A brave face, that’s what was needed, Ianto had decided at five in the morning, a brave face and the courage of his convictions.  He’d replayed the events surrounding Gray’s death over and over in his head, trying alternative permutations and seeking less bloody outcomes, but his way had been the best of an admittedly bad bunch.

If Gray had lived – in any of the scenarios – the rest of them would have died, and God knows what would have happened to Jack.  Even if Gray had eventually been convinced of Jack’s condition he wouldn’t have been satisfied by the prospect of a living death for his brother, he would have taken a chance and killed him in the hope he would revive in the midst of a tableau constructed from the dead bodies of those he loved.  Then, Ianto wasn’t fooling himself, Jack would have faced another of Gray’s malevolent and brutal punishments.

Finding yourself in an impossible situation with no ideal outcome was too often the Torchwood way and, on this occasion, the mere fact that the list of the living was longer than the list of the dead was the closest anyone could get to ideal.

Perhaps a sane Jack could have manipulated his way around Gray’s determination to wreak havoc, but more than likely the only difference would have been watching his people die rather than finding out after the fact.

If Jack couldn’t figure this out for himself, if he could see no way of continuing their personal relationship, then Ianto would accept his decision, and deal with it with dignity and self-respect, there would be no tears or demands or pleas.

The thought of facing Jack was daunting, but he would explain his side of the story if Jack needed to hear it, and there would be deep and genuine empathy for Jack’s loss, but no grovelling apologies, not for doing his job as efficiently as he could in very stressful circumstances.

Ianto was resolved, he was filled with resolution, overflowing with the stuff.  And he was determined it would last.  At least until the moment he next set eyes on Jack’s face.

…

Arriving at work far too early, Ianto let himself into the Tourist Office and, after dithering over the wall control, decided to stay put.  Jack would know he was there – probably – and could easily come and find him if he needed…  What?  Coffee?  Company?  Someone to sack/RetCon/shoot in debatably petty retaliation?

Ianto sat behind the counter and booted up his computer before coming to the conclusion that he had nothing to do that he wanted to do and, today, he was quite happy to belligerently give his more mundane duties a miss.  That was the curse of thinking too much, he supposed – the last thing he needed was to put his life into any kind of perspective – but it prompted him to do something he’d let slip over the past few months.

Unlocking a drawer and reaching to the back, he retrieved his diary.  It was laughable that he still made the effort to keep it private, because he knew from past experience that Jack would defy any and all security measures to have a read any time he was bored.  If Ianto had ever objected then maybe he would have stopped, but it suited Ianto, who could leave veiled messages in the apparently innocent entries that his partner, despite bouts of occasional denseness, would invariably pick up on.

Now though wasn’t about subliminal messages to Jack.  Ianto needed to compose his thoughts and commit to the page a clear, concise record of everything that had occurred from the moment Jack first showed signs of being affected by the drug Hart gave him.  Ianto needed to be reminded of what to look for, and Jack needed to know, full stop.  It might be a difficult and painful exercise, but it was a necessary one, there was no doubt in Ianto’s mind about that.  It would be too easy to slip back into denial should the worst scenario be the true one.  If the drug was still in Jack’s blood.

He’d need to try calling Catherine again, but first he’d make a start on the diary, before he found too good an excuse to set it aside in favour of less important, far easier tasks.

Ianto didn’t notice when Gwen came in, so preoccupied was he with his work, but she saw what he was doing and quietly let herself into the Hub, gesturing an ‘ignore me’ to him when he glanced up, startled by the sound of the wall shifting.

Just before twelve Gwen dragged him away from his work to respond to an anomalous reading care of a diligently unspecified instrument; unsurprisingly, that proved to be an excuse to give him a break and take him down the pub for a meal and a couple of beers.  Rhys joined them and, despite any and all attempts to avoid the subject, Ianto was soon picking their brains and making note of any odd behaviour from Jack that he’d missed or forgotten.

