Author's Notes: Thanks again to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. It really helped to motivate me to get this next chapter written as soon as possible. Great to have some new readers on-board too. And my sincere thanks as always to Prothrombintime for brilliant support, feedback and suggestions.


Chapter Fifty

October 10th, 2007

Ianto woke with a start, a strangled cry tearing from his throat and his eyes flying open as he drew air into his lungs with shuddering, ragged gasps. He pulled himself upright and looked around frantically, his terror slowly beginning to abate as he focused on the familiar surroundings of his bedroom bathed in the soft light emanating from the hallway. Continuing to take deep, panicked breaths, he rubbed a trembling hand over his sweat-dampened face, then turned on the bedside lamp, blinking several times as his eyes adjusted to the additional illumination.

The frequency of his nightmares had eased considerably, but when they did strike, they'd lost nothing of their intensity. Forcing himself to control and slow his breathing, he tried to push away the terrible images that had become an indelible part of his psyche. The latest nightmare had been a familiar theme. Restrained by a pair of silent, immobile Cybermen, their cold metal fingers digging painfully into his biceps, he'd struggled frantically to break free. He'd been forced to watch in horror as Jack was dragged to a conversion table and strapped down onto it, his agonised screams shattering Ianto's soul as spinning blades drenched in blood descended and tore into the immortal man's flesh. When the remains of Jack's body had regenerated and he'd gasped back to life, thrashing violently with terror in his eyes, they'd repeated the process, using Jack's unique nature over and over again to single-handedly create an army of Cybermen.

Ianto's heart pounded in his chest as he waited anxiously, expecting Jack to burst into the room, the man's keen hearing having undoubtedly detected his sounds of distress. When several minutes had passed and Jack's presence was not forthcoming, he finally remembered that Jack had been called back to the Hub just as they'd finished eating dinner.

Admonishing himself for his neediness, he pushed aside the bed covers and swung his pyjama-clad legs to the floor, cringing with the ache in his weakened limbs as his bare feet landed on the carpet. He reached for his walking stick, gripping the handle of the four-pronged metal pole tightly and hauling himself up with a grunt. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, finding his sense of equilibrium before shuffling with frustratingly small, uncertain steps towards the bathroom.

As relieved as he was to finally be free of the cursed wheelchair, his new found mobility was infuriatingly slow and limited, not to mention exhausting. But after over three months of almost total dependence on others, the certain hope of recovery was now tantalisingly within reach, and he was determined to do whatever was necessary to get his old life back. He was all too aware that the road to recovery was a long one, and he still faced countless hours of rehab before he'd regain his former level of mobility.

The first few days after the destruction of Torchwood One were a confused, pain-filled blur. He'd woken in a London hospital, Jack and Owen's anxious faces hovering over him. He'd slipped in and out of consciousness until he was finally lucid enough for Jack to recount how he'd found and recovered Ianto's broken body from the rubble of Torchwood Tower. It had been a miracle he'd survived, and even though his resulting injuries could have easily been far worse, the list had been extensive enough: his left forearm broken, the bones fractured in two places, several broken ribs, concussion, extensive bruising and contusions, and a compression of the lower section of his spinal cord that had left him unable to walk and effectively paralysed from the waist down.

Once he'd been treated with high doses of steroids for the inflammation of his spinal cord, and his other injuries had been stabilised, Owen had arranged for him to be transferred to a rehabilitation centre back in Cardiff. It had been a month later before he'd been allowed to go home, and almost two more months before he'd taken his first step on trembling legs which had quickly collapsed under his weight.

On his return home, he'd initially chafed under Jack's fretful ministrations, but after being mortified when he'd soiled himself in his attempts to get to the toilet on his own, he'd been forced to give up any pretence of independence. With as much grace as he could muster, he'd surrendered himself to Jack's overzealous care.

He couldn't fault Jack's unwavering devotion, although he knew it was at least partly fuelled by a profound sense of guilt, much like after the incident with John Hart. The pain and remorse in the depths of Jack's eyes was unmistakeable, and his attempts at assuring the older man of his blamelessness were met with stubborn, stoic denial. Nothing was resolved between them, any conversations on that subject apparently relegated to a time when Ianto's weakened condition wasn't a painful reminder of what had taken place between them.

When Torchwood required Jack's attention, Owen took his place, the medics brusque, matter-of-fact demeanour a welcome respite from Jack's more earnest, smothering approach. Toshiko regularly kept him company when Jack and Owen couldn't be around, watching films with him, cooking a meal for him and Jack on occasion, and with Ianto's arm now finally out of plaster, she'd introduced him to origami. He'd managed to become quite proficient, finding the ancient pastime relaxing and a welcome distraction that kept his hands and mind occupied. Even Gwen and Rhys had been supportive during his convalescence, with Rhys delivering one of his home-made lasagnes on a weekly basis. With his severely limited physical activity and a continuous stream of nourishing food, Ianto had begun to put on some weight.

