Title: For the Future
Pairing/Characters: Jack/Ianto
Warnings/Spoilers: none; takes place post-Exit Wounds
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~2,660
Summary: Jack believes in patterns; Ianto believes in forgiveness.

Notes: Written for this week's redisourcolor challenge on LJ. Theme = fate/destiny; other prompts were dexterous, doff, escalator and the phrase "If you look closely, you'll be able to see a pattern."Basically, I think this is Ianto doing his best to be there for Jack as they both deal with their losses, and look to the future.

Ianto's fingers move with careful, measured strokes through Jack's hair.

Jack's body leans heavily against him, pressed against his chest, and draped over his legs, and it should probably feel awkward, Ianto should probably shift them into a more comfortable position, but... His head is still a little fuzzy from the wine, maybe a bit from the sex, too, he thinks, stretching his legs as much as he can, restricted like this, along the length of the couch.

His body reacts for just a moment to the memory of desire, Jack's ankles wrapped around his legs, and Jack's body, smooth and pliant and his, tonight, just his. He's oblivious to the odd angles of Jack's elbows poking into his ribs, to the strain on his back as Jack arches and curls into him. His fingers flex against Jack's scalp, and Jack lets out a barely audible hum against his chest, just below Ianto's collar bone.

It's a little presumptuous, maybe, but he doesn't really think he's imagining it. He really can read Jack, his movements, his body language, can read the signs of Jack's mood. He'd watched Jack spend weeks in shutdown mode after losing Tosh and Owen, after all, disappearing for long stretches of time, coming back looking completely wrecked, but refusing to be comforted in the slightest. And he'd allowed Jack his space then, but now... Now Ianto wanted nothing more than to be here.

Tonight had started off well, Ianto thinks, as he rubs his thumb against the back of Jack's ear. Drinks, then dinner - a secluded table at one of Jack's favorite restaurants with a view of the bay - and then wine back at Ianto's flat. They'd turned on the telly when they'd arrived, more out of habit than anything else, because in the end, the hum of a Top Gear marathon on BBC3 had really been the furthest thing from their minds.

Jack is practically curled up in Ianto's lap now, dexterous fingers turned lazy and sloppy as they curl around Ianto's wrist, and trace invisible patterns on his palm. Jack seems content, but Ianto still wonders, as Jack draws his hand up, and presses soft lips against the tips of his fingers, if there will ever come a point where this will be enough; if he'll ever really be able to convince Jack that everything is okay.

Jack's still slurring his words a bit when he speaks now - barely perceptible, really - and Ianto is torn between smiling at the strangeness of Jack under the influence, and feeling all of their losses that much more acutely because he knows that Jack is trying to escape reality.

"What would I do without you," Jack drawls, and Ianto can feel his warm breath through his thin undershirt.

His undershirt was the only thing that hadn't been hastily doffed after they'd finished the bottle of very good pinot noir that Jack had insisted on bringing over, and that was only because he'd decided that there was something immensely erotic about Jack's fingers inching the thin cotton up to just barely expose his chest as he pressed Ianto's back against the fabric of the couch, hands moving all over him hungrily. Ianto has pulled his trousers back on now, of course, but he swears he can still feed the tweed imprint.

Without you, Jack's voice echoes in his head, but Ianto doesn't say anything, just flexes his fingers a little in Jack's hair.

"I don't want this," Jack whispers, as if finishing a thought. And then, his voice suddenly urgent, "I never wanted to be like this."

"I know," Ianto says, and tightens his grip around Jack's chest, feels Jack's fingers grip around his palm.

He presses his lips against Jack's forehead lightly, trying to bleed calm into Jack's skin, trying to turn his thoughts around the best way he knows how.

"I can hardly remember anymore," Jack continues, and his voice is thick. Something twists in Ianto's stomach. "What I was like. What I wanted before all this."

"Do you really think you're that different?" Ianto asks softly.

"I don't know," Jack says. He sounds far away. "I never…" Jack stops, clears his throat. "I never felt like I had a purpose, before, like I was just floating."

Ianto nods, even though Jack can't see him. He concentrates on the smoothness of Jack's hair between his fingers, rather than dwelling on how much he identifies with this, because right now, this isn't about him. He muses on how Jack's hair always seems to lay back into place, no matter how much he messes with it. He has a sudden, sickening thought that maybe this isn't completely natural, and then puts it out of his mind immediately.

"And the thing is, I still don't, I'm still floating." Jack chuckles, hollow and dark. "Only now, it's endless."

