Previous part of The Windhovers: The Fledgling.

***

"-so that's why they call it Trahgdar instead of Dinwale, despite their greens which aren't actually green. Rather like Dinwale myself, sort of rolls off the tongue like Bergen without the fish. But who's to argue with the Dinoud?"

Ianto couldn't help himself; he stared. Not at the banana the Doctor waved around like a conductor's baton as he guided an orchestra in Flight of the Bumblebee. Nor was he staring at the Doctor because (Ianto was fairly certain) he hadn't paused for breath during the whole lecture on the origins of the planet's name -- surely Time Lords had to breathe? No, he was staring for an entirely different reason, even as he held the coffee cup clenched in his fingertips and had to will himself not to squeeze harder for fear of spilling what smelled like perfectly brewed coffee even if it had come out of a machine with four nozzles and a whirly-gig. "You bartered your mobile."

"Best coffee in the system!" The Doctor gestured at the rather large cup in Ianto's hands, an insulated piece of wonder which kept his hands cool and yet promised to degrade into water and silicone sand when the inside dried. "And real bananas. I love bananas."

"You're bananas," Ianto so desperately wanted to say, but following the Trahgdar history lesson, he wisely opted against speaking his mind. If it had been Owen sitting across from him at the tiny outdoor table, he might not have been so generous. Deliberately taking a sip of his coffee and refraining from affirming the quality (though it more than met his high standards), Ianto eased back into his chair and studied the Doctor, who appeared nonplussed and almost like he encouraged the examination "That was deliberate," Ianto voiced before he realized that he believed what he said. But it was truth, and the anger that came with it felt just as real. "You did it so Jack couldn't phone you."

"Wrong, Mr. Jones." The Doctor didn't smile this time, but he did gesticulate with the banana again, emphatically making his point. "Now you can't phone him."

He nearly argued semantics before he stopped himself with the words still upon his tongue, spoiling the taste of rich coffee grown on hillsides he'd never seen. "You've no right to keep me hostage!" His voice rose, he couldn't stop himself, but the fear of just how far he was from Cardiff, from Torchwood, hell, from Jack began settling in around him as ghosts of yesterday. The TARDIS would take him back, wouldn't she? There had to be laws against this; the fact that he couldn't think of any meant nothing. This was wrong; everything about the situation was so very wrong and crawling under his skin until even the wind blowing through his hair scratched through his sense of control and calm. The TARDIS tried -- he could feel her attempts to comfort even from this distance -- but it seemed the more he attempted to regain stability within his life, ever since seeing his mother outside Torchwood, the faster it had spun away from him, until now he was on another bloody planet, for gods' sakes, with no means of returning home under his own power.

Maybe he did.

The more he thought about it, the more plausible the notion became. When he'd witnessed ... whatever it had been. Memory? Not his. A Windhover's. Someone who'd perished in their final attack. But it had been perfectly reasonable to that individual that the Windhovers should arrive from any time or space. Maybe if he thought about it long enough, accessed more memories somehow, he could figure it out ...

"No." Ianto startled as he focused on the Doctor who had jabbed the banana in his direction, so close in fact that Ianto found himself leaning back to avoid it. The Doctor continued as gravely as he'd begun. "I know what you're thinking and that would be a very bad idea, Mr. Jones."

Opening his mouth to argue, Ianto realized he had no idea what he'd be arguing against. The assumed line of thought? The content? The Doctor for being who he was? It unnerved Ianto just how little he understood his own footing around the man, so he tried to hide his confusion behind a well-timed gulp of coffee. With most of Torchwood, even Jack, Ianto believed he may have pulled off the masked emotion; with the Doctor, on the other hand, it appeared it hadn't worked particularly well. The other man's expression softened, which was rather unfair as Ianto couldn't read the other man at all.

"There may still be some out there that hunt your kind." The Doctor waved the banana with a flourish, an action Ianto completely failed to interpret as he was still fixated on the word "hunt". "You'll go attracting all sorts of unwanted attention and I still haven't figured out how you live, much less without your H'd-toba."

There was that word again. 'H'd-toba'. Ianto faintly understood what it meant from what he'd gleaned in the vision -- some kind of partner -- but he still didn't know why the Doctor kept insisting he had one. Unless maybe Jack was his H'd-toba? Was that possible? Defining their relationship had never been a particularly strong subject for either of them, and the way Jack had left to chase down the Mellonians didn't leave Ianto believing things were on good enough terms to ask him if he was. Or if he would be. Was it that important to have one? The Doctor seemed to imply that it was, but then, the Doctor was responsible for the destruction of so much; could he even be trusted to utter truth? "How do you know about-" Ianto stopped himself and glanced around, feeling as uncomfortable saying it aloud as he had with Lester and Dr. Ramamurthy. There wasn't an individual around; the tables were empty around them and the street held a few out for a stroll, but none paid attention to the conversation at their tiny table. Still, Ianto cringed at using the name and admitting anything about himself. "How do you know about them?"

"You existed before us and would have existed long after." The Doctor studied him for a moment, marking the time between Ianto's breaths with a tap on his chin and Ianto felt uncomfortably like he was being measured up. "We were once allies, yours and mine, Mr. Jones. After the Great Parting you disavowed us, but there's no reason now to pretend we knew nothing of you." He paused, dropping his eyes to his hands in the only sign of ... flappability that Ianto had seen. He wasn't so sure he liked it, even if he he did loathe the man. The Doctor's face brightened considerably, the shift so sudden and drastic Ianto was convinced it was false. Not that the words would be false, but he had seen Jack do the same thing when the conversation drifted to sensitive topics he'd rather avoid. "I'd thought you'd all been lost, but here you are! So tell me how you escaped, I do love a good story."

Ianto sipped his coffee, taking time to consider everything the Doctor had said as well as to buy himself time before answering as he didn't consider his escape that good of a story. None of it made much sense; he did get the impression that the Great Parting had been between the Windhovers and the Time Lords, but what that entailed or why he would do something as silly as pretend what he honestly did not know left him wishing for more coffee and two aspirin. Maybe a shot or two of tequila. Shit, he'd never even told Jack how he'd escaped from Providence. Taking a deep breath, Ianto quickly recounted the details of his escape that he could remember. "Not much to tell. I began palming the anti-psychotics some time after I arrived at Providence Park, and eventually the effects lessened to the degree I could appropriate orderly clothing, keys, and a mobile. When the migraines began, I escaped the grounds and phoned an old contact for assistance."

The Doctor's comical, flummoxed look would have been entertaining had Ianto not had the distinct impression that was not the response the Doctor had been expecting. He would have been embarrassed for misinterpreting the Doctor's question and providing those details of his life, but he'd already thoroughly humiliated himself by his display after viewing the remains of Halcyon. Not that it had been necessarily his fault; Ianto rather believed that the response had been more instinctual than failure of control on his part, but he didn't take to emotional collapses in front of strangers.

"You don't remember escaping Halcyon before the Daleks attacked?"

Now it was Ianto's turn to stare what he expected was dumbfoundedly, but he couldn't stop himself had he the mind to try. The Daleks? The Daleks were responsible for the annihilation of the Windhovers? The same Daleks that had engaged in battle against the Cybermen and Torchwood personnel at Torchwood One? His stomach turned to lead and the coffee felt like it congealed at the thought of twice now the abominations were responsible for so much death. If he'd only known ...

Ianto could feel the fury rising as he thought of the battle in London; he'd had opportunity then. If he'd known, fuck, he could feel his fingernails digging into his fists as the urge to do something...anything...in retaliation for the destruction of his kind. He'd had the chance just a few years past, he could have opened the Veil and allowed the existence beyond to swallow them up until such a time when they were no longer a threat. That's what he could have done, with the charges against the Daleks for their crimes. And the Cybermen too, for everything they'd done.

For Lisa.

His clenched fists shook; fuck he could feel them shake as his teeth ground together as he struggled to heed the Doctor's earlier warning not to jump back in time, to fix that missed opportunity for vengeance. But just as before with the Doctor, Ianto could feel the urge slip away as quickly as it had begun as reason grappled for control. Soon he could once again smell the wafts of coffee from the cup still setting on their table.

He hadn't known, then. And he couldn't exact revenge now. He couldn't. Justice, perhaps. If he found them now he could quantify their crimes and try them in accordance to Law. They had destroyed the Windhovers, they would pay for their crimes.

But in justice's name.

Not vengeance, otherwise he would be no better than the criminals themselves or the merc Judoon who killed for pleasure.

And just as calmly as he had before the revelation, Ianto stretched out his hand and lifted the coffee cup, taking a long sip before acknowledging the Doctor again. He had no idea how long his little fit of temper had lasted, but he had to calm himself. He was a Windhover, and moreover, he was Ianto Jones. He had an image of professionalism and order to maintain, even if he wasn't wearing a suit. "I wasn't at Halcyon when it was destroyed. I'd not left Earth until the TARDIS took me hostage, and I was not aware that it was the Daleks who were responsible for the deaths of the Windhovers -- which I didn't even know I was until I passed out in the backseat of a car after my escape from Providence and woke up with bloody wings."

He heard his own voice rise almost independently as his irritation grew, his overall frustration with simply everything so massive it threatened to drown out even the smell of the coffee. Although what he expected from a fucking Time Lord he wasn't sure; they hadn't involved themselves in the concerns of others outside their precious timelines for generations, why Ianto expected help from the Doctor he had no clue.

And then he had to wonder why he thought that at all.

Distress. Ianto decided 'distress' was an appropriate and fitting term for himself at the moment.

For his part, the Doctor looked equally as perplexed as Ianto felt, which assuaged his ego just a bit. When the Doctor finally spoke, some of the confusion had cleared, but wonderment still underlined his words. "You initiated just weeks ago?" At Ianto's nod (agreeing to what he assumed was in reference to the whole acquisition of wings ordeal), the Doctor continued. "And what of your Coterie? And your H'd-toba? They weren't present? Where is your H'd-toba?"

"I was alone." Truth be told, Ianto had no idea what the hell the Doctor was on about, nor what half of what he spoke of even meant. He didn't seem to know anything and it was increasingly difficult to maintain any semblance of composure in response to the Doctor's rapid queries as it became more apparent just how little he knew in front of a man who Ianto believed could out-destroy the Daleks if he put his mind to it. Maybe even had already. But Ianto swallowed what small measure of pride he had left and asked the question that had been bothering him. "What is a H'd-toba? Is-" Ianto cleared his throat, a sudden shyness clogging any attempt to speak and ask the question he felt like he ought to know. "Is Jack my H'd-toba?"

Whatever response Ianto had been expecting, it hadn't been laughter. And not just a small little chuckle; the Doctor's laughter was a boisterous laugh that echoed in the relatively empty streets of this village on Trahgdar. Shame rose quickly to Ianto's face, the blush quickly heating his skin until his whole face felt ablaze. Forget any earlier embarrassment, Ianto decided as he quickly stood from his chair. This toppled all previous slights. He wasn't quite sure why the Doctor's opinion mattered, for all the important reasons it shouldn't. But the man had a way of making him feel sixteen years old again and like he'd woken to sticky sheets after dreams involving Mr Tanner, the kind man who'd paid Ianto to tend his gardens in the summer months.

"Ianto, please, sit down. My sincerest apologies; I shouldn't have laughed." Ianto stared at the hand touching his arm, the mild restraint easily broken and equally offensive but Ianto honestly wasn't sure if it was the Doctor's laughter which had repulsed him so much or the physical contact which was more psychosomatic than legit, he reasoned. But reason didn't stop him from feeling disgusted, both on his own behalf and on Jack's, and the hand was removed as quickly as it had appeared, to Ianto's relief. He crossed his arms, waiting for the Doctor to either quickly explain himself or to offer to return Ianto home.

"It's just ... you're Windhover. He's decidedly not." Blankly, Ianto waited for the Doctor to continue because that explanation meant nothing to him and went even further in offense towards Jack. "You exist outside of space and time. Well, not in that form. Actually, in that form, but for all appearances in that form you don't. Jack, on the other hand, is a fixed point in time, as permanent a stamp in time as one can be. He is no more your H'd-toba than I am."

Now it was Ianto's turn to laugh, not the boisterous laugh of the Doctor's but quite the extended chuckle as what the Doctor had said repeated itself over and over in his mind, growing more and more absurd with each repeat. 'Exist outside of space and time'? Ludicrous. The Doctor was most certainly lying, seeing how extreme he could get before Ianto's faith in his credibility finally snapped. And it had. What else had been bullshit? The Daleks' involvement? The etymology of Trahgdar? Perhaps not all the Windhovers were even dead; perhaps this was just some fanciful vision concocted by the Doctor and his TARDIS. The tea! His tea had been drugged, though that'd happened before the memory-vision thing. He might be tied up somewhere on the Doctor's ship, and he just needed to wake up from whatever nightmare he was experiencing.

The Doctor was looking at him much like he'd lost his mind, which wasn't the first time anyone had ever looked at him that way. Fucking thing about sanity -- it's all relative depending on the observer. "And I suppose the pyramids are really ship landing pads and the American President is actually a space poodle."

Looking like he was seriously going to answer, the Doctor stopped himself and for once Ianto had to applaud this first demonstration of restraint. But the other man spoke, just not in words the Ianto had been expecting. "There is no purpose in deception, Mr. Jones."

Ianto found himself sitting without consciously deciding to sit, the press of the chair solid against his backside when everything else around him trembled. Maybe that's what earthquakes were like, only he knew the land itself wasn't quaking, it was steady as ever. Would another planet still call them earthquakes? It was presumptuous to believe that they would call the ground 'earth' as it was called on planet Earth. Perhaps here they were called trahgdarquakes, though that had a significant drop in phonetic poetry and sounded more like a cat coughing a hairball than a viable word.

