She believes that life is made up of all that you're used to
In the Kashtta Tower's lounge, Suzie Costello is sipping an unholy concoction made mostly of hot cocoa, with some coffee and whiskey added for flavour. It has whipped cream on the top. She's frowning down at a small device, probably alien in origin, which is rattling in a regular repeating pattern, and poking at it
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Those happen to be hands he hasn't felt since Jack Harkness left the Conrad to avoid bringing the wrath of Romana Angelos down on his team, back when Ianto was still human. For all the time between then and now, for all the shock of contact, it's far too familiar. For a moment, it's like nothing's changed.
He stops breathing for a moment, heart pounding in his chest, and then he remembers, albeit unwillingly, that nothing good is going to come of this.
He tries to think of Winter's hands down his spine, long and graceful and completely unlike J's; of tracing the curve of Anna's hip while she favoured him with a lazy smile; but even as those recollections hit, even as his chest tightens and aches because he hasn't seen them in far too long, none of it even touches the overwhelming awareness of Jack -- no, J, just J -- of J's hands on his his shoulders, of the space he occupies in the ( ... )
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"Thank you for the help," Ianto says, with a little nod and a smile that comes nowhere near his eyes.
He watches J for a moment, unsure what to make of that last... request? His voice is almost too soft to hear when he responds.
"...You, too."
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