It'll End in Tears #8: "Strange Currencies"
Title: "Strange Currencies"
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Ianto/Andy, Jack/Ianto
Rating: Series is predominantly hard NC-17. This installment is in the PG-13 to R range. Mention of cock rings, negotiation of future play. Oh, and broccoli. That's pretty intense, right there.
Notes/Summary: Part Eight of the " It'll End In Tears" cluster, and #6 on the un_love_you prompt table. Thanks to utopia_watch for giving it a quick once-over.
“Fucking fantastic, Andy. Nothing more seductive than a drowned rat,” he grumbles to himself. Two blocks in a torrential downpour has left him dripping and freezing cold. He tries flicking some of the water away with a snap of his arms and gives his hair a vigorous rub-down, but all that does is shower the entryway with speckles of water and make him look even more disheveled. Frankly he wouldn’t blame Ianto for sending him straight home again.
He lifts his hand to knock, but hesitates. How does he know that Ianto won’t just send him home anyway? There’ve been no calls, no texts, no anything from the other man all week. Andy’s own messages have gone unanswered. The two times he’d had occasion to drive past during the week, Ianto’s flat was dark, and his car nowhere to be seen on the street.
Tonight, though, the lights are on, and Ianto’s Audi is gleaming in the rain not far from the entry door. Lucky git.
Andy closes his eyes, goes over what he wants to say once more, and raises his hand just in time for the door to swing open.
“Hi,” the man in the doorway says, with a grin like the Cheshire cat’s plastered across his face. “You coming in?”
“Um.”
It is not, as replies go, the most useful or impressive. Really, he’d have liked something a little more self-assured. “What the hell are you doing here?” for example. Or maybe even a snide, “Oh, what a nice surprise to see you tonight, Captain Harkness.” Honestly, anything other than “Um” would be a step in the right direction.
“Who is it?” another voice calls out from the back of the flat.
“It’s just Andy,” Jack calls back over his shoulder. The captain gives Andy an expectant look that, combined with the words ‘just Andy,’ makes him distinctly uncomfortable.
God, he hates Jack Harkness. He hates bastard Torchwood. He hates -
“Hi,” Ianto says as he steps into view. He’s toweling his hair dry, and his t-shirt clings to his torso in places Andy’s still learning to be interested in. He feels his mental process slam on the brakes in an effort not to juxtapose ‘shower-dampened Ianto’ with his anger over Jack fucking Harkness managing to interfere yet again with his social life.
Defeated, he relinquishes his coat. The captain takes it, holds it not quite at arm’s length, and hangs it on a hook next to the front closet.
“Sorry about that,” Ianto says, folding his towel and hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair. “I was just finishing up in the shower. I see you’ve met Jack.”
“Yeah,” Andy says, and instantly kicks himself for failing, yet again, to come off as anything more than one big bag of elbows and stupid, as always.
“Good lord,” Ianto says, taking notice of just how drenched Andy is. “You’re soaked through! It must really be pissing down out there. Come on. There should still be some hot water. I’ll find you something dry.”
“Can we -“ Andy starts to ask, but Ianto puts a finger over his mouth and doesn’t let him complete the sentence. He wants to say ‘talk,’ but worries that maybe Ianto hears ‘fuck.’
“Later,” Ianto says, leading him to the bathroom. “You should warm up first.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Ianto’s bathroom is too functional to be sparse. Really, Andy thinks, it’s what might happen if someone took one of those perfect bathrooms from a luxury fittings advertisement and then tried to shove it all into a walk-in closet.
He strips off and leaves his dripping clothes in the sink before stepping into the shower and turning on the taps. The hot water stings at first, but after a moment he feels his whole body begin to loosen and relax. He uses just enough of Ianto’s shampoo to keep his hair from going all gummy. When he’s finally content that he’s both sufficiently thawed out and clean, he emerges dripping onto the bathmat. Already his own wet clothes are gone, and a bundle of Ianto’s street clothes are waiting for him on the counter.
There’s something else, too.
