Morning came, and Ianto woke somewhere in the middle of it.  His body clock was completely out of sync; under usual circumstances, he possessed the very handy knack of being able to estimate the time to within fifteen minutes, but right now he didn’t have a clue about the hour or even the day.

Jack was dead.  Okay, that was expected, in a continuously disconcerting sort of way, but still…Jack was dead, and Ianto found it hard to think of anything else.

He made himself get cleaned up, taking the fastest shower in any history of fast showers.  He decided not to shave or attempt styling his hair, refusing to spend that much time away from Jack, even if it was mere feet and the door to the bathroom would remain open.  If he was honest with himself, any effort at all felt quite pointless without Jack’s saucy appreciation.  This wasn’t the first time that Ianto had analysed his reaction to the comments Jack made, and there was no moment of extraordinary revelation prior to Ianto admitting to himself how important the compliments had always been.  He enjoyed Jack’s interest in him, from sly glances to outrageous flirting, and he longed to experience each and every form of harassment once again.

He had a few items of clothing in Jack’s wardrobe but the smart suits that Jack loved were ignored in favour of the most comfortable pair of trousers available, and a t-shirt of Jack’s.  Ianto couldn’t help chiding himself for a degree of sentimentality that Jack would no doubt be appalled by when he woke, but he wanted the t-shirt and that was that.

Gwen came to see him, peering around the door to check he was awake before bustling in.  She’d evidently been to the hospital at some point because her broken wrist was in a cast, but right now her good hand was bearing a carrier bag of groceries as she’d correctly guessed that Ianto wouldn’t be stepping outside for a meal until Jack was back.  She sat with Jack while Ianto made himself some toast and coffee, having soon discovered that nagging wouldn’t make him eat anything more substantial, and, as he pottered, Ianto wondered if Jack would wake for her rather than him.

“It was coincidental,” Gwen told him when he mentioned what he was thinking.  “At first I thought I’d done something, but…  He’d’ve woken up anyway, whoever was with him at the time, it was just that I—”  She looked at him with a blend of apology and guilt.  “I didn’t know, Ianto.”

“Know?”

“That you should have been the one with him.”

Ianto shrugged.

“I doubt I had any rights.”

“Did any of us?  In those circumstances?”  Ianto shrugged again.  “None of us were blameless.  The way I carried on over Rhys…”

“Remember when Jack left?  Actually…after Jack left, I mean.  There was a time when we virtually fought – all of us – for that damning honour, for the ultimate responsibility.”

“How can I forget?”

Ianto paused in his wandering and stared down at Jack.

“He wouldn’t have it though, would he?  When he got back.  We blamed him for leaving, but he wouldn’t blame us for doing everything we collectively could to make this a place no entirely sane man would want to come back to.”

“He’ll always forgive us,” Gwen said softly.

“Will he?”

“He’ll forgive you for everything when he comes back.”

“If he comes back.”

“He’ll be back,” Gwen insisted, and Ianto wished he shared her bullish certainty.  “If I did anything special after Abaddon, it was to believe, and…  Believe, Ianto.  It’s all we have.  Believe.”

Gwen left and, in her absence, Ianto did his best to emulate her belief.  He asked Jack to come back.  He told Jack to come back.  He begged Jack to come back.  The lack of response was unsurprising, and having his expectation of nothing fulfilled led Ianto to question and compare his version of belief to Gwen’s.  He came to the conclusion that his belief in Jack’s ability to return was sound; however, the resounding lack of belief in his own luck was fairly damning.

Rhys was next to visit, keeping Ianto company during this empty time, talking about nothing of importance and trying his best to ignore the dead body on the bed.  The mindless gossip helped and Ianto was grateful for it.  He was happy to listen to Rhys’ humorous and rambling monologue: one-way systems, pasta with prawns, Gwen on Prozac versus Gwen on caffeine, flu jabs, black holes, plastic surgery, beer cans with widgets, beer cans without widgets, alternative comedians, and artificial pitches.  During a lull Rhys finally dared to glance at the corpse.

“Shouldn’t you turn the heating down?”

“Sorry?”

“You know.  In case he…goes off.”

Ianto gave an involuntary chuckle.

“Doesn’t work like that.”

“How then?”

“I…  Don’t know.  Don’t understand.”

“God knows how you put up with it.  How’s the boyfriend today, mad or dead?”

As Rhys wittered on, Ianto replayed ‘the boyfriend’ several times in his head.  A casual observation from a casual friend; the term felt both strange and pleasant.  Ianto sometimes thought of himself as a boyfriend, but never Jack.  That amused him for unknown reasons.

Catherine made a polite entrance before rudely throwing Rhys out on his ear.  Jack obviously fascinated her, but Ianto’s body-language made it plain that only a bare minimum of inconsiderately clinical interest would be tolerated.

“Gwen asked me to stay on for a few more days,” she explained as she tried not to stare at Jack from the foot of the bed.  “At least until Jack’s awake.  Alive.”

“We don’t know when that will be.”

“I want to be here to run a few tests, see if he’s managed to kill off that catalyst.  Not just because of my own curiosity,” Catherine explained, seeing the disapproval on Ianto’s face.  “You’ll need to know if he’s still infected, if all this will happen again.  And, if it is still there, we need to know if it’s transmittable and you have to be extra careful in future.”

The disapproval grudgingly morphed into understanding; seeing that, Catherine turned to go.  At the door she hesitated.

“Ianto…  The way Eleth died.  She wouldn’t have suffered at all.”

Ianto’s wince was rapidly followed by his sinking heavily onto the mattress alongside Jack.

“She’s dead.  What do the circumstances…”

“Apparently, her last days were extraordinarily happy.  We should all be so lucky.”

“Know what?  Right now, that’s no comfort at all.”

Catherine regarded him like a specimen for a few seconds.

