It took nine more days for Ianto to crack completely, meaning he'd lasted twelve days in total of being constantly watched by unsubtle eyes and whirring cameras; his every move tracked as though he were a criminal instead of a man who'd earned his companions' respect through hardship and loss.

That lack of faith grated increasingly on Ianto as the days, nay, the hours passed. His nerves, already shot from months of confusion regarding the development of his 'need', were strained even further by persistent shadows which followed wherever he dared venture.

The one consolation was that Jack had failed to see through his threat to keep Ianto confined completely to the Hub and it was perhaps only for that reason he hadn't snapped earlier.

When, on the previous Tuesday, the Rift had decided to spit out another dozen of the strange over-sized slugs – a number of which had been glowing in a decidedly non-slug-like manner – the entire team (those that weren't in cryo that is) had been needed out in the field. Expecting to be left behind in the Hub, from which he was increasingly sure he could escape if he tried hard enough, Ianto had been rather vexed to learn that Jack had apparently come to a similar conclusion and insisted he accompany them to collect the aliens. It wasn't that Ianto planned to run and leave Cardiff forever, his entire life was there and he wasn't ready to give up on it just yet, but after a week of having his freedom compromised on Jack's orders he was eager for even just a few hours away from the oppressive atmosphere currently swamping the team.

Occasionally he was permitted to go back to his apartment, to fetch clean clothes for the most part, but he never made those trips alone. Tosh was his most frequent warden, whilst both Owen and Jack had accompanied him only the one time each. The journey with Owen had become a battle of sharp snarky comments that had caused everyone to suffer the moment they'd returned to the Hub, whilst the journey with Jack had been an altogether different kind of skirmish...

That Friday had marked a full week since Ianto had almost given into Jack's poor attempt at 'helping'; a week since he'd even been close to experiencing the release that had helped him in recent times. In the morning he'd allowed himself a small measure pride that so many days had passed and he'd managed to keep his mask of cool composure in place and not outwardly become the quivering wreak he sometimes felt inside.

He had also allowed himself to relax his guard somewhat; no longer fearing that Jack would attempt to force discussion of the matter upon him, because it seemed the Captain had now decided to let Ianto ride out whatever turbulent emotions had taken hold since the unveiling of his dark little secret.

The day started so well that Ianto had even begun to wonder if he could be rid of his inconvenient need with simple abstinence. But then, the moment he had led Jack into his apartment, everything crashed down again.

For some reason Jack had apparently decided that a week was long enough to hold his tongue. The questioning had started up again, gentle and persistent and with Ianto's lightened mood he'd actually felt himself weakening again, on the verge of letting his guard slip, but then a hand had landed on his shoulder, a hand which slipped rapidly to the nape of his neck.

That touch had brought Ianto sharply back to himself. Unwanted and tender, it was the last thing he'd needed at that particular moment and he had reacted with a burst of startling rage. Jack had left the apartment with a fat lip and Ianto had followed silently in his wake, wondering why his chest was tight with disappointment.

Almost as though he'd been hoping for more than a kindly stroke of the neck.

Advanced facial recognition programmes in the Hub's internal CCTV meant that Jack had eyes on Ianto at all times. A dedicated screen in his office flicked automatically to a new camera whenever Ianto moved between rooms and Jack watched on avidly, attempting to gauge his current mood. He'd already misjudged Ianto's temper once; taking his improved disposition to mean he was ready to open up, only to discover that wasn't the case at all.

Sunday morning saw the young Welshman in a state of deep agitation. He was restless, prowling the Hub like a trapped animal. Of course he had technically been trapped for the past twelve days, but surprisingly this was the first time it had really been evident. The fact that he was starting to exhibit signs of tension that anyone, not just Jack, could see, was like a siren to the Captain; an alarm that marked the downward spiral of Ianto's grasp on his control.

