Revelations Part 3
Title: Revelations
Part: 3 of 10-ish...
Chapter Title: In Which Venice is Left Behind, Jack and Ianto Have Inappropriate Relations on a Desk, and Cigarettes Are Smoked.
Pairing: Janto, mention of Rhys/Gwen, mention of Tom/Martha, Ianto/Martha fag-hag fabulousness.
Rating: NC-17 O__O
Excerpt:
"How was Venice?" Jack hedges, moving to a safer topic.
"It was...nice. Interesting."
"That's it? That's the best description you've got?" Jack teases. This is the Ianto he knows.
"What do you want me to say? Dazzling? Life-changing? Incredible? Beautiful? Amazing? I know a lot of adjectives. We could be here until the sun comes up."
Martha Jones stands just outside the Marco Polo airport, fidgeting anxiously, checking and re-checking her wristwatch. The only thing keeping her from pacing is the amount of foot-traffic outside the crowded drop-off point. That and the fact that she has several large suitcases to guard; both hers and Ianto’s.
“Shit,” she mutters under her breath, checking her watch for the fourth time in the last 20 minutes. They’re going to be late. She’s going to have to reschedule the flight. She’s going to have to call Jack. God, how the hell is she going to explain this?
Sorry Jack, but I seem to have lost Ianto somewhere between the hotel and the airport terminal. Don’t worry, though. He’s bound to show up soon. I’ll just wait here until he does.
Sure, that’d go over as well as Myfanwy in a china shop. Jack was going to bloody kill her. This was the last time she ever attempted to drunkenly convince anyone to follow her brainless advice.
“Martha!” a voice sounds out across the crowd behind her, and Martha heaves a sigh of relief before she turns around, a huge smile on her face.
“Over here!” she calls, waving a hand above her head. The crowd parts a little and she sees him striding towards her.
There’s something… different, more confident about the way he holds himself. Like every step he takes is calculated, self-assured. He’s immaculate as ever in a dark suit, red shirt, and long black coat, a grin on his face she hadn’t realized she’d been missing until now.
“Dr. Martha Jones!” he greets her exuberantly, picking her up and twirling her around before pecking her on the cheek. Martha laughs as he sets her back down on the pavement. “It seems you’ve got everything in order,” he says with a nod towards their luggage.
“And not a moment too soon. You’re late,” she scolds with a wag of her finger, deliriously happy and relieved to see him.
“Yes, I know, I know. Sorry. I tried to tell the man to move faster, but you know- like herding cats.”
“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” she orders, helping when Ianto begins to grab their luggage and move towards the terminal they need to be at in… quick check of the watch… ten minutes. “How did you enjoy your time in Venice, Mr. Jones?”
He glances over with a quick lift of his eyebrows.
“Remember that part about you being brilliant?” he asks with a smirk.
“I seem to recall it vaguely, yes,” she says, an ironic tilt to her lips. Ianto’s eyes soften as he gazes into the middle distance for a moment, and then they snap back to her more clear, more focused than she can remember them being for months.
“Well, you are. You’re bloody brilliant.”
The claxon sounds as the door to the Hub rolls sideways, revealing a refreshed and happy looking pair of Torchwood employees. Naturally, Gwen is the first up to greet them, with Mickey trailing slightly behind. Hugs and handshakes are exchanged. Jack takes his time, walking down from his office with his trademark swagger, hands in his pockets. They both look good. Ianto even more so, if he’s honest with himself.
“I want to know everything,” Gwen is in the middle of saying when Jack gets close enough to hear. “The beauty of the Grand Canal... I want every detail… you didn’t happen to take a video camera did you? Pictures, stories-“
“Presents?” Martha cuts her off, pulling a few wrapped boxes from the bag slung on her shoulder.
“Oh, Martha, Ianto, you didn’t have to do that!” Gwen gushes, grabbing her present enthusiastically anyway. Jack makes a mental note to send her and Rhys on a second honeymoon to Venice… when she’s earned it, of course.
“Really,” Mickey says when Martha hands him his own present. “Not having to feed the bloody pterodactyl and clean out the Weevil cells anymore will be enough of a gift for me.” Ianto gives a short laugh.
“Consider it done,” he says. “Sad that you didn’t find tea boy duties quite as glamorous as they’re made out to be.”
“Well, he didn’t have the privilege of taking care of all of your duties,” Jack cuts in flirtatiously from his slightly higher vantage point on the steps next to the water tower. His arms cross automatically in front of his chest as he smirks. “Besides, his coffee isn’t even comparable to yours.”
Ianto fixes him with an intense blue stare; the first time he’s laid eyes on Jack in three weeks. He’s smiling, but there’s something vicious in his eyes, something a little bare, predatory, and Jack can’t help the shiver that runs unbidden up his spine as Ianto moves past the others, approaching him. It’s only natural. Jack’s been deprived for three weeks, after all.
“Really, sir. That is unfortunate,” Ianto stops on the step below him, looking up into Jack’s face. “But then, you already knew no one makes coffee like I do.”
“Part of the reason we keep you around,” Jack jokes, fighting to keep his breath from hitching under that intense gaze. “Good to have you back.”
“Good to be back,” Ianto practically growls, moving up the step so that he’s right in Jack’s personal space. Jack supposes he should have been expecting it when a hand comes up to cup the back of his neck and Ianto’s lips are suddenly crashing down on his. But it's still a nice surprise.
