x x J x x - Have I Told You Lately?

by buddieswithbilis

Part Three - At the end of Part Two it was revealed that, for understandable reasons, Jack had jetted back to the States without saying a word to his 'estranged' boyfriend. Is there still hope for Jack and Ianto? Okay, yeah, stupid question I know ... but why not jump back on board their big red London bus to find out anyway?

1. Spanking The Stallion

A/N:

At long last, here it is, the final part of xxJxx

In this first chapter we discover how well (or maybe not so well) Ianto has been coping since Jack's unannounced return to the States - I don't want to give too much away at this stage, but this 'is' 'Jones the Bastard' we're talking about here, so don't go expecting to see too many developments on the 'surviving gracefully' front, lol.

Actually (and still holding onto that same thought), it might please some of you to know that one person in particular is about to discover why having a heartbroken Welshman on one's case, is never an advisable position to be in.

Okay, I think that's everything. Just a quick disclaimer before we crack on …..

Jack Harkness and Ianto Jones (albeit in a very different guise) still belong to Mr Russell T Davies and the BBC …

And, yeah, right then … off we go with Part Three. How many of you will be able to endure the several (sorry) chapters of storm before the calm I wonder? Don't say I didn't warn you …. (chuckles).

Welcome back on board, everybody!

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Have I Told You Lately? Part One

-o- -o-

-o- -o-

Chapter One -o- -o- -o- Spanking the Stallion

-o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o-

-o- -o- -o- -o- -o- -o-

The Jones abode was a mess.

And that was putting it mildly. Currently resembling your proverbial war zone, in no time at all Ianto's home had become a domestic battlefield. Unkempt in way like never before, there was broken crockery and discarded bottles everywhere. The living room especially was a complete and utter eyesore - the once orderly space was practically unrecognisable - but, easily, the most disturbing sight of all had to be one very dubious looking, several-day-old, pool of congealing, lumpy vomit. Currently loitering with intent at the foot of the fireplace, that single sight alone was managing to deliver the clearest message yet that, in a ridiculously short space of time, the once neat and tidy Ianto Jones had managed to lose all semblance of pride.

He was heartbroken?

Okay, yeah, he was heartbroken - obviously.

Beside himself with grief, even.

But that didn't excuse the fact that almost every surface in sight had become home to an empty or half-emptied spirit bottle. The reek of stale alcohol was borderline offensive and to all intents and purposes it really did seem that, after five years of managing to survive as a relatively normal bastard within a world of relatively normal human beings, Jones the Pisshead had made one hell of a tumultuous return.

He was nineteen years old all over again.

A relapse had occurred.

His psyche was more than just a little off-kilter.

You getting the idea yet?

The signs were everywhere - along with the overwhelming evidence of booze abuse it was the decline in self-hygiene that was most apparent; the highly unpleasant 'garbage bin' odour and fortnight's worth of unwashed attire, was also helping to complete the overall picture in fine style. From table to couch to floor, food stained items had been strewn haphazardly in all directions; caught up in a tousle with at least one empty crisp packet, each grubby garment was trying to snaffle one of the last few remaining spots amongst a multitude of still-boxed, half-eaten pizzas. In starting to look mouldier by the second, the leftover pieces of extra-topped dough were already resembling a housefly's idea of food-waste heaven; a hungry maggot's perception of the perfect pepperoni paradise.

Basically, the place was a dump; a complete shit-hole though, fortunately, the only person to actually witness the mess to date had been the perpetrator, Jones the Scumbag, himself. He was living in a tip ... and was making a seriously proper job of it.

Out in the hall, things were just as bad. In what one could only assume had been a fit of drunken rage, a length of telephone cabling had been yanked, not unplugged, from the wall. Serving as a not so subtle reminder a substantial pile of fractured plaster was still sitting on the boards below the hall table, while, up on the table itself, sat directly next to the now disconnected house phone, a certain someone's mobile was clearly in more than one piece.

There was, however, in the midst of all this mayhem, one small redeeming feature to be found.

In complete contrast to the rest of the place,right down the end of the hall the scene in the main bedroom was one of pristine delight, right down to the still-made bed. 'Still made' mainly because the thing hadn't been slept in for two weeks. The couch or the floor had both been consistent in offering all the comfort that Ianto Jones felt he now deserved to appreciate. He was a fucking idiot. He'd decided that several times over, and with no one around to disagree with him, he really and truly believed that not so small fact.

He was feeling sorry for himself then, was he?

Oh, you'd better believe it.

