VS3:10 -- "Family Business", Part Two

[code_4268656637]

Family Business -- Part Two

Jack had always been interested in scabs. It was in his nature to pick and pick until something gave; when he'd been a child, he'd graze his knee and then itch at it until solid red runs of blood trickled down his leg. He suspected that was partly why he loved Gwen. Gwen picked and twitched, and sometimes she'd lift off a surface that exposed more blood and innards than she'd perhaps been ready to see - but she never gave up.

He'd been watching his team, this afternoon, quiet in their tiny orbits. Gwen had gone to talk with Ianto, but talking with Ianto about himself was like taking off a sticking plaster - ultimately relatively fruitless, and usually a bit painful. He'd watched her walking back across the Hub, and wished for just an instant that he were a different man; someone who could bound down the stairs two at a time in a whirl of excitement, solving problems, giving answers, closing wounds with a handful of nanogenes and a sonic screwdriver.

But he wasn't; he was Jack, and he was Torchwood, and he was pulling at the edges of a plaster to get at the scab below.

There was - as there always was when things were quiet and frustrating, the Hub walls shrinking in on him - paperwork. Jack looked over the file that Ianto had left in the boardroom: hospital reports, information requests, need to know stamped on about half of them. Ianto loved all that spy stuff, the thought that he had a secret that no one else knew.

And Jack was, to be honest, surprised that Ianto had pushed him into the wall last night, and that in between rough breaths and just the sort of teasing that was bound to make them exhausted all the next day, Ianto had quietly asked him not to tell Gwen about Rhiannon. Jack was good at distraction tactics, and he recognised a distraction when it was offered, but when it was offered so nicely, he was loath to say no.

Jack tried to imagine Ianto hiding some sort of clandestine other family, like in a soap opera, having kids on the Estate. He failed. No, Ianto wasn't that melodramatic, and it seemed vastly unlikely that one person could have both a cyberised girlfriend and a secret child. It was exactly what it seemed - Ianto was, for some reason, disinclined to let Jack and Torchwood peer into this part of himself. And that was the bit that stung, that last bit before the teetering drops of blood spilled - Jack didn't know why.

Muli had gone home at seven, Gwen earlier. He'd noticed that Gwen was in flat boots at the moment, noticed that Muli had stopped wearing that awful scarf, switching it out for a lighter shawl as the weather grew warmer, and that she was offering to go and get the welshcakes from Fabulous Welshcakes, the bakery where cute Ysolda worked. Everyone had a tell, a little thing that would let him get inside, and Jack could read the people that he loved better than he could read this… this…

…paperwork.

He sighed, the Torchwood logo going a bit blurry when he rubbed his hand over his eyes. Employee evaluation reports, records that would sit in the filing cabinets and gather dust until finally the paper decayed, and then they'd become dust themselves. He put Gwen's report down, and instead picked up the file that Ianto had left in the boardroom when he'd had his little tantrum, and flipped through it. It was frustratingly dull, and vague. No common food groups; no nice, convenient animal bite or ingestion of a drug.

On the last page, Ianto had listed addresses. Pockets, he'd said, and Jack leaned over, bringing up Torchwood's satellite mapping on his computer, slotting in addresses and houses, keeping Ianto's dot system intact. Green dot. Red dot. Blue dot. Two greens, within three houses of one another. A blue just across the road from that. Muli had been right - why hadn't they picked up on this? Yes, old people die, their bodies simply ceasing to work; that, and a baby dying of SIDS in the same street was a tragedy, not a reason to call in the police. The sort of thing that brought neighbours together, community support being one of the more appealing habits of humans. In Jack's past, he'd lived in towns, cities, spaceships, and all with people around him, and just as they'd watched him, helped him, he'd reciprocated.

That was it. That was the word he'd been looking for. Not just pockets. Neighbourhoods. This thing, whatever it was, was striking neighbours. He sat back, reached out for a coffee, and found his mug empty, the sticky ring in the bottom of it several hours old and cold.

Ianto was downstairs, at his workstation, flicking through files. He'd slipped his tie off, and it hung loosely over the lapels of his jacket; after hours, unbuttoned. He looked up when Jack's footsteps rang on the gantry.

"Needed coffee," said Jack. Ianto nodded. "Want one?"

"No, I'll be up all night if I have one now," he said, but he hit CTRL + S and followed Jack into the kitchenette. "Don't want to be tired for tomorrow."

Jack wasn't going to dignify that with an answer; instead, he tipped a few spoons of sugar into his cup, a couple of spoons of instant. Hot, almost too sweet, black. He liked Ianto's way of doing things, the exquisite little shapes in milk, and the light touch of taste, but in the end, coffee was coffee, and sometimes he needed to drink something that burned all the way down but didn't turn his brain into a foggy mess. Ianto boiled the jug, and they didn't say anything as the water bubbled, getting closer and closer until the electric switch on the side clicked, and it was ready. Jack poured the water, splashing some around his fingers. He didn't care. Ianto cleared his throat.

"Those people. You just ordered me about as if I were a goddamn child," Ianto said, his voice low and hurt. "You were trying to get a rise out of me."

Jack sipped the coffee, and it was just what he wanted. "Looks like I succeeded, from where I'm standing," he replied. "Nice little display, walking out of the meeting. Very mature."

"Oh hello, pot," said Ianto, conversationally. "This is the kettle speaking. How are you?"

"I don't want to talk to you if you're going to bitch at me," said Jack, taking another mouthful.

"I don't need Gwen to come with me to the Estate," said Ianto.

Jack put down the empty cup. "Tough."

