The first memory Ianto has of Adam, the first palpable one, is of the moment he walked into Torchwood that morning the alien arrived and took over. He remembers wondering who Adam was, but it was all a funny joke, right?
Funny, haha, Ianto. We're friends, remember? We watch James Bond together. Except when he does watch James Bond it's either alone at his flat or curled up against Jack. He can recall watching them with Adam now, but it's hazy. He can distinctly remember watching them with Jack, however, the way they both were dressed, the film itself... not Adam.
Adam wasn't there.
He knows this, because his diary already told him. Adam isn't mentioned when the rest of them are. He immediately recognized that as wrong, because he knows everything and writes it down. He didn't write Adam down and therefore Adam doesn't exist.
And then Adam brought the bad memories. He feels his breath hitch as he remembers, and the images flash in his head, a kaleidoscope of bright colors, the most prominent of which is red. Red is his color, after all, bold and vibrant in a way he never is. Adam convinced him he saw red on a nightly basis, on the steps of a church, sprinkled over garbage in a filthy alleyway. Those memories are so implanted that he smells it right now, mingling with Jack's specific scent.
At least he doesn’t love it anymore, and it sickens him that he used to feel bliss when he smelled it mingling with the scent of sweat and tears, salty and moist, clinging to vein-laced skin that purpled with the tightening of his grip, bones that cracked under his hands. That sensation is palpable and fresh and definitely not made up. He's done it now, and he can't even stand to look at himself in the mirror.
He gasps, opening his eyes, aware that he's shaking and in a cold-sweat, his body rejecting the memories but unable to throw them out. He stares up at Jack, and all he wants to do is run away from this.
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Funny, haha, Ianto. We're friends, remember? We watch James Bond together. Except when he does watch James Bond it's either alone at his flat or curled up against Jack. He can recall watching them with Adam now, but it's hazy. He can distinctly remember watching them with Jack, however, the way they both were dressed, the film itself... not Adam.
Adam wasn't there.
He knows this, because his diary already told him. Adam isn't mentioned when the rest of them are. He immediately recognized that as wrong, because he knows everything and writes it down. He didn't write Adam down and therefore Adam doesn't exist.
And then Adam brought the bad memories. He feels his breath hitch as he remembers, and the images flash in his head, a kaleidoscope of bright colors, the most prominent of which is red. Red is his color, after all, bold and vibrant in a way he never is. Adam convinced him he saw red on a nightly basis, on the steps of a church, sprinkled over garbage in a filthy alleyway. Those memories are so implanted that he smells it right now, mingling with Jack's specific scent.
At least he doesn’t love it anymore, and it sickens him that he used to feel bliss when he smelled it mingling with the scent of sweat and tears, salty and moist, clinging to vein-laced skin that purpled with the tightening of his grip, bones that cracked under his hands. That sensation is palpable and fresh and definitely not made up. He's done it now, and he can't even stand to look at himself in the mirror.
He gasps, opening his eyes, aware that he's shaking and in a cold-sweat, his body rejecting the memories but unable to throw them out. He stares up at Jack, and all he wants to do is run away from this.