Notes: PWP. Set sometime after "Exit Wounds". The title is a lyric from U2's "Stay (Faraway, So Close!)".

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Jack/Ianto

Disclaimer: Torchwood and its characters are the property of the BBC and Russell T. Davies. I make no profit from this fanfic.

Exactly twenty-seven and a half minutes after Ianto's returned to his flat, Jack knocks on his door. Ianto's been expecting it. He came home and opened a beer, then ground fresh coffee beans and heated water in anticipation. And sure enough, like clockwork, there's Jack.

Jack could just burst in if he wanted to. He likes making an entrance, and he has keys to Ianto's flat. Ianto appreciates the fact that Jack waits for the door to be opened for him. With a last swallow of his beer, he gets up to let Jack in.

As usual, Jack seems too big for the flat. It's not a large space in any event, but Jack's presence inexplicably dwarfs it. Ianto offers Jack the coffee, hot from the press, without a word; Jack takes it, trading his coat in return, and moves into the living room while Ianto hangs the coat up. It's a familiar rhythm now. Not that they make it to Ianto's flat so often that it's routine -- nothing with them is routine -- but over the months, they've danced enough to know each others' steps by heart.

Jack is still agitated from the events of the night. Ianto takes another bottle of beer out of the refrigerator and follows Jack into the living room, leaning in the entranceway to watch and listen.

"...shouldn't have been such a fucking cock-up," Jack is saying. "We know better. I know better." He stops, takes a drink of the coffee, then puts it down before an emphatic gesture accidentally sends the cup and its contents flying across the flat.

"You did the best you could," Ianto offers. "We all did."

"Not good enough." Jack turns away, scrubbing his hands over his face. When he turns back to Ianto, his hair is skewed comically. Ianto's tempted to laugh, or to run his hands through it and smooth it. He does neither. Jack's in a rare mood tonight, and Ianto knows better than to interrupt him at a moment like this.

After a few seconds, Jack inhales deeply, then lets it out again in a long sigh. "I'm so tired of people dying, Ianto," he says, his empty eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the wall he's not seeing. "There's been too much death."

He's not just talking about Tosh and Owen, Ianto knows. The young PCs who died tonight were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and foolishly brave enough to try to deal with the thing they'd discovered crawling out of the Bay. They'd been friends of Gwen's, fellows of hers in training, before Torchwood claimed her. Gwen is, by now, finding solace in Rhys's arms; Ianto hopes that's the case, anyway. Jack had sent Ianto home -- ordered him away, more like, when Ianto'd offered to take Gwen back to her place. Ianto figures Jack had seen Gwen safely home and ensconced in Rhys's care, then come straight over here. More and more, the flat is becoming a sanctuary from Torchwood, and Ianto's weirdly glad of it. (Weird, because when he first leased it, he pictured living here with Lisa. Weird, because Torchwood and Jack are his life now. Weird, because Jack doesn't fit here -- but somehow he does.)

Ianto realises his thoughts have drifted when Jack clears his throat. He looks up and sees Jack standing right in front of him. Though he's smiling, it doesn't touch his eyes. Ianto manages a brief, tight smile in return. "Sorry," he says.

"You were a million miles away," Jack says. He takes the sweating bottle from Ianto's hand and sets it aside. His other hand slides over Ianto's hip, thumb hooking in a beltloop.

"So were you," Ianto replies, quirking an eyebrow. Jack chuckles, cups Ianto's cheek in one big hand.

"Take me to bed, Ianto," he says. "Make me stop thinking about things so much."

Ianto's more than happy to comply.

This dance is familiar, too, but learning the steps has only made them more aware of each other. Jack likes removing Ianto's clothes, undoing his tie and slipping it from his neck, working open buttons on Ianto's waistcoat, his shirt, sliding each garment off and letting them puddle in a careless heap on the floor. It's a stripping of demeanour as well as clothing; with each item gone, Ianto feels fractionally lighter, more able to breathe.

When they first started fooling around, the majority of Ianto's clothes generally stayed on his person. Jack was the first man he ever wanted physically; he was nervous about showing his body, even -- especially -- to someone as gorgeous as Jack Harkness. But Jack's gotten inside his defenses, under his skin, and these days Ianto much prefers being nude for Jack. Though he likes it even more when Jack's naked, too. Once Jack's finished skinning Ianto out of his clothes, Ianto returns the favour: skimming brace-straps down over Jack's arms, unbuttoning his shirt, dragging his belt off. Jack laughs and then hisses when Ianto skims his hands into the gap at the back of Jack's trousers.