“There will come a point,” she began thoughtfully, “when you will realise that, regardless of any affection you might have felt for Eleth, you’re truly mourning what her death symbolises.”

“Which is?” Ianto asked coldly.

“Lost innocence.  The inability to preserve and protect those ideals closest to your heart.  Particularly when they’re personified.”

Ianto glared at Catherine, a look loaded with contempt.  So what if she was probably right, he didn’t want to hear it.

Catherine left; Ianto crawled closer to Jack and slumped against him, smarting and sulking, ungraciously deciding they’d lost one unfeeling arse of a doctor only to have him replaced by a well-intentioned unfeeling arse of a doctor.  Okay, maybe that wasn’t nice or fair, but neither was Catherine trying to make him feel any better over Eleth.  Sometimes suffering was just, and sometimes it was necessary; at present, nothing was going to change his pig-headed mind about that.

In the evening Gwen came up to say hello and goodbye.  She brought the laptop he’d requested earlier in the day and, seeing how much of an effort it was for him to be communicative, she gave him a quick hug and left him to his far more manageable solitude.

Ianto booted up the computer and approached his studies with great purpose, wanting to be good at his chosen subject so Jack could be proud of him, because he was too far beyond feeling proud of himself.  His determination lasted for all of twenty seconds.  Then he sat back with a sigh and got on with some intensive missing of Jack.  When the screensaver kicked in he stared with confusion.  Gone was the standard Torchwood swirl, and in its place was a black screen with plain white writing scrolling past.  And death shall have no dominion.  He didn’t remember putting that there, though he appreciated the sentiment, particularly under the present circumstances.  And death shall have no dominion.  He also couldn’t figure out why that should remind him of Owen.  A shudder ran down his spine and he hurriedly shut down the laptop, returning to his pacing as he willed Jack back to him.

And death shall have no dominion.

It was stuck in his head now, stirring the scraps he remembered from his schooldays.  Bloody poem, he growled as he rebooted the laptop and went looking for the complete piece.  He found it easily and read, and re-read.

“‘Though they be mad and dead as nails’,” he quoted aloud.  “‘Though they be mad and dead as nails.’”  He turned to Jack’s corpse with a dull smile.  “Know you, did he?”

And death shall have no dominion.

Ianto bided his time and hoped that Dylan Thomas knew what he was talking about.

…

Night again.  Ianto was back on the bed, awake and empty-headed when it happened.  Initially he thought he was mistaken, because there was no whooping gasp, no convulsion as the first breath of a resumed life was taken.  Jack was dead and not breathing, and then Jack was breathing and not dead.  Breathing quietly and steadily, like he’d simply been asleep all the time.  Ianto’s first reaction was that this was a bad sign, that Jack had returned in a coma, exactly as he’d feared.  Then the cold, unresponsive fingers that Ianto had been clutching for hours started to lose their deathly chill, and they creakily curled around Ianto’s.  So Ianto’s second reaction was a lurch of hope in his gut that very nearly overwhelmed the trepidation in his mind.

“Jack?” he asked in a whisper.  “Jack?”

“Tired,” Jack slurred back.

Beyond the frantic hespokehespokehespoke rattling through Ianto’s head, his third reaction was basically ‘What the fuck does that tell me?’ as he tried to work out if this was Lost Jack and his pre-death weariness talking, or Sane Jack recovering from a difficult and unusual death, and still full of the toxins that had necessitated his demise in the first place.  But at least he was alive.  Jack was alive, and doing that wonderful breathing thing, and speaking, and…  If there hadn’t’ve been so many fears and worries to deal with, Ianto would’ve started celebrating on the spot – champagne, fireworks, the lot.  Now though, because of those fears and worries, he needed more.

“Jack?” Ianto demanded, and leaned up to switch on a light and stare at Jack’s face, noting the colour creeping back, pink flush diluting the ghostly white-grey.  Ianto gently pushed the towel away from Jack’s forehead; the wound had healed as perfectly as ever but how much significance was there in that?  “Jack!”

Jack’s right eyelid peeled back a fraction, and despite the sleepiness Ianto was certain he saw recognition there, it was clear and immediate.  Or was he fooling himself?  Now he appeared to be the one not breathing.

“Jack?”

Jack moved stiffly to put his arm around Ianto and bring him into a rather awkward hug, settling him on his chest with a satisfied grunt.

“There’s nothing that can’t wait until morning,” Jack said hoarsely, as he rested his chin on Ianto’s head and plummeted rather than drifted back to sleep.

The body beneath Ianto was heating up, and Jack’s heart was pounding in his ear.  Too good to be true?  Too simple, too wanted, too…?  Too everything, and everything didn’t matter.  For the moment nothing mattered beyond Jack being alive, and until he could come to terms with the fact that, to some degree or another, Jack was safely restored, Ianto had little choice but to hold onto Jack so tightly that he made him creak uncomfortably in his sleep, and even then his grip didn’t relax.

More time passed and Jack slept, breathed, snored, his heart kept beating, and his arms shifted, trying to get comfortable around Ianto’s too tense body.  Ianto finally accepted that Jack wasn’t going anywhere.  This was Jack, and Jack was doing what Jack did.  Being dead and then being alive.  It shouldn’t have been shocking by now, but it was…shocking.  Shocking and liberating.

“Jack?”

Ianto moved just enough to be able to see Jack’s face, and prodded.  And prodded.  Jack moaned as he approached consciousness, trying to stretch despite the restrictions presently being placed on him by the abnormal clinginess of his partner.

“What?”

“Who am I?”

Jack seemed surprised by that, so surprised in fact that it threatened to wake him fully.  He yawned and peered at Ianto.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No.”

“Alien intervention and you’ve lost your memory?”

“No.”

“Then you know who you are.”

“Who?”

“I know what you are, especially when I’m trying to…”

“Jack…”

“Go to sleep, Ianto,” Jack murmured, re-settling Ianto and pressing a kiss into his hair.  “Go to sleep.”

