Not Tonight

Not Tonight

Jack looks at the coffee in his hand feeling a little guilty as he dials the code to Ianto’s flat. He’s making a choice for the young man and he doesn’t like it. He hadn’t expected this. Ianto had completely fooled him, betrayed him. As a leader he had failed. It had almost cost his team their lives and even now one life hangs on by a bare thread. Some things, he thinks, are worse than death.

When there is no answer, Jack presses a sequence of buttons on his wrist strap and with a soft click the door opens. He strides up three flights of stairs, mindful not to spill the coffee he brought as an offering of peace. Until today, he hadn’t even known where the kid lives. Tosh brought him up to speed with the personnel files. There it is again, an odd feeling strangely alike to guilt.

For a moment, he hesitates knocking on the door. It’s been barely a day since they had disposed of the Cyberman threat. He had planned to give Ianto more time, but since then he’s done nothing but think of how easily the kid had fooled them. Ianto is a threat that needs to be dealt with. This has nothing to do with the tears that had nearly broken his heart or the strange emptiness in his gut when he had to cock the gun against Ianto’s head. Nothing at all-

“The door is open if you must come in,” Ianto’s voice comes hoarsely from inside the flat. And Jack enters and for the second time is surprised by Ianto Jones. The flat is small and where Jack expects precise decor with perhaps a dash of OCD, he finds that Ianto, like most 23-year-olds, liveds in a flat designed to meet basic needs rather than wants. The sofa’s possibly older than time; there are mismatched chairs and a table; an old desk; and Jack half expects the coffee table to be propped up with milk crates (It isn’t. Those are used as bedside tables.). The flat’s tidy and organized, a small echo of the Ianto Jones he thought he knew. There’s such contradiction in the young man and for once, Jack isn’t sure what to do.

“What do you want?” No Sir, no Jack. Just a question, tone exasperated, tired, Ianto looks it too.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” Jack began, flashed a great big fake smile, “and I thought I’d check up on you.”

“I’m fine.” He’s anything but, Jack knows. The clothes he’s wearing are crumpled and Jack reckons that Ianto plans to spend at least three days in the faded black jeans and the grey hooded jumper. For what it’s worth, Jack’s glad the kid isn’t still wearing the bloodstained suit. His eyes are bloodshot, deep rings underneath, his face is flushed and splotchy, expression blank, no frown, just a blank, blank mask trying to hide away from the world.

“I brought you coffee.”

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“I know.” Ianto leaves the coffee on the table, untouched. A gesture that stings Jack and he has no idea how to read Ianto Jones.
“What do you want?”

And it’s then that Jack deflates. He’s got nothing. His game plan flies out the window; he’s barely able to see it go. Looking at Ianto, he wonders how he ever could have thought the kid a threat. His thoughts are contradicting and his head’s doing that swimming thing and he briefly wonders where the hell his charm went, but it probably flew out with the damned game plan, making babies in a tree somewhere. His brain decides to interrupt any further embarrassing trains of thought and turns off. He crosses the distance between Ianto and him and suddenly he’s kissing the kid whose girlfriend he shot last night.

He’s not surprised when Ianto doesn’t melt into him, but shoves him back. He’s not surprised when Ianto punches him, hard. He’s not surprised when it doesn’t stop there, the kid’s all fists and rage. And Jack lets him let it all out, here in Ianto’s living room where no one else can see, lets him take out all the rage and grief and despair and Ianto’s fist splits Jack’s lip once more. There are no coherent words coming from Ianto’s mouth, just sobs and screams and tears and spit.

Jack’s not sure how he ended up on the bed or when Ianto’s hands wrapped around his neck. The kid’s straddling him and there is a brief moment when Jack wishes this were happening under different circumstances. But then Jack sees the face, the eyes, and realizes Ianto’s not a kid anymore, hasn’t been since that fateful battle at Canary Wharf. He knows Jack’s orders had been right; knows that Lisa died that day, knows the Cyberman inside her body used his loyalty and love; exploited and used him and tried to convince him to be the first willing convert.

There’s something in Ianto’s eyes. Or rather something’s missing. Jack’s not sure what, but there isn’t much oxygen getting to his brain now, and he figures he should probably get himself out of Ianto’s grip. He could easily. While the same height, Jack is broader and much stronger and used to precarious predicaments such as being strangled by an employee whose half-mechanical girlfriend he had shot during work hours. He notes how circular the train of thought is inside his head. The world is spinning in ways he’s certain it isn’t supposed to and reaches for Ianto’s thigh to ground him. Don’t die in front of him, his brain reminds Jack and he wonders why he hasn’t yet. Instead of reaching to Ianto’s wrists, Jack grips his thigh and then he feels Ianto hard as rock through the jeans, pressing against him. All the anger, frustration and grief pools between Ianto’s legs and Jack wishes he were a lesser a man, but he cannot bring himself to flip Ianto over and fuck him until he forgets his own name. The Doctor’s voice rings inside Jack’s head. He couldn’t, not after everything the Doctor had done for him. Not if he ever wanted to be reunited with him.

Instead of flipping Ianto over, Jack runs a soothing hand over his thigh and doesn’t stop when Ianto’s hands slide from his throat and hang like dead weights at Ianto’s side. Life slowly returns to the blank eyes Jack had seen before and with it a mortifying realization. He knows Ianto will break and he can’t let him, refuses to let him and pulls him down until their foreheads touch.

“Don’t,” Jack whispers, “doesn’t matter. Just feel.” Ianto opens his mouth, surely in protest, but out comes only a gasp when Jack’s hand slides into his jeans. Then the flood gates open and Ianto is all moans and whimpers and wordless pleas as he grinds himself into Jack’s hand. Jack fists the back of Ianto’s hair and bruises his lips with a kiss and with a flick of Jack’s wrist, Ianto comes biting his lip until it bleeds. Panting he lies on top of Jack and when his breath steadies, Jack can feel tears slowly soaking through his shirt.

Jack lets him cry. He’s not sobbing like he was at the Hub, tears and snot and spit and all. Jack knows he’s no longer filled with desperation, but simply grief. And grief, Jack knows and understands and he holds Ianto close until the young man is overcome by sleep. He leaves a note on the bedside milk crate:

I’ll be back soon. Shower, change clothes. See you then. - J

Jack leaves and takes the retconned coffee with him. He made a choice for the young man and he’s glad he changed his mind.