First finished piece in so so many years... feels a bit nostalgic :D

Set decades in the future on a pleasant Sunday morning. Jack explains one of his personal little rituals.

Inspired by a line in the TW audiobook "In the Shadows", so... I disclaim everything, not even the inspiration is mine XD

The clock beeped shortly as its glowy blue digits changed, proudly showing another full hour has passed by.

Television screen, the centerpiece of the moderately big, neatly modern living room, gave off a section of colourful blips, and the morning entertainment block was paused to be replaced by a series of bright and cheery commercials.

The switch on the kettle clicked, signaling the water's boiled and ready.

Cupboard door clingged.

Mugs and cups clangged.

Buttons were pressed, settings adjusted, and for a few seconds the silence of the early morning's replaced by dulled whirring noise.

The air's suddenly heavy with a rich scent of freshly brewed coffee.

Blips and beeps, commercials are gone, once again replaced by old-time cartoons.

Jack inhales deeply, savouring the aroma of his once-a-year-only mug of quality-blend coffee; so rich and heavy he can almost taste it by breathing in only; so nice, warm and still familiar it makes him smile wistfully.

He takes his coffee and makes to sit on the sofa, pausing at the last moment, grabbing a platefull of small pastries he's bought a few minutes earlier while on his morning stroll.

Everything's quiet, only television murmurs almost inaudibly. Calm and peaceful.

No need to rush, nothing to do, nowhere to be.

Sunday.

One of the doors opened with a silent "swish".

Jack looked up, and seeing the sleepy-eyed young lady, smiled in greeting.

"Morning, pumpkin."

That got him one sleep-laced "fluffy glare" as he was so fond of saying, and an inarticulate sound best transcriped as "whuu...?". No, the girl definitely wasn't a morning person, never been and never will be, it seems.

Jack watched with a fond smile as she shuffled slowly into the kitchen area, dragging a light blanket along, and fixed herself a cup of green tea, still mostly asleep. Once armed with her favourite wake-me-up hot beverage, she made her way over to the couch, sinking down bonelessly.

"Careful there, don't wanna spill and burn yourself, do you?" Jack warned teasingly. Another fluffy glare. Jack just grinned, made himself more comfortable and got back to sipping his coffee.

Comfortable silence settled in again.

Only once the tea's been finished was the silence broken.

"Why up so early, dad?" Now that the girl's more or less awake, curiousity rears it head.

"Why not?" is her answer. "It's beautiful sunny morning, why waste it in bed?"

"'Cause it's Sunday?"

"So? Who says Sunday mornings have to be spent lazing around in bed?" asked Jack with a raised eyebrow and quirked grin.

"You do," she deadpanned.

"...o~kay, you got me there," chuckled Jack, got up and went to get a re-fill.

When he got back, he was fixed with an inquisitive stare.

Stare which he decided to ignore.

Silence.

More silence.

Jack decided to chance a quick glance. She was still staring.

"Yes? You wanted something?" he prompted when it became obvious she's not going to stop any time soon.

"As a matter of fact, yes, I did. I asked you a simple question and you've failed to give me a satisfactory answer, so I'm waiting for you to remedy it." She was not a morning person and it took her a while to awaken properly, but once she did she could easily out-speak her mother, and that was quite a feat in itself. The way she talked sometimes made him feel slightly slow and confused, really. And amused at the same time.

"O~kay, sweetheart," he relented, smiling, "what was that oh so important question again?"

"One – keep the sweetheart, I'm a bit old for that, don't you think?" He didn't. She'll always be his sweetheart, his princess, his little pumpkin. Seventeen is not old enough to be denied being pet-named by one's father, in his opinion. "And two – I asked you why are you up at ungodly-oh-thirty on Sunday morning when you're usually the last one to get out of bed on Sundays, not to mention the pastries and fancy coffee you never drink."

"Hey, I do drink coffee, according to your mother way too much of coffee, actually!"

"Yes, I know, but you yourself always say it's not really coffee, it's-"

"-just a coffee soup, yeah, alright."

