The ride home was long with no sounds but the rain on the windows and the cab driver's quiet radio to occupy his mind. Jack had offered to drive him home, but he'd quickly declined and left the building - one more moment with that man and he'd have lost it all over again.
He still wasn't sure if Jack would have really shot him or not.
The car pulled to a stop outside his flat and the driver had to speak to him three times before he even noticed. "Yeah, sorry." He slipped him the money and exited.
The stairs seemed to go on forever as he climbed to his floor. Only yesterday, he had been complaining about needing an elevator. Today it didn't matter. Did anything matter anymore?
It took six tries to get the door unlocked; his shaking hands couldn't hold the key straight. Fresh tears were already clouding his vision as he pushed the door open. It looked the same. How could it look the same when things had changed so much?
Inhale. Exhale.
He looked around the flat, trying to remember how to breathe. His lungs burned with the aftermath of despair, and each breath caused a ripple of pain through his body.
Inhale. Exhale.
There was that photo on the mantle of the two of them together. She was all smiles, and he looked at her like she was the whole world. To him, she was.
He could barely see through the tears as he closed the door behind him. She was gone now, for real this time, left in pieces on the floor of the hub. Murdered by people he considered friends.
Inhale.
Shit.
He cracked. In a flurry of anguish and rage, he lashed out at anything and everything in his path. The vase she'd bought years ago, full with flowers he hadn't watered in weeks, came crashing to the floor. The television - she had picked it out - lay broken in the corner. He swept his arm across the mantle, knocking down pictures and memories, and shards of glass littered the room.
Most of the belongings he had in this flat, he had had with her in London. Her touch was everywhere. She had chosen the couch because it was the perfect balance between firm and soft. The coffee table, dark wood and beautiful, she had chosen because it meshed well with the rest of the room. The TV? Her decision. She was everywhere.
Pain shot through his body as his knees gave way, glass stabbing into his skin. He couldn't bring himself to care as he felt the blood seeping through. Lisa had been in more pain as she had her body torn apart, by the cybermen, Myfanwy, Jack and the others... He shuddered, his mind bringing him back to that place. Shots fired, his screams. Lisa and her mangled body.
His sobs choked him; his anger gave way to utter despair. What was the point of this? He had been fighting for Lisa, for their love. Without her, he was no one. He had nothing. She was gone and he had been left behind. She was gone and it was his fault.
Drawing a ragged breath, he stood to his feet. Jack had relinquished him of his weapons when he sent him home, but he always kept a gun handy in the table beside his bed, just in case. One never knew if they would be attacked by an alien while asleep.
In retrospect, Ianto would admit that it was never a good idea to keep a gun so close to him when he was left alone. Sometimes the nights got too lonely, sometimes he got too scared, and he just wanted a way out. Before, he had Lisa to think about, so he never gave in. But now...
He moved to take some boxes from his closet. Some still had things in it - Lisa's things, he thought savagely - some were empty and he just hadn't had time to dispose of them. All of his belongings would be packed away, he decided. He had made a mess of things at Torchwood; the least he could do was make their job in cleaning up his suicide a little easier. At least his stuff would be squared away.
Once the last box was folded up and taped, he retreated to his bedroom. His eyes fell on the table, and with one deep breath, he opened the drawer. A shaky hand gripped the pistol inside, and he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the weapon in his hands. It would all be okay soon. It had to be.
He gingerly raised the gun to his temple, only to have it carefully extricated from his hand. He hadn't even heard Jack come in, but there he was standing in his bedroom, an unreadable emotion written all over his face. Ianto said nothing at first, just stared at him.
"Not today." His words were like a slap across Ianto's face, and he flinched away from their harshness. How dare this man condemn him to this life? This pain?
"So you would kill the woman that I love, and then ask me to live with that pain for the rest of my life?" he asked, aiming for his own brutal set of words. Jack's eyes darkened in response, and Ianto was glad to hit a nerve. Good. He hoped it hurt.
"Do you honestly think that I don't know how you feel?" His words were almost a whisper, but it felt like yet another slap across the face. Jack had lived hundreds of years - of course he knew. But that didn't change how Ianto felt now. It didn't bring Lisa back. Nothing could assuage his emotions.
"I love her." Tears poured from his eyes freely. Jack's hand twitched, and for a moment it looked as though he was going to wipe them away, yet thought better of it. Instead, he nodded in reply. "I know."
"It hurts." Like fire, slowly eating away at his soul. Like drowning in the ocean, saltwater burning his eyes, unable to catch his breath. Like falling from a cliff with no one there to catch your fall. God, did it hurt. And Jack nodded again. "I know."
He reached forward and took Ianto into his arms. At first, he stiffened, but it only took a moment for him to unravel even further. His face pressed into Jack's shoulder, his tears soaking the fabric and wetting the skin underneath. Tremors ran through his body, he was gasping for air, choking on his tears, and still Jack held him. If anything, the harder he cried, the tighter Jack held on.
It took nearly an hour, but his heart wrenching sobs turned into quiet whimpers. His hands, clenched tightly into fists around the fabric of Jack's shirt, began to loosen.
