A/N: Hell, I got no excuses for this - only that this is my first stab at a Torchwood drabble, and that I just felt so sorry for poor Ianto at the end of that ep, and that it kinda wandered off from there.

Pain, inertia, empathy.

Funny, what losing a loved on can do to you.

My mind is still, frozen, as I robotically pick up the litter, the coke cans and the Styrofoam cups and the rest of the crap the others leave absently about.

Robotically. Heh. I can't quite believe – still can't quite believe she's gone. My Lisa. My girl. Controlled, Altered…deleted….but mine. The only thing that seemed to quite make sense in my sparse, shuttered little life. Gone. They shot her. Killed her. Destroyed what was left of her body, then killed her again when she was trying – crazily, desperately, maybe even stupidly – to start again.

I chance a glance upwards. Gwen and Jack are still leant against the glass, watching me, like a pair of cats trying to figure out a goldfish bowl. Cold. Fascinated. Inscrutable, especially Jack.

How can he be so…no, cold's the wrong word. Shuttered, maybe. I know more than the others, I think – being the near-invisible errand boy does have a few pluses – because I listen, where they speculate.

Which is why I know that accusing him of never loving anyone, back there, back in the madness and the grief and pain, accusing him of being a emotionless monster, might possibly be the most suicidal thing I have ever done in my whole life. He's loved. You can see it, when you've gone through the same sort of thing.

Loved so hard that whatever happened to end it very nearly broke him. I don't know whether it was recently or a very long time ago – it could easily be both, knowing Jack – but he's barely recovering. Barely. That snarl – I can't call it a smile or a grin, because it was too savage – that appeared on his face when I called him a monster…I thought he was just going to drop the gun and kill me with his bare hands. He knows how bad he is. I know how bad I am…maybe.

It takes a mirror for us to see our worth, but sometimes the glass is so streaked and stained with guilt and blood and memory that all we can do is guess, and hope we've got it right.

All we can do is hope.

A/N: You know the Jingle

you should know what to do,

I've written, you've read,

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