Andy picks up the narrow band of dark brown leather and looks it over. It’s got a solid-looking snap closure, and under most circumstances he’d assume instantly that it was a bracelet. The situation being what it is, however, he’s a little bit uncertain on that point. Ianto’s left no instructions, no note, nothing in the way of explanation.
He looks down at the bulge in his towel, and then back at the leather strap. It’s like one of those jokes older kids tell you when you’re a boy, where nothing you can say will save you from being made fun of in front of all your friends.
Outside, he can hear Ianto laughing at some story Jack’s telling him. He smells food, too.
Andy sighs, weighs whether he’d prefer to be declared a pervert or an idiot, and decides that the big kids (namely Jack) can go fuck themselves. He snaps the damn thing on around his tackle, figuring that he’s been utterly graceless and out of his depth since his arrival, and he might as well accept his lot and enjoy it. It’s snug, but not uncomfortable.
When he emerges, Jack is lounging on Ianto’s sofa, resting sock feet on the coffee table. He’s lost his blue overshirt somehow, and his braces are hanging loose at his hips. He looks far too casual for Andy’s comfort. He’s not moving - and in fact seems to be doing his best impression of a boorish American prat - but there’s something under the surface that makes Andy nervous. It’s like Jack could (and might) spring up any second and break his neck.
Right, Andy reflects. Time to lay off the action movies for a little while. Well, except Hot Fuzz. Anything with Simon Pegg in should be alright.
“So,” Andy says, suddenly self-conscious. “How do you know Ianto, then?”
“Work,” Jack replies, eyes focused on the television screen. “You?”
“Work.” Andy fidgets with the sleeves of the sweatshirt, making sure that anywhere that could have a bracelet on is well-covered. He wonders if he’s standing and moving naturally, and has to resist the urge to reach down and adjust himself just in case. “Torchwood get a lot of action around the Hayes, then?”
“Huh?” Jack asks, eyebrows furrow.
“You know. The old library? That’s where the Cardiff tourist office is, right?”
A look of recognition crosses Jack’s face. “Oh, right. Actually, no. There’s one closer to the Bay.”
“Ah. The one by the Church, then. The big tube thing.”
“Something like that.” Jack says with a smirk.
Andy’s almost formulated some kind of snappy comeback when Ianto emerges from the kitchen with three plates of some sort of veg stir fry.
“Sorry for the improvisational cuisine. If I’d thought, I’d have popped into ASDA on the way in. Still, the broccoli was going to spoil if I didn’t use it soon. Evidence of order in the universe, I suppose.”
Andy notices Ianto glancing at his wrists and freezes. A second later Ianto’s eyes light on somewhere that is absolutely NOT his wrists, which is surprisingly bad for Andy’s composure overall. He wonders if anyone would notice if he covered his groin with his plate.
“You people and your obsession with order,” Jack jokes, and Ianto pokes him with a fork.
Yeah, far, far too casual.
“Andy was just asking how we knew one another,” Jack offers though a mouthful of soya-flavored greens.
“Was he?” Ianto asks, glancing at Andy, and then back at Jack. “Can I assume based on his still being here that your answer was not something to the effect of ‘inside and out’ or possibly ‘Biblically’?” Ianto turns back to Andy. “You’re allowed to sit down, if you like.”
Andy makes a beeline for the nearest armchair.
“Actually,” Jack says, holding up a floret of broccoli as if it were a visual aid. “I was a model of restraint. Wasn’t I, PC Davidson?”
“Yeah,” Andy mumbles. “Very informative.”
Ianto rolls his eyes at Jack. “Don’t let him get to you, Andy. He’s a brat.”
Jack snickers around a mouthful of food.
Does no one in America know how to eat properly?, Andy wonders.
They small talk a bit. Ianto directs the conversation to things all three of them would be aware of - the latest weird news out of Splott, something funny that got said on “Buzzcocks,” and so on - as well as making sure they all have drinks. Andy’s impressed at the grace with which Ianto’s handling Harkness, reining him in when he starts to go too far, keeping him away from inflammatory topics, etc. The boys at the station would never believe it, that’s for damn sure. Nor would they believe that Andy is here witnessing it, all the while increasingly aware of the leather cock ring hiding under his borrowed cargoes.