It’s not really a welcome-home kiss, because social nicety this is not, all tongue and teeth and heat, Ianto’s lips ravaging his confidently. Jack gives himself up to it, feeling Ianto’s other hand on his hip, pulling them tightly together. Jack winds his fingers into Ianto’s hair, moves one hand to grip the back of the younger man’s shirt. The kiss only lasts for a few moments, and then Ianto’s pulling back, though he leaves his hands in their positions on Jack's neck and hip. Jack’s eyes are sparking with excitement and hunger, and he looks more than a little disheveled.
With a sigh, the Captain steps back completely, fist coming up to rest against his lips as he clears his throat.
“Wow,” he says, the exact same tone he’d used that very first morning Ianto had lain in wait outside the office to offer him a cup of coffee.
There’s a giggle from behind Ianto, and they both look to see Gwen and Martha with similar pole-axed, shit-eating grins on their faces. Gwen snaps her hands up to cover her mouth- the giggle must have escaped from her. Mickey looks vaguely uncomfortable as he stares anywhere but at the two of them. Ianto coughs and the tips of his ears turn pink, suddenly embarrassed.
“Cute,” Jack states. It earns him a self-conscious eye-roll from Ianto.
“Well, sir, I suppose I should be seeing about that coffee,” he says, walking past Jack a little awkwardly. Jack grins.
What a contradiction in terms you are, Ianto Jones.
He grabs the man’s elbow before he can walk out of reach, the crisp folds of the suit wrinkling under his grasp. Ianto looks over at him questioningly.
“Later,” Jack husks, eyes filled with blue fire. A tentative smile stretches across Ianto’s face.
“Of course, Jack. Wouldn’t miss it.”
Jack’s literally itching by the time Gwen, Mickey, and Martha all finally head home. He’s attempting to focus on paperwork, but the back of his mind is replaying that kiss in a continuous loop. He’s not sure what’s gotten into Ianto, but damned if he doesn’t like it.
“Am I interrupting?” a quiet voice sounds, and Jack looks up to find he’s been so preoccupied with thoughts of the man that he missed the entrance of the real thing.
“Not at all,” he attempts nonchalance, setting his pencil down and leaning back in his chair. Ianto comes over to half-sit on Jack’s desk; Jack suspects it’s one of the young man’s favorite positions. Ianto reaches over and covers one of Jack’s hands with his own, teasing the inside of Jack’s wrist with shiveringly light swipes of his fingertips.
“You’re certainly bold today,” Jack states with a raised eyebrow, looking up into gentle blue eyes. “It’s not like you to jump me in front of everyone.”
“Gwen and Martha seemed to enjoy it,” Ianto diverts, humor lighting his eyes.
“We’ll be hearing nothing but tittering for days,” Jack moans.
“Thought you liked stirring up a fuss?”
“I do. Just wasn’t expecting it from you.” The question is implied in the statement. Jack waits for the answer.
“Ah. I suppose I just missed you is all,” Ianto shrugs, the confession coming out easily. Jack envies him the ease with which he admits things like that.
“You were only gone three weeks,” he points out incredulously. Ianto chuckles.
“I know… it just… seems longer.” Ianto’s eyes go unfocused, his thoughts elsewhere for a moment. Jack stands up and pushes Ianto further back into the desk, placing a hand on each of the young man's hips.
“Well, then let me give you a proper welcome back,” he says with a leer. Ianto snorts, but leans forward to kiss him anyway.
As desperate and violent as the kiss earlier today was, this one is gentle and teasing. Ianto’s playing with him, soft movements of lips, the occasional brush of tongue. Jack’s been strung so tightly all day he’s about to snap, and this treatment maddens him as much as turns him on.
He allows it to last for a brief few moments before he’s taking the lead, conquering Ianto’s mouth with his, pushing him back against the desk, inciting what Ianto will never admit is a whimper. Jack pulls back after long moments, satisfied to see the younger man’s face flushed, lips swollen, gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his fingertips have turned white.
“Really? It’s that easy?” he teases, and suddenly Ianto’s demeanor changes in a snap, a flash of that same viciousness Jack had seen earlier lighting his eyes, and he’s pushing back, grabbing onto Jack by the braces on his shoulders, manhandling him until he’s pinned against the wall.
Ianto spreads Jack’s legs with one of his, pressing his thigh up against Jack’s groin, making him moan into Ianto’s neck. Jack bites down harshly where Ianto's jaw and neck meet, soothing the pain away with soft licks. Ianto makes a sharp exhalation, pulling Jack up by the hair at the nape of his neck to bring their lips together again, knocking Jack’s head up against the doorjamb, grinding him into the wall.
Their hips move frantically together as they devour each other’s mouths, and Jacks’ hands scrabble at Ianto’s back to push the suit jacket off his shoulders. When it hits the floor, Ianto’s ripping off the rest of his clothes, finishing to stand naked in Jack’s office- hair mussed from Jack’s fingers running through it, miles of pale skin and the beginnings of a deep bruise on his jaw line.
Jack can hardly be blamed when he zones out staring at that mark for half a second.
When he’s finished enjoying the view, he realizes that Ianto’s clever hands have divested him of pants and boxers, and he’s being tugged by his shirt back towards the desk.
“Have I ever mentioned I love it when you’re this aggressive?” he quips when Ianto fucking lifts him up, seemingly with no effort at all, to carry him the last few steps to the desk, putting him down so that he’s sitting on the edge.