Not for the first time, Ianto watched Gwen and Rhys, their open show of togetherness, and envied what he saw.  Ianto didn’t consider himself to be overly touchy-feely, but it still rankled that it took Jack being mad for him to hold Ianto’s hand in public.  He wasn’t longing for unbridled public displays of affection, he simply wanted to be able to connect if he needed to, regardless of where they were.  He recalled a long ago girlfriend asking him about the hand-holding, if it was possessive, fashionable, or a show of genuine affection; genuine, no doubt, especially as he wasn’t really conscious of doing it; affectionate too, he was an affectionate person, given the chance.

“Stop staring,” Gwen told him with a laugh.

Ianto started, and shook his head at himself.

“Sorry.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Do you think Jack’s an affectionate person?”

Rhys snorted into his beer, and Gwen slapped his thigh.

“He is, yes,” Gwen confirmed.

“But it’s always on his own terms.”

Gwen thought about that and eventually nodded.

“I don’t think that’s necessarily by choice,” Gwen mused.  “Everything revolves around Torchwood.  Whatever the situation, whatever you’re sharing with him, it’s there, he can never disregard the weight of that responsibility.”

“Mistress syndrome,” Rhys announced, “that’s what you’re suffering from.  Jack’s married to Torchwood and you’re the bit on—”  With a yelp, Rhys shut up and leaned down to rub at his harshly kicked ankle.

“He’s got a point,” Ianto conceded.

“Jack loves you, even if he can be a bit crap at showing it.”

“I’m not thinking about love, more about…”  Ianto stopped himself, suddenly aware that what already sounded petty in his own head would become ten times as ridiculous if expressed aloud.  “Forget it.”  He glanced at his watch.  “We should be getting back to work.”

With a sigh Gwen agreed and they stood to leave, Ianto very aware of her apprehensive scrutiny.  After parting with Rhys, Ianto offered Gwen his arm, a friendly gesture that Gwen accepted without any unnecessary dissection, exactly as Jack never would; they returned to the Hub at a leisurely pace.

“I think I’m frightened of anything else changing just yet,” Gwen quietly confessed as they passed the water tower in the Plass.  “If something goes wrong with you and Jack, if you get tired of him…”

“Even if we weren’t together, we’d both still be here.”

“It wouldn’t be the same.”

“I’m not tired of him, all right?  The only something I can foresee going wrong, is Jack not being comfortable with me now because of Gray.  And who’d blame him?”

“I’d give him hell,” Gwen growled with such menace it made Ianto laugh aloud and squeeze her arm to his side in appreciation.  “It works both ways,” she warned, “so don’t you forget it.”

“No, ma’am,” Ianto obediently acknowledged, tongue barely in cheek, as they arrived at the Tourist Office and re-entered the cheerless atmosphere of their workplace.

…

By the time Ianto’s diary was updated, the sun had set and he and Jack were once again the only human inhabitants of the Hub.  Rift activity was low, so much so that Gwen had been able to leave early to oversee some of the changes being made to Bruce’s house; despite there being no immediate need, the hostel had been deemed necessary for the long term, and work was underway to make the house suitable.

After hiding his diary away, Ianto went downstairs for the first time that day, looking forward to some fresh coffee after existing on Nescafe, which a) Gwen could make one-handedly, and b) didn’t involve her confronting Ianto’s scary machine.

A glance showed Jack at his desk, still watching CCTV footage.  Ianto wondered if he’d taken any prolonged breaks, or was in danger of developing the office chair equivalent of bed sores.  He wanted to grab some coffee and Jack’s favourite biscuits, bowl in like there was no conceivable reason not to, snog the man silly and ask if he’d slept at all, or, better still, if he’d like to go to bed and do something other than sleep.

Ianto would never forget the time before he’d had Jack, how much he’d lusted after him.  Nothing much had changed, of course; the only time Ianto didn’t lust after Jack nowadays was when the man was dead.  He supposed it should have been the last of his worries, but he dreaded a return to having such raging desire unfulfilled, especially now he’d know what he was missing.  Whatever assurances he’d given Gwen, would life at Torchwood go on as usual if he and Jack weren’t together?  Lust aside, how would he cope with the loss of intimacy?  The closeness he and Jack had developed warmed him to the very centre of his being, it was something he’d never imagined finding again after his past losses.  There was so much to lose here, and Ianto wasn’t sure he’d cope if this relationship was over, if he had to live with Jack not wanting him, face up to the knowledge that Jack was having sex with someone else, as was bound to happen, or lots of someone elses.  As for the thought of Jack falling in love with someone else…

It didn’t matter that Ianto could do exactly the same, nothing and nobody could replace Jack in his life.  In his heart.