They’re chatting about some ultimately forgettable bit of local news when Jack puts his glass down with a thunk. “I’ll be right back. Gotta bank some excess liquid,” he says with a wink, and strides down the hall to the bathroom.
“I see you decided it wasn’t a bracelet,” Ianto chuckles quietly before taking a drink from his beer bottle.
“And I see you’re not exactly hurting for company,” Andy replies, a little more curtly than he strictly intends to. “I mean, him? Really?”
“Really,” Ianto nods, gathering up the empty plates.
“Is that a new development, or -“
“Not really, no.”
Andy helps him carry the dishes into the kitchen.
“I probably should have said something sooner,” Ianto shrugs as he starts rinsing the first plate. “You were sort of meant to be a one-off, though. It’s not really the best conversation starter when you’re setting out to have a one night stand.”
“So why am I here tonight?” Andy asks, bracing himself for the inevitable.
“Because -“
Ianto looks up just in time to notice Jack crossing the kitchen threshold.
“Did you kids play nice without me?” Jack asks, hands on his hips. He looks infuriatingly pleased with himself.
“Yep,” Ianto answers, focusing his attention on the dishes.
Oh, for fuck’s sake! Andy wants to scream. Instead, he picks up a towel and helps Ianto dry. He barely notices when Jack leans against the counter, just close enough that Andy can smell him. He smells warm and sort of appealing, but with an edge of sweat or sex. He smells inviting. He smells available…
Andy feels an unwelcome twinge between his legs.
Margaret Thatcher, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. Other people’s vomit. Old Gregg offering someone a glass of Bailey’s.
“Excuse me for a minute,” he says in a voice much thinner and high pitched than he’d like, and escapes under the pretense of going to use the toilet.
He leans against the door when he closes it and rubs his face with hands.
“Come on, Andy,” he says to himself. “Pull yourself together here. You loathe Jack Harkness. He’s an egotistical prat who ponces around scenes of crime, destroying evidence and making your work life a living hell. You do not want to get a leg over just because he smells nice. You want punch him in the face because he’s a bastard, and because he’s Ianto’s boyfriend. You are, in fact, beginning to harbor a career-threatening desire to suffocate him with his big, stupid coat.”
He leans back and rests his head on the door and counts to ten. When ten isn’t enough he tries for twenty. Fifty. He’s working on one hundred when Ianto taps at the door and nearly gives him a heart attack.
“Andy, you alright?”
No, he thinks with gritted teeth. I’m stressed out and angry and heartbroken and having inappropriate sexual urges. But thank you for asking, Ianto. I appreciate it.
“Out in a minute.” Andy reaches over to flush the toilet and washes his hands. When he opens the door, he finds Ianto waiting for him in the hallway.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize you needed it.” Andy gives Ianto an apologetic shrug and steps out of his way.
“I’m not here for the toilet, Andy,” Ianto says quietly. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re here tonight because I want you here.”
Andy blinks at him, not comprehending. “Sorry, what?”
“I want you Andy,” Ianto says, arms wrapped tight around himself. “I want you and I want to need you. But that’s going to take some time. That’s why Jack’s here.”
Andy scoffs. “Jack’s here because you want me? Sorry, mate, but isn’t that kind of like saying you’re having a bacon cheeseburger as part of your conversion to Judaism?”
Ianto steps back and regards him with something that looks disquietingly like caution.
“Yan? I’m sorry, but I’m not getting what you’re saying here. What are you talking about?”
“There may be some restrictions on what you’re allowed to do initially,” Ianto explains, watching Andy closely. “He wants to help me make things right with you. Fix what got broken.”
“Oh Jesus, Yan. Oh fuck, I’m so sorry,” he blurts as everything falls into place. It’s amazing how a week’s worth of carefully rehearsed apologies go to shit when the moment comes to voice them. All he can do is stand there in despair and wonder just how not-fine Ianto is because of him. It’s like a wooden spike through the chest. He can’t even reach out without Ianto shying away.
“I want you, Andy, but you can’t touch me right now,” Ianto explains gently. “He can touch me for you.”
“He’s here to keep you safe from me,” Andy whimpers, aching with shame.
