Fic: Permeate (1/1)
Title: Permeate (1/1)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ten/Ianto
Word Count: 5,482
Summary: The Doctor finds himself in a rather peculiar emotional state: absolutely smitten. Spoilers for Torchwood S1, Doctor Who S2.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Written to satisfy my own Doctor/Ianto inclinations, and more pressingly at the behest of the lovely metaphysically, who inspired a sort of reluctantly passionate Doctor for this particular piece. And because when I was in France, the last line popped into my head and simply would not go away.
Permeate
Time had ceased to mean anything to him, and had done more centuries ago than he could rightfully recall. Every day was something closer to an instant, passing in a stunted blur of color and chaos as he perused the cosmos at his leisure, unbound by the forces that limit mere mortal life, unchained by the confines and constructs of a finite time line, or so it seemed in watching him, in taking him in - the entire universe was his to claim, to master, to revel and partake in, and he relished the fact that even if it was nearly a millennium in his past, he could still recall the scent of his mother’s hair, the soft touch of his wife’s hands - the long lines of the Gallifreyan horizon, the breeze that wafted up from the cavernous valleys and stretched greedily towards the highest peaks. In closing his eyes and breathing, he could still feel his lungs burn from that unique atmosphere, untainted by the holocausts of war, beautiful and straining and right, undeniably so - the likes of which he’d yet to find in any other place in the entire span of creation. By the stars, each and every one of them, how he missed it.
However, beyond the reach of all real reason or argument, once their lips met, he suddenly knew the very length and width of a moment, the significance of a single second, as he hadn’t known them in many lifetimes. It had happened before, though only once - a slow, awkward meeting of their mouths in a moment of grief, in which he’d comforted the young man who had inadvertently become his companion, his ward; he’d attached himself almost desperately to the primped young Welshman, grasping quick and holding tight, protecting him in a way that he’d never exhibited with quite so much vehemence. Perhaps it was because he knew that under that solid, strong exterior, the human man was breaking, silently but surely, and had little time left until he was utterly beyond repair; and it was a viable line of reasoning, one that he placated his consciousness with whenever their gazes met, whenever he felt his breath catch as those dazzling eyes broke away, tore themselves towards the high cheekbones beneath, dusted with the petal-flush of embarrassment if he was being realistic, arousal if he was feeling hopeful.
They’d been together, traipsing the galactic abyss of space, for three Earth-standard months when it had happened. He’d needed to refuel the TARDIS - in the upheaval and chaos that had resulted in picking up his wayward new companion, he’d neglected to do so last he had touched upon British soil. Time shifts were never pretty, and even he couldn’t explain what had happened to the most abstract details; it was because of that bastard Harkness, to be sure, and his unfortunate past which, like all such things, never quite stayed put in the years gone by as it ought to. However it had happened, however things had managed to get so terribly twisted and go so ineffably wrong, he suspected that young Ianto Jones hadn’t anticipated finding himself that morning, leaderless and alone, abandoned under a pile of debris from the burning remnants of his former place of employment, battered and bruised and dying alone as he relived that painful memory in the flesh, face tear-stained and drawn, scars long faded now reopened and weeping, the blood streaming down his chin in tiny rivulets as he curled on the ground, staring with glassy, sightless eye out towards the murky depths of the Thames. In truth, it had only been chance and sheer luck that the Doctor had come across his near-corpse the second time he’d experienced the destruction of Canary Wharf, and it had been some hidden strength within Ianto himself that had pulled him through at all, because even the TARDIS had shuddered in ominous warning when he’d dragged the broken man aboard; she liked death just a little as her Doctor did, and could sense well when it was near.
It had taken a solid six weeks for Ianto to get back on his feet, and it was during his convalescence that the Doctor had become enraptured with the compelling human, with the sound of his laughter and the brightness of his eyes, with the guarded way he smiled and even more so with the rare moments in which he lowered his defenses for the slightest instant and revealed the full brilliance of his soul in those depthless eyes. Tending to his wounds diligently, with a practiced air of aloofness at first, something about his man spoke to him, called to him, begging him to open himself and protect; to shower the boy that had come into his charge with such care, with such honest devotion; and the time came soon enough where he wanted nothing less, and gave in willingly to such unspoken pleas. Unbeknownst to him, somewhere within his soul had been unlocked a latent desire for contact, for concern and true connection, and the wild and violent surge of protectiveness he found himself associating with his new, unwitting companion was not only shocking, but entirely welcome.
They’d been on a small, uninhabited planet of ice where a rift was beginning to close itself as Time shifted across the universe, the Doctor arriving just in time to glean the last of what it had to offer before it withered after millennia of activity. Ianto had asked him why they had stopped - curious boy, he was, always wondering about places and cultures - and the Doctor had explained the need to recharge, and had expressed his trepidation of returning to Cardiff so soon after the temporal activity that had caused the terror he’d been caught in the middle of, for fear of causing a resurgence of something equally horrifying, or worse.
Mentioning Wales, it seemed, had been unwise, and it happened that he had embraced the other man in a moment of weakness - for both of them - that unnervingly penetrating stare glistening as the tears fell, and he felt his stomach clench at the anguish they held. That their lips had brushed, innocently enough, was a complete and utter accident, or perhaps a conniving twist of fate. He’d taken advantage of the situation - he was more human than he preferred to own to, it seemed, or at least he had become as much - and the poor thing in his arms was little more than a boy - a child in his own timeline, the glimmer of innocence may have been smothered from his heart, but its embers still smoldered in the nooks of each chamber, blazing in an instant with every frenzied pulse, every reluctant thud beneath his hands as he brought them to rest on either side of the tie that still wrapped around his neck. Ianto. It was such a beautiful name, such an exquisite string of letters, of harmonic perfection; it simply glided off the tongue in gilded symphony, begging to be uttered at every opportunity. In all his travels, he’d never found a word, let alone a name, in any of the countless tongues spoken by the unfathomable numbers of beings that populated the galaxies, that made his blood rush and his spine tingle quite like the simple Welsh eponym. It made him feel light, even under the burden of all the life and death he toted endlessly about atop his shoulders, and he would gladly have surrendered a whole regeneration of his soul to ensure he’d never lose that feeling, or the person it was attached to.
They spent long moments still, pressed against each other, Ianto grasping onto the stitching of the shoulders of the Doctor’s jacket whilst alien arms pressed against his back, warmer; more tender and caring than anything Ianto had ever felt before. The Doctor had initiated it, yet he wasn’t sure what had sparked it - lies, of course; he knew exactly what had sparked it, and it was terrifying to consider, so he ignored it with the practiced ease of nearly a thousand years of deftly avoiding that which tore your very being in two.
