Gwen smiled, nudged his arm. ‘Oh come on, smile. Lisa, Jack… being bisexual is hardly a crime. Best of both worlds, isn’t it?’

And Ianto pushed her away. ‘No, Gwen. No, really it’s bloody not. It’s the worst of any world because you don’t really belong anywhere, because you are never sure of yourself or those around you. You can’t trust in anyone, their motives or their intentions. And because of that, you have, in a world that likes its nice shiny labels, no true identity. For Torchwood’s “Little Miss Sensitive”, you don’t half talk crap sometimes. So do me a favour and shut up about it, all right?’

‘No, no, it’s my turn. How about… [the collective noun for] Weevils?’

Ianto considered this briefly, before concluding: ‘It’s a shitload, obviously.’

They both laughed vigorously at this. An old couple were walking past them on the tarmac path. The pair had their collars turned up against the cold, hands shoved well into the pockets of their matching beige anoraks. The little old guy narrowed his eyes at Ianto. ‘Language, please!’ he said mildly. ‘There are children about.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Ianto, trying not to laugh more. Jack wasn’t helping by stroking the hairs on the back on Ianto’s hand with his fingers.

The beige anorak studied them. ‘You’re a bit old to be holding hands.’

Jack smiled pleasantly. ‘You have no idea.’

The elderly woman took her hand from her coat and tugged at her husband’s sleeve. ‘You’re never too old to hold hands, Walter,’ she chided him gently. ‘You just carry on, boys.’

Walter’s face relaxed into a smile, and he and his wife walked on down the path, their translucent fingers now intertwined in an affectionate knot.