A month. One.
"You're suspended for a month," HE'd said. "Then I expect you back and ready to work."
He'd been allotted a month to mourn the only woman he'd ever loved. Just one.
One month – 30 days – 720 hours – 43,200 minutes – 2,592,000 seconds.
Breath.
(That's one less second.)
One month.
Ianto disagrees with HIS estimation of the length of time it will take him to grieve. A month?
He doesn't think he'll need nearly that long.
In the darkest, guiltiest corner of his soul, that's what "Jones, Ianto Jones" is most afraid of.
He'd been wrong, earlier. Jack wasn't the biggest monster of them all, in the end.
That title belonged to whatever was left of Ianto.