Once again Jack’s breathing deepened, and Ianto finally let himself be reassured.  If this was a dream he’d welcome it, reality be damned, for a few hours at least.  He began to relax, and his muscles twitched and spasmed, almost painfully, after how tense they’d been for so long.  He slipped a hand under Jack’s shirt, wanting to feel the rhythm of his heart beneath warm skin; Jack’s nipple pebbled at once under his palm, responding quickly and easily, and Ianto gave a muted groan.  Could he have his Jack back?  Could he have one minor miracle in the midst of all the doom, drama and crises?  Clueless and weary, he let himself join Jack in sleep; a few solid hours and, with any luck, he’d be fighting fit and ready for when the next monster – figurative or otherwise – in this convoluted life turned around and bit him on the arse.

…

“What’s going on?”

Ianto jumped at Jack’s words.  He’d been up for several hours and was now playing on his laptop, trying to be quiet and not giving in to the temptation to ‘accidentally’ wake Jack.  Now Jack was sitting up and stretching, scrubbing his fingers through his hair and apparently quite untroubled by the need to pick out dried blood.  In fact, he appeared completely…Jack.

“How are you feeling?” Ianto asked, making a conscious effort to behave as normally as possible when what he actually felt like doing was pouncing on Jack and submitting him to an inch-by-inch, neuron-by-neuron examination of his physical and mental state.

“Exhausted,” Jack admitted.  He drew breath to speak but his words were lost to surprise as he stared at his surroundings.  “Where are we?”

“The Hub.”

“This is…  This isn’t…  I’m hoping I haven’t sidestepped a reality, so…?”

“This used to be the boardroom.  Then the greenhouse.  Now these are your quarters.  You don’t remember the changes at all?”

“Nope.  Nice though.  Your doing?”

“Yes.  It was the most practical answer at the time.”

“Answer to what?”

In his mind Ianto sped through a few dozen answers to that question.  They were all equally as difficult.

“You couldn’t use your old quarters.  I think…the association, y’know, being underground…”

“The entire Hub is underground.”

“Being more underground.”

Their eyes met, and Jack stopped pretending not to understand exactly what Ianto was saying.

“Thank you,” he offered softly.

“I did what I could to help.”

With a grateful smile, Jack rose and wandered into the bathroom for a shower.  Ianto already had a rubbish bag on hand, and with Jack out of the way he had access to the ruined towels and pillow; in a rush he gathered them up, doing his best not to look at their gory state.  With a little anxious fumbling he finally managed to shove them into the bag and securely tie the neck, ignoring the fact that his hands were shaking by the time he hurried to the kitchen and rammed the bag into the waste chute, sending the gruesome package to the incinerator.

The bullet that had killed Jack – that Ianto had killed Jack with – had been lodged in one of the towels and fallen to the floor.  Now Ianto retrieved it, staring in horrified fascination at the flattened nose, indicative of the kind of damage sustained by passing through a substance such as bone.  Another warped memento to hoard alongside his bag of dirt, the stained bullet went into an envelope from Jack’s bureau, and then into Ianto’s pocket.

Ianto had just enough time to rearrange the remaining pillows, sit back down at his computer, and compose himself before Jack emerged, naked and flushed pink from the heat of the water.  He paused and once again studied his new quarters, noting how at home Ianto seemed.

“This feels new to me but looks old to you,” Jack observed.

“Couple of months.”

“Couple of months,” Jack repeated to himself.  “And I don’t remember.”  He looked back to Ianto.  “Should I be worried?”

“I don’t know.  I hope not, not now.  You’ll need a few tests, I think, blood tests.  Catherine—  You won’t know Catherine, but she was your choice, she’ll need to…”

“Choice of what?”

“Doctor.”

There was a painful pause.  Ianto was desperately hoping that Jack wouldn’t ask why they were replacing Owen.  He didn’t.  In thoughtful silence he tracked down his clothes and began to dress.  He’d got as far as t-shirt and trousers when he gave a shake of the head and climbed back onto the bed to be baffled in comfort.

“Okay.  Catherine will be taking blood,” Jack established.  “For?”

Ianto rose and came to him, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the mattress and giving Jack a weak smile.

“You’ve been ill.  The loss of your memory was just one symptom.”

“I was ill?  I’m never ill,” Jack protested, but the expression on Ianto’s face obviously convinced him otherwise.  “How ill?”

“Heading for a coma.”

Jack’s eyebrows shot into his hairline.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Then…I died?  No, if it was a coma…  Ianto?”

Ianto swallowed hard, hating the memory.

“I had to, umm…”

Jack’s eyes abruptly widened and his hand went to the back of his head, as if suddenly remembering and making sense of the debris he’d found there prior to his shower.

“You…”

“I shot you.”

“You shot me.”

“Yes.”

“You killed me.”

“Yes,” barely emerged.

Jack moved closer, his hand over Ianto’s wrist.

“Are you okay?”

Ianto’s nod rapidly became a shake of the head.

“Not especially.”

“Ah, Ianto,” Jack murmured, drawing Ianto nearer until he could hug him.  “Thank you for helping me.  I’m sorry it had to be that way.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Ianto mumbled into Jack’s shoulder, content within Jack’s affection, affection that Ianto knew couldn’t and wouldn’t last once all recent events had been disclosed.

But for now he shut his eyes and absorbed Jack’s warmth and scent, and wasn’t even slightly phased by the slow sideways slump and Jack subsequently snoring in his ear.

…

Jack.  It may have started as a dream, but as Ianto drifted to consciousness he was aware of Jack’s fingertips trailing over his cheek, tracing his jaw.  Ianto groaned and turned toward the attention, and—  Shit!  He’d been here before.  John fucking Hart!  And…no, no, no, NO!

