Jack sat in his fluffy dressing gown, hair still spiky with dampness, his feet up on an ottoman, a file in his hand that he was pretending to review. What he was really reviewing was his lover's denim-clad posterior as he stood at the counter, slowly, slowly pouring hot water into the pour-over filter. Ianto's bottom aside, it was a fascinating, absorbing tableau.
For a long time, Jack had wondered just what Ianto did with that stopwatch when he wasn't timing revivifications with the Risen Mitten or increasing that running list of "Things You Can Do with a Stopwatch in the Bedroom". Now it became clear that it was a part of the science to the art of Ianto's coffee perfection. Eyes fixed on the ticking antique, Ianto would slowly drizzle a spiral into the waiting ground beans – which had been just as meticulously measured and hand-ground while the kettle boiled.
It was another interesting contrast between them. Jack Harkness, a man for whom time no longer held any meaning that could be grasped by the human mind, had no patience at all to do something so… fiddly. Jack was always in a rush, a flurry of energy and movement. He'd have ended up chucking the whole lot out the window after pouring the water in like he was making a cup of tea, severely under-extracting the coffee into a sour, miserable misfortune.
Ianto Jones, a man whose life-expectancy was more likely to be measured in months than years, seemed happiest when still, quiet, and well-ordered. He could certainly never be called sluggish or meandering, but barring any end-of-the-world crises, Ianto was never fast.
Ianto's motto was "Perfection cannot be rushed."
Jack's was, "Sufficient is good enough, as long as there's lots of it. Now."
Quality versus quantity.
As Jack watched Ianto's pouring ritual, he remembered something he'd said to Ianto months ago during a very different time in their wholly unique… association? Acquaintance? Relationship?
"You're coffee isn't even always that great."
He'd known that was hitting below the belt, but he'd said it anyway. There had been so much enmity between them that Jack hadn't cared that he was aiming for what was quite possibly the only shred of pride Ianto had left. Jack regretted it now, of course. How could every cup of Ianto's coffee possibly produce the same sublime experience when the young man was gradually, unwittingly sacrificing everything he was to a horrifically patient cyberman?
Sometimes Jack wondered how they had come through that nightmare and everything that surrounded it, but then, maybe some of the same stuff that forced Jack back to life after every death had an effect on less-tangible things, too.
Eventually, Jack gave up pretending to even know what he was supposed to be reading and gave over to just watching Ianto pour while subconsciously humming along to Vaughan Williams' "Dives and Lazarus" variants on the radio. While Jack certainly lacked the forbearance for creating perfection himself, he was pretty sure no one else had a deeper appreciation of those moments of distilled perfection that sometimes presented themselves.
Jack realized he'd been caught wrapping up in staring when Ianto turned around with two mugs of coffee and raised a brow at the folder relegated to the arm of the sofa. Jack ducked his head slightly. "Sorry, it's mesmerizing watching a master craftsman at work," he shrugged.
Ianto just smirked and handed Jack a mug as he sat down. "I'm sure you were committing every detail of the coffee-making process to memory."
"Would if I had even a fraction of your patience," Jack said, unable to suppress a smile as he sipped what proved to be one of Ianto's finest handiworks.
"I do possess an excess of patience," Ianto admitted. It would have been false modesty to demur the obvious. "Give me those reports?"
"No, I'm going through them, honest," Jack protested.
"You're not. Drink your coffee first, at least. You're still recovering," Ianto said, idly stroking the back of Jack's neck. It had been a lucky thing that the alien last night had only struck a half-blow and didn't manage to severe Jack's head completely.
Suddenly, with Ianto's fingers lulling him and his coffee warming him, Jack didn't feel like objecting and handed Ianto the file. "Thanks for letting me stay last night," he said.
Staying over wasn't usually something they did unless they accidentally fell asleep together after tiring one another out. There hadn't been any of that last night, though. Ianto had just suggested Jack come back with him and get a proper night's rest in a proper bed, instead of that glorified cot Jack kept in the damp, chilly Hub. Death by exsanguination often left Jack less focused and slightly off-balance, not to mention cold, for some while after coming back, so he'd just agreed and let Ianto sort everything.
It was Ianto's turn to duck his head and he slowly removed his arm from Jack's shoulder as if recognizing how domestic the scene appeared. "Just… didn't think you should have to be alone."
Ianto's hesitation saddened Jack but he knew he couldn't point it out. Instead, he reached over to rest his hand on Ianto's knee. "It's a rare thing, kindness," Jack mused. "And it makes a difference. Don't ever let anybody or anything tell you otherwise."
Ianto looked up at Jack for a long moment, then closed his fingers over Jack's and gave just a little squeeze, a thanks of his own.