Rating: PG

Word count: ~ 2000

Warnings: Fluff, and Ianto being mysterious and all-knowing.

Summary: Torchwood Tower Three is a place where Earth sends still-useful exiles: a Prime Talent, a technopath, and a biokinetic, drifting around in a station at the cross points of three universes and six galaxies. Then a man named Captain Jack Harkness falls through a tear between universes, and finds three very familiar faces on the other side.

A/N: I…might have possibly lied about Chapter Seven being the last one. This is a bit of insomnia-inspired oddness that wouldn't leave me alone. So this is me, sneaking back in through the side door after I declared myself done with Torchwood. Please be kind to my distinct lack of moral fiber and pretend you didn't see anything, all right? Much obliged. ^.^'

Epilogue

It's just gone ten, and Jon is halfway through English when there comes a knock on the classroom door, and the headmaster's secretary leans into the room.

"Visitor for Mister Jonathon Ross," she tells the teacher. "The headmaster has excused him."

Jon blinks at her, because the only person who would ever have the inclination to visit him is his elderly aunt in Yorkshire, and she's never done it before. Moreover, she's never expressed even the slightest interest.

Mrs. Bennington nods, and then flicks her fingers at Jon in a delicate shooing motion. "Go, off with you, Ross. Read chapters ten to fifteen and you'll be ready for the next class."

"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs, collecting his books and following the secretary, even as he tries to remember if he did anything—or was caught at anything—lately that would require outside intervention.

The secretary walks too quickly for him to ask her, though, and he nearly has to run to keep up, despite her being a good twenty years his senior, if not more. Jon can already feel his ears start to burn as he hurries after her, through the heavy oak doors that lead out into the sprawling garden on the north side of the school.

There are two men waiting near the steps. One is the elderly, balding headmaster, and the other…

Jon slows to a walk as he nears, taking in the stranger, who isn't anything like he had expected—not that he's entire sure what he was expecting, only that is wasn't a man who looks like a minor government official, if rather more neatly dressed than average. Then he looks up at Jon—not that far up, because he's over two meters, and Jon is only a handful of centimeters taller—and Jon falters, pinned in place by brilliant blue eyes that seem to see right through to his core.

His ears are definitely red now, Jon thinks despairingly, cursing such an obvious tell of his nervousness.

"Ah, Mister Ross," the headmaster greets jovially, as though they're good friends, even though he and Jon have never shared so much as a word in passing since Jon was enrolled.

"Sir," he answers, though he can't quite make himself look away from the stranger, who's smiling just a little at him. It's…a bit eerie, really.

The stranger takes a step forward, one hand rising to tip his black derby in greeting. "Mister Ross. Forgive me for the suddenness of my visit, but I tend to like making my offers in person. I'm Jones." The man offers his hand, like his name is supposed to mean something. It might, but Jon hasn't the faintest idea what. He takes it anyway, though, because he always tries to be polite, and regardless of his oddity, this man rather…demands it.

"Offers?" he echoes, entirely confused.

Jones smiles at him, a half-quirk of his lips that portrays more wry amusement than an outright laugh would have. "Indeed. If you'd walk with me…?" He gestures to one of the winding paths through the garden, then sets out without waiting for an answer. Jon follows, struggling to keep up for the first few steps. It's getting to be a theme.

It's only when they're a good distance from the entrance that Jones finally slows his steps, taking a seat on a bench beneath an old chestnut tree. After a moment, Jon joins him, tentatively taking a seat beside him.

As soon as he's settled, Jones turns that wry smile on him again, with just a flash of bright blue eyes that leaves Jon feeling entirely electrified.

"It's likely a bit of a shock," Jones says, "me appearing like this. Usually I'd give more of a warning, but I was in the area and took a chance." He offers one long, deft hand, business card between his fingertips, and Jon takes it curiously.

Ianto Jones, it says in neat, simple script, and there's a cellphone number beneath it. Feeling the embossing on the back, Jon flips it over, and is confronted by much starker, heavier letters spelling out Torchwood Institute of Higher Learning.

"Torchwood?" he asks, because he's been looking at universities all over the country, and he's never encountered this one before.

"Yes," Jones says softly. "It's…a very specialized school for the incredibly gifted. No one gets in without an invitation from the headmaster, and all fees are covered from the moment you set foot in the school to the moment you leave. There's a job offer implied, as well, for after you graduate." He reaches up, tugging his derby thoughtfully, and then asks, apropos of nothing, "Do you read comics, Mister Ross?"

Jon blinks, wondering what the hell that has to do with anything, but nods. "Yeah—yes. Marvel."

"Ah." Jones' lips quirk a bit, and he glances at Jon sidelong. "X-Men?"

