A.N: I own nothing. All rights belong to the wonderful RTD and the fabulous BBC. I make to monies.

The only reason the world kept turning, was because he was the axis.

The only reason the sun kept rising, was because he was the sky that held it.

His love was like physics;

And rain drenched streets at midnight cannot compare ,

And ink stained papers, or typeset pages, cannot explain.

Jack gasped back to life disoriented, and his first thought was to wonder why he wasn't in Ianto's arms, as he'd grown used to. Then, memory hit him of Ianto in his arms, dying and dead, and he wished he hadn't come back. So many times he'd wished that, but none more acutely than now. He crawled over to Ianto and Gwen, thanking the universe that Gwen was alive and that she was there, and he forced himself to look at the body.

It was strange, really. He knew every line and contour of Ianto's face, of his hands, and wrists; he knew where every scar was and where it had come from; he knew what every inch of Ianto looked like, felt like, and tasted like. He'd spent hours over the years doing nothing but study the man like artwork. Now, though, he found looking at him to be one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, and when he did, it was like he was seeing him for the first time. He'd never seen Ianto look so expressionless, not even when he was sleeping, and he'd never seen him look so pale. Of course not, he thought, you've never seen him dead before. Jack shuddered and pulled away from Gwen, taking Ianto into his arms. He brushed his thumb over the cut on Ianto's cheek, a cut that would never heal, and he wondered how long he'd been dead that Ianto should feel so cold.

As he sat there, holding yet another love that had died in his arms, he thought that this was a pain he should be used to, but of course, he wasn't. It was different every time. It was as if the grief was sentient, something that knew he could build a tolerance if it stayed the same, and so always took him different ways. This time it was cold, like his blood had been frozen, and he was filled with so many disparate emotions they cancelled each other out, leaving him feeling everything, and nothing at all.

He sat silently, distantly aware of Gwen weeping beside him, while memories of the past played in his mind schizophrenically. Not whole memories, just snippets, fragments that meant nothing without context. He knew he was going crazy, and he almost welcomed it. Almost, but it left him feeling dizzy and sick, as if Ianto's death had erased their history, leaving Jack with nothing but vague recollections of a face that, if Ianto wasn't lying in his arms, Jack might assume existed only behind his bedlam eyes.

He saw Ianto laughing, his head thrown back to expose the long line of his throat; he saw Ianto beaten, covered in bruises and blood; he heard his voice, complaining that he couldn't find a pen; he heard the husky, subdued moans Jack could elicit from him when they were alone; he heard him, plaintive and in pain, saying 'Speak to me, Jack', and he saw his face from that conversation clearly, hurting and compassionate.

He saw all of this, flashing through his mind too quickly for him to comprehend, much less for him to grasp and hold onto tightly. Jack's mind was spiraling and working against him, and even his most treasured memory of Ianto - the look on his face when Jack had surprised him with a gift on his birthday - even that memory was now tarnished. Ianto's face, filled with joy and what Jack had hoped was love, was now gone, and Ianto's cold, dead expression was superimposed over it. Every vision of Ianto was like that now, even when Ianto had been moving and laughing, he was now wearing a death mask in Jack's mind.

Jack knew it was ridiculous, but he would give his life for just one entire, untouched remembrance of Ianto to hold onto in this moment, just so he could find a way into the next. Then, unbidden and unwanted, it came like a cruel and vengeful joke.

It was a memory Jack hated, but there it was; clear, cold, and hard. He couldn't shake it from his mind: Ianto, after the cannibals, when Jack had taken him home and they had both been at their lowest. Jack closed his eyes and tried to will the image away, but it played out like a movie on his eyelids.

xxxXXXxxx

"I almost died," Ianto slurred, his eyes half-lidded and heavy looking. Jack ran a hand through his hair, feeling how soft it was when not covered in gel and sweat and blood.

"You didn't though," he said, "you're fine, Ianto, and so is Tosh. You're both safe and fine." Ianto opened his eyes fully and Jack could see tears in them.

"Why?" Ianto said, "Why didn't I? I wanted to."

Jack pulled his hand back and said, "Don't say that. It… It cheapens what you did."

"It can't. I didn't do anything that didn't need doing. Tosh deserves to live, and I don't."

Jack bit his lip, and sat back in his chair. "Why not? Why do you think like that?" he asked, genuinely wanting to know the answer.