“I need to call you something,” came the shaky preface to something important, something meaningful, something that would define them both in the space of only a few simple words. The Doctor pulled back slowly, reluctant for both their sakes to break contact, to relinquish that perfect warmth. “A name,” Ianto rambled on, diverting his gaze. “I need to call you by a name.” He cleared his throat, leaning in slowly to nuzzle upwards just once from the Doctor’s shoulder to the curve of his neck. His breathing shuddered as he drew back once more, eyes fixed on the collar of the Doctor’s shirt, on the buttons and the skin that peaked out from beneath. With a shuddering intake of air, he gasped so quiet, so heart-wrenchingly; “Is that... okay?”
The Doctor smiled sadly, not noticing the tear that fell from his left eye to mirror Ianto’s own watering stare as he brought his thumb to run tenderly down Ianto’s jaw as he murmured, leaning closer to be heard, or to be felt; “You can call me whatever you need to. Whatever helps.”
He hadn’t been prepared for how much it hurt when Ianto had sobbed into the kiss; the first, and the second, on and on as they suckled at bottom lips, lapped at the corners of mouths, and ran the tips of tongues across brand new sets of teeth, ones they’d never felt before - not wantonly, not lustily, but almost heartbreakingly, the melancholy radiating from both men without relent for very different reasons as they tasted, as they imagined things as apart, separate, somehow different than what they were; as they wished and hoped and maybe even prayed for more as they lost themselves to one another, and to something else entirely.
In any case, beyond the sheaths of delusion that layered his psyche, ones he refused to shake from himself, refused to look past or break free from, so vivid and lovely as they were - the Doctor hadn’t been expecting the fiery knife of sheer, wretched pain that surged through him as Ianto moaned down his throat, the clear pronounced syllable that caused his organs to seize strangely against his skeleton, vibrating pure devastation throughout his body with just four letters: “Jack.”
He could feel the deterioration at his center, and knew a part of him died in that instant; though he couldn’t bring himself to admit just why it hurt so damn badly to hear it. Ianto had fallen asleep in his arm that night, and the Doctor had never felt more abandoned and desolate and bereft, more utterly deserted than he did with that body wrapped tight and safe in his embrace.
In the months that passed afterwards, he’d avoided Earth like the plague, this time quite selfishly, directing their travel to the most obscure outskirts of unheard of star systems to recharge his vessel, too paranoid to allow Ianto even the slightest glimpse of his home, for fear of losing him to the draw of it, and what it held for him. The strangled, heart-broken sound of that impossible, egocentric Time Agent’s stolen monogram from his perfect Welshman’s lips still festered deep in his consciousness, fanning the fire of his resolve, of carrying out his well-developed sense of protecting Ianto and ensuring his welfare, but also something deeper, something more penetrating and complete that meant more and felt like more and was far too rooted in jealousy to be healthy.
The Doctor wasn’t a fool - he knew he was letting himself fall into the trap of caring more for this human man than he should have, more than he was meant to. He knew that the weakness he was truly yielding to when he stared too long at him whilst he studied the controls on the TARDIS, knew that when he relished the feel of those eyes watching him from across the room, when he praised his Ianto for whatever wonderful thing he had recently achieved, that he was simply allowing himself to give in to what he’d so ravenously longed for all those lonely, gaping years, deep in the depths of his very soul, unspoken but always there. He could have fought it, he knew exactly how, but it had worn him - Ianto Jones had worn him - to the point where it was simply worthless to try.
And perhaps it happened in the first place because he wanted to comfort, to know that he could do something right - to fix something and care for it and make it whole again. Maybe the fact that Ianto was such a stunningly rapturous individual in so many different ways hadn’t mattered in the beginning. But as time passed, the Doctor could not deny to himself - perhaps to everyone else, but not to his own mind - that it had become deeper, that it had become personal; that Ianto had achieved what no other had managed since he was just a boy, really, young and in love and still grounded. In the end, when they met again in a solitude that was charged beyond reckoning, that was already monumentally different from their day-to-day interaction, their friendly, playful, almost loving (if the Doctor were being optimistic) banter. And maybe, just maybe, the Doctor had acted, had been drawn to it, because he knew that Ianto was no longer broken - knew that he was strong again, that cuts and scrapes had faded back to scars once more; the ones on his skin tougher than those still throbbing on his heart, but all mended over none the less, blood stanched and dried until only the scabs remained to fall. He knew that Ianto could stand on his own again. He didn’t need the Doctor anymore. But it had never been clearer to the Time Lord how damn much he needed Ianto than when he brushed against his chest in the hall and inadvertently followed him down it, disappearing behind a closed door with the man’s hand caught roughly in his own.
He didn’t quite understand how they got there, in that moment; however they had managed to end up in the small bedroom in the very back corner of the TARDIS, one that had suddenly appeared after Ianto had joined her crew, and had been left unused until that very instant - perhaps she’d known, and placed it there in anticipation of this very instant, this very potentiality in the countless, endless possibilities of the future of every single action of every single living being that had ever been.
It hadn’t even begun innocently, not this time. They said nothing, they barely even made eye contact, but they were stripped of their clothing in moments only, shirts torn off and belts unbuckled in a torrent of impatient breaths and uncoordinated limbs. The Doctor wasn’t wearing socks, and Ianto hadn’t been wearing a tie - the strewn, spanning pile of vestments near the door was devoid only of these things as they fell atop the fully-made bed, ruining the immaculateness of the starched duvet as they tumbled backwards, an inordinate tangle of legs and torsos. Neither of them, however, minded all that much.
He hadn’t been able to follow the chain of events, the physical motions, the emotional battles, the war of his psyche and his sense - all he knew was the taste of this man was everything he’d ever loved, was everything he’d ever craved, and the feel of him beneath his hands was everything he’d ever known of the soft, the tender, the gentle and the sure; firm and flawless. He was pressing instinctively, primally against Ianto’s back, pushing against his cleft without thought or conscious intention, simply knowing that it felt right, and knowing that the soft, increasingly frequent gasps that escaped the man he was clasping to him were too erotic to forsake.
