sariagray

Title: Learning To Expect the Unexpected
Author:

sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: ~723
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Countrycide.
Warning: None.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. No one's paying me.
Summary: The following morning, Jack visits Ianto.
Author’s Note: Written for

jack_ianto_las. The prompt was "I didn't see that one coming...." Still unbeta'd.

Learning To Expect the Unexpected

“Well,” Jack begins as he leans back against the kitchen counter with his arms folded across his chest. “Cannibals, huh. I admit, I didn’t see that one coming.”

Ianto tugs at the tattered hem of his faded grey sweatshirt and gives a distracted nod in acknowledgement.

There is a wooden bowl of fruit next to where Jack inclines; an unripe pear, a battered apple minutes away from decomposition, and an orange that will probably last for weeks yet. There’s a metaphor in that bowl, too, if Jack could only take the time to find it. Right now, he’s more concerned about whether or not Ianto is eating the fruit, rather than using it as a model for an allegorical still life.

Besides, he’s relatively certain that Ianto doesn’t paint. Then again, he’s been “relatively certain” about a lot of Ianto-related facts before, only to be proven wrong at every turn.

“You don’t paint, do you?”

Ianto pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head wearily.

“Didn’t think so,” Jack confirms with a measure of satisfaction.

He glances around, still unaccustomed to the state of Ianto’s flat. It is lived-in, ordinary. A small stack of newspapers and unopened letters lies on the mahogany coffee table, a suit jacket is carefully draped on a dining chair, and a half-used bottle of cooking oil sits next to the stove. The cupboards are sparse, but far from bare, and everything is clean, if not sterile. It is entirely unremarkable and that confounding normalcy is perhaps the biggest secret Ianto Jones has ever kept. It leaves Jack at a complete loss.

In the unforgiving light of day, the mottled bruising on Ianto’s face appears even more grotesque. The explosion of dark yellow-green patches against his pale skin is sharp, disconcerting, and far too real.

“How are you?”

Ianto blinks bewilderedly at the question, so Jack reaches over and absentmindedly squeezes the orange as he waits for an answer. He picks it up, shifts it from one hand to the next as Ianto’s eyes track the movement and Jack pretends not to notice.

Jack has grown used to Ianto’s flustered and wary expressions in the past couple of months.

“Fine, sir,” Ianto finally speaks, his throat convulsing as it gulps down the lie.

Jack raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t directly challenge the brush-off. It’s far too obvious and to point it out would be insulting. And prodding Ianto, much like poking at a hermit crab, makes him retreat even further into his shell.

“Would you like some coffee, sir?” Ianto continues as he steps toward the gleaming machine.

Jack pauses, then nods. “Sure, thanks.”

The tightness in Ianto’s muscles seems to evaporate as he goes about grinding and measuring and tamping. Jack intently observes the graceful motion of Ianto’s hands as they flutter around the machine.

“You’re staring,” Ianto mutters without looking up.

“I am.”

A self-conscious flush tinges Ianto’s cheeks and Jack smiles. Placing the orange back into the bowl and pushing off from the counter, he approaches Ianto to press a hand against the small of his back. It’s meant to be reassuring, but he can feel Ianto tense at the contact.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” Jack whispers.

The machine gurgles out a stream of bitter coffee and the kitchenette fills with the warm, dark scent. A delicate tendril of steam escapes the top of the water tank and they both watch as it curls around them.

Beneath Jack’s hand, Ianto’s muscles clench and then relax. There is a sharp, decisive exhale of breath and suddenly Ianto is turning, grasping, pressing his mouth clumsily to Jack’s.

There is a gentleness in the placement of Jack’s hands as they instinctively find their way to Ianto’s hips, mindful of bruises and scrapes and other abuses. Ianto himself seems heedless of his own aches and pains, mouthing a pent-up need against Jack’s lips. Jack is dizzy, breathless with relief at its release.

Slowly, almost shyly, Ianto pulls away for either air or dignity. Jack holds him in place and touches their foreheads together.

“Didn’t see that coming, either,” he pants softly against Ianto’s cheek. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Ianto’s mouth quirks up into a half-smile.

“Your coffee’s ready.”

Jack gasps a startled laugh, and yet he’s not at all surprised. Not even a little.

The End