"You take the blue pill, the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe… whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill, you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes."

He wakes up suddenly, as he always does anymore, the tatters of dreams fleeing even before he has his eyes fully open. No more sleepy disheveled confusion- awake or asleep, those are his modes these days, with a very clear line in between. He follows up the moment of wakening with his traditional banging his left elbow against the wall. There's a permanent bruise on his arm and a small dent in the wall and he still hasn't managed to teach himself yet that hey- there's a wall there.

"Bad night?" his sister's voice comes from the doorway. He blinks at her- either she's up early, which is doubtful, or he's woken up late again.

"No," he says, and he's not strictly lying. If he had a bad night, he can't remember it.

She sighs and glances around the pink-toned room- eventually her daughter is going to want her bedroom back but for now she's quite happy to have been displaced by her uncle. After a moment she turns her gaze back on her brother, equal parts angry and resigned.

"Doctor Robinson called," she reports. "She wanted to know if you're available for an earlier session today. I told her you'd be there, right on time like always." She doesn't approve of Robinson. More importantly, she doesn't approve of her baby brother going to, or even needing, a psychologist. Psychiatrist, perhaps; who doesn't have one nowadays? But a psychologist is for those who have something really wrong with them.

"Thank you," he says finally, watching her. He's changed, they both know it. He bothers her a little bit sometimes, when he watches her with tired old eyes he didn't have a year ago. It works once more- she fidgets a moment, then takes the hint and leaves.

He rolls over onto his stomach, staring at the coral-colored bedspread. He'll get up in a minute, get dressed, get ready to take on the world. For now he tries to remember his dreams, always a lost cause, and tastes steel and blood on the back of his tongue.

Doctor Robinson's office is done up in cream and muted yellows. It's a soothing room, mimicking the sunlight Cardiff can't produce naturally. Ianto hates it.

He sits on the microfiber sofa, rubbing a thumb back and forth against the fabric and watching the trail appear and disappear. Doctor Robinson is dark-skinned and tall, hair cropped close to her scalp. She reminds him of Lisa and there's pain there, sharp new pain, as if he'd lost Lisa only a week ago instead of almost six months. She knows about the resemblance- she asked him, straight out, in their second session.

The first session she hadn't asked him anything. She'd only chatted with him about the weather and local news and made occasional notes on her PDA. He has no idea what she sees when she looks at him.

"So how are things, Ianto?" she asks him in her professional voice. He considers his answers- fine- not much changed- still feeling wrong- still miss Lisa- and his elbow gives a vague twinge. He keeps his eyes on his hand as he answers.

"I'm moving out soon."

"Really?" She sounds surprised, he thinks, and she's not the only one. He hadn't decided, hadn't even considered it, until just that moment. Maybe being near family would help a normal person with a normal family, but for Ianto it's just surreal. Like this life is just a dream he can't quite wake up from.

"Does Rhiannon know?" is the psychologist's next question, and Ianto considers. Not his answer- she doesn't, that's easy- but how to best break it to her. She won't like it, that's for sure, but he just can't take the surreal any more, and if he hits his elbow on that damn wall one more time he's going to have to shoot something.

Robinson's getting good at reading him. She figured out in their first session that he's not big on talking and anything she wants out of him she'll have to get for herself.

"You need to tell her, Ianto," she says somberly. "You can't keep shutting everyone out, hiding from everyone. You need to talk to people, tell them what's going on with you."

- you hid yourself from us-

Ianto shakes his head hard and fast, like a dog shooing away a fly, and Robinson stops mid-word. He grabs at the arm of the couch, bracing himself, then hauls himself to his feet. What the hell just happened need to get out-

"I'm sorry," he says out loud, all patient and polite and good-mannered, because say what you will about Ianto Jones, he knows how to put on a show. "I'm- not feeling well. Headache, all day. Do you have an opening tomorrow?"

"Ianto-" the woman begins, half-standing, and Ianto says something about calling her office later and bolts. He's through the reception lounge before the receptionist can register his presence and swings open the plate-glass door hard and fast. A man who had been on his way in catches the door before it slams into him and ducks away, clearing Ianto's path. Ianto shoots back a distracted apology and almost runs out into the parking lot. He takes a sharp left and strides down the sidewalk, trying to run from his own mind.

