Torchwood Fic: The Loudest Voice (Jack/Ianto)
Title: The Loudest Voice
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Ianto/Jack
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Until Torchwood 1x10, Out Of Time
Summary: There are times when silence has the loudest voice.
Disclaimer: they're entirely and completely RTD's, and the Beeb's. Although I wouldn't mind getting custody of them, say, every other weekend?
Author's Notes: You'll need to have seen Out Of Time and read the following IM transcript. I... couldn't leave them there after tonight's episode. Unbeta'ed, so any mistakes are my own.
Edit: So it appears that I've been lied to (by the internet, how dare it!) and that Ianto is in fact a bit taller than Jack. The fic has been tweaked accordingly. Thanks to everybody who let me know!
The loudest voice
He's not sure if Jack cuts the offsite communication off, or he does. But then he blinks and he's been staring at the computer screen for five minutes and a dozen seconds, approximately, a look at the time informs him, and he blinks again. There's a vague lurch to his stomach. It reminds him of times long gone when death didn't use to be what he covered up for a living. Day in, day out, and now on the driver seat of his car.
He's wondering whether he wants to order a new one in a different colour, or the exact same one, or another one altogether. He knows all he needs to do to get blood stains out, he's the best valet service around town as far as gory murders go, but he's not sure what to do about a clean suicide.
He wonders if that isn't an oxymoron.
Jack must be back by now, he knows, another glance at the time and it's been three hours and fourteen minutes. How time flies by. You might want to - and there was that pause, that silence that seemed too heavy for Jack - get the car valet serviced. No need for Ianto's clean-up services, let the regular police handle it, Jack would flash them his badge and they wouldn't ask any more questions about what Ianto had to do with John.
John's dead.
Exhaust fumes.
I'm sorry.
I'm really sorry about your car.
He shouldn't care.
I was too late for him.
Ianto pushes up to his feet. His legs feel surprisingly wobbly. He sees Lisa's face in his mind, the way she used to be, before the Cybermen, when she was human, alive, laughing. Real, and herself. He leans a hand on the doorframe as he steps through it, the beads of the curtain trapped between flesh and wood for a heartbeat, then lets his steps lead him to the heart of Torchwood.
There is no light in Jack's office. His feet lead him there all the same, and he leans his forehead against the glass pane, eyes closed, hands in his pockets.
"Merry bloody Christmas," he whispers, breath wafting steam onto the glass.
Slides his hands out of his pockets, spreads fingertips on the glass, pushes away slowly to relearn how to stand without the support. Opens his eyes, freezes when he sees Jack halfway out of the manhole in his office, stares back at the blue eyes that blink and glance away as the man finishes to pull himself up.
The urge to turn on his heel and walk away is strong, but he opens the door instead, stands on the threshold, and watches Jack without a word. He wants to ask if he's alright, what's happened, and - he feels vaguely disgusted with himself about this one - what about his car. Instead he stands there and lets Jack come to stand a few inches away from him, manages to hold the icy gaze. Oh, how warm that blue can spark, but not today.
It is early Christmas morning, and Jack's eyes look dead.
"What -" is all Ianto has time to say before a barely perceptible shake of Jack's head shushes him.
"Don't you have anywhere to be." There's no life in Jack's voice to intone the sentence like a proper question, but he does raise his eyebrows in his usual manner.
The words cut deep inside Ianto. He doesn't have anybody anymore, does he, Jack, and memories of things that were and wishes that were never fulfilled rise to choke his throat. It's hard to swallow, as if the cut has been made to his throat and the wound was now sensitive and liable to reopen at the slightest pressure. They're always so happy to find him at the ready at all times, he thinks bitterly, and finds that he holds no less resentment than he used to, perhaps even more.
"Don't you," he points out in return, voice more controlled than he feels, sounding almost his natural self.
"Get yourself somewhere to be, Ianto," Jack says, and turns away to go drop in his chair, lines of tension and worry and age on his handsome face. "Get yourself a life."
Instead of complying Ianto walks into the office, letting the door shut behind him, and shrugs out of his jacket.
"I'm not in the mood," Jack says with a frown, watching Ianto fold the jacket carefully, deposit it on the edge of his desk.