"No one knows their purpose, Jack," Ianto reminds him. "I think that might be one of the universal laws of life, right? If we knew, then…" He shrugs. We'd be dead, he thinks, but stays quiet.

"I don't know if those laws apply to me anymore," Jack says quietly.

"Do you want them to?"

Jack sighs, and presses his cheek to Ianto's chest. "I don't know."

"Do you believe in fate?" Ianto asks suddenly, blaming the wine still coursing through his blood, really, and he's expecting Jack to laugh, but instead, Jack sits up straight, suddenly leaving Ianto's fingers with nothing to do.

Idle hands, his brain supplies helpfully. He wishes for Jack's warmth again.

Jack pulls his legs up onto the couch, tucking them under Ianto's thighs. It's not exactly comfortable, but Ianto's relieved by the contact. He pulls a blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over both of their legs, in an attempt to trap the warmth there, the contact.

"I believe in patterns," Jack says finally.

"Patterns?" Ianto asks, considering this. "What, like the butterfly effect? Chaos theory, that sort of thing?"

Jack shakes his head. "No, much simpler than that, really."

"Take anything," Jack continues. "A speck of dust on the floor, a ripple of light, anything. If you look closely, you'll be able to see a pattern."

Ianto nods, leans back against the couch, intrigued. "Go on," he tells Jack, and his heart does a little flip at the light that's crept back into Jack's eyes.

"It's almost like… all of space and time is this continuous stream, right? And most of the time, we only get to see one small part of it—sixty, maybe seventy years of actual mature observation, right? And even then, there are patterns. People are drawn to those similarities. They choose the same thing over and over again, and can't figure out why. Give time a little longer than that, and the patterns become even more obvious. The thing is," Jack says, and Ianto can feel him physically slump next to him, as if he's being dragged down by some invisible force. "The patterns aren't always all that nice."

"What do you mean?"

"Death," Jack says grimly. "That's the only constant. The only pattern that lasts. It sounds like a cliché, but… Everything else is fleeting. The harder you try to hold on, the faster it slips away," Jack pauses, meets Ianto's eyes for a brief moment. "Sometimes I feel like I'm on an escalator to nowhere."

Ianto laughs a little at this, mostly to give himself time to blink away the heat prickling behind his eyelids.

"That was a terrible metaphor, sorry." Jack leans back against the couch, his shoulder pressing up next to Ianto's.

"I just keep going, Ianto," Jack says softly after a moment. "But at the same time, I never actually arrive anywhere."

"You arrived here," Ianto tries, glancing at Jack. "That's something, right?"

"And what have I done here?" Jack says quickly, shaking his head. "I'm not cut out to be a leader. Look at where I've gotten us."

Jack's eyes are impossibly dark now, and all Ianto can think of is how unfair it is that he can't do anything to lift those shadows, even a little.

Also, he thinks to himself a little guiltily, this is a terrible conversation to be having just as his buzz is wearing off. He eyes the empty wine bottle on the table in front of the couch with disappointment before he turns his attention back to Jack.

"You don't think you've accomplished anything? What about…" Ianto swallows, his voice catching. He pulls himself together with a little more effort than he'd planned on.

"I think you've done a lot of great things since I've met you," he starts again, and the words sound incredibly small in the space between them.

"I wish I could believe that," Jack says, and then meets Ianto's eyes. He looks strangely apologetic. "Sometimes all I can see is death."

"Yeah, well," Ianto closes his eyes, trying to hold on to the fading warmth of the alcohol. "You're not the only one."

They're quiet for a while, and Ianto turns his attention for a moment to the television buzzing quietly across the room at them. He has the sudden urge to scream.

Instead he looks over at Jack, finds Jack's hand where it's resting idly on top of the blanket on his lap, and squeezes it.

Jack had told him once, a long time ago, a few nights after Estelle had passed away, that death doesn't ever get any easier to handle, that it's the complete opposite, it just gets harder and harder and harder the more of it you see. He'd denied it later, a little guiltily, and with a firm, confident hand on Ianto's shoulder had put forth a slightly revised theory, but Ianto had heard him loud and clear. And the thought had terrified him more than anything he'd seen since Torchwood had entered his life.

"You want to know what I see when I look at you, at Torchwood?" Ianto says, forcing his mind back to the matter at hand.

"That depends," Jack teases.

Jack's smile makes it easier for Ianto to concentrate on what brought him here, on what keeps him here at Jack's side, what keeps him with Torchwood, when he could be anywhere else. Then he realizes that there's really only one word for it.

