Disclaimer- I do not have the pleasure of owning Torchwood. If I did, there would be fewer aliens and more beautiful Welsh vowels. As you can see by the aliens, the BBC (and now also I believe Star? Some American channel, anyway) have the pleasure of owning the show.

Spoilers- None- there might be the odd hint at the show or adapted moment here and there, but they're impossible to pick up on unless you've seen that episode anyway.

Rating- T

Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed! I really appreciate all the feedback. I apologise if the last chapter seemed something of a digression, but we are back to Jack and Ianto here. Let me reassure you that the talk will occur in the next chapter; and in the meantime, I hope you enjoy this one.

Special thanks to my awesome beta Amethystbutterflies for all the plotting and plans and panto hype. Caru'ch! xxx

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Penthouses and Pianos

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If Ianto Jones had been asked to sum up his expectations of Jack Harkness' flat in three words, he would have said 'glamorous, expensive, DVDs'. As it happened he was exactly right, but that was possibly because he had cheated: the former two words stemmed from the glaring noun 'penthouse' in the address the American had texted him, as well as on a brief analysis of the model's personality. As for the Ianto's latter choice... Well the non-stop quotes were a dead giveaway. The Welshman was willing to stake his beloved violin on the fact that the American had a huge DVD collection.

Such were the thoughts whirling through the musician's thoughts during the seemingly never-ending elevator ride. Fortunately he had the small space to himself- in his present state of mind, Ianto had no doubt that he would have found sharing the lift space uncomfortably claustrophobic. Hell, he'd been feeling claustrophobic enough in his own head ever since Adam had called! Frowning to himself, Ianto was relieved when the lift finally stopped and the doors pinged open to reveal a small landing with only one door leading off it. Apparently Jack had the entire top floor of the impressively large building to himself. Steeling himself to step inside and come face to face with an indecent display of wealth, the Welshman tapped softly on the door.

When it swung open a few moments later, however, it was not an indecent display of wealth that he came face to face with, but an indecent display of Jack. The two were actually tantamount to being synonymous, but when faced by the (noticeably damp and rumpled) model dressed only in a pair of uncharacteristically loose-fitting jeans, the thought of Jack's money did not even enter the musician's head.

"You're early!" the model greeted with the merest hint of a blush whilst Ianto merely stood and stared. "Usually the elevator ride alone takes ten minutes- or at least, it always feels like it. I figured that since I wasn't going out after all, I'd hop in the shower," he explained.

Ianto made some kind of half-choking noise that might or might not have been an 'mmm', and the American laughed.

"You gonna come in or just stand out there all night keeping my front door company? I mean, I daresay it gets lonely at times, but I must confess I would be very hurt if you suddenly decided you preferred it to me."

Almost to his surprise, Ianto laughed. "Hmm, tough choice..." he mused. "On the whole, I think I'll come in. My feet are pretty exhausted from standing in that lift for five hours, and I imagine you own a sofa."

The model chuckled as he stood aside to allow the Welshman room to pass. "Well I have two, actually," he commented.

"No need to show off!" Ianto scolded with a grin as he stepped into the flat, looking around himself curiously.

Jack attempted to pull off an innocent look. "What? It's not as if I own any armchairs..."

This was indeed true, as the musician noted at first glance. The living area of the open plan flat most noticeably consisted of two huge black leather three-seater sofas set at right angles to one another, one facing the window and enjoying a stunning panoramic view of the darkened city whilst the other was pointed towards a wall-mounted 32" flatscreen LCD TV. On a round deep midnight blue rug in the roughly square-shaped space between them stood a beautiful square two-tier glass-topped coffee table holding a few navy blue and silver coasters, a trio of remote controls, and the current month's copies of Vogue and Kahlua.

"Make yourself at home," Jack's voice cut across his reverie, and Ianto turned to smile at his boyfriend.

"I'm just gonna go throw some clothes on," the model added with a smile.

Ianto gave a pout that rivalled his boyfriend's best efforts. "Oh, must you? I was enjoying the view so much..."

Jack chuckled. "You want me to freeze my bollocks off just days before the seventh date? I don't exactly make a habit of answering the door half-naked in the middle of December, you know!"

The Welshman raised an eyebrow. "I should hope that you're not in the habit of answering the door half-naked at any point in the year! But alright, I'll let you put some clothes on. But only if you let me steal a kiss first."

Jack smiled. "You can steal as many kisses as you want, gorgeous," he murmured as he pressed his lips to Ianto's in a long and tender caress. It was a languid and sensual kiss, full of affection and exactly what Ianto needed right at that moment. When they broke apart at last he had a smile on his face and felt better than he had all week.