He started off in the Tourist Office – from which Jack had unsuccessfully tried to keep him – and within a couple of hours every inch of the tiny space had been dusted, cleaned and rearranged. Twice.

Shoulders tight with both resignation and the need to do more, he moved down to the kitchenette and repeated the process there. Washing and tidying as though expecting a visit by someone who would be mortally offended if there were any stray specks of grease left on the cupboard shelves. He managed a round of coffee at this point (Jack suspected he couldn't be near the machine without automatically switching it on) but each mug was delivered with jerky movements and awkward silence.

Next he moved to the boardroom, where he proceeded to polish the long table three whole times, his hand moving in neat steady circles over the gleaming surface. Whilst Jack watched this almost hypnotic display of domesticity, Owen appeared suddenly in the corner of the screen, a dark glower upon his expressive face.

Jack switched off the mute button just in time to hear Owen demand, "What did you do with my tray of cultures?"

Ianto's hand stilled and he stared at the tabletop. "Nothing. Why?"

"It's gone."

The Welshman tilted his head and considered the doctor for a moment. "And?"

Owen stalked closer, his hands balled into fists upon his hips. "And I can't help noticing you're in one of your OCD moods."

"I didn't touch your cultures," said Ianto tightly, straightening up and facing Owen. "Why would I?"

"Well I don't bloody know, do I? All I know is you've been doing your best this week to piss everyone off, but now you've gone too far. I've been working on those things for a month!"

Ianto glowered at the other man. "I've been doing no such thing."

"Riiight," Owen drawled. "Because you always stomp around the Hub in a foul mood and give everyone the cold shoulder." He rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "Look, mate, you gotta get over this. Jack isn't going to let you go off to get your perverse little kicks in someone's back room..." Owen lifted a hand. "Not a euphemism." He ignored Ianto's murderous glare and went on. "Honestly, you might as well just accept it and try to forget all about that stuff, 'cuz you aren't going to win this one."

On the monitor, Jack could clearly see the disbelief in Ianto's stance as he stared at the doctor. He could also tell by the bunching of his shoulders that he was verging on a violent attack of anger that could end very badly indeed for the fragile man inexplicably provoking him.

"And for fuck's sake," Owen went on carelessly, "give me back my damn cultures!"

The side of Ianto's fist slammed down on the table at the precise moment that Jack lifted his comm. to his ear. He knew Ianto wasn't wearing his – for which he was suddenly very thankful – but that the doctor was. "Owen, back off," he barked upon opening the channel. "Leave him alone and get out of there."

The image of the lifeless man cocked his head minutely to the side as he received Jack's command, though the rest of his body remained still. Even if he had moved a hand to his ear in response to the communication, Jack doubted Ianto would have seen it, for he was now bent over, shaking fist pressed hard into the table, eyes cast downwards and his back rising and falling with fast explosive gasps for breath.

"I mean it, Owen," Jack went on. "You don't know what he might do if you push him too far."

A part of the Captain's mind was amazed that he had to warn another of his team to be wary of Ianto. When things had started to unravel two weeks earlier, he'd told Tosh and Owen not to force Ianto into talking about it, but he'd never felt any concern over their safety until the second the young man's fist had crashed into the table with unmistakable force.

Jack hadn't been completely ready to view Ianto's restlessness that day as solid proof of an impending breakdown, but the violence with which he'd hit the table told him all he needed to know.

"Owen..." he warned, inwardly praying that the doctor wouldn't resist his orders purely out of pride.

Owen scowled darkly, his eyes darting towards the discrete camera in the ceiling so that he was glaring out at Jack through the monitor. "Fuck this," he growled, still staring at the lens, before turning on his heel and storming out into the hallway.

The image became almost static as Ianto remained hunched over, struggling to regain control of himself. His hands clenched and opened on the table, clenched and opened, clenched and opened, a rhythm matched by the movement of his back with every breath he dragged into his lungs.