Dejected, despondent, lost, lonely, morbid, morose, a worthless wanker – you name it, over the past two weeks a hope-free Ianto Jones had been feeling it to the 'nth' degree. Literally everything he was experiencing – every emotion, every pang, every moment of sobbing; every fit of remorse - every time his heart broke just that little bit more …. it was all down to his own stupid fault.

He'd treated Jack badly. Really, really fucking badly.

In terms of acting his age, he'd fallen well-short of succeeding with flying colours.

As Jack's boyfriend he'd fucked up big-time. BIG ...TIME!

And as a result, roughly two weeks back Jack had finally given up trying to make 'things' work. Understandably convinced that he was no longer cared for, the poor guy had run as fast, and as far, as he possibly could.

But he'd been wrong. And he was still wrong. Because somebody right here in London did still care about him. And that person cared so fucking much it hurt. Which in theory should've been making this a straight forward case of somebody just swallowing their pride, jumping on a plane to the States, then begging for a second chance. But in acting so pathetically during the whole fucking mess, all Ianto Jones had managed to do, was convince himself that he'd never been good enough in the first place - that Jack was, and would continue to be, better off without him. It was obvious, now, that things were never going to have worked out between them - any fool could see that. If they were truly meant to be together then he and Jack wouldn't now be on opposite sides of the Atlantic. If he'd genuinely been good enough for him, then it wouldn't have taken learning the real truth about Jack's association with Jay and Joe, to finally make this idiot, here, see sense.

He should've given Jack the benefit of the doubt. He should've allowed Jack the chance to explain that those two bastards had been blackmailing him for, literally, months on end and that the only reason he'd been complying with their demands was because he'd been shit-scared of losing his boyfriend.

His boyfriend?

Ohhhhh, yeah. Jack's boyfriend. That would be the blind, stupid one. That total prat, Ianto Jones.

Of course, on finally hearing the truth from one of the blackmailers himself, that very same stupid prat of a boyfriend had headed straight over to the flat in Hammersmith. He'd needed to beg Jack's forgiveness, had needed to apologise for ever doubting him. But more than anything, he'd needed Jack to hold him close and tell him that everything was gonna be okay. Because, despite recent events, that was the only real outcome that Ianto Jones had ever wanted. He was still in love with Jack … and he knew he always would be. Nothing anybody ever said or did, would change that now.

But Jack had already gone back to the States, and over in Hammersmith that fateful night, all Ianto Jones had found himself holding onto was a guilt-laden conscience and a bin liner's worth of possessions. In tears he'd made his way back to his own apartment, then locking himself away had cried himself to sleep.

The whole of the next day had been spent sat in one corner of his living room. Knees drawn up to provide a resting spot for his forehead, when he hadn't been slugging from the line of already started bottles alongside, he'd been sobbing himself into as many blissful moments of regret-free sleep as he could.

Unsurprisingly, that first day of being alone had managed to merge into the next, the indistinguishable number of hours spent immobile seemingly passing in a blink. But eventually, with his head spinning like mad, Ianto had dragged himself up from the floor - mainly because every bottle in his current line-up was now empty, yes, but also because he'd finally been forced to admit that sitting in an expanding pool of his own piss, really was the most unpleasant of sensations; there was only so much fluid his jeans could absorb, and they seemed to have reached their saturation peak at least three pees back.

So, thanks to his over-active bladder if nothing else, at last he'd been up on his feet. A quick glance in the bathroom mirror had seen him conclude that as it was still disguising his gaunt features to a certain extent, his new mature (scruffy) beard should remain in place, then a shower had been taken – fully clothed, no less.

Following a change of attire, and the briefest of moments spent trying to sanitize his floorboards, at long last a sensible decision had been made ... he'd called out for some sustenance.

Actually, the takeaway deliveries had proved problematic from the word go. His soulmate, Els, forever sobbing her heart out bless her, with at least one other member of the gang in tow, had been constantly showing up on his front step - meaning that every time a take-away order had been placed, each knock until its delivery, had to be screened with a precautionary peek through the front blind; not an easy thing to remember when one was sozzled practically all of the time.

Speaking of the rescue squad, in deciding that he wasn't going to be their problem anymore, and refusing to see or speak to any of them, Ianto's only concession on each visit had been to ramp up the volume on his tv and thereby convince them that he was still in the land of the living. At this point the message that he was being 'a selfish fucking prick' would be yelled through his letter box, then the assembled bods would all go back home until the next time.

