Just a quick little one I couldnt get out of my head, Jack's POV


I watch him sleeping more than I would ever admit. He's caught me a few times, and I laugh it off with some lewd remark and bring my lips to his, distracting him from any further questions. But I spend more and more nights lately waiting for him to fall asleep first. Waiting for him to drift into unconsciousness so I can study him undisturbed.

I watch his chest rise and fall with each deep breath he takes, his lungs filling and emptying reminding me with every breath that he's here, he's alive. The steady beat of his heart under my fingertips, strong and reliable and constant. I could listen to that sound forever, the reassuring rhythm of blood pumping around his body, keeping the thought out of my mind that one day it will be silent and still.

I watch his hands, one laying on his stomach as the other rests next to his head, fingertips curled softly into his palm as he relaxes. I stroke his palm softly with my fingertips, tracing the delicate lines and smiling as his fingers twitch under my touch. Sometimes he'll unconsciously lace his fingers with mine, holding me in place next to him. He doesn't know he's already got a firm hold on me just by existing.

I watch his lips part softly with each soft snore, the most delicate of sounds that I cant help but smile at. I stare at those lips, imagining the feeling of them moving against my own, reliving the gasps and moans that escape them when we're together. My eyes follow their gentle curve, admiring the fullness of them as they rest almost in an adorable pout. This is when he actually looks his age, when his lips aren't pressed into that professional smile or his subtle little smirk that so often graces his features. But this unconscious innocence is reserved just for me.

I watch his eyes, that beautiful impossible blue hidden under heavy lids, dark lashes brushing gently over his cheeks. They shift minutely under his eyelids as he dreams, and I try to imagine what is running through his wonderful mind. Sometimes it must be something blissful, with the look of contentment on his face and I have to wonder, or hope, whether I'm part of it. Other times the darkness shrouds him, his face contorting in worry and pain, and I have to wonder whether I'm part of that too. At those times I whisper in his ear, soft murmurings of nothing in particular until his face relaxes once more. And the privilege I feel at having that ability is beyond anything I could have imagined.

I am studying every inch of him, committing each part of him to memory. Because one day, memories of him are all I'll have. And I don't plan on forgetting a single part of Ianto Jones.