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There was a child by the bins, crouched and playing with bits of rock as his mother sat on the benches and chatted with her friend. Another young boy approached him, paradoxically both shy and confident, and drew him away from the rubbish toward the slides.
“Don’t force ‘em to play if they don’t want to!” Owen called from where he was sat, one leg propped on the other as he played Tetris on his phone. Whenever a level sped up a little too much, he restarted it to avoid becoming focused more on his screen, than the park, and potentially missing his son getting kidnapped.
Years of true crime books and nightmares had drilled that fear in solid.
“I think it's sweet.” He was joined on his bench by another man, one who was typically in the habit of making him jump by appearing behind him on the most random of days, but he recovered quickly.
“It can be,” Owen smiled, making room, “When the other child does want to play. But he tends not to understand when they don’t and gets a little—‘handsy’.”
“My niece was like that.” The man, Ian, smiled back, leaning into the rail so he could face both Owen and the park a little better.
“And how old is she?” Owen asked, glancing about to try and catch sight of a girl possibly running amok, though Ian was usually alone.
“She’s eleven now,” Ian said, stopping the casual search in its tracks, “Though I do miss the days when her mam would let me take her and her brother to the parks.”
Owen nodded, “So. You’re just at the park for fun then?”
“I was in the area.” Ian shrugged, immediately putting a hand up to stop Owen’s thoughts from diving to the worst-case-scenario, “And I’m waiting for a lift.” He showed him his phone, a text from a ‘Jack H’ reading ‘be there in 15’.
“15?” Owen raised an eyebrow, “They don’t mind making you wait, do they.”
“No,” Ian agreed, “And I didn’t fancy standing about by a kids park for 15 minutes.” Ian continued, putting his phone away, “So I saw you sat alone and thought I’d wait here instead. I’m not a pervert.”
“Not much proof in just saying it.” Owen pointed out and Ian gave him a look.
“Well I love children, I swear.” He grimaced then, “The normal, right amount.”
Owen laughed at that, shaking his head, “Alright, well. I’ve made a mental note of your name and anything else you’ve told me every time we’ve met, so you know. Just in case.”
Ian grinned. “Fair enough.”
They delved into silence then and Owen turned back to check on his son, watching as he sat cross-legged before the boy he’d dragged from the bins, gesturing with his hands.
“Is the other one yours too?” Ian asked and Owen scoffed lightly.
“God no. One’s enough.” He put his own phone down then, sitting up, “We come to the park mostly because he – well, kids his age get lonely don’t they. Not in school yet but he needs friends.”
“He’s not in school?”
“One more year.” Owen glanced at him, “Why? Not your preference?”
“I told you, I’m not a pervert.” Ian rolled his eyes, before pointing toward the park, “If I were, I wouldn’t be this obvious.”
“Hm.” Owen hummed, squinting at him before relenting, “Well, no, he’s a November baby. So he’ll be one of the oldest in class when he finally does start but he’s too young for this year.”
“Looks like he already knows how to make friends.” Ian pointed out and Owen smiled.
“Victims more like,” He said, “I guarantee you; he’s explaining ghosts to him right now. He’ll tell anyone who’ll listen.”
“Ghosts?” Ian raised an eyebrow, “He watches horror movies at his age?” The mild reprimand was quickly covered by a cough as he added, “Or does he have nightmares?”
“Neither.” Owen frowned, showing he’d picked it up but was letting it go as well, “He gets it from me.” The wind picked up slightly and he hugged his jacket in closer, hunching, “I used to have these weird dreams, years back. I woke up from one once and he asked me what was wrong so I told him.”
“So you had a dream about ghosts?”
“Not ghosts.” He made a face, “It was like - I don’t know, more the idea of people merging, you know? Different eras. It was – well. Felt more believable than the idea of a spirit hanging about.”
“Different eras?” Ian looked at him, curiously, “Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Owen raised an arm to call his son over, gesturing that he come put his coat on, “The only one I can remember now was maybe World War 1 or something? Not sure. I just remember a hospital and old timey nurses and stuff.”
“And you didn’t watch an old war romance before you went to bed?”
“Maybe.” Owen gave, “But he asked so I told him. And the idea of timelines clashing occasionally sounds more plausible than moaning ghosts in chains.”