He felt bad. Of course he did. But he needed to be alone, couldn't afford to become distracted. In fact he was so unwilling to concentrate on anything other than his memories of Jack that, by the end of the first week, he'd been forced to eliminate all irritating ringing sounds; hence the current scene out in the hallway.

At the end of the second week, having already cleverly rendered himself incommunicado, with no one else to talk to, a stupidly inebriated Ianto Jones had stood there and informed all four walls that …

' …eye lone ... me, Yanno Jones, haff crayted thiz zinuation …an my frennz an thole wide ….. Hic ….. whorl ….. will be bear off … Burp … wout 'me. Zo from nown ….. Belch ….. Yanno Jones will be on izz fuckin' ohhhhn.'

'Belch.'

Finally, after experiencing a bit of a problem with getting his tongue to work, he'd managed to get everything off his chest, and the walls had been very grateful for the heads-up.

Afterwards, he'd thanked them.

They hadn't disagreed with him once.

He'd offered them a drink.

Nice walls.

-o-

Of course, in typical stubborn Jones fashion, he'd not bothered informing anyone else of this latest decision. Without telling another living soul he'd just gone right ahead and designated himself long-term recluse status, and if anyone found the fact upsetting then, tough, get over it. It was quite simple - he no longer wanted to see, or speak, to anyone.

Anyone other than the owner of his favourite corner shop of course, which he'd got into the habit of visiting just before closing time when he could leave his apartment under the cover of darkness.

Genius, eh?

Well it was a genius bit of thinking for pisshead standards anyway.

With the phones out of action, and therefore no means to call for a takeaway, each time he'd nipped out to the, currently elusive, Mr Khan's Mini-mart for alcohol, he'd also been purchasing a whole bunch of chocolate and savoury treats - hence the unusual volume of litter lying around the place. Unsurprisingly, the overload of sugar and carbs had already witnessed the return of his 'T' zone. As a traumatised teenager he'd always considered the area of greasy skin to be embarrassingly unflattering, but after recent events was now viewing it in a more pleasing light; as something of a deserved punishment as it were. And it didn't matter if it made him look unattractive, because he was never ever, ever going to have sex ever, ever, ever again. A life on his own; abstaining from anything that might bring him pleasure, was to be the plan from now on. (alcohol and drugs notwithstanding, of course)

This sudden decision to survive without sex hadn't been a difficult one; it hadn't taken much working out to realise that being reamed by anyone other than Jack would leave him feeling both emotionally and physically unfulfilled.

But it didn't matter. He'd be okay on his own. He had so many 'helpful' memories revolving around Jack to rely on, and he was going to be juuuuust fiiiiiiiine. After all, it wasn't like he needed sex, was it? There were much more important things in life ... like ….

Like …

Like …..

Um …

Okay, so he needed sex. He just didn't deserve to get laid anymore, that was the important part. He'd already resigned himself to his fate and was pretty sure he'd find enough of a distraction within the comforting arms of Masters Grain and Grape.

That had actually been his plan from day one – to just drink himself into oblivion and, as in the past, doing just that was still proving to be the only successful way to escape the deluge of guilt flooding his mind. He'd tried to block the feelings, had looked high and low for ways to exonerate himself, had tried so many times to justify his and Jack's demise. But no amount of 'what if's' or 'why didn't I's' could ever mend this wrong he'd created. No matter which angle he viewed this situation from, the blame would always lay entirely at his feet. Just months ago, he'd promised that Jack would always be given the chance to explain. He'd promised Jack that, whatever the situation, as his loyal boyfriend he would always look beneath the surface before making any judgement calls; allow Jack the benefit of the doubt.

But he hadn't. He'd just thought of his own stupid feelings, of his own stupid pride, and he was nothing but an immature, selfish prick. Jack was clearly better off without him; this 'selfish prick' would be doing the man a favour by just forgetting all about him.

He was sure he could make that happen. He'd always found a way to cope in the past. Admittedly he hadn't given narcotics a try yet, but by god had he guzzled down some alcohol. The same amount would have seen anyone else left in a permanent state of unconsciousness.

But had it helped? Was he any better off for doing so? Had the soul destroying pain inside just upped and disappeared? Had Ianto Jones forgotten just how very much he loved the amazing, the gorgeous, Jack Harkness?

Forget Jack?

