“Hello, Jack.”

            The man who had once called himself Jack Harkness set down his glass very, very carefully.  “Got a job for me, Doc?”

            “What makes you think that?”

            “Because that’s the only time you want to see me.”

            “Not quite. Though by the time I had it all figured out you had moved on.” The Time Lord plopped down on the bar stool next to Jack’s. “But I do need you.”

            “Sorry, Doc. I’m no longer for hire. Make a lousy hero anyway. People keep on getting killed.”

            “Jack…”

            “No, Doc.”

            “At least listen. Then, if you want me to go, I will.” The Doctor grabbed Jack’s glass and tossed back the last of the booze. “Whoah. That’s just disgusting, Jack. Your stomach lining is sloughing off as we speak... Oh, all right, don't give me that look. It’s the TARDIS. Something is blocking her from landing on Earth.”

            Jack shrugged. “That might be a good thing, Doc. Every time you or I show up on Earth terrible things happen to innocent people.”

            “Jack…”

            “Perhaps you should let me try, Doctor.”

            The Doctor swiveled to look at the new arrival. Jack, on the other hand, kept his back firmly turned and signaled to the bartender for another drink.

            “It must be Old Home Week somewhere. What do you want, John?”

            A hand holding a photograph entered his field of vision. Jack glanced at it casually – then sat up, grabbing for it like a drowning man grabs at a life preserver.

            “What the hell is this?”

            “You tell me. He says his name is Ifan. His first memory is of waking up in some sort of medical facility. He has been extensively… improved, I suppose you could say. He says he can’t remember anything, but when he managed to escape he made a beeline for Cardiff and the Hub.”

            The man in the photograph was Ianto Jones.