It probably is post-traumatic stress disorder, of a sort. From Canary Wharf, and from its aftermath. Rescuing Lisa out of the wreckage of the tower, trying to keep her alive. Doing everything he could to keep her comfortable, to find a solution to what had been done to her. Flirting, scheming, begging his way into a job at Torchwood Three to set her up there with the necessary resources so that he could bring in Doctor Tanizaki. Watching it all go to shit as she murdered the doctor and turned on the rest of the team. They'd gunned her down in front of him and he'd been ordered to take 3 weeks paid leave and he'd taken it, because he'd known full well that Jack would have had the authority to see him executed for his treachery. And then his first few weeks back to work and they'd taken him out on his first field mission to the Beacons, and he'd come back with such nightmares that he'd nearly decided the whole thing was all too much.
He feels a little like that here as well, but Jim's hand in his own helps, it really does. No matter how warm and gross he may think it is. Ianto's is equally as filthy, really. He had been doing field triage, after all. He's got small spots here and there from where he'd been singed from all the burning material around him and he should probably get it looked at, but he needs this more right now. (Especially if Jim isn't going to let him get any help, though Ianto's a little shocky right now they might take one look at him and derail any of his attempts instead.)
"There were only twenty-seven of us that made it out of there alive. Twenty-five surviving, the last time I ran the numbers." His fingers tighten on Jim's again. "You'd think after everything I've seen, everything I've been through, I'd be better at dealing with all of this," he says. "I mean, I work for Torchwood, for god's sake." Like he isn't only twenty-four years old and he wasn't recruited at twenty-one to work his way up through the research team from there. Like any of this is supposed to make sense to Jim.
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He feels a little like that here as well, but Jim's hand in his own helps, it really does. No matter how warm and gross he may think it is. Ianto's is equally as filthy, really. He had been doing field triage, after all. He's got small spots here and there from where he'd been singed from all the burning material around him and he should probably get it looked at, but he needs this more right now. (Especially if Jim isn't going to let him get any help, though Ianto's a little shocky right now they might take one look at him and derail any of his attempts instead.)
"There were only twenty-seven of us that made it out of there alive. Twenty-five surviving, the last time I ran the numbers." His fingers tighten on Jim's again. "You'd think after everything I've seen, everything I've been through, I'd be better at dealing with all of this," he says. "I mean, I work for Torchwood, for god's sake." Like he isn't only twenty-four years old and he wasn't recruited at twenty-one to work his way up through the research team from there. Like any of this is supposed to make sense to Jim.