He nearly drops his bottle at the words. He's pretty sure Jack doesn't mean bridge partners. Something in his eyes, in his voice, in the way he's still staring at him, not even blinking.
"In what way?" The words barely come out. Jack gives him a tired smile, as if this were some kind of private joke he is not getting.
"Just about any you can think of." Jack lifts a hand towards him, freezes, and lets it drop on the sofa, between them. "And then some." So much pain in that voice.
"Oh." He raises his eyebrows, brain going over everything that happened since he woke up. Gwen's claims that he could convince Jack where she couldn't. Jack breaking down and seeking refuge from the world in his arms. The way Jack stared at him as he made the terrible decision.
"Or at least we were, before you lost your memories." He swallows nervously, head spinning, and looks away. He doesn't know this man, yet he has no doubt he is telling the truth. Something stirs deep inside him again, the same certainty that this is right, even if it makes no sense in his head. And it scares him.
Taking a deep breath that doesn't help him calm down, he forces himself to look at Jack again. The pain in those eyes hits him hard, and the need to do something to ease it takes over, and everything just becomes too much. Leaving his beer on the table, he gets up and walks out of the room, feeling more than finding his way to the bedroom. Why is he gasping for air? He closes the door behind him and leans on it. What is he running from? His knees give in under him as he slides down to the floor.
Deep breaths. Slow, calming, deep breaths. He pushes away the uneasy feeling that Jack is standing on the other side of the door, wondering. He has no idea how long he's been sitting there by the time he finally gets back on his feet and turns the light on. He curses at the sight of the mess, even if it is not as bad as the living room, and starts picking clothes from the floor and throwing them in the laundry basket in the bathroom.
His head is still spinning when he drops the basket back in its place. The room doesn't look much better, but it'll take more than picking a few things things up from the floor to tidy it up. He runs a hand through his hair; the whole world seems to come crashing over him. With a sigh, he runs the shower, the mist and heat building up strangely relaxing as he unbuttons his shirt and places his cuffs by the sink. His shirt, underwear and socks join the rest of the laundry; his trousers will need to dry-cleaning.
The first jet of water on his skin takes the world off his shoulders. He just stands there, letting the water wash away dirt, tiredness and worries all the same, giving his aching body a chance to relax and recover from events of the last day... and everything before that he can't remember. He tries not to think and concentrates on the collection of shampoos and shower gels on the small shelf in the corner. Someone else must live here – he's pretty sure he wouldn't need that many products.
It's easy to forget the strangeness of the last hours as water pelts on his head and muffles the sounds of the world outside, creating an abstract rhythm that not even his hands and the sweet smell of shampoo can compete with. It's easy to keep the thoughts at bay as he picks one of the shower gels – smells minty – and lets out a satisfied sigh as he washes and rinses thoroughly. He can't stay in the shower forever – sooner or later he'll have to step out and face the chaos. Swallowing hard, he cuts the water, and leans his forehead on the still warm tiles around him, reaching blindly behind him for a towel.
Stepping out of the shower, he dries himself and wraps the towel around his waist. He stops on his tracks when his eyes fall on the basin again. Two toothbrushes. Definitely someone else lives here. With shaky hands, he opens the cabinet on the wall. Two different types of razors. Shaving gel. Paracetamol, and some other pills with a name too long to pronounce and a much more helpful "painkillers" written in neat, old-fashioned handwriting. If there had been any doubt in his mind about Jack's claim that they were partners, it wouldn't have lasted long.
He freezes when he hears the knock on the door. Grabbing his trousers and the cufflinks, he steps back into the room and takes yet another deep breath he knows won't calm him down, but may at least help him focus.
"Come in." His voice sounds more confident than he feels. He doesn't turn around as the door opens, and Jack steps in, the wooden floor creaking under his feet. Without a word, he checks the pockets before putting the trousers on a chair, and leaves the cuffs atop the chest of drawers where another five or six pairs are sitting, along with the mobile he just fished from the front pocket. He starts rummaging through the wardrobe, trying no to think too much about the obvious lack of anything but suits in it.
"What are you looking for?" Jack is leaning on the wall now, arms crossed in front of him, looking a bit like a lost child, despite the smile and the soft voice. There is something else in that look, something he can't quite put his finger on. Images flash in his head again, too fast to catch anything. The feeling remains, deep inside, that this is right – Jack in his bedroom, drawing comfort out of each other's company. He can't remember the last time he didn't feel an overwhelming urge to get dressed when someone caught him wearing nothing but a towel. Not that not remembering means anything right now.
"Jeans. Tshirts. That sort of stuff." Jack snorts, as if he didn't believe his ears. "There's got to be some in here, I can't believe I only own suits!" Jack's smile widens, and he smiles back. At least, the suits seem to be immaculately pressed and kept. Jack shifts uncomfortably on the wall, as if he weren't sure whether to move forward and help, or stay where he is. "Please tell me we don't have a formal dress code at work."
"Third drawer on your right." He nods, relieved to find something casual for the morning. "And no, we don't. Although you look good in a suit." Stealing a look at Jack out of the corner of his eye, he can't even begin to imagine what he's going through. He definitely looks like a man used to carrying the weight of the world on his shoulder, he has that same look that his Tad used to have when he was a child and his old man still the hero that could sort everything out. But every kid thinks his father is a superhero at some point, until they grow up and realise parents are just human. Jack has that same aura about him, even to him. He looks like someone that will carry on, regardless of what life throws at him.
