Silver Service by a_silver_story | 23
Title: Silver Service
Author: a_silver_story
Chapter: 23/?
Genre: AU, Romance, Angsty, fluffy
Rating: NC17 / 18
Pairings: Main Pairing is Jack/Ianto. Also includes Ianto/Martha, Ianto/Tosh friendship, Ten/Tosh, Mickey/Martha (mentioned)
Warnings: M.M, rentboy!Ianto, Alternate Universe, Torture (not graphic)
Disclaimer: If I owned anything in this, I'd be a rich rich rich bitch. However, I am not a rich rich rich bitch so you may all, therefore, assume I own nothing. Which I don't. It all belongs RTD and the BBC, in case any of you didn't know. Now pass the retcon ...
Summary: Started as a PWP, but since it's me (sorry folks!) and I really can't do things by halves, it grew and grew and grew (and not in an innuendous sort of way). Doctor Smith owns a posh Cardiff hotel, and the respectable Sixth Earl of Boeshane is coming to stay - and he brings with him some very specific demands.
The story follows Ianto from being born, meeting Toshiko and them running away together to the city, right up until Ianto is taken to work in the Doctor's hotel as a 'service' butler for - you guessed it - Jack.
Everyone's fave OTP ensues. BOO YA!
Torchwood Index/Masterlist
FIRST PART | Chapter 1
Click banner for Fic!
Ianto woke up slowly, hearing the water in the bathroom tumbling into the tub, smiling to himself and knowing that Lisa only had a bath instead of a shower when she wanted him to join her.
His eyes snapped open, he saw where he was, and everything came back, hitting him so hard he nearly started crying again. The pillowcase by his head was still damp from the night before, and he could feel it cold against his face. Jack’s part of the bed was still a little warm, but he’d been gone long enough to wake Ianto with his absence.
The sound of the water stopped, and Ianto closed his eyes and pretended to sleep when he heard bare-footed steps approaching behind him. The mattress dipped as Jack knelt and leaned over him, kissing his shoulder blade and working his way up his neck. Ianto opened his eyes, and remained still until Jack noticed and stopped.
“C’mon ...” Jack whispered, taking his head and pulling him out of bed. “We’re having a bath.”
Jack got in first, and spread his legs wide for Ianto to sit between them. Ianto did, not looking him in the eye, and sat up straight trying not to touch him, to try and get him to realise this isn’t what he wanted. Jack chose to be oblivious, though, and pulled him back so that he was lying against his chest with Jack’s arms around him, being kissed on his forehead, cheeks and temple and nose. He didn’t move into the touch, nor reciprocate when kisses were pressed to his lips. He remained motionless and emotionless, letting Jack do what he liked.
The water was too hot, but Ianto didn’t complain. He complied when Jack made him lean forward after a while, and kept still as Jack shampooed, conditioned and washed his hair thoroughly, obligingly keeping still as his body was washed with vanilla-scented soap. Jack hummed to himself, sounding a little mad, and Ianto began to get nervous as Jack forced him to spin around and face him, a leg either side of each other. Jack pulled him closer and pressed their mouths together, and Ianto let him push his tongue forward, not wanting him angry.
Ianto didn’t reciprocate further than that - not even closing his eyes. He opened his mouth, and let Jack do as he wished with his tongue, but his own did nothing. After a few minutes, Ianto could feel him getting hard against his own unresponsive penis, and began to fully face up to where this was going.
As he lay on his front and felt Jack move deep inside him, he closed his eyes and thought about everything that had happened. A bubbling hatred for Mickey was bursting forth, and Ianto was more than happy to believe this was all his fault. Why had he said that? Why couldn’t he let it lie? He probably hadn’t thought Jack would have reacted the way he did, and he was hopefully feeling very guilty right now.
Jack’s teeth were nipping at the spot he just loved, and the memory of them discovering it resurfaced unexpectedly. It was followed by recollections of days spent in bed, rolling around in passion, or lazy lovemaking, or heated, angry and rough sex. The laughter they’d shared, the mischief. Sneaking greasy fast food up to the room just to see the looks on the clientele’s faces when they wandered through the lobby with it. The first time they had sex.
