Author's Note:

I don't usually leave my notes before the story, but this one probably calls for it. This story is a sequel of sorts to another of my stories, Quite a List. It's probably not necessary to read that story, although you may enjoy it. In that story, Jack and Ianto became friends after the stopwatch incident, and it wasn't until Jack returned from 1941 that they began any sort of sexual relationship. Which was unfortunately quite short as Jack disappeared with the Doctor not long after that.

In this story, they have not been together long enough for some of the reactions you might expect. There are some references to events that happened in the other story, and in particular a list of things to do together that Ianto found on Jack's desk after Jack left.

As for the timeline, I'm well aware that is all over the place, so I'm made my choices as informed as possible. I believe Jack and Tosh went back to 1941 at the end of January 2008, the Rift cracked not many days after, and he left with the Doctor by the end of the month. He was gone for almost four months, during which time Harold Saxon continued to rise in power until May, when he became Prime Minister and sent Torchwood Three to the Himalayas. And of course, when they returned, they found he'd shot the American president and then been killed by his own wife in turn.

I wrote much of this first part in longhand, a bit like a real diary. The second part will be narrative. I do hope you enjoy them both.

Letters From A Diary

1 February 2008

It has been almost a week since Jack left. Disappeared. Ran away. I thought that would be enough time to be able to write something, but it's not. I can't. I'm still upset, still hurt, still confused. And I'm too damn tired to try sorting it out. We're one man short now, one leader short, and it feels like the world is going to hell around us.

All over again.

And so while I had many things to write, they will remain unpenned because I don't even know where to begin. Maybe tomorrow, Rift willing.

7 February 2008

The Rift is, as ever, unwilling to cooperate. It seems the consequence of fully opening the Rift and releasing Abaddon, and then slamming it shut somehow through Jack's sacrifice, has left it increasingly unstable. We're running ourselves ragged. We're overworked, understaffed, tired, angry, and lost. Frankly, Cardiff will be lucky if Torchwood doesn't implode before the Rift. And there goes the world, in a fit of emotional, exhausted, interpersonal pique.

You picked a bad time to leave, Jack.

13 February 2008

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Last year I was with Lisa, enjoying a nice dinner, a walk through the park after an unexpected snow, a hell of a shag that had us both breathless and laughing on the floor when it was over. And then we just talked, curled up on the sofa under a blanket. We talked about the future, about spending it together, and what that might look like and feel like and be like.

It was not aliens and guns and running and hiding and screaming and blood and death. It was a house and a job and a family—weekends at the beach, evenings at the local pub quiz, saving up for the latest West End musicale or a weekend in Paris.

That future ended at Canary Wharf, and though I tried so hard, any other future I'd hoped for with Lisa was lost several months later. Three weeks ago I thought I might have found another future, an unexpected and very different one, but one I could have looked forward to. Yet now even the chance to explore that future is gone.

I wonder where he is at this moment? Will he ever come back to us, or is his life destined for the stars, while we guard the home front, still so lost and confused?

15 February 2008

Fuck the goddamn Rift, spitting out shit like there's no tomorrow. Fuck Torchwood and Weevils and space junk and glow-in-the-dark alien rashes that itch like the bloody pox.

And fuck Jack Harkness. For coming here, for staying, for making us believe we could do this...and then for leaving us with this fucking rip in space and time.

Alone.

17 February 2008

I would apologize for my last entry, but it would seem slightly ridiculous to apologize to myself in my own diary. I enjoyed that bottle of scotch in Jack's cabinet, though, and if he ever comes back, I will replace it.

In the meantime, the Rift beckons. Or maybe it's the MOD again, asking for Jack and trying to bleed information out of me instead. Or perhaps it's just more sodding paperwork this time. It's all starting to blend together...aliens and paperwork and politics, oh my…

25 February 2008

The MOD is still trying to crawl up my ass, UNIT won't stop ringing Jack's office, and even the Queen's representative has requested a video conference. I'm tired of running missions, of running interference, of running from aliens every other night.