With a sudden grunt, Ianto had spun, flipped himself so that he was face to face with the Doctor, blue eyes boring into him, sucking him dry, stealing the blood from out his veins and the air from his lungs. On an unconventional sort of impulse, he leaned forward, relishing the feel of Ianto’s lower half wriggling against him, shifting and bending, ankles crossing at the small of his back while he bowed his head to nip wantonly at the jutting bone of Ianto’s clavicle, absolutely enthralled by the surprised gasp it elicited in the back of the younger man’s throat.
“Doctor…”
His breath caught violently, mouth pausing just above the jut of Ianto’s jawbone as he processed the name, his name, falling from those swollen lips. It was every instant he’d ever known of paradise - every time he’d felt bliss or contentment; every sunrise, every drop of fresh rain running down the bridge of his nose - infused and magnified in a single word, a single moment. He’d never imagined such pure and powerful happiness to be so profoundly affecting, but it was; it truly was. He felt absurdly as if he were glowing - beyond the flush of heat and exertion and the blush of exposure, the sparkling smile that, if he had been willing to keep his lips unoccupied for only a moment, would have burst forth and blinded the masses - he felt light, emanating and stunningly sheer; and for the first time in his entire life, he was solid, he was full, and he was completely and utterly at ease with the universe. His failures, his shortcomings, his doubts and fears - all of them suddenly ceased to matter; they meant nothing any longer, not with this beautiful creature melting into him, surrendering to him, but more importantly allowing, inviting him to give into his own surrender, being firm and close and wanting - caring - enough to let the almighty Doctor break within the confines of his arms, to let him crumble and fall apart without apprehension, without reservations; Ianto Jones, his savior - the only person who the Doctor would trust anymore to put him back together in the end.
Their fingers had danced together, each in a half-hearted attempt at preparation that, as a combined effort, had managed the job well enough, and the Doctor was sheathed in Ianto before he’d even had time to register his undeniable need to be in such a position, to be entirely as a real, viable, undeniable part of the other man, to exist inside him if only temporarily, to feel him and bask in his spirit for just the moment in the greater void of everything. He lost himself to the subtle, undying trill of beating, searing, shining life, growing brighter and more beautiful with every slide, every bit of unbearable attrition, every rub as he moved in and out, slapping wet and sloppy against Ianto’s chest, unable to decide whether he preferred to caress the outlines of his vertebrae, massage the dips of his heels where they hung over his shoulders, or simply catch his hands between them, running up from the palm resting just above his heart all the way down to the tentative brush of his fingers against Ianto’s straining length pressed hard between their stomachs.
It had been so long; he had denied himself for so long that he’d fooled his own mind into believing that he didn’t need it. He didn’t need to know care, or lust, or companionship - not fully. He had no use for attachment or friendship apart from the superficial guises of either, used to further his own goal-oriented existence from one aim to the next; means which justified far greater, far nobler ends. He was hard, and stoic, and hollow on the inside, and he wasn’t prone to requiring contact, craving passion, or desiring closeness in any context. Alone, the last of his kind, the infamous Doctor no longer had any need for love.
Yet as he felt his muscles tighten, pulling at his groin and spurring him to bite involuntarily on his tongue to stifle the consequent groan, he knew it was time to let those foul and bitter equivocations go, to release those ugly untruths and be rid of them, to extricate them from himself and breathe freely, wholly, for the first time in far too long. When indeed he had caught his breath and could do so, of course - at the moment, he was gulping pathetically for just a bit of stagnant air, the tickling singe of the struggle burning pleasantly behind his eyes as he let his head fall back with a gentle, half-strangled moan, hair stringy and damp as it plastered itself, adhering to his own forehead and the nape of his neck, brushing wet and slick onto the tips of Ianto’s shoulder blades as he rocked against him, into him, desperately.
He hadn’t been with anyone in centuries, hadn’t felt the touch of a bare chest against his own, expanding and contracting with such passionately delirious gasps of ecstasy; hadn’t basked in the wonder of a heart pressed to close his, and yet here he was - that glorious throbbing climbing still to rival his own resting pulse, situated just so as it pounded wildly in the crux of his sternum. Perhaps it was simply that he was unfamiliar with it, perhaps he had forgotten the sensation in so long a time; but the feel of Ianto’s battering-ram of a heart jumping out, almost visible through glistening surface below his left nipple, massaging with every beat at the Doctor’s own chest, just between his own humming hearts, reaching out to him and transcending the barrier of skin and bone and time and space and touching him - the most intimate essence of his life, what kept him exhaling that cool stream of carbon dioxide against the Time Lord’s bowed neck; he’d never felt anything like it before.
“Oh God,” Ianto murmured, grasping futilely at the last strands of his ability for speech as he rose, his hips bucking to meet the Doctor’s downstroke, a strange sob -like sound escaping him as he fell onto the Doctor, struggling for breath and clutching to his torso desperately, as if the world were ending. The sound, that choked sort of whimper, cut the Doctor hard - he paused, his entire being stinging with the reverberations of the anguished noise, as he cocked his head to study the expression on Ianto’s face. Lips parted, moving slowly with soundless words; eyes closed and lids fluttering feverishly, neck arched and exposed, trembling with every suck of his lungs and beat of his heart; he was an angel - the good and pure sort, the kind that symbolized all that was right and worthwhile in the whole of existence.
“I… I…” the Doctor stammered, unfocused and certainly nowhere near verbally coherent, trying but failing to discern what was troubling his young, exquisite new companion… new lover. He stilled, frightened, watching Ianto’s every move with a question in his gaze, certainly not missing when Ianto’s eyes sprang open and focused blearily up at him for an instant before he lurched forward, closing whatever distance remained between them, however little it was, pressing his palms against the Doctor’s spine and urging him unquestionably onward, tilting his neck to simultaneously assault the Gallifreyan’s lips as he clenched down pleasantly around the Doctor as he pushed into him further and resumed the peculiar but inexplicably wonderful rhythm that quivered between their naked forms. And suddenly, as a wave of heat and pain and pressure and longing and unadulterated pleasure began to build and surge from his head, through his chest and growing, spreading, rushing ever lower, it wasn’t important for him to speak any longer.
He lost himself - there was no other way to describe the complete lack of being that consumed him as he bled into something greater than his own life and death, so much more alive than he’d ever been - as he hit the peak, stars and the echoing halos of galaxies half-way across the universe glimmering in his vision as his eyes slid closed and he breathed against the torrent of emotion, of sensation, of everything that came against him and overwhelmed him as he rode out a climax harder and more soul-shattering than he was ready for. He barely felt Ianto’s shaking, his stilling, his falling into him, so all-consuming was the Doctor’s own trembling; barely heard it when Ianto cried out, when he spilled between their bodies where his stomach rubbed against his hardness, the heat of friction now wet with the aftermath, the results of their coupling.
