So, as with my story 'Towing the Earth Home', this has been well and truly jossed. I thought this one up forever ago! But if you ignore the events of 'Children of Earth' (LALALALA), it should still work. Ish.

Not mine, no money, no sue. Feedback greatly appreciated!

I have seen so much; perhaps too much. -

The Face of Boe, 'Gridlock'

It should have rained.

Jack glared at the sky. Today of all days, it should have rained. A bit overcast, even — Cardiff was generally good for that.

The earth hit the casket with a dry rattle, and Jack glanced over to where Martha Milligan stood, her smart black coat drawn tightly around her. The veins on the back of her hands stood out purple and ropy in the bright sunlight. Jack averted his eyes quickly, returning them to the neat hole in the ground and the coffin. He hated the reminder that there were only two of them left now, Martha and himself. And Martha was an old woman, her slimness worn down to wire, her hair thick and white. While he —

Jack swallowed hard as the old Latin washed over him and the coffin was winched slowly into the dusty, clinging earth. He registered the old, veined hand throw a flower wrapped with a silvery tie into the hole, followed by a bundle of ferns tied about with an old-fashioned telephone cord. The muscles rippled along Jack's jaw as a glittering medal, a badge and finally a packet of Earl Grey wrapped with paper hit the polished wood with a dull thump, where the lifeless shell of his lover of over forty years now lay. The sky might be blue, but Jack's eyes were stormy as he reached slowly into his coat pocket and produced a very old coffee mug, the faded motto "World's Sexiest Boss" emblazoned on its side. Without looking to either side, he threw it into the grave. It made a very satisfying crunch.

He'd known this would happen someday. It had happened before, after all — he fell in love and then lost them. He would always lose them to the dragging weight of time, watch them succumb to their failing flesh. But every time, every damn time, he allowed himself to become enraptured by them, by their voice or eyes or taste. So bright, sweet, so heady, their love — so intoxicating to hear their laugh or drink in their presence. He never stopped himself. Always in and out of love, alternating joy and heartbreak with the waning of their years. And never learning, he thought miserably. You stupid old fool, Harkness, you should have left long before this. Should have left him before he became home to you.

A hand touched him gently on the shoulder, and Jack jerked to look into Martha's sharp, tired old eyes. "Jack. You've drifted off again," she said gently. "It's all over."

Jack squeezed her thin hand and let it drop. "Just us left."

"Yeah," Martha hitched her handbag further onto her skinny, rounded shoulder. "No more Torchwood Mark Three."

"Mark Seven's doing well," said Jack quickly, and Martha smiled sadly.

"Jack. I know."

Standing in a graveyard on a blindingly bright April afternoon, Jack knew as well. Somewhere. He cleared his throat. "I'll miss him."

"Jack." Martha shook her head. "You can't say it, even now?"

He clenched his fists in his coat pockets. "No." He looked up at her. "It means he's really gone."

She slipped her arm under his, and shook his young, healthy body against hers slightly. He could feel the brittleness of her. "C'mon, you. Buy an old lady a drink."

"Sure, and one for you."

She snorted. "Only you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," he muttered, eyeing Ianto's unfilled grave. "Wait up."

Martha watched in resignation and not a little annoyance as Jack dropped lightly into the hole and fished out a piece of broken china. "Jack Harkness, you can't just jump into someone's grave," she said with exasperation.

"Why not?" Jack hoisted himself out and inspected his prize. It was the broken off handle. "Ianto sure as hell wouldn't mind."

Martha shook her head, amusement winning out over annoyance. "A keepsake?"

"Better than a lock of hair." Jack carefully put the piece back into his pocket. The slight weight of it was reassuring. "It was his favourite."

Martha's eyes softened. "C'mere," she said softly, opening her arms, and Jack returned the embrace carefully. "I'll miss him too," she murmured against Jack's thick coat.

Jack breathed in sharply through his nose, breaking the embrace. His eyes felt drier than the earth that held his lover's corpse. "I need to get drunk."