Ianto doesn’t answer at first, pulling the chair up to sit between Jack’s spread thighs, grabbing his legs and slinging them over his shoulders, smiling sinfully before dragging his tongue in a torturing, slow slide up Jack’s aching erection. Jack shivers and bites down on the inside of his cheek to hold in a helpless groan.
“I’ll make a note of it, sir,” Ianto says cheekily, before placing one broad hand on the small of Jack’s back to pull him closer. Jack’s thighs are raised higher on Ianto’s shoulders, his toes curling against Ianto's back.
Their eyes meet for a breathless moment and then Ianto’s mouth is sliding down his cock, wet tongue drawing patterns as he takes Jack all the way in. Jack throws his head back with a moan, his body a line of exquisite tension as his shoulders and arms strain to keep him propped in a semi-seated position, bent nearly in half.
Ianto’s always been good at this, but he really means it right now, giving Jack no quarter, moving up and down at a brutal pace, obscene moans, slurping and sucking noises breaking the quiet. His mouth is pulling Jack into him, and if Jack hadn’t already been about to come with the tension from the minute Ianto kissed him, he’d be fighting back the impending orgasm tooth and nail.
"God... Ianto!"
As it is, he knows the noises he’s making can’t be described as anything but desperate, and there’s no holding back when he feels a spit-slicked finger (when had Ianto done that?) slide into him roughly, pressing against his prostate, massaging in circles while that wicked tongue rips apart the seams of his reality, flicking repeatedly over the head of his cock, and Jack is coming so hard and so fast and so long he can’t even fucking breathe. He shudders when Ianto doesn't stop sucking him through it until he's spent to the last drop.
Jack hasn't completely come down from it before Ianto is pulling his finger out, dropping Jack’s legs off his shoulders and flipping him around so Jack’s bent over the desk. Ianto’s breathing harshly, feels like he’s about to burst, and he barely has the sense to remember to grab the lube from the top drawer, stretching Jack quickly before he slicks himself up and pushes in.
Jack pushes back with a moan when Ianto bottoms out, not able to get hard again (even Jack’s recovery time isn’t this quick after being so thoroughly fucked) but loving the feeling of Ianto inside him, bumping up against his prostate like he was made to do this. Then Ianto’s moving, pulling, in, out, thrusting and all Jack can do is take it, thighs spread, head bowed. Ianto leans forward and latches his teeth onto Jack’s neck, and Jack realizes he hasn’t even gotten his shirt off yet, the fabric rustling between them as Ianto speeds up.
Ianto tenses, his mind whiting out with the pleasure, and it’s a quick one, two, three before he’s coming hard enough to see stars, Jack panting and spent beneath him, holding onto the far edge of the desk as hard as Ianto’s holding onto Jack’s hips. Ianto rides out the devastating orgasm until he finally collapses, lets Jack and the desk take some of his weight, tries to get his breath back. They rest quietly like that for a few minutes until their heart rates even out.
“God damn,” Jack says, too tired to laugh but feeling the joy of it right to the tips of his toes. “Holy hell, Ianto. I should send you away to Venice more often if this is what happens when you get back.”
Ianto says nothing but lets Jack up, turns him over on the desk and kisses him softly, lips clinging together, reluctantly pulling back after long moments. There’s something like sorrow, something like relief, and something like affection warring for dominance on Ianto’s face.
“Hey,” Jack says, reaching a hand up to cup one of Ianto’s cheeks, stroking gently when Ianto leans into the touch. “You okay?” Ianto’s lips turn up in a smile.
“Never better,” he assures, kissing Jack’s palm before pulling back completely, grabbing tissues to clean them both up. He seems resolved to let the matter drop. Jack silently decides to bring it up in the morning. He’s never seen Ianto… quite like this before. But for now…
“Help me get this shirt off, and then come tuck me into bed,” Jack orders, fighting to keep a grin off his face.
Their legs are so wobbly they barely manage to make it down the hatch to Jack’s room. With a jaw-cracking yawn, Jack crawls under the covers. Ianto stands at the edge of the bed, looking a little cagey and conflicted until Jack snorts and pulls the younger man down on top of him. He adjusts them so that he’s spooning up against Ianto’s back, hand resting lightly on one pale hip. Ianto pulls the covers up over them both, and Jack sighs, nearly asleep.
“Guess you really did miss me,” he whispers, self-satisfied and exhausted.
“Yeah… I really did,” Ianto says quietly, clenching his eyes shut.
It’s the last thing Jack remembers before he tumbles into sleep.
When Jack wakes up, he's alone. A quick glance at the clock reveals it to be just past three a.m. The others won't be in for hours yet, and it's too early for Ianto to leave so that he can go home, shower, and change before the work day begins. Jack's forehead knits into a frown as he tosses the covers aside and gets up. Throwing on a shirt and a pair of pants, he climbs through the hatch and heads for his office.
Ianto must not have gone far because not only are his tie and cufflinks strewn haphazardly across the office floor, his shoes and socks sit in a jumbled heap by the door. A quick inquiry to the Hub's security system reveals one human heat-source resting just outside on the docks, roughly fifteen feet away from the door leading to the tourist office's reception. Jack calls up the CCTV feed.
