Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood. I do not make money off of Torchwood. In fact, it seems as though Torchwood owns and makes money off of ME. This is for entertainment purposes only.

NB: Title and quote comes from "Cemetery Gates" by The Smiths.

Beta: analine, to whom I owe a world of thanks for hand-holding, superb editing, and understanding. .

Summary: Jack comes back to exorcise his demons and finds something he didn't expect.

Author's Note: Written for the redisourcolor challenge #12. The theme is "Spring" and the words are "truncate," "demonstrable," and "earth." The phrase is "It was a week before (s)he could walk normally again."

A Dreaded Sunny Day

So we go inside and we gravely read the stones

All those people all those lives

Where are they now?

With the loves and hates

And passions just like mine

They were born

And then they lived and then they died

Seems so unfair

And I want to cry

-The Smiths "Cemetery Gates"

Jack's coat was a bit much for the warm spring weather, but he kept it on despite its heaviness. He stood in front of the grave, staring at the granite headstone, with a level of uncertainty he hadn't felt for ages. Someone had planted daffodils and there were outcroppings of stitchwort and bluebells scattered haphazardly by nature's wayward hand. The grass had recently been cut, meticulously, and he smiled at the uncanny combination of order and chaos. It suited Ianto well. Still, he felt out of place, a trespasser.

The air was heady with the perfume of tilled earth, vibrant greenery, and early flowers. It was so unlike the cold, salt-scented bay he had come to associate with his time in Cardiff. It struck him as odd that all he could recall of the place was grey. He bent and pressed his lips to the cool headstone. That, at least, was grey, too.

"Hi," he breathed against the rough-hewn edge before straightening again.

With his hand, he traced the chiseled name. Beneath it, two dates bookended a dash; it was such a small, pathetic mark to symbolize so incredible a life. His fingertip ghosted over the indentation as though seeking to fill it with something more tangible.

"You came back."

He stilled at the voice; though higher in pitch, it carried the same softness, the same sonorous warmth, and he felt the blood drain from his face. He took a deep breath and turned.

Rhiannon graced him with a half smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and stepped closer. Her arms were folded across her chest and her gait was hesitant, yet determined. She was dressed casually, a simple pair of faded jeans, a black shirt, and trainers. She looked nothing like Ianto and yet she looked exactly the same.

"I did," he whispered, though he had intended for his voice to be much more unyielding.

"It's been two years. Since the funeral."

"Has it?"

For him it had been longer and he tried to reconcile himself to the difference; two years on this planet had stubbornly, resolutely passed while he spent seven blurred years planet-bar-and-bed-hopping. Two years here, somehow, seemed an eternity in comparison.

"Feels like less," Rhiannon conceded quietly. "Or maybe, feels like more. You look quite the mess."

Jack flashed a smile that exposed more than it concealed. "I've seen better days. You've done a good job keeping this up."

He made an expansive gesture with his hand that was truncated when he caught the rueful shake of her head.

"Wasn't me. I thought it might've been you, actually, but I guess I was wrong."

"Huh."

Rhiannon unfolded her arms and knelt down before the grave with a small smile. "They're lovely, though, aren't they?"

"Perfect," he assured as he sat beside her.

"He never told me how you two met."

Jack chuckled breathily and closed his eyes. "Would you believe me if I said it involved coffee, a suit, and a pterodactyl?"

Rhiannon let out a sharp laugh. "The coffee and suit sound like Ianto. The pterodactyl? That sounds like Ianto, too – only more when he was ten."

"Oh?" Jack smiled. "He liked dinosaurs?"

"What boy that age doesn't? Dinosaurs and robots, they were his favorites."

"Some things never change," Jack murmured, his tone fond and affectionate.

Rhiannon shot him a questioning glance and he shrugged. His right hand grazed over the short-cropped grass and he tugged a few blades out of the ground, twining them around his finger, balling them up. It reminded him of the way he would tug on Ianto's hair when it began to grow long; Ianto would stare him down with mock irritation, but there'd be a twinkle of mischief in his eye. Jack would only get a day or two of quality hair-pulling after that, and then Ianto would get it shorn off. Not that that wasn't pleasant in its own way, too.

"Did he have a good childhood?" Jack asked suddenly, still looking at the ground.