Fuck. How could anyone exist outside of space and time?

That was impossible.

Except when it wasn't.

Which it apparently was.

Ianto finally located his voice somewhere between 'what the fuck?' and 'holy shit', two expletives he refrained from exclaiming if only for the sake of company. "I don't understand," he said, words coming out far softer than he would have liked, but it was truth in both power and content. He knew nothing. He understood nothing. And the most distressing part of it all, he had no access to information outside of the man sitting across the table from him because Halcyon was gone. He'd always prided himself on his ability to learn, to take a subject and read up on it, then apply that knowledge to a situation. It'd gotten him through life during all the odd jobs he worked to support him and his mother and working for Torchwood London. Even Cardiff.

But there were no books, no Internet, no records, no family to interview or even invoices to study and research. He had the Doctor. And with a scowl, Ianto could sort of understand why Jack had vanished on them to seek out answers.

"I don't either! Brilliant, isn't it?"

His fingers curled around his coffee cup at the Doctor's cheerful tone, and he may have made a sound that may have sounded suspiciously like a growl, but Ianto would deny it if asked later. If all Time Lords were like the Doctor, it was a small wonder the two races had split.

Thankfully the Doctor sobered, and Ianto wasn't forced to take extreme measures like waste his remaining coffee soaking the Doctor's brown suit. "You must understand, Mr. Jones. Your race originates from a place outside what we understand as space and time. You had a name for the boundary, the L'ranore Veil, which separated here from the-"

"From existence beyond." The Doctor's expression twisted as though he'd tasted something sour, and Ianto figured he must have been right to have earned that expression. He remembered the phrase from the vision, and now that he had heard it he knew that it was correct in this use, no matter what the Doctor thought.

"Yes, well, we called it The Void."

Ianto snorted, he couldn't help himself. "You don't understand something, so you call it a name implying nothing could exist in something you failed to understand."

"Some refer to it as Hell." The Doctor smiled, an artificially helpful smile that only served to aggravate Ianto more. But the term brought to the forefront the fears that possibly his race had been dangerous, deadly, an evil for which there was purpose in its destruction. He didn't think it was possible -- he didn't consider himself ultimately evil -- but there was much he didn't know. "As we understood it, in the ... on the other side of the Veil," the Doctor's grin this time was more apologetic as he edited himself than not, "there is this giant ... nebulous ... glob of gobbildygook." His hands waved around in what Ianto assumed was an attempt to visually represent what he was saying. It wasn't helping matters. "But there's no mass to it, there's no matter. It exists because it exists, not because it was ever born but because it's a constant in the absence of all known constants."

His eyebrow arched in skepticism before Ianto could check the action. "You're making no sense."

"Now you understand why we called it The Void."

Rather than agree to the Doctor's point, Ianto took a drink of his coffee, still rather remarkably the same temperature as the beverage had been when the Doctor had traded for it some time ago. It was impressive and Ianto desperately wished to get his hands on the technology for use back home. If he swore to not sell the information, he did wonder if the Doctor would let him keep the cup. "So let's say what you said is true. What does that giant nebulous glob of gobbbidlygook have to do with me?"

"Because you're it. Or an expression of it." The Doctor leaned forward, banana in hand, his face alarmingly close for Ianto's periodic urge to hit the bastard. Not that he would lose all restraint except under true duress, but the idea was tempting at times. "Consider satellites. The Windhovers were individual satellites, throughout time and the Universes, gathering information and sending it back to the Void while functioning as the operating arm this side of the Void."

"And information can be received as well," Ianto noted, as even if the concept itself was difficult to wrap his brain around, it did at least give credence as to why he seemed to know some things. "That makes me sound rather ... robotic." He didn't say the name he was thinking, applying such a term to his own being made him ill.

"Oh, not at all. Satellite was too simplistic. Although, that makes perfect sense now why he named them ArchAngel-" Ianto didn't miss the sorrow which crossed the Doctor's face, maybe a little regret, but he couldn't fathom the reason why -- he knew of a project named that, but few of the details as it had never been a Torchwood concern. It almost made him feel sympathy for the man. "Well, anyway. You all had families, Coteries you called them, even though you didn't share any genetic information to actually make you family." At Ianto's blank stare, the Doctor quickly elaborated. "You don't have genetic information. DNA. RNA. TNA. You exist because you think you exist, not because your parents physically copulated and created you through shared genetic material."

And with that, the Doctor completely lost Ianto. He had a mother and a father, he'd been born with help of a midwife named Annie, and most importantly, he remembered every day of his life from a very young age. He hadn't just popped into existence because he thought he should exist. He physically looked like his parents, he had his father's figure and his mother's dark, wavy hair. He had father's nose and his mother's eyes and cheeks. There was little doubt he was related to them and he was not denying that they were his parents, no matter their history.

Ianto finished the last of his coffee and again stood, but this time without his earlier force. He was done with this conversation. It was edging into the ridiculous and it was past time for him to return to Cardiff. "I think we're done here." To his credit, the Doctor didn't say anything, just stood and followed Ianto out away from the terrace of tables and chairs, and didn't question when Ianto didn't take the path back towards the meadow and the TARDIS, but rather walked up a street with intriguing storefronts of clothing he'd never seen before, technology that he'd only ever imagined, even with Torchwood's access. He needed time to consider what the Doctor had said, what it meant, and if there was any truth to his words.

Fuck if he didn't believe the Doctor, which made it more difficult to understand how it could be possible.

***

"It's the ultimate camouflage device to protect your kind."

The Doctor had remained silent for all of eleven minutes while they walked; Ianto had bet himself that it would take only eight minutes before the Doctor broke the silence so he supposed he owed himself for being wrong. What payment would be he didn't know, he typically wasn't incorrect when he made those bets and Ianto felt a bit bewildered how to handle this internal wager. Ianto didn't acknowledge the Doctor's words, however, just kept walking with his hands in the shallow pockets of his jacket. But he listened, if for nothing more than to tell the Doctor precisely why he couldn't be right.

"Quite brilliant, really. The H'd-tobi pair seek out a willing individual on a planet they protected and implanted the idea of a new Windhover H'd-tobi. The existence then goes through the development cycle of their host, and they're birthed as identical twins of that species. They mature to adulthood as children of that planet's main governing species, thinking they were that species. Then their Coterie comes for Initiation, when they reconnect with the ... thing ... across the Veil."

"Sprouting wings," Ianto helpfully clarified, not that he entirely believed the Doctor's story but he could rationalize a few things with the information; like how he'd fooled every test Owen and the TARDIS had run because he'd, what, thought himself human?

"Visual and physical manifestation of the tether connecting you to your 'existence beyond'."

Ianto blinked in surprise, the idea of the wings as a link between he and ... it ... had never entered the realm of possibility. They'd been a nuisance and a hindrance, but nothing more. "And if the link is severed?"

"Then you cease to exist," the Doctor said simply, causing Ianto to pale at his notion of surgically removing his wings back at Lester's when desperation admittedly caused him to think a bit irrationally. "There were theories that the Daleks had a device which instantly cut all the Windhover's links across the Veil, it was the only thing that explained the way they vanished."

"There was a light, something which..." Ianto struggled to think of a word to describe what he had seen, "...hummed ... sort of opposite the hum of the Veil."

"It's possible, maybe canceled portions of the link which caused it to fail." The Doctor shrugged, then with an added bounce to his step turned to Ianto as they walked. "Which does not explain how you are here."

With certainty, Ianto stated what he knew. "I wasn't a twin. There was only me."

"And if your H'd-toba had died, you would have as well." The Doctor's eyes narrowed on him as he flipped the banana in his hand. "You shouldn't have survived Initiation without your Coterie or H'd-toba either. Their assistance in the ritual was essential."

Ianto once again got the feeling that the Doctor was blaming him for something he hadn't done. Skipping out on the destruction of Halcyon? He could see how that would be a betrayal to his kind, but Ianto was certain he remembered his life, no blips in the memory other than a few hours during Canary Wharf where it was difficult to piece together everything from that trauma and the bit of time preceding his arrival to Providence Park. There were no gaps after, no missing time or feelings like he was fleeing some great tragedy other than his own relationships. "I struck my head and ended up on anti-psychotics prior to the whole 'Initiation' thing," he supplied, not sure if it had any bearing on the situation but couldn't hurt to share.

Damn himself for believing any of it anyways. He shouldn't trust the Doctor but he did.

A frown creased the Doctor's features as he stared at the banana. "You mentioned that before. Why did they medicate?"

"Hallucinations." A blush crept over his cheeks, spreading like fire until it covered his neck and he was pretty sure if he looked his entire body would be red. He remembered the moment he realized what he was seeing, laughing until he wept with Jack's arms around him. "I kept seeing dead people. I think Tosh guessed it was anything alien, I remember her telling me that at one point while I was sectioned."

"Oh. Oh! Yes. No, Well, of course!" The Doctor's eyes lit up; Ianto had never seen the man so excited, not even when he'd seen the bananas at the tiny breakfast shop. He swore the other man danced a little jig, but that was simply a trick of his eyes in the presence of all the salmon-colored foliage on the trees. The Doctor was positively giddy as he started and stopped sentences half a dozen times, speaking thoughts aloud and jumping to the next before Ianto could follow the logic or even the words.

As much as it disgusted him, Ianto couldn't help but feel a bit excited as well.

"Oh, Mr. Jones, this makes sense now! Unless I'm mistaken, which I rarely am." The grin on the Doctor's face couldn't be broader and Ianto clumsily fumbled with the idea that this man was the same one who'd wrought such destruction. "Spontaneous evolutionary genesis!" He spun on one foot, settling back into step beside Ianto who felt the need to restrain himself from strangling the man to just spit out what he was talking about. "You're not the last of your kind. No no no, that set had problems with the process. Was too weak, couldn't survive its faults. The H'd-tobi made them vulnerable, the rituals demanding and distracting. What good were guardians who weren't guarding?"

Ianto warily eyed the Doctor, confused and not certain if he should be offended on behalf of his race. "I'm not the last of my kind?" He'd witnessed the Windhovers' destruction, experienced their loss, he knew all had gathered to fend off the Daleks. If some had survived, wouldn't he have known?

"No, you're the first of the next!" The Doctor stopped, hands in his pockets and his action was so sudden it caused his overcoat to swirl about his legs. Jack had an action much like that and in that brief moment between the Doctor's words, Ianto missed the man terribly despite everything he was learning. The Doctor barely spared him a moment though, more wrapped up in the discovery and presentation it would seem as he continued exuberantly, "Mr. Jones! And now begins, the Children of the Windhovers."

***

"You've never asked me to prove I am what I say I am." Ianto didn't look up from the page he was reading while he spoke, but he knew what he'd see if he did. The Doctor would be leaning against the door frame again, hands stuffed in his pockets, his overcoat discarded and quite possibly his jacket -- as relaxed as Ianto ever saw him -- either glowing with the internal pleasure he got when he did something good or brooding when something hadn't turned out entirely well. Not that Ianto had been with the Doctor long enough to capture all his moods and quirks, but joining Ianto in the TARDIS' library usually indicated he'd gone off and done whatever deed he'd needed to perform, and he was quite predictable in those responses.

"Nah, I know acting, actors actually, and that wasn't a performance when you saw Halcyon." A rustle of clothing and the pitch of the Doctor's voice changed just slightly; he was moving, then. Probably to the exceedingly comfortable not-leather leather chair the Doctor preferred when he dropped by the room. It was hideously colored -- rather like an orange on the morning after a drinking binge -- but the Doctor always selected it over the other chairs in the grand room that had become Ianto's second home on the TARDIS. "Besides, it'd be rude! You've not asked the same of me."

"You fly about time and space in a TARDIS," Ianto pointed out as he crossed the last 't' in his notes, He laid down the pen with a snapped efficiency and stretched in his chair. Probably the second most comfortable in the room, and conveniently located behind a beautifully engraved wood desk. It was old, as was much in the room; even the tomes lining the shelves were ancient and perfectly preserved, as though not an hour had passed within the room from the time they were brought in to the time Ianto picked them up off the shelf. Perhaps time hadn't passed, it was hard to tell how time worked exactly on the TARDIS and it gave Ianto a headache trying to rationalize. "Not to mention, I know."

Ianto looked up to meet the Doctor's stare, a gaze he no longer shied away from. It wasn't that the Doctor was any less the terrifying man whose list of atrocities made Ianto's hair stand on end and his fury to flare every time he thought about it, much less when he was actually in the Doctor's presence. No, the fight or flight reaction (mostly fight) still kicked in, even before Ianto was truly aware of the Doctor or could physically see him; which was actually a bit of an amusement source to see the Doctor caught off guard when he was unable to sneak up on Ianto. Rather, he believed the confidence came from knowledge, just as old a friend and comfort to Ianto as self-preservation.

When they'd arrived back to the TARDIS after their jaunt to the village on Trahgdar, the Doctor immediately introduced him to the room, though to call it a mere room was understating. It was a library, true to name with shelves upon shelves of books, files, and tablets scattered across multiple levels. Ianto had restrained himself, but barely, from dashing to the shelves to run a curious finger over the worn spines and picking up the first title written in a language he could read, and only because he hadn't wanted to appear too eager in front of the Doctor. That and he didn't know from where and what the books contained; knowledge was something he both craved and feared. That quest had ultimately led Torchwood One to its destruction, an event that had taught Ianto respect.

But somewhere, in those thousands of tomes, could be information about the Windhovers, about himself, and the itch to run to the nearest catalog nearly overpowered Ianto's measured control.

