dark that follows [ open to youwiththeears ]
Predictably of someone who spares little time for it, Ianto is asleep at this unexpected hour. Not tucked neatly into bed, but at his desk, precariously balanced near the edge of the chair, his head pillowed on folded arms. There's a half-drunk cup of coffee - vain final attempt at fighting fatigue - to his left, a stack of reports to his right, but someone (probably his secretary) has been conscientious enough to drape a blanket across his shoulders. Regardless, it can't be comfortable, a fact made clear by the fitfulness of his expression, the vague twitching of his head.
It isn't Canary Wharf--invasiondeathdestructionconversiondeletion--he dreams of any longer, not the hallways and blood and shredded plastic that lingered so clear in his memory for so long. Now the nightmares come in fragments--floods, shattered glass, rubber burning on pavement, murderous spheres, illness, needles, burning--that leave him in a cold sweat and jar him awake.
Ianto sits up, throwing the blanket from his shoulders; restlessly rises and shrugs off his jacket. His hands are impatient and trembling as he pours himself a glass of water; the tie goes after he irreparably blotches it as well. He sits back against the desk and rolls up his sleeves, then lingers in a daze, staring into space. Very well, he knows, that he should feel better now. Shouldn't he be happy?
Instead, all he has is discontent.