I have a writing exercise I do from time to time. I pick a character, put them in a scene, and write what they're thinking - no dialogue, as little action as possible, just their thoughts as they occur to me. I'm sure there are plenty of stories with Ianto and Jack out there very like this one, but when I finished I thought turned out quite well, so I thought I might as well post it. :)

RETURNING

I expect you think that if you see someone killed, and then watch them die again and again, knowing that they'll come back, that death means nothing to them, you'd get used to it, in the end.

If you think that, you're wrong. You don't get used to it. It doesn't get any easier, to watch it happen. Especially when it happens to a man you care about more than anything else in the world.

Perhaps I'm mistaken. I think that maybe the others have got used to seeing Jack die. He always comes back, doesn't he? That's why he's always the first of us to run into danger, because we all know that if anything happens to him, if he gets shot or stabbed or suffocated, he'll be fine again within minutes.

But I think it takes me longer to heal.

One time, something Jack called a Terileptil came through the Rift. We managed to stun it and drag it down to the Vault, but it woke up just as Gwen was dragging it into a cell. She made it out. But one of us had to go down and deal with it. And Jack said that it should be him, because it wouldn't matter if he got killed.

Is that really what he thinks? That it doesn't matter? I know he's died so many times. But even if it doesn't matter to him anymore, it matters to me. Because whenever I watch it happen, I see the pain in his eyes. And I can't stop myself from thinking about all the other times he's died, and how much agony he's been put through. I've been badly wounded several times. That's an occupational hazard. But never terribly, never fatally. And even then it was painful enough. So what must it be like to die of it?

Jack told me that the first time died, he was killed by the Daleks. I was there at Canary Wharf. I saw those things, and I heard the screams of the people they murdered. Once, long ago in the future, that was Jack. I can't imagine what it must have been like and I don't want to. But I know that Jack suffered it.

And there's always the fear. As I see the light die from his eyes and hear his breathing fade away into cold, heartless silence, I'm always afraid. Because what if he's wrong? What if it isn't going to last forever? What if one day, he just never wakes up? If he doesn't come back?

We thought it was over for him, that time Abaddon killed him. It was a thousand times worse than any injury, seeing his body, feeling how cold he was, and knowing – believing – that he was gone. Gone forever. Gone from me.

We were wrong, that time. He did come back. And he's come back ever since. He says that having us to come back to makes it all worthwhile. But sometimes, when I listen to the things he says about the people he's loved and lost, I wonder if he doesn't wish that he could stay dead. That he could be spared all the suffering.

I don't know what it's like for him. I don't think I'd ever want to live like that. Whenever I see him in pain, it's like I take a knife to my heart. And when I see him die, it's a million times worse.

But even if it spared him that, I wouldn't want him to not come back, because I don't want to lose him. I suppose that makes me selfish, but I can't help it.

I guess that doesn't really matter now. I know deep down that he'll be back. And I'll be here for him every time he comes back, for as long as I can. I'll try to make it worth his returning.

I'm here for him now. I know I can't be forever. I'm not like Jack, and so I will age, and I will die. I don't try to kid myself that I'll live much longer. This is Torchwood. All our agents die young, and there's no reason to believe that I'll be an exception. Someday, Jack will wake up, and I won't be there for him.

But I am now. I am this time.

He died for me. It keeps replaying in my mind. Another Blowfish, another castaway of the Rift, loose in Cardiff. The two of us went out together to stop it, to get it into the Vault before anyone could see it. We didn't expect it to be armed. The moment it saw us, it fired, and Jack threw himself in front of me. It looked like he died quickly. I think it was painless. I hope it was painless.

I shot it, the Blowfish. I was never going to get near enough to stun it. That's where I left it, lying in the shadows of the alley, its blood running red across the pavement, mixing in with the rain. And here I am, kneeling with my back against the alley wall, letting the rain run down my face. I've put Jack, his body, across my knees, cradling his head in my hand. His eyes are closed. Already his body feels colder.

He'll be warm again soon. He'll be breathing, and his eyes will be filled with life and energy and mischief, just as they usually are. But for now he is dead. He's in some other place, or he's nowhere at all.

