The passenger door of the SUV opens, and a pale, exhausted-looking young man clutching a white paper bag and a bottle of mineral water to his chest collapses into the seat beside Jack. He begins to tear at the bag in his desperation to reach the contents. Several small cardboard boxes spill out of the rip, one falling down between the two seats.
Jack watches Ianto's trembling fingers struggling with the packet as he reaches down to pick up the fallen medicine.
"Let me," he offers, or rather commands, as it upsets him to see the usually deft and elegant hands reduced to such clumsy fumbling. "How many do you need?" he asks, popping one of the small white tablets out of the blister pack.
"Two," comes the whispered answer, then: "Thanks," as he takes them from Jack's outstretched palm.
Jack watches him wash the tablets down with long gulps of water, closing his eyes and leaning back against the headrest. After this, Ianto visibly relaxes, breathing deeply and letting his shoulders fall; hands resting on his thighs. Jack finds it hard to tear his eyes away, as despite the pallor and lines of fatigue etched on his brow, he is still a beautiful vision. He yearns to stroke the stray lock of hair back off Ianto's forehead; to hold him and whisper comforting nonsense into his ear; to kiss those succulent lips again and again...
For God's sake, get a grip on yourself, this isn't helping. And in an attempt to quell his over-active imagination, he finds himself studying the packet in his hands.
Seroxat, 20 mg. Where does he know that name from? What are they for?
A sudden recollection: "Anti-depressants! Hell, Ianto, you had me so worried! I thought it was something serious," but even as he voices his relief, he realises that he's making a mistake. Meeting the wounded glare from the man in the passenger seat, he tries to make amends: "Oh God, I'm sorry, that came out all wrong. I was just..." Jack flounders, searching the face before him for absolution. "I was worried that I might lose you again," he adds softly.
Ianto is still staring at him, and Jack has the feeling that he is being judged. He tries to stay calm, to keep his face open and trustworthy. Evidently he succeeds.
Sighing deeply, Ianto looks out of the windscreen at the row of windswept trees before them. Then with a subdued voice, he begins: "It started after Canary Wharf. I'd lost everything: Lisa, my friends, my job. I couldn't sleep or leave the flat. I was a mess, but somehow I managed to pull myself out of it. Rhiannon helped," and with this there is a small, affectionate smile. "I moved back here for a few months, got a bit of counselling and eventually felt ready to go back to London. I had a job offer from a company I used to temp for; tedious work with dull people but I managed to cope with it for over a year."
Afraid to break the fragile trust, Jack forces himself to stay silent and still.
Ianto looks down at his hands, voice dropping to barely above a whisper: "That was when Cardiff went. It was too much for me. I kept having panic attacks. I didn't have anything left to live for." A shudder runs through his body. After a few deep breaths he continues: "After I got out of hospital I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and they put me on these, with a course of psychotherapy. That was well over a year ago, and I'm still on the highest dose you can safely take."
He seems to have finished, so Jack dares a question: "And the collapse this morning? Was that just because you missed a dose?"
Nodding, Ianto whispers: "You're not meant to stop taking them suddenly. You get all sorts of horrible symptoms. It brought back my panic attacks."
Sighing, Jack leans back in his seat and stares out at that row of trees, mesmerised by their dancing in the cold breeze. So much pain and sorrow for one man to cope with. He wants to help, but isn't sure what will be welcome. I need to be the understanding boss, a friend, nothing more, he tells himself. This is going to be really difficult.
"So, is there anything else I should know? As your employer?" he adds hastily, not wanting to seem like he is prying any further into private territory. "Are there any side-effects that might prevent you from fulfilling your duties?" Oh hell, now I sound like some kind of officious creep. But much to his surprise, the other man laughs. A short, sardonic chuckle, but still laughter.
"I'll be fine on these," shaking the packet of tablets, voice more confident now, "There are a few side-effects," he raises an elegant eyebrow, "but nothing that would interfere with my performance at work."
"You're sure?" Jack asks, "You won't get any more panic attacks? It can get pretty stressful at the Hub sometimes."
"I can imagine," Ianto responds, then pauses, staring into the distance. Moments pass before he turns to look closely at Jack, and continues with a soft voice: "Look, I'll make you a deal. If you keep all this to yourself, then I'll tell you if I'm in danger of having a relapse. I don't want Gwen and Rhys thinking I'm some sort of mentally unstable screw-up."
"Okay, that sounds like a fair deal to me," Jack agrees, eyes widening as Ianto stretches out his hand towards him. Those long fingers brush his as he takes back the packet of tablets, burning Jack's skin where they make contact.
Captain Jack Harkness swallows, clenches his jaw muscles and very deliberately calms his breathing to something more appropriate. His skin still tingles, tantalising him with possibilities he doesn't really want to think about right now. Not when he needs to concentrate on driving.
"Let's get back to work; you can make up for spilling my coffee by making me some more," he suggests, and glancing over at Ianto, he is rewarded with a small, but warm smile.
