This room's filled with dead things. Jack's rifling through shelves containing alien bones, trepanned human skulls, the massive skull of what might be a crocodile. Ianto wishes he'd leave the searching to him; Jack never puts things back where they were.
He doesn't say anything, just watches from the doorway, makes note of what goes where. Jack will find what he wants; Ianto will tidy up.
Watching him, Ianto wonders if it's always like this for Jack. Not just this room, but the whole Hub, this whole world. Everything dies; Jack remains, shuffling through books and photographs, rearranging dead things.