Ianto stretched languorously and moaned with the pleasure of it, deliciously relaxed and halfway to a post-coital doze, but that long a bout left a man in serious need of a nice mug of tea; he was old-school British: the need was gene-deep and undeniable.  Rolling onto his side, he took a little time to watch his partner, glad there was no need to disguise the soppy smile that frequented his face so often nowadays.  Jack was sleeping, naturally and effortlessly, and there weren’t the words to describe how elated Ianto felt to see Jack experiencing such peace.  It was little wonder that they both loved the TARDIS and its beneficial effects.

Despite the temptation to curl up alongside Jack and take a nap, Ianto knew he’d wake later feeling shrivelled with dehydration, so…tea.  He crept from the bed and pulled on a t-shirt and jeans, thankful that nowadays he was able to leave Jack’s side without sending the man into a panic. 

As he made his way to the kitchen, Ianto trailed his fingertips over every available surface, just to feel the TARDIS thrum beneath his touch, occasionally pausing, having learnt exactly where to scratch to make the old ship sigh in delight.  The TARDIS was the most extraordinary being and Ianto treated it with unguarded reverence.  The TARDIS, for its part, was equally and unquestionably fond of Ianto, this man who understood what was required and instinctively cared and cleaned with such gentle attention, as fulfilled by the teasing of dust balls from delicate areas of apparatus as he was charging about the latest planet alongside his captain.

Ianto was peripherally aware of Owen and the Doctor quarrelling but that wasn’t any surprise: unless occupied with a project they did little else.  Naturally, when accused of that, they defended one another staunchly, usually mere seconds before they started arguing again.  Still, it was quite a relief to discover that someone as brilliant as the Doctor had no more hope of reasoning with Owen than the average archivist did.  Paradoxically, and although he’d never admit it aloud, it made Ianto like Owen just that little bit better.

As the tea finished brewing to Ianto’s satisfaction the Doctor predictably appeared, ready for his nightcap and regarding Ianto with the usual intrigued gaze, fascinated by what exactly, Ianto didn’t have a clue.  Of course, it would be some time before the Doctor shared his insight, casually bringing into an unrelated conversation the fact that Ianto, due to some freak of supernature, now wore energy from the Port Talbot temporal anomaly like a second skin.  As he’d noted the first time they met, Ianto made perfect sense as Jack’s choice of partner: they were as wrong as each other and certainly weren’t in any danger of growing old together for a very long time.

“This is nice.”  The Doctor raised his mug to Ianto, same gesture, same words every night.  “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” Ianto replied, always on cue.

That was it, as much conversation as they shared of an evening.  It was peculiarly comfortable.

Picking up his own tea and a mug for Jack, Ianto passed Owen in the kitchen doorway and gave him an effortless smile.  Not killing Owen was far easier out here, where distant races, new weapons, and new plagues were always keen to remind a person how cheap life could be.

“Nos da,” Owen said cheerfully to Ianto’s back, a cockney-accented Welsh goodnight that always made Ianto chuckle to himself.

“Pronunciation’s wrong,” the Doctor airily informed Owen.

“No, it’s not.”

“Is.”

“Ianto would know, wouldn’t he.”

“He’s too nice to mention it.”

“No, he’s not.”

“What is he then?”

“Welsh.”

And so it continued until Ianto was out of earshot, soon back to the quarters he shared with his partner, critically positioning mugs before stripping off and making himself comfortable beside Jack.  A waking Jack, dozy and contented, whose sleep-hot hand snaked from beneath the covers to reacquaint itself with the smooth skin of Ianto’s inner thigh.  As Ianto reached for his tea, the TARDIS brought the shelf it was on a little nearer for him.

Amazing, Ianto told himself for the nth time.  It was all perfectly amazing.

Here he was, Ianto Jones, travelling through time and space with Torchwood’s number one enemy (and loving every second), saving the Universe (crucial job, he joked to himself, holding coats), and – he mentally supplied a suitable drum roll – without a single tie to his name.

Not to mention being in the constant company of a man he adored more with every passing day, a man who filled his life with warmth and had never let him be lonely for a single moment.

Jack’s hand flexed.  Ianto gave a satisfied sigh and sipped his tea.

It didn’t get any better than this.

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