Hiya, so, I had a lot of trouble with this fic - it just didn't want to be written, it seemed! But I was insistant; I really wanted to post something on the anniversary of Ianto Jones' death. I really hope you enjoy it, it's not angst, despite what you may think. I didn't want something to make people cry, but something to make people appreciate his life, however short it was. Thanks so much for reading - please review, all and any feedback is, as always, much appreciated! :) xxx

Every inch of him stung. Once he'd started crying, he just couldn't stop, letting the sensation overwhelm him in an almost refreshing wave of pain and consumption. Jack let the tears roll freely, cascading down his cheeks without care or even a second thought. What was the point in trying to stop them? He couldn't, not now. Resistance was futile, any fool could see that.

Jack dragged a weary arm across his eyes, in a vain attempt to stop the weeping. But there was no hope, he knew that. He just had to sit back and surrender himself to them. Them.

But it was just so stupid. Surely he should be used to it by now, he'd gone through this so many times before he'd almost lost count. Jack mentally shook himself; he needed to get a grip. He needed to toughen up – why did this still affect him this much?

Maybe it would always be his weakness. But he was Captain Jack Harkness, he didn't have weaknesses!

The knife glinted below him, grasped firmly in his hand. He'd almost finished, it would be over soon. He didn't know why he still put himself through this, he wished he'd never started it. Never even offered. But Jack knew he couldn't give up now - he was nearly done.

The immortal dragged in a rattling breath, and moved onto the next onion.

Ianto waltzed through the door, swinging his briefcase between his hands, remarkably carefree. He'd been in a surprisingly good mood the whole day, laughing with the team, even indulging in a quickie with Jack before lunch. He'd come to the realisation that life was good - even if it wasn't, life was short and he knew he had to make the most of every moment.

Even more surprisingly, Jack was in an equally good mood. Whether it was the sex on a desk or something more, the immortal had been smiling throughout, even trying to hold Ianto's hand when they left to get some lunch – only to be pushed off with a smirk and a sarcastic comment, mind, but regardless, it was the thought that counted. But that's what had Ianto worried, despite his evident joyful mood – what exactly was Jack thinking? What was he planning?

Whatever it was, Ianto was on red alert.

He'd been suspicious since Jack had asked that morning, as soon as they'd woken up in each other's arms, if he could cook dinner tonight. With a singular raised eyebrow and a grin, Ianto had agreed, with a promise that Jack would thoroughly clean up every single trace of mess. Seemingly delighted at his acceptance, Jack had thrown himself into his work from the moment they'd reached the Hub – albeit the quick... "incident" before lunch – desperate to make it home early to prepare.

Not expecting miracles – there was a reason that Ianto had never asked Jack to cook – the Welshman had the local Chinese on speed-dial, somewhat comforted at the prospect of a backup plan. He'd always been a strong believer and follower of routines, desperate to know every detail of what was happening, when, where and, most importantly, why. Albeit making him organised, this key trait in him also gave him massive problems; a detest of surprises, and a somewhat control-freak-ish nature.

But then again, Jack had never complained.

Whereas the Captain had given himself the afternoon off to "prepare" – Ianto shuddered at the thought but let him go regardless – everyone else was still very much hard at work. It was late July, and the lazy heat was starting to affect them all. So, when Ianto had nipped out for milkshakes, he'd come back re-ranked as a God. Sipping delicately at his own – vanilla, of course, the only flavour of milkshake he could stand; he had never understood Jack's preference for banana... – he'd worked through the mini heat-wave to finish an hour before everyone else, saving himself a good half an hour of cleaning up/locking up. He'd given the Hub a quick once over before he left, however, with a promise of decaff for a week if he came back tomorrow and the state of the place was any less than the manner in which he'd left it. There was no way they'd touch a thing with a threat like that, he'd been assured.

Pushing the door to his apartment open, Ianto stopped at the sight that met him, and stared.

Jack Harkness was having a meltdown – plain and simple.

Arms tightening almost subconsciously, Jack smiled into Ianto's tuft of hair, kissing it gently as the Welshman slept against his chest. His heartbeat, prominent beneath his muscles lulled Jack, as if a silent promise. If only it could promise to keep beating forever.

But that was selfish – Ianto deserved a long, prosperous life, free of danger and threats...maybe even free of him.

But that was never gunna happen – they'd passed that hurdle, they'd overcome it, and they were stronger than ever. Nothing was gunna break them until they were physically forced apart, if it be by death, then so be it. It was better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.

Still fast asleep, Ianto rolled over, subconsciously pulling away from Jack. But once on his side, his hand fought Jack's and pulled it round him, snuggling backwards into the cavern of the immortal's carefully sculpted chest.

Jack smiled, resting his head on Ianto's shoulder, feeling closer to his lover despite the fact that his back was now turned. Pulling back slightly as Ianto snuffled in his sleep, Jack inspected the back of the Welshman's head carefully, running his free fingers through the slight curls that had always enticed him.

Suddenly, Jack's eyes went wide. Pulling his hand back, he stopped and stared at the sight before him.

