Title: The Eye of Neith (1/10)
Author: Emma
Characters/Pairings: Jack, Ianto, Gwen, Rhys, Martha, Andy, John Hart; Jack/Ianto, mentions of past others
Rating: R, maybe
Disclaimer: Oh, please. If I owned them, would I let some of those idiots write the scripts? And if I were making any money off them, would I be where they could find me?
Spoilers: None. Takes place after Homecoming, which takes place twenty or so years after Series 2 ends.
Summary: Torchwood’s past and Ianto’s future collide when Ianto’s former lover arrives in Cardiff asking for help… 
 

Ianto sniffed critically at the bubbling sauce.  Perhaps more oregano, he thought, dipping a small piece of bread in the rich tomato concoction and popping it in his mouth. Nope; not oregano. Pepper, a little later, when he sprinkled the whole thing with cheese. The linguini was in the warming drawer, liberally dosed with olive oil to prevent it from sticking, there was a beautiful green salad in the fridge and fresh crusty bread on the table.  Everything was perfect.

            He poured himself a glass of wine and sambaed over to the big, American style entertainment center Jack had insisted they purchase to hold their gigantic joint music collection. He popped one of Jack’s favorites into the player, a compilation of old-fashioned, down-and-dirty Memphis blues -- and wouldn’t a lot of people who thought they knew Jack be surprised --  then started a slow circuit around the room straightening out things here and there.  Suddenly, the ridiculousness of it all hit him and he succumbed to chuckles that rapidly escalated into raucous whoops. He put the wine glass down before he spilled any of the lovely, expensive cabernet.  Ianto Jones, you are doing the domestic thing, with Captain Jack fucking Harkness, no less.  And loving every fucking minute of it.

            He looked around the huge open room, with its bank of French doors leading to a wide balcony facing the bay.  Solid, comfortable furniture on a scale to match, large prints of his own work on the walls, family snapshots on tables and shelves, a few really valuable things Jack had picked up over the years (Baccarat candlesticks, for God’s sake), and books piled haphazardly everywhere.  Martha and Gwen had added a few bright cushions and knick knacks. Otherwise, they claimed, the place would reek unbearably of testosterone. Nobody argued with them; even John, who would take the piss out of the Devil on general principles, kept his tongue prudently trapped behind his teeth on that one.  Jack and Ianto had just beamed and accepted the gifts in the incorrigibly romantic spirit in which they had been given, and found places for them all.

            The sound of his cell phone startled him out of his pleasant contemplation.  He flipped it open -- Jack, the bastard, had snickered how Star Trek when he first saw it -- and answered.

            “Hello, gorgeous Jenny.”

            The growl at the other end would have honored a Siberian tiger.  “How ‘cha know it was me?”

            “Because” Ianto chuckled “you are the only New York literary agent I know who can’t understand transatlantic time differences.”

            “Smartass.  So did I disturb you and that gorgeous man of yours?”

            “My gorgeous man should be home any minute, Jenny, so…” he took a sip of wine. “Tell me you’re calling me just to stroke my ego.”

            “Sales are excellent, kiddo, I’ll give you that.  First coffee-table photo book in years that’s landed on the Times bestseller list.”

            “My bank account will be very pleased.”

            “So will mine, kiddo. You’ve upped my asking price by five percent in six years. But that’s not why I called.  It’s Tregarth. He still wants you for the Mexican dig.”

            “No,” Ianto said flatly. “He’s a jerk. Treats his staff like crap and thinks screaming makes up for his shortcomings as an archaeologist.  Add that to the July and August heat in Quintana Roo… No.”

            “He’s offering top dollar personally and a release on any unrelated stuff.”

            “He could offer the moon and a sack of silver galleons for all I care. No deal.”  The massively overdone sigh at the other end made him grin.  “Besides, you are going to make a bundle on Mythical Wales and you know it.”

            “True,” she said, switching moods in the blink of an eye.  “I’ll deal with the asshole.  Give the hunk an extra kiss for me.”

            Men neatly slotted into categories and business handled, Jenny rang off.  Ianto checked his watch; Rift permitting, Jack would be home soon.  He decided to take a chance and finish preparations for dinner.

            He was grating cheese over the pasta when he heard the scraping of the key on the lock.  He filled a wine glass and went to stand by the door.  He loved to watch Jack’s eyes when he realized Ianto was already home waiting for him; pleasure, always a little surprised as if Jack couldn’t yet believe in his presence, and then a slow build up of desire until the pupils grew impossibly big and dark…

            “Hey.”  Jack walked in carrying a white box from Ianto’s favorite Italian bakery. “Got dessert.”

