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Rhiannon Davies knew, with every bone in her body, that her little brother was a bloody idiot.
It was as much a fact as the sky being blue or the sea being wet. Ianto had always been a daft sod, too clever for his own good but lacking the common sense to match. He was the kind of person who forgot to hold onto a swing and broke his leg, who would get caught stealing a Mars Bar on a dare despite not even liking the bloody things. He had drifted through school, getting grades far below what he was capable of, not because he wasn't smart, but because he didn't care. Or maybe he cared too much about the wrong things. That was Ianto, through and through. Always making the wrong choices, always charging into situations without thinking things through.
Rhiannon spent her entire childhood waiting for him to get a clue, to learn when to pick his battles -especially when it came to their dad- but Ianto never did.
And then Dad got sick. And Ianto ran off to London.
Dad got worse. Ianto stopped coming home for Christmas, for birthdays, for anything. He buried himself in his new job, some high-flying gig that paid well enough but meant he was always busy.
But he was hers. Her little brother. And no matter how much she wanted to throttle him sometimes, she would never stop loving him.
Even now. Even after everything.
Their Dad had died a week ago, and Ianto had shown up at the funeral, looking like a ghost, all pale-faced and quiet, standing stiff in his black suit. He had stayed for the wake, murmured the right words, accepted condolences with a polite nod, and then… vanished.
For days, Rhiannon had let it slide. Grief did strange things to people after all. Maybe he just needed space. But when she realised he was staying at the bloody Holiday Inn down the road and hadn't even tried to see her since, she had enough.
On the last night before he was supposed to leave, she decided that she was done waiting.
She found his room, knocked once, then twice, harder. When he finally opened the door, she knew immediately that something was wrong.
Ianto was drunk. Not just tipsy, not just a few too many at the pub, but drunk.
His eyes were glassy, and his tie was loosened like he gave up halfway through taking it off. He stared at her for a long moment before blinking slowly, "Rhia, uh, hi." His voice was slow, his mouth struggling to catch up with his thoughts.
Rhiannon exhaled sharply, suddenly struck by an image of their dad in one of his bad spells. "What the hell have you been doing?" she demanded, pushing past him into the room.
The place was a mess. Empty bottles littered the desk. The curtains were drawn, leaving the space dim despite the flickering glow from the TV, muted on some late-night rubbish. Clothes were strewn across the chair, his suitcase half-packed and forgotten.
Rhiannon swallowed down the lump in her throat. "Jesus, Ianto," she muttered, stepping further inside and shutting the door behind her. "How much have you had?"
"Not enough," he groaned, collapsing onto the bed.
She watched him warily. This wasn't just grief. This was something else, something dangerous. "Come on," she sighed, brushing a few bottles aside to sit beside him. "What's going on with you?"
For a moment, he didn't answer. He just stared at her, something wild and unreadable in his expression. Then, his breathing hitched, short and sharp, and he shook his head. "Oh, Rhia," he said, voice thick, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
Ianto awkwardly shuffled up and leaned back against the headboard, eyes unfocused, then, out of nowhere, started laughing. Not a real laugh, not the kind that meant something was funny. It was breathless and broken, the kind of laugh that came right before tears.
"I tried to save him," he said suddenly.
Rhiannon frowned. "What?"
"Disco. Dad. I tried to save him," he repeated, voice wobbling on the edge of hysteria. "I went back. I went back and I tried to fix it.
"You're talking shite."
Ianto wheezed out another laugh, rubbing his face with shaking hands. "Yeah, well. Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"
There was something about the way he said it, something broken. Like he'd already given up on her believing him. Like he'd already given up, full stop.
Her stomach twisted. This wasn't like him. Ianto had always been an idiot, sure, but he'd never been a mess. He wasn't a drinker. He wasn't a crier. He bottled things up until they exploded, until he made a stupid decision that he'd never quite learn from, but this? This was different.
"I went back," he repeated, voice barely above a whisper. "To 1987. To when everything changed for him. I tried to help. But the more I tried to fix, the worse things got. You-" His voice cracked, and he let out another jagged laugh. "You were in prison. Mica and David never existed. I lost my job. And he still died. It was like the universe wanted it to happen." He dug his fingers into his face, like he could claw away the memories. "So I had to put it back. I had to make sure everything stayed the same."
Rhiannon's breath caught. "Ianto-"
"I shouldn't have tried," he whispered. "I shouldn't have gone. But I had to, Rhia." He looked up at her, eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "If there was a chance to save him, I had to try. Didn't I?"
"Jesus Christ," she reached for his face, trying to check his pupils, but he jerked away. "Are you on something?" she demanded, voice sharp with fear. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I nicked a time machine," he blurted, and then he laughed, wild and unhinged. "From work."
A chill ran through her. He was drunk. Maybe high. Grief does strange things to people. She grabbed his shoulders, trying to shake some sense into him. "Seriously, Ianto, you're scaring me now."
He gripped her arms in return, suddenly urgent, suddenly serious. "I work for alien hunters, Rhia." He was still laughing, but now there were tears in his eyes. "In London. We're called Torchwood."
Rhiannon stopped breathing.
She let go of him, got off the bed. Her mind raced. It was nonsense. It was a drunk man's delusion. It had to be. Her brother needed help. If he kept talking like this, she'd have to get him committed. All those Sundays visiting Mam in Providence Park when she'd gone mental for a wee bit after their Uncle jumped in front of that train. She never wanted Ianto to end up in that place but it was better than ending up like Uncle Jo-
Ianto was still talking, rambling mad things, "I could only stay two hours at a time to help him paint that fence," he giggled, waving clumsily at his suitcase, "because my time machine needed charging!"
Rhiannon turned her head slowly, her heart pounding, and froze.
Because there was something in his suitcase
It was small, sandwiched between clothes and half packed toiletries, but she could see it now, covered in blinking lights and coiled wires. As she got closer she could feel it humming softly with some strange energy, making the air feel like static.
It looked real, whatever it was, it wasn't some cheap toy from Argos. But a time machine? That was impossible. Wasn't it?
Rhiannon's stomach dropped. She turned back to Ianto, who was staring at her with tear-filled eyes and a broken smile.
"Ianto," she whispered, suddenly terrified of the answer, "what the hell have you got caught up in now?"