Chapter Text
The Hub had gone quiet hours ago. Gwen had gone home, Owen had disappeared into the night in search of trouble or a pint, and Tosh had shut down her screens with the careful neatness of someone who never quite trusted technology to sleep when she did.
That left Jack and Ianto.
Of course it did.
Ianto had been finishing reports in the glow of his desk lamp, meticulous as always, pretending not to notice Jack’s orbit around him: the long strides across the open floor, the pauses in his office doorway, the unnecessary trips down into the archives. He hadn’t said anything because if he said something, Jack might say something back, and if Jack said something back… well, that might ruin everything.
And yet, somehow, it hadn’t been words that did it in the end.
It had been a look.
One of those stray glances, sharp as lightning, across the space between them. Jack’s smile crooked, Ianto’s lips tight in the fight not to return it. Then Jack’s hand on his shoulder—just the weight of it, warm and inevitable—and Ianto had thought, Oh, so this is how it happens.
It hadn’t taken long after that. Jack never wasted time when desire was involved, and Ianto had been done wasting time months ago.
Now he was here.
The sheets were cool against his back, the dim outline of Jack stretched beside him, shirt already on the floor, suspenders abandoned somewhere between the kitchen and the stairs. The room smelled faintly of ozone, leather, and Jack, and Ianto couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt both this self-conscious and this sure.
Jack, of course, wasn’t one to let silence linger.
“Well,” Jack drawled, turning onto his side so he could look at him, “that was fun.”
Ianto huffed out a breath that was too close to a laugh. “Is that your official report, sir?”
“I can write it up if you’d like. Diagrams, maybe. Pie charts.” Jack’s hand brushed over his chest, casual and claiming all at once. “You were very impressive.”
Ianto rolled his eyes and shifted onto his side, away from Jack. The ceiling was easier to face than those impossible blue eyes. “I’ll add it to my CV.”
“You should,” Jack murmured, leaning closer until his chin just brushed Ianto’s shoulder. “Skills: coffee-making, filing, excellent in bed. That’ll get you jobs everywhere.”
“I’m sure,” Ianto said flatly.
Jack chuckled, soft against his skin. “You don’t make it easy, do you?”
“I wasn’t aware that was part of my job description.”
“Oh, it’s not a job description thing.” Jack’s hand slid down to his waist. “It’s a you thing.”
Ianto shut his eyes. Don’t ask what he means. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
But Jack wasn’t Owen—he didn’t push where he wasn’t wanted. He nudged, coaxed, tempted. And that was worse, because Ianto found himself wanting to give in.
Jack fell quiet for a long moment, though his hand stayed where it was, thumb moving idly back and forth against his hip. When he spoke again, his voice had softened, teasing stripped back to something dangerously close to sincere.
“You okay?”
Ianto blinked. That was not the question he’d been expecting. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“First time.” Jack shrugged, though Ianto could feel it more than see it. “It can be a lot.”
Ianto turned his head, finally meeting Jack’s gaze in the shadows. He tried for irony, for dryness, but his voice betrayed him with its low rasp. “You don’t say.”
Jack smiled faintly, but it wasn’t one of his broad, wolfish grins. It was smaller, almost gentle. “You could tell me to shut up. Most people do, eventually.”
“Tempting.”
“But you haven’t.” Jack tilted his head. “So what are you thinking?”
That was unfair. That was absolutely unfair. Ianto was still half-tangled in sheets, heat lingering in his veins, and Jack wanted him to talk? To confess?
He stalled with the safest answer he could think of. “That the ceiling could use a fresh coat of paint.”
Jack barked out a laugh and flopped onto his back, staring upward as though seeing it for the first time. “Really? After all that, you’re critiquing my décor?”
“Shoddy workmanship.” Ianto folded his hands on his chest. “I expected better.”
“I’ll get right on that. Tomorrow morning.”
“You won’t.”
“True.” Jack turned his head, watching him again, and Ianto knew he was caught. “So. Ceiling jokes. That means you’re nervous.”
“I am not—”
“Yes, you are.” Jack’s smile widened just a fraction. “It’s adorable.”
