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Everyone knows Jack hates Christmas. That’s why it comes as a surprise when Gwen enters the base, on the morning of the twenty-second, and finds a tree by the staircase.
It means Tosh did it – managed to convince Jack, wrap him around her middle finger, or whatever.
Here the tree is now: it’s incandescent lights clothed in 1980s dust; giving off warm glows, burning to the touch – red flaring as pink; yellow, soft gold; and blue, a lovely turquoise. The lights are drowning out, what would be, an eyesore of tacky tinsel.
Gwen spends a few moments staring at the tree and then turns to her team.
“Right, let’s do Secret Santa.”
“It’s not even nine yet,” Tosh mutters, still clacking away at her keyboard.
Feet crossed on the desk, Owen yawns.
“Yeah, I haven’t even had my morning coffee... Ianto?”
“Right now?” Ianto asks, “I thought we were playing a game of Sod Off.”
“Just get him the coffee,” Gwen huffs, “Tosh, get Jack. I’ve had a pig’s ear of a night. Need some festive cheer.”
“Already here.” Jack slips in, as Ianto steps out, “Do I dare ask?”
“Emma. At the club. Rhys and I had to step in before anything…” Gwen signs again, rubbing her temple.
“Mmm,” Jack agrees, “I had an interesting time with John.”
Owen quirks a brow.
“Not like that,” Jack grins, “We visited his son yesterday. Lives in a care home. Has Alzheimer’s… Safe to say, it went badly. As I told Tosh last night, John’s witnessing the end of his world. And we can’t help. There’re no aliens to fight this time, just three lost people.”
“If only we could just… send them back through the Rift,” Tosh says.
In unison, there’s a sound of lungs, all taking dreadful drags.
All the victims of the Rift want to go back home: to the nineteen-forties, their time zone, and there’s only one of them that might be tempted to stay…
On that thought, Gwen looks at Owen – the whole team looks at him. Their thoughts must be in sync.
Owen bristles.
“Don’t look at me.”
“Well, it’s just…” Tosh gnaws her lip, “you seem to have taken Diane into your own hands.”
“Ooh… you have no idea, Tosh,” Owen grins.
Ianto, entering the room again, chokes on the swig of coffee he takes. Owen scowls as Ianto spills some of his.
“Sorry.” He places it in front of Owen.
And then, heavy silence. They all feel it – but most of all Owen, who, when he looks up at Tosh, seems to still be caught in her stare.
“So, you’re… seeing each other?” She starts.
“Yeah… I s’pose we are,” Owen swallows, “I’m gonna show her the rooftop tonight. Bought her something really nice. This deep red dress, y’know.”
“Ahhh, look at our Owen! Becoming a real man, real responsibilities!” Gwen almost strangles him.
Owen shoves her away.
“Shut up and take your present.”
“That’s not how it works. No one’s meant to know who bought the present,” Tosh frowns.
“Hands up if you know who bought your present!” Owen calls. His arm shoots up and everyone follows, “There, Tosh. Let’s get on with it.”
“Ianto, catch,” Jack says.
“Oh, Jack. It’s not even wrapped!” Gwen moans.
“You’re lucky I even allowed this. You know I hate Christmas.”
“But why?”
“Something we’re not allowed to know about, no doubt,” Ianto mutters, unfolding the black and white fabric Jack’s passed him. It’s a maid’s apron, “classy.”
“Put it on now. My festive attitudes will skyrocket,” Jack says.
“Is this not workplace harassment?” Ianto smirks.
“More like bullying. We all want to see it,” Gwen states, “Go on Mr. Jones.”
She gestures for Ianto to turn around. He does, and Gwen ties the apron for him.
“Oh, now that is…!” She spins him back around, beaming, “Thank God there’s no mistletoe – because I would melt inside if I had to –”
“No mistletoe, P.C. Cooper?” Ianto quirks a brow and he pulls it out from nowhere, like a magician.
“Ah, now this I never saw coming,” Owen teases, “The cyber woman? Just about, but you two …?”
Ianto flips him the bird as he leans in to kiss Gwen.
So slow, so gentle for a joke… Is it still a joke? Or did the joke last milliseconds, last until their lips met, and Gwen's pulse withdrew, and her life force was momentarily running on not blood, not veins, but a shared inhale?