“More like keep us safe from each other.”
Andy leans heavily against the doorframe and lets out a strangled sob. This is not the way this is supposed to be.
“Andy?” Ianto asks, edging forward a little bit. “Can I -“
“Yes,” he answers without reservation. “Anything.”
Ianto pauses, and then takes a second tentative step. “Put your hands behind your back. Or in your pockets. Anywhere but on me, okay?”
Andy complies instantly, shoving his hands into his back pockets. He holds his breath as Ianto closes his eyes, and then steps in close enough to press their bodies together. He lets his lips brush over Andy’s jaw before pressing them against Andy’s mouth in a nervous, exploratory kiss.
He’s really not sure if he should reciprocate, but Ianto’s lips are warm, and he tastes like after-dinner coffee. He lets his tongue slip against Ianto’s and is rewarded with an even more desperate effort.
Ianto pulls away and rests his forehead against Andy’s. “If you’re willing -“
“Can you touch me?” Andy asks. “Like now? Is what you’re doing right now okay?”
“Sometimes. Other times, it’ll need to be him.”
Andy glances down the corridor. Jack is watching them now, standing with his arms crossed, waiting for Andy’s answer.
He gives Harkness a nod. Jack returns it, then turns away, retreating to the front room again.
“Okay,” he tells Ianto. “Yes. I’ll do it.”
“Thank you.” Ianto offers him a fragile smile and turns to join Jack. He stops, though apparently thinking better of it.
Ianto touches the front button of Andy’s borrowed trousers and grins. “It really was meant for your wrist, you know. Good guess, though.”
Andy chokes and feels his face start to burn. From the lounge, he can hear Harkness stifling a giggle.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Andy groans and follows Ianto, reaching down the front of his pants to retrieve the bracelet. He can’t help but shoot Jack a look and roll his eyes. Bastard fucking Torchwood.
---
Prev (Pt #7) (Warnings: Follow-up to questionable consent issues arising in #6, non-graphic.)
-
Next (Pt #9) (Warnings: Language, discussion of sex (minimally graphic), negotiation of future kink, pet names.)
---
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Ianto/Andy, Jack/Ianto
Rating: Series is predominantly hard NC-17. This installment is in the PG-13 to R range. Mention of cock rings, negotiation of future play. Oh, and broccoli. That's pretty intense, right there.
Notes/Summary: Part Eight of the " It'll End In Tears" cluster, and #6 on the un_love_you prompt table. Thanks to utopia_watch for giving it a quick once-over.
“Fucking fantastic, Andy. Nothing more seductive than a drowned rat,” he grumbles to himself. Two blocks in a torrential downpour has left him dripping and freezing cold. He tries flicking some of the water away with a snap of his arms and gives his hair a vigorous rub-down, but all that does is shower the entryway with speckles of water and make him look even more disheveled. Frankly he wouldn’t blame Ianto for sending him straight home again.
He lifts his hand to knock, but hesitates. How does he know that Ianto won’t just send him home anyway? There’ve been no calls, no texts, no anything from the other man all week. Andy’s own messages have gone unanswered. The two times he’d had occasion to drive past during the week, Ianto’s flat was dark, and his car nowhere to be seen on the street.
Tonight, though, the lights are on, and Ianto’s Audi is gleaming in the rain not far from the entry door. Lucky git.
Andy closes his eyes, goes over what he wants to say once more, and raises his hand just in time for the door to swing open.
“Hi,” the man in the doorway says, with a grin like the Cheshire cat’s plastered across his face. “You coming in?”
“Um.”
It is not, as replies go, the most useful or impressive. Really, he’d have liked something a little more self-assured. “What the hell are you doing here?” for example. Or maybe even a snide, “Oh, what a nice surprise to see you tonight, Captain Harkness.” Honestly, anything other than “Um” would be a step in the right direction.
“Who is it?” another voice calls out from the back of the flat.
“It’s just Andy,” Jack calls back over his shoulder. The captain gives Andy an expectant look that, combined with the words ‘just Andy,’ makes him distinctly uncomfortable.