And the Doctor had smiled, like he'd known exactly what effect the library would have on him. Whether that was more stories from Jack (how else had the Doctor known of Ianto's preference for coffee?) or some trait of the Windhovers, Ianto wasn't sure. But the Doctor had wasted no time pointing out the collection he had of Windhover texts, most likely one of only a couple of sources in existence as the Windhovers weren't known for writing anything down. They really had no need for documentation of history.

As with all civilizations, however, there had been storytellers. And poets. And musicians. It was their works which had been transcribed for Ianto to read now, captured forever on paper by individuals Ianto couldn't thank about a people he could never know. But he did know, now, in a fashion. Stories of heroes, tales of ruin, battles between good and evil amongst both the Windhovers themselves and Universes around them spun within his mind as he poured over the texts, only stopping to relieve himself or to get a refill of the coffee-like beverage from the tiny machine tucked in a corner of the library (a gift, surprising Ianto one day after the Doctor had returned from a planet insisting they had wonderful almost-coffee and technology). Scroll upon scroll of what Ianto shockingly discovered was the Law and Proclamations the Universes were governed by. Or had been. Still was, in a fashion, the Doctor had answered when Ianto had asked. But definitely not what it had once been before, nor probably ever would be again unless the Children rose as their Elders once had.

Children.

Ianto had at first laughed at the Doctor's half-crazed babblings of his theories and ideas. Spontaneous evolutionary genesis? The notion was ludicrous. But the more the Doctor talked and the more Ianto listened, the more plausible the idea became. The Windhovers had not been aware of their ultimate fate, that much was clear to Ianto. Why all had gathered on Halcyon to fight the Daleks he would never understand, and quite possibly would never know, but it had to have been one of the stupidest offensive actions in the history of all histories. Yet not all had agreed with the course -- Ianto had heard that doubt within the vision -- and the Doctor took that as evidence that amidst the Dalek attack at least one progeny had been created and implanted in the fraction of a moment existing just after the Windhovers' tethers had all been severed and before the connection beyond was lost.

At least one.

His mind had simply stopped when that possibility was voiced, an outcome Ianto had never considered.

There might yet be more.

He'd almost wept at the thought, though Ianto had managed to contain his emotions while the Doctor looked on, seemingly both pleased with himself and envious. How or why Ianto had no clue, not that he really stopped to consider it. Not when there may be more like him, out in the Universes somewhere, all experiencing the same things he had and feeling just as lost. Perhaps even more so, given the time Ianto was in the employ of Torchwood and in the presence of the Doctor. Just the mere possibility ...

"Yes, you would know." The Doctor leaned back in his chair, long fingers steepled at his lips. He wore his glasses, something Ianto had come to identify as 'Doctor in thinking mode' but if they were just for show or if they actually possessed some alien property which enhanced vision, Ianto didn't know. He'd never asked.

Maybe he should.

The tone the Doctor used just added to Ianto's suspicions, ones he'd never asked but often thought. But there was so much to learn, so much to read about, that Ianto had barely stopped for food much less questions that were not regarding the Windhovers or the Time Lord's associations with them. Limited, those associations, towards the end. 'End' being relative of course, Ianto realized as he was reading, meaning something upwards around a thousand years (Universal Standard, slightly longer than an Earth year, according to an index scroll).

A thousand years. At least.

His brain boggled at the concept. Humans on Earth had come so far in thirty years, much less a thousand. And it wasn't that he couldn't comprehend spans of time passing -- that was perfectly believable. But individuals living that long? That he couldn't imagine. Fuck, that would be Jack, given time. How would that change him, living through all those years, all the developments and evolution, although technically they wouldn't become 'new' until after the 51st century. Would he become more like the Doctor?

Ianto studied the Doctor, knowing full-well that he was being studied in return. Judged? Perhaps. After reading the story of the Great Parting, which read rather like War and Peace, Ianto was amazed that the two races had ever been allies at all. It wasn't that they functioned on scales of good and evil, that was something he could have easily understood (and welcomed), but their fundamental directives were so vastly different it was small wonder they had first disagreements, then arguments, then a complete shunning of the other race. No war; neither race fell to that level. For all appearances, however, the Windhovers simply quit acknowledging the Time Lords and Gallifrey and their preferred course of action. Or inaction, according to the texts.

The Doctor had his own version of the story, Ianto was pretty sure. He just wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear it. Besides, Ianto was doing enough judging of the Doctor to more than excuse any judging on the Doctor's part.

The other man never flinched under his scrutiny, didn't even blink. Unless he blinked when Ianto had, and that physical timing was just too creepy to consider possible. Ianto swore he never even ate, though that could be timing. The Doctor had made several stops during Ianto's stay on board the TARDIS, leaving him to research in the library while he went out and did what he did -- fucking up lives and maybe stopping a person or two from screwing up a timeline. He'd never again invited Ianto off the TARDIS, and Ianto had never asked. Learning everything he could about himself was more important than venturing on to another world in a different time, and he'd assumed it was in part an effort on the Doctor's part to protect Ianto from the supposed 'hunters.'

Ianto didn't doubt those hunters existed; he'd just read a story (a regular spook thriller told much like a James Bond story with secret organizations and special agents) detailing some of the intrigue and chase. He was beginning to doubt, however, the Doctor's motives. "You ought to tell Jack, sometime."

He really did have to give the Doctor credit for the control of his facial expressions. During the hundreds of years he'd lived, the Doctor had mastered the fine art of arching an eyebrow. "Tell him what, exactly?"

"That you care. He'd appreciate it, I think." 'Do as I say...' Ianto sang to himself, considering all the things he'd never said to Jack and never heard in return. He liked to think that in their case, those things were understood. And then there was that dream ... did it count? Maybe it was the same for the Doctor, that they had an understanding, he and Jack. But Jack had returned from his last travels with the Doctor somewhat ... the adoration was still there and he'd demonstrated that so clearly in the Hub. Something was different, though. Something had changed. Not that they'd ever talked about it, one of those subjects Jack had shifted once it was brought up. Unless it was to sing Martha's praises. And sometimes he did; Jack really did have a lovely singing voice.

Not that Ianto had heard it recently, travels on the TARDIS aside. And perhaps not ever again.

"And just how did you come by that conclusion, Mr. Jones?" The Doctor leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, curiosity written in ever line and angle.

"I know." Ianto smiled, might have even meant it for all it felt of regret and loss. "What I can't quite figure out is if he was actually one of the Agents who hunted my kind, or if you just suspect he was."

Ianto knew he was correct when the Doctor didn't move. At all. Just sat there, elbows on his knees with his fingers perched at his lips; Ianto wasn't sure if he even breathed. Ianto did, huffing a soft puff of air that didn't quite make it as a snort but did qualify for amusement. Not amusement, not really. He just wasn't sure what exactly he was supposed to be feeling at the moment and had opted to push it blindly to the back of his mind until the Doctor arrived.

Now he had to deal with it. Somehow.

He picked up the tome he had been reading, carefully flipped the pages back to the beginning of the chapter he had marked in his notes. Just a couple pages. He hadn't made it beyond writing "Time Agency" in his notes before he'd spoken to the Doctor, and even those two words must have taken hours for him to write as the Doctor had only just left when he'd begun reading the chapter. Ianto replaced the book back on the desk, spun it around and slid it towards the Doctor, taking some small satisfaction at his flinch when he saw the story title.

"Ah, yes. Right." The Doctor picked up the book, flipped a few pages forward and then closed the heavy tome, sliding it back to Ianto. "Not exactly a love story."

This time Ianto acknowledged the snort, both at the themes of the story itself and the fact that he wasn't exactly sure what the Windhover definition of 'love' was, which further confused his own personal definition and experiences. He'd loved Lisa, hadn't he? And his parents. And maybe, well, the less thought about Jack for the time being the better. He thought he loved his Torchwood Three team, even if it was more a fond 'they're family, you have to love them' kind of emotion than a deep-rooted love for another person.

The Windhovers in the texts, however, it was different. They had their Coteries, which were basically family units that were united by common traits, like genetics only without the genes, more direct passing of qualities since they were almost ... copies ... with variations and an individual will that exerted itself from the time of existence. And then each had their H'd-toba. More than a partner, but not exactly what Ianto would call a 'lover.' Maybe they were. Born together from the same concept of existence, the H'd-tobi pair functioned rather synergistically, rather yin and yang he pictured it. There was no falling in love, they simply were from the time they were 'born' until they ceased to be. Ianto understood now why the Doctor was so insistent in asking where his H'd-toba was -- Windhovers didn't exist without their 'other half'.

Except Ianto did. Somehow.

Spontaneous evolutionary genesis.

But it also explained why the Doctor had laughed, though Ianto had yet to forgive him for that insult. A H'd-tobi relationship between the hunter and its prey? Comedy at its finest, if Ianto was inclined to laugh at that sort of thing. Which he wasn't, not exactly, although he could appreciate the irony. Didn't absolve the Doctor, but then Ianto was inclined to believe that perhaps, over the years before even the Great Parting, perhaps some of the animosity between the species had become ingrained. Was that possible? Perhaps. But Ianto knew he'd be a fool to believe that part of the Doctor's laughter wasn't also connected in some way to the Windhovers.

In fact, Ianto rather believed the Doctor enjoyed possessing the upper hand in the situation, though perhaps the TARDIS fumes were getting to him.

Ianto felt the TARDIS' umbrage and nearly laughed, but opted for restraint as the laughter was equally inappropriate now as it had been at Torchwood during the prelude to his sectioning.

"Not exactly," Ianto agreed with the Doctor, taking the book back with an almost reverent air. It was his history, after all. Not his, the Windhovers. And ... whatever he was. A child, as the Doctor called him. Second evolution of the species. A species that functioned like branches off a universal consciousness, if Ianto were to believe in things like that. Right about now, he was willing to believe in most anything, actually, and if the concept of a universal consciousness was the best his mind could do to process the data it was receiving, then he'd have to make due. Universal consciousness -- like if he had been a musician composing music; perhaps the song may already exist and he simply had to access it and creation was more awareness than innovation, but he had to know what a piano was to compose music for the piano. The Doctor had told him, back during their earlier conversations, that it wasn't that far off the mark. The history and collective knowledge of the Windhovers was there, accessible to Ianto, if he only knew what it was he meant to access. The names, the places, the crimes, the objects; they were all part of the vast collective to which he was a part. Possibly the only part. But a part all the same.

Existing because he believed he existed.

And didn't that just fuck with his head.

The Doctor had tried to explain it but had failed, miserably, attempting to rely on science and maths when even the Doctor knew that would fail since the Windhovers existed where science and maths did not but in conceived form. So Ianto had turned to his one reliable resource which was only as accurate as the original author had penned it.

And hadn't really succeeded any better than when the Doctor had tried to explain it. But the poetry and stories did have a shred of fact to them, which Ianto carefully noted on a tablet he kept by his side at all times. From what Ianto could gather, he believed he existed in the form that was a blending of his parents because that's what he was raised with. He had aged, even from infancy, seeing primarily his mother and father, and so had subconsciously created himself in their likeness.

He aged because he believed he should age as everyone around him aged and thought he should age as well.

Which raised whole levels of possibility that he struggled to understand at all.

And the Doctor was no help, as he was "a Child of the Windhovers and you have no H'd-toba and you Initiated without your Coterie. You could pass on tomorrow or outlive Jack. Who knows?"

Sometimes, Ianto truly hated the Doctor.

As he did now, straightening the book on the desk until it ran perfectly parallel to the desk's edge. Although he supposed he understood. A little. The Doctor was protecting Jack. Protecting Jack from him. Fearing what Ianto would do to him upon his return. He'd laugh if it wasn't so damned ... well, what Ianto would fucking do in the same situation. As if Jack needed protecting; maybe he did. Ianto had to admit he respected the Doctor for that, just a bit.

He didn't want to like the Doctor. He didn't want to trust him, either. The Doctor was a Time Lord, for fuck's sake.

But maybe ...

"Was he?" Ianto asked before he could censor his words, hating how needy he sounded despite knowing he wouldn't give a damn if Jack had. They had all done unforgivables in their pasts, and Jack had forgiven Ianto for his (even if he hadn't yet forgiven himself). If Jack had ... well, Jack had certainly killed humans in his past, did Ianto feel equally affronted about that?

No.

The answer was honestly no and Ianto hated himself for it, his conscience screaming that they hadn't been hunted and that made a difference. Maybe the humans had been hunted as well, but then the Windhover in him screamed for justice instead of revenge.

Ianto knew Jack. He trusted Jack. Fuck, Jack was his still signed as his next of kin. He couldn't be ...

"That's a question you should be asking him," the Doctor finally said, doing nothing to make Ianto loathe him less, even if he did in some ways respect the Doctor for keeping Jack's story. But Ianto wanted answers, not some half-truths or avoidances. He needed to know. Even if it hurt, he needed to know. It couldn't hurt more than it did now, it simply wasn't possible. Though, he knew better than to think in possibilities. The least expect most often ended up being true. "But remember, Mr. Jones," the Doctor removed his glasses, waving them at Ianto like a sort of flag to empathize his point. "His are not the only secrets."

Well, shit.

Ianto fixated on his own hands, so much safer than looking at the Doctor, whose face, Ianto knew, searched his for understanding and acknowledgment. Fuck, he wasn't even sure how to take the last statement of the Doctor's. Was it a threat? Would the Doctor tell Jack Ianto's secrets if Ianto pushed for Jack's? That'd be blackmail, though why that should surprise Ianto he didn't know. The Doctor was protecting Jack, had been since first showing Ianto the library knowing exactly what kind of reaction (lust, craving, want) that it would inspire in Ianto. Hell, before then. Had been since first telling Ianto not to use his ... Windhover ability ... to travel to another place, another time. To return home. Ianto couldn't imagine it had anything to do with protecting him so much as it was delaying when Ianto returned to Cardiff, returned to Jack.

