I know I said that I wouldn't be continuing this series, but I got bit by plot bunny.
I've stuck this in a chapter form rather than in a series of one shots. If you want this in series/oneshot form, go to my account on AO3 (I'm under the same name) where I'm also putting this up.

This series isn't going to in a coherent chapter form, if I continue doing this 'verse, i'm just going to do it a group of connected one shots. (Seriously, go read it on AO3, much better layout there.)

There are more things in Cardiff than aliens, and there is more than just the rift.
Ianto Jones; Wizard, Tea Boy, Grief filled and Guilt ridden man, Currently in the most self destructive phrase of his life, knows this well.
There is a reason why he doesn't like this new case at all.
And what's worse, they don't like him much either.

It's the barest niggling of instinct that causes him to stay late at the hub.

He can feel them, the darker humming undertones – that careless blend of capriciousness and death. Their presence makes ripples of resonant energy like no other being does; and he has a feeling he knows what it might be.

Jacks voice coming from his darkened office startles him. "You shouldn't be here."

Ianto's head flies up from the files in his hand, "neither should you." He replies, taking in the dim hub, the low midnight hum of computers. There is a current of tension between; Ianto can feel it like a running wire. It's the first time that he's been alone with Jack since the man came to his house while Lee and George were there. The air swims thickly around him, and he glances down at his files again and quickly moves to the computer.

Jack moves as well, coming to stand beside him. Every fibre of his being is hyper aware of Jack's presence; the slightest shift in his movements, his breathing, the small noises made when he moved, his scent. Oh god. His scent.

The wand in his jacket's inner pocket is a hot stone, a heavy accusation of more secrets kept. For a panicked moment he wonders if its' shape can be seen from the outside. The hand that Jack rests on his shoulder is like a brand and he glanced down and away at it. He knows it is a gesture of trust, one of unconscious forgiveness, Jack senses that too and pats him on the shoulder before moving his hand away. Ianto holds himself stiff, straightening under Jacks hand when all he'd like to do is arch under and into that warm expanse.

"What have we got?" Jack asked.

Ianto glanced up at him, uncertain and guilty as he always now was around Jack. "Funny sort of weather patterns." He said and looked for Jack's reaction. The man's face was as inscrutable as his wasn't, and he glanced away again at the monitor. What he sees on the computer strengthens, but does not confirm, his suspicions.

There hasn't been anything on the rift monitor, but these beings wouldn't show; they were native and worked on an earthly scale, but there was nothing muggle or mundane about them.

He'd have to check double check if it was what he thought it was, but if it was what he thought it was, it wouldn't mean anything good. One thing was for sure, he'd be double warding his flat tonight.

His suspicions were confirmed, and he didn't like it.

Fae.

He can see them out of the corner of his eyes when he walks, hovering and fluttering just out of view. They bare their teeth, then chitter and laugh prettily, their form somewhere between dainty pinpoints of light and the wild, guileful beings of the other-lands. Never has Ianto been so reminded of the fact that fae both love and hate wizards; wizards who have one foot in the mortal and one in the ether. Fae had a kinship of a kind with wizards, like they did with all magical beings, but like children do, they flip flopped from love and hate with all the fickleness of their kind. Fae cared only for their own and were just as likely to kill a man for something, as to thank him. It was never wise to receive the attention of a fae.

It makes him unbelievably nervous that Jack – and therefore torchwood, so therefore himself- were getting into the fae's business.

They gather at the corners of his eyes when he goes out for a walk, calling to him in their whispering voices.

'Come away, O human child.' They hissed,

'Wand of elder. Rod of Cedar. Heartstring and Phoenix feather. You are ours yet not, you are not yet are ours.
Can you come away, O human child?'

Ianto notices them and grits his teeth, putting stones in his pockets and warding his home with runes. Even if asked, he won't be so stupid as to call more attention to himself – or even worse- draw their enmity.

He can't, however, do the same for his teammates. He attempts to get them away from the issue, knowing that he probably can't, but unwilling not to try. "I blame it on magic mushrooms." He says, knowing that it won't be the last of it but unwilling not to try. It's only a small joke – the magic part of it is correct, though they don't know it.