"You better just tell me, then, because you know me well enough already to be aware of how stuborn and unrelenting I can be when I set my mind on something."

"Boy, do I..." sighed Jack, and rolled his eyes in resigned amusement. It's not like he's trying to keep the reason secret or anything, he just loves teasing her.

"Well, go on then," she prompted impatiently with triumphant grin, and turned to face him properly, eagerly awaiting a story. In her opinion, her father was born a storyteller, able to weave any small thing, any dream or memory, into intricate and fascinating tale. That's why she's always begged him, not her mother, to tell her bedtime stories when she was little. He made everything sound so interesting!

"Go on, go on, tell me, why do you suddenly have a sweet breakfast and drink the expensive stuff you never drink? Huh? Huh?"

She's still such a bouncy, hyper little girl, sometimes.

"That's not really true, you know," he pointed out matter-of-factly. That earned him one sceptically raised eyebrow; he could just see the gears in her head shifting as she tried to remember when else did he ever drink "the real coffee", wanting more than anything to piece all the facts together herself. And he would gladly let her do just that, if only she didn't give up.

"Huh... yeah, sure, if you say so..."

"Alright, I'll say it as it is." And just hearing that she was suddenly all "Ha!" and sparkly-eyed. Oh, he loved making her all waggy-tailed and happy like that.

"Fine then. I have a sweet breakfast, as you've pointed out, and drink expensive coffee every year, actually, just this one day a year. Because this one day is special, you see."

"I don't," she stated bluntly, and then slapped her hand over her mouth, all wide-eyed and surprised, because oh dear, she just interrupted dad's storytelling!

Jack chuckled and continued. "I know you don't know, but you will, I promise. You're old enough to understand grown-up stuff, so I really don't see a reason to keep it hush-hush. So settle down comfortably, young lady, 'cause you're about to hear another of your father's stories of his wild youth." He chuckled again. Saying it like that sounded really kind of funny, since he was hardly young back when this "story" took place.

"It's been... well, quite a good couple of years back. Way more than a few decades, actually." He's told her about his little death-defying problem a few years back, when he didn't-really-die in the line of duty and her mother failed to shed a single tear.

Not comprehending at first, she took it really well, before pitching into short bout of depresion on his behalf; after this episode, she embraced her father's immortality with almost scientific enthusiasm and kept bugging him with hows and whys for a long time before finally letting it go and simply accepting it as a fact.

With that also came a realisation that her mother not only isn't "the one and only woman of his life", but that she's actually just one of many, many women and men alike. That was a bit harder to digest and for a short period of time she was sure she won't ever forgive him for doing what she thought of as him being unfaithful to his mother. Only when faced with her own heart-aches did she start to understand a bit, and after thinking about it properly, thinking about how many loved ones he must have buried, how hard it must have been on him, and how horrible it would be to live alone so many lifetimes without loving anyone simply because he's already loved once, she stopped thinking ill of him.

He's never spoken of his previous families and lovers, knowing it would make her uneasy and hurt, and she never asked, thinking it'd be hard and painful for him to remember dear people long since lost. But they both knew one day the day will come when the subject's breached.

And that day's today, as it happens.

"Back in the early years of 21st century, I was a leader of Torchwood Cardiff. Maybe I'll tell you sometime how that came about, but not today. Just know that back then, I was trying to reform Torchwood. It was shortly after Canary Wharf – you remember that from history lessons, don't you? That's not a story for today, either – and I really wanted to do things differently, make a whole new brand of Torchwood. And I was succeeding, thanks to a team of wonderful people I handpicked to work with. Those days, they were hard, dangerous, sometimes downright horrible... exhilarating, thrilling, fun and wonderful.

There were five of them, in my little team. Every one of them special, all of them like a part of my family. Well, not so much Suzie, not after she's killed three people just to gain power over one of the alien artifacts...