The first time had been in this position. Ianto lying on his front, Jack on top. Ianto remembered the nerves and the fear, and the pleasure and ecstasy and happiness. He could feel the friction of the duvets below him, realising he was hard and that he was starting to enjoy himself. He felt Jack stop, push them both down into the mattress, and Ianto internally groaned with frustration. He clenched hard and Jack moaned, running his fingers up and down Ianto's back before starting his thrusts again. On his hands and knees, he pushed down into Ianto's body, watching the flush finally starting to creep over pale skin.
Ianto panted and writhed. Why not enjoy himself? What else did he have left if not sex? What else did he have left if not sex with Jack?
He came with his head buried into the bed clothes, not making a sound. He felt Jack pull out and hot liquid spurted over his back before strong hands rubbed and massaged it into his skin. Content, Jack was smiling and climbing under the covers, holding them up for Ianto to crawl beside him. Ianto did so, and found himself gathered up in a heartfelt embrace.
“Let’s stay in bed all day.” suggested Jack. Ianto nodded, his cheek brushing against Jack’s chest.
Bed.
What else did he have left?
~*~*~*~
One month and two weeks earlier ...
Okay, coming to terms with it now.
Not allowed to be alone with Ianto. For five and a half years.
There were worse fates, right?
What did you expect of him, anyway? To cheat on Lisa? Well, you hoped he would - don’t lie to yourself - but you can’t be that surprised that he didn’t.
Loyal to the end, your Ianto. And you don’t quite deserve that loyalty, do you, Jack?
Back to the plan: find a bar. Preferably a classy one. Maybe not a wine bar, but not a local pub either. You promise yourself that this one will not have dark hair, will not have blue eyes, will not have proud, noble features and most certainly will not be Welsh. The chances of finding anyone Welsh would be slim tonight - hopefully - in this part of Sunderland.
There’s ambient music pouring onto the street from a chill out bar a little way down. You give a quick look-in, just to check the talent, and decide that these kids are far too chilled out for your liking. All sat lounging around, not even talking to each other, trapped in a daydream or waking sleep while low mood lighting changes from blue to purple to pink to blue. As you leave, you’re fairly certain they’ve just started playing Whale song.
You smile to yourself, imagining what the look in his face would be if he saw the state of the lazy youths haunting the bar, before reminding yourself that you’ve forgotten to remember to forget him.
For now.
Further down the street and you give a club overfilled with sweating bodies and leaking a constant thud thud thud thud thud thudthudthudthudthud noise that you can’t understand why people call music a wide berth. You hate nightclubs. The music was far too loud to socialise, constantly having to shout to be heard. There were always young girls wearing far too little and looking like complete sluts. And then there was the ‘dancing’. You snort at the idea of calling that strange rocking, arms in the air, gyrating against strangers movement as ‘dancing’. You’re all for gyrating, but at least against someone whose name you know.
Let’s hope no one gets you started on the dance floor itself. Always packed so full of people pretending they’re dancers, rubbing up against you like some strange clothed gang rape.
You shudder.
You miss the days when dancing took talent, and was interesting to watch beyond, ‘Wow, she can move those hips to the beat. Well done’.
Still, what was Strictly Come Dancing for, if not publicly showing a wistful nostalgia for the days when pretty much everyone could foxtrot and waltz, and gentlemen had manners.
Don’t smirk to yourself, people will think you’re weird.
Though the reason why you are smirking to yourself is laughable. You know your own manners are appalling, but at least when you make an effort ...
That was a strange noise.
You pause, squinting in the darkness of a side street leading away from the main stretch. How would you describe that sound? A low growl, like a guard dog, but with a strange ... owl-like ... quality. An owl-y dog.
Maybe it was one of the clubbers, you think. Their loud shrieks and jeers echo up and down the street, it could be hard to tell where all the sounds were coming from. You keep your hand on you Webley through the greatcoat anyway, just in case.
“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!” a group of boys are chanting and jeering, stood in a tight-knit crowd in a circle around two kids brawling in the street. The bouncers for the nearby club are taking bets on the winner, doing nothing.
