Chapter Text
It had now been three weeks since Ianto had made his clandestine return, and during that time he found himself lingering on the periphery of what appeared, from a distance, to be a picture-perfect 'happy family' … the very same family that had once been his own. He spent hours hidden in the shadows, observing from behind hedges, across streets, or nestled among the branches of the towering old trees that bordered the property. At the outset, Ianto had believed the nobler path was to quietly vanish, to erase himself from the equation and allow Jack and the children to move forward without the weight of his presence. After all, he had convinced himself, Jack deserved happiness, and perhaps that happiness would be easier without him.
But as he watched, day after day, he realised that the outward displays of contentment masked something deeper and unresolved. The children seemed happy enough … laughing, squabbling, chasing each other across the garden … but Jack was a different story. The illusion shattered one moonlit evening when Ianto, veiled by darkness and the protective embrace of the ancient trees behind the house, witnessed Jack quietly sobbing. Jack's hands grasped the same sturdy trunk Ianto had so often hugged, half in jest, as he'd declared his love for the place … "so much that even the tree got love," he used to quip. The sight of Jack's hunched shoulders and the sound of muffled crying pulled at something deep within Ianto, tugging him perilously close to revealing himself.
He had almost stepped out of the shadows that night, compelled by the urge to offer comfort, to assure Jack that he wasn't as alone as he appeared. Yet a prickling sense of unease made Ianto hesitate. Something about the whole situation felt off-kilter, as if there were pieces of the puzzle that didn't belong together. Ianto, ever the methodical thinker … always counting, always measuring … needed time to sort through the jumble of clues and emotions before making any rash decisions. Jack was still haunted by his memory, still mourning in ways that were achingly familiar, yet something else gnawed at Ianto's sense of logic and intuition.
The baby. The baby was the crux of it all … the unspoken question that kept Ianto at arm's length. He'd observed the child closely during his covert surveillance, noting that while there were hints of the Harkness features … perhaps in the eyes, or the arch of the brow … they were fleeting. At the same time, the baby didn't bear the faintest resemblance to the twins, nor did Ianto recognise any of his own family's distinctive traits … there was no trace of Jones from Rhiannon's egg. The more he scrutinised the child from afar, the more convinced he became that their connection was tenuous at best, if not altogether absent.
This uncertainty plagued his thoughts, and so Ianto found himself adopting the role of a silent watcher in his children's lives. He trailed his son as the boy sprinted around the school track, heart swelling with pride and longing. He watched his daughter as she played jump rope with her friends, her laughter ringing out in the crisp afternoon air. Then, in a serendipitous moment, one of her hair ties slipped loose and landed on the sun-baked asphalt. She didn't bother to pick it up, instead skipping off with her friends as the bell rang for class. The opportunity felt odd, almost sordid, but when the coast was clear and the playground had emptied, Ianto hurried across the schoolyard dressed in borrowed janitor's overalls, blending in with the cleaning staff. He stooped and scooped the hair tie into his pocket with trembling hands, knowing he was one step closer to confirming … or dispelling … the doubts gnawing at him.
He didn't know what was happening to him, how he could be so calm while acting like a crazy man. How could he wind this back? How could he possibly make anything work from this strange feeling.
The sense of sleaziness was hard to shake, like a stubborn stain clinging to his conscience, but beneath it surged a relentless undercurrent of determination that refused to let him falter. Each time Ianto's mind drifted towards guilt, he clung to the notion that his actions, though furtive and uncomfortable, were motivated by an urgent need for truth. In the darkness of his self-doubt, he found solace in the idea that he was following a plan … a plan that, while still nebulous and undefined, offered him something to grasp amid a sea of uncertainty. The details hovered just beyond reach, their contours blurred by the looming shadows of fears and secrets that he wasn't prepared to name, let alone confront. Yet, with every passing moment, the voice inside him grew louder, steadier … a voice that bore the familiar warmth and wisdom of his mother. It echoed in his ears, urging him to stay sharp, to trust in himself, and to remember the importance of the task at hand.
Now, Ianto knew he had to shift gears. It was no longer enough to linger at the edges, wrestling with his anxiety and confusion. It was time to sharpen his focus, to channel his restless energy into something concrete. He needed to collect evidence, stitch together the fragmented clues, and assemble a clear picture of the truth that had eluded him for so long. The weight of what he'd been avoiding pressed against his chest … memories he had tried to bury, questions he had refused to answer, feelings he had run from until his legs gave out. But now, there was nowhere left to hide. Whatever answer awaited him at the end of his search, he would have to face it head-on.
Of all the mysteries before him, the final piece of the puzzle loomed largest and most daunting. Gathering proof would be no simple matter; it would require not only courage, but a willingness to accept whatever truths emerged from the shadows. The baby … the child whose presence had unsettled him from the beginning … remained the key to unlocking everything. Ianto's thoughts circled the child endlessly, probing every detail, wondering what answers might lie in a single lock of hair, a fleeting expression, or the subtle shape of a cheek. The prospect of delving deeper, of finally confirming or dispelling the gnawing doubts that had haunted him, filled him with equal parts dread and anticipation. And yet, despite it all, he pressed forward, driven by the hope that at last, he might lay the past to rest and build something new … no matter how difficult the truth might be to accept.