Or maybe it did.

Damned if he knew.

"Are you holding me prisoner, then?" Ianto traced the title of the book, engraved into the surface just a fraction of an inch, rather than address the Doctor himself. It was childish, he knew, it went against everything Torchwood One and his youth had taught him. One looked their aggressor in the eyes to show them that fear and submission were not lurking within, and even if they were one learned to pretend otherwise. During his youth it had earned him respect and often kept food on the table; at Torchwood One it had kept harassment over his lack of credentials at bay, and at Torchwood Three it had probably saved his job and his memory.

He just ... couldn't look. He was too damned confused, there was too much swirling around in his head, he was on a bloody spaceship trapped with a terrifying man who loved bananas, and the things he learned about himself may or may not be accurate because hey, he was apparently a new evolution of his species. He didn't even know how to fucking reproduce (if he were so inclined) because he had no H'd-toba and that nixed everything the Doctor knew about the Windhovers. There was just something so fundamentally flawed about that.

And there was a small part of him which pointed out that maybe he subconsciously thought it'd be better for him to stay on the TARDIS (prisoner or no) than return to Torchwood. And Jack. And knowing yet having to act natural despite the question that was on the tip of his tongue.

But Jack was a good person. Ianto trusted him with his life, if just not his secret. Not yet.

Weren't these internal arguments becoming familiar and repetitive. As was disappearing on Jack, which he'd done twice now, though this time was beyond his control.

"Prisoner? Never. Intentionally distract you? Well..." The Doctor stretched the word 'well' out so long and with such humor that Ianto glanced up out of surprise, rather than purpose. A self-satisfied grin stretched across the Doctor's face, making Ianto truly begin to wonder just how long he'd been on the TARDIS, tucked away in the library.

At least he'd bathed periodically.

The smirk faded, though the serious expression was honest, now. Times were few when Ianto believed that what he saw matched in the Doctor's eyes. Sometimes it came close; moments of enthusiastic glee which seemed to transform the Doctor, or when Ianto was so overwhelmed by a sense of loss that the Doctor hinted he might possibly understand. Those were the times when Ianto couldn't hate him, no matter what the Windhover figurative database had detailed.

He almost saw what attracted Jack to the man.

"You needed time, Mr. Jones, time, answers, and a safe haven. I could provide all three." The Doctor's eyes flashed over Ianto, such an assessing glance that Ianto would have felt unnerved had he not become desensitized through exposure to Jack. "Besides, you're not the first Windhover who has joined me on the TARDIS."

The clothes, Ianto foolishly realized, barely keeping himself from flushing an outrageous shade of red. He'd gotten so used to the slatted shirts he rarely wore a jacket over them; in fact, he'd essentially forgotten they weren't his. The suit he'd been wearing when he'd been hijacked off Earth hung in the wardrobe as well, neatly pressed and ready to wear again when he chose. Ianto just ... hadn't. There was something that drew him to the Windhover clothes, perhaps nostalgia of a time he'd never known. He'd stayed away from the body armor, some metal some leather-like, and some of the more feminine-appearing shirts. But much of it made him feel ... comfortable. Connected. He supposed he ought to thank the Doctor at some point.

"I thought the two races shunned contact after the Great Parting?" Ianto asked instead, shoving thanks aside with the revelation of the Time Agency's secret operations in pursuit of the Windhovers (though they had not been alone, they were simply the only name Ianto personally recognized) and reproduction as topics he truly did not want to deal with. Perhaps he never would.

"Oh, there were a few rebellious sort who broke the rules." From the proud tone, Ianto assumed that one of the few may have included the Doctor. "But those are stories for another time. We need to make you feel less like a prisoner on the TARDIS." The Doctor grandly pretended to mull over the idea, but Ianto didn't believe it for a second. This was planned, staged and choreographed. "Oh! I know this lovely planet where the ground is pink and the sky is green. They fly kites on holiday."

Ianto wondered how long the Doctor had this idea in mind, but eventually decided that he didn't care. Fresh air would do him good, even if the sky was green and his skin might turn pink from dust particles in the air.

Anything was currently better than thinking. And Ianto was almost afraid to find out what else he would find in the books.

***

Ianto brushed his hands off on his trousers, scowling when the pink particulates did as he'd intended - departed from his hands and replaced themselves on his clothing. But now his trousers were soiled and if there was anything he detested more, it was dirty clothing. Dirty Windhover clothing at that.

At least they hadn't been damaged when the building had collapsed. That would have been unforgivable.

He'd meant the action to have a calming effect. Didn't work.

Not even close. Fuck, his hands shook from anger and restraint.

The Doctor stood near the TARDIS' main console, hands stuffed in his pockets looking remarkably dust-free, which only served to anger Ianto more. Anger as heavy and cloying as the dust which had threatened to choke him when the Rodan's evacuation ship had exploded, so heavy he could barely breathe. Not that he was furious that the ship had exploded with the entire governing body inside; the bastards deserved a much slower punishment for all Ianto was concerned.

They'd enslaved an entire population. Actually, not an entire population, but an entire planet.

Justice meted.

Not perfectly; Ianto still had no clue what course of action was preferred. Arrest? He couldn't have very well arrested the lot, there were no courts, no trials, no governing body of Windhovers standing watch to ensure the Laws were followed. Except for him. And he knew every Law they were breaking, every instance of conflict with the Shadow Proclamation, every detail down to the last Code violation. And he was fucking stymied by his own failure to understand how despite it screaming necessary through every fiber of his being.

The Doctor had done something to disable the Rodans' communications with his sonic screwdriver, and Ianto had stood by and watched him do it. Just watched. Watched and rather feared for his life as the Rodan army gathered and the leaders had begun shouting at the Doctor. But Ianto had watched and did the one thing he knew how to do: he worked on devising a method to ensure the government got their due and to escape.

Not that his plans had mattered, in the end.

The ship with the escaping Rodans had exploded, the Hall of Government collapsing in the wake of the blast.

And Ianto had felt satisfied.

No, that wasn't the source of his anger. Nor was it the Doctor's, whose temper looked to be boiling just beneath the surface as well. Maybe it wasn't anger; Ianto couldn't tell. Didn't very much care, truth be told. Whatever it was, the Doctor was not happy. With him.

Which also satisfied Ianto as he was equally as unhappy with the Doctor.

Defiantly, Ianto raised his chin as he pulled the Blaster 201SX Series off his shoulder and checked the safety. Not a very creative name for the energy weapon of the Rodan, but effective. Especially against the Rodan.

He'd saved the life of a Naveed, one of the native people on the planet. It was worth every ounce of the Doctor's ire.

Quickly dismantling the weapon (he knew how, he just didn't know how he knew), Ianto destroyed the charge crystal and firing block, effectively turning the weapon into nothing more than a child's toy, and turned back to the TARDIS doors, throwing the pieces out because he knew she didn't like the weapon on board.

He didn't give a damn what the Doctor felt, though Ianto knew full-well that the other man loathed the device being on the TARDIS. Hell, he hadn't even liked the weapon being used.

Used. To save a life.

Of course, the Doctor's displeasure may have had something to do in part with Ianto directly disobeying his commands to run and return to the TARDIS. Disorder and panic had swirled around them, a rebellious uprising against the remaining Rodan army by the Naveed. And this one had needed to be saved. Or at least Ianto couldn't stand back and allow him to die, not with the training he'd received from Jack. So he'd broken away, raced to where he had heard the struggle, and protected the Naveed, discharging the Blaster 201SX Series he'd lifted off a fallen Rodan along the way.

He'd disobeyed the Doctor and saved a life, one that had given his thanks and updated Ianto quickly on their rebellion and rescue efforts to assist the Naveed trapped within the remains of the Halls of Government.

Fucking Time Lords anyway.

Ianto had no more than closed the TARDIS door than the Doctor began furiously punching buttons and pulling levers, programming a destination of who knew where, maybe back to Cardiff where the Doctor would drop-kick him to the curb. Perfectly agreeable situation, at this point in time. At any time, really.

The TARDIS lurched to a halt, stopping at some where and when, at the Doctor's whim and desire. Ianto didn't care, he'd take a black hole if it meant getting away from the man. He knew it wasn't all situational, that watching the fall of the Hall of Government and the Doctor's departure from the scene struck a nerve far too close to personal for him to ignore. But there was an underlying ... expectation. Predictability. Ianto just didn't know why.

Or maybe he did know. Fuck he wasn't sure of anything any more within his own mind.

"Small wonder we parted ways." Ianto turned his gaze up towards the ceiling, refusing to continue to look at the Doctor who quite literally glowered from his stance near the console, never speaking a word but Ianto could almost hear the tirade. Did the Doctor tirade? Ianto decided it would be worth the effort to see, because then at least any shouting on his part would be justifiable. "That's what Time Lords do, yeah? Sit back idly and watch civilizations fall unless it serves you to act at all."

"Spoken like a Windhover," scoffed the Doctor, sounding closer to Ianto's ears than his distance ought to have pitched. Lowering his gaze, Ianto felt his jaw clench, teeth grinding against each other until he forcibly stilled it. The Doctor was closer, leaning with arms crossed against a pillar, a casual pose that Ianto knew was anything but. Not that he believed the Doctor would actually physically fight. No, that was beneath him. "You lot never once thought about the consequences, always wandering in, mucking about with things you couldn't possibly understand."

"Right." Ianto laughed, more a bark than a laugh for as sharp as it sounded to his ears. Mucking about. He was pretty sure the Naveed he saved wouldn't call it 'mucking about'. And what had been so wrong about that? The Rodan soldier had been unjustified in his actions, and despite the destruction of the governing body, was still killing the Naveeds. There were so many violations of Law Ianto could have spent hours detailing it. In the end, he hadn't needed to. The Rodan had turned a weapon on him and he'd fired without hesitation, just as Jack and Torchwood One had trained him. Of course the Doctor would call it 'mucking about' - the Doctor had started it when he'd landed on the planet and 'accidentally' ended up confronting the controlling Rodans. The uprising wouldn't have started had the Rodans not tried to flee.

"You go flitting about the Universe in your little ship," Ianto continued, ignoring any soothing attempts by the TARDIS as he felt every crime the Doctor was responsible for. Windhover-instinct or purely human Ianto had no clue, he found the more he knew about himself the less he knew, but there was little doubt of his anger. "Dip your fingers into grand situations that you deem worthy of your effort, then dash off before you see consequences other than how it affects your bloody timelines." Anger. The whole fucking bridge was filled with anger and not all of it his. "How many lives will you destroy in the name of 'good' in order to assuage your guilt?"

"You know nothing." The words spoken by the Doctor were more warning than commentary on Ianto's intelligence, he could hear it the way 'nothing' sparked off the Doctor's tongue to envelop the space within the TARDIS. Warning, and even if Ianto hadn't turned to look, he would have known it. But he did turn, the Doctor appearing the same as he'd always seen but it was the eyes that just seemed ancient. Warning indeed. "You're just a child of a race no better than the Judoon."

Ianto felt the slap of the words even if there was nothing physical and fuck if his proverbial feathers didn't ruffle in affront. If he wore his Windhover wings they probably would have been; as it was, his fingernails dug into his palms and he swore he could feel the heat radiating off his body as he demonstrated what he thought was considerable restraint.

He and the Judoon were nothing alike. They were mercenaries who enjoyed the hunt and kill. He didn't ... he didn't know what the hell the Windhovers did when arresting and sentencing someone, but it wasn't killing. He knew it wasn't. And though it may be a last resort in the name of protecting a life, they didn't kill for pleasure. He didn't kill for pleasure.

He didn't.

The Windhovers didn't.

Ianto knew.

With a start, his eyes narrowed as he realized the Doctor was goading him. Maybe not goading; intentionally striking to hurt with barbs that felt as ancient as the storm behind his eyes. Well, fuck him. "Canary Wharf."

"What?" Ianto almost smirked at the incredulity frozen on the Doctor's face. Almost. And he was rather glad he hadn't when the tableau shattered and animation vibrated every limb of the Doctor before he shoved his hands in his pockets and paced furiously, long coat swirling with each turn. Jaguar; smooth and graceful, power barely contained. "I stopped two invasions Torchwood was ignorant enough to start!"

"And then you left, just like today, without bothering to check for survivors. Duty done, after all," Ianto sneered, using a tone only Owen heard. It sounded without effort, his voice too hard and tensely coiled to crack while memories of that day replayed in his head. Coworkers panicked, screaming as they ran while the Cybermen aimed their weapons at the ones who didn't halt. Crackles of the radios while agents shouted for backup to confront the Daleks, to confront the Cybermen, but it was too much technology , too much power, too much metal to fight when they were simply too human. And the rubble and bodies, smoking in the corridors when silence fell, the awe of salvation overpowering, for a moment, all pain.

And then the screaming had begun anew, fresh wails of agony and pleading for death. Metal parts and bleeding skin. "Drop in, leave a footprint so people will know you were there, then off again before you learn any of the faces you're leaving behind." Ianto continued his tirade, for that's what it was, never stopping or pausing. Ianto didn't even think it was about the Time Lords and Windhovers now. Maybe it never was. Maybe it always was. "We burned, Doctor. Innocents died. And you left, just like today. What good are your fucking timelines if you abandon the people in them?"

"You fool." The Doctor's voice came out as a hiss, barely audible over the harsh sounds of someone's breathing. His, Ianto belatedly realized, the sudden awareness surprising him to silence. "You were all fools, thinking you could protect everyone, and look where it got you?" Ianto flinched, but didn't look away, couldn't move, really. "Didn't care about the ripples you caused saving one more life, just thought yourselves untouchable angels."

