Archive of Our Own

Prompt:

"Summer afternoon - summer afternoon;
to me those have always been the two most
beautiful words in the English language."
- Henry James

Warm, sun on his skin, wind and grass teasing him back to wakefulness. He opens his eyes and takes in the rolling hills, the summer green of the Welsh countryside. Last time he came here, he'd been a boy, more interested in racing his mates over to the big rocky outcropping and finding excuses to stay out of his dad's shop. The scenery hasn't really changed, ancient land on its own ponderous timetable, but Ianto... not so much a different man, as a different species, it feels like.

He's in a T-shirt and jeans, very sensible clothing for a day out in the sun, in the country, but he's gotten so used to his suits that the way the fabrics cling to him feel awkward and strange. He's missed the freedom, though – not having to care about looking untidy, the absence of watching eyes, open sky above rather than concrete and dirt. They make him more into a living thing, less a part of a machine.

It'd been... a lot of work to get free time enough to drive out for this. Torchwood probably owes him months of vacation time; the problem had been finding a period of minimal Rift activity, drawing up a rota for the others to take up his cleaning duties, setting up a temporary filing system in the main Hub because there's no way anyone was going down to the Archives without him. Especially since... Jack is with him, of course. No point in taking a long weekend on his own.

Ianto turns his upper body, searching, and sees Jack walking easily towards him. He'd... gone to see what was on the next hill, in typical Jack fashion.

"Find anything interesting?" Ianto asks him, climbing to his feet and brushing himself off.

"A few sheep," says Jack. He comes close, capturing Ianto's hands. "This hill's much nicer, though."

"The view's better," agrees Ianto. "And the slope's not as steep."

Lips on his knuckles, soft and warm, then a touch of wet tongue on the sensitive skin between his fingers. Ianto has to stop himself from gasping, annoyance at his reaction to the mild teasing in conflict with a low tightening in his stomach. "That's not exactly why," Jack says into his skin, voice like velvet.

A sharp tug forward, not exactly unexpected, and a sweet meeting; Ianto willingly parts his lips to Jack's eager tongue, stroking the sides with his own, adding a little suction. His hands slide down Jack's braces, and he revels in the feel of the well-built body pressing hard against his. Warmth surges through him when a large hand clutches his arse through tight denim; he gasps, teeth grazing Jack's lower lip, and Jack kisses down the line of his jaw.

His hands skim down Jack's back, enjoying the slide of fabric against his skin, and the warm muscles flexing underneath; he'd given Jack this shirt, hard-wearing but comfortable and a blue that matched his eyes. Jack's teeth and tongue work on the skin of his neck; a particularly hard bite, eased by circular licks and a gentle kiss, draws a small sound out of Ianto. He pushes a thigh between Jack's legs, feels Jack's arousal and finds the summer suddently too warm. He steps backward, pulling Jack with him, resisting the urge to just take of his shirt, and makes for the patch of grass he'd been lying on just minutes ago...

Or so he intends. A deep, gasping breath, and he whirls around, his back to Jack. Familiar rolling country, from another lifetime; but he remembers, and he fixes his gaze on the rocky outcropping in the distance, under exceptionally fluffy clouds. Jack is calling to him, what's wrong?

Ianto Jones shuts his eyes, and runs.

Rain, street. Fat droplets crashing around him with a sound like thunder, and there's an empty crisp packet under his head. The noise, thankfully, masks his rather loud coming-to. In his ear, Owen is shouting, something about losing contact with the team.

The team. Ianto blinks, and makes out four unmoving lumps on the tarmac around him. Ah. Jack is closest, with one arm flung out towards Ianto.

Movement, in the space next to Tosh. Ianto can just about make out a shape, cross between a stick insect and an upside-down candelabra, before further movement reveals ten glowing beads of light. Eyes. He belatedly feels a prick of pain, from a dart jutting out of his wrist. The stun gun is already in his hand.

He fires.

Later, warm and dry and thoroughly naked in Jack's bed, the Welsh weather still happily drenching everything up on the surface, Jack is drawing lazy patterns down Ianto's arm.

"How did you wake up?"

Dreams. It's how the alien hunted, and also its defense mechanism; chemicals in the dart would knock out the target, and the alien would tap into the target's mind and create an idyllic dream. Keeps the target subdued during the extremely long process of digestion and consumption, a detail that Ianto had not needed to know.

"You were in my dream," he replies.

Jack grins. "Was it that time we were hunting Weevils down at-"

Ianto rolls his eyes, and lightly smacks Jack's bare side to silence him. "No, it wasn't anything we've done before. We were in the countryside, on a beautiful summer day." He closes his eyes and sighs.

After a minute of silence, Jack asks, "And then?"

"We didn't get very far. I..." Ianto opens his eyes, biting his lower lip. "You weren't wearing your coat."

Jack's eyebrows jump up. "I wasn't wearing my coat? That's why you woke up?"

Looking away, embarrassed, Ianto mutters, "Well, the perfect dream wouldn't leave out your coat."

The lips pressed against his arm curve up. "But... if it's a warm sunny day, it'd be too hot to wear the coat."

"Please. You wear that thing while walking through burning buildings. A little sunshine wouldn't put you off." He'd explained it to Owen as a little detail that his brain used to communicate to him that something was not right; no need to give the man an impression that he had a... a coat fetish, or something.

Though he probably already suspected.

Jack laughs, sliding up and burying his face in the crook of Ianto's neck. Ianto knows better than to ask what Jack had seen, and it surprises him when Jack suddenly says, "You were in mine, too. There was sand, and the sea, and... children playing in the distance."

Somehow, the way Jack says the words tells Ianto that his dream had been more than just a day in the beach. "Good dream?"

"Not entirely, no," Jack's voice is quiet, subdued. "It's like parts of a memory, but I can't be sure they're really memories, you know? But… I wanted it to be real."

Ianto tilts Jack's head up, kisses him. It starts out soft and kind, but quickly deepens and heats; Jack slides up further, mouth working fervently on Ianto's already swollen lips, and Ianto's hands are on the back of Jack's head, fingers carding through dark hair.

Eventually Jack pulls back. "We could go to the countryside for a few days," he says, more than a little breathless.

Ianto smiles. "After what happened at Brecon Beacons, I'm surprised the alien chose that setting. But I guess I do have a lot of good memories, old memories." He runs a finger down Jack's chest, pulls a leg up and folds it over Jack's thighs. "And can you imagine the work that would pile up here? No, this ridiculous excuse for quarters will do just fine, sir." He tugs Jack down again.