He closed the door carefully, locked it and hung the key on a little
hook next to the wardrobe. He slipped out of his jacket and placed it
over a hanger, smoothing out wrinkles with his hands before hanging
it in the wardrobe. His shoes followed, neatly lined up next to each
other, shoelaces tucked into the insides. He stared at the closed
doors of the wardrobe for a moment, then he turned and headed for the
bathroom. He washed his hands and proceeded to splash water on his
face. Something was wrong. He looked down at his hands. They were
shaking. He looked up into the mirror to see his reflection.
Something told him that was a bad idea. Something was right. The face
that looked back at him wasn't his own. It wasn't even the calm,
polite, friendly mask that he had worn since Canary Wharf. This face
was new. Pale with blotches of blood and dirt smeared all over it,
features twisted, eyes wide, irises dilated.
The tremor moved
from his hands up his arms, over his chest and abdomen, and down his
legs. His knees stopped working and he sagged to the floor. His whole
body was now shaking uncontrollably. Something hit the tiled floor
with a loud clank. He stared at the rectangular object. Without
making a conscious decision, he watched his shaking hand reaching for
it and pressing the speed dial button.
"Ianto?" He flinched at the sound of the male voice in his bathroom."Ianto? What is it?" There was impatience in that voice. Ianto wrapped his arms around his legs. He had to control the shaking. He had to reply to that voice. A dry sob escaped his lips.
There was a pause, then, "Don't move, I'll be right there."