Ianto flailed and scrambled off the bed, waking fully as he hit the floor.  Within seconds, Jack was peering over the edge of the mattress.

“Ianto?”

It was Jack.  Not Hart.  Jack.

“I’m…I’m…  Yes.  Right.  Okay.”

Jack’s hand snaked out and grabbed the neck of Ianto’s t-shirt, drawing him back onto the bed.

“This one of mine?” he grinned as he smoothed out the tee.

“Yup,” Ianto admitted cagily.

“Suits you.  And…”  Jack explored the scruffy hair and the stubble.  “What happened to you?” he chuckled.  Ianto just shook his head.  “I like it,” Jack grinned.

The hands smoothing the t-shirt stopped over Ianto’s heart, frowning at the intense pounding.  He peered at Ianto’s troubled face.

“Why d’you jump away?”

More bloody honesty, and Ianto knew he had to get this over with.

“Because…  Because the last time I was woken up like that…  Was horrible.”

Jack’s expression wobbled between shocked and apologetic.

“I can’t remember, what did I do?”

“It wasn’t you, Jack.  If it had been you it would have been wonderful.”

“It wasn’t me,” Jack repeated, hurt creeping into his voice.  “Then…who?”

Ianto stared at Jack, aghast.

“I wasn’t screwing around, how can you think that?” Ianto demanded.

“You said…”

“I’ll tell you.  I just…  I don’t know how you’ll take this – any of this – and I’m…  I don’t want to upset you.”

“Don’t tell me and I promise you I’ll be more than upset.”

“C’mon, Jack, as if I’d ever—”

Ianto pulled Jack into a hug, feeling the slightest resistance before Jack relaxed against him.

“Who?” Jack asked quietly.  “How, why, when.”

Ianto drew back to look into Jack’s face.

“I’m not the one who’s going to hurt you.”  Jack frowned a question.  “John Hart,” Ianto told him, voice amazingly contained considering the way that name churned his guts over.

Jack’s expression hardened.

“What’s he done?”

Ianto thought about where to start.

“You were ill, you didn’t know me, and one of the searches I ran on your condition brought up a file that may have been able to help you.  But I couldn’t understand the language, and I was desperate to, so…  I know you’ll be angry, however I explain this,” Ianto sighed miserably.  “I took a drug that’s meant to enhance mental ability in the hope that I’d be able to repair the mainframe’s translator.”

“What kind of drug?”

“Alien.”

“Ianto!  You could have killed yourself!”

“I was past caring about me.  I wanted you back and I’d’ve done anything.  No,” he quickly corrected himself.  “Almost anything.  I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do John Hart.”

Jack looked shocked, and Ianto suffered a split-second’s doubt as to whether Jack would believe this of his ex-partner.

“When you say do…?”

“The drug had side-effects that I needed to sleep off, so Rhys took me home and I went to bed.  I was eventually woken by Hart kissing me.”

“He thought you wanted him?”

“No.  It turned out that he was the one who’d—  This sickness you were suffering from.  You were poisoned.”

“Poisoned?”

“Yes, and Hart was the one who poisoned you.  He openly admitted it and…  Apparently you’re quite valuable, even trapped in a living death, and…”

“He was going to sell me?”

The waves of anger emanating from Jack were almost visible to the naked eye.

“Collect a bounty, yes.  He told me that, then showed me a vial that he said contained the antidote.  He made it quite plain how he expected me to earn it.”

“I’m going to find that piece of shit and—”

Shaking with rage, Jack was on his feet and heading for the door when Ianto sprang after him and caught his arm, stopping and turning him.

“There’s more,” Ianto explained.

“You mean…  How far did he…”

“Nothing like that.”

Jack calmed fractionally.

“Tell me.”

“I managed to find one of your guns, a blaster you kept tucked into the bed.”  Jack nodded.  “I shot him,” Ianto said simply.  “I had to get the vial, but I couldn’t – wouldn’t…”

“Don’t you dare apologise for anything, especially not for shooting that scum.  My job, but thanks for doing it.”

“Would you have left him to die in agony, though?”

“You left him?  You shot him and you left him?” Jack established, and without any hint of disapproval.

“He’s at my home now.  His body.  I had to get back here before…”

“How long ago was this?”

“I, er…  I’ve lost track.  A few days?”

“You didn’t see him die.”

“No, but…”

“Then we have to go and check.”

“Jack, please, there’s so much more that I have to tell you.”

“Does it involve any immediate threat?”

“No.”

“Then it can wait.  Right now you either have a dead body decomposing in your flat – and you know how much that is going to stink – or Hart’s wounded, mad as hell, and…”

“It gets worse.  Everything gets worse.”

“You’re alive, Gwen’s alive, Rhys is alive, the world’s not ending, yes?”

“Yes.”

“That’s my main priorities covered.”  Jack stopped abruptly.  “Gwen knows you shot me?”  Ianto nodded.  “She knows I’m back?”

“I phoned her earlier.”

“Great, I don’t have to explain a thing.  Now…  We look for Hart, then…  However much worse you think it gets, you talk and I listen.”

“Don’t you even want to know why I left him?”

“Unless it was for the sheer joy of watching him die, I can’t think of a good reason to have stayed.”

“Honestly?  After all, he meant something to you once.”

“What matters now is that he’s harmless.  He’s no lost love, he’s a pain in the ass, and what he tried with you—  Let’s just go and deal, okay?”

Easier said than done: in the midst of grabbing shirts and shoes and guns and coats, Gwen rushed in to welcome Jack back, and then Catherine arrived to formally introduce herself to Real Jack by way of a large needle and several blood collection tubes.  Gwen’s plastered wrist was noticed in passing, but a few words from Ianto prevented the full story from being told just yet, although it earned him Gwen’s most intense worried face.  The first chance he got, Jack snatched at Ianto’s hand and hauled him downstairs and out through the cog door, detouring to collect the SUV from the car park.