It's Ianto, alright. Jack finds himself instantly transfixed, the grainy footage revealing his lover's lean form propped casually against the side of the building, one leg crossed in front of the other, dim lights from the wharf clinging lovingly to the long lines of his legs and torso. He's barefoot, suit coat thrown haphazardly over a half-buttoned shirt, face tilted into the wind, one arm wrapped around himself, the other elbow propped against the wall, elegant fingers raising a cigarette to soft lips.
The numerous people who have told Jack over the years that he has bad taste are clearly out of their fucking minds.
He walks briskly up to reception, toeing into shoes and putting on his greatcoat. He pauses before opening the door and stepping outside as quietly as he can. Ianto's faced away from him, and Jack takes a moment to let his eyes run over the picture he makes, the harsh image of the video softened, made that much more aesthetically pleasing and appealing when viewed in person. The dim lighting casts everything in grays and blues, nostalgia captured in a moment- an old silent film in real life. Ianto's expression is whimsical, contemplative as he looks out over the bay, takes a slow drag on the cigarette. He's beautiful.
"You know, my 51st century sensibilities are telling me I really shouldn't find it so hot that you're willingly pumping carcinogens into your body," Jack breaks the quiet, his voice soft and teasing. Ianto doesn't seem surprised to find him standing there.
"It's your oral fixation- trumps health risks every time," Ianto replies with a smile, voice equally hushed. Jack moves to lean against the wall next to him, shoulders brushing companionably. He'll regret giving in to weakness later, but the moment seems so isolated, so out of time that Jack lets his guards down a little.
"Besides," Ianto continues, "it'd be a bit daft for you of all people to complain about health risks. I seem to remember a home video of you shooting yourself in the head repeatedly for entertainment value." Jack chuckles.
"I didn't know you smoked."
"There's a lot you don't know about me, Captain Jack Harkness," Ianto says with a self-mocking eyebrow raise at the cliche statement. "I started smoking when I was 16. Lisa made me quit. I only recently took it back up." There's a flash of sorrow in his eyes, and then he's inhaling the tobacco again, lips wrapping around the filter in a way Jack just knows is deliberately teasing.
They lapse into silence for a while, the only sounds the occasional gust of wind or call of gulls across the water. It's cold, but inexplicably warm at the same time. The kind of moment when all that's needed is to acknowledge one's own existence, content to just be. The kind of moment both men are too frightened, too jaded, or too stubborn to usually allow themselves.
"How are you, Ianto?" Jack asks suddenly. He doesn't know who seems more surprised by the question, himself or Ianto. They're both remembering a scene from months ago when Ianto answers.
"All the better for being back, sir."
Jack doesn't correct him on the 'sir' this time. He doesn't even know what he's trying to accomplish by asking the question. All he knows is that there's something about Ianto that's been niggling in the back of his mind. A feeling of different that he can't quite shake. He knows he's being ridiculous- Ianto hasn't really been acting out of character, just a little off. Just when Jack thought he had the kid all figured out. But then, Ianto has a habit of surprising him.
"How was Venice?" Jack hedges, moving to a safer topic.
"It was...nice. Interesting."
"That's it? That's the best description you've got?" Jack teases. This is the Ianto he knows.
"What do you want me to say? Dazzling? Life-changing? Incredible? Beautiful? Amazing? I know a lot of adjectives. We could be here until the sun comes up."
"And you standing there freezing in no shoes," Jack says with a grin. "But really- No stories of note? You behaved yourself the entire time? No dining and dashing? Harassing the gondolier? Getting kicked out of art museums for being drunk and disorderly? No sordid, short-lived love affairs with handsome Italian men?"
"Last I checked, Jack, you didn't come with us. Those all sound like things you'd be much more likely to get up to," Ianto teases back.
"Aw, c'mon, Ianto. You were in one of the oldest, most beautiful, most romantic cities in the world. Don't tell me you didn't get into any mischief."
"Now, I didn't say that, did I?" Ianto asks with a confident smirk, finishing the last puff of his cigarette and tossing it to the ground with a graceful flick of his wrist. His arms cross and he leans back further into the wall.
"Oh, I will so drag the story out of you one day."
"I invite you to try, sir. I'll look forward to it."
"You sure there's nothing going on between you and Martha?" Jack hazards a guess. Ianto snorts.
"Positively. Martha would be the first to tell you so. And Tom will be the first to say there'd better not be."
"Fine. A stranger, then. Beautiful, rich, well-dressed. Kisses you irreverently on the Bridge of Sighs before whisking you away to Burano and making love to you on a bed of lace."
"Your imagination when it comes to romance never fails to impress," Ianto says sarcastically, eyebrow arched.
"You wound me, Ianto," Jack moans. "I happen to think I'm a master of romance. I got you into my bed, didn't I?"
And suddenly it's there, that expression on Ianto's face from earlier, a cross between sorrow and joy, peace and turmoil, confidence and fear. The subtle feeling that something's not the same as before hits Jack full force again. But Ianto looks away, and when he turns back to Jack, it's like it never happened. Jack begins to doubt it ever did. He tells himself he's being paranoid.
"Speaking of," he continues, moving to pin Ianto to the wall, giving him a heated, smoke-flavored kiss, pulls just far enough away to whisper against the younger man's mouth, "let's go back inside. You're freezing." Ianto smiles, his skin still tingling from the press of Jack's lips against his. He shakes his head slightly.
"I'm Welsh. If there's one thing I'm used to, it's frigidity."
He ends up following Jack back inside anyway. He always does.