His mobile starts buzzing- Rhiannon had been waiting for him in the lobby, no doubt she'd seen his mad dash for freedom. Robinson always has him set it to vibrate so it's easy to ignore. He has no destination in mind except away from himself, and somehow he doesn't see that happening.

For one second, this dream world had peeled away and showed the nightmarish reality underneath.

The pub is noisy but not overbearing, packed with just enough people to feel comfortably busy without being crowded. Ianto has yet their table, because he's never done well with groups, along with his brother-in-law and his sister's best friend and her husband. The children are off tormenting the other couple's teenage son. Ianto knows he'll play this up to impress the girls at school and doesn't feel remotely sorry for the boy.

"So, Ianto," the woman says, leaning just a little to close in to him. He steels himself and doesn't lean away. "Heard you walked out on your psychiatrist today."

"Psychologist," he corrects out of a perverse sort of pride. "I had a headache. I called to reschedule for tomorrow."

"Oh, that's boring," the woman says. She smells like gin. "Start a revolution, Ianto, we need more people telling their therapists to bugger off."

Rhiannon certainly thought so. She'd been very proud of him that morning, when she'd finally caught up with him, and had been in the middle of telling him so when he'd turned around and dropped his little moving-out bomb on her. That hadn't been nearly so well received.

It had been inevitable. The two siblings had clashed their entire childhood long; Rhiannon is messy and outgoing and cheerful and Ianto is withdrawn and quiet and organized. It's a miracle they've tolerated each other for two weeks. Too much longer and one of them is going to be found floating in the bay.

He wonders why he's here, at this pub, watching Rhiannon squabble with the barmaid and trying to keep her very married friend out of his lap. He wonders if he should tell her how fucked up he is- that there's something seriously wrong with him and he doesn't even know how to go about figuring out what that something is, never mind how to fix it. He feels the now-familiar pain of Lisa's death, a knife's tip gouging into his chest. Sometimes he looks down and is surprised to not find a gaping, bloody hole where his heart used to be. Sometimes something whispers to him, in those few seconds before his dreams fade entirely, that it's not just Lisa he's missing.

Rhiannon plunks down a glass of beer in front of him. He drains it in three long swallows and takes the second one she offers him. She doesn't know her little brother any better than most other people- he's been closing her out for fifteen years- but she still gets him better than anyone else.

"We'll see about getting you a flat tomorrow," she says, and Ianto nods and retreats into himself, leaving the world behind to rot for all he cares.

Two weeks and four days ago, Ianto Jones was found sitting on a bench in the Plass. He'd been worst for the wear, looking beat up and covered in blood that probably wasn't his. He'd known his name after a moment's thought and the year after another. The exact date, however, had escaped him, and he'd been genuinely shocked to look up and see the Millennium Center. Until that exact moment, he'd simply assumed he was in London.

The past few years were hazy and foggy, as if they were a mirage. The past six months were doubly so, and he'd brushed the fragile false memories away like cobwebs, leaving a frightening hole behind. The hole covered the death of Lisa and six months of hard living for him- he's got scars now, some nasty-looking, where previously there had been unbroken skin, and he's jumpy and skittish and looks long and hard at the shadows these days before venturing into them.

Out of this hole crawls echoes and memories and whispers, all of which vanish if he looks directly at them. He's grasping at shadows and they keep slipping away; there's something not right about him, about the world around him, and the dichotomy is driving him insane.

The police leave off bothering him after only a few days. There's blood but no body, no drugs in his system, nothing to work with. They eventually slap him with a label- a mild psychotic break, induced by Lisa's death and delayed only by Ianto's admittedly impressive self-control- and send him on his way. He's got no job, no place to live, nothing except a sister he mostly tolerates and occasionally loves. And he has memories, triggered by the oddest of things, that slap him in the face and disappear again, leaving him reeling.

"You should have just pulled the trigger," he says to the wind one day, not knowing whom those words were meant for, trying not to think about how bad things must have been for that to even have been an option.

He hasn't gone back to the Plass. There's something keeping him out, some invisible wall that blocks only him. He can't bring himself to push past it. Not yet. Probably not ever.

