Title: No Questions Asked
Rating: G
Character(s): Jack, Ianto
Summary: "When was the last time you asked me anything about my life?" Jack asks. Almost. For the schmoop_bingo on LJ, prompt: friend in need. As always, rather un-schmoopy.
Disclaimer: If I owned Torchwood, the boys would have had more screentime together, more sex, and Ianto would still be alive.
"'Night, Jack," Tosh calls. She's got her coat on and her hand bag slung over her shoulder and the cog door alarm whines for the third time that night. He gives a rather belated wave to the closing door.
The Hub is silent, except for the usual little noises that come to the foreground now that the's the only one here. The slide of water down the water tower, the hum of computers, the rustle of wings from Myfanwy's nest.
Shit. Ianto Jones. He's admittedly forgotten all about the newest team member, but Jack feels that he can't be entirely to blame, the way the boy blends in, fading into the background. Ianto Jones has only been here a week and he's already become essential to the Hub, keeping them fed, and clean and caffeinated. To be honest, he's never noticed the amount of grime and rubbish the Hub had collected until Ianto cleaned out ten bags full of rubbish on his first two days. Jack had felt somewhat bad about that, especially after the indifference that his team had shown the young man, but as he'd watched Ianto Jones get down on his hands and knees to scrub the autopsy room floor, he'd pushed those thoughts out of his head.
Where is he?
The Archive. Ianto had mentioned something during lunch about filing and the state of the paperwork. He has to be down there, though what the man is doing there at eleven at night instead of being outside drinking or on the pull is beyond him.
He bumps into the man halfway down the stairs. Ianto stumbles back and hangs for a moment on the edge of a step, throwing out his arms to grab hold of something, anything - which is Jack's shirt, even as Jack reaches out to seize him by his elbows.
It takes a moment for him to realize how close they are, close enough to feel Ianto's breath warm his cheek, close enough to see his red rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks. Jack inhales and the air carries with it the smell of salt and the memory of a warehouse and the feel Ianto above him-
"I'm sorry, sir, should've watched where I was going."
"Ianto-"
Ianto neatly -he does everything neatly, even move- disengages himself from Jack's grip and steps to the side.
"I was just leaving, sir," and his voice is husky, almost hoarse. If he doesn't look so downright miserable at the moment, Jack would let himself get turned on and make an innuendo, or a suggestion. Instead, he reaches out, but Ianto once again sidesteps.
"I'm fine, sir," he says firmly, even though Jack can so clearly see that he is not. "Good night."
Jack finds himself echo the words, and turns to follow his employee back up to the Hub, albeit at a slower pace, trying to give Ianto some space.
He's not going to press for answers. It's quite clear that Ianto Jones, for all his sly smiles and quick efficiency, is still suffering from the trauma of Canary Wharf. It makes Jack feel awkward. His way is giving comfort is mostly physical, and he knows the wonders that a rough fuck can do, one hard enough to forget the memories in the sensations of pleasure and pain. And as much as he'd like to peel Ianto out of those suits and see if he looks as good out of them as he does in them, he knows that isn't what Ianto needs right now.
So all he does is place a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder, only to find his fingers slip off the smooth cloth as Ianto quickly walks away.
Jack debates calling him back. Questions dance on the tip of his tongue: Do you want to talk? Can I do anything to help? I know how to make you feel better, woud you like me to? But he thinks better of it and keeps his mouth shut.
The cog door alarm goes off for the fourth time that night.
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On second, thought, Jack reflects, as he helps Tosh wash away the blood in the basement, he should have said, done, something, anything.
Fin