Rain falls over Cardiff in sheets, wind driving the drops against him as he stands, elbows firmly planted on the parapet around the edge of the roof. He lets his gaze run over Cardiff. From where he stands, atop the one of Cardiff's glass office towers, he can see most of the city: the Castle, half hidden by the rain; Cardiff Queen Street Station, passengers of the last trains leaving the building and running for cover; the Millennium Stadium. On a clear day, even the Bay would be visible from here.
Cold drops of rain slide down his neck under his collar, some of them travelling down his back, slowly evaporating. Shivering, he turns up the collar of his coat, so waterlogged by now it only sends more rain on to his skin. Letting out a tired sigh, he finds himself asking, yet again, how he ended up on the deserted roof on a night when, if he had any common sense, he would be home, dry and warm, and enjoying a nice cup of tea before bed. He's pretty sure that is exactly what he had in mind when he left the Hub a couple of hours earlier.
Down in the streets, the end of the day mingles with the beginning of a night out. Business people in suits and coats, clutching at briefcases and laptop bags, some of them halting a taxi as soon as it comes into view, others hoping to keep dry under umbrellas. All trying to get home, whether to a welcoming family or to an empty home. A group of young girls walks down the street, probably heading for St Mary and the pubs and clubs. All of them scantily dressed, wearing shoes completely inappropriate for the Welsh weather - regardless of season – and shouting to one another how cold and wet they are. He can't help the ironic smile and the thought that common sense is not exactly very aptly named.
The city seems to hold its breath in the impasse between day and night; he can't help wondering what is keeping other people out in the streets in this downpour. All in all, Cardiff is still Cardiff, its people are still alive and going about their business, whatever it may be. Life goes on, oblivious to the secrets and near-misses that he has to deal with on a daily basis. To the tragedy that seems to taint their lives almost every day.
He can't help thinking of Tosh... The look in her face this morning when she arrived with Tommy said it all. The pain, the knowledge that she was sending Tommy to his death, the heartbreak. Yet she somehow managed to soldier on and do what Torchwood required – demanded – of her. Such strength of character. More than he – or any of the others – ever showed.
Tiredly running a hand through his hair, he tries not to think of the price paid to maintain that thin veneer of safety and normality, to push away the terribly long roll of honour of those who died when their lives got tangled with Torchwood. He fights to ignore the seemingly endless list of names and faces he knows he will never be able to forget, the painful realization that each of those deaths left a tragedy behind, just like Tommy had left a heartbroken Tosh. He can't help wondering how many more will be added before the team is gone, before he is gone. Will anybody, when he is finally gone, keep the memory alive?
A door opens and closes silently somewhere on the roof; quiet footsteps approach him and stop a few paces away. A wry smile forms on his lips; Jack will of course remember him once he is no more. Just like he remembers all those who have shared his life, however briefly. A twitch in his heart makes him wish he could somehow ease Jack's burden; but he knows there is nothing he can do. Caught between the pain of being alone and that of losing those he loves, Jack always evades the topic when it comes up. But the way Jack clings to him on the rare occasions when they manage to catch a few hours of sleep together says it all.
"How did you find me?" He straightens his back and places his hands on the parapet. He doesn't need to turn around to know who is standing behind him. He knows the footfalls all too well. For a moment, the clattering of the rain on the roof is the only sound. "You can't have tracked the car. I walked." Silence clings on for a few more seconds as he takes off his mobile from the pocket of his coat. He had left it on. "At least you could have brought coffee."
"I wondered where you were. Your car was still at the Hub, but you weren't home," a voice murmurs behind him. The steps resume and Jack leans against the wall, elbows behind him. The greatcoat looks incongruously dry in the downpour, as it always does; only Jack's hair gives away the fact that he's probably as wet as Ianto is. "I just didn't expect you to be here of all places. I'm the one who's good on roofs, aren't I?" There's a hint of mischief in Jack's voice, but he can tell it's all facade.
He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, his gaze sweeping over the city, unable to find the words to explain why he choose this particular place in the whole of Cardiff. Looking down, he can barely make the concrete bench in front of the entrance; if he closes his eyes, he can imagine Jack splayed on it, his body limp and lifeless, after John Hart threw him off the building. He swallows hard. Pushes the image away before it brings with it the many deaths of Jack he may have never witnessed, but can picture all too well.
"You died here. Sort of," he mutters, keeping his eyes on the pavement below. Jack's smile seems to have frozen on his face as realization hits him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jack's hand make a move towards his, stop in mid air, and retreat back to where it was. It is still surprising to see Jack being so unsure of how to behave. Ever since Jack returned from his adventures with the Doctor – which is as much as they have managed to find out so far – he has been cautious. Always close and open enough to make sure he knows Jack wants to fix things between them, yet always careful not to overstep the mark, to get too close uninvited. "I needed time to think."