Jack, baits him a little, "What you do in private is none of our business."

Ianto, taking the hint, subsides and doesn't talk further. He gets the message. Work. Don't talk. At the same time, he can't help but resent it slightly. He knows he's only a tea boy. Knows that Jack still doesn't want to trust him. And he also knows that the concept of 'what you do in private is none of our business', is not something that Jack applies to him at the moment.

The most he can do is draw discrete signs of power, a sprinkle of salt on the doorstep, a warding rune drawn when they weren't looking, a muttered spell.

Then Jacks friend, his old lover, Estelle dies and Ianto knows that the fae don't appreciate Torchwood's intrusion. They gather more thickly around him because he is a wizard and because they know that he is aware of all that they are.

When he sees them, he grips his wand in his sleeve as warning. Chittering, they draw back, baring their teeth in sharp smiles.

'Peace! The Charms wound up!

Stones in his pocket, heavy, heavy. He'll not be moved.

Cry Hold!

Peace!

Peace!'

He goes home at the end of the day, and is glad to close the door and ward it behind him. He goes home at the end of the day and wishes that Jack and the rest of Torchwood, would just let the issue of the child, of the fae, drop.

They can't do anything for Jasmine. This he knows. She's already gone with them, in heart, if not in body. She was theirs and they were hers, and there was nothing that could be done about it.

He'd gone, discretely, to see her when he found out that she was the chosen one. She had a touch of the ether to her, not so strong to make her a wizard, or even a squib, but enough to make her loose to the ties of the world. No stones in pockets, salt on doorsteps, or knotted handkerchiefs would keep her here.

Inevitably, Jack had to let her go, but not before the fae and enacted their price for the meddling. The team – Tosh, Owen, and Gwen, Gwen especially, griped and swore bitterly at Jack. Their disapproval was strong and held like shields and knives.

He knew that they were only muggles, but he can't help himself still, and makes a remark almost casually to himself as he serves coffee to them as they brood at the end of the day.

"Old folklore has it that the chosen ones were always theirs because it's the children them selves who choose the fae. That the chosen ones would never be happy otherwise."

He sets a coffee cup beside Tosh who doesn't look up from the files she's piling on her desk and puts a plate of digestives beside her.

"My mam told me once that fae were like children with a strong sense of what was theirs, unable to comprehend why they couldn't have something."

Owen scoffs at him with derision. "Folklore."

Ianto looked at him and said without the slightest trace of sarcasm, "Is it?"

The stones in his pocket clink together and he can feel Jack's gaze on him, too sharp and shrewd for comfort.

At the Dragon's Back that evening, he settled down for a pint of strong-arm ale, thick enough to stand a spoon in, dark as mud, and brewed by German dwarves. Ianto sat on the creaking leather barstool and found that here too; he could not avoid the issue of the fae.

Douglas Windhorn, the bar keeper, leaned over for a chat of ministry gossip and wizarding news before he said, "There's been fae about."

"Oh?" Ianto said, taking a sip of his ale and trying to look innocently interested and concerned. "Might have to refresh my wards."

He'd done so only yesterday, but Douglas didn't know that.

Douglas nodded in approval. "Right you are. Through I'll have to find someone who can do it for me. I've no hand for runes, none at all." He shook his head and gave the bar top a wipe with his rag, before continuing in his thick welsh accent, "I hate it when the fae go around. My wife fills all me pockets with stones and knotted handkerchiefs. I end up clanking like a quarry for weeks afterwards. Sometimes I think that they're nothing but trouble is women. My Louise can't wave a wand worth a damn, but she makes potions like a dream, she does." He chuckled and looked down at his lumpy jumper before looking up to give Ianto a conspiring wink. "Her knitting's atrocious though. But don't tell her I said that."

Ianto gave him a wan smile, "I won't if you won't." He tossed a couple of sickles on the counter and stood up, suddenly losing all taste for his drink.

"I'd better be going." He said. "Have a good evening Douglas."