“Neither sounds plausible to me,” Ian said, “But I’ve always been told I’m a sceptic.”
“So am I, in most things.” Distracted from him now, Owen turned his attention to his son only, helping him put on his jacket and zipping it up. The boy held his arms out and looked up at Ian.
“What’s his name?” He asked, pointing, and Owen smiled.
“This is Ian. You know Ian.” The boy shook his head, “Suppose I haven’t really introduced you, have I. You want to say hello?” Shaking his head again, the boy stepped behind Owen’s legs and held onto them, hiding behind his torso. Instead of forcing it, Owen simply put a hand on his head and pat his hair down.
“I won’t bite.” Ian tried and Owen snorted.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” He said gently, dipping his head down to be closer to his son’s ear, “But you don’t have to hide. You can go back and play if you want.”
But his son shook his head again, “’S too cold.”
“Yeah, it is a bit chilly now isn’t it.” Owen agreed, “You want to go home?” He received a nod, “Alright then.” Looking at Ian, he smiled apologetically but Ian was already getting up.
“My lift’s here anyway.” He pointed at a black SUV, rolling up onto the curb and Owen whistled.
“Fancy.”
“When you’re not the one who has to clean it, yeah.” Ian muttered, making Owen laugh a second time.
“Well. See you around maybe?” He took his son’s hand in his, turning to walk away as he waved goodbye.
“Maybe, yeah.” Ian nodded, “If I’m in the area again.” He waved at the boy then, smiling softly, and bending down to meet his eyes, “See you later, Henry.”
Giving him a look beyond his years, the boy scowled, “That’s not my name.” He huffed and Ian reared back with faux-surprise.
“It’s not? But that’s who’s on your shirt.”
“That’s Horrid Henry.” He schooled him, “It’s not who I am.”
“My apologies.” Ian put a hand on his chest and Owen snorted, smiling at the interaction, “Your name must be Perfect Peter then.”
“No,” The boy giggled now, “That’s not my name either. My name’s Ianto.”
“Ah, of course.” Ian nodded, “Yanto.”
“No not Yanto.” Ianto waved a finger in his face, “Eee-anto. It’s Welsh.”
“Is it now.” Ian grinned, “And are you Welsh?”
“No.” He shook his head, “But my daddy was.”
“And that’s our cue to leave.” Owen said, lightly, giving Ian another wave, “We’d better go before he freezes. And before your lift gets too impatient.”
Ian nodded, letting them go, before heading for the SUV. He hopped inside, watching Owen chat to his son as they walked, and he swallowed past a tight throat.
“You don’t have to do this to yourself, you know,” Jack commented from the driver’s seat, his eyes on the pair as well. Ianto kept his head forward, not wanting to miss a single moment.
“Monthly checks are protocol.” He said, and Jack nodded slowly.
“Doesn’t have to be you.”
“When else will I get a chance to see him?” He wasn't asked which ‘him’ he was referring to and after a minute, Jack put the car back into drive.
“Well?” He prompted as he did, “What's the report?”
“He doesn’t remember anything.” Ianto said, “Had dreams years back apparently, that sounded like Tommy, but he doesn’t think anything of them.” He put his seatbelt on when the alarm for it began to grate, “The child, his child, my – my child, is doing well. He’ll be in school next year.”
“They grow up so fast, you wouldn’t believe.” Jack murmured and Ianto nodded.
“Yeah.”
The car turned the corner to head back out toward the main roads, and Ianto craned his head back to catch one last glimpse of Owen and his son.
He knew Owen didn’t remember his face but the fact that he knew his son’s father was Welsh at least, and that he’d been the namesake for their child, mattered more than he could say.
It was more than what most retconned victims could manage but most hadn’t been pregnant when drugged. Having a baby growing in your belly with nothing but some cash and a passport in your bag had to have been terrifying but here he was now, a working mum with a flat and GP hours.
It wasn’t the same as Torchwood, wasn’t the same as seeing each other every day, but he was alive and their child was living a normal life, with Owen clearly taking pointers from his own mother on how not to be.
He didn’t think he could ask for more, never mind how much he craved a place in their family.
His place in it, really, if things were different. But they weren't, so life just had to move on.
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