She's commited suicide once the cat was out of the bag, you know, and got us into quite a sticky situation even after that. Turns out she's not only planned her own death, but her own personal resurrection as well. Almost killed Gwen to come back to live, and we couldn't get rid of her. Now that I think of it, it sounds kinda funny when I say it like that, doesn't it?

Speaking of Gwen... Gwen Cooper, former police constable; recruited her after Suzie... well, you know, after Suzie's killed herself. She was quite something, Gwen!

No, no, I see what you're thinking and it wasn't like that. Not that I didn't want it, but she... she's had a steady boyfriend, married him later. It was a bit... complicated with her.

Gwen was something like the heart of the team, emotionally, I mean. She used to say we're too cooped up underground and detached from people, so much so that we forgot what it means to be human. Definitely had a big hand in Torchwood's policies reformations. ß

Oh yeah, Gwen... It's nice, remembering, you know. Haven't really thought of them in quite some time. Should really do that more often, some things are getting quite fuzzy...

But let's move on, we're nowhere near done.

Then there was Tosh. My pretty, little, smart Tosh. Full name Toshiko Sato, she was Japanese by blood, and an absolute technical genius, that one was. The very first properly functioning Rift-prediction programme they teach about in school to these days? That was her doing, all of it. And many other things that saved our lives on more than one occassion. Even after she... after she died. That was... It was my fault, it all was. He killed her, my brother, and I wasn't there to stop him. And it was all my fault, all of it. That he suffered... that he came to get revenge... that she died... that Owen died...

Oh yes, Owen. Doctor Owen Harper.

He was rough, he was a right smartass, he was.. he was brilliant. Brilliant medic and a brilliant person, even if he liked to pretend he's a right bastard. He wasn't, just liked to put up such front.

Could be quite a mouthy brat and selfrighteous jerk. You could despise him completely and then suddenly he'd turn around and do something so heroic and selfless! You simply couldn't NOT grow to love him. ß

'Though those mouldy "experiments" he loved to grow in abandoned coffee mugs just to rile Ianto up could get pretty annoying pretty quickly. It was their kind of little infinite war, I think, to see who would drive the other up the wall quicker or something. In a way, they were like real siblings, the two of them, always leaping down each other's throat, but sticking together firmly when the situation called for it and standing up for each other, always.

So the mouldy stuff in coffee mugs... really just to raise Ianto's hackles. He was almost a neat freak sometimes, Ianto. I suspect he could spend hours lecturing about decreasing quality of coffee when the coffee machine isn't properly cleaned. And everyone would actually listen and even do as Ianto wished because if they didn't, there would be no coffee from Ianto, and no coffee from Ianto meant very unhappy Torchwood 3. Because Ianto made the best coffee in a whole wide world. And you can trust me on this one, I've tried LOADS of different coffees, in different times and places, and none of them was as good as Ianto's.

And yes, I see you've already made the connection. My drinking expensive coffee once a year does have something to do with Ianto. Now just let me tell you more about him.

Ianto Jones... he was a special person, you know. He was smart, polite, talented and nice, and really handsome, too. I liked to call him perfect, he'd always blush so cutely...

I recruited him quite curiously. Or maybe I better say he made me recruit him 'cause that's exactly what happened. He kept bugging me to employ him, and I kept refusing. He used to be Torchwood 1, you see, and I despised the lot and their methods. Definitely didn't want one of them in my organisation.

But he kept pressing, and then one night, he just jumped in front of my car, all decked in smart suit, waving a flashlight around... I really wanted nothing more at that moment than to kick him out of my city and get rid of him for good! And instead ended up going dinosaur-hunting with him. Oh, those wild days!

Now, I know you probably won't like to hear that but if I don't tell you, you won't understand why these Coffee Sundays are so important to me. So, yeah, I'll just say it as it is.

I loved that man.

Really and wholy, although it took me quite a long time to grasp it.

He really understood me, never judged me, wasn't afraid to tell me off when I overstepped my boundaries.

I wasn't exactly knight in shining armour, and I know he's hurt terribly more than once because of me, both physically and emotionally. Yet he'd always forgive me, time and time again.