“What do you think of Catherine?” Jack asked as he revved the engine and they departed with a squeal of tyres.

“A good doctor, but that’s irrelevant now.”  Jack threw him a questioning glance.  “She’s not staying.”

“Why not?  Or is that a part of the worse?”

“Most decidedly worse.”

“Then like I said, it can wait.  Now I want to concentrate on thinking up some fatally atrocious punishment for the man who poisoned me, should he be unlucky enough to be alive.”

They lapsed into silence, Jack grim and pensive, and Ianto sharing his attention between the road and Jack, trying to concentrate on what lay ahead, but too preoccupied with his partner becoming his ex-partner when the truth about Gray emerged.

“Ready for this?” Jack enquired as they pulled up outside the building that housed Ianto’s flat.

“I’ve done clean-ups before, I’m an old hand.”

They raced from the SUV, taking the stairs to Ianto’s floor rather than the lift.  In the stairwell, Jack picked up the conversation from the car.

“This is different, this is your home.”

“Doesn’t matter.  I’ve already decided to move.”

“Into the Hub?” Jack said lightly.

Ianto fell up the next two steps.

“I hadn’t considered that, no.”

“Oh.”  Jack seemed quite put out.  “Okay.”

“It’s not…”

“Forget I mentioned it.  Takes a particular kind of hermit to live in a hole in the ground.”  Realising what he’d said, Jack staggered to a halt with a full body shudder.  “Point taken about the new quarters,” he threw over his shoulder to Ianto.

They arrived at Ianto’s front door and Jack entered first, not keen to be dead again so soon if Hart was lying in wait, armed to the teeth, but it was a far better option than letting Ianto lead the way.

“Smells too fresh in here,” Jack whispered as they made their way along the hall; Ianto agreed with a discontented hmm.

They burst into the bedroom to find exactly what they both now expected: a corpse-free area that had recently seen a bit of a tussle, resulting in several blood stains on the floor and wall.  A rapid check established that the flat was free of dead bodies.  Ianto sank onto his sofa, thoroughly disappointed with himself.

“He played me.”

“He counted on you not being a cold-blooded murderer.  That’s slightly different.”

“Not different enough.  I let him get away.  I had him here and…  I can’t believe this.  How?  His leg was shattered, he was spitting blood.  How did he get away?”

“I think we’d’ve heard by now if he’d simply crawled off somewhere and died.”

“But how—  Nanogenes?  Like the ones you used to have access to?”

“No.  I asked him.  For Tosh.  He still thought he was in with a chance, he would have handed them over.”

“So – somehow – he lives to fuck us over another day.”

“Not if I catch up with him first.”

“Can’t believe I let him go.  I’m sorry.”

“Don’t blame yourself.”  Ianto gave a sarcastic snort of a laugh, and Jack looked at him curiously.  “Ianto…”

“Sit down, I’ll make some coffee.”

Ianto never made it to the kitchen: moments later he found himself leaning in the bedroom doorway, staring at the blood stains and the unmade bed.

“What are you thinking?” Jack asked as he came and leant against Ianto’s back, slipping an arm around his waist and nuzzling the burgeoning waves on the rear of his head.

Ianto’s hand slid over Jack’s, their fingers entwining.

“Other than the obvious?  Don’t know.”

“What’s the obvious?”

“You, me, and a bed, and you’re asking what the obvious is?”

“Hey…”  Jack playfully nipped Ianto’s ear.  “Did you have fun with me?”

“Sorry?”

“During my forgetful phase?”

“You didn’t have a forgetful phase,” Ianto tersely corrected him.  “You weren’t here by the end.  You lost your mind, and I…I lost you.  It was—”  Ianto caught his breath and tried to be calm.  “Unbearable.  It was unbearable.”

“I’m here now.”

Ianto twisted around, about to explain to Jack that once the truth was out, Ianto was the last person he’d want to be making veiled offers to, but when he saw the familiar invitation in Jack’s eyes he couldn’t resist it: his mouth sought Jack’s and…Ianto groaned in pleasure as he was kissed back, enthusiastically and expertly.  Before he could even think about what he was doing he was pushing Jack’s coat off his shoulders and dragging his lover to the bed by the waistband of his trousers, tearing into his clothes with a fervour that Jack might have laughed at if he hadn’t been quite so highly aroused by it.

Half-dressed, they tumbled flat, Ianto wrapping his hand around Jack’s erection and squeezing tightly enough to make Jack suck in a sharp breath.

“What’s that for?”

Ianto squeezed again, adoring how hard Jack was for him.

“You’ve been impotent,” Ianto explained, “in mind and body, and…”

“Impotent?” Jack repeated, a shocked squeak of a word.  “Impotent?  Sure you’re not confusing me with someone else?”

Ianto kissed him again, squirming and wriggling until he was above Jack, and their clothes were parted enough to allow their erections to touch.

“Oh, fuck,” Ianto gasped.  “Fuck.”

“Think we’ve got time?”

“To what?” Ianto asked hazily, rather preoccupied with watching their cocks sliding together.

“Fuck?” Jack suggested.

Time wasn’t the issue, Ianto knew, it was Jack hating him later for taking advantage in very questionable circumstances.

“This,” Ianto encouraged, “this is…”

Jack reached between them and took them both in one hand, grinning with satisfaction at Ianto’s lusty moan as he began a firm stroke, his knuckles soon glistening with their pre-come.

“I can see I’ll be making up for lost time.”  Jack started to sound a little breathless himself now.  “Take you away maybe.  I know this place where…”

“No,” Ianto told him gruffly.

“No?”

