Ianto Jones was a clever man. Perhaps not a genius like Tosh, but nevertheless he was easily above the average. He didn't boast about it. He had the cleverness to hide his cleverness.
He saw the things that no one else could see. Maybe, he didn't really know everything, but he noticed everything. He saw the details which nobody cared about. He had learned their language, sometimes more eloquent than any word.
And now that all that stuff with John Hart was over. Now that they were back in this small room under Jack's office, lying in this so familiar narrow bed, he knew that there was something else. He knew that there had been more than just a little trip in the stars with the famous Doctor.
Now that he held him so close, touched him and kissed him, he knew, with an absolute certainty, that Jack had lied. That he hid something deep inside him about his disappearance. Something wrong and very, very ugly.
He was able to see the tears hidden behind his closed eyelids. He could hear the painful whimpers under the moans of pleasure. He could feel his shaking hands, holding him so tightly that he was winded. He didn't miss the way Jack called his name, almost as a plea.
But he wouldn't ask for the truth. He didn't need it. He was clever and he was patient. No matter how long it would be, Jack would tell him. Maybe not the whole story, of course, but the essentials. The part which he needed to share to lighten his burden.
And he would be there. Ready to soothe him and to carry the load with him. Because he knew when to talk and when to be silent and to listen. And that was what Jack needed, more than anything else. It was Ianto's raison d'être.
So he just leaned in and whispered softly to his ear:
"I'm here, Jack."
Jack's breath caught in his throat, then, slowly, he opened his eyes. Two tears dripped along his temples, while they stared at each other, and he replied hoarsely:
"I know."