Ianto followed him back to his office. "Jack, why Gwen? Muli knows," he said as Jack shoved his office door open hard enough that the handle made a cracking sound against the wall behind it. "You know you can trust me. Why send me out with Gwen, like I need to be kept an eye on?"

"Why do you want to countermand my direct instructions?" said Jack. "You've done it before and I… Do you think you get to do what you like just because…" He stopped that train of thought, sitting at his desk, his throne, all the trappings of authority there at his fingers. Ianto stood, shifting, in front of him. "Are you hiding something?"

Ianto didn't reply. Jack tapped his fingers against the desk, slowly. He knew it would force a reaction, the uneven, slow thud of sound against the wood. When Ianto rounded on him, it was almost a relief.

"You think that people wouldn't talk to me," said Ianto, fierce. "I bloody well grew up there!"

"Well, that's not what your file says, is it?" Jack asked. "I had to go hunting in the local records, Ianto. I don't like having to chase someone I thought that I'd already caught."

"Caught?" Ianto asked, after a silence that stretched a beat too long.

"Bad word choice."

"You used the word you meant to use," Ianto replied, and Jack could feel something breaking between them, something bigger than a lie about where Ianto was born, something that went beyond the surface of a scab and down to the bone.

"Fine," said Jack. "You've lied to me, and you don't want me to acknowledge it."

"That's not what I meant."

"I don't like playing games, Ianto."

"This isn't a game."

"Fine. Go on," said Jack, so angry he could spit. "Say something."

Ianto didn't meet Jack's eyes - just looked at the pile of paperwork on the table, reached out a hand to stroke the coral. Jack could feel it react; not the warm sentience of a creature, but still a tiny thrill of electricity as Ianto touched it. He waited, and eventually Ianto broke the silence.

"I…" Ianto said. "I don't want to go home tonight."

Jack leaned back in his chair. "Then don't," he said.

Ianto nodded, just barely, and slipped off down into the main Hub. Jack let him go, turning back to his reports, running his hand over the coral where Ianto had touched it. He picked up Ianto's annual evaluation, feeling ridiculous. He hated it, this consigning people to black and white, and to history. There was no box on the evaluation form that said what someone smelled like, or how they'd glance away when they laughed - half-shy, half inviting. There was no evaluative question: If you kissed this person again, would you be able to identify them? It was all half-truths and one dimension, the part that mattered to the case.

Ianto's official Torchwood file had been hacked, a long time ago, probably by Ianto himself. It didn't say smells like coffee only after he gets to work, or likes to pull the covers over his head on cold nights. Didn't map the warm contours of skin with fingers and lips, and that, that was a pity, because Jack could give a report on Ianto Jones that had nothing to do with black and white and everything to do with the pieces of Ianto that didn't fit onto a page. He sighed.

It was hours later that Jack turned out his office light, closing the door, the dim phosphorescence of the coral on his desk illuminating the room. Overhead, Myfanwy was flying back in from a night reconnaissance, and he offered her a wave as she flapped past the Rift Machine, its lights and coils making a strange glow that was reflected across the Hub on the little waves and rivulets that filled the space under the gantries. He'd been lonely here, once, waiting for another sound to fill the empty space. He'd had a dog, in the sixties, but it had got too adventurous on a mission. Jack didn't much like trusting in living things not to leave him.

Ianto was on the couch, his diary on the table, and if it were another night Jack might have picked it up, read it in the soft luminescence of the rift machines and touchscreens, but instead he tried to read Ianto, the curve of his frown, the tuft of hair that had escaped Ianto's usual neat style.

Ianto was asleep, or at least feigning sleep, curled up on his side, back to the room and hugging a cushion. Definitely asleep. He'd never have his arms around the cushion if he thought he'd be caught. Jack sighed, crouching at the edge of the couch, reaching to brush his fingers along the curve of Ianto's back.

Ianto stirred. "Jack? What time is it?"

"Well after sensible people are asleep."

Ianto snuggled back down, and Jack smoothed the unruly strands of hair.

"Are we going to talk?" Jack asked.

"No," Ianto replied, his accent thicker than normal. "Not now."

Jack bent and pressed his lips to Ianto's jaw, just on the curve of it, below his ear, and then he picked up the ratty blanket from where it had puddled on the floor. Ianto didn't flinch when it hit him, just pulled it over himself and closed his eyes again.

"Good night, Jack," he said, and Jack caught himself before he did something or said something that would break this fragile skin of peace between them.

"Good night," Jack replied, reaching to touch Ianto's shoulder again, before turning and leaving for the open air.

Ianto stopped the car just outside the streets that marked the border of the Estate. They were still in suburbia now, and it was a stupid thing to think, really, that suddenly there'd be some sort of ghetto just beyond the big rowan that filled their view, fresh buds unfurling.

"Ianto?" Gwen asked. "Why're we…?"

"Gwen," Ianto said. "How well do we know each other?"

The question, from left field, surprised her. "I dunno," she hazarded. "I know what you had for breakfast this morning."

The answer to that was coffee from the place up the street, and kedgeree, because when she'd come in he'd been sitting on the sofa, lonely, his diary open beside him and a plastic fork hanging out of his mouth as he'd made a note of something.

"I don't mean that," he said. "I mean… if you found out something about me, would you…?"

He looked at the steering wheel, tapping his thumbs against the horn, not hard enough to make any sound. She reached over to still his hands.

"Ianto," she said, a little frightened. "Of course I wouldn't. What is it that you don't want me to know?"

This was Ianto. Her brother in arms; they'd fought alongside one another, mourned together. She loved him, really, and that wasn't hormones talking, or some sort of misplaced bonding brought on by proximity and danger. Gwen's favourite times were when a call came in and each member of the team slid into action, like tendons and muscle, everyone moving in tandem to make Torchwood work.

