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The invisible lift delivered them to the Plass. The Plass had become a field hospital. And a tent city. And yes, a soup kitchen, too. The heart of Cardiff, gathering in the homeless and the hurt and the hungry.

The defenders of Cardiff huddled on the lift. They'd given all they had. More than they could afford. And it wasn't enough.

"We'll have to walk," Ianto said tiredly.

"Bound to be road blocks," Jack agreed.

The streets of Cardiff were a battle zone. Police. Military. The occasional red beret of Unit. No one had told them the battle was over. And they'd lost.

Sirens shattered the silence. Flashing lights splintered the darkness.

"I did this," Jack breathed, a whisper between the sirens. "My fault."

"Not your fault." Ianto had said that before, countless times. But Jack could count the number of times it lacked conviction. Once. Tonight. Now.

A child's cry cut through the sirens. Three children, huddled in a doorway, clinging to exhausted parents.

They helped them back to the Plass. The mother smiled as Jack made her children laugh. "Who did this?" she asked.

"Terrorists," Ianto told her. "It was terrorists."

"It was my fault," Jack said, two streets later. "He was my ex."

He could see Ianto's head shake.

"John planted the bombs," Jack insisted.

Ianto drew his gun and ran. Jack stared numbly after him until he heard the shooting. Then his Webley leapt into his hand and adrenaline coursed through his veins. For the next five minutes they were themselves again. Lovers and colleagues and friends.

They restrained the looters until the military arrived, drawn by the gunshots.

"He said you fired at them," the senior officer accused.

"Warning shots over their heads," Ianto said, his voice dulling as the adrenaline retreated.

The soldier scoffed.

"If he'd been aiming for them, they'd be bleeding," Jack informed him, summoning the cheerful voice that always frustrated authority.

"Who the hell are you, anyway?"

Their IDs appeared in unison, in a move they'd practiced, just for the fun of it.

"Bloody Torchwood," the soldier muttered to his mates. "It's all down to bloody Torchwood."

Jack detached Ianto's fist from the soldier's shirt. "Two of our team died shutting down the nuclear reactor," he said, in a voice of black velvet.

"It's only because of them you've got anything of Cardiff to put back together," Ianto added, bitter enough to burn.

They left without further argument.

They kept walking. Still only half way home. Half way through a fifteen minute walk that had already taken thirty.

"He thought we did it," Ianto mumbled. "Maybe we did." He sounded utterly defeated. Broken.

Jack couldn't stand it.

"Grey did it," Jack said, the words tearing his dry throat. "Because of me. Because I failed him."

Ianto's hand brushed against his. Jack reached for it, but it slipped away.

"There's blood on my hands," Ianto muttered. "Tosh…Tosh's blood." Fresh tears trickled from his eyes, glistening like diamonds against the pale skin.

"You were wearing gloves," Jack protested. As if that would help.

"I can still feel it."

They walked on in silence, wrapped in thoughts of blood and soil. Jack froze. The block ahead was dark. A dark and silent tunnel. Someone had smashed the streetlamps.

Ianto walked on until he realized Jack wasn't following. Looked back over his shoulder enquiringly. "We're nearly there. Two more blocks."

The darkness flowed around him with the breeze, brushing his skin with grains of dust lifted from the broken streets. Dust. Soil. Darkness. His throat closed again, blocked by that phantom lump of soil.

Ianto's hand closed around his and tugged. The lump dissolved. Jack closed his eyes against the darkness and followed.

"I failed her, too," Ianto said. The deserted street echoed its agreement. Failed her.

Birds took flight, squawking their annoyance at the disruption. Such a normal sound.

They turned a corner. Ianto squeezed Jack's hand. "We've got lights again."

"You did everything you could," Jack answered, opening his eyes. He loosened his grip on Ianto's hand, but he didn't let go. This time he was going to hang on tight.

"Not then," Ianto persisted. "At Canary Wharf."

Even the distant wail of sirens sounded expectant.

"The Ghost hour. Everyone had a ghost. My Tad came for me. I started hiding in the secure archives. He couldn't find me there."

