Pairings/Characters: Ianto, Jack
Word Count: 614
Genre: Slightly adult introspection
Summary: Ianto thinks about water – and Jack
Spoilers: A slight reference to Reset. Blink and you’ll miss it.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. The BBC and RTD claim all the credit and cash.
Note: Follows directly from “Muscles, Oh God!”. Apologies to those of you who have already seen this. Slowly getting braver, slight lessening of nerves.
Getting a Little Wet
Ianto pushed open his front door with half-hearted enthusiasm. He was physically and to a certain extent emotionally knackered. He had bruises and muscle aches in places he wasn’t even aware existed before today, not all of them inflicted by the weevil that threw him into the side of the skip, or the round of kick-boxing he indulged in with a hopped-up blowfish. No, most of his aches stemmed from the activities he and Jack got up to last night and again this morning. It had been a brilliant idea to have Jack around to watch the gymnastics. He had taken innovative and avant garde to a whole new level. Ianto didn’t think that he had bent or stretched like that since he was an infant. But oh, was it worth it. He could feel himself growing hot as all his blood headed south. He snorted – what was he, one of Pavlov’s dogs? Talk about your programmed response. He concentrated hard (don’t think about other hard things) in a manner he had perfected in his time working for and sleeping with Jack. He had figured out early on that if he didn’t learn to control his reactions around the intoxicating and quite frequently infuriating man then he would embarrass himself highly by slamming him up against the nearest hard surface, be it vertical or horizontal and just going for it.
After getting himself back to a reasonable state, comfortable enough for walking without fear of seams ripping, he toed off his shoes and moved forward into the flat. Taking off the now-dirty suit jacket and placing it with his growing pile of dry-cleaning, he moved towards the kitchen and grabbed the first bottle he could reach out of the fridge. Pleased to note that it was beer and not sour milk, as had happened in the past, he ambled slowly into his living room and sunk down onto the couch. Tie removed and buttons undone, he absently reached for the remote and turned the TV on. The Games were still on, although just the broadcasters were onscreen at the moment. Leaning back, he let the drone of talking lull him into a semi-somnolent state. It was the splashing of water that caught his attention next. The swimming was on now and he found himself once again drawn to the lines of the men’s bodies as they prepared for each race. They were long, lean and hard as nails, wearing the thinnest of lycra that left nothing to the imagination. His mind started to wander as he conjured up images of Jack wet – caught in the rain with his hair dripping water down his face, lounging in the bath and stepping from the shower, this time the water cascading over his entire body. He started as he felt a droplet of liquid hit his hand. He figured it was condensation off the bottle, but when he put it down on the coaster, it was dry – and empty. When did he finish it? Leaning back to look at the ceiling for leaks, it took him a moment to remember that he lived on the top floor and there was nobody above him to overflow a bath, as had happened in London. It was then that it hit him – he was drooling, actually dribbling like a baby at the sight of the swimmers and the thought of a naked Jack. This was ridiculous. It was time to make another phone call and get Jack over here, pronto. It was a good thing he had such a large shower, he had a feeling it was going to see a lot of action tonight.