?’
“Drink?” Jack offers to start them off.
“Carlsberg, please,” Ianto answers.
“You can have a coke,” Jack tells him firmly.
Ianto opens his mouth to protest, but Jack silences him with his own stern stare. There are many moral ambiguities to Jack being here, now, with Ianto, and underage drinking is probably the least reprehensible of them, but he has to draw a line somewhere. Besides, for all his bravado, he doesn’t really know what Ianto’s alcohol tolerance is like at this age, and the last thing he needs is a lager and retcon cocktail having any adverse effects.
Jack buys Ianto’s coke and procures himself a glass of tap water and they settle at a table in the far corner, away from the television and the darts board. Ianto slumps down in his seat, hands stuffed into the pouch of his baggy hooded sweatshirt, eyes directed at the scored table. Jack lays his coat on the seat beside him and takes a sip of water.
“Does it pay well?” he asks to break the ice. “Your job?”
“It’s alright.” Ianto traces a finger through the condensation dripping down his glass but doesn’t drink from it. “Two fifty an hour, better than some of my mates. Enough to buy a few pints and a packet of fags.”
“Smoking is very bad for you.” Jack knows there’s no point in saying anything, but he can’t help himself. He takes comfort in the knowledge that he’ll be more persuasive the next time he brings the issue up.
“Is it?” Ianto’s tone is loaded with sarcasm; his sense of humour is developing but has a careful refining process to go through yet. He plucks the slice of lemon out of his coke, pokes out his tongue and licks it before setting it to one side. “What are you doing here?” he demands.
Jack takes a deep breath and decides to take the plunge. It doesn’t much matter what he says to Ianto now since he won’t remember it. “Thing is Ianto,” Jack says. “I know you.”
Ianto starts; so surprised that he doesn’t clock the fact he hasn’t told Jack his name yet. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” Jack insists. “Your name is Ianto Jones. You were born on 19th August 1983. You have an older sister named Rhiannon and your mother’s name is Glenda. You had braces last year to sort out your teeth and a scar on your right thigh where you fell onto a barbed wire fence when you were seven.”
“Oh my God – have you been stalking me?” Ianto is horrified. “You are a fucking paedo, aren’t you?”
He hurriedly slides along the bench and starts to get up. This isn’t how Jack wants it to end. He puts a strong hand on Ianto’s arm and implores him to look back at him. “You used to go to Saturday matinees at the cinema with your dad,” Jack blurts. “It was the happiest two hours of your week and you wish life was still like that, but it’s not, and the only thing he’ll do with you now is rugby, so you play it even though you hate it and you can’t stand getting muddy.”
Jack lets his words hang in the air and watches Ianto closely. He swallows and checks around to make sure no one has heard Jack’s outburst, but the other punters haven’t even looked up from their pints. He sidles back along the bench.
“How do you know all that?” he asks in a low voice. Jack notes that he doesn’t try to deny it.
“You don’t know me yet,” Jack explains. “But you will.”
Ianto thinks about this and Jack can practically see the cogs turning. “That’s not possible,” he declares eventually.
“Yes, it is,” Jack assures him. “We’re going to meet. In a few years.”
“But…” Ianto thinks about this logically. “If you’ve already met me, that would make you…from the future.” His seemingly illogical conclusion stuns him for a second.
“I am from the future,” Jack confirms.
“Bollocks,” Ianto retorts. “You’re off your nut.”
Jack grimaces; he should have known that Ianto would be tough to convince. “I’m not crazy, I swear,” he maintains. “I can travel in time.”
“Time travel?” Ianto intones mockingly.
“I could prove it to you.”
Ianto folds his arms challengingly across his chest. “Go on then.”
Jack ponders how to demonstrate time travel to a sceptical fourteen-year-old, short of disappearing in front of his very eyes, but there’s no guarantees he’ll make it back to this time and place to prove his point. “Well.” He thinks about this carefully. “I could tell you the final score of that football game.” He points to the screen, and then wrinkles his nose. “Except I don’t know anything about football.” He thinks again, and then pulls his wallet from his pocket and takes out the driving license. He doesn’t know why he’s kept it; definitely hasn’t needed it since he’s been off travelling the universe. The date of birth is fake, of course, as is the address. The photo’s genuine enough, though. He pushes the plastic card across the table.
Ianto picks it up and scrutinises it carefully. Turns it over in his fingers a few times. “Jack Harkness,” he reads, thoughtfully. Jack’s heart skips at the sound of his name in Ianto’s accent.
“Believe me now?”
“Driving licenses don’t even look like this,” Ianto says, handing it back.
“They will do.” Jack holds it up and points to the date. “See – issued in 2008.”
“Could be a really good fake,” Ianto mutters. “My mate Gary knows this guy who does fake IDs.”
