A/N: Hello and thanks for clicking! So I got this idea in my head yesterday and it cried out to be written before I'm cruelly torn away from the internet for the rest of the week. It was originally going to be a lot shorter but I just kept writing, as such it's a little meandering but I hope you feel it was worth it.

As always I feel the need to point out my relative newbie status to the world of Torchwood, I think my lack of knowledge of the geography of Jack's office really shines through here! And if anyone is reading my TW story, 'Open Bar', I swear I will update soon, just as soon as I can face the thought of a bar again in fact. And if you're not reading it, why not? (No come back! Stay and read, I'm not actually that cocky!)

Disclaimer; I own nothing in this story, and not much more outside of it.

Summary; Sometimes in Torchwood you're injured saving the world. Sometimes you're just in the wrong place at the wrong time. All seems rather unfair.

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It was otherwise a successful mission, at least from what he'd been told. Typical alien threat, the world, or more accurately in that moment Cardiff at stake. The team had cornered it in what he pictured as a very dramatic moment, not being able to visualise the physical alien itself as it had reportedly evaporated into cobalt blue smoke when Owen shot it, and dissipated through the wet bricks leaving no body behind. Ianto had been there for that part, which was precisely why he couldn't remember, because just as they had thought that was the end of it the smoke had reacted with the damp in the walls, causing the bricks to shake and dislodge with what had appeared in his dreams as a low and sickening rumble. And before Gwen could finish voicing what a great idea it would be to get out, the building had collapsed around them, solid bricks blowing out of place as if forced by explosions.

Or that was how he imagined it, given the damage it had done to him.

Frankly, he could have done without all the imagining. At first he'd felt so utterly lost, and while he wouldn't admit it, a little frightened by the fact that he couldn't remember what had happened, only strange and meaningless flashes. A scream here, rubble there..

It still unsettled him. However, had he known that the constant retellings would mix with his own murky recollections to create a vague, dreamlike picture where he couldn't place what were genuine memories and what he'd filled in, he might not have been quite so desperate to piece it together. Because now he couldn't forget.

It was by no means the most horrific thing that had happened to him in his time at Torchwood. If he hadn't been injured it would have barely registered as an event. It was sheer chance that things had played out as they did; The others had recounted to him how Tosh had been hit by the flying bricks and her leg injured, Ianto had been closest and shoved her out of the way when a beam from the ceiling swung loose, (a fact he was secretly proud of). Apparently they'd barely made it two steps before he'd been struck across the head so hard he blacked out instantly, completely defenseless as the ceiling had caved in right where they were standing. If it weren't for the exact angle the beams had fallen, shielding them from the bulk of the wreckage, he and Tosh would almost certainly be dead.

The rest of the team had managed to get them out before the building had imploded completely, themselves uninjured. Tosh was still conscious, her leg the only problem. Ianto was a different story.

That was just the way it went.

He didn't like to dwell on the details of just how badly it could have gone, or indeed how badly it had. He was back at work, thoroughly beaten, bound up and bandaged under his suit on the agreement that he didn't go on field missions until he was healed, and he worked reduced hours, (which seeing as he practically invented overtime took him down to everybody else's level). He'd been glad just to return, as the few days he'd spent away he'd been going crazy with nothing to occupy him. It had been a week and a half, and he was truly tired of feeling injured. Every second he spent thinking about how it happened was just dragging it out, reminding him of the pain. But then every second he spent without something to do he become acutely aware of the pain, leading him straight back to thinking of how it happened. Short of leaving his body, he was stuck.

Of course his escape could have been achieved with considerably greater ease had another member of the team filled in the paperwork. He had no memory of the night after they had first entered the building, so of course he was the natural choice to write the report. Unbelievable.

Actually, he had a sneaking suspicion that Owen had tried, as he'd found a half-written attempt in his scratchy handwriting littering his desk, blitzed with mistakes and crossed-out sentences.

He guessed Owen's secret-niceness only went up to a point.

The cynical part of him said Owen was only doing it to stop Ianto reliving it, in turn saving Owen from setting up counselling. The side of him that saw optimism argued that sweetness didn't come naturally to Owen, and his willingness to even try gave him a distinct feeling of bemused affection. The side that won depended on how much pain he was in at that moment, and how high a dose of painkillers he was on respectively.

It wasn't just the continual aching that was driving him nuts either; it was the exhaustion. He felt tired all the time, and not just lack-of-sleep tired, but the kind where every single bone and muscle got involved. That was how he currently came to be lying on the sofa in Jack's office, half-aware that there was paperwork stuck to the side of his face as he dozed. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there but he knew no one would bother him, and so he didn't care to make himself presentable. He was barely speaking to the others, and it wasn't as they thought that he was erratic and traumatised; he simply couldn't keep up with conversation for more than a few hours a day. Depending on when they saw him in his medication cycle he was either his usual Ianto self, or he was the basics version which came with decidedly fewer functions.

He also saw them less as they weren't asking him for drinks anymore. He'd overheard Tosh asking the others not to bother him with requests which had made him smile. He wasn't completely out of commission, but it was good of her to look out for him. He hadn't been this weak on the job since the cannibals had laid into him. He'd saved her then too.

Saving Tosh never seemed to end well for him.

'How are you feeling?'

He jolted at hearing the voice, eyes opening. Jack had walked in, arms crossed, choosing to ignore the totally unprofessional manner in which he found his colleague.

Ianto sat upright as quickly as he could, which wasn't very quickly at all, pulling away from the paperwork and clearing his throat to answer in as polite a manner as he could manage.

'A lot better thanks. Should be archiving in no time.'

Jack eyed him for a second, standing in the doorway, before walking towards him and taking his braces off his shoulders as he did, his way of showing he was no longer there as his boss. He settled on the sofa next to Ianto.

'Okay. So how are you really feeling?'

'I think this is what a coma feels like,' Ianto replied just as politely, falling back into the sofa as he did so. Jack laughed and put an arm around him, pulling him into his lap so he was lying down again.

After a few moments Ianto became aware of Jack's fingers moving gently through his hair, and he knew he would be dreaming again soon. He closed his eyes and let Jack's even breathing lull him away from the deep aching in his body, to that weightless place between consciousness and sleep. Every night when he drifted off he expected he would wake up feeling better, feeling like he was getting better.

Every morning he became a little bit more aware that he wasn't. It was going to take a lot longer to recover than he thought, and he didn't even remember what had done this to him.

A week and a half after it happened, and it was now that he spoke with eyes closed.

'Jack?'

'Ianto', hecould hear the smile in his voice, hands still threading through his hair.

Ianto hesitated for a moment, his ownvoice distant.

'..I'm not coming straight back from this, am I?'

Jack leaned back into the sofa and settled in for the night as he felt Ianto drift off into his restless dreams once again.

'You don't have to.'

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A/N; Thanks for reading! It's truly appreciated, as is feedback. BTW, I like to think that Jack told Owen to leave Ianto paperwork to do so he could still feel useful. Even though it's my story and I technically control it.. Hey, I'm lazy.