Ianto stubbornly squared his jaw, knowing the Doctor was wrong. He was wrong.; The Windhovers had been successful with their Laws and enforcement; their stories and poems had been filled first with the creation and then the progression to enforcement. And they'd done good. He knew they had. There'd been some rogue Coteries, but for the most part, people had lived because of them. Or at least they'd tried.

Hadn't they?

No. The Doctor was wrong. Ianto knew he was. He knew. The Doctor had left and Lisa had ... and he'd ... Fuck him. And the Time Lords. They'd ignored the Windhovers'. Didn't fit into their crucial timelines. Hell, even his mind sneered the word in mockery. Where were they now? Off watching the genesis of a star or arguing amongst themselves whether they should intervene in a planet's collapse or spend their time twiddling with Distributed Cluster Algebra. Not that Ianto knew what the hell that was and it meant fuck all to most of the Universes but it was more important than trying to save one life. "And you all think you're bloody gods."

Silence.

He counted his breaths - twenty-seven - between his last word and any reaction on the Doctor's face. Trouble was, Ianto couldn't define what that reaction was when it did happen, flashing across his eyes, his lips; even his hair appeared to express whatever it was the Doctor was thinking. Being. And for a moment, all Ianto could feel was grief.

And only for a moment, because he was the first to move and the first to leave, escaping out of the bridge of the TARDIS not in a run but in haste. He didn't understand. Any of it. All of it. Ianto felt both guilty as hell for what he said and yet justified, and he couldn't read the Doctor. He'd just stood there, a mask so thick Ianto couldn't tell if he was about to strike Ianto down or hug him, though hugging was likely not on the Doctor's list. Only his eyes said anything at all and they no longer looked ancient just ... old.

Old and .. other. Something. Something that scared the shit out of Ianto.

That's it. He was fucking terrified but he didn't know why. Maybe that's why he'd left the bridge, afraid he'd crossed a line. No, Ianto knew he had, but that didn't matter.

He was scared. Not scared of the Doctor, he was just a bloody Time Lord. Just. He could hear the laughter in his mind, and had to agree that had been a bit arrogant for someone who didn't even know how to fucking reproduce. Create more. To do...

And that was it. He was scared of himself. For everything he knew, he understood even less. Ianto had no clue why he was so angry with the Doctor and yet he had reasons that made sense. He didn't know who he was or what any of it meant any longer. What life meant. Which was absurd because apparently Windhovers didn't live they existed. They were. Somehow. Which followed no bloody logic and if he couldn't understand what he was how the hell was he to do anything? How could he be Windhover?

He terrified himself.

And whether it had been a reflection of himself or the Doctor within those eyes that looked so old, Ianto rather thought the terror was the same.

***

The sound of the door opening didn't startle him; Ianto had known the Doctor was standing outside the moment the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. For a while, Ianto almost thought he was going to just leave; it wasn't like Ianto was getting into any trouble sitting on the steps leading into the TARDIS' garden. Not that he'd even picked the garden as his destination, he hadn't really had a plan quite honestly but the door he opened which he thought was going to be his bedroom ended up being the entrance to a truly magnificent garden.

He must have made a wrong turn, somewhere. Though he'd never made one before and it wasn't like he was so distressed that he was out of sorts.

At least he didn't think so. He may feel a bit like he had when he was a teen and just needed to run, just for an hour, to escape his mother's latest slip, but he wasn't completely distressed. Air, and quiet. This place ... it provided it all.

The garden was breathtaking in size and beauty, making Ianto wonder if it was something the Doctor had cultivated or if it was more the TARDIS' doings. Plants and flowers of every imaginable shape and color lined pathways and beds, filling the room with the scent of blossoms and, well, dirt, but it was a richer, organic smell than that. Deeper, and definitely not originating from Earth. Ianto imagined that if the soil was taken to Earth and crops grown, the harvest would be remarkable. Maybe. Maybe it really was just dirt.

A fountain curved its way to the ceiling in the middle of the garden, looking impossible in all its splendor as it seemed to defy gravity. Or rather, the water seemed to, spilling off the fountain's branches in all ways but down to strike the next twist and follow its path. Ianto had lost himself in the design, trying to trace the water's flow, but eventually he had to stop for fear his mind would just rebel from what appeared impossible.

Not all the impossible was actually that, he was learning. And a stunning fountain backlit by the stars with water that flowed up and sideways and diagonally would just have to be admired, rather than questioned. And for once, his mind remained silent, didn't detail the mineral properties of the marble-crystal-looking sculpture, didn't tell him what technology was being used to make the water travel as it did. It simply was, and Ianto could appreciate the artistry in that.

What actually had surprised Ianto was when the Doctor had sat down on the step right next to him, literally in his personal space and almost awkwardly close. Thigh-to-thigh, hip-to-hip; Ianto couldn't move his shoulders at all without brushing against the Doctor's. But the Doctor didn't move, didn't correct the placement of his arse on the step, instead he handed Ianto a shallow cup - crystal? Maybe glass. He was pretty sure it was alcohol in the decanter the Doctor poured from, however. Poured two glasses of the amber beverage and held his up for a toast.

Very strange. Very odd. And completely unexpected.

The Doctor drank?

Ianto for one was relieved for the feeling of 'normal' as he clinked his glass against the Doctor's; it would have been rude for him not to but he didn't voice a toast. Didn't quite know what to say, and it had always served him best to say nothing at all under those circumstances. The drink looked like a fine whiskey, though the nose told him nothing as it didn't smell of any whiskey he knew. It tasted ... something sweet, like honey only less sugar-sweet and more ... gold tingling his taste buds. A hint of bitter, dry and rough as it settled full on his tongue. And ... green. Could the color green have a taste? Cool and fresh, yet at the same time dark and alive. Not literally, Ianto was firmly against consuming anything that might squirm in his mouth, but he could taste it, that feeling one got in the spring when everything was in bloom, or a near-death experience when one realized they still breathed. It had a flavor upon his tongue.

Definitely alcohol, though. He could feel it burn a path down his throat, hit his stomach and almost ... splash out, instantly spilling golden-tingling warmth throughout his body. Truly exquisite, and Ianto swore he could feel the smile on the Doctor's face as he must have enjoyed the same. Ianto didn't know for sure, though, the Doctor may have been scowling for all Ianto determinedly did not look at the man. Their earlier confrontation still rang in his ears and he didn't know whether to apologize or renew it; he was pretty sure the Doctor hadn't forgotten it so soon either.

So they didn't say anything at all, which made the company almost ... pleasant. Didn't mean Ianto wasn't intensely aware of the man while they sat like conjoined twins staring at the fountain in the center of the garden and sipped alien alcohol in tandem. Whether it was the subdued anxiety that was always present when the Doctor was around that currently was more muted than loud or the physical touch of another that made Ianto relax, he wasn't sure. Given it was the Doctor he shouldn't have relaxed at all. He unwound all the same, grounded by the solid, immovable wall which had inexplicably planted himself right beside Ianto.

And refilled their glasses when both their drinks were gone.

"Rose Tyler."

Ianto blinked as the silence vanished, broken by a name that some how sounded familiar to him but foreign all the same. He knew that name, not through the Windhovers or anything of the sort, but he'd seen it somewhere.

"I lost her, at Canary Wharf." Ah, that was how Ianto knew her. Her name had been on the list of the missing, presumed dead - along with far too many others. He felt the words he'd spoken earlier creep into his throat, choking off any attempt to speak. Which apparently suited the Doctor as he continued. "Well, not that I lost her-lost her. I know exactly where she is, so I suppose she isn't lost, more cosmically displaced in a parallel universe." Ianto had no idea how that was possible, but he still wasn't entirely sure of how the Doctor had defeated the Daleks and Cybermen either. Had he sent them to a parallel world, to threaten someone else? The idea was disturbing and upset some of the calm Ianto had been feeling. "Very nearly sucked into the Void when Pete saved her, but trapped her in his world. All the powers of a god, Mr. Jones, and she's beyond my reach."

Ianto didn't miss the bitter, self-mocking tone at the end of what the Doctor had said, and even if he had missed it, the slight shoulder nudge he received would have clued him in. Did the Doctor honestly think he was that dense? Owen, maybe.

"Lisa Hallett," Ianto stated after taking a moment to address the matter of 'courage' by taking a sip of his drink. Not that it helped, but he did understand, for once, the Doctor's motives. "She survived the initial incursion as a partially converted Cyberman. I tried to save her. Thought I could." Ianto's smile felt more like a grimace for all he'd intended it to be regretful reminiscence. Fuck, the ripples it'd caused. "She killed two before Jack- before Torchwood Three could stop her." The glass in his hand provided a good distraction as he swirled the liquid, watching the amber color cling briefly to the edges before sinking back into the pool. He did wonder, for a moment, if he stood next to the fountain would his drink just continue its movement upwards? "I think," Ianto scowled as he tried to voice his next thoughts, but no matter what words he came up with, it just sounded wrong given what he knew now. "She tried to kill me," he settled on, tapping a finger against the glass, "and I still couldn't stop trying."

'Because I loved her,' went without saying, though neither spoke a word once Ianto finished talking. There were thousands of recriminations Ianto supposed he deserved, especially following what the Doctor had said - and who he'd lost. Hell, he'd inadvertently nearly rekindled the invasion the Doctor had stopped because Ianto simply hadn't considered what could happen if she had been too far gone.

Course, the Doctor hadn't stopped to think of the twenty-seven survivors either. Maybe he had, and simply didn't care.

It was petty and self-centered, Ianto knew, but to him it was important. Even if the Doctor had been immersed in grief for losing Rose, he could have helped while Torchwood One fell. Maybe more would have survived. Maybe Lisa ... talk about ripples.

Or maybe he was still looking for someone to blame.

Which made it all the more confusing, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh with the man while they drank alien alcohol and stared at a fountain that flowed up.

"I owe you an apology." Ianto knew he did, but that didn't make the words any easier to force off his tongue. The alcohol helped a bit, smoothing out the edges, but it still felt like petting a hedgehog the wrong way.

"Nah. You were right." Ianto couldn't stop himself from looking at the Doctor in surprise, an action not overtly witnessed by the other man as he continued to watch the fountain, but Ianto saw the slight curl of a smile touch the Doctor's lips. Oh, he'd been seen alright. "And so was I. This isn't the first time these arguments have been made, Mr. Jones, though before there were far more robes and fancy speak and absolutely no Meentak wine. Which was most unfortunate as the whole lot of them were so dreadfully boring."

Ianto snorted in amusement before he could check himself, mentally absolving himself by deciding that it must have been the Meentak wine, not any sort of congeniality found in the Doctor's words or attitude. He was supposed to loathe the man. Wasn't he? He had a list of reasons why he ought to, but a list of contrary reasons was rapidly growing as well which begged the question, 'was he wrong?'

He wasn't sure which terrified him more; that the information was faulty or for having believed so quickly that it could be as simple as black and white.

"Ianto," he corrected, not really sure if it was the Doctor's preference to refer to someone by their last name or if it had been merely politeness after having had a gun directed on him as their first introduction. But they were long past such formalities, though Ianto knew better than to refer to the Doctor by his name. There were some things one simply did not do and Ianto knew this was to be respected without question.

The Doctor looked quite pleased with himself as he topped off their glasses, but Ianto refrained from retracting his permission just to be difficult. Barely. He may have bitten his tongue in the process, but he would always deny if ever asked.

"Ianto." The Doctor repeated the name like he was practicing it, though Ianto knew it hadn't been the first time he'd used it. He did say it with the proper accent, unlike Jack's "Yan-toe" which should have annoyed him but was more endearing than not. "You ought to tell Jack." Ianto couldn't help the scowl as he remembered having said the same thing to the Doctor in regards to the man's care for Jack, and he couldn't believe the Doctor was throwing it back at him. Especially now. "Contrary to how the situation was resolved with the Cyberman, he holds no prejudices against species."

Ah. Was that why he was wary of telling Jack, because he believed it possible that Jack might kill him as a consequence of being alien? Perhaps subconsciously, because he still remembered Jack standing with the smoking gun?

Ianto gave the idea time to crawl across his mind, encountering all logic and emotional pitfalls along the way, including an instinctual need for secrecy borne of being Windhover. That wasn't imagined, he'd felt the same reservations in the company of Lester and Dr. Ramamurthy. And even with the Doctor. But how much of it was just the Windhover, and how much of it was an honest fear of Jack?

Fuck, he had no clue.

But he knew it wasn't entirely their shared past with Lisa. "And if he hunted my kind during his time at the Time Agency?" And it also wasn't just his fear that Jack would attempt to kill him. "Or if my Coterie was one that ought to have been hunted?" Because there had been those Coteries, rogue Coteries and criminal Coteries, breaking the same Laws that the others fought to enforce. Ianto had read those tales, of the epic battles between a lawful and criminal Windhover Coterie, chasing each other about the Universes and time. None of those had a happy ending, for any involved.

And he still knew nothing.

"Nearly all races had divisions which sought to capture or destroy the Windhover, Ianto. Even mine." The Doctor smirked, pausing a moment with his glass to his lips. "Human kind is not an exception." Ianto's breath caught and he swore his heart rate irrationally quadrupled in the span between the Doctor's words and the time it took for him to take a drink. A thousand thoughts twisted into a tangled, panicked heap in his gut before Ianto could calm himself. If the Doctor meant to kill him, he'd have had ample opportunity already. Although, it could be argued that he had been captured, even though the Doctor insisted that he was not a prisoner aboard the TARDIS. And Ianto would like to believe him unconditionally on that fact, if he was to believe anything at all. "Well, they did infiltrate our ranks with a Coterie that identified as Time Lords. How you managed that gave us fits when it was discovered. I thought it was rather brilliant, myself. Imagine that, Windhover Time Lords! Completely outside of possible, yet there it was!"