The model smiled back. "Make yourself at home," he repeated. "I won't be a minute."

He disappeared through a door into what Ianto could only conjecture was the master bedroom, and the Welshman used the time to strip off his coat and hang it on the row of hooks to the right of the door, next to Jack's beloved greatcoat.

To the left of the door was the kitchen, a fairly spacious area at least the size of Ianto's own kitchen, surrounded on all four sides by gleaming white wooden counters with pale grey granite worktops. The counter immediately to Ianto's left was an island counter with three tall bar stools on the side of the door, facing the kitchen area. There were two gaps of almost a metre in width breaking the rectangle of counters: one immediately to the left of the front door, and one diagonally opposite, over by a pair of white doors which led out of the living area through the left-hand wall.

To the right of the door the room stretched out into a three-sided 'sub-room' containing a large white dining table surrounded by at least eight white wooden chairs with midnight blue suede-covered cushioned seats. The table was visible from the kitchen but not from the living area; and in the wall which corresponded with the window of the living room were set two white doors, much like those leading out of the living area over by the kitchen. Directly ahead of the front door and the kitchen was the 'living room', of which Ianto had already noted the sofas and coffee table. The entire wall opposite the front door consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows, including a French window leading out onto a small balcony. The view, as Ianto had already noted, was breathtaking, rivalled only by the floor-to-ceiling window on the right hand wall of the dining room. The TV was on the right-hand wall of the 'living room'; the wall with no doors. On the other wall, behind the 'TV sofa', was elegant white floor-to-ceiling shelving and storage. The top half of the wall held open shelves designed in a pattern of little boxes, displaying an artistic array of books, plants in midnight blue glossy pots, and photographs in elegant silver or midnight blue frames. Below the shelving to the left hand and right hand sides of the wall were enclosed cupboards, presumably holding Jack's beloved DVD collection and who knew what else. But between the two banks of cupboards...

Ianto stared. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. Almost without realising it, he found his feet taking him slowly across the soft white shag pile carpet in the direction of the object which had captured his attention. Blinking a couple of times, he pinched himself hard on the back of the hand to check that he wasn't dreaming. Nope, it was still there. Glossy white and fitted so neatly in amongst the cupboards and shelves that it was difficult to spot at first, but on closer inspection his suspicions were confirmed. It was definitely...

"Hey."

Jack's voice somewhere behind and to the left of him made him turn, and he smiled broadly. The model was still dressed in the same jeans and his feet were still bare, sinking into the carpet in what Ianto would have found a very sexy manner indeed had he not been so thrilled with his discovery. So thrilled, in fact, that he barely noticed how stunning the model was looking in those jeans and a simple round-necked black cashmere jumper with apparently nothing underneath, his hair still damp and tousled from the shower.

"You have a piano," he commented, the simple sentence so full of wonder and delight that Jack had to smile.

"Why yes, yes I do," he nodded. "I don't have room for a grand, unfortunately- or rather I would, if I didn't want to use the spare bedrooms as bedrooms. But Tabitha's a lovely little thing, and she fits in the unit so very nicely."

Ianto nodded, a smile playing on his lips, apparently finding nothing at all odd in the notion of naming a musical instrument.

"I had a lovely Broadwood before, in the old place I shared with Gwen before she moved in with Rhys; but unfortunately Bertie didn't fit in with the d├ęcor and I didn't want to paint him, so I had to relocate him to a new home. Tabby's a Steinway."

Ianto's eyes widened. "You have a Steinway?"

Jack grinned, nodding. "Yep; bespoke, as a matter of fact. Cost me an arm and a leg, but totally worth it."

Ianto stared longingly at the piano. It had been at least six months since he had last so much as touched one...

"May I?" he whispered, reaching out a finger to tenderly stroke the gleaming white wood.

The model nodded. "Be my guest. What say I rustle us up some dinner whilst you two get better acquainted?"

The Welshman smiled: a wide, genuine smile. "That sounds like a plan."

"Excellent," Jack beamed. "Now, what do you want to eat?"

Had Tabitha not have existed, Ianto would have requested his comfort food of macaroni with lashings of butter, a heap of melted cheese and chopped ham. However, a piano was far, far more comforting than any food on the planet, and so he smiled and shrugged.

"Whatever you want to cook is fine, Cariad."

The Welsh endearment slipped out completely without him noticing: he had been in Jack's flat for less than ten minutes and yet in spite of the clear indications of the model's fortune he already felt right at home.

It was not, however, lost on Jack, who turned away and padded over to the kitchen with a smile on his face to rival Ianto's when he had noticed the piano.