Too much out there waiting. At first it seems a curious perspective from a man who, to all intents and purposes, has literally all the time in the world. But then, if you don't maintain momentum regardless, what's to stop you simply grinding to a halt?

When Jack brushes a hand against the side of his head, he doesn't demur. Like a lot of men raised in the old-money landed classes - lacking familial affection, trained to loathe and fear aberrant sexuality even in oneself - he grew up at arm's length from his peer group. The agent Galahad is who he needs to be from mission to mission, but Harry tends not to get closer than a handshake. Even in bed he's reasonably economical about how he uses his hands. Recently, though? Touch is welcome. It's necessary. The ghosts do not touch.

Furthermore, he's adaptable. By the time this is over, he supposes he may very well have adjusted to Jack's more tactile nature.

"I did."

And that's the end of that. There was no particular avenue being pursued; he accepts a change of subject without a fight, but not this one in particular. What passes between himself and Eggsy has the sanctity of the confessional, as far as he's concerned. He won't even be subtle about signaling that the topic is out of bounds.

He tilts one arm, brushes his fingertips over Jack's inner wrist.

"You were going to tell me about Torchwood."