Ianto didn't say anything as he had no idea why it was so impossible for Windhovers to be Time Lords when Windhovers could be humans or apparently any race they wished to intermingle with. Intermingle was perhaps the wrong word. Blend? The Doctor had taken the time to explain the whole identification concept as best he could explain it when Ianto had asked if he could take any form he wished, since he existed more as a concept than an actual physical being. A complex babbling of rationale later, and Ianto thought he understood it to an extent. Technically, he could, and the older more experienced Windhovers most likely could. But since he was raised believing fully that he was human with the face that he wore, it was difficult to get past the intense self-identification. He looked like 'Ianto' when he changed to his Windhover form because he believed so internally that he was 'Ianto.' To change form or face would run against such a strong belief.

That session made his head hurt trying to grasp the idea.

But what the Doctor had said about Windhover Time Lords, and how he spoke with such eager wonder, left Ianto wondering if perhaps that wasn't the answer to the clothing stored on the TARDIS and that he now wore. Bit unnerving, really, he'd avoided the thought that he was wearing someone else's clothing by just leaving it generalized 'made for Windhovers.' But if a Windhover Time Lord had possibly traveled with the Doctor in the past, maybe because the Doctor was what, unwilling to turn them over?

That put a major kink in how Ianto viewed the Doctor.

"Stand up."

Ianto blinked at the sudden command and the sudden loss of 'wall' next to him which caused him to shift to the side before he could correct the movement. Warily he stood, because if there was anything he'd learned during his time with the Doctor, one could never predict what mood or action he would take next. He kept his drink, however. It was too good to discard, plus, whatever the Doctor intended might just require a drink.

"Will you show me?"

For a moment - and only the briefest of moments that he would ever admit to - Ianto interpreted the Doctor's request as he wished to see Ianto's cock. Alarmed, it finally occurred to him that he'd been around Jack apparently far more than proper because instead of an innocent request, it morphed into something sex-related, and while Jack might think it amusing or even a positive quality, Ianto found it disturbing at best.

That the one soliciting the response was the Doctor, and Ianto's mind had dipped to where it had, made it all the more humiliating.

Ianto quickly shoved the thought aside, praying to every deity he knew that the Doctor was not a mind-reader. He had asked with a certain respect, as though he would consider it an honor. The 'why' escaped Ianto, but given that the Doctor had never before asked to see, he had to wonder if there wasn't some kind of secrecy involved in revealing his Windhover form. Form in this Universe, Ianto corrected himself as he was fairly certain that beyond the Veil he would exist as ... some thing else. Technically not 'thing' as things simply weren't beyond the Veil but he wouldn't look as he appeared now.

The Doctor was asking Ianto to show himself.

Rather than question it, Ianto believed there was a sort of ... intimacy ... about revealing what the Doctor was asking for. Maybe not intimacy, but definitely a level of trust that Ianto hadn't believed existed between them. Or perhaps maybe it did. The Windhovers shrouded themselves in masks of perfect species identity, for goodness sakes, passing themselves off completely as though they were actually that race. Fooling all equipment. Even TARDIS'.

It just wasn't done.

At least not often.

He'd been unnerved back at Lester's, preferring to avoid scrutiny than engage socially with all who stepped into Lester's home. Was there more to that than Ianto finding solace, hiding in shame of wings and avoiding the stares at the marks upon his skin?

Possible, he supposed.

Not like he knew anything to give a definitive anyways.

But the Doctor had asked. That meant ... something.

Of course, it could be an elaborate ploy for Ianto to reveal himself to a Windhover hunter who would then use his superior knowledge to kill him before Ianto could draw a breath. A most positive thought, he chided himself, but the fear once considered didn't go away.

He had another option, not to do anything at all. Refuse the Doctor. He'd only asked, after all.

Ianto looked at the glass in his hand before drinking the contents in one go and handing the glass back to the Doctor. Not that there had been anything more than a swig remaining, but he felt a bit like a man approaching his death enjoying his last meal. And really, if his last taste was going to be Meentak wine, Ianto supposed life could have been worse.

Focusing inward, Ianto touched the something that he instinctively was aware of but knew wouldn't exist on any scanning device. Focused and felt the slight give of fabric at his back as the heady rush of home for a moment clouded his mind, filling his whole being with a rush of purple-grey and the taste of Meentak wine. Not that it actually tasted, but if it had a flavor it would be that wine, Ianto decided.

He stretched his wings, unencumbered as they were by the vast space of the garden with the fountain that flowed up. And out. And every direction except where one would assume it'd flow. It'd been so long since he'd existed as ... this - as himself - and the shift was breathtaking. Not that he felt any different, not really. Everything smelled the same as it had, sounded the same as it had, even looked the same. Nothing was different - aside from the wings and the marks, Ianto supposed - other than just simply ... being.

A smile grew, one that Ianto couldn't stop had he tried, not that he made any great effort. He'd just forgotten what it was like; although maybe he'd never felt the relief before. Ianto had been in such fear and confusion at Lester's that even had he wanted to enjoy the experience, he couldn't. And after leaving Lester's, well, he'd never changed back. Too afraid he'd be caught. Too afraid Jack would know. Too afraid of well, being anything other than human.

But on the TARDIS...

"Oh, now aren't you beautiful."

Ianto remembered quickly that he wasn't the only one in the garden, in fact, he kicked himself for not remembering. It was the Doctor. He should be aware of the Doctor even if Ianto hadn't been concerned for his own safety and the other man's possibly nefarious motivations. But he'd forgotten, for a moment.

And that moment had been wonderful.

The Doctor, to his credit, didn't appear murderous to Ianto, which quickly diminished any anxiety he felt over his brief inattention. He looked ... both somber and ecstatic, serene and excited, like Christmas and Remembrance Day and a birthday all rolled into one, a combination of expressions which Ianto knew couldn't possibly exist on a human.

Ianto could see grief too, and he assumed that the Doctor may have known some Windhover rather well.

The Doctor took one step forward, then stopped, seeming as though he'd surprised himself. "May I?"

Nodding because he really didn't understand what the Doctor was asking for and he felt it rather embarrassing to have him clarify, Ianto stood impossibly still as the Doctor approached, the little corner of doubt reviving as the other man stepped closer.

"Black was the sole color of the R'te-phire Coterie, and only the R'te-phire bore that color in its purest shade as you do," the Doctor began, standing close enough for Ianto to hug without reaching, if he'd wanted. Apparently the Doctor hadn't learned the rules of personal space, but Ianto didn't move. He couldn't.

R'te-phire.

The name turned over and over in his mind, spinning wildly while Ianto tried to remember to breathe. Something. He knew something about himself. About ... shit. He could feel his whole body tremble, every last feather in his wings quiver with the knowledge, and Ianto hoped the Doctor wouldn't notice. Not that he cared particularly. R'te-phire. But the Doctor made it difficult to ignore him, his hands flashing over Ianto's face that took a moment before he realized-

The Doctor was reading.

"Color of your wings designates the Coterie, and your markings, Ianto of the R'te-phire," the Doctor spoke the name again and Ianto memorized it, implanted the sounds and the twists so he'd never forget it, he swore not even in death would he forget it. "Your markings tell of your lineage, the titles and the history, in every curve and straight line." A finger followed a coil into his hairline before tracing a delicate line just under his eye. Ianto would have moved, but he couldn't.

R'te-phire.

"Not typically human identification, perhaps they were desperate and couldn't take the time ah, yes, an ancient Coterie and an equally old H'd-tobi, they would have known. Of course they had known, they couldn't possibly have not known given who they, oh. Well, now that's very interesting."

The Doctor's hands had moved to his neck when they paused, the sudden complete lack of movement feeling as jarring had Ianto been the one in motion.

Had Ianto been capable of moving, he might have over-corrected due to the sensation.

But he couldn't. He just stared speechless at the Doctor, remembering everything he said to ask him later what the hell he meant.

The Doctor was reading his skin.

Time had most certainly stopped within the TARDIS, Ianto didn't breathe and he couldn't hear the water in the fountain tumbling up. Or maybe it still was flowing and it was only he that stopped, anticipation winding him so coiled that he didn't dare blink for fear of bursting.

"I knew ... well, I knew a few within the R'te-phire." The hands were moving again, running up a line curving over Ianto's jaw. "Not the H'd-tobi that created you, Ishaan and Inaani, but others. They ... tolerated me." With a smile that was perhaps more secretive than open, the Doctor touched Ianto's cheek, a confusing gesture as Ianto knew there were no marks at that spot on his skin. "They were a brave people, just, and a bit more scholarly than the rest of them." The Doctor's finger tapped his cheek twice, focusing all of Ianto's attention on what he saying, as though Ianto had been doing anything else. "Cast out any other scary thoughts you might be entertaining in that head of yours, Ianto of the R'te-phre. You'd bring dishonor to their name if you believed them anything but good."

Ianto opened his mouth to speak, then closed it before he could say anything trite or inane after the Doctor's words. Nothing seemed appropriate and the sense of overwhelming ... everything ... completely stripped his vocabulary of anything other than syllabic nonsense.

He was supposed to hate this man.

He should; Ianto had countless reasons to hate him.

But he'd just given Ianto a gift that bordered on impossible. Intangibles, like Jack visiting every day while Ianto was at Providence or Tosh combing his hair or even Owen looking after the Torchwood One survivors. Unquantifiable and something he could never repay. Not that they'd ever ask to be repaid; at least Ianto assumed what the Doctor had said came unconditionally. His origins, his kind. The Doctor could be lying, Ianto had never thought to look at it as a script before and not just ... a doodle Jack drew on important UNIT documents. This would be one hell of a charade, though, because the Doctor was staring at him, open and honest and his words hadn't been overwhelming that certainly was.

The R'te-phire were good.

For reasons he couldn't explain, that meant more to Ianto than anything the Doctor could have said, relief snapping back with such force that it almost hurt. At least that was the excuse Ianto fed himself as to why his eyes were a bit watery. He looked up at the ceiling, not really rotating his head since he could still feel the Doctor's hands on his face, just his eyes, glancing away for a moment to get his thoughts under control, to moisten lips a bit dry from the alcohol and above all, maintain his composure.

Which was difficult. Incredibly difficult. Swallowing-hard-around-the-lump-in-his-throat difficult.

It was the fear thing. Fear of himself, fear of not knowing, fear of knowing, fear of never knowing. It didn't matter the angle, he was terrified. But this ... helped. Not that he wasn't still scared shitless, but his Coterie had been one of the good ones. One that the Doctor had known and respected. It shouldn't matter but it did.

When he dropped his eyes from the ceiling and refocused on the Doctor's face, Ianto rather thought the Doctor knew just how much it mattered.

"Thank you." Ianto sincerely meant those words, although his voice came didn't come out quite as he had intended, roughened like he had actually wept for an hour. He cleared his throat but couldn't think of anything more to say that hadn't been summed up in those two words.

"The thanks is mine." The Doctor's serious expression vanished quickly, and in its place a smile so wicked Ianto wondered if the man was channeling Jack. "I'm assuming you've writing all over, the R'te-phire were an ancient Coterie as Ishaan and Inaani were elders among the Windhover. If I was Jack, I'd say something shamelessly depraved when asking if you'd remove your kit." So the Doctor was channeling Jack. "Though, I suppose I could just ask you to show me again."

This time Ianto couldn't stop the blush which stained his cheeks what he assumed was a remarkable shade of red. Probably his neck too, as true embarrassment tended to encapsulate his whole body instead of just angry dots high on his cheeks. Which the Doctor was still touching, rather unnecessarily so as he was no longer reading, maybe he was and he just wasn't telling Ianto?

And he wanted to read more? Or was he just taking the piss?

Fuck, he'd caught the line of thought Ianto had followed (briefly) earlier. Maybe he had blushed when he'd considered it. Or maybe the Doctor was psychic.

Whatever the case, the Doctor had appeared to have amused himself, chuckling at Ianto's expense. Not that Ianto terribly minded, he supposed it could be considered amusing. He didn't laugh though, he was more curious than not.

"What do you see, when you look at me?" The words tumbled out of his mouth before Ianto could think to apply a filter. Or censor them altogether. But as reason caught up with what he had asked, it made all the more sense. Long ago, the Doctor had said in his human form Ianto appeared human, with no deviation. And if Ianto technically existed outside of time and space in this form, then what would a Time Lord see? Would he see anything different?

"I see," the Doctor tilted Ianto's face for different angles in the lighting, though Ianto suspected it was more for show since there hadn't appeared to be a primary source of the light in the room, "Ianto Jones, fragile human surrounded by the impossible, scribing itself into words of the R'te-phire. The words feel," and again the Doctor's fingers tracing lines over Ianto's cheek, down to his jaw where the fingers stopped, "like all the brilliant ideas ever thought would feel if I could touch them. And it tastes-" Ianto's breath caught as the Doctor's lips pressed against his, actual thought losing its footing and tumbling to a crumpled heap while the Doctor tasted. Crackled, time so solid in form as it fought for place against its opposite that the collision sparked new universes, stacked time over time as they spiraled away from the nothing that bound them. Not nothing, everything existing in the complete absence of all things, pressing, pushing against the stubborn time which bent only to curl around and reclaim ground but never space, infinite in its absoluteness, defined by the undefined.

At least that's what it felt like to Ianto when the Doctor pulled away, a soft "fuck" breathed out, not in curse but wonder.

"Tastes like," the Doctor smacked his lips repeatedly, looking odd but Ianto recognized the trick of drawing air over taste buds to enhance and draw out subtle flavors. "Meentak wine."