And I'm tired of trying to hold together a team that is still bleeding (often quite literally) and raw and lashing out at each other because we have no one else to lash out at.

I'm just tired.

1 March 2008

That implosion I mentioned last month? I suspect it will happen soon.

It's been so long now that we should have adapted, but it's only grown worse. Everyone is near their breaking point. I see what's happening around me and yet I can't stop it, no matter how hard I try. I'm not him. We need a leader, and we need Jack. We need his crazy way with people—the pushing and pulling, the impulsive improvisation, the grim determination to do the right thing no matter if it hurt like hell—even the incorrigible flirting. I know he may have questioned his ability to lead us after everything that happened over the past year, but somehow he did: he made us a team. And even if it was with paper and string at times, it worked. He held us together, but now we are finally starting to fall apart.

I miss it. We need him. Where the hell is he?

6 March 2008

It's been well over a month now since he left, and there is one thing more than anything that I really can't understand: why didn't he ever say anything?

It's not as if we didn't suspect things about him. I worked at Torchwood One. I knew about the Doctor, and I knew London was probably wrong about him being Public Enemy Number One. I also knew Jack was different, and not just from reading his files or nosing about in the Archives. He let things slip about how old he really was, or he'd brush off his unique healing ability, and he finally admitted one night that he was from a different time, a different planet. But immortality? Gwen knew about it. Apparently Jack told her...well, she saw it happen, and I guess there's no keeping it secret after being shot in the head and standing up without a bullet in your brain. I wish he'd told me, though.

I suppose I can't blame him for keeping his secrets close. God knows I've kept my own. And his was big, I'll grant that. Gwen says he has so many questions, that Jack just wants the Doctor to give him answers—to fix his immortality. But how could he go without at least telling us? Without warning us that one day he'd be leaving, returning to his doctor? It's fairly obvious now that Jack was one of his companions; Torchwood One suspected it, of course. So he's finally gone back to the stars; why couldn't he have at least said goodbye?

I hope that he finds what he's looking for. And I hope, rather selfishly, that he comes back to us if he does, even though he has no reason to return to this poor, backward planet.

Why do I want him to come back? To lead us. To save us from each other. To keep UNIT from taking over and the MOD out of our business.

But even more than that…I found your new list, Jack, and I've kept it since the day you left. It's in my pocket, and it'll stay there until I know you're not returning.

Because if you do, I want to finish it. And I've realized that I want to finish it with you.

10 March 2008

Dear Jack,

Owen is acting one hell an arsehole. Of course, he's still dealing with a lot—losing Diane, killing his boss, getting shot by the teaboy—but we all are dealing with shit right now. He's taking it out any way he can, though, and while I understand that, having had a hell of a month after Lisa died, I hate seeing him hurt the others, especially Tosh. She's been a good friend through all this, but is still struggling so much herself, and he's not making it any easier.

I'm also really tired of managing his hangovers. One of these days he will get instant coffee when he snaps at Tosh, and I don't give a damn about the consequences.

Gwen can handle herself. In fact, it would appear she's stepped in and officially taken over given Owen's current inability to lead. Tosh doesn't seem to mind, and I can't say I'm inclined to argue with it either. Owen can't do it and someone has to. My job now is to make sure Gwen doesn't screw up, because damned if I'll see Tosh or even Owen hurt due to her bull-headed ignorance.

I'm fairly certain she will cock it up at some point, given she's been here less than a year and still has such a narrow-minded understanding of so many of the things that are the reality of life with Torchwood. So we'll play the game this way: she leads up front, I lead behind the lines.

I've already done enough paperwork to last me a lifetime; I've got the blisters from that damn fountain pen on your desk to prove I forged your name on well over a hundred documents last night. I've talked to UNIT, the palace, and even Harold Saxon just about every other day, assuring them that everything is fine and that you...well, that you went undercover to track down an alien smuggling ring.

