Fic: Memories
This follows on from the exchange of letters fic here. .
Rationale: I don’t believe that really was Gray in the last episode of Torchwood series 2. I think I know the true story.
I don’t own Messrs Kennedy, Hornblower, Marshall, Harkness or Jones. But I do own Thomas Rogerson, dirty neck and all.
“Ret-con.” Hornblower spoke the words slowly, trying to comprehend fully what he’d been told. “And it takes away one’s recent memories?”
Jack nodded. “Absolutely - you know who you are and what you did months ago but the rest is a blank.”
“Just like you with a pint or two of father’s best wine inside you, Horatio.” Archie grinned, contemplating the little white tablet that he spun in his hand. “Marvellous stuff, I’d say.”
“Dangerous in the wrong hands, though.” Ianto looked unnaturally serious.
“But that’s like anything - firearms, a boarding axe, even my nephew’s catapult.” Kennedy carefully and deliberately returned the pill to Harkness. “It’s not the instrument that’s the danger - it’s the man who wields it.” He surreptitiously rubbed the place where a Spanish bullet would have done for him had not William Bush turned out to be the most remarkable being in the universe. Even more remarkable than the one who took the tablet from him and returned it to the box to join its peers.
“My men aren’t stupid, though and Mr Marshall seems as sharp as they come. Won’t they think it odd that they’ve lost a week of their lives?” Hornblower remained unhappy with the plan; he couldn’t get his mind around this whole memory loss business - why hadn’t Jack tried it on him and Archie? Or had it happened and they were none the wiser?
“Take them on an almighty bender,” Ianto chipped in, “and they’ll just assume they lost it all in an alcoholic haze.”
Hornblower considered the Welsh lad for a moment. Something had happened to him back in the twenty-first century; he’d changed, become more assertive, less of a puppy lolling under Jack’s table waiting for scraps of affection. Archie had garnered half the tale, something about Harkness going off without a word and then returning without adequate explanation. It was not just Horatio who’d noticed this, Jack himself was well aware that while he’d been away the team had fended for themselves, grown and changed. And in Ianto the transformation had been the most noticeable. Now both men considered the coffee-boy-turned-fighting-man with a mixture of surprise and admiration.
“Splendid idea.” Archie too had noticed the transformation in Ianto but he was far too polite and mature to consider it in such an obviously jaw dropping way. “Let’s muster a party for this venture before they all disperse. I vote for Marshall; we need someone who can sail us in and out safely and it can be damned tricky off that coast.”
“And Rogerson. The lad could do with some experience.” Hornblower began to make a mental assessment of which gun crews would their purposes best; his mind became too occupied to notice Archie make a slight gasp and bury his nose in his glass.
Horatio did not know of Marshall’s inclinations towards his fellow man and Kennedy was not going to appraise him of them just yet. It was certain to make the captain of Priam search for some way to get rid of his newly acquired sailing master and that would surely be a loss all round. Marshall was said to be immensely discreet in taking his pleasures - if he took them at all, rather than just indulging in fantasies about golden haired captains - but Hornblower would be made uncomfortable at the very thought that the man might look at his captain and first lieutenant and know.
And now by some strange coincidence he had hit on the idea of taking Rogerson - whom Archie believed had a crush on him. This was another fact he would have to keep forever secret from his lover, else the poor lad might end up being posted home to his Mama in a thousand small pieces, dirty neck and all.
As Archie regained his composure he made a swift tally; at least six men there would be on that cutter, all of whom were not averse to the company of their own, as it were. Well, it was a small craft and, whatever Horatio might say about the joys of the shared cabin, it was unlikely that they would be able to do much more than snatch the odd caress and lie in their cots, side by side, holding hands. If Ianto and Jack had any sense they’d do the same or it would take a lot more than ret-con to get them out of the clart. The two other officers he had no concerns about. All would be above board and proper, even if Mr Rogerson was prone to making cow eyes in his direction. Still, as his mother might say, it would all make for an extremely remarkable voyage.
***
Mr Rogerson laid out his best uniform and began to brush it to the nearest he could achieve to perfection, which was more than a biscuit’s toss away. He’d been chosen to accompany Captain Hornblower on a special mission; albeit Mr Marshall and the two best gun crews had also been singled out for this favour but he was the only one of Priam’s midshipmen who had been so honoured and his scrawny bosom - his mother assured him he would fill out soon - swelled with pride at the notion.
