All characters are property of BBC and Torchwood.
Ianto. That's the first thing I think of when I wake up, when the air rushes into my lungs. I'm always grasping for his hand, wanting, needing him there. And he always is. Always there with a look of concern in his beautiful blue eyes, assessing the damage, even though it's already been fixed.
When we get back to the apartment, just him and I, he always gets a fresh, warm shirt of mine and brews a cup of coffee. And then he waits. Waits so patiently if I want to tell him what this death was like, or if I just want him to sit there and drink with me.
He must realize how tight I hold him at night if I've died that day. How I don't sleep because I'm terrified that one day, my luck is going to run out and I'm not going to be able to wake up to my beautiful, blue-eyed Welshman. That he's going to be alone until he dies, being in that horrible blackness too. And I can only pray his death is simple, quiet. Not anything overly violent or painful. And I pray to whatever god is up there that he's not alone. I want him to be with friends. Hell, even with Lisa. I don't care. I just don't want him to be alone. Not now, not ever.
Ianto Jones is too beautiful, too perfect, for death.