God, he hates Jack Harkness. He hates bastard Torchwood. He hates -
“Hi,” Ianto says as he steps into view. He’s toweling his hair dry, and his t-shirt clings to his torso in places Andy’s still learning to be interested in. He feels his mental process slam on the brakes in an effort not to juxtapose ‘shower-dampened Ianto’ with his anger over Jack fucking Harkness managing to interfere yet again with his social life.
Defeated, he relinquishes his coat. The captain takes it, holds it not quite at arm’s length, and hangs it on a hook next to the front closet.
“Sorry about that,” Ianto says, folding his towel and hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair. “I was just finishing up in the shower. I see you’ve met Jack.”
“Yeah,” Andy says, and instantly kicks himself for failing, yet again, to come off as anything more than one big bag of elbows and stupid, as always.
“Good lord,” Ianto says, taking notice of just how drenched Andy is. “You’re soaked through! It must really be pissing down out there. Come on. There should still be some hot water. I’ll find you something dry.”
“Can we -“ Andy starts to ask, but Ianto puts a finger over his mouth and doesn’t let him complete the sentence. He wants to say ‘talk,’ but worries that maybe Ianto hears ‘fuck.’
“Later,” Ianto says, leading him to the bathroom. “You should warm up first.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Ianto’s bathroom is too functional to be sparse. Really, Andy thinks, it’s what might happen if someone took one of those perfect bathrooms from a luxury fittings advertisement and then tried to shove it all into a walk-in closet.
He strips off and leaves his dripping clothes in the sink before stepping into the shower and turning on the taps. The hot water stings at first, but after a moment he feels his whole body begin to loosen and relax. He uses just enough of Ianto’s shampoo to keep his hair from going all gummy. When he’s finally content that he’s both sufficiently thawed out and clean, he emerges dripping onto the bathmat. Already his own wet clothes are gone, and a bundle of Ianto’s street clothes are waiting for him on the counter.
There’s something else, too.
Andy picks up the narrow band of dark brown leather and looks it over. It’s got a solid-looking snap closure, and under most circumstances he’d assume instantly that it was a bracelet. The situation being what it is, however, he’s a little bit uncertain on that point. Ianto’s left no instructions, no note, nothing in the way of explanation.
He looks down at the bulge in his towel, and then back at the leather strap. It’s like one of those jokes older kids tell you when you’re a boy, where nothing you can say will save you from being made fun of in front of all your friends.
Outside, he can hear Ianto laughing at some story Jack’s telling him. He smells food, too.
Andy sighs, weighs whether he’d prefer to be declared a pervert or an idiot, and decides that the big kids (namely Jack) can go fuck themselves. He snaps the damn thing on around his tackle, figuring that he’s been utterly graceless and out of his depth since his arrival, and he might as well accept his lot and enjoy it. It’s snug, but not uncomfortable.
When he emerges, Jack is lounging on Ianto’s sofa, resting sock feet on the coffee table. He’s lost his blue overshirt somehow, and his braces are hanging loose at his hips. He looks far too casual for Andy’s comfort. He’s not moving - and in fact seems to be doing his best impression of a boorish American prat - but there’s something under the surface that makes Andy nervous. It’s like Jack could (and might) spring up any second and break his neck.
Right, Andy reflects. Time to lay off the action movies for a little while. Well, except Hot Fuzz. Anything with Simon Pegg in should be alright.
“So,” Andy says, suddenly self-conscious. “How do you know Ianto, then?”
“Work,” Jack replies, eyes focused on the television screen. “You?”
“Work.” Andy fidgets with the sleeves of the sweatshirt, making sure that anywhere that could have a bracelet on is well-covered. He wonders if he’s standing and moving naturally, and has to resist the urge to reach down and adjust himself just in case. “Torchwood get a lot of action around the Hayes, then?”
“Huh?” Jack asks, eyebrows furrow.
“You know. The old library? That’s where the Cardiff tourist office is, right?”
A look of recognition crosses Jack’s face. “Oh, right. Actually, no. There’s one closer to the Bay.”
“Ah. The one by the Church, then. The big tube thing.”
“Something like that.” Jack says with a smirk.
