Based on that quote from 'Greeks Bearing Gifts' – makes me cry ever time :'( disclaimer: I don't own

'Can't imagine the time when this isn't everything. Pain so constant, like my stomach's full of rats. Feels like this is all I am now. There isn't an inch of me that doesn't hurt.'

The pain – it's consuming you. And you're powerless to stop it, because you deserve it, you know you do. You let her die, no, worse, you killed her. And every time you told her you loved her was a lie because you loved him too. You love him.

But she – she was your everything once upon a time. Once upon a time when you didn't know the meaning of pain. Every time you told her you loved her, you felt a little more distanced inside – a little more like you didn't know who she was anymore, like you didn't know who you were anymore.

Because the Ianto Jones you used to be wouldn't have stood by and let them … and let them … The Ianto Jones you used to be would've acknowledged the fact that it was pointless to try and save her, but would have tried his hardest anyway. The Ianto Jones you used to be would've stood in front of those guns pointed at her, he would've taken those bullets for her. He would've felt them ripping their way through his flesh and bones. He would've died for her.

But now? You're a coward. You're nothing more than the one who makes the coffee. You don't even go out on the front line any more. Not after Canary Wharf – you can't. even the smallest reminder can send you back, back to that day, with all the screaming and crying and the smell of burning flesh and the metal and the skin and the hideous mixture of both and the people at their most vulnerable and the pain and the death and you can't cope with that, you just can't.

So instead of facing your fears like the old Ianto Jones would've done, you hide them, and you make damn good coffee. And instead of showing your mourning for your lost love, for the love-that-you-killed, you hide it, and you find another one, a better one. Instead of being a person, you become a machine, and you almost laugh at the irony of that.

And all this emotion, all these feelings, they're like rats. You're full of rats. And they're eating you alive from the inside out. Soon there'll be nothing left, just the finest layer of skin, and still nobody will have noticed. You'll only be noticed when the holes start to appear in your façade, in that last layer of skin between the rats and the outside world. Only then will somebody see what's happening to you, but will they care enough to do something about it? Or will they simply stand by and watch you be consumed?

Thoughts?
xx