"You'll see," he muttered, and shuffled her free, releasing the handbrake.

"Ianto," she said. "I don't like this."

Lights flashed across the dash of the SUV, serving no appreciable function but looking really badass. Gwen had suspected Jack of being behind their installation, but Jack had thrown his hands up and claimed to be innocent. Ianto reached and flicked the switch off, pressed a few buttons on the steering wheel. On the dash, the screen folded in, the lights stopped flashing. She heard a whirring from the back, and turned in her seat just in time to see the equipment in the back slide into the flooring and into cavities under the seats. Well. Gwen hadn't known that the SUV could do that.

"Thief-proofing it," she said. "Good idea. The number of callouts that I used to have to do when I was on the beat."

Ianto didn't reply, at first. He was gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles went white.

"What other info did you come up with at the meeting?" Ianto asked.

"Megan reckons it might be domestic animals," Gwen said. "Like, fleas on cats carrying a toxin, or a disease."

Ianto frowned. "That's not good."

"Why?" asked Gwen, as Ianto pulled up in front of one of the scrotty little houses. Ianto shook his head. "Okay, then, Mr. Talkative. What's our plan of attack? We going together, in case there's trouble?"

"There won't be trouble," Ianto said, and was instantly made a liar by the group of kids gesturing rudely at them through the window-glass of the SUV. "We'll go talk with Rhiannon, first."

"Rhiannon Davies?" Gwen asked. Jack had mentioned the name before they'd left. Well, mentioned in the sense of dragged her into a security camera dead zone and said, "Make sure you meet Rhiannon Davies."

Ianto frowned. "You read Muli's report? You never read the medical reports."

"I don't understand the medical reports. That's different from not reading," said Gwen, and there was fear, very real fear in her chest, clawing to get out. She hadn't seen Ianto this evasive since - well, she hadn't seen Ianto this evasive. Why was this woman a secret?

Ianto got out, and he slammed the door of the SUV, hard. Gwen had to trot to keep up with him as he turned and moved to the front door, knocking. Gwen felt something at her ankles, and she flinched before she realised that it was a cat, waiting expectantly at the door. A cat lived here. So perhaps… That's not good, Ianto had said.

A small, blonde, angelic-looking child opened the door. She was wearing leggings and an art smock that advertised Hannah Montana, and she had paint in her hair.

"You'd better have my game. It's almost my birthday," she said, before turning. "Mam! Ianto's here!"

"Uncle Ianto," a woman corrected, as the girl scurried past her into the hallway. There was a horrible sound of a cat being squashed as the girl pounced, art smock and all, on the unfortunate animal. "And put that bloody cat down, Mica! It'll scratch your eye out and eat it!"

The girl ignored the woman, who was presumably her mother. Which meant… no way. Absolutely no freaking way.

"Boots is helping me paint!" Mica announced, and Gwen got a good look at Rhiannon for the first time. She had Ianto's eyes, a little less of the snubness around the nose but not much less, enough to still see the connection. Rhiannon Davies was nervous. Gwen had spent long enough working the beat to see when someone was dead scared, and Gwen realised with a sinking feeling that Ianto's sister was afraid of her.

"Gwen," said Ianto, a little gruff. "This is Rhiannon. My sister. Rhi, Gwen Cooper, my… friend. She works with me."

"Hi," said Gwen, extending a hand. Rhiannon had a firm handshake, and she led them out to the kitchen, which was spotless.

"Tea?"

"Yeah," said Ianto. "Milk, no sugar."

"None for me, please," said Gwen. "Did, um, Ianto explain to you why we're here?"

"He said it was to do with Mrs, M, and Torchwood," said Rhiannon.

"It looks like it was a contagion," said Ianto. "Something she consumed, or breathed in, or something like that."

Rhiannon frowned. "The people at the hospital already quizzed me about everything she'd eaten."

"I know," said Ianto, and his expression was soft, the same sort of expression that he got when Jack was doing something intensely frustrating that was also intensely adorable. "It's not just Mrs. M. It's… wider than that. So we're trying to eliminate all possibilities."

"What do you actually… do?" Rhiannon asked. "I mean…"

"It sounds cooler than it is," Ianto replied. "Mostly paperwork, and chasing up weird things that turn out to be nutters who've made bombs in their allotment sheds."

"So this is a nutter with a shed?" asked Rhiannon, pouring the tea. She handed Ianto a mug.

"No," said Ianto. "This looks like a nutter with a chemistry set."

Rhiannon put the teapot down. "Ianto Bran Jones, if you're even beginning to suggest that there are people in the neighbourhood with chemistry sets, you'd better get back into that SUV right now."

"Oh, stop right now, thank you very much," said Ianto, deadpan and Rhiannon turned on her heel, met his eyes, and laughed. He smiled back.

"What?" Gwen asked.

"She made me be a Spice Girl," Ianto said, enigmatic, and he sipped his tea. "Rhi, this isn't drugs. It's… there's more than that to it, and we need to find out why before more people get sick like Mrs. M did."

The cat ran through, pursued by Mica. Ianto pounced.

"Oi!" said Mica.

"What was that, young lady?"

"Um," said Mica. "Uncle Ianto, why have you got Boots?"

"I want to have a look at him," said Ianto, and the cat bit him. He sighed. "Well, at least we'll know if it's carried in cat bites."

"Do you mind if we take some samples from the cat? Hair, see if there's fleas, that sort of thing?" Gwen asked, and Rhiannon frowned.

The cat launched itself into the air when Ianto let go of it, examining his hand for blood. Mica squealed, chasing the cat. Rhiannon sighed, leaning back against the kitchen benchtop.

