Disclaimer: As much as I am loathe to admit it, I do not own Torchwood. Yes, such a travesty I know, but we must all go on!
Set: Oh I don't know. Perhaps after 'Cyberwoman' but before 'Countrycide'.
Author's Note: I'm feeling like I want to do a dark, sad Ianto. So I decided to make him an orphan! God, I really hate myself now, but it's good to read, so hating myself is worth it!
Standing on the Plas looking out across the Bay, Ianto Jones thought that the cold, dreary, November morning was beautiful. Most people would argue with him and say that the cold, dreary, November morning was horrible and warranted a day-off work.
Ianto Jones only found it beautiful because he hated the sunshine. He hated bright and sunny days, when people laughed and joked about life. He hated it because whenever it was sunny, his life always seemed absolutely-bloody-awful.
He had no family; they'd been taken from him on a warm, sunny, June afternoon just after they'd all been to a party at a grandparents. He distinctly recalled the car they were in – a four-door hatchback – going along the A482 not too far from Harford, when a stupid drunken-driver came tearing down the road and hit them, head on.
Ianto was the only one who survived. His mam, tad, little sister and baby brother had all scummed to a drunken-driver and Ianto was left alone. He had only minor injuries; a couple of cuts and bruises but no broken bones or internal bleeding. His sister hadn't been so lucky, she'd still been alive when the ambulance and police came, she'd refused to let go of his hand.
He'd held her, comforted her whilst she sobbed and whimpered quietly from the pain. She'd suffered and all he'd been able to do was hold her and watch the light leave her eyes for good.
That had broken him, he'd never been the same. He'd seen his family murdered in front of him, then only a decade after that he'd seen the love of his life and all his friends and colleagues murdered also.
There's only so much a person can take and Ianto Jones had reached his breaking point on that fateful day. He'd dragged Lisa out hoping against hope that she was still in there somewhere. He knew she wasn't but he just didn't care. He couldn't stand to lose another person again, not someone so close to him. Not again.
So he'd rescued her body, taken her to Torchwood 3 in Cardiff, back to his home town. He'd wormed his way into Torchwood 3 and hid her there, hoping he could fix her; make the way she was.
His hope was useless. She was already gone, she'd died that day; just like the 972 other employee's of Torchwood London. He lost what remained of her – a shell, a mere shadow of what she had once been.
He'd broken then, he'd fell-apart and showed a part of him he never wanted others to see. He'd shown that he really was human and was even more fragile than any of the others. One tragedy after another; that was his life. Still is his life.
They'd looked at him with pity and with disgust. They'd felt guilt because they didn't know him, but that couldn't really be all their fault could it? He could have easily told them about himself, about his family, about every horror he'd ever witnessed and survived. Of course he could've. He just didn't.
His own self-defence mechanism was to run and hide when someone asked him something personal. He couldn't blame them for his silence, for his reluctance to connect to another human-being, could he? It wasn't their fault after all, it was his. He was to blame for his own suffering now.
What could he do to fix it? He could show his feelings. He could smile at them and tell them stories of his past. He could, but he won't. He knows he won't, not unless he's prompted by them and he knows they won't prompt. It's easier for them that way, to pretend he's alright and that his life is fine and that he's happy with it, because then they don't have to be concerned for a murderer, a coward.
Somehow, he knew that they'd eventually ask if he had any family. Probably not today or tomorrow, but, someday. And he knew what how he'd reply. "My family is at rest in a cemetery, decaying for decades because it is better for them to be dead now than to see me, as the pathetic excuse that I am now"
They'd have no reply for that and then he'd leave them alone, he'd walk away. He wouldn't look back at them, he'd keep walking until he reached their graves. Then he'd silently sit and wait for the skies to open and cry tears of pain that he couldn't let out himself.
Because he was too much of a coward to cry for them.
I don't know if I'll do another chapter, mainly because I don't think I have enough inspiration for it! But if anyone wants me to, I'll write another one for after 'Countrycide'. But you will have to tell me!