Rating: PG-13

Word count: ~ 1,700 (this part), ~20,000 in total.

Warnings: Sap, slight angst, etc.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: The poems in this chapter are, in order of use, Ah! Sunflower by William Blake and Sonnet: I Thank You by Henry Timrod. This is the last chapter. Wow. But I've had fun writing it, and the muse has finally stopped gnawing at my leg, so it's all good. Thanks to everyone who's read it—much appreciation! ^.^

Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there, I did not die.

When Ianto returns to the Hub, dawn is well past, and he's cold and tired but still oddly euphoric. If he explains his mood, though, he can only imagine the reactions—the others won't understand, Jack won't understand, and Ianto can't bear to have such an awful ending to a wonderful night.

It's a guilty relief, but Jack doesn't ask. He simply takes Ianto down to his room and cocoons him in blankets, brings him a cup of paint-thinner coffee, and hovers. It takes Ianto several minutes to remember that Jack woke up alone in an empty room, with no way to find or contact Ianto, and had probably thought the fairies had taken him back.

He lifts up the blankets with one hand, quirking a brow in invitation, and Jack wastes no time in accepting it, sliding under the covers and pulling Ianto back against his chest. They sit in silence for a moment, Jack running his fingers carefully through Ianto's hair, which is getting a bit too long. Ianto settles against him, taking his other hand before it can run up his chest and find the streaks of dried blood from his death.

There's a question in the air, waiting to be spoken, and Jack's the one who seizes it.

"The fairies?" he asks softly, so soft that Ianto, if he wanted, could ignore the question and pretend he didn't hear it.

Ianto doesn't, though, and doesn't want to. Jack's never been good at honesty, at telling the whole truth, but he's rarely outright lied to anyone. The least Ianto can do—because of his own track record with lies, because of all the things he could have said when he was alive the first time but never did—is tell Jack the truth.

"Yes," he agrees, and leaves it at that.

Jack wraps an arm around his waist and hauls him close, lips brushing against his ear, and then relaxes. He doesn't say anything more, but Ianto can tell that he's mostly satisfied, that he trusts Ianto to tell him if it's something life altering or otherwise important. And, while Ianto hardly wants to go into details, he's fairly certain that the knowledge of his being everlasting qualifies.

He opens his mouth to say something, but the door alarm wails, the rift alert goes off, and they're thrown headlong back into the madness that is Torchwood's day-to-day.

There's a rhythm to it, Ianto thinks. Several days of nothing more exciting than Weevils, interspersed with alien fugitives and bounty hunters, a few mercenaries, and a near-invasion, settling to a handful of alien or future tech from the rift before it returns to rogue Weevils from the sewers—and then, every once in a while (meaning every few months like clockwork) some great disaster that threatens to end the world as they know it.

Even after everything has changed, nothing has. It's still the way Ianto remembers, and there's something comforting in that, even when the world is about to be destroyed. The team is still unfamiliar, a little odd, but Ianto can overlook it when nothing else seems to have changed.

Nothing except for him, that is.

The fairies still come to him, take him away every few days to retrieve another Chosen One somewhere in time or just to play with the children they've taken. Dai is always happy to see him, and Jasmine is there, and countless others who haven't seen an adult since they went with the fairies. They're all happy, though, and Ianto is glad for them. It's a haven, a heaven, a Neverland where they can be children forever, these children who never before had normal childhoods. There is no Peter Pan to lead them, no Wendy to call them back, and Ianto settles more and more into what the fairies have created him as.

Jack continues to keep his silence about Ianto's late-night disappearances, and it's better for both of them that way. Jack's not able to accept that stealing away children can come to any good, and Ianto doubts anything can change Jack's mind once it's made up.

But even with all the things that remain unspoken, Ianto can't remember a single time in his life that he's felt happier. The new team is an easy fit: he loves Martha, finds Mickey funny and competent, and likes Andy more than he thought possible. Ianto isn't just the tea boy for them anymore. He's one of them, a field agent and the Archivist, a necessary member of the group for something other than his ability to make good coffee.

Jack is content, too, and more careful of their relationship than ever. It's as though he's afraid it—or Ianto—will break if he presses too hard, as though it's the most precious thing he's ever had, and he'll do anything to keep it the way it is.

Ianto's not about to upset the status quo, but he's also not about to let things lie as they are, not when there's the chance they could be so much better.

A little fairy flutters around Jack's office. He watches it warily, but he's adjusting. They brought Ianto back, and that's something he will never forget.

The creature—and because he's not Ianto, he's not sure if it's the same one he's seen before or not—drops down to perch on the frame of a picture of him and Ianto, twisting to peer at it upside-down. Jack looks, too. They're standing in front of the bay, his hand on Ianto's shoulder, Ianto half-turned to grin up at him, both of them laughing and bright and victorious after diverting another invasion.

It makes Jack sad, just a little, that he didn't speak the words at that time, either.

When he looks up, the fairy is watching him again, ageless, ancient eyes so eerily knowing. "Everlasting," it informs him in its child's voice. "He is everlasting, Undying. Like you. Ah! sunflower, weary of time, who countest the steps of the sun, seeking after that sweet golden clime where the traveler's journey is done."

Carefully, Jack picks up the photograph, the fairy still balancing on it, and looks at the creature. "Even if we have forever, what about now? After Thames House, how can he—"

The fairy jumps forward, a sudden rush of movement that makes Jack lunge for his gun automatically. However, it does nothing but land on his free hand, a weight as inconsequential as moonbeams and starlight, and grins up at him with about six times the number of teeth something that size should have had.

"Protector is protecting," it informs him. "Guarding heart. I thank you, kind and best beloved friend, with the same thanks one murmurs to a sister, when, for some gentle favor, he hath kissed her, less for the gifts than for the love you send, less for the flowers, than what the flowers convey; if I, indeed, divine their meaning truly, and not unto myself ascribe, unduly, things which you neither meant nor wished to say. Oh! tell me, is the hope then all misplaced? And am I flattered by my own affection? But in your beauteous gift, methought I traced something above a short-lived predilection, and which, for that I know no dearer name, I designate as love, without love's flame."

That, at least, needs no translation. Jack sighs and drops his gun to rub at his eyes. "No worries, then," he mutters to himself. "We haven't just been friends, no matter how good, since Suzie."

The fairy just grins at him, giggles that sweet, high laugh, and vanishes, leaving behind a single red rose.

The words are so simple, so easy to say. Ianto hands Jack his morning coffee and leans over the desk to receive his morning kiss, and they come naturally.

"I love you, Jack."

Jack looks up at him, and there's no stumbling, no fumbling for words or explanations. Ianto's been wanting—needing—to say this for months now. So he smiles at Jack, that soft, secret smile they only share only between them, and offers, "I thought you should know."

Jack smiles back at him, grips his hand, and uses it to reel him in closer. "I do," he says, stealing another kiss that is not sharp and hot, but gentle and warm and so sweet Ianto thinks he could weep. The words are a vow, one he knows, one he's heard before in an anguished 'don't' that rang with all the words Jack couldn't speak at that moment.

But now he can speak them. Now they're visible in his eyes, the curve of his lips, the brightness of his features. Jack pulls him closer, ever closer, and tucks Ianto against his side with a satisfied sigh. "I do," he repeats, "and I love you, too, Ianto. I always have."

Ianto has no illusions that theirs will be an easy existence, but in that moment, he can't bring himself to care.