Gwen thinks of Lisa. All those many times Ianto must’ve kissed her, beneath their feet, during those months of hiding… How different to this… Such silly joy today, but back then, could you taste the pain in his mouth? Feel his suppressed words? The silent calls for help from the team?
Gwen pulls away. For a moment, her breathing breaks, as she just thinks it all through. Ianto has no idea. He doesn’t understand how much it means to Gwen to now know one of her closest friends is healing. But you can see his thoughts wondering too. He smiles as his eyes brush over her again.
“Wehay!” Owen claps, “You and Jack next, Tosh. I’ll enjoy that.”
“But which side would you enjoy more?” Jack approaches Owen with the mistletoe.
“Oh, piss off. Five seconds ago, you hated Christmas!”
“Something I’ve always been curious about, Owen.” Gwen crosses her arms, “On my first day, you said Jack dressing in Period Military is not the dress code of a straight man. Makes me wonder how you’d know that.”
“Ooh, wanna confess anything, Owen?” Jack taunts.
“I’m going out with Diane tonight! She’s the only one I’m kissing!”
“Humbug,” Ianto says.
“Just a quick peck?” Gwen asks.
“No!” Owen yells.
“Humbug –”
“Shut it, Ianto!” Owen hisses.
“A kiss on the cheek, then,” Gwen begs, “A friendly kiss on the cheek and we’ll leave you alone.”
“You know them. They won’t shut up until you do it.” Jack points out.
“Fine!” Owen huffs. He leans in to give Jack a peck on the cheek.
“Merry Christmas, Owen!” Jack cheers.
Maybe it’s Gwen’s imagination, but she sees, as Owen shrinks away from the cheek kiss, a flux of unwelcome feelings.
“Merry Christmas indeed,” Ianto approaches Owen, “Here you go, you’ve earned your present now.”
It’s a white envelope. Owen tears it open. If I jump into his head, momentarily, we can understand more. We can notice how, suddenly, his toes can’t keep a grip on the floor. He is being swept away, as he reads – because what Ianto has given him has knocked everything from his chest.
And now, if I jump back into Gwen, all she sees of Owen is him staring – straight-lipped, unblinking – at a piece of paper.
“What is it?” Tosh asks.
“Two tickets to see the Sex Pistols,” Owen mutters, “Manchester Arena. Next November…”
His eyes flick up to Ianto, softening.
“How? How do you even know I – listen?”
“You’re kidding. Your lab coat. All those pin badges,” Ianto explains.
“I thought we had a five-pound budget,” Tosh says.
“Like I’d spend five pound. All that coffee debt he’s in… I’ll have to refer to the diary, but off the top of my head, he also owes me money for two pizza orders.” Ianto huffs a laugh, “Got these as a freebie – from my Uncle John. He’s in the band.”
“John as in… Johnny Rotten?” Owen croaks, “The Johnny Rotten –?!”
“Go on, Tosh. Whilst the blokes are rambling.” Gwen slides her present along, “Hope I got the right one.”
“Exactly the one,” Tosh nods, as she rushes to unwrap a book, “Just as I asked. Thank you.”
She throws her arms around Gwen’s neck, hugging her tight.
“So, we’ll all get a drink after, yeah?” Owen blurts in the background, “You, me, your uncle Johnny Rotten –”
“Let’s see what Owen’s got me,” Gwen reaches across the desk, “Ooh perfume!” She sprays it on her wrist, “It’s quite lush, actually! Bet Diane chose it!”
“Yeah, Diane,” Tosh grumbles.
On an exhale, Jack sinks into the chair next to her. He takes her face in her hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs.
“Some men aren’t worth the trouble, Tosh. Trust me, I’d know.” Tosh chuckles at Jack, “But seriously if it happens someday, it happens. But a beautiful, wonderful woman like you… Don’t waste what you got.”
Jack kisses her on the forehead and pulls away. A strong colour crayons her cheeks.
“I just thought: you’re the only one without a mistletoe kiss,” Gwen says, swiping the branch up.
“I think you must still be hungover from last night,” Tosh whispers.
“I think so, yeah,” Gwen smiles. Then, she dangles the mistletoe above and sweetly kisses her. And this kiss wields feelings – just as strong as with Ianto. As they part, Gwen can hear the blood bashing in their veins.
At this point, you might be wondering what is wrong with Gwen. She wonders herself because she can’t be in love with all of them AND Rhys on top, could she? But here she and Tosh are: something passing between their eyes – the small gift of a gaze.
