Every other time he has been in her apartment he has been rescuing her, and so she has never had the opportunity to realize how out-of-place he seems there. Now there is a twang in her chest every time she looks over from making the tea to see him hunched over on her sofa. It's even more bizarre to see his long fingers wrap around her floral-printed mug. She might have commented on it, in another life. Instead she hands it to him and curls up in a nearby armchair.

"They're sweeping it under the rug," he mutters, one of the first things he has said since Rhys left for work that morning. They are all painfully aware of how wrong it is for this to be treated as an ordinary day, but the lorries must go, and Rhys has to save his time off for paternity leave.

"They don't understand," she sighs, sweeping her hand through her hair. Her fingers catch on a tangle, and she winces. The window holds her gaze more than her words do. The bright sunshine seems so disrespectful of the dark days that have passed.

He lets out a long breath. "They didn't understand the First World War, either, but they remembered it. They memorialized it the best way they knew how, and attempted to learn from it."

"They will learn from it," she insists, turning to him. He turns his head and cocks an eyebrow in a way that makes her sure words like: "optimistic Gwen Cooper", is about to come from his open mouth and she continues without letting him speak. "This isn't me being naïve, Jack. That's not who I am any more. I don't have any more faith in their goodness than you do. I have faith in their fear. They don't want this to happen again."

"They didn't want war to happen again either," he retorts but the retort seems to have been automatic, because the way he is staring at her denies his having thought about the words. He narrows his eyes to reexamine her. She holds his gaze, even though the pain in his eyes makes her want to stare down at her tea in pity.

You've changed," he murmurs. "Torchwood darkened you. It does that."

She shakes her head, jutting out her chin fiercely. "So what if it has? So what if I'm not stupid little Gwen anymore, launching tools into space rocks? I've seen it, Jack; I've see what's out there. What it can do, and what people can do. But I still want to help. I want to protect people, even if it's from themselves." Even if it's you, she thinks. That's the one thing that hasn't changed; anyone else in the world would be protecting themselves from Jack, not protecting Jack from himself.

"That's why I hired you." He sighs. "I didn't foresee this, but I saw your ability to see the bad and remain loyal."

His voice is low, and she knows that he regrets taking her from her old life. She doesn't. "We'll rebuild," she says, looking down at her wedding ring. Her finger is swollen around it, once a mark of PMS, now a constant reminder of the child in her womb.

Her statement is an assertion of her decision not to reclaim the dreams of desk sergeant and children. Torchwood is in her now; didn't he just say that?

"You will," he agrees. "There's Torchwood in the 23rd Century, after all."

She blinks at him, but then shrugs it off. He comes out with things like this sometimes. This is not what fazes her. "You?" she repeats. She is careful, soothing. Working with him, Ianto, and even Owen and Tosh has prepared her for motherhood more than anything else.

He stares down at his untouched tea, shoulders sagging. Without much consideration she puts her own tea down and moves over to the sofa to sit next to him; gently, she clasps her hands on his arm. "I have to go," he admits after a long moment. "I can't stay here."

Once she would have objected. Torchwood did need him, that wouldn't be a lie, but she remembered the last time he had retreated. She had been furious; she had taken over command, brimming with uncertainty. Now that there was no certainty anywhere, it seemed less frightening. She also remembered the Jack that had returned, revitalized, fighting for Torchwood. That was a far cry from the man sitting next to her. He knew how to heal himself; or she hoped he did. She wished she knew how to heal him, but there she had to admit ignorance.

"Will you travel with the doctor?"

He lifts his head, and she thinks that maybe he doesn't know her as well as she thought. Then the surprise in his face relents. No, he does know her. He just forgets that time passes and change happens more quickly for mortals.

"No." He licks his lips. "Not unless he turns up on Earth. My wrist-strap got lost in the blast, after all."

"No more magic buttons," she teases. Owen used to give him so much shit for his magic bracelet. She misses Owen in that moment more than she has in a long time. His bitterness did a lot to keep her sane some days. She may be growing cynical, but she is not Owen.

"No," he agrees. "The magic has gone far, far away."

She's not sure about this. The fact that a baby will join her family in a matter of months seems pretty magical, but she lets Jack have the point. "I'll miss you," she says instead. Tears seep into her eye, and she blinks hard. There is so much more to cry over, these days.

He surprises her by taking her hand. Their fingers lace together in a familiar way. "You'll be great, Gwen," he says. "Torchwood will be great."

"It won't be the same without you."

He stands, drawing her up with him. "No," he agrees. "It'll be better. I don't have faith in much, but I have faith in you."

She puts her free hand on his chest, and his heart beats steadily against her palm. Mundane and calm for such a time. "And when the Second World War comes?" she asks. His uniform seems to have separate meaning now. "Isn't that what you've always prepared for? The one that devastates Britain?"

He pushes her chin up to meet his eyes. "You'll be the Churchill to my Lloyd George."

She would shake her head if it did not mean losing the touch of his finger on her chin for the last time for a long time to come. "Be careful, Jack," she instructs.

He removes his hand and turns away. She knows he won't promise, and she won't insist. There are things an immortal man won't swear to.

He walks towards the door, and her heart leaps. This is happening now, her brain screams.

"Wait! Jack, I've lost Ianto, and before that Tosh and Owen. You can go, but I need to know that you still exist. Give me that, Jack."

For a fraction of a second he becomes the Jack she knows. A smile comes onto his face; in four days she had forgotten how his smile could warm her. "I'll email you," he promises. "That's what travelers do in the 21st Century, isn't it?"

"It is," she agrees, her own smile wistful.

"There we go then." And without another word he leans down, catching her lips with his. It's a deep kiss, and it tells her that he's not coming back any time soon. Still, when the door has shut, and her lips are tingling, she knows she cannot be certain of this. Nothing is certain.

With calculated movements she takes their untouched mugs to the kitchen and pours them out. This movement causes the twang in her body to snap, and she barely makes it to the toilet before she is vomiting. She wants to blame it on the baby, but she cannot. Her body has to eject her sorrow somehow.

When Rhys comes home, she has regained some control, though she still feels nauseous. She is filling a notebook with plans for rebuilding Torchwood Three. He looks on sadly, as though he hoped that she would let go. She tries to convince herself not to add this to her list of reasons why Rhys is not Jack. She should not have that mental list at all.

Late that night, the plans running through her head keep her awake. She creeps into the living room and turns on the computer. There is no Ianto to erase the memory now, anymore than there is a Jack to erase her memory.

Dear Jack, she begins, as she will begin so many letters for the next six months.