Dammit, Jack. I'd forged your signature dozens of times before you left. I've even lied for you to the PM's office before. But this...this bothers me. I didn't just lie for you, I lied about you. I lied to keep the MOD off our backs, to keep UNIT from coming after Tosh, and frankly, I don't like it. I knew what I was doing all those other times, what I was lying for. This time I have no idea. You could be anywhere, anytime, doing anything. You might be thinking about us and trying to get back, or you might be having the shag of your life in some bar on a backwater planet in the Alpha Centauri system. You ran off without a word and left us. So sometimes a part of me wonders why I'm still doing this.

And then the alarms go off, and we stop a group of Ogrons from destroying Mermaid Quay, and in spite of another concussion I know I'm doing it for Cardiff, and for Torchwood. I'm doing it to keep Tosh safe, to keep Gwen from failing, to keep Owen from breaking.

And all the while I'm just trying to keep my own head above water, wishing there was someone to keep me from drowning.

15 March 2008

Dear Jack,

This week we ran down a Blowfish gang. We stopped an incursion of beautiful but carnivorous alien birds that flew through the Rift. We threw thirty-six Weevils back into the sewers over the course of five days. And we managed to just barely negotiate the end to an interstellar war across space and time between two aliens races no bigger (or frightening) than squirrels.

Unfortunately, we finally had the implosion that I knew would happen. I'm surprised it took so long. Six weeks. Six weeks that we've been our own. At times it almost seemed like we might make it, but I suppose we were just fooling ourselves.

I didn't think it would be Tosh to snap, though. Yet Owen's constant pushing finally set her off. I'm sure the painkillers from her third major injury in the field this month didn't help, but she finally lashed out at him for being such a prick. He fought back, his words unbearably cruel. So I punched him.

Well, better than shooting him again, as tempting as it was.

Gwen pulled me off. I remember calling her a gap-toothed cow, which was when Owen threw a good right hook that caught my jaw hard, and we both went down in the proverbial yet literal jumble of arms and legs. Gwen just stood there and stared while we fought...and finally it was Tosh who stopped us, with a grim ferocity I've never known from her.

Actually, it was the combination of her yelling, of having cold coffee tossed in my face, and of hearing the empty mug hit the ground and shatter. It brought us all to our senses. With barely a word, we all went home.

We came back the next day and laid some ground rules. And for the last thirty-six hours things have been calm. Even the Rift—hell, even Owen has been quiet.

So did we fail by falling apart, or succeed by picking ourselves up and moving on? I guess only time will tell. And if you return, you can decide whether you missed a good show or need to write us up.

Just return soon, Jack.

20 March 2008

Dear Jack,

I've come to accept that you left for good reason. And that you had other reasons for not telling us about it. The one thing I learned from you, above all others, is the power of forgiveness. You forgave me after Lisa, you forgave Tosh and Owen and Gwen their mistakes. It's one of those things so many people don't see in you: your tremendous strength of heart and your unwavering belief in and loyalty to others.

I write this because I forgive you. You did something you had to do, something you had been waiting for a long time to do, it seems. I know how that feels, so I cannot judge. Sometimes the most damning choices are the only ones we can make.

I'm still hurt that you never said anything, to me or any of the others. I'm still upset that you left so abruptly, so soon after we just got you back. I still have moments when I am so angry that we are alone in this now…that I'm alone.

And I still miss you.

But I forgive you for leaving us so suddenly, so unexpected, so hurtfully. Come back to us, Jack. We're coping now, but we still need you.

Especially with the MOD. I don't trust them. And by them, I mean Harold Saxon. He still won't leave us alone.

24 March 2008

Dear Jack,

I feel like I should confess something, something I never told you after you and Tosh came back from 1941. There was hardly time, between finding you brooding on your roof and what happened later that night.

And I'm not talking about Abaddon.

You know that I shot Owen, and that I did it to stop him from opening the Rift.

He thought I was a poor shot, but I really was aiming for his shoulder, because I was wasn't really trying hard enough to stop him. I wanted you back, both of you. How could we leave you there, stuck in the past, when we had no idea how you would survive, and when we were so close to succeeding?