Ianto uses the leverage of this position to pull Jack over to the bed. He nudges him and Jack goes eagerly, shedding his trousers as he goes. Jack raises an eyebrow; Ianto nods. "Like that," he says, "on your back," and watches as Jack sprawls out in a comfortable way, stretching his arms over his head, spreading his legs; his cock bobs hard on his belly and Ianto swallows. It should seem ordinary now to have Jack in his bed, and yet it never does. Every time, Ianto's taken aback by the sight of Jack, all golden skin and muscle and wolfish smile. He thinks it has something to do with the fact that Jack's in his bed, when he could be anywhere in the world.

"Ianto," Jack says, in a voice throaty with need.

Ianto nods, giving an apologetic smile, and kneels next to Jack on the bed. "Maybe I'm the one who needs distracting tonight," he says softly.

Jack's big hand cradles Ianto's cheek for a moment. "We both do," he says, drawing Ianto down to him for a kiss. It's slow and easy for only the first few seconds of contact; then Jack's tongue pushes into Ianto's mouth, demanding as ever. Ianto pulls back before it can go on too long, though, reaching to the box he keeps on the bedside table for supplies.

"I could tie you up," he says with an arched eyebrow as he settles himself over Jack's thighs.

Jack raises an intrigued eyebrow. "So you could, but if you were going to, you already would have."

Ianto nods. He slicks out a palmful of lube into his hand, flicking the cap shut with a practiced thumb (no more losing half the tube when someone puts an accidental knee on it, thank you very much) and reaches behind himself. Jack draws in a sharp breath and Ianto finds himself grinning. "Or I could just make you wait until I'm ready."

"M-much better way to torture me," Jack agrees in a strangled tone. His hands hook under the slats of the headboard, and Ianto takes a moment to appreciate the way this makes Jack's arms flex as he works one finger into himself and then a second. It's not the best angle, but he's content to take his time, twisting his fingers a little, pushing them in as deep as he can and drawing back to plunge in again. When he imagines that it's Jack's fingers in him, he groans. Jack echoes him, white-knuckled hands gripping the headboard.

Ianto drops a dark, heavy-lidded gaze on Jack, who's straining beneath him now, the color high in his cheeks and throat. "Need me, Jack?" he asks lazily.

"I'm fucking dying for you, Ianto," Jack hisses.

Ianto's throat tightens for a moment and he nods to the condom he'd dropped by the pillow. "Go on, then," he says. "Put it on."

Jack's eyes never waver from Ianto's face as he reaches for the condom, tears the foil open, unrolls the latex over his cock. Ianto removes his fingers from his body, runs a thumb over his palm, then reaches for the lube to slick Jack's cock up. It's not entirely for his own benefit; he likes doing this just for the way it makes Jack keen, shut his eyes and push helplessly into Ianto's grip. Jack's chest heaves and he opens his eyes again, blazing fierce blue demand at Ianto. "Please," he grits out.

Ianto feels as if he's moving on automatic now as he pushes up, inching forward on his knees, his hand still between his thighs to guide Jack's erection. The blunt round head presses at Ianto's opening, the muscle slick and parting easily for him, and Ianto lets gravity take over, gliding down, a slow careful ride until he's resting fully on Jack's hips and Jack's cock is buried to the hilt.

"Want to touch you, Ianto, let me--" Jack's voice is trembling. Ianto nods; he can feel the sweat blooming on his skin, on his chest and forehead, and when Jack's hands drift up to rest on Ianto's hips, Ianto brings his own hands to Jack's chest, fingers splayed over taut pectorals, and begins to move.

He's desperate to take it slow. They rarely do, and while Ianto loves the speed and heat of their encounters, he loves the moments they can savour even more. Even as he grinds down and lifts up, feeling Jack huge and full inside him, he tries to imprint every second of it in his memory: Jack's shuddering breaths, the roughness of his palms on Ianto's thighs, the air wafting over Ianto's freely bobbing cock, even the scent of rain faint from the open window over the bed.

It can't last; it never does, and Ianto wouldn't want it to. When Jack's fingers dig into Ianto's skin and his hips rock up in harder presses, Ianto goes with it, leaning forward with his hands fisted in the pillow to grind himself down on Jack. Hard and fast, now, and Jack pushes his head back and gives a shout loud enough to echo off the walls as the climax takes him.

Ianto sits back on Jack in relief, but before he can take himself in hand to finish off, Jack's hand covers his cock. Five strokes, ten, and Ianto's groaning something that might be Jack's name and slumping down over him.

"Stay like this," Jack whispers, hands soothing now on Ianto's back. "Just, just stay here."

Eyes closed, breath rasping, all Ianto can do is nod. In a moment he'll need to shift before his legs cramp, and they'll both want to clean up before they fall asleep, but for right now his whole world is Jack beneath and around and still in him, and he's content to think no further.

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this page last updated on 24 june 2009