“Fuck,” came the gentle whisper; he realized that they were now sprawled flat, pressed flush against each other and straining for air while seeking out one another with their wandering hands; needlessly, given their position, but desperate and greedy for more, nonetheless. Twining his fingers between the ones that sought him, the Doctor turned, rolling once more on top of Ianto, but now at the vantage point and in the frame of mind to simply study him, to really look at him, to take in and admire the breathtaking image of the man he’d so willingly given himself over to.
His right heart stuttered whilst his left stood still. By all that was beautiful and sacred in the cosmos, this man was perfection. All creamy skin and rich dustings of freckles garnishing the delectable surface of his flesh, the finishing touches on a masterpiece, lining the dips and curves of muscle and bone, of jutting, heaving lungs striving to burst free and fly of their own accord from delicate valleys between the rise of his ribs, only visible just as he began to exhale, sending the twin, teased ruby peaks of his nipples plunging downward with the breath. His stomach dropped in regret as he felt disconnected from him once again, close but not close enough, not a part of him any longer, not one with him as he yearned to be, as he ought to be without end. He wanted to devour him, absorb him, take him in; to know always every thrumming, living, shining inch of Ianto Jones like his own, as if every minute detail was as close to him as his own cells; as if the breath still tearing raggedly, so quick and sharp from his mouth were echoing through the Doctor himself, sustaining him just as desperately as the panting human trapped between his legs, beneath his chest.
He’d known it from the very start; it was that obvious sort of thing that didn’t escape one’s notice because of proximity or denial or choice. It was instead the sort of thing that shook a person to their core, and scared them to the point of sickness, that made them wonder who in the world they really were, made them question every established truth about themselves that they had ever accepted or flaunted, made them doubt the composition of their very heart and soul. He’d known it, and he’d hid from it as best he could for as long as he was able - which considering his desire was longer than most, but objectively speaking wasn’t very long at all. Afterwards, it only took seven more times over the course of the remaining year they spent in each other’s company for the Doctor to recognize that he was, inextricably and uncontrollably, in love.
It was this realization that led him reluctantly back to Cardiff, eventually, a tug at the back of his mind and the center of his spirit that told him he couldn’t maintain what had become their peculiar status quo; he couldn’t keep Ianto his own personal prisoner - whether he minded or not was a moot point, the fact that he had no choice in the matter much more pressing. Miserable, apprehensive, and shaking enough to force his hands into his pockets and inwardly thank his own strange mannerisms that it was recognizable enough as a personal quirk to go unnoticed, he waited in the doorway of the TARDIS as he watched Ianto crouch to the ground, running his hands across the soft, damp earth near the Bay, taking in his surroundings with some unique combination of trepidation and hope.
“I’ll…” the Doctor began awkwardly after the silence had reigned too long. “Well, I…” he reached a trembling hand to sift through his hair, trying to steady himself. “See, I won’t…” With a sigh, he gave up. This wasn’t going to work, this pretended nonchalance. He was going to have to give more to it, toddling in baby steps towards the truth.
“You’re free to go, now,” he muttered with a deep rumbling cough as he cleared his throat, masking the way his voice caught and pitched. “Don’t…” he stopped, ducking his head and focusing on where Ianto’s shoes dug into the ground, avoiding the man as he stood, feeling acutely as the human’s now-familiar gaze settled critically upon him. “You know,” he picked up with a shrug, “feel obligated or any such nonsense.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ianto tilt his head in consideration. “Do you want me to leave?” The Doctor was glad he wasn’t looking at the other man, because he knew well enough that the hidden edge of hurt that was bleeding into the question would have lined every feature of his expression had he seen it.
“Want?” The Doctor couldn’t stand it any longer, his head snapping up to meet those eyes, those eyes he so adored but which also held close his own undoing. “No…” he trailed, trying to cover his tracks, trying to unmake his own vulnerability, knowing it was pointless, but needing to make the effort. “No, I don’t mind either way,” he flashed a half-hearted grin for emphasis. “Your call, Mr. Jones,” he nodded with a well-feigned finality. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Ianto nodded and turned away from him. “I’ve missed this place, you know,” he called over his shoulder. “The air here, the water…” the Doctor could hear his deep intake of breath, closing his eyes and enjoying the pure and simple sound. “The rush of the wind. It’s comforting. It’s home.”
The Doctor winced, knowing the decision had been made without needing to hear it voiced. “I…” he began, throwing caution to the wind for the first time… not entirely, not as he wished to, but enough - he could not feel again the regret of all words left unspoken; he could manage the pain of the most important things remaining unsaid so long as he’d managed to free something. “I’ll miss you, Ianto,” he confessed, his tone wavering and quiet as he fought the urge to approach him, to embrace him before they parted, to make it hurt that little bit more.
Bending to grasp a rock in his hands, tossing it from palm to palm and then towards the sky, watching it as it fell and catching it soundly, Ianto turned to half-face the TARDIS, and the Doctor where he stood. “I don’t think you will.”
Dubious, the Doctor stared wide-eyed. “What?” His jaw dropped just a hair as Ianto threw the stone out towards infinity, not bothering to see where it landed as he walked back towards him, pausing just in front of him with an expression that the Doctor couldn’t, wouldn’t quite interpret, but that caused him to hope more fervently than he’d ever dared before that very moment.
“I’m ready, Doctor,” he murmured with a soft, tender wrap of his fingers about the crook of the Doctor’s neck, molding the contours of his palm to the Doctor’s skin. The Time Lord had to fight a shiver at the intimate breeze of Ianto’s warm, perfect breath against his lips, their proximity intoxicating. “Shall we?”
The grin Ianto flashed him as he flew back into the TARDIS lingered behind his eyelids as the Doctor stood still, hand pressed to where Ianto had touched him, massaging in the feel at the nape of his neck as he stared disbelieving into the ether of the morning fog that still lingered just above the ground. “Well, what do you know,” he muttered incredulously, an ardent, zealous sort of swell growing in his chest as he smiled, softly and from some deep well of emotion he was only starting to tap, the echoing blaze of the rising sun not even daring to rival the slow, delightful burn that was beginning to vibrate through the Doctor, spreading to his core. Folding his arms across his chest and staring up at the sky with a private sort of chuckle, he turned his back on Planet Earth once more, his eyes sparkling with wonder as he closed the door and went to follow his beloved with but a single exclamation:
“Allon-fucking-zy.”
