I've thought about death a lot in my 24 years on this planet.

At Torchwood One, on that day, I was surrounded by it. Screaming, bloody, monotonous death, and in that kind of situation, you can't help but picture your own bloody ending.

When I first found Lisa, I actually wished for it. Surely death had to be easier than dealing with this, the shell of my love, this metal mockery of the only person I've ever actually let come to know me. I'll never know when she was truly lost to me. Was it always just the conversion talking? Manipulating me into getting it what it needed…what she needed to start an invasion? It's confusing. I could've sworn it was her there at the end, staring out at me from behind that poor girl's face, pleading with me from underneath that mangled scalp. At the start of all this, she was so hopeful. So sure that all we needed was the right kind of help, and we would get through this whole. Not Torchwood, surely. All they'd do was harvest the parts they thought they could use, and incinerate the rest. How right she was.

When I was a child, I was terrified of it. I saw it looming over every confrontation I had with my lout of a father. Scared that he'd finally make good on his threats, and make it so that he never had to look at me again. You see, I looked like "her", and it was a crime I paid for in blood.

She was a delicate soul, shackled to my brute of father through her children. She stayed with him, with us, for as long as she could stand it. One day I came home from school, and she was gone. I was a 4 year old boy, pale, back riddled with bruises, and now abandoned by my mother, and there wasn't an ounce of hate in my heart. All I felt was envy.

When I was 13, my father got a phone-call about his long-lost wife. She'd been institutionalized for the past 6 months, and had only just given them her name. He hung up on them, and forbade us from speaking about it. I never worked up the courage to go visit her, but I used to sit on a bench on the hospital grounds, and read. She died a year later, somehow managing to get her hands on enough pills to finally be truly rid of us. Again, I felt nothing but envy, hating myself for lacking the courage to follow her.

Now that Death had finally stopped skirting the issue. Now that I'd stopped being afraid of it, and just accepted it as the best option, the only option I'm worthy of really, I feel at peace. I can stop pretending. I can stop thinking. No more questions. No more consequences. I can, thankfully, just cease to be. Well, I thought I could. I've always pictured the after-life as a quiet place. An empty abyss of some sort, and while it is dark, and relatively quiet, I'm pretty sure I just heard someone call me a Prat. Surely, ending one's life means escaping moronic put-downs. Nope, there it is again. I'm being insulted…and instructed. Bloody hell.


"Open your eyes. C'mon you Welsh Prat! Eyes open! You're not getting away that easy, and I know you can hear me. Now up with 'em!"

Owen watched Ianto's eyes flutter open slowly, and had to hide a smile as he saw what could only be described as annoyance shining out of them.

"Well, well. Sleeping beauty awakens."


Oh no. Unless the boisterous doctor had decided to cross-over just to annoy me, he'd somehow managed to arrive in time to save me. FUCK. This is not what I wanted. Can't one thing go right? Can't just one fucking thing go to plan? I'm trying to make it right! Ending my stupid life opens a slot on this planet for someone who merits it. The world can be rid of the prodigal fuck-up, and the team can have a coffee-boy who doesn't almost get them all converted into metal monstrosities. Someone who didn't use the boss's feelings for him as a means to an end. Someone who is whole, and undamaged, and fit to walk among them.

Can't they see what I'm trying to do? Can't they let me get this one thing right?


Owen watched the annoyance quickly turn into despair as Ianto realized just what had happened.

"You've got to calm down mate. You're going to pop a seam."

He watched as the young man made an attempt to lift his arms, to see his heavily bandaged extremities, but the doctor gently grabbed his hands, and stilled his movements.

"You're chock full of pain-meds, and a strong sedative. Trying to move anything right now could put you in more trouble. You're spatial awareness is probably way off, and I don't need you smashing your damages into my machinery, and popping a stitch. You've bled on me enough for one lifetime, alright?"

As he was speaking, Ianto started moving his head from side to side. At first, Owen thought he was trying to get his bearings, or maybe still trying to get a look at his bandages, but as the movements grew more frantic, he realized he was shaking his head 'No'.

"C'mon mate, calm down. There is no point riling yourself up. You're safe whether you like it or not."

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say as Ianto's wet, desperate eyes grew furious, and he launched himself at Owen with a surprising amount of accuracy. Knocking the doctor off of his feet, the heavily medicated Welshman clumsily straddled his chest, grabbed him by the collar, and screamed a litany of profanities in his face.

The language itself was impressive enough, as the doctor was unaware that his usually well-suited and well-spoken teammate was capable of such venom. More impressive, however, was how awake Ianto was. He should've been doped stupid with the cocktail he had running through him, not to mention the recent physical trauma, and here he was, mostly coordinated, and staging rebellion. He must be royally pissed off. Luckily, his strength was sapped pretty quickly, and Owen was able to get him under control, and back in bed without calling for backup.

Once he had his patient horizontal, and now restrained, he sat down to start writing up his report on the incident.

Other than the most recent injuries, Ianto had a multitude of scars on his back, and legs, and the scans had shown multiple old fractures to be present.

Ianto's body showed a long history of pain, and judging by his actions tonight, so did his mind. Since there was nothing on file to denote the origin of the injuries, Owen made a note that his records had most certainly been falsified to a degree. Ianto was hiding his past, and now they had to go digging for it. Canary Wharf wasn't responsible for every broken bit of Ianto, and it was time his young teammate stopped hiding behind it.

Glancing down at his groggy charge, he couldn't help but feel the weight of his responsibility for his current condition. He hadn't given enough of a fuck to pay attention, to use his skills to help his obviously damaged colleague, and now he had stitched up gashes on his forearms, and would soon have yet more scars on his already abused body.

Burying his guilt in favor of finishing his report, he realized now would be a good time for a cup of coffee…this caused him to once again glance at his patient.

"Fuck."


After expressing his displeasure at being further shackled to this plain of existence, Ianto was exhausted. He couldn't even think properly about how to go about rectifying the current situation, never mind actually doing anything about it.

Once again, I am trapped in a situation beyond my control, with death hovering near, and I can't help but fuck up. How can one person be so utterly useless? Surely, it should be somewhat distributed among the population?

"I hate this fucking life. Please...please just let me…"

He couldn't even finish his plea. It was too difficult to get his brain and mouth to coordinate. He feels Owen glaring at him, but because of the restraints, he can't even wipe away the tears that are shamefully trickling down the sides of his face.

"Fuck."