Part: 3 of 10-ish...
Chapter Title: In Which Venice is Left Behind, Jack and Ianto Have Inappropriate Relations on a Desk, and Cigarettes Are Smoked.
Pairing: Janto, mention of Rhys/Gwen, mention of Tom/Martha, Ianto/Martha fag-hag fabulousness.
Rating: NC-17 O__O
Excerpt:
"How was Venice?" Jack hedges, moving to a safer topic.
"It was...nice. Interesting."
"That's it? That's the best description you've got?" Jack teases. This is the Ianto he knows.
"What do you want me to say? Dazzling? Life-changing? Incredible? Beautiful? Amazing? I know a lot of adjectives. We could be here until the sun comes up."
Martha Jones stands just outside the Marco Polo airport, fidgeting anxiously, checking and re-checking her wristwatch. The only thing keeping her from pacing is the amount of foot-traffic outside the crowded drop-off point. That and the fact that she has several large suitcases to guard; both hers and Ianto’s.
“Shit,” she mutters under her breath, checking her watch for the fourth time in the last 20 minutes. They’re going to be late. She’s going to have to reschedule the flight. She’s going to have to call Jack. God, how the hell is she going to explain this?
Sorry Jack, but I seem to have lost Ianto somewhere between the hotel and the airport terminal. Don’t worry, though. He’s bound to show up soon. I’ll just wait here until he does.
Sure, that’d go over as well as Myfanwy in a china shop. Jack was going to bloody kill her. This was the last time she ever attempted to drunkenly convince anyone to follow her brainless advice.
“Martha!” a voice sounds out across the crowd behind her, and Martha heaves a sigh of relief before she turns around, a huge smile on her face.
“Over here!” she calls, waving a hand above her head. The crowd parts a little and she sees him striding towards her.
There’s something… different, more confident about the way he holds himself. Like every step he takes is calculated, self-assured. He’s immaculate as ever in a dark suit, red shirt, and long black coat, a grin on his face she hadn’t realized she’d been missing until now.
“Dr. Martha Jones!” he greets her exuberantly, picking her up and twirling her around before pecking her on the cheek. Martha laughs as he sets her back down on the pavement. “It seems you’ve got everything in order,” he says with a nod towards their luggage.
“And not a moment too soon. You’re late,” she scolds with a wag of her finger, deliriously happy and relieved to see him.
“Yes, I know, I know. Sorry. I tried to tell the man to move faster, but you know- like herding cats.”
“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” she orders, helping when Ianto begins to grab their luggage and move towards the terminal they need to be at in… quick check of the watch… ten minutes. “How did you enjoy your time in Venice, Mr. Jones?”
He glances over with a quick lift of his eyebrows.
“Remember that part about you being brilliant?” he asks with a smirk.
“I seem to recall it vaguely, yes,” she says, an ironic tilt to her lips. Ianto’s eyes soften as he gazes into the middle distance for a moment, and then they snap back to her more clear, more focused than she can remember them being for months.
“Well, you are. You’re bloody brilliant.”
The claxon sounds as the door to the Hub rolls sideways, revealing a refreshed and happy looking pair of Torchwood employees. Naturally, Gwen is the first up to greet them, with Mickey trailing slightly behind. Hugs and handshakes are exchanged. Jack takes his time, walking down from his office with his trademark swagger, hands in his pockets. They both look good. Ianto even more so, if he’s honest with himself.
“I want to know everything,” Gwen is in the middle of saying when Jack gets close enough to hear. “The beauty of the Grand Canal... I want every detail… you didn’t happen to take a video camera did you? Pictures, stories-“
“Presents?” Martha cuts her off, pulling a few wrapped boxes from the bag slung on her shoulder.
“Oh, Martha, Ianto, you didn’t have to do that!” Gwen gushes, grabbing her present enthusiastically anyway. Jack makes a mental note to send her and Rhys on a second honeymoon to Venice… when she’s earned it, of course.
“Really,” Mickey says when Martha hands him his own present. “Not having to feed the bloody pterodactyl and clean out the Weevil cells anymore will be enough of a gift for me.” Ianto gives a short laugh.
“Consider it done,” he says. “Sad that you didn’t find tea boy duties quite as glamorous as they’re made out to be.”
“Well, he didn’t have the privilege of taking care of all of your duties,” Jack cuts in flirtatiously from his slightly higher vantage point on the steps next to the water tower. His arms cross automatically in front of his chest as he smirks. “Besides, his coffee isn’t even comparable to yours.”
Ianto fixes him with an intense blue stare; the first time he’s laid eyes on Jack in three weeks. He’s smiling, but there’s something vicious in his eyes, something a little bare, predatory, and Jack can’t help the shiver that runs unbidden up his spine as Ianto moves past the others, approaching him. It’s only natural. Jack’s been deprived for three weeks, after all.
“Really, sir. That is unfortunate,” Ianto stops on the step below him, looking up into Jack’s face. “But then, you already knew no one makes coffee like I do.”
“Part of the reason we keep you around,” Jack jokes, fighting to keep his breath from hitching under that intense gaze. “Good to have you back.”
“Good to be back,” Ianto practically growls, moving up the step so that he’s right in Jack’s personal space. Jack supposes he should have been expecting it when a hand comes up to cup the back of his neck and Ianto’s lips are suddenly crashing down on his. But it's still a nice surprise.
