He looks so young when he sleeps.
Intellectually, I know he's only twenty-five, but it's easy to forget that during the day. He's so terrifyingly efficient at whatever he does, whether it's cleaning the Hub, hunting down weevils, or covering up our various activities. He's always professional in his perfect suits.
It's no easier to remember when he's naked in my bed…or against the wall…or on my desk. He's so eager, so willing. There is nothing he won't try once, and we've found very little he won't do again.
But when he's sleeping beside me, the mask falls away. Gone is the sardonic butler, gone is the insatiable lover, and in their place is a boy, innocent and pure. It makes me want to protect him, to shield him from the terrible things in this world. He'd be offended by that, sure it means that I think he can't handle it, which is not at all the truth—in some ways, I think he handles it better than any of us.
No, I just don't want him to have to deal with it. I want him to stay the innocent that he looks while he's sleeping. But to do that I'd have to lose him, send him away from Torchwood and all of the weights it puts on his young soul. And I'm too selfish to do that.
I would miss the coffee that appears at my elbow and the way my favorites are included in whatever takeaway he brings in. I'd miss the way the Hub is always clean and tidy, the way that perfectly concise reports appear on my desk, and the way things get taken care of without me even having to notice. I'd miss the way he rolls his eyes, and the sharp flashes of humor that have come more often lately. I'd dream of how his eyes go dark when I kiss him, of the devilish look on his face when his mouth and hands are on me.
But what I would miss the most are the moments when he wakes. In the first moments that he begins to focus, before he puts on the mask that is his second skin, his blue eyes are filled with such love. He's not the first to love me—over my long years, I've seen plenty of other eyes shine with that emotion—but he is the first to have known so much about me and still feel it. Not entirely on purpose—he's just such a good listener, and I've found myself telling him so much more than I'd ever intended. And knowing all that, and even though I know there are times I've been careless with his feelings, he still feels all of that for me. It's a miracle.
I don't want to return it—it hurts too much to open myself up when I will, inevitably, lose the one I love. But I think I may already be in too deep. I try not to think about it, to tell myself that we're just friends with benefits, as this century puts it, but at moments like this, I can't make myself believe that my feelings for him are so shallow. As I look at him, I know I want to keep him, to have him with me as long as I can even knowing what it will do to me when I lose him. It may not be the love that I know he dreams of, but it is probably as close as I can give him.
What a pair we are, with me unwilling to fall in love and him afraid to admit that he has. Both of us endlessly circling, not discussing emotions or defining what this thing we have might be. Maybe it needs to be said, or maybe we're better off not saying it. I don't know which is right. All I know is that I would not trade moments such as this one for anything, because he is so very beautiful when he sleeps.