"Get some sleep," Jack says, but Ianto only shakes his head. He is exhausted, but he knows what he'll see when he closes his eyes. He knows he'll see Lisa, torn to shreds on the floor. He knows he'll have to watch her die all over again. He can't. Ianto hears Jack say it again, and once more shakes his head. "Ianto, I'm not going anywhere. Sleep."
He slowly pulls away from the younger man, and gently pushes him down to lay on the bed. Ianto protests, but Jack merely pulls the blanket across his body. He is asleep in seconds.
The nightmares come. He dreams of gunshots, of failed cyber conversion, of Lisa's screams at Canary Wharf. He's vaguely aware of a soft voice and a light touch across his forehead, light years away, but it does nothing to ease his pain. The dream fades for a while, then a new one comes. Each new dream is worse than the other, and he sobs in his sleep.
He can feel a warm body beside him, can feel arms wrap themselves tightly around him. He nuzzles his head into the feeling of a strong chest and hands that hold him close. He is safe tonight.
Morning comes too early; the sun has not yet risen and Jack is no longer beside him. He isn't surprised. He didn't expect him to stay.
Ianto left his room, bare feet padding their way across the hardwood floor. He can still feel her in the air, can still hear her screams in the back of his mind. His Lisa.
He stops at the entrance to the living room as his eyes take in his Captain, sitting on the couch with a picture in his hands. The frame was broken, he noted, which made sense since he had thrown it across the room last night. What didn't make sense was why Jack was still in his flat. Jack looks up and takes him in, standing to his feet and setting the picture down as he speaks.
"Did you sleep okay?"
What kind of question was that? Ianto shuffled uncomfortably in his spot, eyes averted, as he gave a shrug in reply. Jack only raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer, but not pushing. "I didn't think you would stay," Ianto finally says.
"I wanted to make sure you were okay." There's worry in his voice, in his eyes, but that only makes Ianto's anger flare. How would anything ever be okay? "You killed my girlfriend. I was upset."
"Ianto - " He hears impatience in Jack's voice and he gives him a look as if daring him to argue. Jack sighs. "Ianto, she was already dead. She died a long time ago. That wasn't her."
Deep down, Ianto understands that the real Lisa, his Lisa, could never carry out the horrible things he had seen last night. But that didn't take away his pain. He had tried for so long to find a cure, to be able to fix her, to be able to take her home.
"Can you tell me about her?" Ianto breaks out of his reverie and looks up. He sits back down and nods at the empty spot. Ianto hesitates. Part of him wants to scream at the man in front of him, hit him, shoot him like he shot Lisa. The other part wants to share their story, to tell Jack all about the wonderful woman he had loved so deeply. So he moves forward and takes a seat on the couch, leaving a good amount of space between the two of them. If Jack notices, nothing gives it away.
"We met on my first day at Torchwood One."
And he launches off into their story. Lisa, with her wide eyes and open heart. Lisa, with an infectious laugh, who still saw the good in everything after all she'd seen. Their first fight. That time they broke up for all of six hours before Ianto was on her doorstep again. Renting their first flat. She had been so insistent on decorating and he hadn't understood, since they were always at Torchwood anyway. She'd said that home shouldn't just be somewhere to sleep; it should also be sanctuary. He'd latched onto that philosophy as they painted together, making sure that it wasn't just a flat, just somewhere they slept, but somewhere they could call home. He knew it that day that he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. He planned to propose, but work had hardly ever given him the right time to make the moment perfect. He still had the ring, hidden in his dresser somewhere. They would have been a family. She wanted kids - he'd never thought of it, but with Lisa it just made sense. He could see her, with her careful fingers and her soft voice, tending to their children. They could retire from Torchwood. He would take all the retcon in the world for a lifetime beside this woman.
Ianto stops. He inhales deeply.
"Then the cybermen came. We had no idea what they really were. Ghosts, apparitions, not..."
He swallows.
"They came in all at once. Thousands of them. We tried to run, but everyone, they all..." He breaks off. Jack lays a comforting hand on top of his. "I tried to get her out, I did, but we got separated. I thought she was right behind me. I thought..."
Jacks eyes darken. He understands even more than Ianto knows.
"When I found her again, it was too late. They had already..."
He can't continue, and Jack squeezes his hand in understanding. He didn't want to cry again, not in front of Jack, so he only nods and pulls his hand away. Stands. Dusts himself off.
"I'm sorry for unloading on you, sir." The formalities are back, the only mask he can hide behind. Jack gives him a look and he bows his head, unable to meet Jack's eyes. "It won't happen again." He looks at the clock. "The others will be at the hub soon."
It's an invitation for Jack to leave, and he nods in reply. Ianto doesn't want to be alone, but he doesn't want to break again either. Not in front of the person who had caused his pain in the first place. Jack stands up as well and brings him in for another, quicker, hug. "Don't hesitate to call if you need help," he said. "I mean it."
Ianto's only reply is a stiff nod, and Jack made his exit. As the door shut behind him, he lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding. Sobs wracked his body, and he broke again.