Hey! I'm back with another story my weird mind thought of. I've binge-watched Shameless (US) last week so I came up with the idea of Ianto being a drug addict, but it didn't really fit in the Torchwood canon and I was going to do an entire alternate universe, but then I thought it could work if Lisa had died in the Battle and Ianto had never joined T3.

Anyway! I do not know a lot about drugs use or laws against it in Wales, so I apologize for any mistake, if anyone knows better, please do tell. Also most of my researches come up in French so it's annoying blablablah, we don't care, I just apologize in advance if it doesn't look real at all, but I'm trying, and if anyone can help, I'd be happy!

This is the first time I start posting without more than one chapter in advance so I'm unsure of how frequently I'll update this one. But I will not give it up at any point, don't worry! I hope you'll like this because I'm trying to write more fics with chapters now, it's pretty interesting to write a character development!

(Title from the song The Light Behind Your Eyes by My Chemical Romance)


A year had passed since the Battle. Nobody was mentioning it, no special tribute on the TV or the newspapers... As if nothing had happened. Not that Ianto wanted it placarded everywhere, he didn't need any reminder of that day – he was doing fine by his own – but it still hurt. It upset him, not for himself, but for those who had perished that day. Those who had suffered and died or just disappeared into nothingness. The media were silent about it because no, of course not, aliens didn't exist, it had all been a lie, yes.

Ianto Jones knew better. He had fought in this Battle, or at least had been in the building during this Battle. And he was alone. Not the only one to have survived, but the survivors hadn't really kept in touch as they would all rather forget this day. Some had moved on with their lives, Ianto had heard at least two had committed suicide, and he had almost joined them, but before he could do it he had chosen to leave the city. London was too much. His only memories in this place were from College or Torchwood, and he didn't want any of them. A city that reminded him of all the people he had lost that horrible day, and he didn't want to live in this anymore.

Cardiff was perfect. Big enough, not far from home, but not totally home because he didn't want to go back to childhood either. It didn't really help to forget the pain, but putting some distance between him and Canary Wharf was the least he could do. And sometimes, just sometimes, he managed to forget everything. The smell of blood and burnt flesh, his colleagues and friends dying. Sometimes he even forgot Lisa. It didn't happen much, but just sometimes he would forget his girlfriend he had found after the Battle. Scattered, barely recognizable... Dead. His world had fallen apart when he had seen her, and he often still didn't believe she was dead, but he knew she was. He had almost choked on the smoke because he hadn't moved from his spot next to her, but then some firefighter had thought his life was worth it and had saved him. He wished he had died back then, because he was unable to take his own life consciously. He had tried so many times and given up as many times.

The fact that it had been a year shouldn't make any difference, but it somehow did. Knowing that after a whole year he was still alive while his entire world had stopped spinning was hard.


As the young man woke up that day – more like regained consciousness – his first thought was "one more day". Another day he had survived the memories. His second thought was to throw up, which he did, then to wonder where he was. Some posh hotel room, which he had no memory of. He crawled to the bed – how the hell had he ended up so far away from the mattress, he didn't know – and straightened up slowly. He managed to stand, noticing he was naked, and sighed. He found his underwear and jeans and a shirt that almost fit him even if he was pretty sure it wasn't his own. Then he realised that if the cloth wasn't his, it was someone else's, which sounded pretty obvious but was hard to guess for an hangover mind. Which meant that someone else should be in the room and indeed, upon closer inspection, someone was sleeping in the bed. He let his eyes idly wander on the lower back the sheets weren't covering anymore and smiled slightly in appreciation. When he understood it was a man lying on the bed, he frowned. That was a new one. He usually tried to avoid meaningless sex because it sometimes felt like he was still betraying Lisa somehow, when he clearly wasn't, but still. But he had never woken up beside – or on the floor or whatever – a man. A very good-looking man, yes, but a man. Not that he was closed-minded, or even straight, but he had no memory of such an encounter and he couldn't even remember if he had topped or not. Well, he didn't feel sore or anything, that was something. Not that he minded that much...

Ianto shook his head and sighed. He had other matters at hands for now. Such as where the hell he was. He buttoned his shirt – well, the man's shirt – and gathered his stuff quickly, not finding the t-shirt or shirt he had been wearing the day before – not that he remembered which one it was anyway. He tried to clean his mess a bit, because the man seemed nice – not that he could see his face, but still – and left the room quietly.

He grunted as he massaged his forehead on the lift, trying to suppress his headache. He left the hotel (Radisson Blu Hotel, apparently) as fast as he could – not very fast – and went home where he took painkillers and a hot shower that turned into a cold one – both literally and metaphorically – when only then he realised which day it was, or rather what it meant. He stopped the water when he couldn't bear to stand motionless and almost jogged out of the bathroom, still soaked. Even if he almost ended up face first on his floor, he made it to his bedroom and after putting on clean underwear and t-shirt, he opened a drawer, ignored the little stuff he had in it and almost ripped it off the desk to turn it over. The bottom slipped to the floor and Ianto took the photos that fell with it. He grabbed trousers on the way and put them on before collapsing on his sofa.

It had been a year since the Battle of Canary Wharf, and Ianto Jones was one of the 27 survivors of that day. He hadn't lost any limb, but he had lost a part of his soul and his heart.

It had been a year since Ianto's life had been turned upside down, and he was not okay with it, and probably never would.


It's a first quite slow and short chapter to set things up. I'll say more in the next ones. I hope you liked this and don't hesitate to comment, if you think of anything or want something, as I haven't written more for now! Well if you comment only to say that you liked it, I will also be very happy, thank you! (Comments are the only way a writer knows how his work... worked!)