Jack doesn't ask, despite the questions showing on his face; he must have learnt the uses of patience while he was away. Ianto finds himself smiling, wondering what in a few months could have shown Jack what immortality hasn't managed to. Shaking his head, he realises he doesn't really want to know. Ignorance can be bliss sometimes. He aimlessly swings his left foot, hitting the wall he is once again resting his elbows on, reticent to break the silence.
"So, you walked. All the way from the Hub." Eventually it's Jack who speaks, eyes still lost somewhere in the distance. He nods. "In this rain." He nods again and looks down towards the ground. Then pushes himself back from the parapet just a little, before the realisation of just exactly how high up they are hits him. He's not afraid of heights. Which doesn't mean he likes them either. "Just to stand on that roof and think."
"Yup." He turns around and finds Jack starting at him. So he does the one thing he should know by now not to do, and holds Jack's gaze. "Are you going to tell me there are better places to think in Cardiff, including some that don't involve getting soaked to the bone?" Jack snorts, and he allows himself a little smile.
"No need to. I'm sure you already know that." There is just a hint of smile in Jack's eyes, and it's good to see that. There's been too much of Jack's skin-deep smile lately. "You are, after all, the local expert. Plus it would be a bit kettle, pot, black, like Owen says."
"Just a little." He tries – and fails – to hide his smile. Sometimes it's the small moments like this that make it easier to live the Torchwood life. To forget all the strange and wonderful and terrible things that happen within the confines of Torchwood and hold on to a strand of sanity that may break at any second. Yet he wouldn't have it any other way.
"Sometimes you think too much." Jack looks away, back into the distance in the night. "It'll be the death of you, someday." A pause, as if Jack had just noticed what he's just said. Anybody else would try to fix it, to take it back. Jack doesn't, which is refreshing. They just stare at each other for one long moment, a silent battle of wills. Neither of them looks away.
"I'd rather too much than too little, thank you." He smiles, despite the snark in his voice. He knows what Jack means: too much thinking can be paralysing, just like it had been at some points during their nightmare in the Brecon Beacons. "Too little thinking can make a man reckless, or uncaring." Jack winces, as if taking offence in the remark, then smiles, that bright, undecipherable grin that triggers so many unexplained reactions in him.
"Point," Jack concedes. "Care to share with the class?" He states at the night sky, stars hidden by the lights of the city. It's somewhat disturbing to think that light can actually hide things rather than make them visible. One of those little ironies.
"Life is short, at least for some of us." Jack gives a barely perceptible nod; seeing the shadow in Jack's eyes, he can't help but wonder how short even a normal lifespan must seem to Jack, let alone the brief flame of a life dedicated to Torchwood. "Sometimes it is hard to make the most of it."
Turning to face Jack, he takes a step forward. Jack stares at him as if he didn't know what to expect. Without warning, he closes the gap between them, pressing his lips to Jack's and bringing up his hands to cup his face, not wanting to let go. The sudden movement sends more raindrops down his neck, but he barely notices it: Jack's hands holding his head in place and the way Jack moans when Ianto bites his bottom lip soon drive the cold away. Jack leans into the kiss with a passion that takes him by surprise even after last night; it feels like Jack has been starved of human contact for too long. He holds Jack firmly, hoping to drive away all their demons, at least for a moment.
"Let's go somewhere dry," he says when they break for air. Jack smiles like a child on Christmas morning at the sight of presents under the tree. Putting his hands in his pockets, he starts walking towards the building entrance, followed a second later by a still surprised Jack.
"Hadn't seen you be so forward in a long time, Mr. Jones," Jack calls after him. "Anyone may think you are trying to get me into your bed."
"Well, anyone would be right." Jack nearly crashes into him as he turns around, a stern look on his face. "I'm tired of running around, Jack, of treading carefully around each other because of all the shit we've been through. These past two days made me think." He looks straight into Jack's eyes, gauging the expression on his face. "You may have forever. I could be gone any day." Jack winces as he hears those words and tries to cut in; Ianto places a finger on his lips to keep him quiet. "Let's leave the past where it belongs."
Jack nods, eyes still locked on his. As he moves away, heading for the door, Jack grabs his right hand and pulls him back into his arms, head buried in the crook of his neck, arms wrapped around him. Startled, he takes a moment to react and hold Jack back, shivering with a sensation that has nothing to do with the cold seeping through his clothes. Jack murmurs something he can't quite make out, but sounds soothing nevertheless.
Before he knows it, he's undone a couple of buttons of Jack's shirt and is sneaking a hand under it, pulling at the undershirt, looking for skin. A part of his brain reminds him it is raining, he's wet to the bone and they should really be somewhere dry. The rest of him doesn't care. Jack lets out a moan and soon they are both pulling at each other's clothes, shakily undoing belt buckles and buttons while somehow trying to stay under the meagre protection that sodden coats offer.
