Aftermath

I spent quite a long time on this one. I guess I just wanted to get it right. *shrugs* But yeah, I normally write something, quickly spell-check it, then put it straight up; this time I wrote it, spell-checked, put it aside, came back to it, added stuff in, spell-checked, THEN posted.

Hope you like...

Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this, other than Andy's family and Jamie. :-)

When someone dies, it often doesn't hit you for a while. Denial, they call it. One of the stages of grief. I've never really encountered grief before; not really. The only time was when my Gran died. I was ten, and it didn't quite hit me until a couple of weeks later. I'd stayed stony-faced and dry-eyed throughout the funeral, too numb to really feel pain. I half-expected her to sit up and go 'Hey – what's all the fuss about? I'm not dead – I was only sleeping,' and then start complaining about how, as soon as you reached retirement, everybody started expecting you to kick the bucket at any moment. Then, totally out of the blue several days later, my mam found me crying over a box of my Gran's home-made fudge that I'd unearthed at the back of the airing closet.

So I guess this is only my second real encounter with death. And it hurts.

***

Ianto's dead. The words rattle around my head like a loose tooth. Ianto's dead. But he couldn't be, could he? Not Ianto. I blink at Gwen, still not quite understanding what she's saying. Her eyes are red with crying, her mascara running. She looks defeated. I feel as if she'd just socked me one in the gut; so I ask, not really knowing why, "Was Ianto gay?"

Of course he was gay. He was dating Captain Harkness, wasn't he? I almost smile at the idiotic question, and then realise that I'd used the past tense. Was dating. Was gay.I'd missed my chance.

I stand behind her as she informs Ianto's sister. I can't quite look Rhiannon Davies in the eye; I know that I'll only see my own hurt reflected back at me, like some twisted mirror. And, provided I don't admit that I'm hurting, then I can carry on pretending that he isn't dead.

Then, when I see the army holding back the people ... something breaks within me, snapping like a wishbone. I can't tell if I'm left with the larger or smaller part, though.

***

It's only now he's gone that I realise how little I knew about him— (What was his favourite meal? What was his favourite film? Did he like sleeping on the right or left of the bed? What type of toothpaste did he use? What was he scared of? What made him smile? Who was his first kiss? What sort of shampoo did he use? What political party was he? What did he think about global warming? So many questions, and no way of getting an answer.)

—how few times I'd ever seen him— (Fourteen, to count, if you don't include CCTV. And most of them were only from the sidelines of some 'spooky-do', as I tried to get up the courage to speak to him. And then, when I did, when I held out that coffee cup and tried to smile naturally, when he turned me down with a beautiful smile and walked off with the Captain.)

—and how I've missed my chance. He's not coming back. I know that, but it doesn't stop me from wishing, hope against hope, that he might do what my Gran didn't, and sit up again. But I don't delude myself that I'd even get a passing glance. He'd be straight back into the arms of the Captain, without granting me even a fleeting thought.

So I curl up in my land of denial and pretend that he isn't dead, that he is alive and that he decided to quit Torchwood— (They all die young. I've seen it happen, seen the files. If he'd left Torchwood, he'd still be alive. I'm sure of it. But he never would have left Torchwood, would he? He'd never have left Captain Harkness.)

—and is actually waiting back at home for me with a glass of champagne (did he even like champagne? Or did he prefer wine?) and a curry. Then we'd curl up on the sofa together watching re-runs of 'Strictly Come Dancing', and talk about nothing in particular.

It's cosy in my land of denial, but even I can see the cracks in the mortar.

***

They're all here, at the funeral. I get a few curious glances, but not many. They're all too shocked to really wonder why a mere copper that never seemed to have had anything to do with Ianto is here, mourning him with the rest.

There aren't that many people. I guess that Ianto was always a withdrawn person; his sister and her family are there, along with a bunch of people that I assume to be friends. I hear the words 'only 14 of us left now'; it makes me wonder what exactly Ianto's seen in his short life.

And, of course, Captain Harkness is there, along with Gwen and Rhys. The Captain's eyes are dulled; he doesn't flash anybody the brilliant smile I once envied him for, and doesn't even talk to any of them. He just stands in the rain, huddled up in his RAF coat, seeming small and lonely without the constant presence by his side. I feel a flicker of jealousy; he has a right to be openly hurting, he has a right to stand up and talk about Ianto, to say a few words for him.

But he doesn't.

He just stands there, letting the rain dampen his goddamn-perfect hair, but not letting the tears fall. They burn in his eyes, instead; he's got the look of one that's defeated, who's lost so much they just stand there, taking hit after hit.

And that makes me realise that maybe Captain Jack Harkness isn't infallible. Maybe he too is hurting. Maybe he's hurting more. I hope he's hurting more, however cruel it may seem; he got Ianto for the time they had, he had the love of this amazing, wonderful man. I hope that he loved Ianto as much as he deserved to be loved.

***

Time heals all wounds, they say. But some wounds take longer to heal than others. And, although I hate myself when I realise it, Ianto's death doesn't take as long as I expected. I don't wake up, years later, with my first thought being that of him. I don't even wake up months later, still hurting because he's gone. The pain just ... fades away. Like he was never there.

But he was. I know he was. And, even though I can no longer remember the colour of his eyes (blue, right? If it wasn't for Mica...) or the exact tone of his voice, I still remember that I loved him. I know that others would have called it a passing fancy, but I know better. It was more than lustful infatuation or hero-worship. It was. It had to have been. Right?

***

Jamie comes back into the sitting room with a couple of glasses in his hands. He smiles at me, and pours the champagne. His mop of curly dark hair needs a cut, like I've been telling him for God-knows-how-long, and his brown eyes are gentle. "It's that time again, isn't it?"

I nod, not needing to say anything. I flick channels, until I settle on a re-run of 'Strictly Come Dancing', where a gaudily-clothed couple spin around the dance-floor, the lights flashing.

He sits on the couch beside me, discarding his suit jacket and loosening his tie. "Curry's almost ready," he says, his London accent softened by many years of living in Wales. "Good day at work?"

"Mica Davies got pulled up for shop-lifting," I say with a yawn, pillowing my head on his chest.

He chuckles, and I smile involuntarily. "But you let her off again, didn't you?"

"It's the eyes," I say.

"And it's that day."

I shrug, lazily watching him as he takes a sip of champagne. "I just didn't think that her mum would want the stress on today of all days."

"Hmm." He runs his fingers through my hair, giving me a gentle head-massage. "He'd appreciate it."

"I know." I smile to myself. "Shall I get the curry out?"

***

But one of the most important stages of grieving is accepting it and moving on. Even when you don't think you can, you need to. I've got Jamie, now, and I love him more than anything else in the world. I loved Ianto. But I love Jamie. It doesn't mean that I loved Ianto any less, just that there's no point in being unhappy just because somebody's gone from your life. You have to fill up that hole in your heart, just like they'd want you to.

I'll never forget Ianto. He doesn't deserve to be forgotten. And I'll always keep an eye out for his family (Mica looks so like him it's uncanny, and Rhiannon always has a warm smile for me whenever she comes to collect one of her children from the station, for various misdemeanours they've got up to). But I'm fine. I'm better than fine. I'm happy.

And I know that he'd want that, even though he never gave me a second thought. Ianto Jones died saving us; he wouldn't want us to waste the lives he gave us.

Reviews, please? :-)