Tosh flees from it, picking up a pot under the tree.
“Jack. Yours was hard to wrap. Sorry.”
She hands it over and Jack reads the label. It’s then the Christmas grief jumps at him, knocking him back a few steps. They all see it. Must have some weight, that woe.
“It’s not just the pot,” Tosh stammers, “It’s the whole growing kit. I remember you telling me once: roses are your favourite flower.”
“The only flower,” Jack trembles.
“Yes,” Tosh wrings her hands, “And I just thought it’d be… different. Because… why don’t men receive roses? Why is it only women?” she stops and swallows thickly, “You don’t like it –”
“No, I do,” he rushes, “Excuse me.”
He plops the pot on the table, jogs up the stairs and swings open his office door.
“Jack!” Gwen calls.
In the corner, Ianto and Owen stop laughing and stare up at the office.
“What’s wrong with him?” Owen asks.
Gwen ignores it and starts up the stairs.
Inside the office, Jack sits on his desk. A photo is in his hands. He’s so absorbed in its faces that he doesn’t notice Gwen – or he has no energy to. He doesn’t move an inch when she enters and sits beside him – and she makes no move to interrupt. They just sit in silence, their thighs pressing together…
The photos from his Past – past with a capital ‘P’. It’s still in colour, but blurry and faded. Most of the men in it have sideburns. There’s only one, other than Jack, who doesn’t – his hair so short it’s almost a buzz cut. He stands out in other ways too. The other men wear suits and bell-bottomed trousers. This one wears a leather jacket and Doc Martens.
Jack’s thumb hovers over him, but not as long as the woman. He’s transfixed on her – on her bottle-blonde hair, her toothy grin, her Union Jack t-shirt… The Jack in the picture is wrapped around her waist.
And Gwen’s mind is whirring, sorting jigsaw pieces. They’re almost all in slot now, which means whilst there are still gaps, she can see the main picture.
“An old picture, that,” she finally says.
Jack stiffly nods.
“1970s. This is UNIT.” He points left to right, “Harry Sullivan, John Benton, the Brigadier –”
“You,” Gwen jumps in.
“Me. I was just visiting. With,” he stares at the girl, “I was visiting with…”
“Someone called Rose?” Gwen prompts, “Just an educated guess.”
He grimly nods. It completes the jigsaw.
“Rose Marion Tyler.”
“Was she… like Estelle?”
“Yes. Also no,” in his eyes, moisture materialises, “Estelle was a woman I loved. Rose was my first love.”
“I thought you met Estelle in the forties?”
“Oh, I did. Rose and I, we met… over two centuries ago. We were kinda… well… we used to travel through the Rift. In a spaceship.”
“Time travellers,” Gwen stares, “Alien time travellers.”
“Hey, our driver was the alien. We were just as human as you.” Jack, somehow, manages to laugh, “Two humans. Learning what love is – real love – for the very first time.” His smile dissolves, “But then she died. The battle of Canary Wharf.”
“Cybermen?”
“Cybermen.”
Something bounces off Jack – an echo, ancient and strong. Gwen knows it, there and then. There’s no alien he could hate more, and his despise will last centuries.
“If Ianto knew,” Gwen mutters, thinking, “Hold on, is that what you were doing on the Powell Estate? Did she live there or something?”
“Excuse me?”
“When you went to London on the Remembrance Day. Tosh put your earpiece tracker on the screens, just in case you ran into trouble. But you weren’t in Canary Wharf. We saw you stop at some place called the Powell Estate. Patched into the CCTV, saw you there, just standing, staring at a flat, for about an hour.”
“You watched me do nothing for an hour?”
“On in the background, cup of tea, crochet…”
They both laugh. Gwen doesn’t force Jack to answer. She just looks at him. He looks back and warmth finds their blood, making it home.
“D’y’know what? Forget Secret Santa, Jack. If you can give the team one gift this Christmas, tell them who you are. Please. And if not for them, for me.”
“I’ll… think about it,” Jack agrees, “for you.”
A silence like silk. Gwen can hear silvery sounds from the team outside – the laughter, humming, cheek kisses. But it all seems so far away, whilst Jack’s stare is shortening – or maybe their distance?
Yes. Definitely.
Rose sits in Jack’s hands, but he’s leaning. Gwen sits there, with no words to say, but her tongue tiptoes to the edge of her lip.