He would be alongside his captain and Mr Kennedy - Mr Kennedy, he rolled the words around his mouth and savoured them like a succulent sweetmeat - on a little cutter crossing over to the Texel. More than that they’d not been told, except that it was of utmost importance to their country and that was more than enough for Thomas. If Mr Kennedy had asked him to jump off the Round Tower walls into a vat of boiling plum duff he would have done so.
He made ready his kit and reported to Mr Marshall, trying to appear less like an excited boy than a capable and industrious young officer. The members of the crew who were to come with them were already assembled and the boat was being made ready to take them off to whichever ship was their destination. It had all been clothed in a bit of secrecy, the original orders having been delivered by Mr Kennedy and causing a slight kafuffle as shore leave rotas and the like had to be re-organised, although the lieutenant had also brought some word from Mr Hornblower in that regard. This may well be a mission at short notice but thought had been put into its execution.
There had been murmuring among those selected as to why they were not allowed to know the name of the ship they would be utilising nor exactly what their assignment was, murmuring that first lieutenant and master had put an immediate stop to by asserting that these were Mr Hornblower’s orders, that they should be obeyed unquestioningly and that all would be made plain when required. And as they boarded the little cutter and saw the exceedingly determined look in their captain’s eye, they became aware that when required would be sooner rather than later.
Thomas Rogerson had a quick eye and usually could be a fund of common sense. Those qualities had been instrumental in his being chosen from the rest of the middies’ mess to take part in the operation. He employed them now, as the muster was made on the decks of the little cutter Demiro (rather fancifully named after the father-in-law of the owner). The Priams had turned out in their very best, determined to wipe the eyes of the Demiros and the opposite had also been true. The small deck showed a picture which could have been used as a wonderful advertisement for the virtues of King George’s navy - well turned out, clean, eager and healthy looking. Even Mr Hornblower had been proud at the sight.
Rogerson contemplated the unfamiliar faces, both the crew of the cutter and the two strangers who stood at Mr Kennedy’s side. These men were not in uniform, although they were well dressed, extremely smart and with a degree of cleanliness that was not usual among their peers. Thomas was fascinated by the older of the two; the man could have been Marshall’s younger brother, the resemblance was so uncanny. Mr Harkness he had been introduced as and no further information had been given other than that he and Mr Jones were here on King’s business, and that it was both a duty and an honour to serve with them. The outlines of the commission - to intercept a ship off the Texel and take something from it - had been given and then the officers had repaired below to the cramped commander’s cabin to be given more details.
Kennedy had never realised just how crowded it was going to be in Demiro’s little quarters, the six of them cramped into the space. By the time charts had been unfurled - or as near as they could be to being unfurled - he was practically sitting in Ianto’s lap. He had noted that Horatio had engineered it so that the depiction of the coastline of the Netherlands separated him from Harkness. If Archie’s lover felt uncomfortable at the thought of all of them huddled together and all of them perhaps a bit flustered by the nearness of the male form, he did not show it. Anyway, it would only be five - Hornblower only seemed to find him attractive of the whole of humanity, male or female.
“Does this cutter become a frigate now?” Archie took off his scraper and fanned himself with it; February it might be but it was positively spring-like and the heat inside the constricted cabin was beginning to rise. “Given that you’re a post captain, Horatio?” The visitors from the future looked blank at such an esoteric question but the other two realised the import of it.
“I suppose it might, technically, but as I only have temporary command and that unofficially, I think that we might safely ignore the question.” Hornblower smiled just briefly and turned to the safer business of dealing with the mission ahead of them. The plan was explained, Marshall made some points about navigation, Jack gave his estimation of where ‘the treasure’ could be found, Horatio outlined what he hoped would happen when they came upon their quarry and then the briefing adjourned to allow advantage to be taken of the tide.
Ianto observed the working of the crew, the hundred and one little jobs involved in making sail, noting that the men from Priam were settling in with those from Demiro who had been preferred to their fellows. He had expected some friction, had been led to believe by Kennedy that it would be inevitable, especially when men had been left ashore to make room for Hornblower’s favourites. Something had been employed - whether words or lucre - to make things go smoothly and he was pleased. He did not want to see their operation put at risk on the basis of rivalry alone.
