TITLE: Entwined (2/5)
AUTHOR: Emma
CHARACTERS: Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones
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?
AUTHOR's NOTE: Naga Temple http://www.flickr.com/photos/byronic501/2234783220/in/set-72157603833459927
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is written for the Long Live Ianto Cliché Bingo. The prompt is: Secrets and Lies

Part One is here

At first they lie all the time. Ianto hides Lisa in the basement and keeps Jack distracted with a judicious mix of flirting and coffee. Jack conveniently forgets to tell Ianto that no matter how thorough-going the manner of his death, it is never final. They dance around their secrets, one step forward and two back, bodies brushing, hands petting, stroking, but never quite taking hold. Ianto loves the dance, his nostrils filled with Jack’s scent, his eyes filled with Jack’s beauty, his ears filled with Jack’s voice, knowing that Jack feels the same things. Jack pets Ianto’s hair, whispering my beautiful boy in his ear, chuckling when he feels the shivers that run through Ianto’s aroused body. They know where the dance is leading them but they feel no need to rush.

But Lisa awakens, and the music ends in dissonant thunder. Jack retreats behind a mask of cold indifference. Ianto considers leaving – it would be ridiculously easy to stage a suicide, and even Jack Harkness couldn't follow him to the places he could hide – but at the end he chooses not to. He does not examine his reasons closely, because he hates to acknowledge that in the end they are merely rationalizations. He tells himself all he's doing is postponing a decision, and goes on about the business of keeping Jack in clean shirts and fresh coffee.

Slowly things begin to return to normal. A light touch on the shoulder; a careful washing and bandaging of cuts and bruises; warmed-over curry late at night, both of them sprawling on the couch, still carefully keeping out of each other's space, arguing about nonsense things, like footie scores and Sherlock Holmes films. Ianto doesn't know when the conversations turned serious, but he finds himself listening to bits and pieces of Jack's history and telling some of his own in return. Not the truth, not yet. But enough to start rebuilding trust between them.

Ianto makes his decision as he is putting Suzie back into the freezer. He knows exactly how to incite Jack's sexual interest. The smile he gets in return tells him Jack is hooked. But Ianto has promised himself that there should be no more secrets, no more lies. He knows he's staking his life on it, but he takes the chance. To his immense astonishment, Jack simply walks around him, eyes wide. Ianto rears up, spreading his hood, towering above Jack, then Shifts to his intermediate form. Jack laughs.

“Naga.”

He remembers that Jack spent a decade or more in India, where Ianto's people were considered gods and protectors. When Jack asks, Ianto tells him about the destruction of his city. Jack understands loss, and something in his gentle sympathy cracks open the hard shell Ianto had built around his grief. He Shifts to his human form, and Jack cradles him in his lap as he cries all the tears he had never cried, not in all those centuries. They fall asleep holding each other, Jack's hand tangled in Ianto's hair, Ianto's head resting over Jack's heart.