"Destiny," Ianto says softly.

Jack smiles a little, turning their hands over, and brings Ianto's fingers to his lips.

"I know that sounds…" Ianto smirks a little. "Well, I know how it sounds, but I mean it. Torchwood is the best thing that's ever happened to me. And that's how it is for everyone, Jack. Owen, Tosh… They were happy," Ianto says. "They wouldn't have given this up for anything."

Jack just nods silently. He holds Ianto's fingers against his lips again, somewhere between a kiss, and a strange, clinging embrace.

"I wish it was enough."

"It is, Jack. Trust me."

Jack looks over at him, his eyes sad. "For who?"

"For me."

Jack shakes his head. "I don't want to hear this," he says softly.

"I know. That's why I'm trying to show you." Ianto lowers his head, and then inclines his chin towards Jack just a little. "What you've done for all of us. It's enough of an accomplishment for at least, well... At least a few of your lifetimes." Ianto nudges Jack's shoulder with his own. "Okay?"

Jack smiles a little at this. "And how would you know?"

"Because I know you. I know that underneath all of that you're…"

"What?"

"Normal."

Jack's face crumples a little, and Ianto's brain moves quickly, trying to conjure up the appropriate apology, but then Jack shifts towards him, and presses his mouth to Ianto's. The gesture is so tender Ianto thinks maybe his heart breaks a little.

"I want to be normal for you," Jack whispers against Ianto's lips. "More than anything."

"You are," Ianto says, reassuring him. "Completely normal."

And then there's a surge of energy between them, and Jack is practically on top of him- the movement forces Ianto to let out a huff of breath against Jack's cheek.

"I lied," Jack says, and Ianto can't help but react affirmatively to the solid length of Jack's thigh moving against him, muscles taut and unyielding.

"I do remember," Jack says, and his forehead falls to Ianto's shoulder. He sounds frustrated. "What I used to want. I see it in you."

Jack sits up then, and the sudden loss of contact makes Ianto shiver a little. He feels breathless, too, and his heart is thumping madly.

"I can't want this, Ianto."

"Why not?" Ianto stares at him, confused, and honestly a little bereft. Jack's eyes have that horrible, haunted look in them too, the look that makes Ianto feel as though all the blood is being drained from his body.

Jack lets out a slightly strangled noise then, and it honestly scares Ianto a little, but before he can really react, or think, Jack is kissing him again. It feels desperate, and no matter what Ianto does, he can't get it to stop feeling that way. His eyes start to burn, but he doesn't pull away, just gives himself over to this, to Jack. And he's not stupid - he thinks he knows what this is about, thinks it's pretty obvious, really, so…

"Please stay with me," Jack says against Ianto's neck, so quietly that Ianto thinks maybe he's imagining it.

"I'm not going anywhere," Ianto says, willing it to be true, and when Jack stops kissing him, and just stares at him like he can't decide if he wants to start again, or run away and never look back, Ianto just pulls Jack's cheek against his chest.

Jack collapses against him with a long hissing breath, like a balloon deflating. Ianto threads his hands through Jack's hair, and the repetitive motion steadies his heart and his fingers after a few moments.

"I forgive you," Ianto says, acting on instinct, and before Jack can ask what for, Ianto is whispering the words in between kisses to Jack's forehead, and earlobes. "For everything, for anything. For Owen and Tosh, and for John, for Gwen, for all of it. For leaving me. For coming back. You know I forgive you. So there's nothing left to feel bad about."

There's a long moment of silence, and from the kitchen, Ianto can suddenly hear the ticking of the gears of a clock, the large one above the stove that he hates, but hasn't been able to get rid of because it came with the flat. It ticks off the seconds, and Ianto tries not to move his fingers through Jack's hair to the same rhythm. And then he realizes he's doing it anyway, that it's some instinctual thing, one of Jack's patterns, maybe, his heart seeking out something familiar.

"I don't feel bad," Jack mumbles against his chest, eventually.

Ianto smoothes down Jack's hair, and wonders when on earth he turned into this person who could love someone so completely that he would lie through his teeth just to make things better, just on the off chance that it would ease Jack's burden for a moment. And then he remembers Lisa. He swallows past the lump in his throat.

"Consider it insurance then," he says. "For the future."

And then Ianto realizes that he's not lying, that he believes every word he's said, and the thought terrifies him, and makes him a little giddy at the same time.

In the kitchen, the ticking gears of the clock fade into white noise.

"After all," he tells Jack, "I'm not one to mess with destiny if I can help it."

- end -