"Do you think it's dangerous? Should I be keeping Mica away from it?"

"Our boss doesn't think so," said Gwen, "but we're trying to exhaust all possibilities."

"Your boss. This… Jack," said Rhiannon.

"Yeah," said Ianto, and the three of them were quiet. So Rhiannon knew about Jack, and Jack knew about Rhiannon, but Gwen didn't know what each knew about the other. Shit. She tried to lighten the tension that had suddenly darkened the room.

"We need to chat to people around the Estate, find out if anyone has seen anything unusual around the place," she said. "Any ideas? It's… we don't want people thinking we're after them. We're after whatever it is that's making people sick."

"You could come around with me?" Rhiannon asked, after a few long seconds of silence. "I mean, I'm doing my deliveries this afternoon. Ianto can stay here and look after the kids."

The look that Ianto gave her was one of sheer terror, but Gwen decided that he probably deserved it for worrying her like that. She smiled.

"That sounds great, Mrs. Davies," she said.

"Call me Rhiannon," said Rhiannon. "Mrs. Davies is my mother-in-law."

It was a tired joke, but enough to laugh about, and Gwen soon found herself looking at the neatly arranged bags on the kitchen table. Each had an invoice stapled to it, big purple letters reading Cosmetologica. The effect was of a child's party, the lollybags lined up and ready to thrust into sticky little hands.

"We'll put them in the SUV," said Gwen, and Rhiannon beamed.

"Oh thank god. Those plastic bags with the brand name on them are like butter - everything just falls through the bottom."

"It's good stuff, though," said Gwen, and Rhiannon's expression brightened.

"You use it?"

"One of my girlfriends had a party for it," said Gwen. "She only just delivered it the other day, and I'm already totally obsessed with the lip-fixer."

"Being in Torchwood gives you chapped lips?" Rhiannon said, with a bit of a grin, and Gwen nodded.

"Yeah; plays merry hell with your hair, too. I don't know how Bond girls do it, but I definitely don't stay glam at the end of the day," she said, picking up some of the bags.  She turned, and Ianto was standing there, hands on his hips, fidgeting with his feet.

"I could still come," said Ianto. "There's plenty of room for the kids in the SUV."

"You're not coming. You bloody well said you were Torchwood when Mrs. M collapsed," said Rhiannon, fiercely. "That's as good as saying you're going to nick them for some stupid little thing they did when they were fifteen. You're staying here, and I'm just going to say that Gwen's from the company."

"But…" Ianto said, looking helplessly at Gwen.

"Stay," said Rhiannon, folding her arms. Ianto sat back at the table, and a boy ran in, took one look at Ianto in his kitchen, and said something, which might have been awesome! Rhiannon smiled.  "Good boy."

With Jack, Ianto and Gwen out, Megan was the one who got buzzed by the intercom system coming down from the tourist office; it automatically paused the music that was thudding through the stereo system, allowing her to speak.

"Interflora," said the voice that echoed down into the Hub. "Delivery for Gwen Cooper?"

"Coming!" Megan responded, and headed upstairs to the tourist office. The delivery man was picking his nose when she opened the outer door, and she handled the pen and electronic slate carefully.

"Oi, you're not gonna get good business if you're closed up all the time," said the man. "'S a public service, innit?"

"We've had some staffing shortages," Megan said, signing for the delivery. "I'll make sure your complaint is passed on."

It was a beautiful standing arrangement, big enough that she needed to carry it in two hands to get it downstairs, and even then the stamens brushed at her lab coat. Reds and purples; Gwen's favourites. You'd have to be blind to miss Gwen's stable of red and purple shirts; several days in the last few weeks, she and Ianto had managed to colour co-ordinate embarrassingly often. This usually led to Jack giving them both fond little looks all day, or making some sort of horrifyingly inappropriate joke. Megan had resolved to never wear red or purple. Two colour-co-ordinated co-workers was enough.

"And onto Gwen's desk with you," she said, plonking the arrangement onto the toppling pile of papers that was threatening to overwhelm Gwen's desk and advance across the floor of the Hub. They slid in a brief tectonic movement, and then stabilised, the arrangement bright and cheerful against the semi-darkness of the Hub.

She was, however, nosey, and had to check the tag.

Happy anniversary, love Rhys

Oh. She sighed, wondering at the wisdom of allowing partners to a.) know where Torchwood was; b.) know what Torchwood was and c.) get flowers delivered to Torchwood. It wasn't like Jack and Ianto's relationship; underground, secret, and importantly, contained. Not for the first time, she wondered what insanely lax sense of security fueled Jack's idea of a secret organisation. Practically the first thing one noticed on the SUV was the organisational branding.

She did have to give him ten out of ten for style, though.

She hit the play button on the stereo in the medical bay, and the music thudded through the Hub, shaking dust from the huge concrete beams, making loose beakers shake a bit. No, it needed to be a bit softer. The man who'd been here before her - Owen - had been pretty interesting; he'd left an iPod in the system, loaded up with all sorts of stuff. She'd liked to have met him sometime; go out for a beer and talk shop, compare the weird shit they'd seen.

She dabbed another sample onto a slide, inserting it into the scanner. There were labels on everything, those old-style ones from the 1960s, letters punched into thin strips of plastic. This one said 'THING THAT TELLS YOU WHAT'S IN THINGS', which she supposed was as good a description as anything. Ianto affectionately referred to it as the THING-Thing; he liked naming the odd tech that seemed to drift through the Hub on a daily basis. Megan looked at the computer readout on the screen, and sighed.

"Perfectly ordinary talcum powder," she said. "And now for fabric samples."