You’re feeling charitable, and that wiry little kid doesn’t stand a chance against the man pummelling his innards through his back and out. Yay! You get to play the Big Damn Hero, and you just love it when crowds all freeze to turn and stare at you. Always have, always will.
You fire the shot into the air, quickly followed by another. Silence apart from that bloody thudthudthudthud from the club falls, and the crowd all turn to stare at you. You leave a dramatic pause before speaking, because the dramatic pause is the best weapon in your repertoire.
“Look at the state of yourselves.” you tell them simply. “I hope your mommys are all very proud of what you’ve turned out to be.”
One of the fighters, the bigger one, turns on you with a leer. “What do you know ‘bout my mother?” he asks.
“Rumour has it she’s a Geordie.” you reply coolly, knowing the exact level of the insult borne in Sunderland.
“You basta’d!” he yells and swings for you, and quite suavely (if you do say so yourself) you step aside and let him keel.
“Shall I give you a clue as to why attacking me isn’t such a great idea?” you ask as he climbs to his feet, snarling. “You; fists. Me; gun.” You hold up the Webley, and the kid’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times, before conceding defeat. You grin, and see the flicker of interest in the guy’s face.
But you’re not interested in him.
You carry on down the street, and there’s an Irish themed pub less than fifty metres further. As good a place as any, you decide, and there’s always a great atmosphere in those places.
‘God bless the Irish,’ you think as a pretty young girl with dark hair and hazel eyes winks at you from the other side of the room.
May as well have a Guinness, you decide, going with the theme of the pub, wondering to yourself if when the Muslims stop being stereotyped as the terrorists, they’d get their own themed pubs too. Alcohol free, of course, and probably as peaceful as the main interpretations of their holy text teaches.
The lack of bacon sandwiches would be hard on you, though.
The pretty girl is kissing another girl, and once again you say thanks to the love of the Irish, and make the quick decision to buy some property there. Maybe sell the Spanish place and buy a house in a city for a change ...
The girl winks at you again, breaking away from her partner, who glances over, too. She giggles and whispers in her girlfriend’s ear, and they both begin to make their way over. ‘Ohhh this could be a fun night,’ you think as they introduce themselves as Sarah and Kimberley.
~*~
Mmmmm that’s a good ache, and you grin to yourself as you lay back, finally having your breathing under control. The girls are still panting (always a good sign, unless they’re asthmatic) and you’ve got them both on one side of you. They’re cuddling and kissing each other, and you’re not going to interfere. This is their moment, and you can see the affection.
Coming between two lovers was never you thing - but Ianto and Lisa was different. You were there first.
A CRASH reverberates outside, and on full alert you sit straight upright. The girls jump and curl up a little as a hand hammers on the door frame, and you reach for your Webley and some trousers.
You’re not prepared when six men pile into the dingy room you hired for the night, and you take out two at the kneecaps before a sharp pain in your arm tells you you’ve been shot. You glance down and see a tranquilizer dart sticking out of your skin, the liquid pumping into your system. The girls are screaming, and you can’t remember their names anymore as you hit the ground hard, falling unconscious.
~*~
FUCKING COLD WATER!
You hate being woken up like that!
You’re angry, but when you try and move your arms you realise you’re bound to the chair, handcuffs tight and cutting. You’re still shirtless, and when you calm yourself you can hear the sniffling of the girls in the corner. Five of the men have disappeared, but you can hear the other one shuffling around.
Still in the bedsit of a room, you glance around. The shade has been taken from the light, leaving the bulb harsh and bare. The windows are blacked out, and in front of you is a table with a laptop set up with a webcam. The screen saver is a black and blue coat of arms, and you know exactly what is going on.
Saxon.
The man who threw the water over you is very proud of himself, scruffing your hair and grinning. He moves the mouse, and sets up the video connection on the laptop, sitting on your lap to use you as a chair. Not cool.
You can’t hear exactly what Saxon is saying, realising the guy is wearing headphones so that none in the room can hear Saxon’s half of the conversation. It was just standard kidnap stuff, really: we’ve got him, he’s awake, what next? ... that kind of thing.