Never let it be said I cannot make hard decisions that require sacrifice; I just seem to be able to make the selfish ones, which are usually the wrong ones, much better.

And I shot him to hurt him, because he hurt me. It seems so petty now, so childish and immature now that you are gone. But you know Owen—he said something about being just the teaboy, about being your part-time shag, and honestly...that bothered me. We hadn't even kissed, and yet the thought that either our working relationship or our friendship might devolve into something so shallow really struck a chord. Because even before you came back and I found you on that roof, it was more than that, wasn't it? Or I hoped it was…might be…could be.

And then it was, for one amazing night.

So fuck Owen, he doesn't know what he's talking about.

Jack, I don't know if you are ever coming back, but if you do, I hope we can be friends again. Because I miss that most of all. I miss working with you, I miss making coffee for you, I miss chasing aliens with you, and I even miss bothering you about your paperwork. I miss our talks and our games and the stopwatch and that coat. I may not understand why you left, but I know that you had your reasons. So if there is any reason whatsoever for you to come back, I hope that you do. But I won't assume anything about our relationship because of one night. I would just be happy to see you again.

Besides, I know that I can't wait forever.

28 March 2008

Dear Jack,

After our mutual team breakdown, we decided to try something we hadn't done since...well, since before you left. To celebrate a week of no infighting whatsoever (bitter, sarcastic, or derisive comments aside), we went to the Dockside after work last weekend for drinks. It was awkward at first, given what had happened (and I didn't write the half of it), but eventually it became more comfortable. Owen 'scored a bird' as he would say and left early. Gwen and Tosh giggled quite a bit, which was a welcome sight to see in both of them, especially Tosh. Gwen has had Rhys, but Tosh has had no one these past months.

And I...well, I have to admit that while I didn't leave with a girl, I did leave with a phone number. Tosh is already bothering me to call her. I'm not sure if I will. Torchwood makes those sorts of things hard, although it would seem Owen manages it somehow. Then again, he never sees those girls again; that's not my style, and this girl seemed nice.

We'll see. Maybe I'll run into her at the Dockside again, Rift willing.

2 April 2008

Dear Jack,

Harold Saxon is not a man to be trusted, of this I am sure. I have had to field far too many phone calls from the man regarding Torchwood. I am fairly certain the PMs are briefed on Torchwood business on a strictly need-to-know business. Apparently Saxon feels like he needs to know everything even though is not yet the Prime Minister.

I've talked my way around him so many times I'm sure he trusts me about as much as I trust him—which is not at all. Something is not right at Downing Street.

8 April 2008

Dear Jack,

I can't believe it's been almost two and a half months now. Whatever went down when Owen busted my lip and I broke his nose (I told you there was much more to it) seems to have purged our demons, at least for now. That may be simply because the Rift is quiet again, and freakishly so. Owen is practically convinced it's going to spit out an army of Cybermen on our doorstep. I glared at him when he said that, and to everyone's surprise, he apologized. And here I thought they had all forgot about Lisa and my connection to Canary Wharf.

We all went to the Dockside together, bitched about Saxon and his latest, and ran into Morgan again. She was the girl who gave me her number. I never did call her, and the first thing she asked me was why.

Imagine me trying to explain the odd hours of the Welsh Tourist Office nearby where I worked. Now I know what the rest of you must experience when I roll my eyes; she was a master at it. But she had beautiful eyes.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. It's been so long now it seems unlikely you're coming back. And yet if you do, what then? I wrote that I wouldn't assume anything, that I couldn't wait forever...and yet it was hard, taking those first tentative steps toward someone new after coming so close to something that could have been amazing with you.

I think it had more to do with Lisa than you, to be honest. Yes, I can almost picture your ego crumbling if you were to ever read this! And yet, it's true: whatever we had for those few days was completely different than what I had with Lisa, and Morgan reminds me very much of Lisa with her quick wit, her beautiful eyes, her confident manner. You were my boss, my friend, a man, and apparently immortal…all so very different from them both. Unfortunately we didn't have time to explore any of the possibilities there might have been before you died and left.