Harkness watched the sailors going through their well drilled motions with pleasure, not because they were handsome - to a man they were rather plain - but there was a life and spirit about them that was inspiring. And the feel of the wind along the side of the boat as the sails filled and began to propel them was truly marvellous. No SUV speeding along the M4 could produce such a sensation of freedom and movement and glamorous adventure. This was the first time he had seen his two friends in their native element and he was struck by their extreme capability; the complexities of sailing a ship had never struck him before and now the whole was executed like some intricate and perfect dance.
He watched the sailing master, also - intrigued at what accident or coincidence of genetics had ensured that a man born in the eighteenth century on an island in the North Sea could so closely resemble a man from another planet, thirty-three centuries hence. They could be brothers or other close kin and that thought alone unsettled Jack. There had been a brother of his, he knew - but more than that he could not force from his mind. Childhood memories were fractured and painful, those that he could access at all; his own flesh and blood might well resemble this man had he too found ways to cheat death or fly through time. Perhaps, Harkness thought, perhaps if I talk to him then I’ll find out something. Anything. A clue. Perhaps it’s all just a bloody coincidence and I’m chasing thin air.
***
“Mr Marshall, would you join me in glass of wine?” Jack was nothing if not adept at picking up the local argot and, not needing to sleep himself, had been able to stay on deck with Demiro’s temporary master, talking of everything and nothing, not least the wretched easterly that had whipped them off course and was at present pinning them to the coast of Suffolk. Horatio had gone to his cot when it had become obvious that the cutter was not at risk of being driven ashore and reassured by Marshall that should things change he would be notified. At five bells in the first watch the wind had eased and shown signs of turning - Kennedy and Hornblower had taken the deck and insisted that the man take some rest.
Harkness had accompanied him below and produced a bottle of hock, but the invitation had been politely refused. “I’ll not take wine, Mr Harkness, not if I’m to be getting some sleep. But I’d hope you’d take a nip of whisky with me; just a wee nightcap.”
Jack had assented and they’d sat together at the small table in the captain’s cabin. By now he’d got a clear picture of Marshall’s career - especially the capture of the prizes in the Med and the glory that had brought - but it was the earlier years he wanted to have clear. “Your mother still lives in Scotland?”
“The islands, sir, not the mainland. She’d be very offended at you suggesting otherwise.” Marshall smiled, cradled his wee dram.
“Then you’ve the sea in your blood - born and bred to it?” Jack sipped his drink, choosing his words carefully, not just to gain the information he needed but because he was touching on things that were painful to him. “I can imagine you out on the beach, playing with boats.”
“Truth to tell, Mr Harkness I have very little memory of my childhood; not like my mother, who can tell you every thing she did as a wain, although I’m not sure she doesn’t embroider the tales.”
Jack’s heart fluttered; there was just a chance, an infinitesimally small one but a chance nonetheless. “You must remember something, surely?”
A strange look came in the master’s eye. “I do have one or two memories but they make no sense to me. There’s a fine, long beach and it’s golden and I see myself as just a bairn running along it, but it’s the wrong colour to be home and my mother says we never travelled anywhere the sand would have been so bright and the sun so strong. In my mind’s eye it looks like the Med, not the North Sea. And the water’s so blue and warm. I remember - or I think I remember, perhaps I dreamed it, sir - that I lived nearby and that we’d go plodging.” Marshall shrugged. “It makes no sense so it must just have been a child’s folly; all daydreams of wishing to live somewhere warmer and brighter.”
“Strange memories, now they fascinate me. I’ve met men who imagined all sorts of things had happened to them. Sometimes it was real, sometimes just wishful thinking.”
“Aye, maybe.” Marshall stared intently at the tiny amount of drink left at the bottom of his glass. “I always wished I’d had a brother. Someone to tag along after when he went fishing, or have adventures with, the daft things that boys do. But there’s no other son for my mother than me.” He drained his glass, rose to take to his cot. “Maybe that’s why I dream about him.”
Harkness watched Marshall go, trying to restrain the lump that was forming in his throat and threatening to spill into tears. He had no idea whether the trail of coincidences were more than simply that, whether it was his own desire to have his little brother back with him that was making him read more into the situation than was really there. Well, if this ship’s master was Gray, he’d not only found him, he was going into battle at his side and that was as much as anyone might have expected all these years down the line. God alone - or at least Archie’s God, Jack wasn’t sure he had one - knew how a boy could have flown through years and space - how two boys could have flown through time and space - and found each other again. If it had happened, he was truly grateful. If not, it was a lovely illusion.