Ianto groaned and pulled the sheet higher over his face. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
That silenced him. Not because it wasn’t true—of course it was true—but because it landed somewhere inside him he wasn’t ready to touch. He wasn’t sure why he was still there, not really. He only knew that leaving had never crossed his mind.
Jack let the silence hang this time, neither filling it nor forcing it. He just stayed there, close enough to touch, hand resting light as air on Ianto’s wrist above the covers.
Ianto lowered the sheet slowly, just enough to see Jack’s expression. The light from the window painted his face in faint silver and shadow, and for the first time all evening, Ianto thought he could see the man beneath the swagger. Not the immortal, not the leader, not the legend. Just Jack.
And that was terrifying in its own right.
“You really don’t stop talking,” Ianto muttered.
Jack grinned. “Would you prefer I sang? I can do that too.”
“God forbid.”
Jack tugged the sheet down until Ianto had no choice but to give up hiding. His fingers lingered at Ianto’s collarbone, not pressing, not demanding—just there. “You should sleep. You’ve had a long day.”
Ianto almost laughed. A long day was an understatement in Torchwood terms. And now, apparently, he’d gone to bed with his boss. Sleep was not an option.
“You first,” he said, deflecting.
Jack raised a brow. “Oh, is that how this works? One of us has to close our eyes before the other gets a turn?”
“Seems fair.”
Jack hummed as though considering it. Then he lay flat, hands folded neatly on his stomach, eyes shut with exaggerated serenity. “See? Sleeping like a baby.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
Jack cracked one eye open. “And you like it.”
Ianto’s lips twitched. He fought the smile down. “Do I?”
They lay there in half-silence, the city a muted hum beyond the window. Ianto tried to focus on the rhythm of Jack’s breathing, steady and unhurried, but his own thoughts were anything but calm.
He hadn’t planned for this. Torchwood was not a place for relationships. Not after Lisa. Not after the wreckage of grief he still carried in his chest. And yet here he was, tangled up with Jack bloody Harkness, of all people.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Jack murmured.
“I am not.”
“You are. It’s practically vibrating off you.” Jack rolled onto his side again, propping his head on his hand. “You don’t have to tell me what it is, but I can hear it anyway.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it? I know the sound of guilt. The sound of second-guessing. You’re practically broadcasting.”
Ianto swallowed hard. He hated how close Jack was, how accurate he might be. “And what do you suggest I do about that?”
Jack shrugged. “Talk. Or don’t. But if you think you’re the only one lying awake at night counting regrets, you’re wrong.”
That landed like a stone in Ianto’s chest. He turned his face away, staring at the dresser across the room. “I didn’t ask to be compared.”
“I wasn’t comparing.” Jack’s hand found his again under the covers, warm, sure. “I was relating.”
Ianto didn’t pull away. That was the mistake. Because not pulling away meant letting himself believe, for one dangerous moment, that this was more than what it was. That Jack was offering something steadier than a single night.
“You make it sound simple,” Ianto said eventually.
“It isn’t.” Jack’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, unhurried. “But nothing worthwhile ever is.”
Ianto exhaled slowly. He could almost hear the trap closing, and still he couldn’t find the will to fight. “You’re very persuasive.”
“I prefer charming,” Jack said, with just enough lightness to draw a reluctant laugh from him.
It broke the tension, if only a little.
Jack lay back again, his hand linked with Ianto’s. They watched the ceiling together, letting the silence stretch without strain.
“Do you always talk this much in bed?” Ianto asked after a while.
“Depends.” Jack’s grin returned, half in shadow. “Sometimes I’m too busy doing other things.”
Ianto rolled his eyes. “Of course.”
“But with you…” Jack’s voice dropped, softer. “I like talking. Makes it feel less like a dream I’ll wake up from.”
That was too much. That was too close to the edge of something neither of them could afford to name. Ianto shifted, tugging the sheet higher, hiding the tremor that wanted to take hold of him.
“Sleep,” he said firmly, almost an order.
Jack didn’t argue. But when he finally closed his eyes, his hand stayed wrapped around Ianto’s, and Ianto lay awake long after, heart beating far too loud in the dark.