"Of course," Jon agrees, one geek to another, because no matter how bewildered he is, he knows that tone and that look. "X-Force mostly, now, but…yeah, of course." And then, because absolutely no one has ever accused Jon of being stupid, the pieces begin to fall together.

The Torchwood Institute of Higher Learning.

The Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters.

Jon swallows.

No.

Absolutely not.

His life is not that cool.

Jones is still smiling at him, but it's wider now, more pleased, with a sharp edge of expectation to it. "So?" he murmurs, nearly challenging. "Which of the X-Men would you fancy yourself as? Scott Summers? Jean Grey? Wolverine?"

Before he can stop himself—because his brain-to-mouth filter seems to have died somewhere around the word "comics"—Jon scoffs. "Hardly," he huffs. "Professor X, definitely."

With a smile that says Jon just passed an exam he didn't even know he was being given, Jones nods and reaches up, pulling his derby all the way off. "Splendid," he drawls, sweeping the hat out in loose approximation of a courtly bow. "I think, Mister Ross, that you are exactly the type that we're looking for at our school. What do you say?"

But Jon is hardly listening, because Jones has a pair of vertical, parallel blue lines tattooed on his forehead, jarring against his civil-servant veneer.

"Ah, yes." Jones seems to feel the focus of his gaze, and traces his fingertips lightly over the lines. "I suppose that, in the name of making the unbelievable believable, a demonstration is in order? Pick a target, Mister Ross."

It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in, and when it does, Jon has to physically keep his jaw from swinging free. But when he realizes what's being asked of him, he quickly casts his gaze around the garden.

There's a very ugly statue that's supposed to be some kind of Greek hero set beside the next curve, and Jon points at it without hesitation. "There," he says with no small amount of relish. "That."

Jones looks at it and instantly makes a face. "Mm. Well, at least if I break it I'll be doing the Feng Shui here a favor."

Then he just sort of…refocuses his eyes, faintly quirks a brow, and…

The statue moves.

Not just a little. It's nothing that Jon could write off as a convenient seismic tremor, even if he wanted to. The bloody statue rises into the air, spins around, and then hops the bleeding wall.

"Oh dear sweet Mary mother of Jesus," Jon manages to croak.

Jones laughs, dropping his derby back onto his head. "Yes, I suppose that's one way of putting it." He rises smoothly to his feet, flicks his fingers, and offers Jon a folder where a moment before he was holding only empty air. "All of the relevant details are in here, Mister Ross. I've already spoken to your guardian, and she's agreed to leave the decision up to you. Keep my card, and call me when you've decided." He tips his hat and then strides back towards the school, where Jon can hear him exchanging pleasantries with the headmaster, and then the sound of the doors thudding closed.

Jon lets out a long, slow breath, fingers closing tightly around the edges of the file—so tight he's almost worried that he'll tear it. Inside him, the part that's never quite fit in without everyone else—the part that's always been a little strange, a little off—is dancing in glee, even as the rest of him is frozen in shock.

But he only has to glance up at where the statue used to be to know that this isn't some sort of mad dream.

Jon looks back down at the folder, but he already knows that he doesn't care what it says. He made his decision the second Ianto Jones looked at him and saw.

He runs his thumb over the name of the school once more, and doesn't bother fighting the wide, fierce grin that takes over his face. He'll wait an hour, maybe two—just long enough to be socially acceptable—and then he'll call Jones back and ask when he can start.

In the meantime… Jon flips the folder open and starts to read. He can at least pretend that he's making an informed decision, after all.

The Torchwood SUV is already waiting by the doors when Ianto takes his leave of the school, the engine running and the heater on to combat the slight chill in the air. Ianto slides in with a sigh of relief, offering Jack, in the driver's seat, a warm smile.

"How'd it go?" Jack asks with a return grin, putting the car into gear and heading fown the long drive.

"Good," Ianto answers, checking his watch. "I gave him an hour, three at the most, before he accepts. Being different at that age is…hard." He grimaces at the understatement, remembering his own years of training with people who were so much older or so much younger, and the gaping distance he always felt.

Jack's hand finds his between the seats and gives it a slight squeeze, though he never looks away from the road. "So. Cyberkinetic? Empath? Healer?"

"None of the above." Ianto laughs a little, running his free hand over his face and then tossing his hat into the back seat. "I believe, Captain, that we just found our first baby Prime." He glances at the GPS unit on the dash, and says, "We should find a hotel. Save us a day's drive, coming back to pick him up."

Jack obediently heads for the nearest town. "You're that certain of his decision?"

Ianto doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to.

Jonathon Ross is a Prime, or will be. That's answer enough.