And I can't help but think… if Jack wasn't immortal, would he have done it? If he had been an ordinary man, would he have stepped in front of me when he saw the Blowfish squeeze the trigger? I like to think that he would have done. I think I would have done for him, if I could have been brave enough. I know I love him enough to have died for him. I just wish I could be certain that he loves me enough to die for me, to properly die for me.

No. No, I don't wish that. I don't. I would never want him to die for me, not permanently. And I don't like it when he dies temporarily for me, either.

But there's no way to stop myself from wondering if he would.

Does he care about me that much? I don't know why he would. I don't think we could be any more different, the two of us. Jack is so much stronger and braver than I am. He's our leader, the one who keeps us together. Me, I'm just the teaboy. Just like Jack said the day he hired Gwen, Ianto Jones exists to clean up after them, get them everywhere on time, look good in a suit. That's my job. That's everything I am. That's all I am. There are times when I just can't understand why someone like Jack would be even remotely interested in a man like me.

He cared enough to take that bullet for me. If I was the one lying dead on the pavement, and he was holding my body, would he care enough to grieve for me?

He would. I know he would. When it comes to Jack, I'm not sure about a lot of things. But I do know that he would care if I died.

It can't be long now. It feels like I've been here hours, but it can only have been minutes. It usually only takes a few minutes. He'll be back with me soon.

The distant roar of a passing car cuts through the night, through the silence. I pull Jack a little closer to me, though I don't think there's anything around now that could harm him. Of course nothing can hurt him anyway, but he always looks so vulnerable when he's dead, just as he seems younger when he's asleep.

He's still not waking up. Why isn't he waking up?

I can't let myself think that. He will wake up. He'll jolt awake with a long, strangled gasp, and we'll cling to each other for a moment. Then he'll get up, and make some sort of laughing comment about how that's yet another shirt ruined. We'll go back to the Hub and we'll dispose of the Blowfish's body, probably making a few jokes about fish and chips and how good it might taste with some lemon juice. It'll be quiet, because at this time of night, we'll be the only ones there. So we'll have an opportunity to talk. I'm not much of a talker, but it's so much easier when there's no one else to hear, just Jack. And I do think he says things to me when we're alone that he would never say in front of anyone else. But though we might talk, neither of us will mention the fact that he died.

Why won't we mention it? Why don't we mention it, most of the time? I suppose we just don't like to think about it. Because it reminds us of too much. It must make him relive the agony, the darkness. It makes me relive the torment of waiting for him. And it makes us think about that day when my luck will run out. Or his will. The day when I'm not there beside him when he resurrects, or the day when he doesn't resurrect. Days I hope never come, though I know the first will, and I'm afraid that the second might.

But neither of those days is today. Today, I'm here for him. And today, he's coming back to me. I know he's coming back.

So come on, Jack. Please. Please open your eyes. Please breathe. Please live.

Jack says there's no afterlife, no heaven. But if there is a god, I think he hears my prayer, because suddenly the silence and the stillness are shattered, and just like that, Jack's back. Alive again.

He breathes in, that long, shuddering breath that I've heard all too many times. Just for a moment, I can see panic flare in those brilliant blue eyes, as if he doesn't know where he is or what happened to him. Then I see the understanding hit him as he remembers what happened, and he calms slightly, but he's breathing hard and I know that he's disorientated, that he needs some time. He often does.

Then he realises who it is who's holding him. My eyes meet his. I'm not imagining it, am I, the look of relief I see in them?

We hold on to each other tightly, like we're both afraid to let go. It's moments like this when I doubt him less, when I doubt us less. When I see him flirting with anyone who stays still long enough, or casting those looks at Gwen (do I imagine those looks? I hope I do) I find myself wondering if I wasn't just the one he settled for, if I wasn't just the one who said yes to him, if he ever wanted me at all. But in moments like this, those doubts, those questions, those fears – they all vanish. I know Jack cares about me. I know that he needs me just as much as I need him.

There's no need for either of us to speak. Jack and I often don't need words to tell each other what we're thinking, or how we feel.

I will never get used to seeing him die. I know that no matter how many times it happens, it will never get any easier for me, or hurt me any less.

But I also know that for as long as I can, I will be there for him. I will wait for him to come back every time, no matter how long it takes. Because if I'm here, always here, then maybe I can make it a little bit easier for him. Make it worth returning.