Notes

/“I know his type, Ianto, he’s a heart-breaker.”/ (- Shrouded)

The words stay heavy in his head. He goes inside, he smiles for Rhiannon and spins Mica around in a hug. He pretends he hasn’t just seen his own death, seen his friends die. He’s quiet, but he’s always quiet, so no one notices the difference.
Life goes on. He feels like a blank slate, most days. Just like that pleasant placid person he becomes when he doesn’t want anyone to notice him. That person he was before he’d found new purpose in his life, that person he was when he was whatever anyone wanted him to be, that person he was before he’d come to know Jack.
Or he thought he knew Jack. He just wished he knew Jack. He’d been gone, he would never tell them exactly where. He would never tell them a lot of things. Ianto was never quite sure if the secrets were meant to spare them the burden of knowing, or to spare Jack from having to admit them. He supposes it blends together in many cases. He knows the feeling.
That moment plays over and over again behind his eyes. Seeing Jack curled over his body, begging, pleading with some monstrous alien in a glass box to sacrifice the world if they would just spare Ianto.
It couldn’t be real, not Jack. Jack would always do whatever was necessary to save as many people as possible. He wouldn’t let one person get in the way of that… Would he? He knew what that felt like too. Loving someone so much that you would burn the world just to have one more day by their side, and if Jack would do that for him… Thinking about it for too long made Ianto feel sick.
/“I love you.”/ He had heard his own voice say, words drifting from his own lips. And all Jack gave in return was a choked, /“don’t.”/ As if stopping Ianto would keep this from being goodbye. As if not saying it back might keep Jack from feeling it. Or maybe he was commanding him not to love him, spare Jack Harkness one more heart placed in his hands. Those warm steady hands, that had lived a thousand lives already, saved so many people and destroyed just as much in return.
He wouldn’t dream of confessing those words to Jack. Of course, Ianto wasn’t so foolish he didn’t realize he was already in love with him. But he couldn’t ever bring himself to say it, certainly not now. Not after seeing what he got for his pains. /“I came back for you,”/ was probably the closest Ianto would ever get to hearing that sentiment from him.
And the worst part is, she was right, it breaks his heart. It breaks his heart every day. Knowing that /forever/ Jack Harkness will keep on living and Ianto Jones will be long gone, a speck in eternity. A blip in time.
But he already knew, someday he would die, and Jack would just keep on living. Lonely as always. Seeing it happen is just a harsh reminder.
For days he finds he can barely look at Owen, rarely rises to the bait of his banter in those times. Wants to cry when Tosh thanks him for the coffee as she does every day, that that sweet smile over the rim of her mug.
And worst of all when Jack kisses him, he can’t stop thinking about that one last kiss on Ianto’s dead lips.
Jack notices because of course, he notices, but he never sees enough.
“You alright?”
He takes in a steadying breath, he’s prepared to lie, he’s always prepared to lie. “Yes, yes, Jack. Just tired, that’s all,” he dismisses, curling his lips just for Jack, that clever smile the man will always fall for.
He smooths a hand down the hair at the nape of Ianto’s neck, looking over with those weathered blue eyes. His brow creases just slightly.
“Well, why don’t you go get some sleep, I know it’s been a long day. A lot of clean-up on this one.” That hand curls around the back of his head, pulling Ianto into a light embrace, Jack sways them a little, almost like they’re slow dancing.
“You could even stay here with me, if you want,” he suggests softly into the fabric of Ianto’s collar.
“Oh, /yes/, because my time with you is always so /restful/,” he responds flatly, knowing banter is what’s expected, just brush Jack’s attention away from his state of mind.
He can feel the man’s cheek shift against his own as he smiles, head still bowed towards Ianto’s shoulder. Jack shifts then so that his breath ghosts the shell of his ear, he doesn’t intend the way he shivers at the sensation.
“I meant to /sleep/,” he teases, breathing the words directly into Ianto’s ear, and for all that his voice goes husky and rough around the edges, Ianto knows that he means it. He knows that if Ianto let him, Jack would lead him to the porthole, down the ladder and guide him into his bed. He would make him comfortable and curl around Ianto and make him feel safe, or let Ianto curl around him as he was wont to do on nights when he needed to assure himself Jack was still here. In his arms.
He pulls away, out of that embrace, out of those arms. If he lets him do this, it might break him, he might buckle, admit something he shouldn’t, show some pain he doesn’t mean to. It’s too much, Jack is so much. Jack means so much to him. He means too much, too close, too important, too painful.
“I think I’d rather get back to mine,” he says, it’s a total farce, like so many things he is.
Jack doesn’t look disappointed, but something softens in his eyes. “I’ll drive you, then,” he decides, before promptly turning to grab his coat off the hook.
“Jack, you really don’t have to,” he tries, but Jack is already shrugging it on. And usually, Ianto is helping it on him, settling him into that familiar article. He loves that coat.
“As if I’m letting you walk in this weather, it’s freezing out there,” Jack scoffs, and for once, he’s not exaggerating. It was autumn edging into winter and the rain Cardiff was unforgiving.
Jack loops his hand into the crook of Ianto’s elbow, taking his arm with no prompting, “c’mon, let’s get you into bed,” he urged with a grin, then broke off thoughtfully, “you know, I usually have a different sort intention when I say that.”
Ianto smiles for him, he can’t really help it, and lets Jack take him home.