Game Over
I'm not sure if these two snapshots link up – I like to think that they do – but I hope you like them all the same. :-)
Disclaimer: As much as I'd like to dream otherwise, I don't own Torchwood and it is highly unlikely that I ever will.
The Hub was nearly silent at this time of the morning, before Gwen arrived with her whirlwind of chatter and emotions. On the sofa by the autopsy bay, Jack and Ianto sat together, Jack idly thumbing through the mid-pages of The Da Vinci Code and Ianto watching the graceful turquoise strands of the computers' screensavers. A pipe dripped.
"I need you to promise me something," Ianto said suddenly, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. He didn't take his eyes from the computer screen.
Jack looked up from his book, expression wary. "What?"
"Don't bring me back." Ianto swallowed and managed a small smile. "If..."
Jack shook his head, looking back down at the well-thumbed pages of the novel. "Don't ask me to promise that. It's too soon."
Ianto didn't say anything; he simply nodded and got up from the sofa, wandering off into the kitchenette. His walk was deceptively casual, hips swaying slightly and hands in pockets.
Jack watched him go, his eyes shadowed and his teeth tugging at his lower lip. Slowly, thoughtfully, he closed his book – folding over the corner of his page – and headed up the creaking iron steps to his office, where he would shut the door and be left in peace until Gwen arrived and the next hectic day at Torchwood began.
-T-
The moonlight slipped through a crack in the curtains and draped like a silver scarf that had been carelessly thrown across the foot of the bed where one man slept and the other...
Jack lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling; his bare chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, deep and slow. His hand rested on the duvet between him and the slumbering Ianto, fingertips almost – but not quite – brushing the younger man's back.
Ianto let out a contented sigh and buried his face in the pillow, his features relaxed and peaceful like they never were during any hour of wakefulness. There was a small curl at the nape of his neck - a curl that Jack liked to play with in a vain effort to annoy his stoic lover – and five o'clock shadow darkened his jaw. The duvet was tucked up under his chin; Jack had, on many an occasion, wondered if it was something Ianto did instinctively, hiding behind 'armour'.
Jack turned his head so that he could watch him, smiling slightly as Ianto snuffled and shifted closer. His lips parted in a silent sigh, his expression wistful as he drank in every line of Ianto's body, consigning it to memory.
He slid from under the covers and swiftly pulled his clothes on, dressing efficiently and as quietly as possible. Ianto rolled over; Jack froze, watching the other man with wary eyes, until he was satisfied Ianto wasn't going to awake from his dreams.
He paused at the doorway, head bowed. The flat was dark, shadows pooling across the thinning carpet; the orange glow from an outside street-lamp bestowing upon the sitting room an almost reverent ambiance.
He flicked the empty wineglass on the coffee table a glance, before removing his coat from the hook – a leather-bound book in the pocket and his shoes from the rack, and a lone photograph from the bookshelf.
Then, without even a whisper, he was gone.
Eep! *hides under desk* Please don't kill me! Reviews would be nice, too... ;-)