He hears their laughter even before the cog door begins to roll open. It is garishly loud and grating against the otherwise deathly silence of the Hub; Ianto inwardly cringes at the sound as he stands but paces away, still and unable to move aside as the team step into view. He watches as they stumble over one another amidst a chorus of giggles and conversation he cannot decipher- their words sounding garbled and incomprehensible to his ears-, walking past him as if he does not exist, as if he never has, and Ianto wonders if maybe that’s not a little bit true. He’s been a ghost of himself for so long now, hiding in the shadows of Torchwood Three (doing what he must to survive, to keep her alive, to keep him satisfied), that he wonders if he even remembers how to be himself anymore.

Ianto turns, seeing as the team take to their workstations with a professionalism hardly ever shown in this branch, he sees them working together as one and he laments for a time that he’s never had that here. That he’s never allowed himself that level of familiarity or friendliness with them for fear that the attachment would be his undoing. They’d tried, in the beginning oh how they’d tried, and he’d been politely distant as he answered their questions and requests and attempts to include him in their circle of closeness.

He’d resisted, of course, and over time- fickle interests soon waned and he was forgotten, dismissed as easily as an empty cup of coffee or a report three-weeks overdue- they lost their interest, stopped noticing him- Ianto Jones, looks good in a suit- when he walked into the room, delivered their coffee-lunch-archive requests, when he started disappearing for long periods of time, he’d gotten so very good at blending into the background. He did enough not to be noticed, appeared when he was needed, but the rest of the time he spent hidden away in the bowels of their base, with a secret so pivotal to be kept it left him sick and shaken and blind to the darker implications of what he was doing; what he was being made to do.

But he’d loved her. Loves her. And like a man possessed he’d sworn to do everything in his power to protect her, to save her and make her whole again for him, for them, so that they could be together- happy and in love and together for as close to forever as they could get.

He doesn’t know when it had all gone so wrong, when things had changed, when she’d changed; his Lisa, his beautiful Lisa, his beautiful- manipulating, deceitful, murdering- Lisa. The betrayal burns like fire in his gut. His hands shake with uncontrollable tremors and he looks down at them, scrunching his fingers into fists as he sees the blood coating them in thick, vermillion streaks. He clenches his eyes closed, chocking back the hysteria as he forces himself to breathe through it. There is no blood. He’s scrubbed it all clean; every inch of every surface. No trace left. No evidence to pinpoint that anything had ever happened-

Ianto,

-that she ever existed here, that he’d ever kept her hidden away like some dirty little secret- skeletons in the closet-, that she’d played him and used him, killed a man when he turned his back and offered him no excuses- nurture or nature or just the result of cyberman conditioning?- and he’d had no choice. No choice. No choice. No-

Ianto,

-no…

Ianto looks up and away. There are eyes on him when they should only slide over him. There are eyes staring intently at him, seeing him, noticing him, and he freezes, unable to think, to function, to make himself move away and out of their line of sight. In the back of his mind he knows that he should smile that bland smile of his, give a self depreciating shrug and slink off into the shadows. Slip off to make coffee or tidy away the rubbish or something- anything- that will stop them all watching him but he can’t. He can’t move. There is a sluggishness to his thinking, to his ability to assess the situation and react accordingly, that other times would have alarmed him. Not so now. Now. Now he is stood in numbness. and. he. can’t. move.

Ianto.

Can’t… can’t… couldn’t save her. He couldn’t. Not when she’d needed him the most. Not when it mattered. And he’d- he’d had no choice- the gun in his hand before he knew it, aimed at her and she’d stared, only stared, banking on his devotion to override his morals, knowing he wouldn’t fire now of all times, not after everything he’d done to save her, assuming that his love was unquestionable, and she was right. Right up until the moment she was wrong.- he’d done what he had to. For her. For him. For the godforsaken world that had in its own way damned her to this fate from the start. And oh god… Lisa!

“Ianto!” The voice startles him back to the present, ripping him from the pain of memory to find Jack Harkness standing in front of him, his hands grasping at his shoulders in a bid to get his attention. There is a strange mix of curiosity and worry in the Captain’s eyes that make Ianto want to cringe away from the man but he can’t move. His body shakes and Jack says something to him. The words sound distant, garbled, he shakes his head and Jack’s grip only tightens but Ianto barely notices as he leans in, as if to hug, as if looking for comfort and in his own confusion Jack allows him the gesture.

Ianto’s hands move before his mind is able to process the command. He’s shoving Jack bodily away, watching the Captain stumble back in surprise that turns swiftly to horror as Ianto raises the gun quick fingers had the forethought to grab. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t take a moment to consider the consequences of his actions. He doesn’t want to think because all that matters is being with her. He killed her. He’s cleaned up her mess. Hidden her body in the furthest recesses of the morgue and soon, so very soon, he’ll be with her again- they’d be whole again. Together.

His eyes stay open as he presses the gun to his temple, the safety off, and hears someone scream before he pulls the trigger and prays for it to all be over.

[ end. ]
[ written as part of Caspe-Wri-Mo ]