"Shut up," Ianto snaps, and finds that he means it. He supposes he must look as angry as he feels, because Jack's face shows surprise, and that's an improvement on the lifelessness, he thinks, except anger is still coursing through his veins and he finds that he, yes, he can't shut up, and the waistcoat joins the jacket, and he loosens his tie. "Shut up, Jack, for once, for the love of all that is not yet corrupt in this world, please shut up if you're not going to say anything." Because that's all Jack ever does, isn't it, say pretty words, snarky one-liners and cryptic almost-riddles, and Ianto's heard enough, tie gone and shirt unbuttoned halfway down. "Just shut up."
Jack blinks at him, and seems shocked into silence, and Ianto shouldn't be feeling such wonderful smugness over it. It feels out of place, and wrong, but sweet, and good, and he wants to feel that more, except he wants to feel Jack's naked skin more than that right now. He tears off his shirt, lets it drop to the floor and strides around Jack's desk. The man turns his chair to be facing Ianto, who drops to his knees between his legs and pulls him down into a kiss Jack doesn't resist.
Jack's always in the mood, tongues sliding together, stroking, dancing, fighting, the smell of exhaust fumes something that's ignored and possibly all in Ianto's mind, his fingers threading through Jack's short hair, gripping, clenching, tugging, and there are teeth, too, and silence all around them, but for the ticking of a clock on the wall. Counting down 'til the end of this, and Ianto doesn't know when it will stop, only knows with fire strong certainty that he will not be satisfied until he has made Jack cry out and writhe and moan in pleasure, until the smell of the exhaust fumes is gone.
So many, many clothes, but Ianto knows his way around them so well. It's never been quite the same as undressing himself, undressing another man, but he's learned to undress Jack. Jacket, waistcoat, braces, shirt, undershirt, and why must Jack wear so many layers, what is he afraid people might see if he didn't, a thought dismissed as soon as it is born by the sharp exhale of Jack's breath at the teeth Ianto clamps down on his naked shoulder, trapezoid muscle and the fumes taste metallic under his tongue. He knows it'll mark but it's a place normally hidden under Jack's clothes and he likes to think that he has left his mark, no matter what, for a few days in Jack's flesh.
"Ianto," Jack murmurs breathlessly against his ear, and there's that thrill shooting up Ianto's spine, as always with the first true touch of Jack's hands, pressing him close as if the skin between them was too much.
"Jack," Ianto replies, but his tone sounds quite self-assured, and he's pushing back up to his feet, steady now, hands on Jack's waistband pulling him up after him. "Shut up," he mutters between one kiss and the other, and they stumble together.
It's not easy to keep the lead when Jack is being Jack, and forceful, and overwhelming, except this Jack does fall silent and it helps, hands tugging at belts, shoes kicked off, trousers and underwear stepped out of and this Jack lets Ianto push him against the wall with a low moan, and pushes back against him, all strong muscles and wide lines. Jack is so much, and Ianto just rubs himself against him for a few ticks of that clock, a few ticks of that clock and a few shorter breaths.
"First drawer," Jack says, as if he needed to. Ianto knows.
Lube squeezed out on his hand and Ianto's fingers are pushing inside Jack, one and then immediately a second, Jack's arms spread wide on the wall, fingers splayed and palms flat, muscles underlined by each undulation of Jack's body under Ianto's touch.
"Make me feel alive again," Jack murmurs, and Ianto realises he doesn't need to tell him to shut up again, because this time Jack is saying something, a truth or a request, doesn't matter what, it's something, and he pulls his fingers out of him, leans his forehead against Jack's nape as he lubes himself up, twitching from his own touch and how much he wants, needs, needs this ought to frighten him but Jack. Jack. Jack.
No need for a condom, Ianto trusted Jack when he told him that the first time, ignored his subsequent quip about male pregnancy, feeling quite safe from that, and they've never used one, never known the awkwardness of rubber between them. Ianto pushes in and it's only him and Jack, so hot and tight around him and he remembers to breathe with a gasp when Jack clenches tighter around him, words tumbling off those ever restless lips of his and he's back to not saying anything. "Shut up," growled against his ear and Jack does, Ianto almost hears him swallow it all back down.
They've had slow shags, they've had playful shags, they've had rough shags, but this is their first raw shag.
It's raw in its silence, the ticking clock mixing with their ragged breaths, but the quiet of the empty office creeps in on them with each thrust. It's raw in the snap of Ianto's hips, not a build-up but sharp and strong from the get-go and each one feeds the brutality of the next with how brilliant it feels. It's raw in the way that when Ianto stretches his arms out alongside Jack's he can't quite reach his hands as he meant to, can't cover his fingers with his, and curls them around his wrists instead, gripping tight, and it speaks of every way Ianto can't quite be it, whatever 'it' is.
