It’s difficult, being in a relationship with an immortal man from three thousand years in your own future. But I deal with it because it’s him, and he’s beautiful, and he’s mine. I do love him.
I’ve had a rough time of it these past few weeks. Keep throwing up, not feeling myself. I hid it from him, of course. There’s no way he needs to be worried; he has enough on his plate. But eventually I got sick of being ill, and, finally, sick of Googling my symptoms and being told I have water retention and cancer and God knows what else. I used Owen's equipment. I hate going into the autopsy room, even now; I still see him sat around, checking his teeth in the shiny instruments and trying to decide where to put his latest badge on his white coat. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I went in and did my best with the random bits of tech and tried to work out how Owen had organised his equipment storage (it turns out the system was ‘squash it in, and as long as you can shut the door on it, it’s tidy’).
I was shocked at first. I mean, it’s not medically possible. But I’m pregnant. Just wait till the Daily Mail gets their hands on this.
My body has changed. I can still see the images when I close my eyes; the manipulation of my intestines, leaving a sac... or an unconnected womb. One assumes the birthing process will be interesting, I can’t see how it’s supposed to come out. I just hope Gwen knows how to use the laser knife, or, failing that, a scalpel.
I still don’t know how to tell Jack. How do you tell your lover, and your boss, that you’re carrying their child when it’s an impossibility? I know that here in Torchwood, we deal with the impossible every day, but this is impossible that is invading my life. I’m not saying a child is a bad thing; Mam always said that children were a blessing, and it’s a deep rooted belief with me, even now, even after all I’ve seen. But I’m male: I have testosterone, and a penis, and a five o’clock shadow. Men don’t have babies. I don’t know how I changed, but I assume that it’s because of some long forgotten piece of technology. It’s an occupational hazard. When you work in Torchwood, you have to accept that you could be ripped apart by vicious aliens, eaten by pre-historic creatures, and have your body transformed into something else when you least expect it.
I have to hope, though, that Jack will have seen this before: a body re-arranged and re-programmed to carry a foetus. You never know; he might have. As far as I can tell, he’s seen everything and knows it all. He can be the one to tell the child its bedtime story; I bet he’ll know all the best stories, and if he doesn’t he can just tell it the truth about his life. It’ll be so amazing.
I’m going to be a father; the baby can call Jack ‘Daddy’, and me ‘Da’. We can go and see it in school plays, and tell it that Santa’s coming, and take it to the park. I can teach my baby to raise its eyebrows, and Jack can... well, Jack can teach our baby to go out on the pull. Or not. Maybe Jack can just teach it to throw a punch.
I’m going to tell him now; it’s perfect. Perfect-ish. I’ll show him a video of the children chanting, and then, calmly, say ‘I’ve got one of those growing inside of me’. Or ‘Jack, I’m having your baby. Keep our baby safe from that’. Or something. I’m not sure. But it’ll be good.
And now he’s rushed off to Gwen. Bloody typical. The moment’s gone now.
‘Ianto!’ he shouts. I leap to attention, already running to him. ‘We’re having a baby’.
How does he know? Did the Hub scanners tell him? Can he see it himself? Maybe it’s pheromones?
No. Gwen got there first. Her baby. She’s pregnant, and I can’t tell him now. I’ll wait, I think. Until I’m ready again...and when Jack isn’t a walking explosive.
I can’t find him. I’ll find him, and I’ll save him, and I’ll kiss him, and make love to him, and then I’ll tell him. We can be a family.