"It's not your fault, Jack."
He wished he could believe that.
Whenever he closed his eyes he could see Grey's face, not as a man but as a boy, smiling and laughing, bouncing blonde locks and sparkling blue eyes. That boy was dead. The man he should have become was dead.
And it was Jack's fault.
It was his fault Owen and Tosh had died, Owen being slowly decomposed whilst he watched, Tosh bleeding and crying in his arms, so young, too young.
It was his fault that he never told them how much they meant to him, how talented they were, what wonderful people they were. It was his fault he never told them that he loved them.
It was his fault that Gwen was probably curled around Rhys, sobbing into his chest, her sheets and pillows damp from tears, it was his fault that Ianto was shuddering uncontrollably in his sleep.
It was his fault the people of Cardiff lay weeping and terrified in hostels and halls, their homes and possessions destroyed, their friends and family savaged by strange monsters or dead in hospital beds, killed by the failure of the machines keeping them alive.
It was his fault Grey was frozen in a cold, metal drawer.
It was all his fault; because he let go.