Ianto blinked, his mind refusing to play along until it slowly caught up with the fact that the Doctor had known the precise 'taste' before he'd ... oh, the Doctor had known and was teasing. The smirk that stretched across the man's face would put any of Jack's to shame. And he'd known exactly what sort of reaction it'd have on Ianto, which made the clothing perhaps more understandable. Questionable? Curious.

He had asked, he supposed. Sort of.

"And what of you, Ianto Jones of the R'te-phire." The Doctor stepped away, hands in his pockets as he did a quick pirouette, still engaged but a much more somber tone than before. "When you look at me, what do you see?"

He couldn't help himself. The moment the question was asked Ianto flinched, the simple query reminding him of what he had been rather successfully ignoring, scrolling past his mind's eye faster than he could really read but he was aware of all the details. They'd always been there, since the day Ianto had first met the Doctor through this moment in the garden with the fountain that flowed up, perhaps even more so standing before the Doctor with his Windhover wings stretched wide, the names of his Coterie and their nature still ringing in his ears, and his lips still tingling from the Doctor's 'taste'.

Ianto was supposed to hate this man.

"Ah." The Doctor's eyes narrowed, but he didn't move, studying Ianto while he tried to come up with an answer. "Nothing good, I assume. Nothing the Windhover recorded was ever good." Ianto had to admit he had a point, and it was rather a depressing one at that. Everything it - and he truly needed a name for it because he was growing tired of 'it' - showed him, everything that popped into his mind when he least expected to know something, rarely was it good. Like the fountain, though he appreciated not knowing anything regarding the technology or composition. Did that mean something? Could an entire race be inherently pessimistic, or did that allow them to better appreciate the good when they found it?

"What do you see?" The Doctor's tone left no room for disagreement, though Ianto was tempted to lie through his teeth. He had to know .. of course the Doctor knew. The Doctor was anything but a fool and what was this, a test then?

"Willfull destruction of the planet Gallifrey." Ianto frowned as a question tickled the edges of his mind, but he shoved it aside for the time, along with the painful admission that this was how he was repaying the Doctor for the gift he had given Ianto earlier. The Doctor himself refrained from commenting, just waited. Like he knew and was waiting. Anticipating. Reluctantly, he continued, "Skaro." Ianto felt no sorrow for the loss of that planet. He continued the list, skipping along faster after the first two, "Delphine. Phlxx. Rachid-"

"What?" The Doctor interrupted, but Ianto kept reading. He was only at the beginning of a very large list - he'd started with the planets.

"-Onax. Colony 4582 of the Glends. Colony 4583 of the Glends. Colony 4586 of the Glends. Parallav. Hrulub-"

"Not responsible for that one, either." Scowling, the Doctor waved a hand and Ianto stopped. Not that he really cared to go on. It was bad enough seeing the list within his mind, but saying it aloud made the imperative to do something all the stronger. Sickening. Especially as he couldn't actually do anything.

Ianto didn't think he really wanted to, either.

Did that make him a bad Windhover? A disgrace? He didn't even know what rules he was breaking by not doing anything.

The Doctor began pacing, quick passes which were only a matter of four steps by four steps marked in time by a hand through his hair every sixth step. It was so patterned Ianto wondered if it was intentional, probably was. Ianto crossed his arms and watched, having nothing to add to the half-thoughts and random words which made little sense even when he understood the word itself. Something had agitated the Doctor, that was for certain, but over what? Wasn't the planet names - he'd shown no surprise when Ianto had said Gallifrey. The Doctor didn't think he was responsible for something, but he was.

Wasn't he?

"Well!" The Doctor stopped suddenly, looking as manic as Ianto had ever seen him. A disturbing false smile that never reached his eyes, almost vibrating with pent up energy and Ianto had the urge once again to question the man's sanity. "About time I return you to Cardiff, I reckon. Imagine the TARDIS seems quite dull compared to your adventures with Torchwood and Jack."

Stunned, Ianto had the distinct impression he was being kicked to the curb, which perhaps hours ago he may have believed but now? "Doctor?" He waited for an answer, and quickly shifted any self-directed fears to returning to Cardiff. And Jack. Less fear, more uncertainty. A sort of uncomfortableness like he'd dried a pair of denims and they didn't fit quite right. But definitely less fear.

And a touch of unfairness, which internally some portion of his mind which still entertained childish notions threw a righteous tantrum at the idea of leaving the TARDIS. And the Doctor, who had told him so much already. He'd been around the Windhovers, and he had yet to tell Ianto everything that he had even read on his skin, of the Coterie and the titles and the history, like he'd said was written there. He wanted to know more about the Time Lords, more about Windhover culture, more about everything, and dammit, his source was kicking him off the TARDIS.

Which was another question as well. Was there a reason he got the impressions and emotions from her? He had so many questions, and it simply didn't seem fair.

But he was only a guest. A hijacked guest, but a guest all the same. It just ...

"It appears your knowledge source may be fallible when it comes to me. And the Time Lords." The Doctor's smile had vanished once more, leaving behind the sort of empty hardness Ianto saw so often on Jack's face in the field. Something was terribly wrong. And apparently his information was faulty. How was that possible? The notion was terrifying in its promise - that Ianto couldn't rely on it so dependently as he had in the past. And when he saw others, new faces with their own personal records (if they had one) could he trust what he saw? What if it was wrong too? Or was it, like the Doctor said, just him? "You should get washed up, still have a bit of dust on you from the Hall of Government and we wouldn't want to face the wrath of Jack dirty now, would we?"

The Doctor smiled and retrieved the glasses and the decanter of Meentak wine and left the garden. Ianto wouldn't say he fled but it was definitely in haste. And left little time for Ianto to question the instructions or what was happening or even what he had done and how he could fix it. Topsy-turvy, every which-way and that, Ianto's thoughts tumbled about as he tried to find some order. Some explanation. And mostly, a way to stay, even though he knew staying was most likely not a choice left to him.

It wasn't hardly fair.

Frustrated, Ianto turned to look at the beautiful gardens once more, enjoying the languid setting which was in such contrast to the abrupt mannerisms of the Doctor just now. The water in the fountain still flowed up, diagonally, even parallel to the ground as it was framed spectacularly by millions of stars and galaxies Ianto might know the name of if he ventured closer, but for now, the simplicity pleased him, washed over him, left him feeling refreshed if not a little more calm.

He raised and lowered his wings once, stretching them out to their full width before drawing them close to his body, just because he could.

Here, in the quiet, safe gardens of the TARDIS, he was Windhover.

He was supposed to hate the Doctor, loathe him for all the horrible things Ianto's mind said he'd done, apprehend him so he wouldn't commit any others.

Now, Ianto wasn't so sure.

And for someone who existed outside of time, Ianto mocked himself, he had simply run out.

***

Ianto straightened his already-straight tie as he walked towards the TARDIS bridge and added a tug at his cuffs for good measure, feeling almost confined by his suit, the lack of slats in the back and the absence of his wings just making it feel off. He wasn't nervous; he swore to himself he wasn't nervous but rather it was just an adjustment of his facade, ensuring the front was as steady and nondescript as he felt, as there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about. He was simply bracing himself for his return to Torchwood Three.

And to face the Doctor one last time.

He'd tried to figure it out while showering; what he had done wrong, what he should have done differently, why the Doctor had behaved in that manner. It wasn't that his behavior was odd - shifting from top gear to reverse was fairly typical. But ...

Ianto supposed it was partially selfish. He wanted to know because he was being denied an information source when he had no other known options. Multiple information sources, if one included the TARDIS library as well.

Abrupt had nothing on how quickly the Doctor's mood had changed.

But Ianto had known the Doctor had been serious after he'd toweled off and went to the wardrobe and it simply ... wasn't there. His suit was on the chair he always used as a depository for dirty clothing at his flat. He'd never admit it but that stung. Just a bit. Not that Ianto had planned on wearing any of the clothing off the TARDIS when he returned to Torchwood, he wouldn't dream of being so rude. It just ... was final.

And he didn't understand why.

The root of it all was centered around the Doctor's claim that Ianto's information was wrong. Ianto knew that, he'd replayed their conversation while he'd washed until it became as well known to him as the Torchwood Manual. Perhaps he'd been an arse to respond to the Doctor with the truth, rather like answering honestly if the dress made a woman look fat. He could have lied; it wasn't as though Ianto was a complete failure at lying. But the Doctor had been expecting the answer. Or at least parts.

If parts were untrue, what of the massive list was legitimately applicable to the Doctor?

If parts were untrue, the Doctor had better hope he not run into other Windhover.

If they existed.

Ianto quietly observed the Doctor, who just for a fraction of a second appeared unaware of his arrival. To be sure, the Doctor went instantly manic, bouncing from station to station with a flurry of hand movements. The endless chatter that Ianto had grown accustomed to during his stay was absent, however. As was any form of eye contact.

But Ianto had seen it within that fraction of a second. Loneliness? More solitude, resolute and determined.

No, isolated.

He kept his observation to himself, stepping forward as the TARDIS began to shudder, though still well removed from the Doctor's space as he dashed back and forth. Really an inane design, the main console. Ianto touched a nearby column in apology for the mental slight, but who would build such a thing where one would need multiple hands to run without stress-

Ah.

Ianto felt the pieces slowly shuffle, bits of information reorganizing in new categories and filling old. He'd feel guilty for never having noticed before, but he had been wrapped in his own interests, selfish as that may have been. Observing others had held little priority, unless it involved fantasizing about arresting the Doctor and trying him for all the crimes which listed themselves endlessly in Ianto's mind (a short-lived fantasy, but one that had entertained Ianto when what he saw or read simply became too much).

And one fantasy which involved fucking Jack while the Doctor watched, but Ianto didn't count that one. He preferred not to even acknowledge its existence in public places.

But it made sense. Maybe.

"How many Time Lords are left?" Ianto didn't miss the way the Doctor's hand paused above a lever before it shoved the device with a little more force than necessary. So it was true. He kicked himself for not asking or realizing before; he was typically far more aware of others than this, but the Doctor was a challenging one to read. And his focus had been elsewhere, especially after witnessing the destruction of Halcyon. Which the Doctor had empathized.

He should have noticed. He was a better reader of nuance than that.

Where Ianto was the start of the next evolution of his kind, the Doctor was the last, or near last, of his.

Gallifrey was gone. Ianto had known this and the Doctor had appeared willing to accept responsibility for its destruction. But that was only a planet; he'd assumed there were others, like the Doctor, traveling about the Universe with their own TARDIS.

However, the TARDIS was to be operated by more than one. If more than one had survived, why travel alone on a ship designed for many?

Those questions didn't end Ianto's concerns, proving more instigators of thought and question rather than detractors. What of the incorrect assignments within the Windhover knowledge? The Doctor claimed he was not responsible for some. Perhaps more than some. Possibly many, many more.

Ianto blamed the lurch of the TARDIS, not the implications, for his sudden lack of balance, clinging to a column like a sailor setting foot on dry land. It wasn't possible. Ianto couldn't fathom a reason why it could be. But the Doctor had reached the same conclusion, Ianto realized with a start. The Windhover knowledge of the Time Lords was faulty. Broken, perhaps, but Ianto didn't know how to right it even if he could.

And it was quite possible that, somehow, the Doctor was the only Time Lord in it.

The TARDIS came to a halt, settling into a time and place Ianto assumed was present day Cardiff, if he was lucky within the Hub itself as he didn't have his keys, mobile, or anything else. That had all been left behind between the frantic moment when the Torchwood alarms had sounded and being kidnapped by the TARDIS. He'd find out soon enough, and Ianto was pretty sure that wasn't the most pressing thing at the moment.

Ianto waited, making no movement towards the doors of the TARDIS nor towards the hall, just stood there, waiting. And finally the Doctor met his eyes - didn't say anything, but at least met his eyes.

Maybe it wasn't that the scrolling list in his mind restarted every time he looked at the Doctor.

It was possible that the end had yet to be reached.

And the Doctor knew it. Knew what Ianto saw, knew it wasn't because the Time Lords were an evil, horrible lot. Rather, the passage of time in combination with actions on such a grand scale, touching galaxies or destroying stars, resulted in a list that never seemed to end, when there was only one name linked to the race.

Where the other names were, or what became of them, Ianto didn't know, and it wasn't the time to ask.

But he understood, or at least he thought he did. The Doctor didn't travel to look the consequences of the Time Lords in the face, and Ianto was still fairly certain he was looking to absolve himself for whatever had transpired in the past.

Or the future.

Who knew with bloody Time Lords.

"There's a pack over there, just a few little trinkets." The Doctor gestured with his head towards the doors; Ianto could just make out the rounded shape, nothing overly large. "Be sure to pick it up on your way out."

Ianto nodded and tried to conceal his disappointment. The random objects the Doctor had picked up while out and bestowed on Ianto while he researched were nice, but he would give anything just to travel with the Doctor more, to learn more about the Windhovers, the R'te-phire, everything. He didn't even know the language, and how was he to know what was all written upon his skin if he couldn't read it? And all the books in the library ...

But he knew names: R'te-phire, Ishaan, Inaani. He had learned who'd hunted the Windhovers and who ultimately destroyed them. He had learned of their stories and their legends, their Laws and Proclamations.

And he'd learned that his Coterie had been good.

It wasn't much; but it was enough.

It had to be.

"A pleasure, Doctor." Ianto nodded his head once in respect and thanks he couldn't quite voice, apologies for the things he didn't know how to change and hope that the Doctor might find a time when he didn't feel quite so alone.