Was it...could it...no way. Not that. Anything but that. There, on Ianto's head, was a grey hair. Holy shit.

The man in front of him was a mess, Ianto concluded some seconds later. Hunched in the corner of the kitchen and silently sobbing, was his lover. His head rested on top of his arms, crossed against his knees. He looked about 10 years old, and heartbreakingly lost.

For want of something better to do, Ianto dropped his briefcase and after quickly removing his shoes; his OCD side taking over for just a moment, and crouched beside Jack, taking him in his arms and holding him. He rocked his lover backwards and forwards, whispering comfortingly in his ear.

"Jack, it's just onions."

Shit, Jack thought. So Ianto had noticed the train wreck that was "dinner." He'd abandoned it after he'd realised that it wasn't the onion's fault that he was crying.

"It's not that," the immortal muttered. Reaching up to cup Ianto's cheek, he ran his fingers along the silky smooth surface, savouring it. Remembering it, almost.

"What is it then?" Ianto began to ask, but was distracted by Jack's hand running further, pushing up through his hair, fingers weaving into the strands. He pulled their faces together, kissing Ianto soundly. As they continued to kiss, the Welshman was vaguely aware of Jack's roaming hands...but what was he looking for? He suddenly felt a sharp ping as a hair was plucked from his head. "Ow," Ianto muttered, pulling away dejectedly and looking reproachful at Jack's face of perfect innocence. "What was that for?"

But again, Jack wasn't listening, as he wound the piece of hair between his fingers, inspecting it closely. Ianto looked at it, and swallowed heavily. Oh God...already?

"It's this," Jack whispered. "I can't believe it...so soon. I..."

Ianto held up a finger to stop his lover as he continued to try and string words together, making next to no sense. "What's the matter with it? Are you trying to dump me because of one grey hair?" Although he said the words lightly, the silent truth behind them scared the Welshman...what if Jack really would break up with him because of this? Realise he was in too deep – cut and run?

In a split second, Ianto imagined life without Jack. Blackness. Nothingness. Empty faces in the darkness. The younger man shuddered. It wasn't even bearable to think about, let alone live in.

"No," Jack replied, without missing a beat, "no," he continued, more sincerely, "I would never... It's just...shock. I didn't expect...so soon. It's like...a reminder." Jack was whispering now, forgetting that they were sat on a cold, hard kitchen floor in Cardiff, onion peelings littered around them, and continued. "It's like a slap in the face, a kick when you're down. I know I'm going to lose you – why does it have to taunt me? Does it think I don't know, don't understand, don't get it? I've done it a million times before, but this hurts. This really, really hurts." Jack was sobbing again, face smothered into the comforting layers of Ianto's deep red shirt – his favourite.

"Jack, I doubt a grey hair thinks that far ahead." Ianto teased, but when his lover continued to cry, he sobered. Putting a finger under Jack's chin to make their eyes meet, he said, softly, "it's normal. It happens to everyone – it happened to Rhi at 21, she was mortified. Been dying it ever since. I can do the same...it runs in the family, Jack." He continued, comfortingly.

Jack looked surprised, blue eyes widening. "Really?" He asked, voice uncharacteristically high with shock.

Ianto nodded, smiling. "Absolutely."

The immortal tried to wipe at his tears, before twining his fingers with Ianto's, tugging on them gently to show that everything was okay. "Well then, I'm gunna love it. Just like I love everything else. If it's a part of you, then I'm okay with it."

Ianto had stopped being coherent after "like I love everything else." Because there they were. The words. The impossible, beautiful, terrible words. The Welshman continued to stare, unaware of the fact that he looked slightly mad.

Jack cleared his throat, lightly, realising what Ianto had picked up on, and grinning. He wasn't going to deny it, but neither was he going to bring it up again. "You know," he said, standing up and dragging Ianto with him, "I can actually cook."

The Welshman, despite looking disbelieving, smiled. "I'm sure you can. Maybe not best tonight. "Don't worry," he pulled out his mobile, "how does Chinese sound?"

"Perfect," Jack replied, breathing out. He didn't feel up to cooking – that didn't mean he wouldn't, but it would be a relief not to. "But, yeah. Man, the summers I spent with Julia Child..."

Ianto sighed, lightly, but smiled and listened to Jack ramble. Normally he would have silenced him in any way possible, he'd even been known to randomly strip just to shut the immortal up. But now, he listened intently as he spoke of...well, whoever she was, finding some comfort in the fact that maybe, just maybe, one day he'd speak to another of a Ianto Jones he spent a few years with. Maybe he'd remember the coffee, the stopwatch...the little things others would have forgotten, overlooked. Those were the things Ianto knew Jack would keep and treasure, remember and speak of.

He used to hate speaking of Jack's past lovers, it made him feel like part of a long line of people, insignificant among the thousands of others. But, he knew he wasn't anymore. He was special, he realised that now. He hated being part of Jack's past, he wanted to be the future. But, now he was proud to have a place, no matter how small, in the gaping hole that was Jack's heart.

And maybe, just maybe, he'd always stay there. In his place.