The Universe's Mixer

Ianto slowly caressed the Retcon pill he'd always kept in his pocket for emergencies, carefully turning it around and rolling it between his fingertips. It had become more a token of small comfort than the convenient clean-up method it was intended for, and one of the only things he had brought with him from home.

Really, he ought to throw it away by now, and while he strode through one of the grassy areas, he absently wondered if the expiry date still held in a city's atmosphere which, for all he knew, was on the other side of the universe. That particular thought came to a trickling halt when he noticed a certain someone he'd seen around the city several times, and his hand holding the small pill slowed. Occasionally, he'd come close to talking to her, and had concluded that she lived, or at least worked around the same area. It was a logical guess, anyway.

Pacing over with his hands shoved into the confines of his smoothly-pressed pockets, he offered her a small smile. "Hi. Again."

As Gwen set the large bag of groceries she scanned the new hub for signs of Jack and Ianto. "Guess they must be out so now is my chance to take over the kitchen" since they had been taking turns with meals over the last little while. Tonight would be a very Welsh stew since between missing Rhys and her own still wild emotional state it would act as a small dose of solace. As she found needed supplies she for a split second felt like Owen was nearby, teasing her over something or another. While for a moment she felt like she could hear Tosh typing away on her keyboard while catching up on both paperwork and light hearted gossip.

She fought back a fresh round of tears and channeled her private pain into dinner. Beyond those moments she was doing pretty well: from trying to wean herself off her mirgaine meds (still hearing Owen in her head since he had been trying to get her off the meds before he died) to fitting in among the local police. But her guard was down now: if there was anyone she could really trust Jack and Ianto (along with Rhys) were at the top of the list. As she started a fresh pot of coffee she could hear someone at the doorway of the fake employee kitchen that acted as hub entryway.

With the absence of the Rift, and all the backwash and problems that accompanied it, Ianto had more time to spare. Although, ironically, there had turned out to be almost as much of the weird and wonderful mysteries here as back home, especially now there was no longer UNIT to rely on 'just in case'.

Tonight, he headed into the city by foot; he was in the mood for walking, so he did. Quickly, mind you. Spend enough time chasing after creatures in the wider world which scratched and fought and pushed for their moment to spring out under the cover of darkness, then no. Spending too much time outside at night was something to avoid, up there with small enclosed spaces and solitary Weevil hunts.

In one of the less busy streets, the sign of a bar called to him. Opening the doors, the soothing, crooning notes of Sinatra drifted through the dimly-lit room, and he permitted himself a private smile at that. He turned his eyes to the main bar, where rows of bottles were eagerly anticipating someone with a spare minute to indulge in them.

It hadn't taken long before Ianto had realised that charting the layout of a city that had a habit of moving was an exercise in futility, not to mention frustration. He was grateful of the opportunity to try, though. He'd never known a period of time when Torchwood was so quiet, and couldn't decide if that was something to approve of. In theory, of course, it was a good thing. He knew better than to wish for any brand of calamity, keeping in mind what Gwen had told him about zombies.

But he was so used to being poised on the brink of action, ready for that pivotal moment when he would once again be pushed to his limits - one he wasn't entirely sure he would feel again here - that to relax was out of the normal for him. He didn't pause to reflect what that meant for his state of being as he took a bite out of the sandwich he was snacking on.

Sat at a table in the smallest cafe-type establishment he had managed to find, on the table in front of him was a journal in which he'd finished composing all he knew about the city's locations, and felt quite productive, all things considered. It helped, if only for his peace of mind, to know the resources which were on hand... even if they weren't always guaranteed to be in exactly the same place.

After making sure Ianto was safely set in front of one of several heaters Gwen decided to go to work on a huge pot of coffee and something warm to eat, so soup sounded perfect (and goof proof). She mused to herself while chopping carrots,"The weather is just like Wales, only with more snow" having picked up a ton of supplies in case things did get worse weather wise (from coffee and supplies for soup to takeaway menus and supplies for some typical hub meals). As she worked she watched the space that leads to Jack's living space, part of her wanting to see the reaction to Ianto being with them once more. But part of her was reeling, right about then she would have heard Owen smarting off for some random reason and Tosh's keyboard clicking away a mile a minute. So as she shoved back her tears she went back to soup making. "Now all we need is that bag of noodles, chicken noodle soup and this weather just work together" she mused to herself.

She set her phone close by in case her note at the station brought in possible sources.

It had only been a few weeks since Ianto had moved into Tosh's place on the team, putting his computer and technological knowledge from Canary Warf to use. While he knew he wasn't nearly as brilliant as Tosh had been, he was doing everything that he could to bring some semblance of normalcy back to the Hub after her and Owen's deaths.

It didn't take too long before he had thrown himself into spending most of his time pushing himself harder, working to the brink of exhaustion, doing all those little essential tasks that did, in the end, help them, but nothing that he felt anyone else in Torchwood had the inclination nor need to attend to.

Keeping busy. That had always been his way of soothing himself to the point where he wouldn't have the chance to refine thoughts abandoned for lack of time to examine them. Every thought in his head, every emotion in his heart, shoved far enough aside so they would all seem to fade away, or be placed in the cushioned box of distant memory, where they could lose their bite.

It was further evidence of his unhealthy manner of dealing with grief, which had soon resulted in a predictable firming of the unemotional walls around him. But it kept him from dwelling; the Rift was still discharging all manner of weird and wonderful backwash, so most days he barely had time to breathe, let alone talk.

( This night was no different )