Almonds

Ianto Jones never made mistakes.

He never made Yorkshire tea when he knew Toshiko wanted a green tea latte. He never handed Owen haemostatic forceps when he needed enterotomy scissors on those rare occasions where an extra pair of hands was needed in the autopsy bay. He never put cream in Gwen’s coffee, even though she’s only mildly lactase deficient and it would take a pint of heavy crème to get so much as a burp out of her.

So the first time Jack Harkness put a mouthful of chicken with almonds into his mouth and tasted cashews, he was suspicious.

Ianto had only been back to work for two days. After his cyber-girlfriend had been discovered, and subsequently tried to kill them all, Jack had sent him home. And despite Gwen’s suggestion of retcon and Owen’s far less subtle suggestion of a bullet to the head, all Jack had given Ianto was a sharp hug, a ride home and the choice to come back when he thought he was ready.

Ianto had walked through the cog door of the Hub the next day. Gwen still had bruises on her forehead where the clamps of the cyber-conversion unit had dug in. Jack still had a small cut on his lower lip and a knot in his jaw courtesy of Mr. Jones’ solid right hook. Ianto had eyes dark with remorse and fatigue, and a flawless Prada suit.

He cleaned up without being asked, served coffee and tea in silence, getting everyone exactly what they wanted without having to ask, and nodded without comment when Jack told him he felt like Chinese for lunch.

Almond chicken was Jack’s favorite, and it was always on the list when Ianto ordered in for them. Once in a while there’d be a new dish, but for a group whose job description was basically one nasty surprise after another, there was something comforting in knowing what to expect. And Ianto knew it. So there was always Pad Thai (Ianto’s favorite), garlic rice (which Tosh surprisingly preferred to plain), Kung Pao beef for Owen (with extra meat), Gwen’s lemon chicken, and special low mein and fish crackers to share.

And of course, Jack’s almond chicken.

Jack gave his food a quizzical look that first time and then gave Ianto the same sharp look.

“They must have mixed up the order, sir,” came the reply. “Would you like me to call them?”

There was nothing wrong with cashew chicken, so Jack declined Ianto’s offer and by the time the last of three weevils was in its cell that night, he’d forgotten all about lunch.

But when Chinese showed up on the supper menu a week later and once again Jack tasted cashews instead of almonds, he wondered if they needed to switch restaurants.

The third time Ianto ordered Chinese, Jack shamelessly listened in. And then he knew it wasn’t the restaurant that needed sorting.

After lunch he called Ianto into his office. The young man brought with him coffee and biscuits and slumped shoulders wrapped in impeccable Armani.

Jack waved him into the chair he’d set in front of his desk, ignored the wave of lust he felt watching Ianto’s long elegant fingers smooth out a non-existent crease in his slacks, and gave the young man a frank but not unfriendly look.

“You said I never asked about your life. Well, you’re right. I didn’t bother with what was going on around me.” He held up a hand when he saw Ianto was going to speak—whether to agree or disagree, he didn’t know, and didn’t care. “First with Suzie, because she was brilliant, and then with you, because you were invisible and beautiful, at the same time.”

Ianto blushed and found something interesting on the floor to focus on.

Jack ignored his discomfort and continued. “And because I ignored the little things, they became big things. Deadly things. I won’t have that happen again. And I won’t allow it from anyone on my team.” He paused then, and let the silence grow heavy enough that Ianto finally looked up from examining his shoes.

“Why are you feeding us cashews instead of almonds?”

It felt like the most foolish question ever asked as it tumbled from his mouth, but Jack saw the way Ianto’s eyes darkened, the way his jaw tightened and the way the younger man bit at his lower lip, and knew it wasn’t a stupid question at all.

Another silence fell, still awkward, and Jack didn’t think Ianto was going to answer him. He watched as Ianto’s mouth opened, closed and opened again, and he thought he could count on the fingers of one hand just how often he’d seen those full lips turn up in a smile. And he wondered if he’d ever see another one.

Ianto stood, considered his captain with a worn and grave look, re-straightened his trousers and said, very quietly, “Of the one thousand, nine hundred and seventy three people we have given retcon to, four hundred and twenty four of them remarked on the taste of their food or drink before succumbing to its effects. They said it tasted like almonds.”

Jack knew that Ianto would have to rebuild all the trust he had lost with the whole team, and he knew it was going to be a long difficult journey for the young man. In his consideration of that, he had completely lost sight of the fact that Ianto would have some serious trust issues of his own. Especially with Jack himself. And if ordering cashews instead of almonds started Ianto on the road to trusting him again, he’d gladly accommodate him.

Ianto moved to the door and Jack enjoyed watching his loose-limbed stride. After one step over the threshold, Ianto paused, looked back at Jack and gave him a very small, very tight lipped smile, and added “Cyanide also tastes like almonds.”

And then he was gone and Jack was left to ponder the two way street of rebuilding faith in one another.