When she was a child, she'd played a game with her cousins, where you'd had a secret person that you were guessing. You'd ask questions and questions, each time narrowing down the options, until you could say that the only red-haired man with a moustache must be the person that you were looking for. It was like that with pathogens; you knew the general field, just not the specific individual. If people knew how filthy their houses - and their food, and their makeup - generally were, then they'd want to disinfect all the time. It was just a case of finding commonalities, something that could have caused this specific round of 'Guess How We're All Going to Die this Time?'

She knew what generic characteristics she was looking for, and she cut up a tiny piece of pillowcase and slipped it between glass plates, putting it into the THING-Thing. The machine helpfully went BLOOP when it was finished computing, and then it started to make more noises. There was a red light flashing on the screen.

MATCH - MATCH - MATCH

Heart hammering, she checked the data. This was it, the thrill of the chase, the thing that made science so brilliant. Yes. The compound in the pillowcase matched the one from the blood tests. But why a pillowcase? Was it to do with the proximity of hair, dead skin cells, oils from the skin? It didn't make sense.

Repetition. To validate her results, she had to be able to repeat it. Carefully, gingerly, she cut off another snippet, from right in the middle, right where it would be up for maximum contact with a sleeping head. Reserving the first slide, this one went into the machine.

BLOOP.

Nothing. She frowned. No, the lights on the side were still on; it was still working. Okay. Then one of the slides was wrong. She put the first one back in.

BLOOP. MATCH - MATCH - MATCH.

"Wait," she said. "Something's contaminated the slide."

She'd got pollen on her lapel when she'd carried the bouquet downstairs, perhaps? Pollen. Botanical. She checked her front, but there wasn't any nice, neat dusting of yellow or white. Didn't mean there wasn't something there, though.

Shit.

Megan bolted up the stairs to the main Hub, grabbing Gwen's flowers from her desk. Yes, these were… there were about ten different types, maybe more. And once she knew the plant, then she'd know the distribution, and it would just be a matter of tracking back and working out how to… how to get rid of it. It had to be a mutation. It had to be… well, something.

She probably had to test all of the flowers before she drew any more conclusions, though.

It was a frustrating process. One would test positive, and then another that looked the same wouldn't, and then another would test positive. The leaves tested positive. Everything that had been in contact with those damn flowers tested positive. Megan bagged everything, labeling it carefully; including the card, now a little forlorn as the remains of the bouquet lay strewn across the medical bay. She'd put on a mask and filter, just in case, the only ones readily accessible these enormous gas-mask type arrangements. The music automatically turned down as the Hub door opened, and she looked up, surprised.

She really wished that she could have met whoever had enough presence of mind to program that sort of safeguard into the stereo system. A voice called out across the Hub.

"Megan?" It was Jack. "Tell me good news, baby."

"Not your baby!" she called back, and then remembered that she had her respirator on. She went upstairs, and Jack looked at her, flinching a little.

"Take that damn thing off," he said, and she did.

"That damn thing," she said, "is because I think I've found the origin of our toxin. Plants."

"Plants," he replied, and she nodded.

"Jack, I want you to get me some flowers," she said.

"I usually save that for the second date," he replied. She looked at him, and he sighed. "Okay. I'll bite. What sort of flowers?"

"I don't know," she said. "I've not had much luck testing all of them. But I think it's down to a few species… I'll bag you up some samples."

"Where did you get flowers from?" he asked.

She shrugged. "They're Gwen's."

"Oh," he said. "Oh. I think we might need to… yes. Flowers. For everyone."

"Question is, how did the compound from the pollen make its way into the bloodstream of the victims?" she asked. "I'll check the filters later to see what sort of concentration is in the air - but if it were airborne, I'd expect to see a lot more cases. It might be ingestion, but I don't think any of these varieties are edible. And cut flowers aren't… I don't think they'll be a common element."

"Why not?" he asked. "I mean - people give flowers to the parents of new babies. And an elderly person might get flowers if they're ill, or if it's a birthday. People are remarkably unimaginative in their gift-giving past the age of sixty."

"I… am not entirely certain that I want to know what you're referring to," Megan said, because Jack had that look where he raised an eyebrow and curled his lip a bit. She was certain that he thought it looked suggestive, but in reality it looked a bit like he had an obstruction somewhere intimate.

"So. Flowers," he said, looking at his watch. "Is it really six o'clock?"

"Yeah," she said, looking past him to the computer clock. "Why?"

"Ianto and Gwen should have been back by now," he said, pulling his phone from out of his pocket. "I'll try to get you some flowers, but I'm not sure what'll be open."

He walked off, distracted. Megan sighed, fiddling with the mask a bit.

"Good work, Megan," she said. "That was really quite genius, the way you worked out that it was from one of fourteen types of flower."

She put the mask back on, and went back into the medical bay, and she didn't feel at all bad about blasting the music so loud that she didn't hear when Jack left without even bothering to get the samples from her.

"Oh, love! When are you due!"

"June or July," Gwen said, and tried not to flinch as yet another hand patted her stomach. Rhiannon hadn't patted her stomach at all, and she flashed Gwen an apologetic look. They'd talked kids, a bit, and Gwen had privately promised herself not to call her kid a name that was too easy to mispronounce, and worse, shared a spelling with a rock (Mica) or a variant of either of their surnames (the thought of William Williams probably worse than David Davies, but not much worse).

"This is Gwen," said Rhiannon. "She's just training on how to do the deliveries and the ordering, so I said she could come round with me."

"That your SUV out the front?" said the woman, peering out the curtains. "It's a bit swish."

"It's a work car," said Gwen, "they, erm, don't know I'm out here."