It’s not really a welcome-home kiss, because social nicety this is not, all tongue and teeth and heat, Ianto’s lips ravaging his confidently. Jack gives himself up to it, feeling Ianto’s other hand on his hip, pulling them tightly together. Jack winds his fingers into Ianto’s hair, moves one hand to grip the back of the younger man’s shirt. The kiss only lasts for a few moments, and then Ianto’s pulling back, though he leaves his hands in their positions on Jack's neck and hip. Jack’s eyes are sparking with excitement and hunger, and he looks more than a little disheveled.
With a sigh, the Captain steps back completely, fist coming up to rest against his lips as he clears his throat.
“Wow,” he says, the exact same tone he’d used that very first morning Ianto had lain in wait outside the office to offer him a cup of coffee.
There’s a giggle from behind Ianto, and they both look to see Gwen and Martha with similar pole-axed, shit-eating grins on their faces. Gwen snaps her hands up to cover her mouth- the giggle must have escaped from her. Mickey looks vaguely uncomfortable as he stares anywhere but at the two of them. Ianto coughs and the tips of his ears turn pink, suddenly embarrassed.
“Cute,” Jack states. It earns him a self-conscious eye-roll from Ianto.
“Well, sir, I suppose I should be seeing about that coffee,” he says, walking past Jack a little awkwardly. Jack grins.
What a contradiction in terms you are, Ianto Jones.
He grabs the man’s elbow before he can walk out of reach, the crisp folds of the suit wrinkling under his grasp. Ianto looks over at him questioningly.
“Later,” Jack husks, eyes filled with blue fire. A tentative smile stretches across Ianto’s face.
“Of course, Jack. Wouldn’t miss it.”
Jack’s literally itching by the time Gwen, Mickey, and Martha all finally head home. He’s attempting to focus on paperwork, but the back of his mind is replaying that kiss in a continuous loop. He’s not sure what’s gotten into Ianto, but damned if he doesn’t like it.
“Am I interrupting?” a quiet voice sounds, and Jack looks up to find he’s been so preoccupied with thoughts of the man that he missed the entrance of the real thing.
“Not at all,” he attempts nonchalance, setting his pencil down and leaning back in his chair. Ianto comes over to half-sit on Jack’s desk; Jack suspects it’s one of the young man’s favorite positions. Ianto reaches over and covers one of Jack’s hands with his own, teasing the inside of Jack’s wrist with shiveringly light swipes of his fingertips.
“You’re certainly bold today,” Jack states with a raised eyebrow, looking up into gentle blue eyes. “It’s not like you to jump me in front of everyone.”
“Gwen and Martha seemed to enjoy it,” Ianto diverts, humor lighting his eyes.
“We’ll be hearing nothing but tittering for days,” Jack moans.
“Thought you liked stirring up a fuss?”
“I do. Just wasn’t expecting it from you.” The question is implied in the statement. Jack waits for the answer.
“Ah. I suppose I just missed you is all,” Ianto shrugs, the confession coming out easily. Jack envies him the ease with which he admits things like that.
“You were only gone three weeks,” he points out incredulously. Ianto chuckles.
“I know… it just… seems longer.” Ianto’s eyes go unfocused, his thoughts elsewhere for a moment. Jack stands up and pushes Ianto further back into the desk, placing a hand on each of the young man's hips.
“Well, then let me give you a proper welcome back,” he says with a leer. Ianto snorts, but leans forward to kiss him anyway.
As desperate and violent as the kiss earlier today was, this one is gentle and teasing. Ianto’s playing with him, soft movements of lips, the occasional brush of tongue. Jack’s been strung so tightly all day he’s about to snap, and this treatment maddens him as much as turns him on.
He allows it to last for a brief few moments before he’s taking the lead, conquering Ianto’s mouth with his, pushing him back against the desk, inciting what Ianto will never admit is a whimper. Jack pulls back after long moments, satisfied to see the younger man’s face flushed, lips swollen, gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his fingertips have turned white.
“Really? It’s that easy?” he teases, and suddenly Ianto’s demeanor changes in a snap, a flash of that same viciousness Jack had seen earlier lighting his eyes, and he’s pushing back, grabbing onto Jack by the braces on his shoulders, manhandling him until he’s pinned against the wall.
Ianto spreads Jack’s legs with one of his, pressing his thigh up against Jack’s groin, making him moan into Ianto’s neck. Jack bites down harshly where Ianto's jaw and neck meet, soothing the pain away with soft licks. Ianto makes a sharp exhalation, pulling Jack up by the hair at the nape of his neck to bring their lips together again, knocking Jack’s head up against the doorjamb, grinding him into the wall.
Their hips move frantically together as they devour each other’s mouths, and Jacks’ hands scrabble at Ianto’s back to push the suit jacket off his shoulders. When it hits the floor, Ianto’s ripping off the rest of his clothes, finishing to stand naked in Jack’s office- hair mussed from Jack’s fingers running through it, miles of pale skin and the beginnings of a deep bruise on his jaw line.
Jack can hardly be blamed when he zones out staring at that mark for half a second.
When he’s finished enjoying the view, he realizes that Ianto’s clever hands have divested him of pants and boxers, and he’s being tugged by his shirt back towards the desk.
“Have I ever mentioned I love it when you’re this aggressive?” he quips when Ianto fucking lifts him up, seemingly with no effort at all, to carry him the last few steps to the desk, putting him down so that he’s sitting on the edge.