I still have the list you left, but I suppose it's time for me to explore those sorts of things with someone. It's been almost six months since Lisa died at Canary Wharf, and almost three since you left. Morgan and I had a good time at the pub, so I'm hoping our date on Friday isn't interrupted by the Rift.

You would like her, Jack.

13 April 2008

Dear Jack,

You are goddamn bastard.

Guess where I spent my day off? Tiny little island, dirty little medical facility, brilliant woman named Helen ring any bells?

You should have told us, Jack. You should have told at least one of us about Flat Holm before you fucking swanned off and left. Because you not only abandoned us, but you abandoned them. Helen had no idea you were gone. Supplies were low and she was calling about a patient who had died. Died, Jack. One of those poor people died, screaming and alone on that god-forsaken island.

I'm not blaming you for his death. But maybe if I had known, I could have done something. Owen could have done something. Hell, maybe even you could have done something. But no—it's yet another secret you kept from us, and even more importantly, from me. Perhaps you didn't trust me as your friend, but as your administrator, you should have told me. There is no excuse for leaving them like that.

I haven't told the team. Once Helen explained things to me (and I guessed the rest), I told her the truth about your leaving and promised I'd do everything I could do to help. If you ever come back, you'll find you approved a fairly major diversion of funds in the budget. And from your private accounts. They need it, and they deserve it. I'm doing it for them, Jack, not for you. Because right now I am so angry at you I could spit nails.

Get a grip on your soul searching and come back. You have a cross here you never asked us to bear.

19 April 2008

Dear Jack,

Flat Holm has what they need. I've managed to track down your files and suppliers and funnel it all through the same channels you've been using to keep it so secret. I went back out there this weekend and helped with the deliveries, then took notes on what else I could do. I sat with Helen quite a bit and met some more of the residents.

And I understand it a bit better, what you did and why you did it. It is the most heartbreaking place in the world, I think, and you did more for them than anyone has. But you didn't need to protect me, because I could have helped them, too. I could have helped you.

They're being taken care of now, Jack. But Helen will probably slap you if you come back. Just so you know.

27 April, 2008

Dear Jack,

For one of the rare times since I came to Cardiff, the Rift seemed willing to cooperate. I spent the entire night with Morgan: dinner, some dancing at a local club, a drink back at her place. It was…well, it was refreshing. The last time I went out with anyone was the weekend before Canary Wharf, when Lisa and I went to our favorite Indian restaurant and met some friends after. That was ten months ago. There have been times since then that I thought it would never happen again. It was a relief, really, to know that life does indeed go on, that loss really does become less painful with time. I've lost so much since coming here, including you.

And yet even though you are gone, it was thoughts of you that kept interrupting: the first time you dragged me out Weevil hunting, the bet we had at the pub on who could pull a number the fastest, New Year's Eve on the rooftop of the Millenium Centre. You could be thousands of light years away, but still you're here, still a part of the team, still a part of our lives.

We're going to see Cloverfield this weekend. It's been out for a while now, and I imagine I'll find all sorts of things wrong with it given I've lived through far worse than a CGI monster stampeding across New York. I'll have to keep quiet, though, won't I? And simply enjoy the chance to play at a normal life for once, no matter what is happening on screen—or at Torchwood.

4 May 2008

Dear Jack,

The movie was terrible, absolutely ridiculous. You would have loved it.

Did I mention I got shot after?

Bloody Torchwood.

9 May 2008

Dear Jack,

The Rift is behaving relatively normal, with good days and bad days. The team is getting along. My arm is healing just fine in spite of Owen's sniggers about payback. I've seen Morgan several times now, though it has been difficult explaining my arm, my odd hours, and the black SUV that pulled up outside the café where we were dining the other night and dragged me away after a large Weevil sighting.