Ianto shook his head, not wanting to hear of plans that would never come to fruition, just needing the here and now, and encouraging Jack’s lust to be mindless – thoughtless – to match his own.  Sensing Jack was about to speak, to question, Ianto smothered any possibly disastrous words with searing kisses, frantically fucking Jack’s fist, grinding his cock into Jack’s and successfully wiping their minds for the short, frenzied time it took to bring them both to loud and vigorous orgasms.

“Fuck,” Ianto panted as he collapsed onto Jack.  “Fuck.”

Jack caught his breath and started to laugh…

“Missed me, huh?”

…rolling them so he was on top, leaning down to pepper Ianto’s mouth with a dozen kisses.

“How good is that?” Ianto giggled in light-headed response.  “Having sex with a body, not with my own hand.  Bloody excellent.”

Jack kissed Ianto again, teasing with the tip of his tongue.

“Sex with a body?  I’d better keep you out of the morgue.”

“Your body,” Ianto corrected emphatically.  “Your body.  You.  You, Jack.”

The kisses became tender and comforting; Ianto squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting Jack to read him as easily as he imagined he could currently be read.  Too late; Jack had seen his mood change.

“Don’t shut me out,” Jack murmured as he shifted and settled alongside Ianto.

“I’m not…”

“Yes, you are.  And you’re unpleasantly adept at it.”  Jack nuzzled Ianto’s cheek, trying to re-establish contact.  “What’s wrong?”

Ianto sighed heavily as reality swamped him, turning his head to accept Jack’s kisses, slowly daring to open his eyes.

“There’s so much to tell you.”

“Like?”

“Like…”  Ianto gazed into Jack’s relaxed face and couldn’t bear to erase the fondness there.  “Like how embarrassed I am about the sex being so important.”

“We like our sex.”

“You were ill, we couldn’t find an answer, and I was sulking about missing out on a few rounds of shagging.  Not exactly commendable.”

“Of course you missed the sex.  You’re a very honest person.”  Ianto frowned at that dubious statement.  “When we’re together like this, it’s the one time we get to be completely open with one another.  I’m not surprised you missed it.  If things had been the other way around, I would have missed it too.”

Jack’s talk of his honesty made Ianto curl up and die inside.  He had to tell him about Gray, and soon.  But for now he selfishly held onto Jack, savouring a few peaceful minutes of undeserved contentment, and relishing the way that Jack obliviously and tenderly held his brother’s murderer in return.

The briefest of respites, then they were up and rearranging their clothes.

“Did he seem sane?” Jack asked before clarifying: “Hart.”

“Angry that you’d rejected him, but sane, yes.”

“We need to find him.”

“I expect, if he’s still alive, he’ll find a way of attracting our attention sooner or later.”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed.  “And when he does I want you out of the firing line, Ianto.  He owes you, big time.  I won’t risk you.”

“If he’s prepared to go to any lengths to take you, don’t you think that I’m the least of our worries?”

“Truth?” Jack offered, and Ianto nodded.  “I’m furious over what he did to me, but…  What he tried to do to you?  Sends me so far past furious that the word hasn’t been invented.”

“What he did to you was…”

“Business.  He may have been angry but, if he already had a bounty lined up for me, it was business.  What he did to you, on the other hand, was personal.  Believe me, I’ve taken it personally.”

Ianto turned his back on Jack, ostensibly so he could tidy the bed, but in fact to hide the perplexed expression that must have been too obviously on his face.  He was experiencing that odd feeling again, the one that suggested Jack loved him, and…  That was Mad Jack, not Sane Jack.  Mad Jack, and it led Ianto to suspect that the toxin Hart had poisoned Jack with had hibernated during his death and been reborn with him.  The thought filled him with a level of despair he refused to share with his partner.

“Ianto?”

“Sorry?”

“Haven’t you been listening?”

“Uh…  Probably not.”

“I was saying – edited highlights – impotent?  Me?  Really?”

“Impotent, you, really.”

“CCTV footage?”

Ianto chose to ignore that, turning back with a neutral expression and a professional air.

“We’ll head back to the Hub, check the readings for the day I shot Hart and see if we can find some kind of energy spike to suggest that he left here in any way other than on his hands and knees.  Knee.”

“What else have I forgotten?” Jack asked abruptly.  The colour drained from Ianto’s face.  “Other than ‘worse’,” Jack quickly specified.  “Us, Ianto.  Anything I need to know?”

“Us?  Umm…” Ianto stammered.  “Just…  That while you were buried under Cardiff, I—”

Realising what he was about to admit, Ianto clammed up.

“You…?” Jack prompted.

“Nothing actually.  No.  Yes.  Missed you.  It doesn’t matter.  We’d better…”

Ianto left the room in a rush; Jack watched him go with doting amusement.  He wasn’t a fool, and regarding this subject he didn’t need to remember to know.  With a contented smile on his face, he grabbed his coat and followed Ianto out into the hall.

In those few seconds away from Jack, Ianto had come to the conclusion that he had to get this over with, let Jack have the truth and decide where they went from there.  When Jack emerged from the bedroom, Ianto ushered him into the living room and insisted he sit.  Jack sat.  The contentment he’d felt was short-lived and now his mind was racing as he tried to imagine how much worse ‘worse’ could be.  Ianto was pacing, fists clenched, body virtually thrumming with stress.

“Ianto…”

“We need to talk.”

“Then let’s…”

“You’re going to hate me.  I’m not ready for that, I only just got you back.”

“Can it wait?”

Ianto fell still, staring at Jack with a haunted expression.

“No.”

Starting to feel a little queasy, Jack leaned back in his chair; he grit his teeth and gestured for Ianto to proceed.  Which Ianto seemed unable to do, going back to pacing as he ineffectively sought the necessary words.

“Why did you leave Hart?” Jack suggested rather than asked, thinking back to their conversation prior to leaving the Hub.

Ianto nodded, as if accepting that was as good a place as any to begin.