As he led Martha slowly through the sun-filled graveyard, light bouncing off the polished stones, Jack spared a tiny glance back to the yawning hole that had claimed Ianto, would claim the wonderful old woman at his side, but would never, never welcome Captain Jack Harkness.

Goodbye, Yan.

Martha had left at nine-thirty. The pub was getting too noisy — besides, she couldn't drink like she used to.

And never will again, thought Jack morosely, staring dully into his umpteenth glass of cheap beer. I'll miss our parties — Gwen was such a loopy drunk. Martha and Tom would dance badly and kiss sloppily, their smiles warmer than the wine. He took another swig. And Ianto's face would get flushed and his accent would grow so thick you could bounce rocks off it. The knot in his stomach tightened unbearably.

"You," said an acerbic voice behind him, "are broadcasting misery all over this hemisphere, you know that?"

"Pull up a chair," slurred Jack. He didn't waster precious drinking energy turning around.

A familiar brown and tan blur sat at the barstool beside him. "What've they got?"

"No bananas."

"Pity. Oh well, a..." the Doctor peered at the drinks menu, "... a Screaming Orgasm."

Jack just grunted.

The Doctor blanched. "Blimey, you really are upset. What's happened?"

"Ianto's dead," Jack drained his glass and slammed it down on the benchtop. "More."

"Oh Jack," the Doctor said sadly. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, well," said Jack bitterly, and left it there.

The Doctor studied him for a beat, and then sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. "What on earth are you drinking that stuff for? The Ianto Jones I remember knew his drink — he'd have been disgusted with you, Jack, to see you guzzling this bottom-shelf... trash!"

"Yeah," Jack snorted. "And wouldn't let me kiss him with beer-breath."

"There you are then, Bob's your uncle! Well, not your uncle obviously... anyway," and the Doctor leaned in conspiratorially. " I might have a bottle of the 1955 prize-winning original Penfolds Grange in the TARDIS cryogenisis lab, and I might have a bottle of the 45 year old Islay single malt Laphroaig whisky in the second upstairs bathroom cupboard, but most importantly, I absolutely do have a whole box of the hangover cure from Maxxarolix Three in the fridge."

Jack blinked. "I'm there."

The Doctor grinned smugly. "Thought so."

Two hours later, Jack was attempting to get the Doctor drunk, with some success.

"Nah, nah, right, she did this thing, right... with her voice, an'... an' it made me feel like a sodding kid of only a hunnerd and she's what, hunnerdanforty? A hunnerdanfortyfi'?" The Doctor blew a raspberry. "Sheer cheek. Which, by the way, was... a ver' nicecheek, ver' nice. All of 'em. Twice. Nah, wait..." he scratched at his stomach contentedly. "S'hard talking reg'erashuns in human. Anyway, I was a lot younger then."

Jack gazed blearily at the Doctor. " 'M older than you now," he smirked.

The Doctor drew himself up haughtily, spoiled slightly by the swaying of his torso and his position sprawled on the TARDIS grating: his legs outstretched, his back against the console and the whisky bottle in his hand. "Only technic'ly," he said, waving an unsteady finger at Jack.

Jack was lying on his back on the driver's wide couch-like seat, his legs dangling idly and a priceless bottle of champagne from 19th century France dangling precariously in his grip. "Technic'ly's valid," he insisted.

The Doctor blew another raspberry at Jack this time and pulled at the whisky bottle. "Only in a linear... whatsit," he said, wiping at his lips.

"Ha!" Jack smirked. "So, who was she?"

"Hmm?" Who was wha?"

"The woman with the..."Jack's free hand circled as he searched for words that made sense, "voice thingy."

"Her! Aw, she was brilliant... reallyreallybrilliant... everyone I know isreallyreallybrilliant," The Doctor grinned broadly at Jack, "cept you — you're just a l'ilbitbrilliant..."