His twenty-fifth birthday had been a subdued affair. He hadn't felt like celebrating, but he'd been touched by the effort his friends had made on his behalf. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, he'd tried to make an effort for their sake, if not his own. Jack had given him a new watch to replace the one that had been damaged beyond repair in London, the replacement appearing to be even more expensive than the original, although he'd decided not to ascertain its actual value. Tosh and Gwen had given him a stack of new DVD's, and Owen had presented him with a nice bottle of Scotch to enjoy when he'd recovered and was no longer taking medication.

Finally reaching the bathroom, he used the toilet, then washed his hands and ran a moist flannel over his face, the coolness a relief against his flushed skin. Tugging up his t-shirt, he gave his upper body a cursory wipe to remove the residual traces of sweat, then dried himself off and smoothed the t-shirt down again. Wrinkling his nose at the still-damp fabric, he pulled it off and tossed it into the laundry basket.

After gulping down a glass of water along with a painkiller, he vainly endeavoured to tame his unruly hair, deciding he really couldn't put off getting a haircut any longer. He avoided meeting his gaze in the mirror, not wanting to see the haunted look he knew he'd find in his eyes. Then with a weary sigh, he grasped hold of his walking stick and hobbled slowly back to the bedroom, briefly considering and then rejecting the idea of making his way to the kitchen and fixing himself a cup of hot chocolate. Pulling on a clean t-shirt, he eased himself carefully back into bed, sliding under the covers once more.

He reached over to the bedside table and picked up his latest origami creation, tracing a fingertip over the intricate folds of the tiny paper pterosaur. The wings weren't quite long enough, but he thought the overall likeness was rather good, and a wistful smile crept over his lips as he thought about his beautiful Myfanwy. Jack had been taking him to the Hub for weekly visits, but it wasn't the same as being there to see her every day and take care of her, and he missed her companionship. The Hub and its myriad stairs and walkways wasn't a wheelchair friendly environment and Jack needed to carry him from the SUV to the main level, depositing him on the sofa so he could spend a little time with their pet and feed her chocolate. The visits were always at night-time and only when the Hub was deserted, a concession to preserve the tattered shreds of his dignity. He couldn't bear the thought of his colleagues seeing him being carried around like a helpless child.

The sound of the front door being unlocked interrupted his thoughts. Putting the paper Myfanwy carefully back on the table, he adjusted the pillows behind his back and watched the doorway expectantly. He didn't have to wait long before Jack appeared at the threshold, leaning wearily against the door frame, but offering up a half-hearted attempt at a smile.

"Hey there. Didn't think you'd be awake." Jack took a step into the room, a worried frown creasing his brow. "Nightmare?"

"Yeah," Ianto replied quietly. Attempting to hold his features in an impassive expression, he pulled back the covers on what had once been Jack's side of the bed, patting the empty space invitingly.

He struggled to ignore the acute stab to his heart from Jack's moment of hesitation. It didn't seem very long ago that Jack would have produced a salacious grin in response to such an invitation, striped off all his clothing with impressive speed, then climbed into bed before proceeding to skilfully divest Ianto of any clothes he might have been wearing. Instead, they were in a strange kind of no-man's land, still friends, but no longer lovers, in some ways still comfortable with each other, in other ways painfully awkward.

Not for the first time, he wondered if Jack was merely waiting for him to fully recover before bringing a close to their tenuous relationship. But then he thought about all the times Jack had comforted him since the events of London, taking care of him and soothing away his distress when he woke from his nightmares. And several times, he'd woken to find Jack sitting at his bedside, apparently watching over him as he slept. He rarely had nightmares when Jack was close.

Seeming to recover his composure, Jack tugged off his blue shirt and his socks, dropping them to the floor in his usual careless manner. Clad in his trousers and white undershirt, he settled himself down onto the bed, wrapped an arm around Ianto's shoulders and pulled him into a close embrace, pressing a kiss against his forehead. "How bad was it?" he murmured.

"Bad enough," Ianto replied evasively, savouring the brief contact of Jack's warm lips against his skin and settling his head on Jack's shoulder. He breathed in deeply, the familiar scent of Jack's pheromones soothing him, yet evoking a dissonant ache that seemed to reach down into the furthest depths of his troubled soul.

"Want to talk about it?" Jack asked, his voice gentle and undemanding.

Ianto shook his head. He'd told Jack about some of the content of his nightmares previously, but he kept the more disturbing images to himself, especially those involving Jack. "No. Not really."

Pressing himself closer to Jack's side, Ianto slipped his arms around Jack's waist, grateful he understood that some things were too terrible to put into words.

