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mtxref_ficAuthor's Note: Written for Torchwood, Jack/Ianto, Ianto's favourite hobby is watching Jack sleep.
Ianto knew that Jack hardly slept, due to some accident of his... unique ability to keep coming back from the dead, something that Jack had joked about, how sleep was the little brother of death and even then, the little brother would have nothing to do with the likes of him. "As long as I've got the little death, as the French call it, I guess I'm doing well," Jack always joked. And Ianto had, over time, grown accustomed to these dark jests.
Maybe that was why, in their nights together, either in Jack's office in the Hub, after hours (where they were more likely to be disturbed by some other member of the team turning up unexpectedly -- and he suspected that it was for this reason that Jack insisted on these stolen moments, just to get a rise out of both him and whoever had had the bad fortune to catch them in the media res) or in Ianto's apartment, where he much preferred that they hold their trysts, he enjoyed watching the older man sleeping, lying sprawled contentedly on the pillows beside him. For once, he seemed at peace, some of the years seeming to drop from his face. Not that Jack looked a day over thirty-nine or thereabouts, but he had noticed something seemed to leave Jack's face while he slept, the weight of the years he had seen. And going by the contents of the archives, the files marked with Jack's name -- both as quarry and as a field agent -- that went back as far as the eighteen sixties, that Jack carried more years than his face and form suggested.
It lay in the man's eyes, those pale blue-green eyes that might glint with mischief and cockiness and even a hint of danger, but which, more often than he likely suspected, took on a dark and distant look, as if his mind had turned to look back on the past, or, more likely, they looked forward at the present or back from the future, from some point in time which Ianto could barely imagine. The man had seen things which seemed the stuff of fiction or mere historical facts written down, and the burden of that knowledge and experience and those years, and only in sleep, the little that his nature allowed him to enjoy, did he find some momentary rest and relief from that burden.
Times like this, Ianto took every care not to awaken Jack, slipping out of bed with care, if necessity required it, and creeping back with equal care, making every attempt not to disturb his lover. For a time, the two of them had a moment of perfect peace, no one to interrupt them, or to judge them: here, Jack had his peace, and Ianto had his own refuge from judging minds and prying eyes.
Even still, some little thing, the mattress creaking or the sheets rustling, would cause Jack to stir and awaken, opening his eyes and breaking the spell.
"You thinking of taking my picture while I sleep?" Jack asked, stretching his limbs and arching his back slightly before settling back down, contentedly. "Leonardo used me as a model a few times, wanted to use me as the model for the center figure in his 'Last Supper', but I had to turn him down. Not my cuppa. If he'd wanted me to model for Mercury or Bacchus, now there's a god I wouldn't mind modelling."
"Didn't mean to disturb you," Ianto said, hiding his sense of exasperation: here had just had a quiet moment, and Jack had to upset it with one of his jokes. But then again, that was Jack: ruffling everyone's composure, intentionally or not, he made it hard to tell. "Don't keep yourself awake on my account."
"Nah, I was looking forward to watching *you* sleep," Jack said, beckoning Ianto to return to his side. The warm look of welcome and invitation in Jack's eyes, as well as the autumn chill in the air, even here in the apartment, was impossible for him to refuse.
Ianto knew that Jack hardly slept, due to some accident of his... unique ability to keep coming back from the dead, something that Jack had joked about, how sleep was the little brother of death and even then, the little brother would have nothing to do with the likes of him. "As long as I've got the little death, as the French call it, I guess I'm doing well," Jack always joked. And Ianto had, over time, grown accustomed to these dark jests.
Maybe that was why, in their nights together, either in Jack's office in the Hub, after hours (where they were more likely to be disturbed by some other member of the team turning up unexpectedly -- and he suspected that it was for this reason that Jack insisted on these stolen moments, just to get a rise out of both him and whoever had had the bad fortune to catch them in the media res) or in Ianto's apartment, where he much preferred that they hold their trysts, he enjoyed watching the older man sleeping, lying sprawled contentedly on the pillows beside him. For once, he seemed at peace, some of the years seeming to drop from his face. Not that Jack looked a day over thirty-nine or thereabouts, but he had noticed something seemed to leave Jack's face while he slept, the weight of the years he had seen. And going by the contents of the archives, the files marked with Jack's name -- both as quarry and as a field agent -- that went back as far as the eighteen sixties, that Jack carried more years than his face and form suggested.
It lay in the man's eyes, those pale blue-green eyes that might glint with mischief and cockiness and even a hint of danger, but which, more often than he likely suspected, took on a dark and distant look, as if his mind had turned to look back on the past, or, more likely, they looked forward at the present or back from the future, from some point in time which Ianto could barely imagine. The man had seen things which seemed the stuff of fiction or mere historical facts written down, and the burden of that knowledge and experience and those years, and only in sleep, the little that his nature allowed him to enjoy, did he find some momentary rest and relief from that burden.
Times like this, Ianto took every care not to awaken Jack, slipping out of bed with care, if necessity required it, and creeping back with equal care, making every attempt not to disturb his lover. For a time, the two of them had a moment of perfect peace, no one to interrupt them, or to judge them: here, Jack had his peace, and Ianto had his own refuge from judging minds and prying eyes.
Even still, some little thing, the mattress creaking or the sheets rustling, would cause Jack to stir and awaken, opening his eyes and breaking the spell.
"You thinking of taking my picture while I sleep?" Jack asked, stretching his limbs and arching his back slightly before settling back down, contentedly. "Leonardo used me as a model a few times, wanted to use me as the model for the center figure in his 'Last Supper', but I had to turn him down. Not my cuppa. If he'd wanted me to model for Mercury or Bacchus, now there's a god I wouldn't mind modelling."
"Didn't mean to disturb you," Ianto said, hiding his sense of exasperation: here had just had a quiet moment, and Jack had to upset it with one of his jokes. But then again, that was Jack: ruffling everyone's composure, intentionally or not, he made it hard to tell. "Don't keep yourself awake on my account."
"Nah, I was looking forward to watching *you* sleep," Jack said, beckoning Ianto to return to his side. The warm look of welcome and invitation in Jack's eyes, as well as the autumn chill in the air, even here in the apartment, was impossible for him to refuse.
