His glass halts on its arc away from his mouth and Ianto brings it back to take another, smaller sip. Undying and ceaseless things. Indeed. The warm, comforting nostalgia is turning dense and cold in his stomach, a reminder of how far away home really is.

"Aliens," he answers, with absolutely zero consideration of whether or not he should be divulging this information to what amounts to a stranger. He struggles for a second to remember the right word - aggressive? Aggressive aliens? "Bad ones." Then, "And well-intentioned ones, sometimes." And just plain old good ones, occasionally, but he's not particularly proud of that. "Apparently there's a plaque honoring me back in Cardiff. Very sleek and appropriately doleful. So I've heard."

He's rambling now, just a bit, and that (at least) sets off an alarm at the back of his head, a you're drinking and talking to a stranger, stop doing that thing that you're doing klaxon. "Are you..." Baffled, "Are you interviewing me?"