"Pyjamas?" He's babbling again, words leaving his mouth before he has a chance to think about it. It feels strange that somebody else knows more about his life than he does. Part of him just wants to go to sleep, hoping he'll wake up in the morning and it will all have been a really bad dream. Part of him knows he'll just wake up to the same emptiness in his head when he looks back.
"No idea." He shoots Jack a questioning look. "You don't wear them much." He turns around, feeling the blush heating his cheeks. Opening yet another drawer at random, he finds some old tshirts and pyjama bottoms. That will do for now. He retreats to the bathroom again, half-closing the door as he slips into his clothes and leaves the towel in the rack again.
All of sudden, it clicks. What he's been seeing in Jack's eyes ever since he woke up. Even though he can't remember, to Jack, he is still his partner. The one he's been living with, judging by the many little things around him. At the very least, the one at whose place he's been spending enough time to justify sort of moving in. That must mean it is... or was... serious. And Jack has lost that as well. On a day where Hell walked on Earth and probably all he needs is some comfort, a drink and a good night of sleep.
With a sigh, he walks back into the room, heads for the bed and starts straightening the covers, wondering once more why, despite not remembering anything, he still feels this need to do something to ease Jack's pain. He shakes his head, trying to think straight.
"What did Johnson's men want with us? Why this mess?" Pushing the covers away, he sits on the edge of the bed. "Were they looking for something?" Jack snort-laughs again, and the sound makes him smile. And wonder how Jack manages to smile after the day he's had.
"They were probably trying to find where else you could be hiding." Jack looks around him, and raises his eyebrows. "Must have found something in your living room, since they didn't make it to the bedroom." He's giving Jack a puzzled look by the time he realises he's moved at all.
"Are you... telling me... this is...?" He gestures around, to the bits of clothing still scattered on the floor despite the ones he's already picked up, the halfway made bed, the general state of everything. Does he really put up with that sort of chaos? Judging by his impeccable dressing and the state of his wardrobe, he had assumed he has a penchant for keeping a place for everything, and everything in its place. Maybe he does, but not all the time.
"Just as we left it." Jack nods, and shadows fall on his face. And there it is again, the haunted look of a man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. The demons. The need to run away from it all. "I should go. I'm sure you need some sleep..." He shakes his head. Suddenly the idea of being here on his own makes him shiver, and not in a good way, even though a moment ago he needed it.
"You really want to be on your own after the day you've had?". In his ears, it sounds to much like admitting he doesn't. Which, come to think about, is true. There's something more than that in the back of his mind, something he can't really focus on. As if part of him were screaming at him, and he couldn't hear what it is saying. Another look at Jack, the tired air around him, gives him the answer. "Not thinking of doing something stupid, are you, Jack? Someone's got to explain all this to me." He aims for lighthearted and misses by a mile.
"It's not like I can die, Ianto." Jack bites his lip the moment the words leave his mouth, in a gesture that makes Ianto want to... he's not sure exactly what. He doesn't want to think about it either, not right now. There's a time and a place for everything. The words slowly sink in, and he knows Jack is not kidding. Closing his eyes, he takes yet another deep breath; hyperventilating doesn't sound like such a bad option today. "I shouldn't have..."
More flashes, and this time one image sticks in his head for long enough: Jack, in his arms, a crimson stain on his chest, gasping for air, hands coming up to grab him, a terrified look in his face. Snatches in time... is that all that remains of his memories? But this...this can't be true. Can it? It couldn't be a fatal shot that Jack recovered from, could it? That would make him... not immortal, but... nearly.
And that would explain why Jack seems to smile down at everybody like a father to his children. He's been around for long enough to see the world in a way others, in their short lifespans, simply cannot.
"I need to know." Barely a whisper, because he doesn't have air for more. "Who I am, what I do, who I care for. Who I love." He looks at Jack, and he's pretty certain he's pleading for something, even if he doesn't know what. Even if he doesn't really want to know what. "I need to remember." Jack takes a few steps, and sits on the corner of the bed. Close, but not quite. Guarded. As if he didn't know how to behave around him, how he will react. Fair enough. He's not even sure himself.
"Lucky." Pain and shadows again. "I need to forget."
"No." Jack raises his head and looks at him, a bit confused, a bit hurt, a bit... lost. "You shouldn't forget. As long as you remember, Steven is alive." Jack lets out a sigh, then nods. Other faces race in his mind, old sepia photographs of people he's sure he's never met, young people that could still be alive and happy out there yet something deep inside tells him are gone as well.
"It's not easy." He can't help a small smile. "Carrying on when everything goes to shit."
"Nobody said it is." Lifting a hand, he pats Jack's shoulder, half wishing Jack will react to hit, half hoping he won't, not really sure which side he wants to be right. When Jack grabs his hand, just like he did earlier, the touch burns and heals at the same time, and it all crashes down on him. Again.
It feel strange to let Jack wrap his arms around him, to fall down on the bed burying his head in Jack's chest and just feeling the warm presence beside him, around him. Closing his eyes, he pushes away the questions, the many things that he knows he will have to adjust to. He tries not to think, lets his body take over and relax. He's holding on to Jack as if he were the only lifeline in the middle of the storm he's caught in. And, as much as it freaks him out, he's just not ready to let go. Just as good that neither is Jack, by the look of it.
Some time later, Jack tries to pull the covers over them; it takes a bit of reshuffling and moving, yet neither of them pulls away. Jack brings a finger to his lips when he tries to speak, so he just moves closer. It feels right. He'll deal with the rest in the morning.
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