“Right.  Hart.  Hart and…  I shot him.  You know that.  But the blaster was stronger than I anticipated and it sent him flying, smashed him into the wall beside the window.  While he was dazed I got dressed and found the vial – the supposed cure, lying bastard, supposed because it wasn’t, which is why I had to—  Sorry.  I shot him, and…I kicked his gun under the bed.  His gun.  I have to see if it’s still there.”

“Later.”

“But…”

“Later, Ianto.”

Ianto nodded and licked his lips nervously.  Jack could see all kinds of emotions behind his eyes, despite his attempt at neutrality.  Then…it was as if something inside the man broke, as if he was giving up.  Ianto sank onto the sofa, directly opposite Jack.

“I’m sorry, Jack.”

“For shooting Hart?” Jack frowned.

Ianto shook his head.

“He had a device to free Gray, and he fell on it when I shot him.  It was activated.”

“Gray?” Jack questioned weakly.  Ianto appeared not have heard, caught up in telling his own traumatic story.

“Hart told me that he’d gone back in time to interfere with the cryogenics equipment, reset it to its original specifications, so that…”

“…it could revive the people in the chambers,” Jack finished for him.

“Yes.  And once he showed me that device, showed me what I’d done, I was so frightened of the consequences, all I could think of was getting back to the Hub, because I knew that Gwen was in danger, Catherine might have been back from London, Rhys might’ve been around, and…and…Eleth,” Ianto’s voice wobbled to a halt.

“Eleth?” Jack asked, gently because of Ianto’s very apparent upset.

“You don’t remember her at all?”  Jack shook his head.  “She came through the Rift, escaping from the war on her own world.  Like a child really.  When you didn’t know better, you thought she was my daughter.”

“How does this…”

“She was thrilled to be here, happy to live in a bloody cell and make tea instead of digging for explosives with nothing more than her hands.”  In a quick, jerky movement, Ianto was up and away, as if he could escape the memory.  Nothing was that simple.  “She thought she was safe here.  I told her she was safe and she trusted me.  I encouraged her to trust you and Gwen and Rhys and Catherine.  She had no reason not to trust Gray.”

Ianto sensed Jack close, then he was being carefully brought about; it was only when Jack wiped his thumbs over Ianto’s wet cheeks that Ianto realised he was crying.

“Gray killed her?”

“Yes.”

Jack eased Ianto into an embrace.

“Oh, Ianto…”

“She was an innocent, I should have saved her.”

“It wasn’t your fault, it was Gray.  Where is he now?  Is he back in—”

With a shudder, Ianto’s grip on Jack tightened; it was the equivalent of spelling Gray’s fate out in letters ten feet high.  It was several minutes before Ianto found the courage to speak.

“Jack, I…”

“Don’t,” Jack choked out.  “You don’t have to say anything.”

“It was me, though.  I did it.  I had to do it.  How can I ever put that right?”

Jack said nothing, but he kept hugging Ianto, a strange kind of consolation that felt entirely devoid of comfort.  When he finally, gingerly, let Ianto go, he returned to the SUV in silence.  Ianto thought he might drive off without him, but Jack waited until Ianto was on board, then took them to the Hub.  Once inside, and without exchanging a word or a look with Gwen, Jack went to his office, shut the doors in a bid for complete privacy, and called up all the CCTV footage of his time ‘away’.

Ianto trailed behind in complete despondency.

“He knows then?” Gwen quietly asked, coming and putting an arm around Ianto’s waist.

“He knows,” Ianto confirmed.

“We’ll get through this.”

Tears stung Ianto’s eyes at Gwen’s baseless optimism, and he quickly changed the subject.

“Where’s Catherine?”

“Gone.”

“When you say gone…?”

“To London, with Jack’s blood samples.”

“How did she seem?”

Gwen considered.

“Not happy.”

There was every possibility that his worst fears were being realised.  Leaving Gwen, Ianto went to his workstation and sat, head in hands, despairing at the prospect of losing Jack all over again – in fact again and again and again – due to John Hart’s malice and a chemical in Jack’s system that was as extraordinary and undefeatable as the man himself.

…

Ianto slowly but surely pulled himself back together, and began searching for any kind of clue as to how Hart had managed to leave his flat, bearing in mind the injuries he’d sustained.

Gwen was helping, and if she felt let down in any way by Ianto being slightly economical with the truth regarding John Hart dying in agony, she wasn’t letting it show.

“Next time we’ll make sure,” she said with her usual determination, and got down to work.

They searched every scrap of data that might have been relevant but eventually concluded that the gadget that had freed Gray and crippled their systems had also prevented Hart’s method of escape being recorded.

Ianto tried to call Catherine.  Voicemail.  No surprise there then.

“She’s really not coming back,” Gwen said as they slumped on the sofa.

“I don’t blame her.”

Ianto sipped his coffee and studied Gwen.

“What?” she asked.

“Did Jack ever talk to you about leaving?”

“Jack’s leaving?”

“No, you.  You leaving.”

Gwen looked bereft.

“Jack wants me to leave?”

“It was my idea.”

“You want me to leave?”

“I want you to live,” Ianto stressed.  “I wanted him to talk to you, to let you know you could resign.  No RetCon, and no certain death in your immediate future.  You’ve got somewhere to go, Gwen, someone who can make a life outside Torchwood worthwhile, and…  I never want to be standing beside Rhys at your mock funeral.”

A nerve was most definitely touched; Gwen took her time thinking over Ianto’s suggestion.

“How would you manage?” she asked in due course.

Ianto shrugged.

“Find a few well intentioned, solitary losers who have nothing else to live for, I suppose.”

“That how you see yourself?”

Ianto glanced over to Jack’s office, where the captain was engrossed in CCTV footage.  Ianto spent a few seconds wondering if he’d arrived at Gray’s death yet, then looked miserably back to Gwen.

“I think so.”

“Dump him.  I’ll set you up with somebody really nice.”