Ianto doesn’t answer at first, pulling the chair up to sit between Jack’s spread thighs, grabbing his legs and slinging them over his shoulders, smiling sinfully before dragging his tongue in a torturing, slow slide up Jack’s aching erection. Jack shivers and bites down on the inside of his cheek to hold in a helpless groan.
“I’ll make a note of it, sir,” Ianto says cheekily, before placing one broad hand on the small of Jack’s back to pull him closer. Jack’s thighs are raised higher on Ianto’s shoulders, his toes curling against Ianto's back.
Their eyes meet for a breathless moment and then Ianto’s mouth is sliding down his cock, wet tongue drawing patterns as he takes Jack all the way in. Jack throws his head back with a moan, his body a line of exquisite tension as his shoulders and arms strain to keep him propped in a semi-seated position, bent nearly in half.
Ianto’s always been good at this, but he really means it right now, giving Jack no quarter, moving up and down at a brutal pace, obscene moans, slurping and sucking noises breaking the quiet. His mouth is pulling Jack into him, and if Jack hadn’t already been about to come with the tension from the minute Ianto kissed him, he’d be fighting back the impending orgasm tooth and nail.
"God... Ianto!"
As it is, he knows the noises he’s making can’t be described as anything but desperate, and there’s no holding back when he feels a spit-slicked finger (when had Ianto done that?) slide into him roughly, pressing against his prostate, massaging in circles while that wicked tongue rips apart the seams of his reality, flicking repeatedly over the head of his cock, and Jack is coming so hard and so fast and so long he can’t even fucking breathe. He shudders when Ianto doesn't stop sucking him through it until he's spent to the last drop.
Jack hasn't completely come down from it before Ianto is pulling his finger out, dropping Jack’s legs off his shoulders and flipping him around so Jack’s bent over the desk. Ianto’s breathing harshly, feels like he’s about to burst, and he barely has the sense to remember to grab the lube from the top drawer, stretching Jack quickly before he slicks himself up and pushes in.
Jack pushes back with a moan when Ianto bottoms out, not able to get hard again (even Jack’s recovery time isn’t this quick after being so thoroughly fucked) but loving the feeling of Ianto inside him, bumping up against his prostate like he was made to do this. Then Ianto’s moving, pulling, in, out, thrusting and all Jack can do is take it, thighs spread, head bowed. Ianto leans forward and latches his teeth onto Jack’s neck, and Jack realizes he hasn’t even gotten his shirt off yet, the fabric rustling between them as Ianto speeds up.
Ianto tenses, his mind whiting out with the pleasure, and it’s a quick one, two, three before he’s coming hard enough to see stars, Jack panting and spent beneath him, holding onto the far edge of the desk as hard as Ianto’s holding onto Jack’s hips. Ianto rides out the devastating orgasm until he finally collapses, lets Jack and the desk take some of his weight, tries to get his breath back. They rest quietly like that for a few minutes until their heart rates even out.
“God damn,” Jack says, too tired to laugh but feeling the joy of it right to the tips of his toes. “Holy hell, Ianto. I should send you away to Venice more often if this is what happens when you get back.”
Ianto says nothing but lets Jack up, turns him over on the desk and kisses him softly, lips clinging together, reluctantly pulling back after long moments. There’s something like sorrow, something like relief, and something like affection warring for dominance on Ianto’s face.
“Hey,” Jack says, reaching a hand up to cup one of Ianto’s cheeks, stroking gently when Ianto leans into the touch. “You okay?” Ianto’s lips turn up in a smile.
“Never better,” he assures, kissing Jack’s palm before pulling back completely, grabbing tissues to clean them both up. He seems resolved to let the matter drop. Jack silently decides to bring it up in the morning. He’s never seen Ianto… quite like this before. But for now…
“Help me get this shirt off, and then come tuck me into bed,” Jack orders, fighting to keep a grin off his face.
Their legs are so wobbly they barely manage to make it down the hatch to Jack’s room. With a jaw-cracking yawn, Jack crawls under the covers. Ianto stands at the edge of the bed, looking a little cagey and conflicted until Jack snorts and pulls the younger man down on top of him. He adjusts them so that he’s spooning up against Ianto’s back, hand resting lightly on one pale hip. Ianto pulls the covers up over them both, and Jack sighs, nearly asleep.
“Guess you really did miss me,” he whispers, self-satisfied and exhausted.
“Yeah… I really did,” Ianto says quietly, clenching his eyes shut.
It’s the last thing Jack remembers before he tumbles into sleep.
When Jack wakes up, he's alone. A quick glance at the clock reveals it to be just past three a.m. The others won't be in for hours yet, and it's too early for Ianto to leave so that he can go home, shower, and change before the work day begins. Jack's forehead knits into a frown as he tosses the covers aside and gets up. Throwing on a shirt and a pair of pants, he climbs through the hatch and heads for his office.
Ianto must not have gone far because not only are his tie and cufflinks strewn haphazardly across the office floor, his shoes and socks sit in a jumbled heap by the door. A quick inquiry to the Hub's security system reveals one human heat-source resting just outside on the docks, roughly fifteen feet away from the door leading to the tourist office's reception. Jack calls up the CCTV feed.