When I firmly decided I won't let myself fall in love again, that I won't let myself feel strongly for anyone again, he appeared and without mine or his knowing took the choice from me. I fell, and fell hard, and it wasn't all roses and candyfloss, but I wouldn't change it for the world, you know?

I shouldn't be telling you, but I want to be honest with you, so... I loved him very deeply, and I think I always will. That's not to say I don't love your mother because I do. But that won't make me stop loving him.

He once said to me that once he's dead, I will forget him, that's he's gonna be just an insignificant blip in time for me...

Didn't believe me when I told him I won't, that I could never forget him, that he could never be just a blip. He didn't believe me, and now look at me – decades and decades after he left me here, still thinking of him, still missing him...

I love him, and I miss him terribly.

And today's his day, it'd be his birthday if he was still alive.

He loved coffee, and he loved sweet pastries for breakfast on his days off.

I'd spend most of the Saturday nights at his flat, and come morning he'd brew his special coffee and we'd have sweet pastries and spend the Sunday morning curled up on his sofa, watching his old telly, not thinking about the gruesome world outside. It was the only escape from hectic and dangerous reality we could really afford.

Just the two of us, mindless Sunday entertainment block, and peace and quiet...

I realise now it doesn't really sound so special and you might not understand anyway..."

"No, I... I think I do understand... kind of..."

Jack looked down at his daughter, now cuddled up to him like and overgrown kitten, and saw she was mulling over what she just heard. He pulled her even closer, kissed her head and closed his eyes, still partially wrapped in the warmth of the precious memories.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you..."

"Do I what, sweetheart?"

"Do you even remember what he looked like, after all those years?" She sounded so sceptical it almost hurt. But Jack wasn't surprised, she's way too young to know otherwise. Many people didn't get to understand such things their whole lives.

"I don't need to remember how big his nose was or if his hair was dark or medibrown, pumpkin. I couldn't recall his face completely and exactly, true, but there're far more important things, seemingly small and insignificant things as they might be, that I'll never forget. I remember how his eyes sparkled when he was about to make something mischievous, how loud was his laugh when he really let go, how warm and steady were his arms when the world got to be a tad bit too heavy for me to bear. I know his eyes were blue, his nose round and cute as a button and his hands visibly smaller than mine. I don't remember the smell of his aftershave, but I do recall scent of his special coffee blend clearly enough. I wouldn't know how coarse his hair was or how thick or curved were his eyebrows, but I'll always know how impeccable, confident and gorgeous he looked in those suits of his. I quite probably wouldn't be able to say what food he loved and hated anymore, what annoyed me about him to no end or what he positively couldn't stand about me, but I know I loved him, that he was the most important person in the whole wide world for me and that I promised him to never, ever forget him, and have no intention to do so. And that's what's really important, you know?"

"I guess." She clearly didn't really believe him, she was only seventeen after all, but the romantic little princess in her latched onto the idea and will surely make the realistic part of her believe one day.

"Good." He kissed her hair again, gave her one last tight hug, and then got to his feet. "And now that the story-time is over, let me get another cup of coffee and spend the rest of the morning rotting away on the couch. You're welcome to rot away with me, of course," he winked at her and earned himself a giggle.

The coffee machine swooshed and let out a cloud of steam.

Cheerful music from the television announced another commercial break.

The holographic clock gave another blip, signaling once again another full hour.

Jack sipped his coffee once, set his mug on the counter, and turned to look outside. The life goes on as if nothing happened, as if today's just another day. And for millions of people in the world it is.

For Jack, though, it's special.

Special day, dedicated to a special person, spent with thoughts and memories of special and not-so-special days long since gone.

His chest hurts a little, but it's a good kind of hurt, the one that tells him again and again what a beautiful thing he once had and how strongly he felt.

How alive he felt.

That's why he'll cherish the lazy August Sundays filled with rich aroma of expensive coffee and lame telly programmes...

Cheers, love, he thinks and sips from his not-Ianto's-but-good-enough coffee again. I promised, remember?