Andy’s almost formulated some kind of snappy comeback when Ianto emerges from the kitchen with three plates of some sort of veg stir fry.
“Sorry for the improvisational cuisine. If I’d thought, I’d have popped into ASDA on the way in. Still, the broccoli was going to spoil if I didn’t use it soon. Evidence of order in the universe, I suppose.”
Andy notices Ianto glancing at his wrists and freezes. A second later Ianto’s eyes light on somewhere that is absolutely NOT his wrists, which is surprisingly bad for Andy’s composure overall. He wonders if anyone would notice if he covered his groin with his plate.
“You people and your obsession with order,” Jack jokes, and Ianto pokes him with a fork.
Yeah, far, far too casual.
“Andy was just asking how we knew one another,” Jack offers though a mouthful of soya-flavored greens.
“Was he?” Ianto asks, glancing at Andy, and then back at Jack. “Can I assume based on his still being here that your answer was not something to the effect of ‘inside and out’ or possibly ‘Biblically’?” Ianto turns back to Andy. “You’re allowed to sit down, if you like.”
Andy makes a beeline for the nearest armchair.
“Actually,” Jack says, holding up a floret of broccoli as if it were a visual aid. “I was a model of restraint. Wasn’t I, PC Davidson?”
“Yeah,” Andy mumbles. “Very informative.”
Ianto rolls his eyes at Jack. “Don’t let him get to you, Andy. He’s a brat.”
Jack snickers around a mouthful of food.
Does no one in America know how to eat properly?, Andy wonders.
They small talk a bit. Ianto directs the conversation to things all three of them would be aware of - the latest weird news out of Splott, something funny that got said on “Buzzcocks,” and so on - as well as making sure they all have drinks. Andy’s impressed at the grace with which Ianto’s handling Harkness, reining him in when he starts to go too far, keeping him away from inflammatory topics, etc. The boys at the station would never believe it, that’s for damn sure. Nor would they believe that Andy is here witnessing it, all the while increasingly aware of the leather cock ring hiding under his borrowed cargoes.
They’re chatting about some ultimately forgettable bit of local news when Jack puts his glass down with a thunk. “I’ll be right back. Gotta bank some excess liquid,” he says with a wink, and strides down the hall to the bathroom.
“I see you decided it wasn’t a bracelet,” Ianto chuckles quietly before taking a drink from his beer bottle.
“And I see you’re not exactly hurting for company,” Andy replies, a little more curtly than he strictly intends to. “I mean, him? Really?”
“Really,” Ianto nods, gathering up the empty plates.
“Is that a new development, or -“
“Not really, no.”
Andy helps him carry the dishes into the kitchen.
“I probably should have said something sooner,” Ianto shrugs as he starts rinsing the first plate. “You were sort of meant to be a one-off, though. It’s not really the best conversation starter when you’re setting out to have a one night stand.”
“So why am I here tonight?” Andy asks, bracing himself for the inevitable.
“Because -“
Ianto looks up just in time to notice Jack crossing the kitchen threshold.
“Did you kids play nice without me?” Jack asks, hands on his hips. He looks infuriatingly pleased with himself.
“Yep,” Ianto answers, focusing his attention on the dishes.
Oh, for fuck’s sake! Andy wants to scream. Instead, he picks up a towel and helps Ianto dry. He barely notices when Jack leans against the counter, just close enough that Andy can smell him. He smells warm and sort of appealing, but with an edge of sweat or sex. He smells inviting. He smells available…
Andy feels an unwelcome twinge between his legs.
Margaret Thatcher, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. Other people’s vomit. Old Gregg offering someone a glass of Bailey’s.
“Excuse me for a minute,” he says in a voice much thinner and high pitched than he’d like, and escapes under the pretense of going to use the toilet.
He leans against the door when he closes it and rubs his face with hands.
“Come on, Andy,” he says to himself. “Pull yourself together here. You loathe Jack Harkness. He’s an egotistical prat who ponces around scenes of crime, destroying evidence and making your work life a living hell. You do not want to get a leg over just because he smells nice. You want punch him in the face because he’s a bastard, and because he’s Ianto’s boyfriend. You are, in fact, beginning to harbor a career-threatening desire to suffocate him with his big, stupid coat.”