It's Ianto, alright. Jack finds himself instantly transfixed, the grainy footage revealing his lover's lean form propped casually against the side of the building, one leg crossed in front of the other, dim lights from the wharf clinging lovingly to the long lines of his legs and torso. He's barefoot, suit coat thrown haphazardly over a half-buttoned shirt, face tilted into the wind, one arm wrapped around himself, the other elbow propped against the wall, elegant fingers raising a cigarette to soft lips.
The numerous people who have told Jack over the years that he has bad taste are clearly out of their fucking minds.
He walks briskly up to reception, toeing into shoes and putting on his greatcoat. He pauses before opening the door and stepping outside as quietly as he can. Ianto's faced away from him, and Jack takes a moment to let his eyes run over the picture he makes, the harsh image of the video softened, made that much more aesthetically pleasing and appealing when viewed in person. The dim lighting casts everything in grays and blues, nostalgia captured in a moment- an old silent film in real life. Ianto's expression is whimsical, contemplative as he looks out over the bay, takes a slow drag on the cigarette. He's beautiful.
"You know, my 51st century sensibilities are telling me I really shouldn't find it so hot that you're willingly pumping carcinogens into your body," Jack breaks the quiet, his voice soft and teasing. Ianto doesn't seem surprised to find him standing there.
"It's your oral fixation- trumps health risks every time," Ianto replies with a smile, voice equally hushed. Jack moves to lean against the wall next to him, shoulders brushing companionably. He'll regret giving in to weakness later, but the moment seems so isolated, so out of time that Jack lets his guards down a little.
"Besides," Ianto continues, "it'd be a bit daft for you of all people to complain about health risks. I seem to remember a home video of you shooting yourself in the head repeatedly for entertainment value." Jack chuckles.
"I didn't know you smoked."
"There's a lot you don't know about me, Captain Jack Harkness," Ianto says with a self-mocking eyebrow raise at the cliche statement. "I started smoking when I was 16. Lisa made me quit. I only recently took it back up." There's a flash of sorrow in his eyes, and then he's inhaling the tobacco again, lips wrapping around the filter in a way Jack just knows is deliberately teasing.
They lapse into silence for a while, the only sounds the occasional gust of wind or call of gulls across the water. It's cold, but inexplicably warm at the same time. The kind of moment when all that's needed is to acknowledge one's own existence, content to just be. The kind of moment both men are too frightened, too jaded, or too stubborn to usually allow themselves.
"How are you, Ianto?" Jack asks suddenly. He doesn't know who seems more surprised by the question, himself or Ianto. They're both remembering a scene from months ago when Ianto answers.
"All the better for being back, sir."
Jack doesn't correct him on the 'sir' this time. He doesn't even know what he's trying to accomplish by asking the question. All he knows is that there's something about Ianto that's been niggling in the back of his mind. A feeling of different that he can't quite shake. He knows he's being ridiculous- Ianto hasn't really been acting out of character, just a little off. Just when Jack thought he had the kid all figured out. But then, Ianto has a habit of surprising him.
"How was Venice?" Jack hedges, moving to a safer topic.
"It was...nice. Interesting."
"That's it? That's the best description you've got?" Jack teases. This is the Ianto he knows.
"What do you want me to say? Dazzling? Life-changing? Incredible? Beautiful? Amazing? I know a lot of adjectives. We could be here until the sun comes up."
"And you standing there freezing in no shoes," Jack says with a grin. "But really- No stories of note? You behaved yourself the entire time? No dining and dashing? Harassing the gondolier? Getting kicked out of art museums for being drunk and disorderly? No sordid, short-lived love affairs with handsome Italian men?"
"Last I checked, Jack, you didn't come with us. Those all sound like things you'd be much more likely to get up to," Ianto teases back.
"Aw, c'mon, Ianto. You were in one of the oldest, most beautiful, most romantic cities in the world. Don't tell me you didn't get into any mischief."
"Now, I didn't say that, did I?" Ianto asks with a confident smirk, finishing the last puff of his cigarette and tossing it to the ground with a graceful flick of his wrist. His arms cross and he leans back further into the wall.
"Oh, I will so drag the story out of you one day."
"I invite you to try, sir. I'll look forward to it."
"You sure there's nothing going on between you and Martha?" Jack hazards a guess. Ianto snorts.
"Positively. Martha would be the first to tell you so. And Tom will be the first to say there'd better not be."
"Fine. A stranger, then. Beautiful, rich, well-dressed. Kisses you irreverently on the Bridge of Sighs before whisking you away to Burano and making love to you on a bed of lace."
"Your imagination when it comes to romance never fails to impress," Ianto says sarcastically, eyebrow arched.
"You wound me, Ianto," Jack moans. "I happen to think I'm a master of romance. I got you into my bed, didn't I?"
And suddenly it's there, that expression on Ianto's face from earlier, a cross between sorrow and joy, peace and turmoil, confidence and fear. The subtle feeling that something's not the same as before hits Jack full force again. But Ianto looks away, and when he turns back to Jack, it's like it never happened. Jack begins to doubt it ever did. He tells himself he's being paranoid.
"Speaking of," he continues, moving to pin Ianto to the wall, giving him a heated, smoke-flavored kiss, pulls just far enough away to whisper against the younger man's mouth, "let's go back inside. You're freezing." Ianto smiles, his skin still tingling from the press of Jack's lips against his. He shakes his head slightly.
"I'm Welsh. If there's one thing I'm used to, it's frigidity."
He ends up following Jack back inside anyway. He always does.