Douglas smiled at him, "You too Ianto. Take care now."

Almost considering apperating home, Ianto decided not to as it was a nice night out, and it would give him a little time to think. He was glad for it when he arrived home and found Jack on his doorstep frowning at the salt scattered in a neat line across the threshold.

"Sir! What are you doing here?" he said in surprise, trepidation squirming up from the pit of his stomach.

Jack smiled at him, "Just couldn't wait until tomorrow to hear those welsh vowels."

It was almost a parody of his old flirtation and Ianto frowned at him. Jack looked half dead and a little dejected, his shoulders slumping inside his greatcoat.

"Sir," Ianto said, hesitating, once again hyperaware of Jack every move and once again hyperaware of all his deceit. "You look half dead sir. Why are you here?"

Jack looked at him and sighed. "I heard what you said this afternoon."

Ianto shrugged even as he panicked; he knew that Jack couldn't know the truth, but even so- "Just folklore."

Jack looked at him sharply, voice a little harder, his blue eyes critical. "Just folklore? You don't seem to blame me for letting Jasmine go. Why."

Ianto shifted his shoulders uneasily, feeling himself swim in his suit. "It's what my mam always said. She was a superstitious sort. Used to say that the fae always took what they wanted- and like belligerent children, would not let themselves be denied it." He smiled beside himself, fondness for his mam rising up in him as he said, "She used to put stones in pockets to weigh her and us down when she thought that the fae were around."

"And do you believe her?"

In response, Ianto pulled out a couple of stones from his pockets. "I didn't think it could hurt to try sir."

Jack looked at him, an inscrutable expression settling on his face. "Next time Ianto, if you think it might help. Share it."

Ianto looked at him and swallowed, once again swimming in unease, guilt and uncertainty. He slid the stones back into his pocket and wished he hadn't bought them up. "Yes Sir, certainly."

Jack looked at him and nodded. "Good. See you at work tomorrow Ianto."

"Goodnight sir."

Jack's greatcoat swirled about the man's ankles as he turned and walked away. Ianto stared after him, blinking as he was once again side-blinded by the man he called 'captain'. He watched Jack move down the street, and then disappear as he turned a corner.

Ianto swallowed hard, then swore at himself and let himself inside. He would relax in front of the fire with Rummy, and perhaps watch some James Bond. He'd be dammed when he woke up the next day, but he could just take a potion and screw the consequences when it wore off.

He knew that it was self-destructive. He knew that he was in a bad way; suits that would've fit properly six months ago, he now swam in, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Rummy chirped at him from his post when Ianto walked him, and he gave the bird a shaky smile.

"Hey there." He said, stroking the pet he'd only just recently got back.

He shed his suit jacket and cast a quick padding charm on his shoulder where he transferred his owl to off it's perch.

Fuck. He felt like shite.

The guilt and grief, always heavy and almost always in equal measure, were strong tonight. With a sigh, he drew the blinds and decided to let the coffee make itself. He wasn't hungry, caffeine would be as good a meal as any. Wordlessly, a small warm fire sprung up in the fire place.

Rummy chirruped and nibbled his ear affectionately as Ianto summoned his diary, his private one not the torchwood one, off the shelf, and began to write. It was transfigured to like an old copy of a dictionary, and Ianto made sure that no one who came to visit would have need of it.

Though he was shattered, he refused to sleep just yet. When he did sleep, he didn't like the dreams, and the dreams always came despite how closely he was becoming addicted to dreamless sleep. Sometimes he woke up and cried because the dreams had been so much sweeter. And sometimes he cried because a wound had been torn open anew. he would finish his last entry, write up a new one, then probably not fall asleep until it was almost three am and he couldn't give a damn.

Hopefully I've managed to this justice.

I've had to tweak Ianto's characterisation a little, but hopefully Jack, Ianto and the rest aren't too OOC, because I wanted to keep their characters largely true to cannon. I originally also wanted to keep the narrative as close to cannon as possible, but i'm not quite sure if i'm going to still do that if I continue the verse. Thoughts? if not, eh, cest la vie.