No, of course that was never going to happen. No amount of alcohol could ever wipe a memory so strong ….. so wonderful. Day in, day out, he'd sat there in his naughty corner, crying around each bottle as he swigged from it. Night after night, on his couch or on the floor, dreaming of Jack he'd lain there crying in his sleep. For two whole weeks he'd suffered alone, had kept himself locked away just thinking of Jack and then, in turn, of ending this pain he was in. He'd just been sitting around. Missing Jack. Gradually withering away. The thought that Jack must no longer be in love with him, was slowly killing him inside. While his own love for Jack was still growing, his lust for life itself was perishing.

His hopes for the future were decaying.

He was going rotten.

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Just like the fucking pizzas.

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Only - in coming right up to date - that particular statement wasn't strictly true anymore, because in having just had another very interesting conversation with his walls, currently, Ianto Jones wasn't actually at home.

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Two nights back, a horrified Mr Khan had returned from a month of visiting relatives in his homeland to find a familiar Welshman stumbling up and down his Wines and Spirits aisle. After using his native tongue to savagely reprimand his brother-in -law, the shop owner had sat his most favourite customer down behind the counter and promised he'd no longer be serving him with any more alcohol. He'd also taken the time to point out that drinking to this extent, for whatever reason, wasn't the answer, and that the best way to deal with a problem was to simply to identify it, get to the bottom of it, and then confront it head on.

Mr Khan had been a good friend in the past. He'd even once played a part in getting his Mr Jones and that handsome friend of his, back together … despite the obvious contradictions where his own beliefs were concerned.

And this was why a stupefied Ianto Jones had sat there and paid heed. The shop owner had never once had reason to feel obligated towards him; with this piece of advice he'd merely been displaying a genuine concern for his welfare. But most importantly, the things that the wonderful Mr Khan had pointed out to him that night at the store ….. had actually made perfect sense.

And this was why – currently on something of a mission - Jones the Bastard wasn't locked away in his West Hampstead prison …. but was somewhere else entirely.

The vast amount of alcohol imbibed, he'd convinced himself just before leaving, had not been for Dutch courage at all. And the sharpest steak knife from his cutlery drawer, he'd insisted as he walked out, was hidden in the inside pocket of his jacket solely for defence purposes.

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Yeah, right.

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Two nights ago, in someone's favourite mini-mart, a very big seed had been planted. As suggested, Ianto Jones had identified his problem, had got right to the bottom of it ... And right at this present moment in time, he was preparing to confront that problem head on.

What a wonderful piece of advice.

Good old Mr Khan.

-o- -o-

-o- -o-

IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ IJ

-o- -o-

-o- -o-

Remorse

…. wait …. hold on a sec ….. you'd better add …

Regret

to that as well. Oh, and …..

Resentment

too.

It was like being back at school, contending with the dreaded three 'R's' all over again, only different.

Yep, all beginning with the letter 'R', and all very predictable emotions given the circumstances, outside his apartment a short while back, a certain Mr Jones had climbed into a local taxi experiencing all three.

There was a fourth, of course. One that only quite recently he'd been working especially hard on perfecting. In fact, whilst acting as soberly as he could during his cab ride across town, Ianto had allowed that final emotion to fester; to breed, until, finally, it'd taken complete precedence over those, less satisfying, other three options.

Consequently, by the time he'd arrived at his intended destination, Jones the Bastard had had but one thought on his mind.

Revenge.

-o- -o- -o- -o-

"Yaaaan." The squeak was pitiful.

"How? How could you fucking treat him like that?!" Despite the continued swaying motion of his upper body, Ianto's one handed grip around Joe's throat was successfully tightened.

"Yaaaan." His nervous swallow sounding loud as it bobbed tentatively beneath the tip of the blade, Giuseppe (Joe) Giordano decided he might take a break on trying to reason with the man sitting across his chest. He might've been many sheets to the wind right now but, when drunk, Ianto Jones possessed the strength and determination of an army of assault-course-conditioned teetotallers.

Accepting that he was likely to remain pinned down for a good while yet, Joe instead thought to kill time by questioning the soundness of his own logic; like why he'd been stupid enough to answer his door in the first place, especially when he'd known all along who was standing out there on his front step. Actually he hadn't been surprised one little bit by who he'd found hollering and banging away on his front door. The only real surprise so far, was that it'd taken one particularly hot-headed Welshman a full two weeks to turn up in this state, screaming the odds in his direction.

Still, at least it was now official: the guy was a genuine grade A lunatic, and why everyone else found Jones so appealing he still had no bloody idea. The bastard certainly wasn't Jack's usual 'sort' - at times he could even weigh in a little on the podgy side, in fact, in considering himself to definitely be Jack's 'type', he could categorically say that the only thing the Welsh prick had ever done for him personally, was rub him up the wrong way. The irritating Taff still had way too much of a hold over Jay for a start; at times seemingly without even trying, which was really damn bloody annoying. The gullible blond had been back, living permanently under his roof, for almost a year now, meaning he'd been an ex-'tenant' of Jones for the same amount of time. Yet, still, it seemed that a fond connection existed between the two of them.