Oh, and Gwen is engaged.

Not sure how you're going to take that, but there it is.

Flat Holm is doing better. Don't get me wrong, I'm still pissed about that little secret even if I understand the situation, but Helen is a good woman and those people deserve the best. They've suffered enough, and I've done what I can for them.

Our biggest problem remains Downing Street. I'm not looking forward to the election; I used to support Harold Saxon, until he started practically stalking Torchwood. Do you know he actually asked me (and not Gwen, for some reason) to come to London to meet with him? Before being elected as Prime Minister?

I politely declined right as Tosh rigged the alarms to go off for a false Rift alert. There is something not quite right about him. I wish you were here, you'd feel it too.

11 May 2008

Dear Jack,

And the attempt at a life outside Torchwood fails. Morgan decided she couldn't be with someone who had such strange work hours, who got shot and made up stories about it, who was obviously hiding something that involved big black SUVs and a gun holster.

She thinks I'm either MI6 or some sort of undercover black ops agent. If it wasn't so close to the truth—bit of both, when you really think about it—I'd laugh. She was nice, and we had a good time together, but that's Torchwood for you. Owen might have the right way of it, going on the pull for the sex and not the relationship. Tosh would disagree, and Gwen would start talking about how important it is for her to get home to her normal life with Rhys, but for some of us, Torchwood claims you, heart and soul, and there is no return to the normal world.

I am claimed.

14 May 2008

Dear Jack,

Seeing as it's been over three months, I've decided to stop writing my entries like this. I want to say that I've moved on, but I can't truly do that if I keep this up. Look at what happened with Morgan.

Also, Tosh found out and told me to stop. She is quite possibly the wisest woman I know and the best friend a man could have, so I do what she tells me.

You've gone to be with your Doctor. I think we've all accepted now that you are not coming back. More importantly, we've realized we can do this on our own. We're a team—a damaged, dysfunctional team, yes, but we've managed to protect Cardiff for over three months. No one has died, and the city is still standing. We can do this. We will do this, for Cardiff.

I hope you are happy and that you find your answers. But just so you know, Torchwood will always have a place for you, Jack. This team will always have a place for you…for you, your coat, your braces, and even your Webley. For your grin and your laugh, your incorrigible flirting and your rooftop brooding. And even if it's long after I'm gone, I hope you do return someday: Torchwood was better because of you.

23 May 2008

Harold Saxon is now the Prime Minister. I just got off the phone with him and there is already trouble: possible Rift activity reported in the Himalayas, and UNIT believes it is connected to the Rift opening here in January. Our presence is deemed necessary, and in spite of our lack of jurisdiction, we are ordered to Pakistan immediately to investigate. All four of us, personally by the new PM.

I don't like it. I don't like leaving the hub unmanned and Cardiff unprotected. I do not trust Harold Saxon. Will record the details upon our return.

31 May 2008

The trip to Pakistan was a complete disaster, and we are lucky to be alive.

I have contacted the palace directly to request—no, to demand—an inquiry into the decisions that were made and the actions that were taken in regards to this case. We were sent to investigate something that did not exist, and we were almost killed by an avalanche that was deliberately triggered while we were there. We were then detained under suspicious circumstances for several days, and when we finally returned home, we learned that Harold Saxon had killed the President of the United States, only to be murdered in turn by his own wife.

This is not a coincidence.

There is no doubt in my mind we were set up. By whom, I don't know: UNIT, the MOD, Harold Saxon himself? UNIT will not answer my questions, though I suspect from the reactions I've had to my inquires that they are just as confused as we are right now. The MOD is not taking my calls; Downing Street is obviously in an uproar.

As we are funded directly by the crown, I will speak with them directly. I leave for London on Monday for an audience at the palace. I will find the answers.

1 June 2008

Dear Jack,

I would have taken the shot.

There is a new Pan-Asian restaurant on the Quay that is quite good.

Your former partner is a bloody psychopath.

Welcome home.

Ianto.

To be continued...