Live through this, and you won't look back...
Ianto Jones is making coffee.
He's wearing a nice little suit, complete with a kilt that provides for his tail. He is, to all appearances, calm.
Jack's left them. Again.
And sometimes an emotion crosses his face that might be anger, or grief, or any number of things. Sometimes he has to remind himself this isn't his Jack. It's not the man he fell in love with, though it's someone close enough that it's hard, it's bloody hard to keep that distinction in mind, when he moves like his Jack and sounds his like Jack and smiles like his Jack and even smells like his Jack, when all he can think is that, again Jack's left them. Left him.
And there's nothing he can do. No way it can matter.
At this point, he'd even welcome paperwork as a distraction. Does no one think to file proper reports anymore?
Ianto Jones is making coffee, because it's the only bloody thing he can do.
He's wearing a nice little suit, complete with a kilt that provides for his tail. He is, to all appearances, calm.
Jack's left them. Again.
And sometimes an emotion crosses his face that might be anger, or grief, or any number of things. Sometimes he has to remind himself this isn't his Jack. It's not the man he fell in love with, though it's someone close enough that it's hard, it's bloody hard to keep that distinction in mind, when he moves like his Jack and sounds his like Jack and smiles like his Jack and even smells like his Jack, when all he can think is that, again Jack's left them. Left him.
And there's nothing he can do. No way it can matter.
At this point, he'd even welcome paperwork as a distraction. Does no one think to file proper reports anymore?
Ianto Jones is making coffee, because it's the only bloody thing he can do.