It's raw in many more ways beside, not the least of which are the cries Ianto finds himself shoving out of Jack with each thrust after he shifts angle, and Jack twists one of his wrists free of Ianto's grasp to slide his powerful arm over his, brings it down and wraps Ianto's hand around his cock, fingers threaded together and that, too, is raw, the way they jerk him off in time with the sharp bucks of Ianto's hips. So are the orgasms that quickly overpower them, Ianto's forehead leaning against the bite mark he left earlier as he groans low against Jack's skin, counterpoint to the man's loud cry, his hand and Jack's clenching convulsively around his cock as it spills, too, onto the wall and Ianto's cleaned too many semen stains in Jack's office to give a toss, manner of speaking.
The way they breathe in the silence after the tumult is perhaps even rawer. Ianto's not sure which way is up, or less figuratively, not sure when his legs are going to give out, but he knows it's going to be soon. He's considering moving, for the sake of dropping somewhere before toppling down to the floor robs him of any dignity, when Jack's arm reaches back and wraps around his waist, holding him there, close, inside of him.
"Jack," he murmurs, breathless.
"Ianto," Jack replies, and he sounds much more confident.
The silence after that is less raw. It is, perhaps, full of maybes. Jack's only support by now is his brow against the wall, and he brings their linked hands up to his mouth to lick at what sperm he can find there, and little by little the arm he has around Ianto's waist loosens its hold.
"Shower," Ianto suggests after a longer while.
"Mmm," is Jack's only answer at first, but then he lets his arm slip from around Ianto's waist altogether, and so Ianto withdraws, stomach muscles jumping with the gasp of the sudden loss.
Jack turns around, back against the wall now, and pulls Ianto into a kiss, intimate and warm, his arms wrapping around Ianto's shoulders and bringing him close, sweat slick skin sliding and Ianto sags against him and into the kiss. He isn't sure which of the kiss, or Jack, says thank you, but it doesn't matter, the thanks are still there, and for now he can take them, meet them with his tongue and lips, if not with his own.
"Mmm," Jack says again. "I'll still feel you by tomorrow."
"Jack," Ianto cuts in with a frown, because he's doing it again, saying nothing with words.
Jack blinks, looking almost slapped by the scold, and brushes knuckles down the side of Ianto's face. "I'm sorry about your car."
Ianto can't help but chuckle mirthlessly at that. "Yeah." He wants to ask, again, but doesn't, simply forces himself to pull away from Jack's warm body and tug on his hand. "Shower," he repeats, and this time Jack follows.
He stands in the shower and lets the spray fall down on him, merciful rain that streaks warm trails of wet over him. He tilts his head back, lets his hair be washed back from his forehead. It's a few more seconds before he realises that Jack hasn't joined him, and he looks back over at him with raised eyebrows to find him staring thoughtfully.
"I never questioned…" Jack starts, tone a little awed, or hesitant, or something utterly unlike Jack, but then seems to think better of it and joins Ianto in the shower, remains silent for a while longer. When he opens his mouth again, Ianto knows better than to wonder if what he's about to tell him is what he originally meant to say. Wondering gets you nowhere with Jack. "It's Christmas."
Ianto allows himself a small, wry smile as he grabs the soap and lathers his hands up. "You noticed."
"I'll buy you a new car," Jack assures him, quite seriously.
This time an actual chuckle breaks past Ianto's lips, but it doesn't sound quite right, even as he tries to infuse his words with it. "Will you shut up about the bloody car." He turns to Jack and steps into his space, slides his soapy hands over his ass. Somebody needs to be cleaned, and that's what Ianto is best at, isn't it.
He's surprised when Jack simply wraps his arms around him and holds on while he does just that, even more so when Jack leans his temple against Ianto's and remains utterly silent.
"Sometimes I wish you told me about you," Ianto can't help but say, as he pulls back enough to get a good look at Jack's face, and all the mysteries hidden behind the clear eyes. "Most times I'm thankful you don't."
Jack smiles. "Then most times you're a wise man, Ianto Jones."
They rinse off, and dry off, and curl up on what Jack insists on calling a bed, still naked, and it's early Christmas morning and neither of them feels much like it. Ianto's spooning Jack, and he noses at the edge of the bite mark. Under the strong scent of soap, he can still detect traces of exhaust.