He leans back and rests his head on the door and counts to ten. When ten isn’t enough he tries for twenty. Fifty. He’s working on one hundred when Ianto taps at the door and nearly gives him a heart attack.
“Andy, you alright?”
No, he thinks with gritted teeth. I’m stressed out and angry and heartbroken and having inappropriate sexual urges. But thank you for asking, Ianto. I appreciate it.
“Out in a minute.” Andy reaches over to flush the toilet and washes his hands. When he opens the door, he finds Ianto waiting for him in the hallway.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize you needed it.” Andy gives Ianto an apologetic shrug and steps out of his way.
“I’m not here for the toilet, Andy,” Ianto says quietly. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re here tonight because I want you here.”
Andy blinks at him, not comprehending. “Sorry, what?”
“I want you Andy,” Ianto says, arms wrapped tight around himself. “I want you and I want to need you. But that’s going to take some time. That’s why Jack’s here.”
Andy scoffs. “Jack’s here because you want me? Sorry, mate, but isn’t that kind of like saying you’re having a bacon cheeseburger as part of your conversion to Judaism?”
Ianto steps back and regards him with something that looks disquietingly like caution.
“Yan? I’m sorry, but I’m not getting what you’re saying here. What are you talking about?”
“There may be some restrictions on what you’re allowed to do initially,” Ianto explains, watching Andy closely. “He wants to help me make things right with you. Fix what got broken.”
“Oh Jesus, Yan. Oh fuck, I’m so sorry,” he blurts as everything falls into place. It’s amazing how a week’s worth of carefully rehearsed apologies go to shit when the moment comes to voice them. All he can do is stand there in despair and wonder just how not-fine Ianto is because of him. It’s like a wooden spike through the chest. He can’t even reach out without Ianto shying away.
“I want you, Andy, but you can’t touch me right now,” Ianto explains gently. “He can touch me for you.”
“He’s here to keep you safe from me,” Andy whimpers, aching with shame.
“More like keep us safe from each other.”
Andy leans heavily against the doorframe and lets out a strangled sob. This is not the way this is supposed to be.
“Andy?” Ianto asks, edging forward a little bit. “Can I -“
“Yes,” he answers without reservation. “Anything.”
Ianto pauses, and then takes a second tentative step. “Put your hands behind your back. Or in your pockets. Anywhere but on me, okay?”
Andy complies instantly, shoving his hands into his back pockets. He holds his breath as Ianto closes his eyes, and then steps in close enough to press their bodies together. He lets his lips brush over Andy’s jaw before pressing them against Andy’s mouth in a nervous, exploratory kiss.
He’s really not sure if he should reciprocate, but Ianto’s lips are warm, and he tastes like after-dinner coffee. He lets his tongue slip against Ianto’s and is rewarded with an even more desperate effort.
Ianto pulls away and rests his forehead against Andy’s. “If you’re willing -“
“Can you touch me?” Andy asks. “Like now? Is what you’re doing right now okay?”
“Sometimes. Other times, it’ll need to be him.”
Andy glances down the corridor. Jack is watching them now, standing with his arms crossed, waiting for Andy’s answer.
He gives Harkness a nod. Jack returns it, then turns away, retreating to the front room again.
“Okay,” he tells Ianto. “Yes. I’ll do it.”
“Thank you.” Ianto offers him a fragile smile and turns to join Jack. He stops, though apparently thinking better of it.
Ianto touches the front button of Andy’s borrowed trousers and grins. “It really was meant for your wrist, you know. Good guess, though.”
Andy chokes and feels his face start to burn. From the lounge, he can hear Harkness stifling a giggle.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Andy groans and follows Ianto, reaching down the front of his pants to retrieve the bracelet. He can’t help but shoot Jack a look and roll his eyes. Bastard fucking Torchwood.
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Prev (Pt #7) (Warnings: Follow-up to questionable consent issues arising in #6, non-graphic.)
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Next (Pt #9) (Warnings: Language, discussion of sex (minimally graphic), negotiation of future kink, pet names.)
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