Jack's pistol came down hard and pain burst through the side of his head.
Jesus fucking christ his skull was cracked open he could feel it wetness dripping down his cheek probably fluid from inside his head and it hurt so goddamn much but in the back of his mind Lisa smiled at him and even though he was fucking falling apart and there was nothing he could do to stop it always check the extent of the damage his fingers came away with nothing more than red on them - no bone shards, no gray matter.
All that was left of her were two desecrated corpses in the basement of London's slow sibling - he remembered how Lisa would always roll her eyes when someone mentioned how Harkness was due for an evaluation with Hartman. She hadn't rolled her eyes when she was installed in the basement though. She hadn't done anything but moan; the drugs he'd been able to get with a Torchwood ID but no medical license were nowhere near strong enough to help her.
There were voices above him, trying to break into his memories of Lisa at her desk, on his desk, long legs spread out on their bed. Her doing her hair in the morning while he fuzzily brushed his teeth and shaved, the way her perfume always smelled of strawberries, the pure way she'd laugh whenever something pleased her.
"Ianto!" Owen was yelling at him, everyone was yelling, couldn't someone just decide what to do with him and inform him when they were ready?
He blinked and he was in the medical bay, and there was blood all over the floor, and he was going to need to order more bleach. Maybe Jack was just holding off on execution or retcon until everything was cleaned. Although at this point he would rather just go down spitting, again, than set one foot in the basement, and what could they do to him that would be worse?
"Focus, you fucker," Owen snapped. "You need stitches, and you have a concussion, and for some goddamn reason Jack's making me fix it. Now, did you hit your head anywhere except off the end of Jack's gun?"
Ianto nodded and immediately regretted the movement, nausea swirling up and making him retch bile and blood onto the floor between his dangling feet.
"Shit," Owen muttered, "I'm not cleaning that up."
Hysterical laughter seemed like a poor choice when confronted with a furious Owen surrounded by shelves full of very sharp objects, so Ianto settled for shrugging.
He could feel the cold latex of Owen's gloves on his face before he even noticed the doctor had moved closer. Owen roughly jerked his head to the side so the laceration was visible, and Ianto could feel the needle punching through his skin. It stung, but dully, overshadowed by the vicious throbbing in his skull.
"We're out of anesthetic," Owen said in his ear.
"Second-hand drawer on the left, delivered last Tuesday," Ianto muttered under his breath, watching his shoes swing over the side of the table, noticing the tiny patterns the blood dripping off the soles made. He knew he was in shock, but unsurprisingly, it was incredibly hard to give a fuck.
Owen just rolled his eyes and went back to the sutures.
Wincing away from a momentary break-through of the pain, Ianto raised his eyes and saw Jack staring down from the glass enclosure of his office. There was still blood oozing from the other man's lip, and even though Ianto could see Tosh and Gwen gesturing wildly in the background, Jack's gaze locked onto him and didn't waver.
After a moment Ianto had to look away, and covered it by wiping at the blood trickling over his forehead. This was even more Jack's fault than his - Tanizaki and Annie were on his conscience, yes, but all the deaths in the wake of Canary Wharf, Lisa, and probably himself in the next several hours - that was on Jack.
And no matter what happened after Owen let him off this table, he was never going to forgive Jack.