Rationale: I don’t believe that really was Gray in the last episode of Torchwood series 2. I think I know the true story.
I don’t own Messrs Kennedy, Hornblower, Marshall, Harkness or Jones. But I do own Thomas Rogerson, dirty neck and all.
“Ret-con.” Hornblower spoke the words slowly, trying to comprehend fully what he’d been told. “And it takes away one’s recent memories?”
Jack nodded. “Absolutely - you know who you are and what you did months ago but the rest is a blank.”
“Just like you with a pint or two of father’s best wine inside you, Horatio.” Archie grinned, contemplating the little white tablet that he spun in his hand. “Marvellous stuff, I’d say.”
“Dangerous in the wrong hands, though.” Ianto looked unnaturally serious.
“But that’s like anything - firearms, a boarding axe, even my nephew’s catapult.” Kennedy carefully and deliberately returned the pill to Harkness. “It’s not the instrument that’s the danger - it’s the man who wields it.” He surreptitiously rubbed the place where a Spanish bullet would have done for him had not William Bush turned out to be the most remarkable being in the universe. Even more remarkable than the one who took the tablet from him and returned it to the box to join its peers.
“My men aren’t stupid, though and Mr Marshall seems as sharp as they come. Won’t they think it odd that they’ve lost a week of their lives?” Hornblower remained unhappy with the plan; he couldn’t get his mind around this whole memory loss business - why hadn’t Jack tried it on him and Archie? Or had it happened and they were none the wiser?
“Take them on an almighty bender,” Ianto chipped in, “and they’ll just assume they lost it all in an alcoholic haze.”
Hornblower considered the Welsh lad for a moment. Something had happened to him back in the twenty-first century; he’d changed, become more assertive, less of a puppy lolling under Jack’s table waiting for scraps of affection. Archie had garnered half the tale, something about Harkness going off without a word and then returning without adequate explanation. It was not just Horatio who’d noticed this, Jack himself was well aware that while he’d been away the team had fended for themselves, grown and changed. And in Ianto the transformation had been the most noticeable. Now both men considered the coffee-boy-turned-fighting-man with a mixture of surprise and admiration.
“Splendid idea.” Archie too had noticed the transformation in Ianto but he was far too polite and mature to consider it in such an obviously jaw dropping way. “Let’s muster a party for this venture before they all disperse. I vote for Marshall; we need someone who can sail us in and out safely and it can be damned tricky off that coast.”
“And Rogerson. The lad could do with some experience.” Hornblower began to make a mental assessment of which gun crews would their purposes best; his mind became too occupied to notice Archie make a slight gasp and bury his nose in his glass.
Horatio did not know of Marshall’s inclinations towards his fellow man and Kennedy was not going to appraise him of them just yet. It was certain to make the captain of Priam search for some way to get rid of his newly acquired sailing master and that would surely be a loss all round. Marshall was said to be immensely discreet in taking his pleasures - if he took them at all, rather than just indulging in fantasies about golden haired captains - but Hornblower would be made uncomfortable at the very thought that the man might look at his captain and first lieutenant and know.
And now by some strange coincidence he had hit on the idea of taking Rogerson - whom Archie believed had a crush on him. This was another fact he would have to keep forever secret from his lover, else the poor lad might end up being posted home to his Mama in a thousand small pieces, dirty neck and all.
As Archie regained his composure he made a swift tally; at least six men there would be on that cutter, all of whom were not averse to the company of their own, as it were. Well, it was a small craft and, whatever Horatio might say about the joys of the shared cabin, it was unlikely that they would be able to do much more than snatch the odd caress and lie in their cots, side by side, holding hands. If Ianto and Jack had any sense they’d do the same or it would take a lot more than ret-con to get them out of the clart. The two other officers he had no concerns about. All would be above board and proper, even if Mr Rogerson was prone to making cow eyes in his direction. Still, as his mother might say, it would all make for an extremely remarkable voyage.
***
Mr Rogerson laid out his best uniform and began to brush it to the nearest he could achieve to perfection, which was more than a biscuit’s toss away. He’d been chosen to accompany Captain Hornblower on a special mission; albeit Mr Marshall and the two best gun crews had also been singled out for this favour but he was the only one of Priam’s midshipmen who had been so honoured and his scrawny bosom - his mother assured him he would fill out soon - swelled with pride at the notion.