This situation didn't sit well at all. Used to having Jason jump a fence or two whenever he snapped his fingers, this prime piece of Latino lover absolutely hated the fact that he had little or no control whenever Jones was on the scene. Even the gorgeous Jack, with his come hither eyes and beautiful body, hadn't been enough to disconnect the lingering underlying sense of affection between Jones and his, HIS, boyfriend.

-o-

Anger starting to bubble again Joe felt the pricking sensation on his neck become more painful. Pretending he wasn't bothered he swallowed as gingerly as he could beneath the tip of the blade.

God, he hated Ianto bloody Jones.

Sniffing and twitching above him, Ianto bloody Jones was endeavouring to reclaim his prey's attention.

Sensibly refocusing, Joe found those wild eyes still staring down at him, and tried to ignore them by dwelling on a more pleasing issue.

Trouble was, the only issue coming to mind right now was that he was gravely regretting pushing Jack as hard as he had. Okay, the guy could be an embarrassing sap at times, became too emotional far too easily and really needed to toughen up big time when it came to playing the field but, in demanding favours from Jack in return for his own continued silence, the last thing he'd been expecting his ex-boyfriend to do was crack under the pressure then completely ruin their 'keep Jones occupied' plan by flying back to the pissing States leaving the Welsh prick behind.

The fact had taken him completely by surprise. He'd been under the impression for months, that the sickly twosome was 'all loved up'. Confirming his suspicions way before Christmas, Jay had grudgingly admitted that Jack and Yan had fallen hook, line and sinker, and that close friends were describing their 'hush-hush' relationship as 'cute'.

Well as far as Giuseppe Giordano was concerned, there was definitely nothing cute about Ianto fucking Jones. And there was nothing cute, either, about that Glaswegian kiss he'd smacked hard onto the bridge of his nose roughly five minutes back. Jones was a fucking madman when drunk, everybody knew that. He'd not even set foot in the place before starting. His forehead had appeared across the threshold in a flash and connected painfully with that spot right between his eyes before he'd even had the satisfaction of saying 'fuck off'.

The bastard had left him seeing stars, and the further onslaught of punches as he'd toppled, stunned, to the floor, had inflicted a jagged tear just below his left eye. Leaking blood, it'd already started to puff up.

He didn't like being made to feel stupid, and Jones was sohhhhh gonna pay for this ... at some stage. Maybe when he wasn't flat on his back with the bastard sitting on top of him, would be a good plan.

Above him a deranged grin had joined the wild stare. Only now, more than anything, those scary eyes seemed to be taunting him.

"I should slash your fucking throat." A wavering Ianto pushed the knife in a little deeper. It nicked the surface layer of skin and the Welshman smiled, satisfied, as it promoted a small trickle of blood.

A nervous attempt to get some fresh oxygen into some Latino lungs was made.

Ianto pinched his fingers in a little harder.

Starting to panic, instead, Joe began dragging deep sniffs in through his nose.

For a very different reason, Jones the Bastard's nostrils flared too. "How could you treat him like that?" was asked for a second time. "He was so scared of losing me ….. you knew that … but you just kept on using him, you cunt!"

With the body beneath his own suddenly twisting from side to side, determined to keep the advantage, Ianto shifted his weight. By rights a person of Joe's gym-toned stature should easily have held the upper hand; he was taller and much stronger than the man sat on top of him. But a drunken, vengeful Jones the Bastard, apparently knew no fear. When driven by pain and anger, he was a completely different ballgame.

Rocking forward, Ianto pressed both knees harder onto the oaken boards. "Not dead yet?" he checked, a jokey disappointment evident in his tone. Grimacing down at the enemy he attempted to correct the problem by realigning his left hand and squeezing as hard as he could.

Joe began to choke. Ianto watched on as the face below grew a deeper shade of red. Sensing victory he placed his blade on the floor then brought the side of his right fist down hard onto the bridge of Joe's nose. This calculated second blow to exactly the same spot as before, left his victim crying out in shock as well as pain. Finding the reaction most satisfying, Ianto spanked the same spot again.