"Because I'm the bad guy. I could have gotten all of you killed, and I didn't care. I would have destroyed the world if I'd had to, and to be honest, I'm not sure I wouldn't do it again. I don't know what I'm capable of, Jack. I don't think I'd ever kill anybody, but I think I could, and I'm terrified of the things I'll have to live with. When you start seeing yourself as the villain of the piece, you've done something very wrong, and I don't even know how it happened."

"We've all done things, Ianto, that we'll be paying for, for the rest of our lives. The strongest of us learn to bear it."

Ianto took a deep breath, and refused to meet Jack's eyes. "What happens to those of us who aren't strong enough, then? What happens to the ones who haven't any strength left?"

"They die," Jack said, without pause. "They burn themselves out, and they jump off buildings, or drink themselves to death. That's not you, though. I've known weak men, Ianto. None of them could have done what you did, or survived what you have. You are a lot of things, not all of them good, but you are not weak, and you're not a coward."

Ianto took a shuddery breath and sat up, wincing from the pain in his ribs.

"I don't want to just survive, Jack," he said, and Jack noted the lack of formality. "I'm tired of surviving. Every day I have to fight just to feel anything at all. I'd rather die than go on living when I'm not even really alive."

Jack leaned forward and kissed him, because it was all he could think to do. Ianto kissed him back greedily, and it was passionate and good and everything Jack had always assumed it would be, except there was something missing. There was no innocence in it, no trace of naivety or reticence. Ianto didn't kiss like a twenty-three year old man should. He kissed like a man who'd already lost every illusion a human could have; like a man who'd seen what the world had to offer, and then watched it burn down around him.

There was something sad in that, of course, but also something exciting, something that started Jack's blood humming. There may not have been any innocence to take from Ianto's lips, but the tragedy there tasted kindred, and Jack bit down until he could taste blood.

Ianto moaned and pulled him closer, and things were moving much too quickly. Jack's hands were fumbling, trying to remove clothes and shoes, and hold Ianto down, and touch him, every inch of him, all at the same time. His hands grazed Ianto's ribs, not gently because there was nothing gentle in this, and Ianto gasped and pulled away from him.

"I'm sorry," Jack said, unconsciously straightening his clothes. "I'm sorry. Do you want a shot, or… do you want me to go? I should go, you need to sleep."

Ianto licked his lips, and shook his head. When his eyes met Jack's, Jack could see nothing there but lust, bright and shining, and he was ashamed of himself. This wasn't a man who was looking for a bit of fun, and he certainly wasn't someone Jack should be using to facilitate his own solace. This was a boy who'd been through the looking glass, and come out the other side much the worse for wear.

"We can't do this," Jack said. "It won't help; it wouldn't be right."

"It won't help what, Jack?" Ianto replied. "There is no help for these things. There is no comfort, or justice, or remuneration. There's just us, here, now. And it wouldn't be the first time."

Jack opened his mouth, ready to fight, and was surprised to find the fight had gone out of him. His mind was filled with the memories of being with Ianto before, twice, both before he'd discovered the cyberwoman in the basement. Ianto had refused to kiss him either of those times, which had bothered Jack, but he hadn't questioned it. He understood now, of course. Kissing was an intimacy Ianto hadn't thought Jack deserved.

Jack brought his hand to his mouth and traced a finger over his lips. He could still feel where Ianto's teeth had been, and he could still taste copper and salt on his tongue. Ianto's own lips looked bruised, and there was a daub of blood on the bottom one, and Jack felt his body taking over for his mind. He pulled Ianto back to him, knowing full well that this was moving beyond just sex. This wasn't about the physical fun, so much as the emotional resonance.

Jack moved slower this time, forcing himself to stay conscience of Ianto's injuries, and when they were finally down to it, he didn't feel the high that usually accompanied these things. When he felt his body connect with Ianto's, Jack had the overwhelming sensation that he was falling. When they were finished, panting and sore, Jack gave Ianto a shot of morphine without asking.

"You aren't the villain," he said, when he could see the medicine starting to cloud the young man's eyes. "Not always. Today, you got to be the hero."

Ianto smiled. "There are no heroes, sir. Only in the comics."

He closed his eyes, and Jack waited until his breathing was deep and rhythmical before heading for the shower. He stood under the tap, letting the water wash away the sweat and dirt, wishing he didn't still feel so filthy. He felt like he'd just taken advantage of a broken man, and he felt dirtier knowing that he hadn't been the first. The world had gotten there before him.

Jack dried off, and borrowed a tee shirt and boxers from Ianto's drawers, resisting the urge to go through his things while he was at it. Instead, he curled up beside him in the bed, and wrapped his arms around him when Ianto rolled onto his chest.