He turned on his heel without waiting for a response; even if the Doctor was big on goodbyes he was pretty sure he would be an exception to any rules and to linger would be an embarrassment. Ianto did pause as he reflected on a question, one he didn't know if the Doctor would answer given his hedging on the subject earlier. But he thought he'd try anyway, his resolve growing as he slung the light pouch over his shoulder. "What's Bad Wolf? That's the only information associated with Jack. 'Bad Wolf,' over and over."

The Doctor actually laughed, to Ianto's surprise, a bitter laugh that held no joviality. "The alpha and the omega, Ianto Jones of the R'te-phire. Seems she took care of more than just his mortality."

Ianto didn't miss the envy or the wistfulness, he supposed if this Bad Wolf, whatever it was, had intentionally wiped Jack's information, it was rather unfortunate that the Doctor's hadn't been cleared as well.

Or maybe it was intentional that the Doctor's name had remained, recording all the events resultant of Time Lord action.

Hardly seemed fair. But then, Ianto was being expelled from the TARDIS and that hardly seemed fair either.

Ianto looked around the TARDIS once more, admiring everything she was and could be. He did wonder what would happen to his room and to all the marvelous architecture. Recycled? Having someone else stay in it made him twitch, but he knew the TARDIS would take care of it, one way or the other. Thinking a 'goodbye' and a 'thank you,' Ianto rested his hand on the door as he had when he'd first approached and listened to her song of goodbye. And it was as beautiful a melody as before, singing deep within Ianto's bones, haunting and exhilarating. He couldn't describe it, but he felt it, pure and simple in its existence as it always had when the stars began and like it would when they dimmed.

He opened his eyes in surprise and a bit of wonder. And just maybe ... was it possible?

Perhaps. Ianto was learning nothing was impossible.

Resolutely, with shoulders squared and the pack slung over his shoulder, Ianto opened the door and stepped into the dim lighting of the Hub. He didn't look back and if he was honest with himself, it was to keep from returning to the Doctor and begging for more answers, for a longer trip. Not that he wasn't somewhat happy to be back, he was. Somewhat. On a functional level he was - he'd missed the team, missed Jack no matter his wariness, missed his job, missed home. On an intellectual level, he'd give anything to go off with the Doctor again.

One step into the Hub and that dramatically changed; fuck if he didn't feel weak-kneed from the overpowering sense of belonging curling warm and welcoming for all it lacked substance. Home, on such a deep-rooted level Ianto wondered how he'd ever not known it existed. Perhaps it was a product of what he was, or maybe it was just psychosomatic but it felt real and unquestionable. Home, more than Halcyon could ever be to him, more than the TARDIS could be or any planet she might take him to.

Two steps were all it took to approach Jack who stood but a few yards away, stony-faced with his arms crossed and lips thinned and twisted into the same expression Ianto couldn't read right before Jack had left with the team to find the ... Mellonians. That's what they had been. Blue slug-like creatures. Jack didn't move, barely even reacted when Ianto stopped just in front of him. Not that he expected hugs and kisses, but the whole thing was so eerily familiar that Ianto wondered if the TARDIS had made a mistake and he'd simply reappeared to a time before he'd left.

The thought made his head hurt.

A quick glance around told him that the others weren't there, so either it was evening or they were off on an errand or mission. Ianto's mind then leapt to another conclusion so off the rails it could be possible because it was Torchwood. Maybe the Doctor had taken him too far into the future, a time when they were long since dead. But Owen was already dead, just undead, so that didn't quite ring true. Could the undead become re-dead? He supposed it happened in zombie movies, and obviously anything that happened in a movie must be true.

"How long?" Ianto asked in a voice a bit more hoarse than he'd intended over the grinding sounds of the disappearing TARDIS, but Jack distracted him while she and the Doctor left, and he nearly forgot about his panic that he might not be in the time he'd left. Jack was unnerving, if not a bit threatening. Not threatening, that wasn't it. Angry. Angry for Ianto returning?

"Three days." Jack's response was short and a minor relief, but he didn't ask Ianto how long he'd been away, not that Ianto could answer as linear time in the TARDIS was a bit fuzzy. Then again, Ianto hadn't asked Jack either, upon his return months back, one of those things Ianto had just known he'd never receive an answer for. So Ianto hadn't asked. And this was what? Respect, he supposed. Grudging acknowledgment that Ianto possessed his own will and mind?

No. Fuck, he'd known.

Jack had known.

How he knew that Ianto was going to leave with the Doctor, Ianto had no idea. But before he'd left, the stare so similar to the one now, Jack had appeared like he'd wanted to say something. Like he'd wanted ... hell, Ianto had no clue, he'd graded shit on the Torchwood Psi scale, he couldn't read Jack's mind. But Jack had looked like he'd wanted him to. And it hardly seemed fair, Ianto had not even been aware that he was leaving till the TARDIS had kidnapped him and the Doctor both. He hadn't meant to leave, but Jack thought what, that he had chosen the Doctor over Jack?

Well, shit. It wasn't like Jack would probably believe him that he had been kidnapped by a ship. Maybe he would, but Ianto hadn't seen Jack this ... angry? Jealous?

No. Possessive.

Insecure?

Although Ianto supposed he could be reading more into it then Jack intended. The captain was protective of his team, and they had been short-staffed during the three days Ianto had been gone on what was the second disappearance act in Ianto's life when prior to he'd never even called in sick or took vacation. Maybe it was just karma-like and he was making up for lost time.

Ianto nodded in appreciation for the time stamp, brushing aside the thought that it was nice to be desired, even if it was just that in his absence he was missed.

Or maybe not. Ianto had been away for a time, but he could still read the restraint in Jack's eyes.

He would have asked if it was to slug or snog, but the sound of the TARDIS interrupted his thoughts, surprising him, and if the expression on Jack's face was any indication, surprised him as well.

The TARDIS emerged right where it had left not seconds before, confusing the hell out of Ianto and for a brief, fleeting moment, he thought that quite possibly, the Doctor had gotten something wrong with the whole time travel thing.

That would have amused Ianto, if it wouldn't have also made him terribly sad.

"Ianto!" The Doctor's head emerged from the TARDIS, sounding chipper as only the Doctor could, a broad smile on his face that wasn't as warm as Ianto had seen it. "Your mobile."

Confusion and surprise were the only thoughts Ianto could entertain; he hadn't left his mobile on the TARDIS, he hadn't had it on him when he'd stepped on. And even then, if he had forgotten it, why would the Doctor bother to return it?

"Here."

Ianto spun back about, curious until Jack withdrew a device from his pocket and extended it towards Ianto. Flipping it around in his hands, he realized it was his mobile. How had ... no, why ... no, didn't matter, Ianto decided as Jack shrugged in response to all of Ianto's unasked questions, shrugging in that elusive 'What? It's nothing' way that Ianto knew better than to trust entirely on face value.

But they had a guest, so Ianto's questions would have to wait till later.

Turning towards the Doctor, Ianto didn't even have time to open his mouth to form a question, much less ask it as the Doctor promptly removed the mobile from his hands without so much a by-your-leave. His sonic screwdriver was out just a second later, zapping Ianto's mobile twice before he pocketed them both with a flourish and a wink. "Just in case I need to phone someone. Martha! Do share the number with Martha as well!"

His brain caught up a second later and Ianto couldn't help but return the smile. Visions of the salmon-colored planet Trahgdar popped into his mind, where the Doctor's previous mobile had been bartered off for a fabulous cup of coffee, a banana, and no contact from or to Jack.

The Doctor could phone someone now, or someone could phone him.

If he needed to, Ianto realized, the Doctor had just given him a method of contacting him. Hell, he'd extended permission to phone him.

Ianto had to admit that he might like the Doctor, no matter what his instincts said.

"And Jack, go easy on the boy. It wasn't his choice to leave."

Jack's eyebrow arched in question and Ianto was the one to shrug this time as the Doctor dashed back into the TARDIS. The thrumming sounds of her springing into action reverberated around the Hub, and Ianto added over the beats, "The TARDIS sort of kidnapped us both."

"Did she?" Apparently Jack found this terribly amusing and as he laughed, the harsh demeanor melted away in a sound Ianto had missed even before he'd left. To Jack only three days had past, but Ianto knew he'd been away for longer. Even still, Ianto could hardly remember the last time he'd heard Jack truly laugh; quite possibly some time before Providence Park. Maybe even that day walking back to Torchwood from the pub, on that fateful day when Ianto had seen his mother standing next to the Information Center and everything had changed. For the better? Worse? Ianto still wasn't sure. He had questions for Jack that he wasn't sure he'd hear answers to, knowing full-well that if Jack did answer, he might not like the answers he received.

Plus he had some secrets of his own that he ought to tell Jack. The Doctor had said Jack would understand, reinforcing what Ianto had already believed no matter what may have happened in Jack's past.

It was just ... it had taken the TARDIS kidnapping him to a dead solar system to finally tell the Doctor. Actually, it took the TARDIS kidnapping him to a dead solar system to reveal enough to the Doctor (involuntary as it had been) for the Doctor to figure it out.

He ought to tell Jack.

He should.

But the instinct to trust only himself was so strong he wasn't even sure he could force the words from his mouth.

Jack still laughed as he abruptly pulled Ianto into a hug that he hadn't expected and had almost feared asking for. And if Ianto squeezed a little harder than was proper, he blamed TARDIS-lag. He may have been a bit happier to return home than he initially had thought, the intense sense of returning overwhelming. Returning home. To Earth, to his time. It was ridiculous and silly, but so was the almost giddiness with which Jack was acting, as though the Doctor's apparent 'approval' of Ianto had lifted a great weight from his shoulders. Approval in the health sense, approval in whatever distrust, maybe Jack had honestly left him alone with the Doctor with the intentions the Doctor had hinted at.

Did it matter?

Ianto still had his secrets. With his arms wound tightly around Jack's waist, his face pressed into a 51st century pheromones-smelling neck, Ianto knew the time would come when he'd have to address the truths he was keeping from Jack. But only, he resolved, when he could assure his own safety, if for some reason the Doctor had been mistaken. He had a responsibility, he felt; even if he didn't know how to develop the numbers of the Children of the Windhovers, as the Doctor liked to call him, he had a responsibility to live.

Or exist, as the Windhovers would have it.

"Did he fix you?" Jack asked, talking more into Ianto's hair than actually vocalizing. Ianto chuckled, more a couple puffs of air into Jack's neck that tickled against his lips. He remembered Owen saying that, when Jack had returned from his trip with the Doctor, and it sounded as foolish now as it did then. But maybe that's how Jack intended it, a serious question buried in a silly package.

Ianto felt Jack toying with the pouch looped over his shoulder, but he was pretty sure Jack wasn't prying. Just .. touching. "What's to fix?"

Neither spoke, Ianto's quote of Jack double-edged at best and he knew it. He knew it as much as Jack had meant it upon his return, and he knew precisely what it meant now. There hadn't been a problem when Ianto had left, and there still wasn't a problem now. He was keeping things from Jack, knowingly and willingly, things which had affected him, terrified him, sectioned him. And Jack wasn't an idiot.

He should tell Jack. He really should.

Jack had laughed. That meant something.

It had to.

R'te-phire, Ianto repeated once more.

***

Later that night, Ianto returned to his flat. Without hesitation, he went to each of the three cameras tucked away in the obvious spaces and removed them, dropping them in with his keys to return to Torchwood later. It wasn't that Jack had said he could, or even that he'd removed the authorization of spying on one Torchwood Agent Ianto Jones. But he simply didn't care. His privacy was his privacy, and if Jack disagreed then, well, Ianto would set up cameras in Jack's underground bedroom and broadcast it on Torchwood's internal CCTV. Gwen, Tosh and Owen, too. See how long it lasted before they agreed.

He didn't think he'd have any trouble, though. It wasn't that he and Jack had really talked, not about anything important. Just what had transpired over the past three days, the field reports and a bit of gossip over Gwen and Owen's latest spat. Ianto simply thought the time for the monitoring was well past and he was inclined to believe that Jack wouldn't argue.

Jack had laughed.

And that was something.

Ianto set the pouch the Doctor had given him on the bed, curious what trinkets rested inside. He could probably show Jack some of the knick-knacks, he might even recognize some.

The first thing Ianto noticed was that it was a lot bigger on the inside. He picked it up and looked under the bag to make sure, realizing he was being ridiculous but bags like these were impossible.

Except when they weren't.

Rather like the Doctor's overcoat pockets.

The second thing he noticed was the book, a rather large tome in thick bindings etched in an artful script which seemed to glow upon the surface. Highest Jolar Sabien of the R'te-phire. Just to make sure, Ianto traced the name, afraid that if he looked away, it might disappear into something else entirely. He hadn't read this in the library, hadn't even seen it. Eagerly flipping through it, he realized it was a book of stories, made up or real he wasn't sure - some of the tales he'd read on board the TARDIS had seemed so implausible but as Ianto skimmed the text, he grinned. The adventures of a Windhover traveling with a Time Lord, with scribbles in the margins of 'what really happened' according to a second pen.

Ianto was fairly sure this book had never been published, nor mass produced, not given the two races' history. Didn't matter now, he supposed, but perhaps ...

He closed the book, running a reverent hand over the cover as though he could eke some sense of the Windhover who wrote it out of the material.

Didn't work, but that didn't mean he couldn't pretend, just for a moment.

The third thing Ianto noticed within the pouch was clothing.

Lots and lots of clothing.


Fin.

***

• Main Torchwood slash page
• New stories page
• Jack/Ianto stories
• Ianto/Owen stories
• Other pairings stories - ie threesomes
• F/F stories
• Gen stories
• Amazon.com - Torchwood: Children of Earth
• Amazon.co.uk - Torchwood - Children of Earth [DVD] [2009]
• Amazon.ca link - Torchwood - The Complete First Season (7DVD)