Rhiannon Davies, it turned out, was a master of getting information out of people. In another life, she and Ianto could probably have been a crack team of detectives, because within five minutes of getting into a house, Rhiannon had the homeowner's lifestory, political views, and favourite brand of tea out of them without it even seeming nosey.

"Sad about Mrs. M," said Rhiannon.

"Oh, god, I feel so terrible about it," said the woman, a rather beaky-looking lady who Rhiannon had greeted as Nerys. "And then your Ianto, being so… take-charge about it. How come you never told us he was with Torchwood, hey?"

"Because he's just as big a little bullshit artist as when he was fifteen," said Rhiannon. "Did you catch up with Mrs. M before the party? I think she was a bit distracted, yeah?"

They chatted, and Gwen made mental notes, because if she got out her notebook from her days on the beat, then the information would dry up like water in the desert. She was grateful to Rhiannon, very grateful. They walked back to the car together, and drove the couple of hundred feet or so to the next delivery.

"Well," said Rhiannon. "That's six down; twelve more to go."

Gwen smiled, but she was starting to seize up down her back, and she wasn't really certain how much more stomach patting she could take. Rhys had used to own a shirt that read for good luck, rub my tummy, and no one ever had; she wished she had whatever mystical power Rhys had used to keep people off.

But a picture was forming, no small thanks to the interpersonal talents of one Rhiannon Davies. Everyone on the Estate knew each other's business, it seemed, and people had noticed that Mrs. M's garden had been getting a bit run down, and then that she'd been a bit vague, but everyone had equally thought that someone else was doing something about it. The network seemed to be back online, though; Rhiannon asked after other residents, focussing on elderly people who lived alone; checking that an informal roster was being adhered to. Gwen watched, a little surprised at the efficacy of this network of people helping other people. She was impressed. She only knew her neighbours to wave at, not to talk to or anything.

"Gwen?" Rhiannon asked, after the fourteenth house. "How long have you known Ianto?"

"Feels like forever," said Gwen.

"You didn't know about me, though, yeah? About our family… us…?"

"Oh, no," she said. "Ianto… he said your Da was a master tailor. Tells stories and stuff."

"Liar," said Rhiannon, and Gwen felt her face go hot and then cold with embarrassment, and then she wondered which one of them Rhiannon was referring to - Gwen, or Ianto. "Is he happy, though?"

Jack and Ianto hadn't spoken this morning. Ianto had managed an excuse to keep himself on the other side of the Hub, all legitimate, all above board, all a completely transparent attempt to avoid Jack. Despite this, she didn't think he'd gone home last night, because the communal bathroom had still been steam-damp from the shower when she'd gone down to use the loo for the first of her many toilet trips in the day. Jack showered at night; it was only since Ianto had started having sleepovers at the Hub that the shower was used in the morning.

"I think he is," Gwen said, and that was true, at least. "He seems much happier than he was just after Lisa died."

"You knew Lisa," said Rhiannon, and it wasn't a condemnation.

"I only met her the once," said Gwen.

"You think Jack's better for him?"

"Yeah," said Gwen. "I think Jack's definitely better for him."

Ianto was on the lounge when they got back, Mica snuggled up to him as David played some sort of game on the Xbox. He looked up when they got back.

"Uncle Ianto's going to take my painting," said Mica, satisfied, and Gwen realised that Ianto had a big smear of green paint all down the sleeve of his jacket. "He reckons he'll put it up on his fridge."

"Of course he will, sweetheart," Gwen said, as Ianto showed her the still-damp painting, a wry grin on his face. "Oh! It's a dragon!"

"RAWR!" Mica announced, delightedly.

"You're bouncy this afternoon," Rhiannon commented, and then she shot her brother a Look. "You didn't take them up the corner and buy them sometimes food, did you?"

"Er… no," said Ianto, and it was such a bald-faced lie that Gwen almost respected him for having the balls to say it.

"No wonder you're their bloody favourite," Rhiannon grumbled, and Gwen grinned.

"We'd best get going, Rhiannon," she said. "It was good of you to let me come around with you."

"It was good to have you with me," said Rhiannon.

"Yeah, ah, thanks," said Ianto with a grin. "I've got the dragon, Mica."

Mica hugged him, getting more paint on his jacket.

"I'll see you soon!" she said, cheerful, and then David gave him an awkward, paintless hug.

"If you need any help working out which game to buy…" he said conspiratorially.

"Oi!" said Rhiannon. "Don't you start with that."

"See you," Ianto said, kissing her cheek. "I'll… try to come around again soon."

"You do that," she said, walking them to the door. Boots came past them at the speed of light, pursued by Mica, and Ianto caught her easily around the waist, lifting her up and passing her to Rhiannon.

"This is yours, I believe," he said.

She shook her head.  "You can keep it, if you want."

"I'm good. I've got enough pets."

Gwen laughed at that, and Ianto raised an eyebrow.

"Oh! Wait!" said Rhiannon. "Here… they gave me this for being a Power Seller. You should take it, Gwen; I've got so much of the stuff around the house that I don't need any more."

She bustled back into the kitchen, and then re-emerged, handing Gwen a purple and white bottle, part of the Cosmetologica range. It looked like it was probably expensive; small bottles of face cream usually are.

"Specialist moisturising concentrate," said Gwen, reading the side.

"Yeah, it's got four times more of the active ingredient. It's from the new range - they reckon it's brilliant for stretch marks," said Rhiannon.

"Rhi," Ianto began.

"Oh, talk to me again when you've had two kids," said Rhiannon, glaring at him and then smiling at Gwen. Gwen grinned back. "And you'll come to the party tomorrow, Gwen?"

"I wouldn't miss it," Gwen promised, and she really wouldn't, because if Jack wanted to know anything else, it would be their best chance.