He would be alongside his captain and Mr Kennedy - Mr Kennedy, he rolled the words around his mouth and savoured them like a succulent sweetmeat - on a little cutter crossing over to the Texel. More than that they’d not been told, except that it was of utmost importance to their country and that was more than enough for Thomas. If Mr Kennedy had asked him to jump off the Round Tower walls into a vat of boiling plum duff he would have done so.
He made ready his kit and reported to Mr Marshall, trying to appear less like an excited boy than a capable and industrious young officer. The members of the crew who were to come with them were already assembled and the boat was being made ready to take them off to whichever ship was their destination. It had all been clothed in a bit of secrecy, the original orders having been delivered by Mr Kennedy and causing a slight kafuffle as shore leave rotas and the like had to be re-organised, although the lieutenant had also brought some word from Mr Hornblower in that regard. This may well be a mission at short notice but thought had been put into its execution.
There had been murmuring among those selected as to why they were not allowed to know the name of the ship they would be utilising nor exactly what their assignment was, murmuring that first lieutenant and master had put an immediate stop to by asserting that these were Mr Hornblower’s orders, that they should be obeyed unquestioningly and that all would be made plain when required. And as they boarded the little cutter and saw the exceedingly determined look in their captain’s eye, they became aware that when required would be sooner rather than later.
Thomas Rogerson had a quick eye and usually could be a fund of common sense. Those qualities had been instrumental in his being chosen from the rest of the middies’ mess to take part in the operation. He employed them now, as the muster was made on the decks of the little cutter Demiro (rather fancifully named after the father-in-law of the owner). The Priams had turned out in their very best, determined to wipe the eyes of the Demiros and the opposite had also been true. The small deck showed a picture which could have been used as a wonderful advertisement for the virtues of King George’s navy - well turned out, clean, eager and healthy looking. Even Mr Hornblower had been proud at the sight.
Rogerson contemplated the unfamiliar faces, both the crew of the cutter and the two strangers who stood at Mr Kennedy’s side. These men were not in uniform, although they were well dressed, extremely smart and with a degree of cleanliness that was not usual among their peers. Thomas was fascinated by the older of the two; the man could have been Marshall’s younger brother, the resemblance was so uncanny. Mr Harkness he had been introduced as and no further information had been given other than that he and Mr Jones were here on King’s business, and that it was both a duty and an honour to serve with them. The outlines of the commission - to intercept a ship off the Texel and take something from it - had been given and then the officers had repaired below to the cramped commander’s cabin to be given more details.
Kennedy had never realised just how crowded it was going to be in Demiro’s little quarters, the six of them cramped into the space. By the time charts had been unfurled - or as near as they could be to being unfurled - he was practically sitting in Ianto’s lap. He had noted that Horatio had engineered it so that the depiction of the coastline of the Netherlands separated him from Harkness. If Archie’s lover felt uncomfortable at the thought of all of them huddled together and all of them perhaps a bit flustered by the nearness of the male form, he did not show it. Anyway, it would only be five - Hornblower only seemed to find him attractive of the whole of humanity, male or female.
“Does this cutter become a frigate now?” Archie took off his scraper and fanned himself with it; February it might be but it was positively spring-like and the heat inside the constricted cabin was beginning to rise. “Given that you’re a post captain, Horatio?” The visitors from the future looked blank at such an esoteric question but the other two realised the import of it.
“I suppose it might, technically, but as I only have temporary command and that unofficially, I think that we might safely ignore the question.” Hornblower smiled just briefly and turned to the safer business of dealing with the mission ahead of them. The plan was explained, Marshall made some points about navigation, Jack gave his estimation of where ‘the treasure’ could be found, Horatio outlined what he hoped would happen when they came upon their quarry and then the briefing adjourned to allow advantage to be taken of the tide.
Ianto observed the working of the crew, the hundred and one little jobs involved in making sail, noting that the men from Priam were settling in with those from Demiro who had been preferred to their fellows. He had expected some friction, had been led to believe by Kennedy that it would be inevitable, especially when men had been left ashore to make room for Hornblower’s favourites. Something had been employed - whether words or lucre - to make things go smoothly and he was pleased. He did not want to see their operation put at risk on the basis of rivalry alone.