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ten/Ianto
Word Count: 5,482
Summary: The Doctor finds himself in a rather peculiar emotional state: absolutely smitten. Spoilers for Torchwood S1, Doctor Who S2.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Written to satisfy my own Doctor/Ianto inclinations, and more pressingly at the behest of the lovely metaphysically, who inspired a sort of reluctantly passionate Doctor for this particular piece. And because when I was in France, the last line popped into my head and simply would not go away.
Permeate
Time had ceased to mean anything to him, and had done more centuries ago than he could rightfully recall. Every day was something closer to an instant, passing in a stunted blur of color and chaos as he perused the cosmos at his leisure, unbound by the forces that limit mere mortal life, unchained by the confines and constructs of a finite time line, or so it seemed in watching him, in taking him in - the entire universe was his to claim, to master, to revel and partake in, and he relished the fact that even if it was nearly a millennium in his past, he could still recall the scent of his mother’s hair, the soft touch of his wife’s hands - the long lines of the Gallifreyan horizon, the breeze that wafted up from the cavernous valleys and stretched greedily towards the highest peaks. In closing his eyes and breathing, he could still feel his lungs burn from that unique atmosphere, untainted by the holocausts of war, beautiful and straining and right, undeniably so - the likes of which he’d yet to find in any other place in the entire span of creation. By the stars, each and every one of them, how he missed it.
However, beyond the reach of all real reason or argument, once their lips met, he suddenly knew the very length and width of a moment, the significance of a single second, as he hadn’t known them in many lifetimes. It had happened before, though only once - a slow, awkward meeting of their mouths in a moment of grief, in which he’d comforted the young man who had inadvertently become his companion, his ward; he’d attached himself almost desperately to the primped young Welshman, grasping quick and holding tight, protecting him in a way that he’d never exhibited with quite so much vehemence. Perhaps it was because he knew that under that solid, strong exterior, the human man was breaking, silently but surely, and had little time left until he was utterly beyond repair; and it was a viable line of reasoning, one that he placated his consciousness with whenever their gazes met, whenever he felt his breath catch as those dazzling eyes broke away, tore themselves towards the high cheekbones beneath, dusted with the petal-flush of embarrassment if he was being realistic, arousal if he was feeling hopeful.
They’d been together, traipsing the galactic abyss of space, for three Earth-standard months when it had happened. He’d needed to refuel the TARDIS - in the upheaval and chaos that had resulted in picking up his wayward new companion, he’d neglected to do so last he had touched upon British soil. Time shifts were never pretty, and even he couldn’t explain what had happened to the most abstract details; it was because of that bastard Harkness, to be sure, and his unfortunate past which, like all such things, never quite stayed put in the years gone by as it ought to. However it had happened, however things had managed to get so terribly twisted and go so ineffably wrong, he suspected that young Ianto Jones hadn’t anticipated finding himself that morning, leaderless and alone, abandoned under a pile of debris from the burning remnants of his former place of employment, battered and bruised and dying alone as he relived that painful memory in the flesh, face tear-stained and drawn, scars long faded now reopened and weeping, the blood streaming down his chin in tiny rivulets as he curled on the ground, staring with glassy, sightless eye out towards the murky depths of the Thames. In truth, it had only been chance and sheer luck that the Doctor had come across his near-corpse the second time he’d experienced the destruction of Canary Wharf, and it had been some hidden strength within Ianto himself that had pulled him through at all, because even the TARDIS had shuddered in ominous warning when he’d dragged the broken man aboard; she liked death just a little as her Doctor did, and could sense well when it was near.
It had taken a solid six weeks for Ianto to get back on his feet, and it was during his convalescence that the Doctor had become enraptured with the compelling human, with the sound of his laughter and the brightness of his eyes, with the guarded way he smiled and even more so with the rare moments in which he lowered his defenses for the slightest instant and revealed the full brilliance of his soul in those depthless eyes. Tending to his wounds diligently, with a practiced air of aloofness at first, something about his man spoke to him, called to him, begging him to open himself and protect; to shower the boy that had come into his charge with such care, with such honest devotion; and the time came soon enough where he wanted nothing less, and gave in willingly to such unspoken pleas. Unbeknownst to him, somewhere within his soul had been unlocked a latent desire for contact, for concern and true connection, and the wild and violent surge of protectiveness he found himself associating with his new, unwitting companion was not only shocking, but entirely welcome.
They’d been on a small, uninhabited planet of ice where a rift was beginning to close itself as Time shifted across the universe, the Doctor arriving just in time to glean the last of what it had to offer before it withered after millennia of activity. Ianto had asked him why they had stopped - curious boy, he was, always wondering about places and cultures - and the Doctor had explained the need to recharge, and had expressed his trepidation of returning to Cardiff so soon after the temporal activity that had caused the terror he’d been caught in the middle of, for fear of causing a resurgence of something equally horrifying, or worse.
Mentioning Wales, it seemed, had been unwise, and it happened that he had embraced the other man in a moment of weakness - for both of them - that unnervingly penetrating stare glistening as the tears fell, and he felt his stomach clench at the anguish they held. That their lips had brushed, innocently enough, was a complete and utter accident, or perhaps a conniving twist of fate. He’d taken advantage of the situation - he was more human than he preferred to own to, it seemed, or at least he had become as much - and the poor thing in his arms was little more than a boy - a child in his own timeline, the glimmer of innocence may have been smothered from his heart, but its embers still smoldered in the nooks of each chamber, blazing in an instant with every frenzied pulse, every reluctant thud beneath his hands as he brought them to rest on either side of the tie that still wrapped around his neck. Ianto. It was such a beautiful name, such an exquisite string of letters, of harmonic perfection; it simply glided off the tongue in gilded symphony, begging to be uttered at every opportunity. In all his travels, he’d never found a word, let alone a name, in any of the countless tongues spoken by the unfathomable numbers of beings that populated the galaxies, that made his blood rush and his spine tingle quite like the simple Welsh eponym. It made him feel light, even under the burden of all the life and death he toted endlessly about atop his shoulders, and he would gladly have surrendered a whole regeneration of his soul to ensure he’d never lose that feeling, or the person it was attached to.
They spent long moments still, pressed against each other, Ianto grasping onto the stitching of the shoulders of the Doctor’s jacket whilst alien arms pressed against his back, warmer; more tender and caring than anything Ianto had ever felt before. The Doctor had initiated it, yet he wasn’t sure what had sparked it - lies, of course; he knew exactly what had sparked it, and it was terrifying to consider, so he ignored it with the practiced ease of nearly a thousand years of deftly avoiding that which tore your very being in two.