Jack's teeth trail on his neck, just over the collar of his shirt. His fingers dig on Jack's waist, then crawl up to trace the outline of bone and muscle. Jack seems to radiate enough heat to drive away the rain and the cold soaking his bones. It feels as if everything Jack has been holding back since he returned suddenly were suddenly loose and pouring out. They kiss again, and pretends not to notice the salty taste of tears mixed with the rain on Jack's face.
Jack pushes him back until his back hits a wall, and he panics for a second before he realises it's not the parapet, but the staircase well. Before he knows it, Jack is on his knees in front of him, pulling at his clothes. Cold air hits him but barely registers before Jack's hot mouth wraps around his cock. He treads a hand in Jack's hair, trying to ground himself on something solid, something real, before the sensations overwhelm him.
"You'll be taking those trousers to the dry-cleaner's." He's not really sure how he manages to keep a steady voice. Jack chuckles, and he shivers. His hand tightens on Jack's hair. A part of him reminds him this is Jack's favourite distraction when trying to avoid a conversation, or not-so-subtly change the topic. He raises an eyebrow and looks down, taking in the sight. Frankly, at the moment, he couldn't care less.
Jack's hand trail up his stomach, rough fingers on sensitive skin, nails almost scratching on their way down. He nearly hits his head on the wall behind him. He wants more, and to Hell with common sense and its almost-gone-but-not-quite reminder of insignificant things like the fact that it's raining, or that they are on the roof of a building. Jack looks up. He hooks a finger under that tempting jawline and pulls Jack up. He wasn't exactly expecting the train of kisses and bites up his chest as Jack slowly, in his own time, stands up.
"Just the trousers?" Barely a whisper in his ear. Jack's pushing him against the wall, holding him in place, hands wandering all over his body, and damn it, he's losing it. He manages to take a step sideways and somehow turn the tables on Jack. Jack chuckles again, even with his bare chest pressed against the wall, and doesn't even try to get away. The waterlogged greatcoat feels cold on his skin.
"You knelt on the ground." He sneaks a hand into Jack's right pocket and can't help but smile when he finds lube in there. "In the rain." Sneaking a hand between Jack and the wall, he undoes Jack's trousers. They fall to the ground with a satisfying thud. "There was no need for it." He bites Jack's neck, that spot just above the collar that always makes Jack moan, as he tries to get the greatcoat out of the way.
"You seemed to enjoy it." The lube feels even colder than the rain when he spreads it on his cock. Jack's hip move back, pressing against him, demanding and offering at the same time, and how on Earth Jack manages that will probably always be a mystery to him. He wraps an arm around Jack's waist and pulls him away from the wall, holding him in place when Jack tries to turn around. Slowly, one careful step after another, he guides Jack towards the parapet and places a hand between Jack's shoulder blades. Jack, obediently – he almost has to snort at the thought – bends forward and leans on the parapet.
"Not. The. Point." It all feels familiar, yet different as he pushes inside Jack. He swallows hard and leans forward, wrapping a hand around Jack's cock. There's a tangle of moans and needy noises, of shoes scuffing on the ground, of uncoordinated movement. Rain slides down exposed skin, cold and unexpected in the heat between them. He looks up, past Jack, to the lights of the city, and something inside him shouts that this – love and sex in the rain and friendship and human connection – is really what life is about.
"No?" Jack is panting, and it makes him smile. He leans down and bites Jack's side, just above the hipbone. Jack comes with a strangled moan that seems to mix release and want for more, almost losing his footing. He wraps an arm around Jack's waist, holding him in place. Then Jack moves his hips just so, and he doesn't even have time to ask how Jack can manage muscle coordination now before pleasure hits him and he all but collapses on top of Jack.
Of course, they end up on the ground, laughing like schoolchildren who just pulled off the best of their pranks. It is what happens when said ground is slippery, and neither of them has functioning brain at the moment. It's that quiet laughter that they rarely share. One of those things that remind him that life carries on. He reaches into this pocket, bringing out a handkerchief, and slowly they regain both composure and breath.
Jack leans towards him and kisses him, all want and a hint of bite, before pulling away and almost jumping to his feet. He looks up, raising an eyebrow, and accepts the hand Jack offers him. It takes a bit of shaking his coat and trousers and rearranging of clothes before he feels ready to face the world again.
"Nothing changes." Not sure exactly why, but it seems appropriate right now.
"Some things do." Jack gives him a smile. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Though sometimes not the ones we want." There is a bitter edge in Jack's words; not resentment, but the resignation that comes with the acceptance of life as a whole, with its varying proportions of lights and shadows. He swallows the knot in his throat and nods.
Without another word, Jack starts walking towards the promise of dryness and warmth of the corridors.
"Coming?" Jack glances back at him before disappearing through the door. With a sigh, he follows Jack into the building, trying to shake some water off his hair. Some things never change. Some others, he's not sure he'd like them to.