Harkness watched the sailors going through their well drilled motions with pleasure, not because they were handsome - to a man they were rather plain - but there was a life and spirit about them that was inspiring. And the feel of the wind along the side of the boat as the sails filled and began to propel them was truly marvellous. No SUV speeding along the M4 could produce such a sensation of freedom and movement and glamorous adventure. This was the first time he had seen his two friends in their native element and he was struck by their extreme capability; the complexities of sailing a ship had never struck him before and now the whole was executed like some intricate and perfect dance.
He watched the sailing master, also - intrigued at what accident or coincidence of genetics had ensured that a man born in the eighteenth century on an island in the North Sea could so closely resemble a man from another planet, thirty-three centuries hence. They could be brothers or other close kin and that thought alone unsettled Jack. There had been a brother of his, he knew - but more than that he could not force from his mind. Childhood memories were fractured and painful, those that he could access at all; his own flesh and blood might well resemble this man had he too found ways to cheat death or fly through time. Perhaps, Harkness thought, perhaps if I talk to him then I’ll find out something. Anything. A clue. Perhaps it’s all just a bloody coincidence and I’m chasing thin air.
***
“Mr Marshall, would you join me in glass of wine?” Jack was nothing if not adept at picking up the local argot and, not needing to sleep himself, had been able to stay on deck with Demiro’s temporary master, talking of everything and nothing, not least the wretched easterly that had whipped them off course and was at present pinning them to the coast of Suffolk. Horatio had gone to his cot when it had become obvious that the cutter was not at risk of being driven ashore and reassured by Marshall that should things change he would be notified. At five bells in the first watch the wind had eased and shown signs of turning - Kennedy and Hornblower had taken the deck and insisted that the man take some rest.
Harkness had accompanied him below and produced a bottle of hock, but the invitation had been politely refused. “I’ll not take wine, Mr Harkness, not if I’m to be getting some sleep. But I’d hope you’d take a nip of whisky with me; just a wee nightcap.”
Jack had assented and they’d sat together at the small table in the captain’s cabin. By now he’d got a clear picture of Marshall’s career - especially the capture of the prizes in the Med and the glory that had brought - but it was the earlier years he wanted to have clear. “Your mother still lives in Scotland?”
“The islands, sir, not the mainland. She’d be very offended at you suggesting otherwise.” Marshall smiled, cradled his wee dram.
“Then you’ve the sea in your blood - born and bred to it?” Jack sipped his drink, choosing his words carefully, not just to gain the information he needed but because he was touching on things that were painful to him. “I can imagine you out on the beach, playing with boats.”
“Truth to tell, Mr Harkness I have very little memory of my childhood; not like my mother, who can tell you every thing she did as a wain, although I’m not sure she doesn’t embroider the tales.”
Jack’s heart fluttered; there was just a chance, an infinitesimally small one but a chance nonetheless. “You must remember something, surely?”
A strange look came in the master’s eye. “I do have one or two memories but they make no sense to me. There’s a fine, long beach and it’s golden and I see myself as just a bairn running along it, but it’s the wrong colour to be home and my mother says we never travelled anywhere the sand would have been so bright and the sun so strong. In my mind’s eye it looks like the Med, not the North Sea. And the water’s so blue and warm. I remember - or I think I remember, perhaps I dreamed it, sir - that I lived nearby and that we’d go plodging.” Marshall shrugged. “It makes no sense so it must just have been a child’s folly; all daydreams of wishing to live somewhere warmer and brighter.”
“Strange memories, now they fascinate me. I’ve met men who imagined all sorts of things had happened to them. Sometimes it was real, sometimes just wishful thinking.”
“Aye, maybe.” Marshall stared intently at the tiny amount of drink left at the bottom of his glass. “I always wished I’d had a brother. Someone to tag along after when he went fishing, or have adventures with, the daft things that boys do. But there’s no other son for my mother than me.” He drained his glass, rose to take to his cot. “Maybe that’s why I dream about him.”
Harkness watched Marshall go, trying to restrain the lump that was forming in his throat and threatening to spill into tears. He had no idea whether the trail of coincidences were more than simply that, whether it was his own desire to have his little brother back with him that was making him read more into the situation than was really there. Well, if this ship’s master was Gray, he’d not only found him, he was going into battle at his side and that was as much as anyone might have expected all these years down the line. God alone - or at least Archie’s God, Jack wasn’t sure he had one - knew how a boy could have flown through years and space - how two boys could have flown through time and space - and found each other again. If it had happened, he was truly grateful. If not, it was a lovely illusion.