Ianto slumped against the headrest when they got into the car. "I'm tired."

"Tired bloody nothing," Gwen replied. "You're not the one who wandered around the Estate all afternoon."

"Discover anything?" Ianto asked.

"I… nothing really conclusive. I think everyone's on the lookout, now that one person's fallen ill. Rhi was checking on who'd seen who last," said Gwen.

"Our Mam used to do that," Ianto replied, a little sadly. "You want me to drop you home? You look like you're dead on your feet."

"Ianto, I would love for you to drop me home," she said, so grateful that she thought she could kiss him.

"I'll get Jack to help me drop your car round later," he said, and she didn't ask if that meant they'd be talking again, because there was no point in pressing Ianto for what he didn't want to say.

Gwen collapsed onto the couch when she got in, putting her feet up. Rhys looked settled, like he'd been home for hours.

"When I have this kid," she said, "I am going to drink an entire bottle of… of something in celebration."

"Bad day, love?" Rhys asked. Gwen grunted and turned her head towards the squishy pillows at the back of the couch, snuggling a bit and closing her eyes.

"Not bad. Just… bloody exhausting," she said, and he laughed, leaning over the arm of the couch to ruffle her hair.

"We doing much for dinner?" he asked. She snuggled further into the couch.

"I was thinking something stodgy. Spent the afternoon waddling around the Cromwell Estate."

"Oh, hush; you don't waddle," said Rhys. "What didya want to go there for, anyway?"

"Work," Gwen yawned. "Met Ianto's sister, too."

"Ianto doesn't have a sister," said Rhys. "Jack grew him in a vat somewhere under the streets of Cardiff."

"Oi, he does," Gwen replied. "She's really nice. Gave me a pressie to say thanks for helping her with her deliveries."

"You helped deliver things? Now I've got to get the details," said Rhys, hunting in the cupboards. "How about the rest of that shepherd's pie we froze?"

"Mmm," Gwen managed, sitting up. "Yeah, she does that Cosmetologica party stuff. Smells nice, though."

Rhys was fidgeting. "Did you…" he began. "Did you get any other deliveries today?"

"Deliveries?" Gwen blinked. "Um. I was out all afternoon, love. Why?"

"No reason," said Rhys. He smiled at her. "You didn't go back to the office?"

"No… Ianto dropped me home," she said, yawning again. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "There just might be a little… something on your desk tomorrow."

She rested her chin on the sofa cushions, watching him. "You didn't? I thought we agreed we'd celebrate only our wedding anniversary now we're married, not first date anniversary?"

"Surprise?" he asked, and she smiled.

"Love you," she said, and he leaned over the back of the sofa, kissing her.

"Love you, too," he said. "Now, lovely lady, you rest your feet and let me take care of things."

He bustled back to the kitchen, and she pulled her handbag out from under the coffee table and uncapped the moisturiser that Rhiannon had given to her as a gift. It was purple when she squeezed some of it onto her palm, but it vanished quickly into the skin, leaving her hands soft and smooth. Gwen sniffed the back of her hand. Yeah, it did smell nice. Really nice.

She leaned back on the lounge, breathing in another whiff of the scent of purple moonflower, whatever that was, and closed her eyes. She woke up with Rhys standing over her, two plates in hand and the Beeb on for the evening news, Rhys laughing at her for being a tiredy-tired, and she wound up having to pounce on him after dinner, just to show him how tired she wasn't.

Rhiannon knew that the morning was going to go badly when she stepped out of the shower and onto the cat.

"Boots!" she yelled as Boots caterwauled, wriggled free from under her foot, and shook himself with that prepossession that only cats have. He'd come into the bathroom to warm himself under the heater light, like he always did. She shouldn't really have it on in spring, but it was bloody nippy in the mornings, still, and she wanted to look her best today.

"You all right?" Johnny asked from in the bedroom. "Love?"

"Bloody Boots was underfoot," she said, wrapping a towel around herself. She was just able to tuck the ends in, and she caught Johnny's eye in the vanity mirror when he appeared behind her.

"I'll wring that cat's neck one day," said Johnny, and Rhiannon shook her head, smiling.

"No you won't. If you do, you'll be explaining to a very disappointed little girl where her kitty went," she said, reaching next to the tap for her toothbrush. She looked at herself as the fog in the mirror cleared. Oh, ugh. "I'm going grey."

"What?" Johnny asked, jostling for his own toothbrush.

"I'm going grey. I'm starting to look old."

"Don't be daft, woman," said Johnny, around his toothbrush. "You're looking the same as you always did."

And that was somehow worse, Rhiannon thought. It was worse that he thought she looked the same, because had she ever been pretty? She spat into the sink, and plugged in her hairdryer. She'd been going to straighten her hair before the girls got here for the party, but the hairdryer made lots of noise, and Johnny couldn't talk at her over the hairdryer.

Sadly, Johnny knew about the hairdryer trick, and he just sat on their bed, waiting for her to finish. She'd have to go back into the room to get dressed; she couldn't deliver the party presentation in a towel, no matter how good her hair looked. He was in his good jeans, and a tee-shirt that wasn't too ratty. It made her heart want to burst that even though he thought that the makeup was bloody stupid, he was going to support her all the way.

"What's the problem, then?" he asked, once she'd pulled on her new blue shirt.

"It's just," Rhiannon said, because she didn't lie to Johnny. "It's that woman. That Gwen woman."

He folded his arms. "She say anything about you? About us?"

Rhiannon shook her head, sitting on the bed beside him. He turned to her, and was about to speak, but she held up a hand. "No."

