He feels his fingers tightening in their grasp about the crystal tumbler half-filled with amber liquid. Jack’s always had good taste. He thinks (bitterly) to himself. And not just in whiskey. He pushes a flicker of irritation- disguised jealousy and resentment- aside and shifts a step or two backwards, reaching out to settle his glass on a nearby shelf before proceeding to roll down his shirtsleeves.
He despairs momentarily at the creases he’s caused as he fastens the cuffs up before beginning on his waistcoat.
He wants to turn and look at Jack, wants to step into his office and turn off the footage he’s watching, wants to twists Jack’s chair and force the Captain to look at him, wants Jack to know that it’s his bed he’s sharing and his body he’s mapping out night after night and his goddamned heart that’s he’s toying with and fuck if it doesn’t mean something to Jack because it damn well means something to him.
But he doesn't turn and look at Jack. He cannot make himself. Because turning to him would make an issue out of something Jack insists doesn’t exist. Even when Ianto knows it does. Even when Gwen herself knows it does. Even when Tosh and Owen both damn well know it does. And it’s all Ianto can do to made up jokes about their relationship (if he can call it that) being all avant-garde and a matter of convenience, when it’s not. Not to him.
But that doesn’t seem to matter.
So Ianto buttons his shirt and his waistcoat and fixes his cuffs. He straightens his back and keeps his head high and he leaves. He just leaves. No words of goodbye, no smiles, not even to Tosh and especially not to Owen.
He doesn’t turn around.
[ end. ]
[ written as part of Caspe-Wri-Mo ]