dark that follows [ open to youwiththeears ]
Predictably of someone who spares little time for it, Ianto is asleep at this unexpected hour. Not tucked neatly into bed, but at his desk, precariously balanced near the edge of the chair, his head pillowed on folded arms. There's a half-drunk cup of coffee - vain final attempt at fighting fatigue - to his left, a stack of reports to his right, ( Read more... )
He knocks on the half-open door of the office with a self-abasing smile, free hand in the pocket of his jacket, recovered from the Cardiff House. Hidden there, his fingers are wrapped around the hologram Jack left him, so very long ago. "Ianto Jones, yes?"
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The knock on the door stirs Ianto from whatever reverie he's been lost in, and he shifts to the face the doorway, trying to look more composed than he feels. Easier said than done, being that he's missing his jacket, tie, and his sleeves are rolled up ... the end result being that he just looks rumpled, in a way that he rarely ever does (or has, since the year that never was).
He's more than a little surprised to find the lanky Gallifreyan standing there, and he sets the glass of water down, clearing his throat. "Yes. Ears, isn't it?" He's running a two-to-one ratio on bad-to-good interaction with Jack's other lovers, and can't help but wonder how this one's going to go.
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Coming back to himself just a bit, Ianto walks back around his desk and settles back into his chair. He takes the glass of water along, and sets about sorting through his desk drawer for the painkillers he nicked from Owen. "Ah, yes." He didn't know, but he isn't particularly surprised. Jack seems to take an entourage wherever he goes.
It's all right. The four paracetamol will take care of his headache in a moment. "Come in, have a seat. May I help you with something?" Well, it is his office ... the man might be here on business from Jack or the Doctor or ... one of the various Time Lordly sorts rambling about his basement.
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He's looking around the office, perhaps taking teh measure of the man who occupies it. "Sorry for barging in like this... are you busy? I just wanted- Well, I thought we should meet."
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The office is a good thing to appraise as a gauge of the personality of Ianto Jones. The concrete flooring is covered by a plush rug, and the right wall is dominated by two broad bookcases that hold a variety of books, ranging from fiction to non, from ancient history (Boudicca appears to be a favorite) to conspiracy theory (101 Reasons Aliens Must Exist), tapering down to a compact leather sofa and a side table. The wall with the door is made mostly of plate-glass windows, emblazoned with the stylized honeycomb logo of the Institute, though there are tied-back draperies and vertical blinds (currently open) that allow for privacy at other times. The left wall contains the usual trappings of office life: filing cabinets, a safe, a dry-erase board and a corkboard with various things thumb-tacked on ( ... )
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"Actually, Jack talks about you a lot."
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Everyone loves his coffee ... by now, it isn't even an ego thing for Ianto, he simply knows: he makes a damn good brew. He rises again from his chair and finds his earlier pot, checks the time to make certain it hasn't gone stale yet (it's only been an hour; he wasn't asleep very long). It's only drip (no time for anything fancy), but was still freshly-ground before he brewed it and there are few ways to go wrong with a good Colombian bean blended with Hawaiian Kona.
He pours a cup, retrieves the sugar dish and cream pitcher and sets all three at the front of the desk. With a spoon, of course. Then he moves to pour himself another cup, declining to retake his seat now that he's back on his feet, with his guest standing as well. "Really," he responds, raising an eyebrow at the idea of Jack talking about him. "I can only imagine what you've been subjected to."
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"You've been together a while. Two years? Or three if we're counting the..." You know.
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That's an interesting question, actually. Ianto takes his coffee black, and stalls himself with a sip as he leans back against the console. Not only is the matter of his relationship with Jack ... complicated, it also feels a little awkward to be discussing it with one of Jack's other lovers.
"Two," he agrees. "Three, counting the additional year." Does it count? Jack a prisoner on the Valiant, Ianto himself having little to do except ... wait. "It feels like longer." He doesn't mean that quite the way it sounds ... more that he has difficulty remembering what his life was like before Jack.
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For a fleeting moment, Ianto seems to be looking at something terribly far away. Then his attention snaps back to the present and, with a little shake of his head, he sips at his coffee. "If I felt everything the way it did that first moment, then I could only liken it to a whirlwind."
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Ears' eyes never leave Ianto, watching him with a quiet, cool gaze at complete odds with his goofy face and tired slouch. A gaze a thousand years old.
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"As opposed to ..."
Forever. Being unable to imagine his life without Jack in it, what things were like before. With Lisa, or Catrin, his girlfriend in university, or the first girl he'd written awful poetry for. Every one, he'd been so certain they were the one, and yet none had ever come close to ... this.
"... two or three years," Ianto finishes, a little flustered. "I'm sorry. What were you here for, again?"
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"For Jack, actually. He's still hurting." He states the obvious baldly, never dropping his gaze. "Some of that's your fault."
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Ianto sets the coffee mug down abruptly on the edge of the desk (perhaps so as not to drop it; a set of organized tab-folders just hide the fact that a bit sloshes up on his hand, and he leaves it resting out of sight, burning).
"I know," he replies. An honest response, but it's still strange, the way his expression becomes veiled, as if there's a visor that's been snapped down.
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