The head phones are removed, the guy gets up and the jack is pulled from the laptop so that the audio comes out of the speakers and everyone can hear.
“Hello, Jack. Your Lord and Master speaking.” smirks Saxon. Just keep cool, and raise an eyebrow.
“Heya Harry. Can’t really catch up right now - I appear to be cuffed to a chair in that way I don’t enjoy.”
Saxon chuckles.
“What do you want?” you sigh.
“The gauntlet.” scowls Saxon. “Why won’t it work?”
You blink. “I ... don’t know. I’ve never used it so ... I don’t know how it works to start with.”
“I want your research. Every last scrap of it.”
“I burnt it.”
“Liar.”
“I burnt it all.”
“Liar!”
You smile. It’s the truth.
Harold Saxon glares at you, then schools his features and turns to the other man in the room. “You say he has two lovely lady friends with him?”
“Yessir.” the man replies gleefully.
“Shoot one ... in the leg. Preferably thigh.”
“No!” you yell, and the high-pitched singing of a silencer rings out before ... what was her name? Sadie? Kerry? ... started screaming. Her girlfriend started yelling, too, eyes wild, comforting her.
“So, Captain Harkness: why won’t the gauntlet work?”
“I. Don’t. Know.” you tell him, teeth gritted, struggling against the restraints.
“Give the other girl a matching scar.” he orders lazily, and you shout and yell as the other girl screams and cries, clutching her bleeding thigh.
“Leave them alone! They’re nothing to do with this!”
“And that makes it all the more tragic.” sighs Saxon. “So tell me: how do I make the gauntlet work?”
“All I know is you need a corpse of someone recently dead, you put the gauntlet on, you hold their head with it and ... they come back. That’s all I know.”
“Liar!”
You bite your lip. There is more to it than that - you know how to bring them back permanently - but no matter how many pretty young girls Saxon had shot, you would never, ever impart that information.
“Shoot the uglier girl.” Saxon orders, and it takes a good five minutes for the lackey to decide which is the least attractive of the two.
The whole time you try and talk him out of it, imagine how the girls would be feeling, imagine how he would feel, appeal to his better nature, make him wonder what his mother would think if she could see him now. It doesn’t work, and the dark-haired one - the one that winked at you across the pub - is dead.
“You can save the other one,” Saxon assured him quietly. “all you have to do is tell me how to use the gauntlet.”
“I know only what I’ve told you.”
You hang your head, then glance over at the other girl. She’s silent, and staring at her girlfriend’s body. The silencer sings, and she slumps forward.
“What next?” you sneer. “You’ve killed them both - so what’s next?”
“A little bit of genius on Aaron Copley’s part.” smirks Saxon. “All that time we thought he was obsessed with dragonflies, when in actual fact his work was ... quite remarkable. Genius, even. I mean ... you saw what his last little creation did, and how quickly it was healed.”
“Don’t you dare touch my family!” you order, trying the restraints again while the lackey starts moving the girls’ bodies. You feel guilty for not remembering their names now.
“Oh no - this time, I’m threatening you. My man, there, has a syringe filled with a pretty cool little parasite, mutated from some rare dragonfly larvae blah blah blah who cares? It’s what it does that’s important - and we’ve been testing this one for months - and now we finally get to try it on someone for our own personal benefit!”
You don’t reply as worry begins to properly take hold, and you remain rigid in your seat as Saxon continues.
“Similarly to our previous little experiment, it affects the brain, too. Who you are now will be nice and neatly boxed away, and all that will be left on the outside is a madman. You will still be very much aware of everything that’s happening, like a gross and permanent point-of-view TV show, but you won’t be able to do anything about it. You won’t even be able to speak for yourself as the parasite decides which bits of you to use and which bits are going to go. There’s only one flaw, however ...”
“Oh? Really? Just one?” you growl.
“Yes. It requires a trigger. Usually something ... bad. Something that makes you angry. Though on the plus side, letting you find the trigger yourself will, most probably, be lots and lots and fun!” He bounced gleefully on his chair, staring out at you. “Oh! And I nearly forgot! The side-effect!”