Now wasn't the time to ask why he didn't want to catch up with the master tailor.

"I was there that day," Ianto continued. "Hiding from him I heard the screaming. Heard their footsteps. But I stayed there. I should have found Lisa, taken her back with me."

Ianto's fingernails dug into Jack's palm. He returned the grip.

"If you'd gone back for her, they'd have taken you too," Jack said firmly. "You'd have been converted."

"And if you'd chased after Grey," Ianto countered, "They'd have caught you too. Those…things."

There was a thin line between cowardice and accepting the inevitable. Maybe they'd both crossed it.

They'd finally reached Ianto's building. Home was two floors above. Ianto looked back at the devastation mercifully cloaked by the darkness.

"He killed Cardiff," Ianto said. "He killed our friends."

Jack nodded. "I know."

"You want to know if I killed him, don't you, Jack?"

"I do," Jack answered. His heart hammered. "But don't tell me."

Ianto pulled his hand free and pressed the call button for the lift.

"I'd never kill anyone you loved, Jack." His gazed flickered to anywhere that wasn't Jack's face. "You'd probably consider that a weakness, but there it is."

Would have been much more impressive if his voice wasn't shaking.

Something snapped. Something crumbled. Jack grabbed Ianto by the shoulders, pulled him around so they were face to face. Memories of that night tore free and engulfed them both.

Sometimes love and hate become so close you can't tell them apart.

"She was Lisa anymore," Jack yelled. "She wasn't the woman you knew. She wasn't the woman you loved."

"And do you really think?" Ianto asked, his voice too composed for sanity. "That the man who did that was still the little boy you lost?"

The lift door opened. Jack released his grip on Ianto's shoulders and tried to step inside. His foot froze partway in. Rage at his own weakness pulsed through him with every heartbeat.

The lift was a cold, grey, metal box. Like the drawer in the morgue. He'd banged his head on the top of the drawer when he'd woken up, and he'd been relieved, just for an instant. Just because it wasn't soil anymore. But it was still cold. Unyielding. And there was no light. No room to move. The drawer was cold. He was cold. There was air but he still couldn't breathe. It took every scrap of self-control to deliver those measured bangs on the door, to stop them from deteriorating into panicked thumping.

Jack drew on the pulsing rage and channeled it into getting just one bloody foot inside the lift.

The lift doors began to close. The sensors shrilled their complaint at the obstruction.

Ianto's hand landed on his shoulder. "We can take the stairs, Jack."

The rage changed direction and pressed against his eyes. "I can do this."

The hand slid down his arm, seized his hand again. "You can. But not now."

Jack pulled his foot back. His shoulders slumped. He wasn't going to cry. He'd get over this. He would.

Ianto sighed. "It's only two flights."

Only two flights. And they were well lit. Easy. Easier if they weren't both exhausted. Adrenaline was a faint memory somewhere in their veins.

Ianto's flat felt like home. They collapsed onto the couch, shoulders touching. Jack reflected that he really should have showered first. Ianto wouldn't want soil on his furniture.

Would the soil ever wash away? Worth a try, he supposed.

"Mind if I use your shower?"

Ianto waved an arm in a vague gesture that could have meant anything.

Jack rose, paused. "Join me?"

"Oh for God's sake, Jack." Ianto's face dropped into his hands.

"Not for that," Jack said awkwardly.

"That's a first." Ianto's voice was muffled by the hands. Didn't sound like him. Hadn't sounded like him all night.

Jack peeled the hands away, gently, as if they might snap. Watched Ianto stare at his own hands in distaste.

"I just thought," Jack explained, not bothering this time to keep the pleading out of his tone. "That if you washed the soil away, I might believe it's gone."

Their eyes locked. Blue on blue. No ice anymore. Just tears. Just pain.

"Do you think," Ianto asked, "That you could get the blood off my hands?"

Jack cradled his lover's hands in his, brought them to his lips. "I'll do my best."

It was never going to be a happy ending, but perhaps a hopeful one?

Hope you enjoyed it.