"Yeah," John adds as he grabs up his bag and swings it onto his shoulder. "We'll get out of your hair."

It was a stupid idea. On reflection, John doesn't even know why he ever thought it would work. Or well, he does. He was thinking about teasing Ianto, about seeing him smile, about how Ianto said he was a secret agent. He was thinking about how Ianto wanted more from him, and how he should try. He didn't think about what he'd do if they were approached, if he had to sell it someone. He didn't think about what he'd do if he had to accept that people were, in fact, watching them.

Which are they still, now.

"Don't worry," he adds lightly, "we know the way." He flashes his best attempt at a smile, but it's strained around the edges.

John can feel his breaths coming a little short as he lets Ianto tug him along, feels as if the eyes of the entire place might be on him. They're probably not, but the crawling sensation of being watched is still there. He lets go of Ianto as they reach the exit, tugs out his sunglasses to ward off the glare of the snow and tries to ignore how his hands aren't quite as steady as he'd like.

Deep breaths, slow not short. Don't be stupid. Right. He shoves up his sunglasses again reflexively and shoulders his way out into the cold.

"Anyway," he begins, "so the logs on that thing go back about a hundred and fifty years."

Let's talk about logs, Ianto, rather than anything else.