[[Locked to
no_daylight]]Shortly after a rather disastrous conversation with J, and a somewhat less disastrous exchange on the journals with Winter, a freshly showered and shaven Ianto is at a Chicago hotel, looking for a certain Glaysa-Labolas demon
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"Ianto," he greets him, reaching out to clasp Ianto's hand. And there it is: the slight nudge, close and comfortable as a nudge against the shoulders, informing the swell of pain in Ianto that it's not needed here any more and it can show itself to the door. "I'm sorry I'm the only one here to greet you. Anna is wintering in Greece."
A gentle smile engages in a brief flirtation with his expression.
"She calls it a holiday. To me it seems like a production. Come on; we can let you hang up your coat."
He gives the slightest pull toward the elevators before letting Ianto's hand slip away, perfectly casual again at least in the eyes of the general public.
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Maybe because he knows Winter's quite close to luring him away, and given Torchwood's history with the Organization, given a terrified boy afraid of being used as a weapon, if he left, it would likely have to be for good.
He's not sure he can handle that, but as his conversation with J made quite clear, he's not sure he can stay, either.
But now he's here, and this is truth in cliché -- he's somewhat surprised to discover that he really does feel as if a great weight's been lifted off his shoulders. He neatly sets that observation in the part of his mind labeled 'things too inane to say aloud', and focuses instead on the suggestion of a smile, the quiet warmth that ( ... )
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Still, he forces down the bile that's threatening to rise into his throat, and even leans into the caress a little. It's such a simple thing, touch. So easy to overlook, to the point where you might not even notice that you're starving for it until something brings it to your attention. As it is, that brief contact is more than enough to take Ianto's mind off nearly having been eaten. He closes his eyes for a moment and just feels, a faint smile hovering at the corners of his lips.
This is right, being here with Winter, being touched in a way that doesn't bring Jack to mind. This is different and perfect and his. There's no one to gossip about it, no Owen to make snide remarks. Just them ( ... )
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He slips into the rhythm of moving around Ianto with what seems to be innate ease, not yet implying that he's doing anything which could be termed servicing him, but... quietly being of service with no indication that it's anything other than natural. There's no gesture toward subservience, only consideration. A brief brush of hand-to-hand contact and he's neatly relieved Ianto of the thermos before he needs to set it down, he's locked the door, and he lays out a hand in a direction which could indicate the overstuffed leather sofa or the bedroom.
"Shall we?"
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"If you do that, I'll just counter with From Russia, With Love," he points out. No, not Goldfinger. That's too obvious, and the one everyone suggests when talking about Connery's Bond.
As for the very quiet, very efficient way Winter moves around him -- Ianto sees that subtext, and it is quite appreciated. However, there are only so many times he can say 'thank you' in the span of a few minutes before it becomes ridiculous ( ... )
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And with a soft smile and a squeeze of Winter's hand, he makes his way to the sofa. The warmth registers, even if he's not in quite the right state to process it. It gets filed away for later reference, and Ianto sits, folding his legs underneath him (but not with his hooves on the sofa -- God forbid).
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"You, I think are a lot stronger than you believe yourself to be," he says, after a moment's thought. It's accompanied by the subtle raise of an eyebrow, lest Ianto think this conversation is due to dance unbearably into sensitive territory all at once. "Even if that strength does sometimes manifest as avoiding me over the journals for months on end."
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The retort never makes it out. Instead, what he says is, "...I wouldn't call that a sign of strength. But the sentiment's appreciated, I suppose. And I am sorry."
There's a long pause. "I feel as though I should grovel, though my grovelling experience is..." he starts to say nonexistent, then remembers his attempts to get Jack to hire him, "...limited."
The raised eyebrow that accompanies that statement might imply that he's not quite serious. Of course, this being Ianto, it instead gives off the sort of deliberate ambiguity meant to cover the fact that he is and isn't, at the same time.
Not that he really expects Winter to be fooled, but certain habits die hard.
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What, precisely, he's referring to... that's left up to implication.
He lets his arm fall across the back of the chair, fingers brushing Ianto's temple, caressing back into the hair.
"I wouldn't want you to grovel." The fingers move down, tracing behind the ear, a warm line even against warm skin. "...it doesn't quite run to my tastes," he adds harmonizing the same nods, the same notes that they're being liminally serious - joking because sincerity is a bit too dense and heavy, being sincere because flippancy isn't enough for them, not here.
Down to the joint of the jaw, the cleanshaven jawline.
"Anna, on the other hand..."
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( J's hands on his shoulders, he remembers, and it shouldn't have hurt as much as it did when he let go.)
"I'll be sure to practise for her, then," Ianto murmurs. "I'd hate for her to think I was doing a poor job of it."
He turns his head and brushes a kiss across Winter's hand, the faintest pressure of lips against skin, and then he's closing his eyes against a swell of emotion in his chest that he can't quite identify; perhaps it's an overwhelming need to let go of something, or to reach for something else, or both, only for one dizzy and overwhelming moment, he's unsure what he's supposed to reach for, and what he wants to let go of. He doesn't bother trying to throttle it down for once, just stays as he is, eyes closed, waiting for it to subside enough for him to speak again.
"I have missed you both," he says, and it seems hopelessly ( ... )
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"We're here for you no matter what," he says. "As long as we can be." Winter won't promise forever, because he knows too well that politics in Chicago change the rules with alarming frequency. Even Leona is only willing to take on so much risk for two of her kids and a single point of contact, and he can't fault her for that. They're all part of something so much larger. "But if you're asking for reassurance..."
That, he can do.
His hand shifts, the palm sliding over ad behind Ianto's ear to cradle the back of his neck, fingers tracing lines against tension.
"I have faith in Ms. Sandric," he says. It's more than trust, that - I have faith. "She's protected us from terrible things. She's guided us through. I've never met a rakshasa with more a sense of family ( ... )
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"I'm sorry," he says. "I just... One learns not to trust easily, in my line of work." He feels, again, vaguely ashamed for having doubted Winter at all.
And that's what decides him.
"I won't keep avoiding the two of you," he says. "I really don't think I can. Just give me a few days to get everything sorted, and I'll... I can't promise anything more than seeing you more often, but I'll find a way to do that, at least."
Even if he has to leave Torchwood to do it.
It's at this point that he notices that his tail's wagging -- has been wagging, in fact, for as long as Winter's been touching him -- and is making just the faintest of sounds as it brushes against the back of the sofa.
Really, though, in comparison to the rest of this conversation, it's only mildly mortifying.
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"I understand," he says - there is, at least, some commonality in their lines of work. "And that's all that I'd ask."
He leans in to kiss Ianto's forehead, brushing back the hair again, neither touching nor making specific effort to avoid the small horns. When his pulls back his head is still near the crook of Ianto's neck, making them a comfortable shared presence.
"Now let's get away from business, shall we?" he says. "Did you want to talk?"
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