“I need to call you something,” came the shaky preface to something important, something meaningful, something that would define them both in the space of only a few simple words. The Doctor pulled back slowly, reluctant for both their sakes to break contact, to relinquish that perfect warmth. “A name,” Ianto rambled on, diverting his gaze. “I need to call you by a name.” He cleared his throat, leaning in slowly to nuzzle upwards just once from the Doctor’s shoulder to the curve of his neck. His breathing shuddered as he drew back once more, eyes fixed on the collar of the Doctor’s shirt, on the buttons and the skin that peaked out from beneath. With a shuddering intake of air, he gasped so quiet, so heart-wrenchingly; “Is that... okay?”
The Doctor smiled sadly, not noticing the tear that fell from his left eye to mirror Ianto’s own watering stare as he brought his thumb to run tenderly down Ianto’s jaw as he murmured, leaning closer to be heard, or to be felt; “You can call me whatever you need to. Whatever helps.”
He hadn’t been prepared for how much it hurt when Ianto had sobbed into the kiss; the first, and the second, on and on as they suckled at bottom lips, lapped at the corners of mouths, and ran the tips of tongues across brand new sets of teeth, ones they’d never felt before - not wantonly, not lustily, but almost heartbreakingly, the melancholy radiating from both men without relent for very different reasons as they tasted, as they imagined things as apart, separate, somehow different than what they were; as they wished and hoped and maybe even prayed for more as they lost themselves to one another, and to something else entirely.
In any case, beyond the sheaths of delusion that layered his psyche, ones he refused to shake from himself, refused to look past or break free from, so vivid and lovely as they were - the Doctor hadn’t been expecting the fiery knife of sheer, wretched pain that surged through him as Ianto moaned down his throat, the clear pronounced syllable that caused his organs to seize strangely against his skeleton, vibrating pure devastation throughout his body with just four letters: “Jack.”
He could feel the deterioration at his center, and knew a part of him died in that instant; though he couldn’t bring himself to admit just why it hurt so damn badly to hear it. Ianto had fallen asleep in his arm that night, and the Doctor had never felt more abandoned and desolate and bereft, more utterly deserted than he did with that body wrapped tight and safe in his embrace.
In the months that passed afterwards, he’d avoided Earth like the plague, this time quite selfishly, directing their travel to the most obscure outskirts of unheard of star systems to recharge his vessel, too paranoid to allow Ianto even the slightest glimpse of his home, for fear of losing him to the draw of it, and what it held for him. The strangled, heart-broken sound of that impossible, egocentric Time Agent’s stolen monogram from his perfect Welshman’s lips still festered deep in his consciousness, fanning the fire of his resolve, of carrying out his well-developed sense of protecting Ianto and ensuring his welfare, but also something deeper, something more penetrating and complete that meant more and felt like more and was far too rooted in jealousy to be healthy.
The Doctor wasn’t a fool - he knew he was letting himself fall into the trap of caring more for this human man than he should have, more than he was meant to. He knew that the weakness he was truly yielding to when he stared too long at him whilst he studied the controls on the TARDIS, knew that when he relished the feel of those eyes watching him from across the room, when he praised his Ianto for whatever wonderful thing he had recently achieved, that he was simply allowing himself to give in to what he’d so ravenously longed for all those lonely, gaping years, deep in the depths of his very soul, unspoken but always there. He could have fought it, he knew exactly how, but it had worn him - Ianto Jones had worn him - to the point where it was simply worthless to try.
And perhaps it happened in the first place because he wanted to comfort, to know that he could do something right - to fix something and care for it and make it whole again. Maybe the fact that Ianto was such a stunningly rapturous individual in so many different ways hadn’t mattered in the beginning. But as time passed, the Doctor could not deny to himself - perhaps to everyone else, but not to his own mind - that it had become deeper, that it had become personal; that Ianto had achieved what no other had managed since he was just a boy, really, young and in love and still grounded. In the end, when they met again in a solitude that was charged beyond reckoning, that was already monumentally different from their day-to-day interaction, their friendly, playful, almost loving (if the Doctor were being optimistic) banter. And maybe, just maybe, the Doctor had acted, had been drawn to it, because he knew that Ianto was no longer broken - knew that he was strong again, that cuts and scrapes had faded back to scars once more; the ones on his skin tougher than those still throbbing on his heart, but all mended over none the less, blood stanched and dried until only the scabs remained to fall. He knew that Ianto could stand on his own again. He didn’t need the Doctor anymore. But it had never been clearer to the Time Lord how damn much he needed Ianto than when he brushed against his chest in the hall and inadvertently followed him down it, disappearing behind a closed door with the man’s hand caught roughly in his own.
He didn’t quite understand how they got there, in that moment; however they had managed to end up in the small bedroom in the very back corner of the TARDIS, one that had suddenly appeared after Ianto had joined her crew, and had been left unused until that very instant - perhaps she’d known, and placed it there in anticipation of this very instant, this very potentiality in the countless, endless possibilities of the future of every single action of every single living being that had ever been.
It hadn’t even begun innocently, not this time. They said nothing, they barely even made eye contact, but they were stripped of their clothing in moments only, shirts torn off and belts unbuckled in a torrent of impatient breaths and uncoordinated limbs. The Doctor wasn’t wearing socks, and Ianto hadn’t been wearing a tie - the strewn, spanning pile of vestments near the door was devoid only of these things as they fell atop the fully-made bed, ruining the immaculateness of the starched duvet as they tumbled backwards, an inordinate tangle of legs and torsos. Neither of them, however, minded all that much.
He hadn’t been able to follow the chain of events, the physical motions, the emotional battles, the war of his psyche and his sense - all he knew was the taste of this man was everything he’d ever loved, was everything he’d ever craved, and the feel of him beneath his hands was everything he’d ever known of the soft, the tender, the gentle and the sure; firm and flawless. He was pressing instinctively, primally against Ianto’s back, pushing against his cleft without thought or conscious intention, simply knowing that it felt right, and knowing that the soft, increasingly frequent gasps that escaped the man he was clasping to him were too erotic to forsake.
With a sudden grunt, Ianto had spun, flipped himself so that he was face to face with the Doctor, blue eyes boring into him, sucking him dry, stealing the blood from out his veins and the air from his lungs. On an unconventional sort of impulse, he leaned forward, relishing the feel of Ianto’s lower half wriggling against him, shifting and bending, ankles crossing at the small of his back while he bowed his head to nip wantonly at the jutting bone of Ianto’s clavicle, absolutely enthralled by the surprised gasp it elicited in the back of the younger man’s throat.