He gets a new flat. It's small and cramped, but he doesn't really care- he won't be there often, not mentally at least. He also gets a job in a book store. He doesn't need the money- he's got a respectable amount in the bank, and the manager confirmed that it was deposited over a period of several months, indicating a job with a steady paycheck- but he needs something to do with his time, something to keep his mind busy.

On Robinson's urging he reluctantly contacts Lisa's parents. She died six months ago in a car accident, or so the official report told him. Some people said other things but he ignores the alien nuts and focuses on reality- he can only deal with one mind-fuck at a time, thankyouverymuch. Lisa's mother calls him back and leaves a nicely worded voicemail, the summary being that they have no interest in talking to him.

He also calls up some of his old friends in London. Most of them have dropped off the radar. The few he finds tell him that he left for Cardiff some six months ago, just after Lisa. No one is missing him, job- or friend-wise. No one is looking for him.

The memories come faster with each day and stay a little longer. The triggers seem to be getting more generous. The first time he hears the words Canary Wharf he has to go sit down and focus on breathing because the pure, primal terror is choking him. Something about Canary Wharf scares the fuck out of him and he doesn't dare look too closely at that. The first time he hears an American accent he snaps round so fast his neck pops and for one second all he sees is blue eyes and a charming little-boy grin. Then it's gone, and the American- dark eyes, no smile- is staring at him oddly, so he excuses himself and goes home.

He's losing it, bit by bit, piece by piece. His world is a sand castle on the beach and the tide is coming in; everything is losing definition and sort of melting. It's not getting better. It's not even leveling out.

He wonders if he'll even be able to tell when he's completely gone.

"I can't help you, Ianto," Robinson says, and Ianto bites back a snort. Of course she can't help him, she's a psychologist. He needs a psychiatrist who isn't afraid to prescribe heavy-duty psych meds. He doesn't say so, of course.

"Why not?" he asks instead, the obligatory question. Her answer surprises him.

"Because you don't want me to. You don't want anyone to help you, Ianto. You won't let anyone get close enough to try." She regards him sadly. "I would like you to keep coming here…"

"But it's a waste of both our time," Ianto finishes. She nods and he treats her to his best false smile. Then he leaves.

The receptionist isn't surprised to see him walking out early- that one week, almost a month ago now, set a precedent and Ianto has never since completed the hour-long session. "You just missed your friend," she tells him as he's heading for the door.

"My sister, you mean?" he asks distractedly.

"No. Tall guy, real cute, American," she answers, and Ianto freezes. "He's been in here a couple times, asking about you. You ran into him one time, remember, you almost hit him with the door?"

He remembers. The first time he'd walked out, the man whose nose he'd almost broken by slamming the door open. He'd walked right past without seeing anything more than another person. Nothing about the man had registered.

Except he'd ducked back, startled to see Ianto walking out and quick to get out of his way.

"I didn't tell him anything," the receptionist continues, unnerved by Ianto's stillness. "I told him that if he wanted details, he'd have to ask you. He came back a couple of times anyways, just asking how you looked and things like that."

Ianto pushes against the door, pushing it open. He turns his gaze to the corner the man had ducked into, a month too late. There's nothing but blank wall there now.

"You do know him, right?" the receptionist asks, slightly alarmed. Ianto gives her as much as he knows.

"I used to."

And now that he's looking for it, he sees it. The big black SUV parked in front of the book store that pulls out a little too quickly when he heads towards it. The flash of a long grey coat. The sound of a familiar accent. It's uncommon- two glimpses in five days- but he knows they're there, now, whoever they are.

He looks on the Internet at the various reports of aliens in London. He reads the articles and suddenly remembers, clear as day, waking up one Christmas morning to find himself standing on the edge of his apartment building's roof. He looks at pictures of the flying Titanic¸ of the killer spaceship/star, of Big Ben after a crashing spaceship gutted it.

He looks up Canary Wharf, because Lisa died during whatever happened there, and because it's the Big One, apparently. All the conspiracy sites allude to it, mankind's first real stand against aliens, in which mankind lost horribly. The official line is a load of crap and Ianto spends hours trawling through the various tabloid sites and personal pages, not reading so much as skimming. He's on the verge of remembering and isn't really sure he wants to. This, he thinks- this day, this moment, is what's turned him into the man he is now. He doesn't know if he wants to relive it.