"Shut up, stupid Time-Lord... time-doofus." Jack suddenly turned himself onto his stomach, holding onto the frayed edge of the chair. "Oh, hang on, oh, oh! I know the voice! Ianto had the voice! He did that about folding right, an' it was hilarious if I didn't do it, right, I mean... folding's boring, who folds, tell me that, huh, who folds?"

"Who folds," the Doctor repeated owlishly, nodding.

"Right! I mean, life's is... stupid enough without, without, without folding, am I right?" Jack nodded emphatically himself. "Just... throwitinadrawer, do it later... and Yan did this thing with the voice and the tappy foot and the arms. An' sometimes..." Grinning, Jack leaned down to where the Doctor sprawled, his tie undone, and said confidentially, "I did it on purpose."

The Doctor spat whisky onto his trousers and hollered, "Bad Jack!", pointing a long, accusatory finger in the rough direction of Jack's left ear. "Very bad Jack!" He fell abruptly silent, and then his brown eyes widened comically and he blurted. "Me too!"

Jack actually fell off the chair with laughter, landing heavily on the grating, his sides aching. "Bad..." he managed to gasp, "very bad Doctor!"

The Doctor slung an arm around Jack to keep himself upright as the two men roared and howled with laughter. "Very bad Doctor!" he giggled, clinking his whisky bottle against Jack's champagne. Jack sniggered a bit and took a long swig. "Not that it was folding that got me the voice, oh nononono... more the getting us into random deadly peril or losing the TARDIS or forgetting the guidebook or the rulebook or some other book..."

"What'd you do?" Jack stared muzzily at his friend.

"Winged it!" the Doctor announced proudly, and Jack dissolved into laughter again.

"To winging it!" he yelled, waving his champagne.

"Ha! To winging it!" The Doctor stood unsteadily. "An... bloody brilliant whisky!"

Jack stood also, weaving uncertainly. "To brilliant people!"

"Friends!"

"To bananas!" This offering of Jack's got a cheer from the Doctor. Jack saluted, wobbling.

"To... old lovers," the Doctor said, suddenly soft, and Jack's hand dropped heavily from its salute. He could feel the weight of the millennia pressing down on him. He straightened, and held the champagne at arms' length.

"To Ianto Jones," he said loudly and formally, and his eyes finally, finally started to prick.

"To Romanadvoratrelundar," whispered the Doctor, and drank.

In the silence that followed, Jack watched him, the second of his three great loves, and the pricking behind his eyes grew stronger. He sat heavily back down on the driver's chair, carefully put the champagne down and buried his face in clammy hands. He could feel a sob building, somewhere in that tight place in his chest.

"Hey now, Jack, c'mon," a long-fingered hand patted Jack inexpertly on the back, moving clumsily to his shoulders as the Doctor clambered next to Jack on the chair. "It's hard, Jack, I know it's hard, there ya go, I'm here, c'mon, there's my Jack, so brave, Jack..."

The sob was choked between Jack's nerveless fingers. The second followed hard on its heels, and suddenly Jack's body was twisted with his grief, a giant hand wringing his insides as he poured his anger , sorrow, fear and love onto the Doctor's shoulder. Skinny arms wrapped around him and rocked him gently side to side, a double-heartbeat thrummed under his ear, and a well-loved voice murmured comfort, the vibration echoing in an alien ribcage. "It's okay, Jack, it's all right, I'm here, you're not alone, Jack, I'm here, so brave, my Jack, there you go..."

Jack shuddered and fought his shaking breath as the storm of his grief subsided, and raised his head to look into the Doctor's bright, sad eyes. "Promise?" he whispered unsteadily.

The Doctor took Jack's face in his palms in a way that made him think of leather and gas-masks and blue eyes like a diamond drill. "Jack," the Doctor said in a low, urgent voice. "You will know me your whole, long life. I promise you that. You are not alone." And the Doctor leaned in swiftly and kissed Jack voluntarily for the first time — hard and burning and full of memory.

"Doc... Doctor?" Jack gasped when he was released. The Doctor seemed amused by Jack's discomfiture.

"Captain?"

"I, ah... think I need more convincing..."

"Oh, get off."

~**~