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“There you are,” Gwen said, clambering over the last rung of the ladder. “Never pegged you for being a roof sort of man. I always assumed that was more Jack’s territory.”
“Well, he can’t have all the fun,” said Ianto, smiling from where he was sitting, smoke wafting off front the cigarette perched delicately between his fingers, a steady stream of gray against the yellow of the streetlights.
He brought it to his lips and took a drag, an inhale and an exhale of silvery smoke.
“And how’d you find me then?” he asked.
“Had Tosh track your phone,” she explained. “Those’ll kill you, you know. I’m sure you’ve seen all those anti-smoking adverts.”
“It’s not tobacco,” he said, and pulled from the mystery cigarette again. “It’s cannabis.”
“Oh?” she said, interested. “And you’re smoking it on a roof?”
“Perfectly safe,” and he extended out his hand, holding the spliff out towards her, his eyebrow raised, a question dangling in his eyes.
She took it from him, holding it securely in her hand. The last time she’d experimented with marijuana, she was in college, drunk, and one of her friends had procured a tiny little spliff from his pocket, holding it out like a prized jewel, lighting it with shaky hands and passing it around in a circle. She didn’t remember much from that night, although it probably was the alcohol, rather than the weed. Regardless, she held the spliff up to her mouth, cocky as anything, and took a drag. The smoke filled her senses, going down her lungs and burning down her throat. She slowly exhaled, letting out a stream of white.
And then she promptly began to cough her lungs out.
“Careful,” Ianto said, hand coming up to rub her back. “Here, drink some water.”
She gratefully took the water bottle from him, gulping down from it while she somehow coughed all the way through, as though her lungs were ejecting its way up her throat.
“You usually cough the first couple times,” he said, smiling gently at her. “I’d have brought more water if I knew you were joining me.”
“Well,” said, interrupting herself with a cough. “I couldn’t exactly let you storm out—” another cough “—of the Hub, and not follow you.”
“I suppose not,” he said. “Still, it’s not like you would have known where I was if you didn’t get Tosh to help you.”
“That’s called ingenuity, Mr. Jones.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh yes. Something you ought to do is let your friends help you when you need it,” she continued, letting a bit of an accusing tone into her voice.
“I don’t need help,” he said immediately, as if she couldn’t tell the inflections of his voice meant he desperately did.
“Oh? And that’s why you’re getting high on a rooftop?”
“I like it up here,” he said, pausing a bit before talking again. “I used to smoke up here a lot when I first moved here. Actual cigarettes. It was peaceful, I guess.”
He stopped here, biting his lip like he was scared to go on, then took another slow drag, closing his eyes as if to savor it more thoroughly. His lashes fluttered, dark against the paleness of his skin. He looked as if he belonged in a painting, the yellow of the streetlights reflected off the high points of his face, his forehead, his cheekbones, the slope of his Cupid’s bow and the curve of his Adam’s apple nestled between the slightly open shirt and the loosened tie. She could almost imagine him framed in gold, hanging against a wall, a plaque below. It would read something like man smoking in the nighttime or another title of the sort. He could be a Hopper, the way his solitary figure rested on the ground, hand clutching the cigarette, a portrait of loneliness. She’d always liked his work.
Ianto’s eyes opened and came to rest on her, crinkling at the corners as he smiled at her fondly.
“What?”
She didn’t speak, pulling him closer to her, planting a kiss on his cheek. As much as she loved to view the melancholy of Hopper’s work, it made her sad to think of Ianto as being in one, framed only by the stillness of his background. He deserved more than that, she figured.
“I love you, you know that, right?” asked Gwen, hoping that he did.
“It’s not like you don’t tell me every day when I bring you coffee,” he snarked, butting against her gently.
“Ianto—”
“Yes Gwen, I know. And — and you know I feel the same.”
“I know it’s hard for you.”
“It’s not like everything isn’t hard for everyone.”
He looked at her with slightly hooded eyes and a faint smile, lounging, seemingly nonchalantly, only she could see the slight strain in his figure. Perhaps he didn’t know what to say, or perhaps he simply didn’t know what she was going to say next. Truth be told, she didn’t know either — it felt like if she said a word, it might break the placid atmosphere.
“Anyway, what were you going to say?”
“Nothing I haven’t already said,” she responded. “I guess we can talk about it later.”
Did she want to grab him and shake him wildly and tell him that she loved him, that he deserved good things and that she could give it to him if he just let her help him.
And yet.
Gwen knew that even if she pushed, she probably wouldn’t get a straight answer out of him. He looked at her with thanks in his eyes, and she knew she’d made the right decision.
“You should bring a boombox up here. Play a little mood music as you damage your lungs.”
He chuckled, leaning his head against her. “And what would be the best sort of music for that?”
“Oh, you could play that nonsense you play in the Hub when you think no one is in? What’s it called — Zoink?”
“Do you mean Zeal?” he asked, flushing. “I cannot believe you called it Zoink!”
“Well, jinkies to you,” she teased. “Or you could just continue sitting in silence then, I suppose!”
“It's not so bad,” he said. “Not when you’re here.”