Then he finds a picture, the out-of-focus image of the metal men who had almost taken over the world, and everything comes tumbling down around him.

It's a domino effect, with each new memory triggering another.

Lisa- Lisa- Lisa-

Lisa in the converter get into Three save her get her into Torchwood-

Torchwood.

Tosh Owen Gwen, Myfanwy, weevils, Hub, make coffee sort archives file talk to police watch news oh god Lisa in the basement-

- going to kill everyone going to kill her can't let her die can't let her kill stop her don't hurt her hate him hate him-

Hate him-

Jack-

Jack.

"Kinda figured you'd turn up here sooner or later."

Ianto doesn't bother to look- he knows that voice, knows it better than his own. Instead he waits for Jack to circle round to the front of the bench, the same bench he'd been found on a month and a half ago. Once the man is settled down next to him, Ianto offers him the second cup of takeaway coffee he's holding. Jack takes the coffee with barely a twitch of a smile and pops the lid off to drink straight from the cup.

"Took you long enough, though," he adds after a second sip.

"I didn't want to remember," Ianto admits. No big secret there- he's had a shitty life, no surprise he wants to forget the shittiest part of it.

"What did it in?" Jack asks after a couple minutes of silence. Processing Ianto's answers.

"A lot of little things," Ianto replies. He looks down at his own coffee cup, empty now. "I found a picture of a cyberman online."

"Canary Wharf." It could have been either one of them who said that.

"You survived it," Jack says. "Survivor of Torchwood One."

For the first time, there is no derision in his voice as he mentions One. Ianto's always figured he got this job because he's good-looking and determined and Jack had a long list of things that needed to be done that no one else was willing to do. He realized early on, though, that he was something else- a figure, a representation of everything Jack didn't want Torchwood Three to be. Ianto became Torchwood One at some point. There had never been sympathy or respect for surviving that nightmare. Only contempt for having caused it in the first place.

"Right after that thing with-," Jack begins, then stops. After a moment he tries again. "When you asked for the Retcon. I told you to wait, to think it over before making any decisions."

He stops there, as if that means anything. It's as close to asking Ianto to return as he'll get.

Ianto rolls his empty cup between his palms, shoulders hunched against the chilly wind and eyes focused on something far away. This hasn't solved anything. They still killed Lisa, would do it again if need be. Nothing has changed, nothing is different. And nothing can change. Torchwood is too much a part of Ianto, god help him. He can't live without it. He's got nothing else to live for.

"I suppose you lot made a royal mess of the archives," he says finally, and Jack's smile, small though it is, is warm as sunlight.

"Yeah, probably," he admits freely. "Myfanwy misses you. She's been pining. And Owen broke the coffee machine."

Ianto doesn't ask how Owen, medical doctor and self-declared genius, broke the push-one-button-and-you're-done coffee machine. He also doesn't ask how one can tell if a pterodactyl is pining. Some things you simply accept without question in Torchwood.

"And Ianto? If you do this- anything like this- ever again…"

Ianto looks over at Jack, who is currently the most serious he's ever been without holding a gun to Ianto's head.

"I have nothing left," he says, and Jack pins him with a long, unreadable stare. After a long moment he shrugs and levers himself off the bench.

"All right, then, take the weekend and I'll see you on Monday?"

There's a million things that need to be said, a million things they need to talk about. This is not okay. The Retcon wearing off does not instantly make everything all better.

"Yes, sir."

It doesn't make everything all better. But it's a good start.

A/N: This is a Cyberwoman fic, obviously. There's a lot of lovely yummy fics out there for post-episode, but while a lot mention the option of Retcon, not a single one I've found actually has Ianto choosing it. So I wrote one. I wanted more of the boys together and maybe a little more tension- sexual or otherwise- but they didn't want to cooperate. This is about Ianto's losing his place and finding it once more, not sex. Sigh.

Also, the quote at the beginning is the Matrix. It seemed to fit.

At what point did you figure out he'd been Retconned? When Jack spelled it out for you, or sooner?