There is something not quite right about being questioned by your own imagination. It isn't the way things go in dreams - because this is a dream, right, yes, of course, what else could it be? Ianto presses the heels of the hands into his eyes, drags them down his face, feels his flesh give alarmingly under the pressure, like an overripe avocado. Oh god, does he have some sort of disease?

Things are supposed to be... smoother than this. Any moment now it's going to continue on, and there will be the shuffle of zombies at the door, the clank of Cybermen, except he's stuck, stuck in this recurring nightmare. Yes. This is a dream. "I want to wake up," he thinks, and the fire under his skin has charred his flesh, he can feel it flaking off his cheeks. "I want to wake up, I want to wake up, I want to wake up, I want to..."