4. Bourbon

Ianto hated bourbon. He hated it straight, he hated it over ice, he hated it mixed. Which was why he had no idea how he'd managed to finish another glass at the local a few blocks from his flat. But Jack had called him that morning to tell him his suspension was over, and that Ianto should return to work on Monday. As soon as they'd hung up, Ianto had wasted no time in grabbing his coat and making for the nearest pub, where he decided he'd spend the rest of the weekend suitably pissed. That way he wouldn't have to think about returning to the place where his girlfriend had died, to the coworkers who had shot and killed her and didn't give a damn about either one of them.

It wasn't that he didn't want to return to Torchwood. Torchwood was, in many ways, all he had now. He'd enjoyed his work in London until it had been wiped out by an arrogant meglomaniac in stilettos and a robotic army from another dimension, and he liked Torchwood Cardiff even more. It was everything London was not—impulsive, messy, disorganized, barely surviving by the seat of their pants—and yet it worked. Torchwood Three saved the world on a weekly basis and did not compromise their morals to do so. Ianto appreciated that even more after the disaster that was Canary Wharf, not to mention the high-end espresso machine.

He finished his drink and motioned for another, this time picking some bottle with a huge bird on it, reasoning that it should taste great now that he'd put back four of them. Feeling more than tipsy but not yet drunk, Ianto turned and surveyed the pub. It was still early so not quite full. Maybe later there would be some pool to be played, or a few women to pull. He frowned. He shouldn't think about that, his girlfriend was only a month dead and gone. He must have had more to drink than he thought. The barmaid slid him another glass of amber liquor. She was cute, wasn't she, all blue eyes and ginger hair and subtle curves, everything that Jack was not-

Wait, Jack? Where did that thought come from? He checked his watch. He'd been there about two hours, maybe this was his fifth or sixth drink? Knob Creek, Bookers, Four Roses—that had been decent, he'd had at least two or three or those—still, that didn't excuse him thinking about Jack like that, comparing him to a potential shag behind the bar. Jack was his boss, Jack was a man, Jack was responsible for murdering his girlfriend…

No, that was Ianto. He was the one who had failed to save her. He was the one who'd put her through hell for three months, hiding her in the dark, dank basement of his workplace, and then at the very end when it had all gone to shit, he hadn't been able to help her, let alone save her from herself. Jack had done what he couldn't. Sometimes Ianto hated Jack for that, sometimes he couldn't be more grateful. Jack had killed her, but he'd also saved Lisa from becoming a psychotic mass murderer, the first in a new Cyber army bent on converting the planet. Lisa wouldn't have wanted that, so maybe it was all right that Ianto had inappropriate thoughts about the man. It was probably just a bit of hero worship, a passing crush, and the lack of sexual activity with anything other than his right hand.

Except that he'd had similar thoughts about Jack before, all the way back to the first night he'd met the enigmatic captain in the park and many nights since. No one could deny that Jack Harkness was a force of nature: charming, attractive, and apparently always willing and available if the stories were true. Of course Ianto was attracted to the man, who wasn't? The aliens that dropped out of the sky and fell through the Rift were probably queuing up to sleep with the man. It was fine, no big deal. Just like it was no big deal that come Monday morning Ianto would be working with his boss slash murderer slash inappropriate sexual fantasy.

He finished the bourbon. Vile drink. Americans didn't have a clue. The Scots did it much better, though he wasn't sure if that was whisky or scotch? He knew Jack liked scotch, there was a nice bottle of Laphroaig in his office. Ianto ordered one from the ginger-haired barmaid with the full lips and gorgeous tits. Maybe if he didn't start slurring his words he could talk her into hooking up later. He should probably get a glass of water then, maybe some chips, or he'd never get it up. He asked for both. She winked. He was definitely pulling tonight.

And then a World War II greatcoat walked in the door. Ianto swore, knocked back the Laphroaig in one go and signaled for another. He'd need it if Jack Harkness was looking for him, and from the expression on his boss's face, Jack wasn't there for a pint and some conversation. Ianto had no idea what the hell Jack was there for, but it couldn't be good, and Ianto doubted his night would end with the quick fuck he'd been hoping for.

Then again, Jack Harkness was sitting next to him with a shit-eating grin and a glass of water. Maybe they could both pull tonight.

Author's Note:
My favorite yet. I'm planning on many, many more though! Thank you for all the reads and reviews.