“Doctor…”
His breath caught violently, mouth pausing just above the jut of Ianto’s jawbone as he processed the name, his name, falling from those swollen lips. It was every instant he’d ever known of paradise - every time he’d felt bliss or contentment; every sunrise, every drop of fresh rain running down the bridge of his nose - infused and magnified in a single word, a single moment. He’d never imagined such pure and powerful happiness to be so profoundly affecting, but it was; it truly was. He felt absurdly as if he were glowing - beyond the flush of heat and exertion and the blush of exposure, the sparkling smile that, if he had been willing to keep his lips unoccupied for only a moment, would have burst forth and blinded the masses - he felt light, emanating and stunningly sheer; and for the first time in his entire life, he was solid, he was full, and he was completely and utterly at ease with the universe. His failures, his shortcomings, his doubts and fears - all of them suddenly ceased to matter; they meant nothing any longer, not with this beautiful creature melting into him, surrendering to him, but more importantly allowing, inviting him to give into his own surrender, being firm and close and wanting - caring - enough to let the almighty Doctor break within the confines of his arms, to let him crumble and fall apart without apprehension, without reservations; Ianto Jones, his savior - the only person who the Doctor would trust anymore to put him back together in the end.
Their fingers had danced together, each in a half-hearted attempt at preparation that, as a combined effort, had managed the job well enough, and the Doctor was sheathed in Ianto before he’d even had time to register his undeniable need to be in such a position, to be entirely as a real, viable, undeniable part of the other man, to exist inside him if only temporarily, to feel him and bask in his spirit for just the moment in the greater void of everything. He lost himself to the subtle, undying trill of beating, searing, shining life, growing brighter and more beautiful with every slide, every bit of unbearable attrition, every rub as he moved in and out, slapping wet and sloppy against Ianto’s chest, unable to decide whether he preferred to caress the outlines of his vertebrae, massage the dips of his heels where they hung over his shoulders, or simply catch his hands between them, running up from the palm resting just above his heart all the way down to the tentative brush of his fingers against Ianto’s straining length pressed hard between their stomachs.
It had been so long; he had denied himself for so long that he’d fooled his own mind into believing that he didn’t need it. He didn’t need to know care, or lust, or companionship - not fully. He had no use for attachment or friendship apart from the superficial guises of either, used to further his own goal-oriented existence from one aim to the next; means which justified far greater, far nobler ends. He was hard, and stoic, and hollow on the inside, and he wasn’t prone to requiring contact, craving passion, or desiring closeness in any context. Alone, the last of his kind, the infamous Doctor no longer had any need for love.
Yet as he felt his muscles tighten, pulling at his groin and spurring him to bite involuntarily on his tongue to stifle the consequent groan, he knew it was time to let those foul and bitter equivocations go, to release those ugly untruths and be rid of them, to extricate them from himself and breathe freely, wholly, for the first time in far too long. When indeed he had caught his breath and could do so, of course - at the moment, he was gulping pathetically for just a bit of stagnant air, the tickling singe of the struggle burning pleasantly behind his eyes as he let his head fall back with a gentle, half-strangled moan, hair stringy and damp as it plastered itself, adhering to his own forehead and the nape of his neck, brushing wet and slick onto the tips of Ianto’s shoulder blades as he rocked against him, into him, desperately.
He hadn’t been with anyone in centuries, hadn’t felt the touch of a bare chest against his own, expanding and contracting with such passionately delirious gasps of ecstasy; hadn’t basked in the wonder of a heart pressed to close his, and yet here he was - that glorious throbbing climbing still to rival his own resting pulse, situated just so as it pounded wildly in the crux of his sternum. Perhaps it was simply that he was unfamiliar with it, perhaps he had forgotten the sensation in so long a time; but the feel of Ianto’s battering-ram of a heart jumping out, almost visible through glistening surface below his left nipple, massaging with every beat at the Doctor’s own chest, just between his own humming hearts, reaching out to him and transcending the barrier of skin and bone and time and space and touching him - the most intimate essence of his life, what kept him exhaling that cool stream of carbon dioxide against the Time Lord’s bowed neck; he’d never felt anything like it before.
“Oh God,” Ianto murmured, grasping futilely at the last strands of his ability for speech as he rose, his hips bucking to meet the Doctor’s downstroke, a strange sob -like sound escaping him as he fell onto the Doctor, struggling for breath and clutching to his torso desperately, as if the world were ending. The sound, that choked sort of whimper, cut the Doctor hard - he paused, his entire being stinging with the reverberations of the anguished noise, as he cocked his head to study the expression on Ianto’s face. Lips parted, moving slowly with soundless words; eyes closed and lids fluttering feverishly, neck arched and exposed, trembling with every suck of his lungs and beat of his heart; he was an angel - the good and pure sort, the kind that symbolized all that was right and worthwhile in the whole of existence.
“I… I…” the Doctor stammered, unfocused and certainly nowhere near verbally coherent, trying but failing to discern what was troubling his young, exquisite new companion… new lover. He stilled, frightened, watching Ianto’s every move with a question in his gaze, certainly not missing when Ianto’s eyes sprang open and focused blearily up at him for an instant before he lurched forward, closing whatever distance remained between them, however little it was, pressing his palms against the Doctor’s spine and urging him unquestionably onward, tilting his neck to simultaneously assault the Gallifreyan’s lips as he clenched down pleasantly around the Doctor as he pushed into him further and resumed the peculiar but inexplicably wonderful rhythm that quivered between their naked forms. And suddenly, as a wave of heat and pain and pressure and longing and unadulterated pleasure began to build and surge from his head, through his chest and growing, spreading, rushing ever lower, it wasn’t important for him to speak any longer.
He lost himself - there was no other way to describe the complete lack of being that consumed him as he bled into something greater than his own life and death, so much more alive than he’d ever been - as he hit the peak, stars and the echoing halos of galaxies half-way across the universe glimmering in his vision as his eyes slid closed and he breathed against the torrent of emotion, of sensation, of everything that came against him and overwhelmed him as he rode out a climax harder and more soul-shattering than he was ready for. He barely felt Ianto’s shaking, his stilling, his falling into him, so all-consuming was the Doctor’s own trembling; barely heard it when Ianto cried out, when he spilled between their bodies where his stomach rubbed against his hardness, the heat of friction now wet with the aftermath, the results of their coupling.