And then Jack snaps back.
“Tosh!” He jumps up and runs to the door, “Tosh! Wait! I’m sorry!”
Tosh is standing by the exit, bag slung over her shoulder. At Jack’s outburst, she pauses.
“You’re right. No one gets men flowers. I was just a little surprised. That’s all. But it’s brilliant. It’s wonderful. The most… thoughtful Secret Santa gift in the history of Secret Santas.” He seizes Tosh’s wrists, “Please say you believe me.”
“I… believe you?”
“Good. Be my first dance of the morning.” He drops Tosh’s hands, picks up the remote from her desk and turns on the stereos, “Ianto, you better put my apron back on! You’re next!”
“Aye, aye, Sir!” Ianto salutes.
Jack grabs one of Tosh’s hands again and slips the other around her waist. She jumps slightly, but then smiles shyly and puts her hand on his shoulder. They start slow dancing.
“Harper! Get your backside over here!” Gwen shouts at Owen, “Haven’t thanked you for my perfume properly!”
“You liked it then?” Owen scoops her in, “Knew it. If there’s one thing I get, it’s women’s perfume.”
“Is that because you wear them, or…”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.” He spins Gwen away and yanks her back. She stumbles a few steps. It allows her to spot Jack and Ianto.
It’s clear to Gwen, there and then, that love can multiply. Jack was stroking Tosh’s cheek, holding Rose, leaning into Gwen and now he’s here – him and Ianto. They’re barely moving. Jack’s hand seems paralyse Ianto, as it travel down the back of his thigh. Confusion knots itself into Ianto’s face, and Gwen can see Jack’s eyes flicker in hunger for it. She can hear his thoughts – the desire to envelope those brows with his lips and sensually bite the knot out.
A bit too much for now. Instead, both sets of lips – Jack and Ianto’s – slowly inch closer to one another, so the slightest movement grazes the other’s. And their sounds are sewing together. Becoming one. Breathe in. Breathe out.
“It’s like they’re in a trance,” Owen muses.
“I hope something happens,” Gwen whispers, “They both deserve something to happen.”
“They both need it, you mean.”
…
I’m hopping into Tosh now. Sorry, folks. It’s needed. Gwen spends the rest of this morning watching Ianto and Jack and reflecting on her own passions, and her own multiplicities. She doesn’t notice what happens next, whereas Tosh… well, it’s all about her.
Tosh needs to recover from Jack. Dancing with him has left a swoony feeling in her head. So, she stands to one side and watches Owen. Envy eats into her stomach as he dances with Gwen. But that soon finishes – Gwen, as I said, goes into watch-and-reflect mode…
And what happens next? Owen turns to Tosh, offering his hand.
“Tosh, if I may?”
“Dance?” Tosh blinks, “With me?”
“Can’t be worse than Cooper.”
“Oi! I’ll have you know, I watch Strictly religiously,” Gwen momentarily snaps out of her thoughts.
“Ah, so,” Owen smirks at Tosh, leaning in, “apparently, I’ve just been blessed.”
No breath will come to her, as Owen leads her to the dance floor. But almost mockingly, his head stays close. Each puff of his breath pervades the skin of her cheek, the skin of her neck, her lips – and he doesn’t even know it – how he lingers for her. He’s her sensual spectre.
They spin, or the world spins, or both spin and so it’s a spinning spin. All Tosh knows is she needs to pull away – before she does something she regrets, something Diane will hate her for.
But they spin again, and that Joker called Fate positions a branch above their head.
“Oh,” Tosh croaks, “more mistletoe.”
“Yeah…” Owen strains. He goes quiet for a second. Then he takes a large gulp, “Oh, I mean, I shouldn’t –”
“Yes, uh –”
“Cos, you know, Diane –”
“Yes… yes, I understand.”
But their gazes cement together. And Owen’s breath blasts like through stereos.
“Merry Christmas, Tosh.”
“Merry Christmas,” she whispers.
They linger a few moments more and then sidestep the mistletoe. The dancing isn’t over, though. Wham! booms out. They all stand on desks, screaming.
They spin, dance, prance, conga – macarena! For a fragment of a moment, there are no people out of time. There is no Rift activity to manage, no new people in the world to mother and father and find a home for.
It’s just the five of them. At Christmas. Having a blast. The very best of blasts:
The time of their very little – or immortal – lives.