"You sure?" Johnny said, brushing his fingertips along her cheek. "Love, if she's making you uncomfortable, I won't have her in the house."

"No!" Rhiannon said. "I mean, no. It's… she's so pretty, and her clothes are posh, and I can't help but thinking it's no wonder Ianto doesn't want to spend time with us if these are his friends now."

"Oh, Lord," said Johnny. "You're a bloody idiot sometimes. Remember that Ianto isn't your mother. You don't have to be your mother, Rhi. It's not all about what clothes you wear, and if you're old or young or whatever."

"You sound like a motivational poster," Rhiannon said, but she did love him, really she did. "Ianto's not my mother; I'm not an idiot."

"You just want to see him a bit more, right?" He put an arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

"I didn't even know he was seeing anyone," Rhiannon said, and that hurt more than she really wanted to say. "He's all posh now. He's all posh and awkward."

"He stayed and looked after the kids yesterday, didn't he?" Johnny asked.

"Yeah, cos he wanted to for work," said Rhiannon.

"Oh, don't talk shit," Johnny said. "If he wanted to just for work, he'd've sent someone like that horrible woman from the hospital. He didn't have to stay. Honestly, between the pair of you, you're complete idiots sometimes."

"Shut up, Johnny Davies," she said, patting his knee. "I worry, you know? I worry."

"I know, Mrs. Davies," he said. "So tell me what you worry about."

"You don't think we… sent him gay?" Rhiannon asked, tentatively. "I mean, we made him dress up like a bloody Spice Girl."

"Love, if dressing up like a Spice Girl sends you gay, then Daveo and Steve would be camp as a row of bloody tents after last year's rugby dinner," he said, stroking her hair back. "Stop worrying. It's fine."

"I…" Rhiannon began, and then she looked at the clock, its red-eyed display changing over from 8:59 to 9.00. "Oh, shit! I don't have the time for worrying."

Johnny laughed. "Come on, then. What'd'ya need me to do?"

"Can you go and get some milk? We ran out last night," she said.

He nodded.  "Anything else?"

"Whatever you like."

"A six pack. Right," he said, and she swatted him. "C'mere."

He kissed her, gently, the stubble that he hadn't quite shaved off rough against her skin.

"I love you, you fool of a woman," he said.

"You big lump," she replied, and kissed him back. "I love you, too. Now get! The shop on the corner should have some milk."

He kissed her again for good measure, and then went downstairs as she put on her eyeliner, and finished her makeup. It was important to look well-scrubbed. If you looked good, then the people at the party would think that the products were good. Even if, ah, you weren't using them.

A wail broke her reverie. "Owww! MAAAM!"

Rhiannon ran out into the hallway. Mica was in the middle of the hall, lip quivering, shoulders shaking, ready to start howling. Boots was very rapidly vanishing down the stairs.

"He bit me!"

Rhiannon sighed, as Mica put on a performance worthy of an actress on Oscar night. "I told you, didn't I?" she asked. "I told you he'd bloody bite you, and now he did."

"I wasn't… I wasn't… he just bit me," Mica sobbed, and Rhiannon sighed, picking her up. Mica was really too heavy to pick up, and she clung all the way to Rhiannon's room. Rhiannon put Mica on the bed, and got the medicines box out of the top drawer, where it lived away from little hands.

Mica paled. "Not dettol!" She tried to squirm away, but Rhiannon held her in place.

"Yes, dettol. Boots is dirty, Mica."

"But-but-but…" Mica wriggled, Rhiannon wiped, and then let Mica snuffle a bit.

"There," she said. "Not that bad, is it?"

"It's terrible," said Mica, sniffing. "Want a bandage and a cuddle."

After the application of a special princess plaster and a warm hug, Mica seemed to be relatively happy again. She followed Rhiannon downstairs, helping her to set out all of the things that she needed. Rhiannon turned on the radio, letting the music lift her spirits (and, more importantly, drown out the sound of David on the Xbox); miniature disasters notwithstanding, this would be a good day, right? It would. It had to be.

Mica picked up a bottle. "What's this one?"

"That's bath milk," said Rhiannon. Mica sniffed it, and then sneezed. "Don't get your snot in it!"

"'m not," said Mica. "What's this one?"

"Fragrance concentrate."

"Smells nice," said Mica, pulling the cap off. "Mam, can I have some?"

"No," said Rhiannon, at precisely the same time as Mica said, "Oops."

She turned, to see Mica's top stained with a big, dark splodge of fragrance concentrate. Rhiannon sighed.

"It smelled nice!" said Mica, bottom lip preemptively trembling.

"Okay," Rhiannon said, because there was no point in getting mad. "Look, sweetheart. How about you take that one, and go put it in your room? Mummy's clients will be here soon, and you remember what happens during the party?"

"I stay upstairs," said Mica.

"Good girl," said Rhiannon. "Now, up you go!"

She could fudge not having the fragrance, right? It wasn't like the rest of everything didn't reek of the stuff. Apples and jasmine; nice, but overly sickly after a while. She heard Mica thundering up the stairs, cat bite forgotten, and then she folded the towels nicely. She'd made some dip, too, and she'd get some cakes underway.

"…traffic news for Cardiff this morning…" bleated the radio. "It's a carpark out there, people, with accidents…"

Okay, so factor that in; one or two people might be late. No, not people, clients. It had been stressed in all of the guides to hosting a party that these people weren't your neighbours once they stepped in the door, they were clients, and you needed to treat them better than you'd treat your neighbour, or anyone. The music started again, and Rhiannon looked up to see Boots glaring balefully at her from the dent he'd created in the cushions on the back of the lounge.

"It's your own fault, you know," she told him. "Now scat and let me get finished."

Family Business: Part Three