[RP] Little angels hang above my head and read me like an open book...
[[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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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 Winter seems to radiate.
"It's good to see you again," he says. The tone is neutral, the smile professional; the warmth is entirely in his eyes, but it's there in abundance.
"Given what little I've heard about her family, I wouldn't be surprised if it was a bit of both," he observes. "Shame I missed her."
The subtle pull toward the elevators is answered with the slightest inclination of his head, and he turns in the direction indicated, falling neatly into step with Winter.
Discretion is something he's always been good at, at least.
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The line is delivered with no more archness than an observation on the weather. Winter's humour, like a martini, is often best served dry.
He steps into the elevator, pressing the button for the top floor. It starts up, the clock-hand of its floor indicator steadily moving from left to right.
Somewhere around the fourth floor, Winter takes advantage of the privacy to reach up and deliver a caress of warm knuckles against Ianto's cleanshaven jawline.
They arrive at the top floor and Winter steps out, producing a keycard from apparently nowhere and opening a door, holding it open for his guest. "I hope this is all right," he says.
It really should be.
There are a few perks to developing a good relationship with Ms. Sandric. One is occasional access to her discretionary account. The room he's acquired for them is a suite, complete with livingroom, bedroom, and very nice bath. The television in the living area is on, quite low, somewhere near the beginning of Casablanca - not loud enough to be distracting, but loud enough to eliminate any semblance of uncomfortable silence.
"Let me take your coat," he says, once they're in the door.
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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.
Once they arrive in the room, Ianto produces the thermos of coffee and sets it aside, taking in the room with evident pleasure. He's come a long way from the scruffy kid with the bleached hair who would've stared, wide-eyed at a place like this... and, more than likely, would've also started filling his pockets with anything he could carry off. Even if this isn't his native habitat, he's been pretending it is for long enough that there's only the faintest of emotional reactions to show that Ianto is, on some level, impressed.
"More than all right," he says, and his smile only grows when he notices what's playing.
"And again, I'm reminded that you've got impeccable taste in films," he says. "It's almost enough to make me forgive you your taste in Bond actors."
Odds are good Ianto's teasing, but he might just rival Winter when it comes to deadpan delivery.
There's a slight, almost unnoticeable awkward moment at the offer to take his coat -- Ianto's far more used to dealing with other people's coats, and one in particular -- but he only smiles and murmurs his thanks.
"And again, thanks for... being here, I suppose." There's a brief echo of the earlier pain, for all the little things J did, for the moment he walked away, despite the plea Ianto hadn't been able to keep out of his voice, but that's shoved aside. This is a different place, and a different man, and maybe this time, things will be better.
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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.
Instead, he just smiles when Winter gestures toward the sofa-or-bedroom -- and he's quite aware of the deliberate ambiguity of that gesture -- and leans in to kiss him. It's a gentle kiss, the sort of kiss that says, I'm pleased beyond words to see you, and have I mentioned you're marvellous? rather than Bedroom now, please.
The bedroom is a tempting prospect, true, but sex with Winter right now would just be catharsis, not anything -- is he really thinking about sex with a prostitute as something special? Is that... allowed?
There's a whole complex tangle of emotions that rise up at that thought, because obviously it's far too provincial and 21st century of him to assume that, just because of Winter's job, he's incapable of having sex for non-commercial purposes. That would be terribly close-minded of him, and Jack wouldn't approve.
-- Because that's what matters most now, the approval of a dead man --
And this is hardly a professional relationship, or so Winter would have him believe; which, given the fact that he works for a group which might or might not be pure evil, isn't quite as convincing as it might be otherwise.
But he can't doubt Winter, can't doubt Anna. Anyone else in the world, perhaps, but not them. It's just that he's hardly anything special, is he? And it's the same thing as with Jack, all over again. Don't try to label this. Don't ask for anything, because the question might imply you want more than they can give. Take what you're given and be grateful. Isn't it worth settling a bit, to have come close to something this wonderful?
It's about then that he realises that the problem isn't about whether it's permissible to have non-casual sex with someone who happens to be a prostitute. It's the question of whether it's permissible to fall in love with them.
...Winter may notice that Ianto looks somewhat stunned about now.
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Really, Winter is sure that he's among the rare few ever exposed to extremes and exigencies of this man's emotions, and the thought builds a pleasant warmth deep in his chest which he nudges in Ianto's direction. While he's certainly not forcing it on the man, he's also not doing anything to camouflage where the emotion is coming from. Ianto can internalize it without thinking about its origins, or he can take it as what it is: an honest reflection of Winter's own opinion on having him here.
What he does keep practiced and subtle is the steady feeling out of the lovely knot of various flavors of recalcitrance and uncertainty someone's seen fit to tie in his chest, looking for the loose ends and the bits where an inroads can be worked in. There's always the niggling thought that he could do so much more in these situations, but he's learned long ago that everyone deserves a chance to move through and out of these things at their own pace.
He lets the kiss end when it seems to resolve itself, lets his hand find Ianto's, lets his fingers run over the palm. Ianto may recognize the warmth of his skin: neither cool enough to demand nor hot enough to discourage. Take the hand for a moment, warm companionship, then let his fingers slip away.
"Well, then," he says. "We could also stand here."
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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 inadequate.
Meanwhile, in glorious black-and-white, Rick Blaine is being bitter and heartbroken -- "...The wild finish. A guy standing on a station platform in the rain with a comical look in his face because his insides have been kicked out."
The sentiment's familiar.
"I trust you," he says, "whether or not that's a wise decision. And I trust Anna. Beyond that..." He shakes his head. Leona's dangerous; that much is painfully obvious. And Adam Munroe... him, Ianto trusts not at all.
It wouldn't be the first time he'd taken a job because of people he cared for, though, no matter how suspect his employers might be.
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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."
He's moved closer, just a bit, but enough to bring the warmth of his body into more of a presence beside him.
"Almost everyone here will tell you the same things," he says. "She comes across very strong, but you should hear the history of this place. At first it was her group, coming back from Europe after World War Two. She held them together and protected them. They began adopting more into their circles, and slowly turned into a business in a time when it wasn't safe to be one. She made it possible to show no fear, no shame - and when the Organization came to notice them, she negotiated as much autonomoy as circumstance would allow."
He leans in.
"Mr. Monroe may have nominal authority over Ms. Sandric, but he hasn't yet interfered in her purview. Even assignments with the other departments, even visits from other Organization personnel - Ms. Sandric controls those, and anyone who seems to threaten one of us is held accountable to her."
His free hand raises, just slightly, to indicate the room.
"This suite," he says. "This time in my schedule. Both were made available by Ms. Sandric, not because I'm under any orders to court you or to bring you in, but because I asked." A bit of a nudge, there, a subtle emotional undertone of It's me. It's Anna and I. We're the ones who care; Ms. Sandric, the one who respects that. "I've worked for her for some time, now. And I wouldn't rather be anywhere but here."
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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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