“Fuck,” came the gentle whisper; he realized that they were now sprawled flat, pressed flush against each other and straining for air while seeking out one another with their wandering hands; needlessly, given their position, but desperate and greedy for more, nonetheless. Twining his fingers between the ones that sought him, the Doctor turned, rolling once more on top of Ianto, but now at the vantage point and in the frame of mind to simply study him, to really look at him, to take in and admire the breathtaking image of the man he’d so willingly given himself over to.
His right heart stuttered whilst his left stood still. By all that was beautiful and sacred in the cosmos, this man was perfection. All creamy skin and rich dustings of freckles garnishing the delectable surface of his flesh, the finishing touches on a masterpiece, lining the dips and curves of muscle and bone, of jutting, heaving lungs striving to burst free and fly of their own accord from delicate valleys between the rise of his ribs, only visible just as he began to exhale, sending the twin, teased ruby peaks of his nipples plunging downward with the breath. His stomach dropped in regret as he felt disconnected from him once again, close but not close enough, not a part of him any longer, not one with him as he yearned to be, as he ought to be without end. He wanted to devour him, absorb him, take him in; to know always every thrumming, living, shining inch of Ianto Jones like his own, as if every minute detail was as close to him as his own cells; as if the breath still tearing raggedly, so quick and sharp from his mouth were echoing through the Doctor himself, sustaining him just as desperately as the panting human trapped between his legs, beneath his chest.
He’d known it from the very start; it was that obvious sort of thing that didn’t escape one’s notice because of proximity or denial or choice. It was instead the sort of thing that shook a person to their core, and scared them to the point of sickness, that made them wonder who in the world they really were, made them question every established truth about themselves that they had ever accepted or flaunted, made them doubt the composition of their very heart and soul. He’d known it, and he’d hid from it as best he could for as long as he was able - which considering his desire was longer than most, but objectively speaking wasn’t very long at all. Afterwards, it only took seven more times over the course of the remaining year they spent in each other’s company for the Doctor to recognize that he was, inextricably and uncontrollably, in love.
It was this realization that led him reluctantly back to Cardiff, eventually, a tug at the back of his mind and the center of his spirit that told him he couldn’t maintain what had become their peculiar status quo; he couldn’t keep Ianto his own personal prisoner - whether he minded or not was a moot point, the fact that he had no choice in the matter much more pressing. Miserable, apprehensive, and shaking enough to force his hands into his pockets and inwardly thank his own strange mannerisms that it was recognizable enough as a personal quirk to go unnoticed, he waited in the doorway of the TARDIS as he watched Ianto crouch to the ground, running his hands across the soft, damp earth near the Bay, taking in his surroundings with some unique combination of trepidation and hope.
“I’ll…” the Doctor began awkwardly after the silence had reigned too long. “Well, I…” he reached a trembling hand to sift through his hair, trying to steady himself. “See, I won’t…” With a sigh, he gave up. This wasn’t going to work, this pretended nonchalance. He was going to have to give more to it, toddling in baby steps towards the truth.
“You’re free to go, now,” he muttered with a deep rumbling cough as he cleared his throat, masking the way his voice caught and pitched. “Don’t…” he stopped, ducking his head and focusing on where Ianto’s shoes dug into the ground, avoiding the man as he stood, feeling acutely as the human’s now-familiar gaze settled critically upon him. “You know,” he picked up with a shrug, “feel obligated or any such nonsense.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ianto tilt his head in consideration. “Do you want me to leave?” The Doctor was glad he wasn’t looking at the other man, because he knew well enough that the hidden edge of hurt that was bleeding into the question would have lined every feature of his expression had he seen it.
“Want?” The Doctor couldn’t stand it any longer, his head snapping up to meet those eyes, those eyes he so adored but which also held close his own undoing. “No…” he trailed, trying to cover his tracks, trying to unmake his own vulnerability, knowing it was pointless, but needing to make the effort. “No, I don’t mind either way,” he flashed a half-hearted grin for emphasis. “Your call, Mr. Jones,” he nodded with a well-feigned finality. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Ianto nodded and turned away from him. “I’ve missed this place, you know,” he called over his shoulder. “The air here, the water…” the Doctor could hear his deep intake of breath, closing his eyes and enjoying the pure and simple sound. “The rush of the wind. It’s comforting. It’s home.”
The Doctor winced, knowing the decision had been made without needing to hear it voiced. “I…” he began, throwing caution to the wind for the first time… not entirely, not as he wished to, but enough - he could not feel again the regret of all words left unspoken; he could manage the pain of the most important things remaining unsaid so long as he’d managed to free something. “I’ll miss you, Ianto,” he confessed, his tone wavering and quiet as he fought the urge to approach him, to embrace him before they parted, to make it hurt that little bit more.
Bending to grasp a rock in his hands, tossing it from palm to palm and then towards the sky, watching it as it fell and catching it soundly, Ianto turned to half-face the TARDIS, and the Doctor where he stood. “I don’t think you will.”
Dubious, the Doctor stared wide-eyed. “What?” His jaw dropped just a hair as Ianto threw the stone out towards infinity, not bothering to see where it landed as he walked back towards him, pausing just in front of him with an expression that the Doctor couldn’t, wouldn’t quite interpret, but that caused him to hope more fervently than he’d ever dared before that very moment.
“I’m ready, Doctor,” he murmured with a soft, tender wrap of his fingers about the crook of the Doctor’s neck, molding the contours of his palm to the Doctor’s skin. The Time Lord had to fight a shiver at the intimate breeze of Ianto’s warm, perfect breath against his lips, their proximity intoxicating. “Shall we?”
The grin Ianto flashed him as he flew back into the TARDIS lingered behind his eyelids as the Doctor stood still, hand pressed to where Ianto had touched him, massaging in the feel at the nape of his neck as he stared disbelieving into the ether of the morning fog that still lingered just above the ground. “Well, what do you know,” he muttered incredulously, an ardent, zealous sort of swell growing in his chest as he smiled, softly and from some deep well of emotion he was only starting to tap, the echoing blaze of the rising sun not even daring to rival the slow, delightful burn that was beginning to vibrate through the Doctor, spreading to his core. Folding his arms across his chest and staring up at the sky with a private sort of chuckle, he turned his back on Planet Earth once more, his eyes sparkling with wonder as he closed the door and went to follow his beloved with but a single exclamation:
“Allon-fucking-zy.”