In a few years’ time, Ianto’s mate Gary will know someone else who can produce a fake ID too, and Ianto’s fake IDs will be exceptional. Like this one. “It’s not a fake,” Jack assures him, putting the license back into his wallet and sliding it back into his pocket. He doesn’t know why he’s kept the wallet either. The bank cards won’t work anymore and he’s not carried cash for centuries.
Ianto narrows his eyes suspiciously but doesn’t challenge him further. He lapses into silence, chin sunk onto his chest as he thinks.
“How do I know you?” he asks eventually. “I mean, how do we meet?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Jack says apologetically. “You can’t know your own future.”
“So, what are you doing here?”
“I came back to see you.” Jack leans back in his seat, wrapping one hand around the other on the table. “The you I know, but I got the date a little wrong.”
“Came back to see me?” Ianto echoes in confusion. “Why would you…” He stops as it dawns on him. “I’m dead?”
Jack focuses on a point to the left of Ianto’s shoulder, knowing it must be confusing for a teenager to be confronted with evidence of his own mortality. “Everyone dies eventually,” he murmurs.
“But not you though, you’re still alive.” There is childish panic rising in Ianto’s voice, breaking through the teenage cool. “What’s happened to me? How do I die?”
Jack looks away, trying to banish the image of a cold, pale face and a scarred cheek; Ianto’s body laid out amongst the regiment of corpses in Thames House. “I can’t tell you.”
“Shit.” Ianto thumps back against the bench and runs a hand over his face. Jack notices for the first time that he has a smattering of acne across his chin.
“I’m sorry,” Jack tells him sadly.
“Why can’t we be mates now though?” Ianto suddenly brightens. “You could show me stuff and take me time travelling.”
“We can’t, Ianto.” Jack sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Why not?” Ianto demands petulantly.
“Because when I met you, you’d never met me before,” Jack explains patiently. “You can’t mess with timelines.”
“But I’ve met you now,” Ianto reminds him.
Jack gazes sorrowfully down into his glass of water. “You won’t remember this in the morning.”
“Then why did you bother even coming?” Ianto snaps, his features darkening. In his impetuosity, he doesn’t question why he won’t remember.
Jack reaches out across the table and touches Ianto’s face. His cheek is soft and smooth and Jack supposes he’s not even started shaving yet. “I just wanted to see you, that’s all,” he tells him honestly.
Ianto jerks away, a look of horror and disgust replacing the moodiness of seconds earlier. “Get off!” His hormones and emotions are raging - Jack can smell them from across the table. “I’m not a fucking queer you know.” The fleeting flash of terror behind his eyes is revealing; he’s scared now that this is how they meet.
Jack lets his hand drop back down onto the table. “No, sorry.”
Jack wishes he could take Ianto out, show him a really good time, teach him to be ok with who he is, but there’s no point because Jack knows it’s going to take another nine years for Ianto to work himself out. But it still hurts to see him in this torment.
Ianto is distracted when a chubby young man bumbles in through the door. “Oh, shit.” He sinks down in his seat, evading detection. “It’s Johnny.”
“Johnny Davies?” Jack enquires. “Rhiannon’s...” He takes a guess at the timeframe. “Boyfriend?”
“Fiancé now,” Ianto corrects. “He won’t let me in here ‘cause he’s trying to keep my dad sweet.”
“When’s the wedding?”
“March.” There is something despondent about the way Ianto says this.
“You’re going to miss her.” It’s not a question but a statement.
“Yeah.” Ianto turns his face away from the jovial young barman and swallows down the rest of his coke, crunching an ice cube between his teeth.
“You know,” Jack says, standing up. “I’ve got a feeling that everything is going to work out fine.”
Ianto’s eyelids are getting heavy as the retcon takes effect. “Where are you going?” He’s slurring his words.
“I’ve got to go,” Jack apologises. “Don’t worry though.”
“Huh?” Ianto’s head lolls to one side.
“The whole growing up thing,” Jack expands. “You’re going to turn out alright.”
He’s not sure if Ianto hears his last words because his head is now resting on his arms as he flops forward onto the table. Jack runs an affectionate hand through Ianto’s hair, which is soft and well-conditioned, despite its unruly appearance. He smiles sadly and picks up his coat, shrugging it on as he approaches the bar.
“You know Ianto Jones?” he asks the barman.
“Yeah.” Johnny frowns suspiciously. “He’s my fiancée’s little brother. Why?”
Jack points to the slumped figure in the corner. “Think he’s had a bit much,” he says. “Make sure he gets home alright.”
“Oh, fuck.” Johnny’s out from behind the bar in a flash. “His dad’s gonna kill me.” He rushes over to Ianto and starts to shake his shoulder and tap his cheek, getting no response – Ianto is out for the count. He turns to ask the stranger who he is and how he knows Ianto, and more to the point, what the hell did he think he was doing getting the kid pissed, but there’s no one there. The man has gone.