Coffee made, Ianto hesitated with Jack’s mug in his hand.  After a few seconds of pointless fretting, he made his decision.  Leaving his own coffee behind so he’d have a good reason to retreat if he was made to feel unwelcome, Ianto tapped on the office door and waited for a response.  Another ignored tap, and he let himself in, crossing to the desk and placing the coffee slap bang in front of Jack, securing his attention.

“Hello,” Jack said wearily, giving Ianto a faint smile.  He picked up his coffee.  “Thanks for this.”

“Have you eaten?  I could make you something, or nip out for…”

“Don’t go to any trouble.”

“It wouldn’t be.”

Jack replaced the mug and looked at Ianto properly, staring until Ianto was inwardly squirming on the spot.

“I don’t know what day it is,” he finally said, “I don’t even know what month it is.”

“It’s…”

“Don’t tell me.”  Ianto didn’t question why he should keep the date to himself, but he acquiesced with a nod, and watched Jack’s attention return to the monitor.  “I went back too far,” Jack told Ianto quietly, “found Tosh and Owen.  I miss them.”

“Me too,” Ianto agreed.  “Every waking hour.”

“And then, all this…  I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you.”

“You couldn’t help that.”

Abruptly, Jack was on his feet and turning his back on Ianto.

“Couldn’t I?  Ultimately John Hart is my responsibility.”

“Nothing’s that simple.”

“Rhys understands.  I saw the footage, heard what he said to you about this being my fault.  He was right.”

“He wasn’t right; in some ways, he’s completely naive.  Lucky bastard.”

Jack slowly swivelled, glancing at Ianto with a wry smile.

“You always defend me.”

“Not always.  Only when it’s appropriate.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I like it.”

There was a pregnant pause as Jack took up his mug and drank his coffee.

“But…?” Ianto prompted.

“What?”

“There has to be a but.  You like it, but…”

Jack thought, and shrugged.

“No.”

Ianto relaxed a little: this wasn’t Jack building up to the big goodbye?  Apparently he wasn’t about to hear ‘but…you need some you time’ politely standing in for ‘get the fuck out of my life, I hate you for killing my brother’.  Ianto took a step forward; Jack mirrored it with an unhurried step away.  Quick on the uptake, Ianto went into reverse, muttering about his own drink and edging toward the door.  Jack obviously needed to control what happened next, and that was fine, although…

“Jack.  Sorry for what happened at the flat.  I shouldn’t have let things go so far.”

Jack frowned at that, at him, genuinely confused.

“Why?”

“Under the circumstances…”

“It was good,” Jack insisted.  “Good.  More than that, it was…”

The way that Jack’s voice trailed off into thought was too close to Mad Jack for Ianto’s comfort; he resumed his tactical withdrawal, leaving the office.

“It wasn’t wrong,” Jack called after him.  “Don’t be sorry.”

That was…nice?  It wasn’t wrong, so Ianto shouldn’t be sorry.  So Ianto wasn’t sorry.  It suited Ianto to be not sorry, because he wasn’t really sorry at all.  Not sorry but rather flummoxed.  He could be flummoxed anywhere, so he drank his coffee, tidied up, and left.

He walked home via several estate agents, but since Jack had put the insane idea of moving into the Hub into his head anything else seemed less desirable, even when he took into account certain little luxuries a new flat or house could provide, such as daylight and the lack of water running down the walls.  It didn’t matter that living with Jack would never work, or that it wasn’t really what Ianto wanted at all, that wasn’t the point, none of it really mattered because…because in fact…in fact…  In fact, Ianto didn’t have a clue what the point actually was, but he knew it wasn’t that.

His focus changed from property he wasn’t interested in to his reflection in the shop window.  He looked like shit, worn down and worn out, purple bags under his eyes stark against the pallor of his skin.  He had to eat and sleep and stop worrying about Jack, although…  He peered at his watch.  It wasn’t too late, he could call Catherine and perhaps she’d answer the phone for once, establish the facts about Jack.  Almost a good idea.  Almost.  But his suspicions were damning enough, and…  He knew.  Somehow he just knew that Jack was now trapped in a cycle of creeping loss of self and suicide, and there was no way around it unless a medical miracle occurred.