Rhiannon shrugged and then leaned back, propping herself up on her hands. "He had his troubles. Some were real, some were in his head. He thought our father pushed him too hard. Literally, once. Right off the swing, and he broke his leg. And one time he twisted his ankle trying to run away from home. It was a week before he could walk normally again, and he'd barely made it down the street."

She looked up at the sky then, staring at a cloud, perhaps, or something that Jack couldn't quite see.

"We didn't have a lot, either, but we had enough," she continued after a moment's silence. "It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad. Did you love him?"

Jack dropped the evidence of his passive-aggressive deforestation and wiped his hand on the thigh of his trousers. It left a light green streak against the material and he cringed inwardly, the guilt a habit he hadn't been able to break even after Ianto's death.

A pair of songbirds trilled overhead and he envied their demonstrable lack of consideration for things like life and responsibility.

"Too much," he sighed finally. "Not as much as I should have."

She stared at him for a moment, her gaze curious, and then she nodded her understanding. "Why did you come back?"

He knew by the tone of her voice that she didn't care why he came back. Not really. What she was really asking was 'Why now?' and for that, he had no answer. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He stretched his legs out in front of him..

"I don't know," he breathed. "I never wanted to. There was, is, nothing here for me. But there was so much that I missed, that I wanted to see again, and I thought maybe…if I just…."

He trailed off brokenly and Rhiannon reached over to grasp his hand. "Sometimes," she whispered, "I come here and ask him for advice. He's about as helpful now as he ever was."

Jack huffed a laugh and squeezed her hand. She smiled at him.

"He loved you, though," she said, and her voice was stronger. "Daft sod though he may be, he loved you."

"I know. I know."

"I blamed you for a while," she confessed apologetically. "You and that woman and Torchwood. The Queen, the government – I blamed everyone. But Ianto – he would've walked right into a bullet if he thought it'd help. There was no stopping him."

"Yeah."

They sat there in silence for a while, hands clasped, as they lost themselves in their private musings. The sun was warm on their backs and Jack was almost tempted to remove his coat when a shrill voice pierced the contemplative quiet.

"Mam! Mam, can we go yet?"

Jack and Rhiannon both turned simultaneously. Johnny was standing in the shade of a tree, his hand on David's shoulder forestalling another sprint towards Rhiannon. He looked tense, anxious, like he was ready for a fight if necessary.

The rambunctious patter of tiny feet grew louder as Mica breathlessly approached them, though she stopped short as soon as she caught sight of Jack.

"Who's he?" she asked bluntly, folding her arms and scowling at Jack.

Grinning almost wickedly, Rhiannon scooped Mica up and rested her on her knee. She had a distinct, familiar gleam in her eye that made Jack's breath catch in his throat at the same time that it worried him beyond measure.

"This," she beamed, "is your uncle Jack."

Jack frowned, though his look was more akin to panic than disappointment. "I really don't think that's a good –"

Rhiannon raised an eyebrow and fixed him with a pointed expression that made him ache. He glanced at Ianto's headstone, at the long shadow it cast against the ground, and felt his throat thicken. A hand touched his knee and he looked up.

"I miss him, too," Mica said quietly. "But Mam says he's gone to Heaven now and he watches over us."

Jack gave her a weak smile and nodded. "If anyone's there," he whispered conspiratorially in her ear, "he is."

She beamed and Rhiannon smiled at him from over the top of her head as she ruffled her daughter's hair. Pushing Mica off of her lap, she stood and offered Jack her hand. He accepted it and, although he didn't particularly need help getting up, he was grateful for the assistance.

She squeezed his hand once, firmly, as soon as he was upright. Her eyes were brightened by her playful grin. As soon as Rhiannon let go of his hand, Mica took it up again.

"Hurry up!" she demanded urgently. "Mam promised we could go get ice cream."

Rhiannon watched as Jack was tugged mercilessly toward Johnny and David. Once she had witnessed Johnny extend a tentative hand in greeting, she turned to the solitary headstone. She touched her palm to the smooth face of the granite, bent her head in silent acknowledgement, and began the track back.

"Welcome to the family, Uncle Jack," she whispered, a bit bewildered, to the treetops. She shot one final (almost accusatory) glance over her shoulder at Ianto's grave before she followed on with a small, bemused smile on her face.

The End