No, no, his nightmares are nothing like this, not for ages, don't flatter yourself. The tone of his dreams has shifted, actually, following the realization that he's stuck in this universe. Things he's left undone, things he's left behind. Like a woman with faded brown hair sitting in Ianto's chair and looking out the window, and you know that she has startlingly blue eyes even though you never see her face, no matter how you turn, shuffling across the floor like an ant through treacle to get one glimpse.

"My nightmares," Ianto echoes, standing behind her, hesitating to put his hands on her shoulders, except she's an impossible distance away, "are usually about nothing." Which he isn't afraid to admit, to a dream.