So he licks at the bite, and feels Jack shift against him, and wonders if he can get used to the exhaust.
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Ianto/Jack
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Until Torchwood 1x10, Out Of Time
Summary: There are times when silence has the loudest voice.
Disclaimer: they're entirely and completely RTD's, and the Beeb's. Although I wouldn't mind getting custody of them, say, every other weekend?
Author's Notes: You'll need to have seen Out Of Time and read the following IM transcript. I... couldn't leave them there after tonight's episode. Unbeta'ed, so any mistakes are my own.
Edit: So it appears that I've been lied to (by the internet, how dare it!) and that Ianto is in fact a bit taller than Jack. The fic has been tweaked accordingly. Thanks to everybody who let me know!
The loudest voice
He's not sure if Jack cuts the offsite communication off, or he does. But then he blinks and he's been staring at the computer screen for five minutes and a dozen seconds, approximately, a look at the time informs him, and he blinks again. There's a vague lurch to his stomach. It reminds him of times long gone when death didn't use to be what he covered up for a living. Day in, day out, and now on the driver seat of his car.
He's wondering whether he wants to order a new one in a different colour, or the exact same one, or another one altogether. He knows all he needs to do to get blood stains out, he's the best valet service around town as far as gory murders go, but he's not sure what to do about a clean suicide.
He wonders if that isn't an oxymoron.
Jack must be back by now, he knows, another glance at the time and it's been three hours and fourteen minutes. How time flies by. You might want to - and there was that pause, that silence that seemed too heavy for Jack - get the car valet serviced. No need for Ianto's clean-up services, let the regular police handle it, Jack would flash them his badge and they wouldn't ask any more questions about what Ianto had to do with John.
John's dead.
Exhaust fumes.
I'm sorry.
I'm really sorry about your car.
He shouldn't care.
I was too late for him.
Ianto pushes up to his feet. His legs feel surprisingly wobbly. He sees Lisa's face in his mind, the way she used to be, before the Cybermen, when she was human, alive, laughing. Real, and herself. He leans a hand on the doorframe as he steps through it, the beads of the curtain trapped between flesh and wood for a heartbeat, then lets his steps lead him to the heart of Torchwood.
There is no light in Jack's office. His feet lead him there all the same, and he leans his forehead against the glass pane, eyes closed, hands in his pockets.
"Merry bloody Christmas," he whispers, breath wafting steam onto the glass.
Slides his hands out of his pockets, spreads fingertips on the glass, pushes away slowly to relearn how to stand without the support. Opens his eyes, freezes when he sees Jack halfway out of the manhole in his office, stares back at the blue eyes that blink and glance away as the man finishes to pull himself up.
The urge to turn on his heel and walk away is strong, but he opens the door instead, stands on the threshold, and watches Jack without a word. He wants to ask if he's alright, what's happened, and - he feels vaguely disgusted with himself about this one - what about his car. Instead he stands there and lets Jack come to stand a few inches away from him, manages to hold the icy gaze. Oh, how warm that blue can spark, but not today.
It is early Christmas morning, and Jack's eyes look dead.
"What -" is all Ianto has time to say before a barely perceptible shake of Jack's head shushes him.
"Don't you have anywhere to be." There's no life in Jack's voice to intone the sentence like a proper question, but he does raise his eyebrows in his usual manner.
The words cut deep inside Ianto. He doesn't have anybody anymore, does he, Jack, and memories of things that were and wishes that were never fulfilled rise to choke his throat. It's hard to swallow, as if the cut has been made to his throat and the wound was now sensitive and liable to reopen at the slightest pressure. They're always so happy to find him at the ready at all times, he thinks bitterly, and finds that he holds no less resentment than he used to, perhaps even more.
"Don't you," he points out in return, voice more controlled than he feels, sounding almost his natural self.
"Get yourself somewhere to be, Ianto," Jack says, and turns away to go drop in his chair, lines of tension and worry and age on his handsome face. "Get yourself a life."
Instead of complying Ianto walks into the office, letting the door shut behind him, and shrugs out of his jacket.
"I'm not in the mood," Jack says with a frown, watching Ianto fold the jacket carefully, deposit it on the edge of his desk.