"Doesn't he know what he's doing?" Owen raged into Jack's ear a moment later. "The childish bastard has Tosh convinced he'll get himself killed and he doesn't give a damn! He needs help, Jack, he needs fucking shock therapy or something!"

Jack ignored the angry tirade, his attention fixed solely on Ianto's back as the young man began to methodically polish the spot on the table he had just struck.

The archives were blissfully quiet and dark whether it was day or night and, of late, Ianto didn't have a more favoured spot in the entire Hub.

Since being confined to the underground base by Jack's ultimatum, Ianto had only been able to find solace in the one area that the Captain conceded was his domain. Everywhere else was swamped in the heavy shadow that had hounded him all week, especially when Jack – who usually lightened Ianto's mood considerably whenever nearby – was present.

Ianto hauled another handful of manila folders out of a filing cabinet and set them in the box by his side. After the run-in with Owen he'd decided it was probably for the best that he kept out of everyone else's way for the rest of the day and had returned to the project he'd been working on sporadically ever since starting at Torchwood Three. Ironically enough he'd managed to copy more of the old hand-written records into the database in the past twelve days than he had in all his time working there. It turned out he was even more productive when he worked through the night and paused only for a few hours of restless sleep when he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

He glanced at the box and added another couple of bulging folders to it, mentally calculating that he had enough now to see him through to the early hours of the morning. As he straightened up, the air shifted behind him and he turned sharply, expecting to find that a particular unwanted visitor had materialised in the room yet again. But there was no one there and the muscles that had started to gather upon his brow in preparation for an almighty frown relaxed in confusion. Was he starting to imagine things as well now?

Sudden pressure on his back knocked him against the open drawer and his arms were captured in a vice-like hold just above the elbow.

Ianto blinked, one eye bare millimetres away from the corner of the metal cabinet, and his mind caught up abruptly with what had just happened. He immediately began to twist in the solid grasp. "Let go," he said, when he managed to gain nothing from his squirming.

The hands moved, but instead of disappearing they slid down to his wrists, still tight and bruising, and forced Ianto's arms to bend upwards so that they met in the small of his back.

"Jack," Ianto growled. "Let the fuck go."

The Captain's body pressed him harder into the cabinet and a soft tut clicked into his ear. "Such language," Jack murmured, forcing Ianto's arms further up his back so he could grip both wrists with one large hand.

"I don't know what you think you're-" Ianto began, only to break off as something cold and metallic was clamped around one of his wrists. His eyes widened with panic and he turned his head to the side, all pretence of composure gone as he realised what was happening. "No," he said, "don't."

"But I want to," Jack countered simply, snapping the second cuff into place.

Ianto twisted again, but he had no chance of escaping the strong hold Jack had upon him. "I told you I didn't want you to be a part of this," he said through gritted teeth, struggling as best he could when trapped between the cabinet and the older man.

"And I don't think you have a choice."

The immortal's tone was laced with both threat and humour and Ianto was troubled by how to react to that. Did the faint trace of teasing mean that if he truly put up a fight Jack would stop? Ianto grimaced as he wiggled, unsure of the answer. The fact that Jack was trying something as bold as forcing him into this position after all of the Welshman's protests suggested he had reached the limit of his patience.

"Jack," he said, unable to simply give in, despite knowing very well how determined the other man could be when he set out upon a particular path. "Jack, if you do this I'll never forgive you."

Jack leaned in even closer. "You don't want this?" he murmured and Ianto shook his head quickly, seeing hope in the Captain's question.

A hand clamped over Ianto's nose and mouth and his head jerked back in surprise, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge it. Jack's free arm wrapped itself tightly around his waist, which proved a wise move, for when Ianto realised there was a damp cloth within the hand, his efforts to escape increased dramatically.

His cries of anger were muffled by the material but they, and his squirming, quickly died down as the fumes he inhaled started to take effect.

"I don't believe you," Jack informed him solemnly, a moment before the young man slumped into his arms, unconscious.