With a dazed Joe now cursing beneath him, he retrieved his blade and once again pushed the tip onto the bastard's Adam's apple. A clutch of memories came flooding back to bolster his will. The taunts he'd received regarding his physique when Joe had first learned of his and Jay's 'association' had been up first, then the indescribable pain the bastard had left Jay in when he'd disappeared off to the States in search of 'new blood'.

The 'new blood' had ended up being Jack, of course, and that bastard Giordano had been making the poor guy's life a misery ever since.

Then, of course, there'd been Jay's thirtieth birthday party, that first night when Joe had turned up with Jack in tow. The controlling bastard had been back in the country for a couple of days max, but still he'd felt the need to display his dominance by reclaiming the birthday boy as his own. But it hadn't been because he'd missed Jay, or that he was still desperately in love with the poor guy. He'd done it just because he knew that he could; it was as simple as that. The bastard was a narcissistic control freak who just loved to play games with other people's feelings.

Playing games himself today, Ianto pressed his left thumb down as hard as he could, held it for a few moments, then eased off again.

"Yaaaan!" Afraid to move his shoulders for fear of being stabbed in the throat, a bloodied Joe began to rock his hips instead. Twisting at the waist he tried to dislodge the Welshman.

The blade dug a little deeper. "Jack was mine! He was mine, you bastard! All those fucking times you forced yourself on him ... you really think I'm just gonna let you get up and walk away from this?"

Ianto shook his head, blinked a couple of times with the need to reorient himself. "Sorry Joe, it don't work like that with me. You hurt Jack - he didn't deserve any of the shit you put him through, so today I get to call the shots on his behalf. Today I get you to watch you suffer and die."

"Yan ….."

"SHUT UP! ... JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP! ...Jack's gone! He's left me! Why did you have to ruin everything you bastard? Why?"

The corners of Ianto's mouth pitched downward. Suddenly tears were spilling.

"Jesus, you really love him …" was observed with a croak.

The acknowledgement brought with it only more pain ….. for both men ….. in very different ways. "I should've done this fucking months ago!" As it was moved a centimetre to the right, the tip of the blade broke Joe's skin again; this time drawing enough blood to allow Ianto to see the flow trickle from the front of Joe's neck, round to the back. "You're a user. You hurt everyone around you then you just fuck off again!"

Narrowed eyes, already bloodshot from an overload of alcohol, had begun to leak heavily. As they started to contort Ianto dipped his features from view. "I don't get it," The growl was growing softer; with sobriety slowly returning it seemed that the Welshman was feeling a little defeated. "Whatever was happening between us – and to this day I still don't know what it was - but that night at the party you were determined to steal Jay away from me – from the start you'd always planned on setting me up with Jack."

Looking like he really couldn't give a fuck, Joe hunched his shoulders. "Your point being?"

"My point being, you cunt, that you've had exactly what you wanted from day one. So why couldn't you have just left me and Jack alone? Why'd you have to treat him like that? Why'd you have to fuck ….. every … thing ….. up?"

As a suddenly devastated Ianto Jones began to cry noisily Joe wondered if he was starting to lose his grip in more ways than one. With the pressure around his neck easing, and tasting victory in the air, he snorted out a laugh. "You know, Yan ... this is quite homo-erotic."

Damp eyes widened. Nostrils flared. The blade dug deeper then slipped, threatening to pierce yet another patch of skin. Ianto's left hand resumed its strangle hold and, caught up in a coughing fit, Joe once more found himself struggling to breathe.

"Homo fucking erotic? Even if you were the last man on Earth, you slimy cunt ….. I still wouldn't fuck you."

Ianto fell silent. The compression on Joe's trachea eased completely. The blade at his throat was quickly swapped from one hand to the other, then a fist was pulled back.

After hovering for no more than a blink, that same fist flew forward to send the head below whipping sideways

This time keeping his cry of pain to himself, "Who said anything about you fucking me?" Joe taunted, snuffling and wheezing, spitting out blood as he spoke.

Another blow landed, again snapping his head to one side. This one forced a grunt of displeasure from Joe, and clearly not sure what was happening anymore he failed to notice the body above him angle itself back, He didn't see either, that another punch was on its way. It caught him on the side of the nose and, as a bloody split appeared around the edge of one nostril, his face twisted in agony.

Ianto watched, fascinated, as a trail of blood trickled downward, finding the top line of Joe's mouth before setting off on a raggedy, whiskered course, bound for the bastard's left ear. Unable to stop a grin from forming, he hit him again, really fucking hard.