"Shut up," Ianto snaps, and finds that he means it. He supposes he must look as angry as he feels, because Jack's face shows surprise, and that's an improvement on the lifelessness, he thinks, except anger is still coursing through his veins and he finds that he, yes, he can't shut up, and the waistcoat joins the jacket, and he loosens his tie. "Shut up, Jack, for once, for the love of all that is not yet corrupt in this world, please shut up if you're not going to say anything." Because that's all Jack ever does, isn't it, say pretty words, snarky one-liners and cryptic almost-riddles, and Ianto's heard enough, tie gone and shirt unbuttoned halfway down. "Just shut up."
Jack blinks at him, and seems shocked into silence, and Ianto shouldn't be feeling such wonderful smugness over it. It feels out of place, and wrong, but sweet, and good, and he wants to feel that more, except he wants to feel Jack's naked skin more than that right now. He tears off his shirt, lets it drop to the floor and strides around Jack's desk. The man turns his chair to be facing Ianto, who drops to his knees between his legs and pulls him down into a kiss Jack doesn't resist.
Jack's always in the mood, tongues sliding together, stroking, dancing, fighting, the smell of exhaust fumes something that's ignored and possibly all in Ianto's mind, his fingers threading through Jack's short hair, gripping, clenching, tugging, and there are teeth, too, and silence all around them, but for the ticking of a clock on the wall. Counting down 'til the end of this, and Ianto doesn't know when it will stop, only knows with fire strong certainty that he will not be satisfied until he has made Jack cry out and writhe and moan in pleasure, until the smell of the exhaust fumes is gone.
So many, many clothes, but Ianto knows his way around them so well. It's never been quite the same as undressing himself, undressing another man, but he's learned to undress Jack. Jacket, waistcoat, braces, shirt, undershirt, and why must Jack wear so many layers, what is he afraid people might see if he didn't, a thought dismissed as soon as it is born by the sharp exhale of Jack's breath at the teeth Ianto clamps down on his naked shoulder, trapezoid muscle and the fumes taste metallic under his tongue. He knows it'll mark but it's a place normally hidden under Jack's clothes and he likes to think that he has left his mark, no matter what, for a few days in Jack's flesh.
"Ianto," Jack murmurs breathlessly against his ear, and there's that thrill shooting up Ianto's spine, as always with the first true touch of Jack's hands, pressing him close as if the skin between them was too much.
"Jack," Ianto replies, but his tone sounds quite self-assured, and he's pushing back up to his feet, steady now, hands on Jack's waistband pulling him up after him. "Shut up," he mutters between one kiss and the other, and they stumble together.
It's not easy to keep the lead when Jack is being Jack, and forceful, and overwhelming, except this Jack does fall silent and it helps, hands tugging at belts, shoes kicked off, trousers and underwear stepped out of and this Jack lets Ianto push him against the wall with a low moan, and pushes back against him, all strong muscles and wide lines. Jack is so much, and Ianto just rubs himself against him for a few ticks of that clock, a few ticks of that clock and a few shorter breaths.
"First drawer," Jack says, as if he needed to. Ianto knows.
Lube squeezed out on his hand and Ianto's fingers are pushing inside Jack, one and then immediately a second, Jack's arms spread wide on the wall, fingers splayed and palms flat, muscles underlined by each undulation of Jack's body under Ianto's touch.
"Make me feel alive again," Jack murmurs, and Ianto realises he doesn't need to tell him to shut up again, because this time Jack is saying something, a truth or a request, doesn't matter what, it's something, and he pulls his fingers out of him, leans his forehead against Jack's nape as he lubes himself up, twitching from his own touch and how much he wants, needs, needs this ought to frighten him but Jack. Jack. Jack.
No need for a condom, Ianto trusted Jack when he told him that the first time, ignored his subsequent quip about male pregnancy, feeling quite safe from that, and they've never used one, never known the awkwardness of rubber between them. Ianto pushes in and it's only him and Jack, so hot and tight around him and he remembers to breathe with a gasp when Jack clenches tighter around him, words tumbling off those ever restless lips of his and he's back to not saying anything. "Shut up," growled against his ear and Jack does, Ianto almost hears him swallow it all back down.
They've had slow shags, they've had playful shags, they've had rough shags, but this is their first raw shag.
It's raw in its silence, the ticking clock mixing with their ragged breaths, but the quiet of the empty office creeps in on them with each thrust. It's raw in the snap of Ianto's hips, not a build-up but sharp and strong from the get-go and each one feeds the brutality of the next with how brilliant it feels. It's raw in the way that when Ianto stretches his arms out alongside Jack's he can't quite reach his hands as he meant to, can't cover his fingers with his, and curls them around his wrists instead, gripping tight, and it speaks of every way Ianto can't quite be it, whatever 'it' is.
