Ianto Jones is so not the girl…

He’s not the girl, not even if he’s someone who cries easily. His tears are never unjustified, he thinks. His best mates shooting his girlfriend for example. Being mind raped into believing he was a serial killer, for another. Or thinking Jack was truly dead after Abaddon, before he understood just how Jack was. Or even watching “Love Actually” for the twenty fifth time with a very much alive Jack just this last Christmas…

He’s not the girl, not even if Jack had left it to him to explain to the authorities exactly what had happened on that spur of the moment cruise around Cardiff Bay. And if even if the local PC did believe that PTSD was a viable excuse for Jack hanging Ianto off the bow of the ferry and shouting “I’m King of the World!” at the top of his lungs, he doubted that they believed he really was a window tester for Kia when he slapped at that car windscreen. What the police didn’t doubt was the match of his handprint to the one in the steamed up back window. Only quick Torchwood intervention had prevented a scandal of Harkness-like proportion.

He’s not the girl, not even when he mends Jack’s coat, using the precise, invisible stitches his father taught him years ago.  Not even when he runs his hands lovingly over the material more times than checking his work can account for. And not even when he holds the coat to his nose for a moment and feels a heady rush at the scent he finds there; that’s just Jack’s 51st century pheromones at work…

He’s not the girl, not even when Gwen and Tosh invite him to come round the pub for a girl’s night out, and then blush prettily when they ask. (Well, he thinks, Tosh blushes prettily; Gwen just gives him a sad look that annoys him).  He’s not the girl, not even when Owen brushes by him where he’s washing up coffee cups and tells him “that’s a pretty apron, Lovely,” before moving off to dig into the fridge for day old Chinese (It’s not an apron, he thinks, just a towel tied round his waist to keep any splashes off of his suit—the Torchwood 3 monthly dry-cleaning bill is already barely justifiable).  He’s not the girl, not even late at night when it’s just Jack and him in the Hub, and Jack puts Glen Miller on the PA system, and then comes and finds him and slow dances him around the water tower. Jack leads, of course and ends the dance by dipping Ianto low with a laugh, and then kissing him long enough and deliberately enough to leave him breathing hard and shaking. (All that dancing and nearly being dropped on the floor would make anyone breathless and shaky, he thinks).

He’s not the girl when he pushes Jack’s legs up just a little higher and sinks balls deep into him. When Jack groans out something that isn’t quite Ianto’s name because Ianto has him aroused beyond words. When he thrusts forward hard so he can reach Jack’s ear, first to nibble, then to bite hard enough to make Jack gasp, and then to whisper in that same ear a string of dirty, *filthy* words in Welsh. And when this makes Jack cry out and clench around him like a vice, triggering his own white-hot orgasm, Ianto Jones thinks he might be in love.

But he knows he’s *so* not the girl.