Ianto wasn’t sure if Gwen was joking or not.

“I think I’m the one who’ll be dumped, actually.  Unsurprisingly.”

“No.”

Ianto waited for more.  It wasn’t forthcoming.

“That it?  No?”

“That’s it.”

“Without even talking to him?”  Gwen nodded.  “Right.”  One long pause later: “What do you think then?  About going.  We could meet up for lunches instead of post-mortems.”

“I can’t.  You know I can’t.”

Ianto accepted that with a brief smile.  He did know.  And he knew exactly how he felt about it.

“Good.”

…

Thankfully the rest of the working day was full of distractions, with the Rift supplying scraps to locate and study, a clutch of UFO sightings over Barry that turned out to be a stunt by a local radio station, and the recovery of certain questionable items of ‘sci-fi interest’ from eBay.

Despite all the comings and goings, the occasional mad rushing about, Jack remained in his office, staring at his monitor as unrecognised weeks of his life passed before his eyes.  Ianto took him sandwiches and coffee at four, receiving a flat ‘thank you’ but not so much as a glance.

Gwen invited Ianto home for dinner with her and Rhys; despite wanting to accept, he had to decline.

“Jack could be in there all night,” Gwen reminded Ianto as she tried her best to change his mind.

“What if he needs me and I’m not here?  After everything he’s been through…”

“What about everything you’ve been through?”

Ianto didn’t have a good answer, just the desire to be available to Jack, whether that was for comfort, information, or whatever punishment was due when you killed someone’s brother.  Gwen left him grudgingly: she might have understood, but she didn’t like it.

At nine Ianto collected the untouched sandwiches and empty mug.  He stood and waited for Jack to acknowledge him, but Jack was completely engrossed in what he was watching.

“Is there anything I can get you before I go?” Ianto enquired, doing his best not to look at what was on the monitor.  No answer.  “Do you need me to stay?  Jack.”

Furiously blinking to moisten eyes that were dry from staring, Jack finally looked at him.

“Sorry, I was…”  Jack frowned.  “You’re leaving?  What’s the time?”

“Just gone nine.”

“Really?”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, no, you go,” Jack encouraged, already turning back to his computer.

“I have to clean up the bedroom at the flat, otherwise I’d…”

“That’s okay, I understand.  Don’t stay up all night scrubbing the carpet, try to get some rest.”

Thinking he probably shouldn’t, but unable not to, Ianto crossed to Jack’s side and stroked the back of his neck, leaning down to lay his cheek against Jack’s hair for a few painful seconds.  Ianto obviously couldn’t see Jack’s smile at that show of affection, all he knew was that the touch Jack reached up to trail over his fingers seemed altogether too sweet, too forgiving.  There were so many questions Ianto wanted to ask, but if the answers were as confusing as Jack’s actions, he risked feeling more disorientated than ever.  So he whispered goodnight, cherished a last stroke to his fingers, and headed for home.

No sign of Hart.  That was welcome.  Not that Ianto was seriously expecting it – how could anyone be moving around on a leg that badly damaged?  Although…if Hart could magically disappear, who’s to say he didn’t have some way to magically mend?  Despite Ianto’s logical and not-so-logical reasoning, he was exceedingly happy once he was safely – safely? – inside his own front door.

The enhanced cleaning agents that he’d borrowed from the Hub worked a treat, and the bedroom carpet and wall were soon stain-free.  It irked him that, although his last encounter in this room was mentally catalogued as Jack; hot; satisfying, the overriding memory was of John Hart, the bastard touching him, kissing him, and infuriatingly not dying.  Jack’s refusal to condemn Ianto for shooting and abandoning Hart had been a relief, and his rage at Hart for trying to coerce Ianto was, in retrospect, an absolute joy.  If Jack could find it in his very generous heart to accept, if not forgive, other actions that Ianto had sincerely believed he had no choice but to take, perhaps they could survive this whole disastrous episode.  However, if Ianto’s actions had put him beyond forgiveness…

Pointless wasting any more time on dwelling over what he couldn’t control or influence.  Ianto grabbed up his pillow and duvet and went to the living room, making up a reasonably comfortable bed on the sofa, and pretending it was the smell of detergent that prevented him sleeping in his bedroom.

Determinedly not thinking about Jack, a dangerous psychopath’s current whereabouts, or what Catherine’s tests might discover, he picked up the local newspaper he’d brought from work and turned to the property section.  An unexpected disquiet rippled through him at the thought of change and, cross at not understanding why, he threw the paper aside.

Self-analysis wasn’t best served at two-thirty in the morning, so Ianto turned out the light, settled down on his makeshift bed and counted sheep in a bid to stop his thoughts careering in random directions.  That worked for all of twenty seconds.  His mind predictably turned to Jack and, when he considered how Jack was presently employed, the anxiety returned with a vengeance.

Not so long ago he’d accepted the need to move on, but that had been with Jack.  If he was honest with himself, Ianto felt that a change was about to occur, one that would be neither wanted nor voluntary, and an immediate future without Jack in his personal rather than professional life was more than disquieting, it was heartbreaking.  He hadn’t wanted to love Jack, but now he did it was deeply and somewhat scarily.

Ianto was very bad at feeling helpless, but the matter was out of his hands, and he had to wait for Jack – more than that, he had to trust Jack, and the astonishing ability the man had to remain magnanimous, even in the most extreme circumstances.

He did trust Jack, of course he did, he had every faith in him.  But had Jack’s reciprocal faith in Ianto been irrevocably shattered?  Ianto had murdered his brother, and even the most generous of individuals had to draw a line somewhere.

Tired of pussyfooting around denial, Ianto allowed himself to be frightened that that line had been unforgivably overstepped, and there was every chance he was about to find himself beyond Jack’s capacity for mercy.

Moving on, yes, a fact of life.  But like this?  His existence couldn’t get any crueller.