He didn't think that talking about the morbid renderings of his subconscious was particularly beneficial, and Jack had enough of his own burdens without him adding to them unnecessarily. The look of utter despair he'd seen on Jack's face when he'd revealed what the Doctor had told him about the nature of Jack's condition continued to haunt him. The Doctor had abandoned Jack yet again, having departed in the TARDIS moments before Jack had arrived at Canary Wharf. Although the Time Lord's plan to save the world from invasion had worked, Ianto despised the cowardly alien not only for running from Jack a second time, but for leaving it up to him to tell Jack the awful truth. He might have only been the messenger, but Ianto had hated himself for being the person responsible for dashing Jack's fragile, lingering hopes. He'd considered that it might have been kinder not to have relayed the Doctor's words, but he'd known that it would have gnawed away at him if he hadn't, and Jack deserved to know the truth, no matter how painful.

CCTV footage recovered by Tosh had shown that Rose, Jackie, Pete Tyler and Mickey Smith had escaped Torchwood Tower, using the devices they'd been wearing around their necks to apparently transport themselves to the alternate universe Pete and Mickey had come from. Pete had come back to save Rose, transporting her away an instant before she'd been about to be sucked into the void. He'd been saddened that Jack would probably never get the chance to see Rose again, but he was deeply grateful that they had survived, and he hoped they were now beyond the Doctor's dangerous thrall.

They'd been the lucky ones, Ianto included. Lisa hadn't been as fortunate, nor had the eight hundred and ten other souls who had lost their lives during the attempted invasion. Most of them had been good, innocent people, like Lisa, who had devoted themselves to the protection of their country. Ianto had been the only person still alive in the wreckage of the warehouse, the handful of soldiers he'd been fighting alongside at the end also all dead.

The wholesale loss of life was staggering, and it was something Ianto didn't think he'd ever be able to fully comprehend, while the cover story of a terrorist attack ensured that the public would never know the truth. Only a scarce few knew how close the population of planet Earth had come to annihilation. It was impossible not to feel that he should have done more to try to stop Yvonne Hartman, and he suspected Jack felt the same way, although they'd never spoken about it. Owen had talked to him about survivor guilt, and Ianto hadn't been able to deny that he couldn't understand why he was alive when so many had perished. During the darker moments when the guilt and grief became too much to bear, he found himself wishing that he'd died in London too. Those morbid thoughts inevitably left him feeling thoroughly ashamed, given that Lisa had lost her life while trying to save his. Two of the thirty-eight survivors had committed suicide shortly afterwards, unable to cope with what they'd witnessed. Several more had chosen to be retconned.

He hadn't been able to attend Lisa's funeral because of his injuries, but he'd spoken to her parents and expressed his condolences. Lisa had been their only child. Along with the many other families of the victims, their lives were now ruined. It was a terrible reminder that the casualties of Torchwood extended far beyond the actual victims.

Jack's fingers trailed gently through his hair, tenderly massaging his scalp, and Ianto pressed his face into Jack's neck, nuzzling the lightly stubbled skin. "You need a haircut," Jack said softly as he teased a thick curl of hair behind Ianto's ear between his fingers.

"Mmm. I was thinking about that earlier, actually," Ianto agreed, wondering if he should try to get someone to come to the apartment, rather than struggle with a trip into the city centre to the place he and Jack normally used.

"I'll give Alonso a call in the morning." Jack peered down at him, sweeping Ianto's hair away from his forehead. "I could do with one too. We can go together if you like."

"Er... okay." A sharp pang of yearning hit Ianto as he remembered the handful of times they'd done that in the past. There was an ice-cream parlour a couple of doors down from Alonso's salon and Jack would treat them afterwards, indulging in a decadent sundae for himself while invariably convincing Ianto to have a chocolate ice-cream milkshake, despite his protestations about ice-cream giving him a headache. He realised just how much he missed those brief but precious moments of normality with Jack. "Only if it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble." Jack's lips brushed against Ianto's temple and he began to extract himself from their embrace. "Try to get some sleep. I'll be in the other room if you need anything."

Ianto caught Jack's arm and held it. "Jack... stay. Please."

"Ianto..." Jack began, pausing and looking at Ianto with such intense longing and regret in his eyes that Ianto almost couldn't bear to hold his gaze. "Don't make me say no to you," he added in a tremulous whisper.

"Then don't," Ianto replied, and before he could consider the wisdom of his actions, he grasped Jack's face in his hands and brought their lips together, kissing Jack insistently.

The last time they'd kissed properly had been almost four months ago, and he'd wanted to kiss Jack so many times since, but he'd been afraid of what it might mean for the affection and friendship they still shared. With their altercation prior to London still unresolved, combined with his inability to perform sexually due to his injuries, he'd feared Jack would reject him, pushing him away one final time.

Jack was tense and unresponsive at first, but just as Ianto was about to pull away, he let out a soft moan and began to reciprocate. He wrapped his arms around Ianto and pulled him closer, parting his lips and allowing Ianto to deepen their kiss.