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"Why don't you just leave," Jack intoned blankly, not even turning around to look at him. It wasn't a question.
Ianto's eyebrows drew together indignantly, his mouth opening to protest... before almost immediately snapping shut again. He attempted to burn twin holes in the back of Jack's head with his glare, but it didn't work.
He glanced away from Jack and around the familiar office for a moment to gather his thoughts, noting the particular disarray of the former neat stacks of papers and files on Jack's desk, now reduced to one great mountain—or, plateau, technically, supplied Ianto's nit-picky brain unhelpfully—of assorted documents and photographs. He also noted a single coffee mug with a half-centimeter of three-day-old coffee in the bottom, shoved to the corner of the desk along with three or four empty paper coffee cups from the café across the street.
Ianto felt guilt and sympathy begin to wash over him in equal measure, but as he lifted his head to gaze imploringly at Jack, he saw that Jack was still facing dismissively away from him, not even making an effort to pretend he was looking at anything in particular besides not Ianto. His posture screamed hurt, but also self-pity.
The guilt and sympathy evaporated in an instant, replaced instead by a rapidly rising anger, the intensity of which was a surprise to no one more than Ianto himself.
"Right, then," he snapped, more bitterly than he could remember hearing himself in a very long time, though the tone he used sounded familiar somehow. "That's fine. I'll just leave, then, shall I?” His voice rose to become a shout. “I will just... fucking..." Ianto fished fruitlessly for something powerful and angry, but he was rather unused to this style of confrontation, so he finally finished with a vague and anti-climactic "...leave. I'll... I'll just fucking leave!" He stared, wild-eyed, at the back of Jack's head, panting slightly in his vehemence, awaiting a reaction.
Jack's shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly at Ianto's rare use of profanity, but he remained silent.
Ianto clenched his fists in frustration. He felt like grabbing the jammed stapler off the desk and throwing it at the back of Jack's head, hard enough to knock him over and make him bleed, just so he would turn around and fucking look at him. "Alright, then," he said again with a bit more composure but a lot more resentment. "That's fine, Jack. I'll just go home now. Since, clearly, I'm a faithless arsehole who just up and decided to run off and leave you stranded alone in this shit-hole." He snatched his torn and bloodied waistcoat and jacket up off the floor at his feet and started roughly pulling them on, his voice transitioning to almost a snarl. "...Without any explanation beforehand," he continued, no longer bothering to make one way eye-contact with Jack's ridiculous, pretentious gelled hair, "and then—" he let his voice fill with the most blisteringly acidic sarcasm he could muster— "not even bother trying to explain myself upon my return." He finally managed to wrangle both jackets on and do up the few buttons that hadn't been ripped off, before pausing dramatically and taking a deep breath. His voice was laced with more venom and bitterness than either man knew he was capable of vocalizing. "Because I fucking do that sort of thing."
Jack finally twitched at that, so hard it could could almost be called a spasm, but Ianto never knew, because he was already out the door.