It's raw in many more ways beside, not the least of which are the cries Ianto finds himself shoving out of Jack with each thrust after he shifts angle, and Jack twists one of his wrists free of Ianto's grasp to slide his powerful arm over his, brings it down and wraps Ianto's hand around his cock, fingers threaded together and that, too, is raw, the way they jerk him off in time with the sharp bucks of Ianto's hips. So are the orgasms that quickly overpower them, Ianto's forehead leaning against the bite mark he left earlier as he groans low against Jack's skin, counterpoint to the man's loud cry, his hand and Jack's clenching convulsively around his cock as it spills, too, onto the wall and Ianto's cleaned too many semen stains in Jack's office to give a toss, manner of speaking.
The way they breathe in the silence after the tumult is perhaps even rawer. Ianto's not sure which way is up, or less figuratively, not sure when his legs are going to give out, but he knows it's going to be soon. He's considering moving, for the sake of dropping somewhere before toppling down to the floor robs him of any dignity, when Jack's arm reaches back and wraps around his waist, holding him there, close, inside of him.
"Jack," he murmurs, breathless.
"Ianto," Jack replies, and he sounds much more confident.
The silence after that is less raw. It is, perhaps, full of maybes. Jack's only support by now is his brow against the wall, and he brings their linked hands up to his mouth to lick at what sperm he can find there, and little by little the arm he has around Ianto's waist loosens its hold.
"Shower," Ianto suggests after a longer while.
"Mmm," is Jack's only answer at first, but then he lets his arm slip from around Ianto's waist altogether, and so Ianto withdraws, stomach muscles jumping with the gasp of the sudden loss.
Jack turns around, back against the wall now, and pulls Ianto into a kiss, intimate and warm, his arms wrapping around Ianto's shoulders and bringing him close, sweat slick skin sliding and Ianto sags against him and into the kiss. He isn't sure which of the kiss, or Jack, says thank you, but it doesn't matter, the thanks are still there, and for now he can take them, meet them with his tongue and lips, if not with his own.
"Mmm," Jack says again. "I'll still feel you by tomorrow."
"Jack," Ianto cuts in with a frown, because he's doing it again, saying nothing with words.
Jack blinks, looking almost slapped by the scold, and brushes knuckles down the side of Ianto's face. "I'm sorry about your car."
Ianto can't help but chuckle mirthlessly at that. "Yeah." He wants to ask, again, but doesn't, simply forces himself to pull away from Jack's warm body and tug on his hand. "Shower," he repeats, and this time Jack follows.
He stands in the shower and lets the spray fall down on him, merciful rain that streaks warm trails of wet over him. He tilts his head back, lets his hair be washed back from his forehead. It's a few more seconds before he realises that Jack hasn't joined him, and he looks back over at him with raised eyebrows to find him staring thoughtfully.
"I never questioned…" Jack starts, tone a little awed, or hesitant, or something utterly unlike Jack, but then seems to think better of it and joins Ianto in the shower, remains silent for a while longer. When he opens his mouth again, Ianto knows better than to wonder if what he's about to tell him is what he originally meant to say. Wondering gets you nowhere with Jack. "It's Christmas."
Ianto allows himself a small, wry smile as he grabs the soap and lathers his hands up. "You noticed."
"I'll buy you a new car," Jack assures him, quite seriously.
This time an actual chuckle breaks past Ianto's lips, but it doesn't sound quite right, even as he tries to infuse his words with it. "Will you shut up about the bloody car." He turns to Jack and steps into his space, slides his soapy hands over his ass. Somebody needs to be cleaned, and that's what Ianto is best at, isn't it.
He's surprised when Jack simply wraps his arms around him and holds on while he does just that, even more so when Jack leans his temple against Ianto's and remains utterly silent.
"Sometimes I wish you told me about you," Ianto can't help but say, as he pulls back enough to get a good look at Jack's face, and all the mysteries hidden behind the clear eyes. "Most times I'm thankful you don't."
Jack smiles. "Then most times you're a wise man, Ianto Jones."
They rinse off, and dry off, and curl up on what Jack insists on calling a bed, still naked, and it's early Christmas morning and neither of them feels much like it. Ianto's spooning Jack, and he noses at the edge of the bite mark. Under the strong scent of soap, he can still detect traces of exhaust.
So he licks at the bite, and feels Jack shift against him, and wonders if he can get used to the exhaust.