A frantic Joe started to struggle. "Okay okay! You think I'm a cunt! I get it! And I'm sorry for what's happened between you and Jack, okay? Yan, you've made your point! How about we call it a day yeah?"

Eyes focused on the blade now waving erratically above him, Joe struggled harder in the Welshman's grip. His body rocking and rolling, he hitched his hips in a desperate effort to escape.

But Ianto was still refusing to budge. "You shouldn't've ... hurt ... Jack …" Croak barely audible he started to cry again. Huge sobs were heaved inward until, suddenly, he realised he was losing the psychological advantage.

Mouth pinching into a hard line, his eyes became steely. Then he was yelling, more determined than ever. "YOU SHOULDN'T'VE HURT JACK!"

The knife was dropped, a handful of fringe was secured and, emitting a low hollow sound, the back of Joe's head came together with the wooden floor over and over again.

"Ow, fuck! Yan! Okay, okay! Come on, that's enough!" The panicked attempts to break free were becoming almost violent.

Releasing Joe's throat, the fingers of Ianto's left hand dug into the bastard's jaw instead, then his right fist connected with one already bruised and swollen left eye.

Immediately the outside corner began to spurt blood. "Ow ….. fuck! Okay! Yan! Please … just stop! Please!"

"Worried about losing our shit Latino looks are we?" With a loud smack, the same fist landed on the same spot.

Sounding behind Ianto, a key was turned in the lock.

"Jay? Jay! For fuck's sake just get over here and get your fucking ex-girlfriend off of me!" Still in his prone position, emboldened by the cavalry's arrival, Joe began to buck furiously.

Sniffing in noisily and securing a firmer grip, Ianto fought hard to stay right where he was.

Lower jaw on the floor, his hair still wet from a session down the gym, Jason Cooper stood frozen to the spot. He seemed to be in a state of shock but, with a sudden yell, and dropping his holdall to the floor, he finally flew forward.

Slipping a hand beneath each armpit, the blond staggered backwards dragging a roaring Ianto Jones with him. "Yan, please, baby, don't do this … it's not gonna bring Jack b …. Oh my god …."

Looking up from his struggling ex fuck-buddy, Jay had finally noticed the extent of the damage caused to his boyfriend's features.

As he was released, scrambling quickly backwards, Ianto managed to find his feet, and then his balance. In front of him the 'sometimes devoted' blond was trying to help his bastard of a boyfriend to his knees but Joe had already become impatient and having struggled out of hold was making a big point of clambering to his feet without assistance.

Clearly feeling foolish; his lips pursing as he started to sulk, Jay proceeded to get the hump. That was when the two of them started to argue big time.

Ianto spotted an opportunity. Before either of them could realise what was about to happen he sent himself horizontal, flying quickly through the air to land a good hard kick directly on Joe's jewels.

"That was for Jack." he growled, hauling himself up from where he'd crashed to the floor. Mouth gaping, one speechless bastard had been sent straight back to his knees.

As Joe knelt there cupping his pride and joy, Jason dropped to the floor to embrace his boyfriend. As Joe grunted disapprovingly at the show of affection, Jay gave up trying. With a sigh he looked back over one shoulder. "Yan, for fuck's sake just go! You're done here!"

Taking a step closer, crouching down to face level, Ianto's right eye began to twitch. "No, Jay, I'm far from finished here." was delivered with a sneer, "That bastard next to you is still alive for one thing."

"Yan, you're rat-arsed. Fucking stupid-drunk, and you know it." Angling himself to peer around Ianto, Jason pointed at the front door. "Just go home. Sleep it off."

Ianto quickly drew his arm back, then Jason, too, received a fist in the face for his troubles.

"Oh, for fucks …." Still rubbing his bollocks, Joe watched on, appalled, as his rescuer fell back, crying out in shock as he clutched at his nose. "How is this happening?" was demanded of the stricken boyfriend. "Jay, there's only one of him for fucks sake! Make use of that muscle you're always flexing and take him out of the equation! Come on! Just do something useful, will you!"

"Like what?" Muffled by the hand still glued in place catching his precious drips of blood, Jason's query had been sulked back post haste.

"I don't fucking know! Call somebody that can deal with him, perhaps, you twat? Get Els over here – that pixie bitch's attitude is almost as shit as his is. She'll be able to talk some sense into him, surely?"

"Pixie bitch?"

The ill-considered comment had easily grabbed the attention of somebody else in the room. Locating where he'd dropped it a minute ago, in a beat Ianto had picked up the knife and was waving it threateningly, lunging at every empty space available. Suddenly he was one manic mass of one-armed punches, drunken kicking and knife waving. As long as he was creating some kind of pain he didn't really care where or how he made contact. Any target was fair game, and as the flat of his left foot made contact with a hip, he felt marginally vindicated on Ellie's behalf.

