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A woman named Bess, tied to a bedpost and surrounded by the King's men shot herself to save the man she loved.
He never loved her back. Not really.
But she was young and in love and had heard too many ballads.
It all went to her head.
She wasn't the first or the last.
Jack had lived.
He knew.
He had seen Molly Pitcher, many Molly Pitchers.
He had seen young men and young women, Romeos and Juliets in in every age and every galaxy he'd ever been to, kill themselves for love.
Jack himself had died for love. Many times.
The first had been for Rose and the Doctor.
He was young and still idealistic.
It had all gone to his head.
He had seen many guns and lasers aimed, many matches and bombs dropped, and far too many desperate eyes with nothing left in them kill scores upon scores of people, because the one they loved had been taken from them.
He'd given the children to the 456.
He'd led them like lambs to their slaughter.
Because Melody was dead.
And a big part of him had gone with her.
Just not enough.
So when Ianto had been willing, all too willing, to add his name to whatever list was out there, of sentient beings willing to die and kill for love, Jack had understood.
He understood, but that didn't mean he'd stand down.
When it was all over and the people he had direct responsibility for, the people he'd sworn to protect, were all alive, even though the floor was still slick and red with hapless innocent blood and even as he yelled, he had already begun to forgive him.
Maybe it was easier than it should have been because some of the blood had been Lisa's.
He had never expected to be forgiven in return.