Ianto Jones loved Jack Harkness.
The sudden realization that he entertained such a dangerous emotion for the captain left him stunned with the intensity of a sledgehammer to the forehead and made the strength disappear from his knees. He staggered and came close to dropping the plate of sandwiches he had arranged for the staff, catching it in time to save lunch, but leaving the unfortunate impression that he'd slammed the silver tray down hard enough to make it ring against the conference table on purpose.
Gwen looked up in surprise. Owen favored him with a desultory sneer. Toshiko rendered a searching look of concern.
"Sorry," he mumbled automatically. "I tripped." He concealed his face to hide the blush that had crept into his cheeks, burning them scarlet.
He had been thinking of Jack. Of how Jack would smile one of his wide, happy smiles of delight when he came bounding into the room after securing yet another alien device in the vault. Crisis averted. Cardiff safe from threats for another day. He would pick up a triangle of sandwich and eye it with naked hunger before biting down enthusiastically.
He was a messy eater, just as he was a messy lover. But the crumbs and the stains were worth the result: a happy, sated Jack whose good mood was so infectious, one couldn't help but smile indulgently.
And that's when Ianto realized he found the captain and all his larger than life habits not only endearing, but lovable. That his feelings had evolved from grudging tolerance toward a convenient shagging partner, to something much more tender and thus, much more difficult.
Because while Ianto was certain that Jack liked him, even enjoyed his companionship when they weren't screwing each other senseless, it was rare indeed when he gave the impression that Ianto could be anything more to him. There were occasional flashes. Times late at night when Jack would look at him with such open vulnerability, with longing and want. There were times when he gave the impression that if Ianto were only bold enough to ask, if it was in Jack's power to grant, he would make it so.
And then whatever he imagined he saw would disappear. Gone as if it had never been.
Ianto chalked it up to tricks of the light. To projecting his own soppy post-coital feelings. Or possibly, to Jack remembering some long ago lover who had managed to creep through his defenses before they had become impenetrable.
And Ianto had no illusions about those either. Jack Harkness had many weapons in his emotional arsenal. He shouted. He blustered when it suited him, but he could also quietly wield the powers of command granted by HRM. Sex appeal was his two-edged sword. He could charm the birds from the trees or seduce a SOCO with a smile when he chose to, but more often than not, it was one more tool to keep people off balance and at arm's length.
When others complained, Jack protested he was being friendly. Occasionally, if pressed, he admitted to playing games. But Ianto knew in a world where they handed out Retcon like candy, obliterating memories of aliens and death, Jack liked to leave an impression. Ianto had from time to time been required to talk to people after they had encountered Jack and their stories were more often than not, wildly inaccurate, if not occasionally bordering on the mythological.
Jack only let people in so far before he pushed them away, leaving them utterly baffled as to what exactly had occurred when the handsome stranger walked out of their lives with a wink and a leer. He did it with his team, vacillating between his desire to be one them, teasing and chatting like one of the lads and then suddenly assuming his mantle of Captain: cold and hard and unapproachable.
Ianto knew a little about Jack's past. Though the records were strangely redacted, there were puzzling clues and references to J.H., J. Harkness, and CJH. There were mentions of secondments to military units during war times. And there was the brutal millennium massacre at Torchwood Three. Perhaps that played some part in his peculiar behavior. The need to be close, but not so close that the loss of others would cause too much pain.
He could relate to that. The fall of Torchwood One. The brutal death of so many friends and colleagues haunted him still. Ianto could count the number of new acquaintances he'd made since then on one hand. And some days, even that felt like he was stretching the definition.
Jack liked to tell stories. About men. About women. About aliens whose gender was hard to pin down. He smiled fondly in remembrance. Sometimes, he laughed in pure, unadulterated delight when he recalled his exploits.
One evening, Ianto had made the mistake of noting that perhaps that was why Jack slept in a camp bed; that there wasn't any bedpost left to notch. Jack had grown quiet at that. He'd asked Ianto what he was implying and gave him one of those undefinable looks.
Ianto had backed off, made a hasty comment about his own inadequate level of experience, and with a naughty smile, suggested Jack teach him something new.
Jack had grinned at that, the melancholy in his eyes disappearing as quickly as it arose, suddenly replaced by a hungry look that made Ianto feel like the prize chocolate in a sweet shop.
He had been left punch drunk on endorphins, too blissed out to dress himself properly, much less give coherent thought as to why his sarky comment had caused that look in Jack's eyes. It wasn't until much later, in the quiet of the archives, that he realized that in his own way, Jack had cared for all those nameless lovers. He had valued their uniqueness. Unintentionally, Ianto had slighted them all and Jack had taken offense on their behalf.
There was no way he loved them. Just as there was no way Jack loved him. Jack had made it clear that he didn't do love. Naked fun games were good enough, thank you very much. Who needed emotional entanglements when the universe was his bedroom?
But in that moment, between nearly dropping the tray and turning his back to compose himself, Ianto decided it didn't matter. He loved Jack Harkness. And though he might never utter the words, he could show Jack how he felt. Safely. Carefully. Never doing anything overt that would betray his feelings. Never giving Jack a reason to push him away.
He poured coffee into Jack's favorite mug and arranged an extra biscuit on the saucer before placing the cup just where he knew the Jack would expect it to be.
And then he had a second epiphany.
He was a patient man.
If Jack Harkness, a man upon whom he'd vowed bloody vengeance, could creep into his heart, then perhaps he could do the same. He would be the perfect butler. The indispensable secretary. The loyal soldier. He would perform his tasks faithfully and without complaint. He would tend to Jack, and the rest of the team, selflessly. It would be his mission. And gradually, perhaps Jack would lower his guard and let him in.
He looked down on Jack's waiting lunch, so carefully prepared. As first steps went, it was a little thing, practically trivial. But sometimes little things made all the difference in the world.