"Jay! Stop fannying about! Just fucking kick him back you idiot!"

It appeared that, from a distance, Joe was quite happy to just yell out insults and instructions..

"Fucking coward!" Getting way too enthused to remain tactical for much longer, Ianto felt all at once inspired to try out a few of his school-day martial arts moves.

Suddenly finding himself having to fend off a succession of unsteady swivel kicks, the blond under attack pulled Joe back into the fray and between them they managed to grab the ranting Welshman then held him still. A few seconds later they were manhandling him into the downstairs loo.

Remembering at the last minute that his ex - fuck-buddy still had the blade on him, with some quicker than originally planned deft finger-work, classing himself as very lucky Jason managed to successfully slip the key from the inside lock, then hurriedly slammed the door, locking Ianto in from the outside.

The predictable banging of fists started right away; the yells to be 'let the fuck out' were loud and very unmissable.

Eager to get this over and done with Jason didn't bother with calling Ellie. Instead he got straight through to Stefan who promised that, in still considering himself to be Yan's best friend, he'd be there mob-handed within the hour.

-o-

The first ten minutes passed without incident, and figuring that the worst must be over, a smug Joe and Jason smiled, relieved, as the trapped beast inside their cloakroom fell silent. Looking pleased with themselves, stood outside in the hallway as they were, they felt confident enough to indulge in a celebratory hug.

Just a few feet away, still stuck inside their downstairs loo, Ianto Jones had felt suddenly inspired to make use of his trusty steak knife. Having carved a diagonal line into his left palm he was dipping a fingertip into the slowly seeping blood and had already scrawled the word CUNT several times over, all over Joe's pristine white walls.

If the two men stood outside had listened hard enough, they would have heard him giggling.

Sadly, his moment of jubilation hadn't lasted. When the regiment arrived (just the three of them - Gazebo couldn't get out of work and DanDan was on his way back from another part of the country) the toilet door was unlocked to reveal a devastated Ianto, his left hand swathed in bloodied loo roll, sat hunched over on the lid of the toilet sniffing quietly to himself.

Entering the property, Ellie observed the creep on the couch clutching a bag of frozen peas between his thighs. "Hurt did it?" she smiled making her way further in to find her 'soulie'.

As fingers began to stroke their way through his hair, eyes closed, Ianto took hold of the tiny hand and pressed it to the bridge of his nose. "I'm such a mess, Els. I'm such a fucking mess ….. and I don't know what to do …"

Clearly more sober than he had been an hour ago, the young Welshman lifted his lids to reveal his still bloodshot eyes. Leaning forward to kiss his forehead, even though her heart was breaking at the sight, Ellie could only agree with him, "Yes, you are babe ….. a complete fucking mess. And now it's time to let us help you. You do know that, don't you …"

Lips pursing sadly as he nodded, Ianto allowed Stefan and Larry to haul him up from his inglorious seat.

Studying the bastard's face as well as his crotch, "You deserve every single one of those fucking wounds." Larry told Joe, helping Stefan walk their friend out from the loo.

"Just get that crazy bastard out of my house and save your Billy big bollock comments for someone who actually gives a fuck." he was told sourly. "Oh, and do yourself a favour. Make sure that wanker stays away from me from now on; he's lucky I haven't called the Old Bill. If he comes near me again I will press fucking charges." was added with a late flourish of bravado.

"I think we might need to get him stitched up before we take him home." Ellie decided, studying the wounded hand as she walked over. It was then that Joe spotted the reams of bloodied tissue paper wrapped around one bloody Welsh palm.

"What the fuck has he done?!" He looked anxiously in the direction of his precious downstairs cloakroom. "He's not dripped blood on the fucking floor in there, has he?"

Larry and Stefan exchanged a quick smirk.

"Er, no, not exactly." Stefan told him, gently edging Ianto towards the door.

Pulling both arms free, Ianto turned back to offer Joe one last middle finger.

Then knife still in hand, he walked proudly, and completely unaided, out into the street.

-o- -o-

-o- -o-

tbc.

-o- -o-

-o- -o-

A/N : So how was it? Not too traumatic I hope ….. lol. I'm afraid poor Ianto has quite a way to go before he's back on an even keel but, trust me, things do get better …. ... in the best possible way!

Cheers 'til the next chapter ….. bwb.