Ianto knows that sheet of paper; while he can’t read the tiny columns of print from his position across the desk from Jack, he is achingly familiar with the pattern created by the slopes and angles of the text. It’s a list, one he’d tried to commit to memory, but it was just too damn long.

The tip of Jack’s finger rests just below a name. His other hand is wrapped around the decanter. It’s almost empty, now.

“I thought she was dead,” he says, and Ianto’s about to protest that Lisa is dead, absolutely, when he remembers that her name had been on the left-hand side of the page, not the right where Jack’s finger points.

Jack continues, almost like Ianto’s not even there. “Rose Tyler. She lived, but she got sucked into a different dimension and she’s trapped. There’s nothing I can do to bring her back.”

Ianto’s grip tightens around his tumbler, the raised crystal cutting into his palm. It’s still almost full. He doesn’t know what to say, what comfort he can offer that won’t come out a petulant, “But at least she’s alive.” It wouldn’t be fair; how many people has Jack lost at this point? But he still feels the burn of indignation, the tightening of panicked fury, in his chest.

Jack finally looks at him directly; his eyes widen and his breath catches. “Ianto, I’m sor –”

“No,” he says and shakes his head. “Forget it. Cheers.”

He tosses back the rest of his whisky and closes his eyes.