Was that why living in the Hub was not a good, but a necessary move?

Sick and tired of introspection, Ianto stopped into an off-licence on the way home and bought a bottle of decent whisky.  With his mind haunted, and his flat pseudo-haunted, he’d probably have to be paralytic to sleep; that being the case, at the very least he’d do it in style.

…

The Penderyn had been a waste of time: Ianto’s desire to get rat-arsed and pass out only lasted as long as it took to consume a mere dribble of the stuff.  He shoved the bottle into a kitchen cabinet and made himself a plate of pasta instead, content to use a jar of sauce that had staunchly held its ‘in case of emergency’ position for so long it was a good six months past its use by date.  This was hardly an emergency – unless food poisoning was on the cards – but it was hot, filling and welcome, and the only aftertaste was a pleasant hint of normality.

He watched the television for a while, dozing off at intervals but unable to stay asleep; the last time he jerked awake he found himself watching a medical drama he didn’t recognise, but it was enough to shunt Catherine to the forefront of his mind.  He turned off the TV and found his mobile, not wanting to disturb her at such a stupid hour, but hoping her voicemail was activated so he could leave a message.  It was.

“Catherine, this is Ianto Jones.  Well, you know what I want, I was just wondering if you’d made any progress with those tests.  Whether you have or not, could you…”

With an audible blip the call was diverted and Catherine’s voice cut in.

“Ianto, do you know what time it is?”

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“No, insomniac remember?”

“Then…”  Ianto checked his watch.  “Quarter to three.”  Catherine surprised him with a laugh.  “Is there any news?” he asked.

“I’ve been trying to call Jack.  As they’re his results I thought it was only common courtesy.”

“He hasn’t answered?”

“Infuriating man, you’d think he could pick up the bloody phone.”

“Pots and kettles,” emerged unbidden, and Catherine gave another good-humoured snigger.

“Pots and kettles,” she agreed before becoming serious.  “All right, you get to tell him.  He’s still infected.  I told you before, didn’t I, that this drug was brilliantly created?  That’s not the half of it.  It’s almost as if the chemical…”

“He’s still infected,” Ianto interrupted, “does that mean…  Is it stable?  Will it cause the same symptoms as last time?”

“As far as I can tell; I’ll e-mail the details to you.  If you send me more of Jack’s blood at regular intervals I’ll keep you updated as to what’s happening.”

Feeling too shattered to continue the conversation, Ianto mumbled his thanks and a muted goodbye before ending the call.  Although the news was exactly what he’d feared and expected it was shocking to hear it confirmed, draining every scrap of energy from his body, yet simultaneously waking him to a point far beyond sleep.  However grateful he was to the doctor for ending the agony of his waiting, he was cursing her in the same thought for removing any last vestige of hope, and for leaving him with the unenviable task of informing Jack of the test results.

Another little irritation popped out of all this: why wasn’t Jack answering his phone?  The irritation slipped into alarm as Ianto suddenly decided that the drug in Jack’s system had changed somehow, accelerated the rate of mental degradation, and that Jack was wandering around the Hub lost and alone and…  Hart.  There was always Hart.

Ianto was out of the flat in minutes, racing back to work despite telling himself he was being ridiculous, and that an unanswered phone was more about Jack being preoccupied than incapacitated or kidnapped.   Once inside the Hub he forced himself to calm down, suspecting he was about to make a fool out of himself, but at least being a calm fool would allow for some damage limitation.  Jack wasn’t in his office, so Ianto checked his quarters.  No Jack.  Not prepared to waste time physically searching room by room, level by level, he used the CCTV to find Jack, and…didn’t.  Not until he widened his search area and scoured some local roofs Jack had shown a liking for in the past, and there he was, damp, wind-blown, but in one apparently rational piece.

Presumably Catherine had Jack’s office number; Ianto tried Jack’s mobile which, he pointed out rather tersely to himself, he could have done from the comfort of his own sofa.  He watched Jack react to the ringing of his phone, and saw the long moment’s deliberation before Jack chose to answer.

