Disclaimer: The BBC owns everything. I suspect sometimes that they even own me, but I haven't looked at the fine print in awhile.
*.*.*
Jack had been really serious about this date, it seemed, and nobody was more surprised than Ianto. He'd had this speech planned out, if Jack ever showed his face again after buggering off for months, but he hadn't expected to be asked to dinner so…earnestly.
He'd gone through so many emotions in the last twenty-four hours (even though the bloody timeline had reset itself, what kind of sense did that make?). He felt completely rung out.
Across the table, Jack was more skittish than Ianto had ever seen him. They'd exhausted the safe, small-talk topics of conversation pretty too quickly and they were trapped in awkward silence. Jack seemed happy enough without conversation, so long as he could touch.
It threw Ianto, it really did. Before Jack left, he had gotten used to the constant touching, but this was different. These weren't the suggestive, flirty caresses in the tourist office or around the coffee maker. There was more…substance to these. They were firmer, more pressing. It was as if Jack expected him to vanish into the ether at any moment.
Ianto didn't know what to do.
Part of him wanted to throw a tantrum, splash this glass of wine in Jack's face like a scene from one of the sappy romantic comedies Toshiko had brought 'round to his flat when they were too lonely to pretend they weren't bothered by their boss's vanishing act.
That part wanted to tell Jack off, to insist he wasn't to be treated like some part-time shag who didn't deserve so much as a "see you later." That he wasn't what Owen thought he was and he refused to be treated like he was.
He wanted to cry in frustration and weep in relief. He'd been sick with fear for so long now, constantly worried that his lover would never return or, even worse, was hurting or suffering. Or dead. Really and truly dead.
But he knew he'd never say a word about it. No amount of insecurity could prompt him not behaving in such an…unmanly way.
Part of him wanted to cave entirely and drag Jack back to his room, to show just how very much he was missed. He wanted to shake off the last few months of desolate, aching celibacy. He wanted to take those four months of loneliness and frustration and pour it into a single passionate, punishing encounter.
In the hours before their date, he'd begged off from the rest of the team and said he needed a nap. But he'd been too tired to sleep, as silly as that was. He laid awake, imagining inviting Jack back into his bed. He imagined waking up next to him, when the morning sunlight would highlight the fingertip-shaped bruises he'd leave on Jack's hips and the love bites he'd press into Jack's neck and shoulders. He imagined the languid, satisfied way Jack stretched when he was sore.
As much as he told himself he wanted to, he knew he wouldn't. Not when Jack's fingers were wrapped around his wrist like second skin.
Ianto didn't know what to do besides letting the silence wash over them. He let Jack cling to him, let him pretend that everything was perfect, that they could step right back into the way things used to be.
And Ianto pretended not to see the darkness hiding behind Jack's handsome blue eyes.
*.*.*
A/N: The prompt was "unmanly." Thanks for reading.