It occurred to him that they might have given each other what they'd needed, and that if he had taken advantage of Ianto, Ianto had taken advantage of him too. It occurred to him that if he tried hard enough, given enough time, he might even be able to convince himself of that. It really didn't matter, because it had been good for both of them, in every way, and that's what counted.

"There are no heroes," he whispered, absently carding his fingers through Ianto's hair. That was a universal truth, and Jack knew it. No heroes, just different degrees of bad guy. Jack sighed, and felt an aching sadness settle in his bones. Ianto was too young to know things like that; he was too young to be so old.

xxxXXXxxx

It was the sound of Gwen's voice that finally dragged Jack out of the memory, though he wasn't sure what she was saying. His mind was fixated on that one night he'd spent with a tired, broken man; that one night he'd taken advantage of a boy who'd lost everything, and still, for all of that, Ianto had loved him anyway. Ianto had loved him, and now he was gone before Jack had had a chance to make things right.

The worst part was that Jack should have seen this coming. He'd told Ianto that night that Ianto wasn't a coward, and that was true. Ianto had been one of the bravest men Jack had ever known, and brave men die young. That was another universal truth that Jack knew far too well. Still, he'd treated Ianto as if they'd had all the time in the world, as if Ianto was as immortal as himself, because clever, charming, eternal Jack always thought he knew best.

"Speak to me, Jack!" began to play like a litany in his mind, a perverse prayer to a God that lie dead at his feet. Jack felt his hands start to shake, and he wondered if there had ever been anything he could have said that would have prevented this? Had there ever been a word, or a slogan, a story he could have shared, or a joke he could have told, any single thing that could have stopped Ianto from leaving him?

He came up with everything. If he'd said or done one thing differently, even one tiny little thing, then he wouldn't be here now. It was like the proverbial butterfly flapping its wings, and so Ianto's death was his fault in more ways than one. He heard a small sob escape his chest, and he felt Gwen take his hand.

"Why can't I die?" he said, without taking his eyes from Ianto's face. "How is it fair that he can die, just one virus, one mistake, and he dies, and I still can't? How is that fair?"

"It's not," Gwen said, voice shaking, "but I'm glad of it. I don't think I could have survived losing you both."

Jack said nothing, Gwen's words barely registering in his mind. He was obsessed now with all the things he'd never said to Ianto, and all the reasons he hadn't said them. He had the idea that if he could somehow find the right combination of words, that if he said the right thing, right now, he could save him.

Logically he knew the idea was insane, that it was just his mind trying to protect itself, but logic is given no quarter at times like these, and he couldn't shake the thought from his mind.

"I never told him about my past" he said, "because I didn't want him to have to bear it. I knew he could have, and he wanted to, but I didn't want to give that to him. I trusted him to keep my secrets, but I didn't trust him to still love me when he had them. He loved me, and I didn't deserve it. He wasted his love, and his life on me, and then he died for nothing."

"No, Jack." Gwen said, and Jack jumped at her voice. He hadn't really been aware that he was speaking aloud, and he couldn't quite remember what he'd said. He looked at her for the first time since he'd awoken, and when he saw how stricken and wan she looked, his mind cleared enough for him to think again.

"He wasted nothing," she continued. "He was a soldier, he saved countless lives, and he died trying to save more. You made him happy, and he died a hero."

"There are no heroes," Jack said with a bitter smile. "There was just us."

Gwen gave him a small smile and said, "I'm so sorry, Jack. I know how much he meant to you."

It occurred to him to say that she could have no idea, that he hadn't known until he'd lost him, but the tears in her eyes stopped him.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm sorry, too. What the hell are we supposed to do now?"

"What we always do" said Gwen, "we save the world."

Jack started to protest; he started to say that the world wasn't worth saving without Ianto in it. The emptiness was subsiding, and he was being filled with vast amounts of pain and rage and hate, and he just wanted to burn. He wanted to burn and take the world with him, but then he thought of Mica and David. If Ianto were still alive, he would give his soul for those kids, and the least Jack could do was save them in his lover's honor. Then, of course, there was Steven, and Jack had to save him, Steven and Alice had to be all right, because they hadn't any choice. Jack needed it, so it would be done.

"Okay," he finally said. "We save the world."

Jack stood up, took one last look at Ianto's body, and then headed out of the room without turning back. It occurred to him then that he'd been wrong all along. Someone might have woken up with a gasp, but Jack Harkness was gone. He'd died in Ianto's arms, and though no one would ever realize, he would be buried in Ianto's grave.