“Yes?”

“Come here,” Ianto told him.

“Where are you?”

“The Hub.”

“Why aren’t you at home, and…this time of the night?  Ianto, what’s going on?”

“I can’t sleep at the flat.  The smell of the chemicals I used to clean up the blood…”

“Will have dispersed by now.”

Ianto winced.  Fucking know-all.

“Just come back, all right,” Ianto insisted.

“Why are you worried about me?” Jack asked knowingly.

“I—  I’m not, I…”

“I’m fine.”  There was a long pause as Ianto braced himself.  “Ianto?”

“No.  No, you’re not fine.  Please come back, we need to talk.”

Jack put away his phone, sent a melancholy look in the direction of the CCTV camera, and nodded.

It seemed an eternity until Jack arrived.  Ianto spent the time constructing, deconstructing, reconstructing any number of ensuing conversations in his head, trying to guess which way Jack would jump.  In many ways Jack could be quite predictable – this, unfortunately, wasn’t one of them.  It didn’t seem possible that he could have misinterpreted what Ianto had been alluding to, so maybe it wasn’t surprising that he was taking forever to return.  This was an inestimable punishment for slighting an ex, and dealing with it wasn’t necessarily something he wanted to share with Ianto.

Or so Ianto thought until Jack walked in, came to him without a word, and swept him into a hug.

“When did you speak to Catherine?” Jack asked without loosening his very welcome grip.

“Just before three.  She tried to call you first.”

“I didn’t want to speak to anyone.”

“Doesn’t matter, she’s going to e-mail her report.”

“But, basically…?”

“It all happens again.”

Jack drew back a few inches and gave Ianto a reassuring smile.

“It could’ve been worse.”

The knee-jerk protest came and went.

“I suppose,” Ianto muttered, saying what he imagined Jack needed to hear.  “You have to know, though…  I couldn’t do it again.  Shoot you.”

“Yes, you could,” Jack disagreed.  “If it was necessary, you’d do it.  That’s your way, Ianto, that’s who you are.”  Jack reached up to stop Ianto shaking his head.  “It won’t come to that.  I’ve thought about it, and the obvious answer is that I shoot myself the moment you notice I’m becoming vague.  From what I saw, it was intermittent at first, I could still be reasoned with.”

“Yes.”

“When we reach that point again, you tell me I’m slipping, and I’ll deal with it.  Okay?  Okay?” Jack prompted when Ianto didn’t immediately answer.

“I don’t have a better suggestion,” was the best Ianto could manage.

“One day I’ll be cured.  If I have to wait a century or two, what does that matter?”

“What if something happens before you’re cured, some time in the future, when you can’t shoot yourself and there’s no-one there to do it for you?”

“Don’t over-think this.”

“But…”

“Don’t,” Jack insisted, bringing Ianto back into a hug.  “If I’m ever in a position where I’m not getting killed involuntarily too many times a year to count I’ll figure something out.  Make provisions.”

“Do that,” Ianto agreed, ever so slightly less grudgingly.

“And it’s no worse than being frozen.”

“I hated that idea.”

“I like get-out clauses.”

“But it’s no better than…”

“Just keep reminding yourself that I’ll be cured one day.  Meantime, carry on watching me like a hawk; don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Not ideal, but Ianto settled for that, switching his concentration to how good it felt to be close to Jack.  It didn’t last long: Ianto felt Jack’s body tighten before receiving a brisk kiss to the cheek in parting, and then Jack was gone, back to his office and his CCTV footage, leaving Ianto with empty arms and all the pleas and apologies he’d sworn he wouldn’t deliver on the tip of his tongue.

Feeling the dismissal keenly, Ianto left once again for home, looking forward to a hot shower, close shave and clean clothes.  Maybe he’d try to fit a nap in.  The thought of his not-haunted bedroom made him shudder.  Right.  Napping: not so likely.  Shower, shave, clothes; local cafe, full English, find an operational hairdresser that opened as early as his sorely missed barber?  Okay, he had a plan.  He took a last, unreciprocated glance at Jack before leaving.  Bit of a lonely one, but he had a plan.