[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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( 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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