Ianto sags and drops his chin, muttering something a little more musical than usual in Welsh. "Look," he reiterates through gritted teeth, extending his arm inch by laborious inch (with added assistance from the other once he's at a certain angle) until he's sort of, but not really, sitting up. "I'm trying to help you. Us."

He rolls his shoulders to dislodge what feels like pebbles embedded in his back and his face spasms into a deep frown. It helps a little, the movement, gets the blood flowing back to his numb extremities. The twinges and aches are fading, bit by bit. Good sign. "Middle of Central Park. After hours. Foreigner with a suspicious device. Someone else will have noticed - guarantee it, actually. Surprised I've not been packed into an unmarked van yet."

Honestly, he is. Not that he's complaining. Ianto shifts carefully until he's sitting on his knees, supported by two palms flat in the dirt. "Want to stay?" he asks, flipping a switch from beleaguered to chipper. "Bring me that laptop. And a rock. Big one."