Title: More Than Words
By: minimumstitch
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: AO
Disclaimer: Torchwood is not owned by me but is owned by the BBC and RTD and I am just enjoying playing with their characters.
Summary: It's Jack's touches that Ianto misses the most.

***

They drank in silence, each one nursing their drinks, prolonging the time when the last sip had been drunk and it was time for Ianto to leave. Ever since Jack had returned, they had enjoyed a final drink at the end of the night; Jack drinking his usual coffee, Ianto preferring a cup of tea. The only sounds that were uttered during this time were Ianto's 'Aah' after taking the first sip of the hot beverage and Jack's slurps as he almost sucked the coffee up.

When all that was left was the dregs, Ianto would pick up the mugs and take them down to kitchen to carefully rinse and dry them as Jack stood behind him; close enough for him to feel his breath on his neck, but not close enough to touch. It almost seemed as though he were waiting for Ianto to make the first move, to give him permission to touch him like he had before. It was these touches that Ianto missed most, not the hasty gropes during sex or leisurely strokes as they came down from their high but the small touches throughout the day; the fingers that lingered as Jack took his mug from his hand, the heavy weight of Jack's hand on his shoulder as they stood staring at the computer screen, the press of Jack's body against his as they brushed passed each other and the fingers that entwined with his as they stood side by side.

As Ianto put the mugs away, the nightly dance began; Jack moving back as Ianto turned and moved towards the cupboard, Jack following Ianto's moves as he cleaned the surfaces, only ever a step away. At the end of the dance Jack would move away and gather up Ianto's overcoat, stroking his fingers down its length as though smoothing away non-existent wrinkles in the fabric before slipping the sleeves up the younger man's arms, always careful not to touch his former lover.

Tonight, however, the dance changed; as Jack turned to retrieve Ianto's coat he was stopped when Ianto's fingers entwined with his and pulled him back. With a muffled sob he wrapped his arms around the young Welshman, as though now he had been given permission to touch he would never let go. Ianto started a new dance, one that took them away from the kitchen into the main body of the hub and down onto the ratty couch, their bodies never separating once. As Jack's sobs died down he petted, stroked and kissed the older man, never uttering a word, allowing his touches to convey everything he wanted to say.

The next morning as Jack took the mug of coffee from Ianto's hands, his fingers lingered.

***