‘Don’t lose track of your own life,’ Jack told her. ‘You mustn’t let it drift away. Torchwood can consume everything. Everyone…’

His voice trailed off. He’d seen Ianto, their receptionist, walking up the spiral staircase. Ianto was about her age, maybe a few years younger, and not bad looking, she decided. She hadn’t worked him out yet. He seemed happy to do the more mundane work in Torchwood – the fetch and-carry stuff, whether that was a Tesco bag full of shopping or body bag full of Weevil.

He was headed for the coffee machine, and smiled in recognition as he spotted them leaning against the balcony rail. ‘Sorry, didn’t see you there.’ He waggled a freshly rinsed coffee pot at them. ‘I was about to get fresh.’

Jack smiled at this comment. He shrugged off his coat, and draped it over the rail. ‘Ianto, you’ve anticipated my need for something warm and wet.’

Ianto rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘Very amusing, sir. I should have guessed that, whatever I say, you’ll always want to top me.’

‘You wish,’ Jack told him.