            “How domestic of us.” Ianto quipped. “I was making dinner and straightening up earlier.”

            “Yeah?” Jack’s grin grew wider and definitely more lascivious.  “If I remember correctly, you’re supposed me to greet me with a kiss.”

            “Am I?”

            “Tradition, right out of the domestic manual.  I’m sure of it.”

            “In that case…” Ianto leaned in and pressed his lips to Jack’s.  Soft-rough texture, firm but yielding, moist as they opened to let his tongue in.  His free hand came up to cup Jack’s neck as he deepened the kiss.  At the same time Jack’s free hand grabbed Ianto’s arse to bring their crotches together.  If the… hard evidence… was any indication, they had a good chance of ending up eating cold pasta at three in the morning. Again.

            “Whoa, Jack. Down, boy.” Ianto grabbed the bakery box and moved out of Jack’s reach. “Dinner first.  Everything else later.”

            “Everything?” asked Jack in his best naughty voice.

            “Everything your heart desires.”  When it came to naughty, Ianto was sure he could match Jack syllable for syllable.  “And then some, Captain.”

            He walked back to the kitchen area, leaving Jack to deal with coat, boots, and socks.  They both loved to pad barefoot around the house, even though their feet got cold.  Often they ended up the evening watching telly stretched out on the couch, rubbing their feet together under Jack’s antique carriage throw to keep warm.

            “Something smells delicious” Jack called out as he hung up his coat.  “What did you decide on?”

            “Pasta alla puttanesca.  Spicy, with anchovies, capers, and red pepper flakes.”

            “Does that name mean what I think it means?”

            “Yep.Tradition has it that the Napolitan ladies of the evening would put pots of this on their window sills to lure the men into the bordellos.”

            “It would lure me.”  Jack gave an appreciative sniff as he peered into the pot over Ianto’s shoulder.  “Suddenly I’m starved.”

            “Good. Sit down and start on the salad while I dish these up.  Anything interesting happen?”

            “Not much, other than a bunch of Chrysallians looking for a suitable place to pupate.  We pointed them to that little island off Japan…. Thanks.”

            Ianto pressed a quick kiss to Jack’s fingers, then sat down and reached for the bread. “Amakusa? That’s still working out, then?”

            “Sure.  God this is delicious.” Jack savoured his first bite of pasta.  “It’s a win-win-win situation.  The Chrysallians get a nice, safe place to pupate, the silk farmers get top quality thread, and Earth gets good-neighbor points.”

            “It’s amazing someone hasn’t tried to sell the story to the tabloids.”

            Jack grinned wolfishly.  “One of the farmers tried, a few years ago.  We made an example of him.  By the time we were done, he was lucky to stay out of a mental institution.”

            “So can I…” Ianto swore as his phone rang.  “Sorry.  Forgot to turn it off.”

            Jack waved away the apology.  Ianto looked at the number, and his eyebrows rose to near his hairline.  He flipped the phone open.

            “Bella? Come stai, mia cara?” The torrent of Italian at the other end stunned him.  “Bella? Bella? Calm down. What’s wrong?...What?!... Yes, of course.  We’ll be waiting.”

            He set down the phone and looked at Jack, who had been listening to the one-sided conversation while he ate.

            “That was Isabella Branciforte.”

            “Ah, yes. Your Venetian landlady.”

            They had talked and talked, in the first few months after Ianto’s return.  Jack had told him of his past as a time agent, of his frustration about not being able to remember more, of his travels with the Doctor, of his fears of abandonment.  Ianto had told Jack of his apprenticeship with a temperamental Venetian photographer, of his first professional sale, of the night terrors that had driven him to walk the streets for hours and had resulted in some of his best work, of all the people who had reached out to help him along.

            And, of course, Jack being Jack and the Universe being perverse, of all his benefactors it would be Isabella who turned up on his doorstep.  Isabella Branciforte, Egyptologist, professor of archaeology at a number of top flight Universities, aristocrat with a pedigree as long as the Taff… and Ianto’s first lover after Jack.  The woman who had taken him to her bed and completed what Ianto thought of privately as his sexual education.

            “Is she ok?”  Ianto looked quizzically at Jack, who pointed at the phone. “I couldn’t make out the words, but whatever it was sounded intense.”