“Hm?” you ask, trying to slip your hands from the cuffs still, aware of a syringe being prepared just out of your line of sight.
“The nightmares! Oh they are awful! - aren’t they, Lucy?”
Saxon reaches out and moves the camera so that you can see his wife, Lucy Saxon, sat beside him. Here eyes are more vacant than ever, unfocussed and wandering. Her skin is grey, even behind her thick layer of makeup. She wears a low-cut silk bodice, dressed up like a doll. On hearing her name, she turns to Saxon and smiles adoringly, kissing him full on the mouth and forcing her tongue forward, revelling in the attention finally paid to her.
He shoves her off and grins manically at you. “It affects different subjects differently. I wonder ... will you be murderous? Vengeful? Or just a happy little puppy, wandering around after everyone with big eyes and a cheeky little grin?”
“You’ve been drugging her ...” you breathe, staring at Lucy.
“Yep.”
“Oh ... Harry. She was such a good woman ...”
Lucy scowls at you. “Not good enough.”
“Listen to her!” Saxon chirrups. “Now: Branscombe!”
The lackey turns, a painfully large-needled syringe in hand.
“Shoot ‘im up!” claps Saxon. “Don’t bother looking for a vein, just shove it in!”
You gasp in pain and writhe as the blunt needle plunges into your stomach, and instantly drowsiness sets in. You groan as the syringe is withdrawn, and desperately you focus on the laptop.
“When you wake up,” Saxon is saying. “you won’t remember a thing about this. You won’t remember the girls, you won’t remember me, and you won’t remember the drug. And the second you find your trigger, that’s it: Captain Jack Harkness, lost forever - because I’m never going to give you the cure, am I?”
“Wh-What is all this about?” you gasp, fighting the sedative. “Y-you knew I didn’t know how the g-gauntlet workssss ... you just want t-t-t-to ...”
“To torture you, yes. Now nighty-nighty, Captain. And do be more careful in strange places in the future, okay?”
Everything goes black.
~*~*~*~
Cardiff
I’m simply not going to speak, decided Ianto. I’ll call it a Vow of Silence, and I won’t speak until he lets me go.
His mind was wandering while Jack was babbling on happily, sat up in bed, arms around Ianto and talking about Ireland. His free arm was gesticulating in wide, sweeping movements, bobbing a little as he showed him the sea. “... not as beautiful as you though.” he finished, cupping Ianto's face, curling fingers under his chin and gently raising his head to look at him. Ianto kept his eyes down cast, and opened his mouth as Jack pushed his tongue inside it.
He was being laid down again, and he closed his eyes as Jack began to kiss his body, lying still while Jack did all the work, getting him hard, preparing him and then pushing himself into Ianto's body. Ianto arched his back silently, and Jack was kissing his mouth again as he began to move. Ianto decided that he would reciprocate during sex, and kissed him back lazily, his body buzzing at the attention Jack was lavishing on it. Jack moved his limbs to his liking, started thrusting again, moved Ianto's arm, thrust again, adjusted his head ... Ianto felt like a sex doll.
He concentrated on Jack inside him instead, and the hand that had just grasped his cock hard and started stroking expertly. He really had missed this, though. Sex and Lisa was great and fun, but that’s all it was. Sex with Jack had been games, and power, and strength and dirty and rough and romantic and hot. He came all over himself, and Jack followed soon after, slumping beside him. He wasted a little time recovering before reaching for wet wipe from the bedside table and carefully cleaning Ianto's stomach, kissing and licking at little bits of splashes.
Jack was asleep pretty instantly, and Ianto lay lost in this thoughts in the position Jack had left him in. He had a moral dilemma. Was it rape if he was unresponsive, but willing to give his body? Was it rape if his mind was elsewhere while Jack was doing it? He didn’t feel forced, but he didn’t feel right.
What if he’d have said no? Would Jack have forced him? He didn’t seem angry anymore, so maybe Ianto could try and gain some semblance of control - control of what he could grasp, anyway. He shut his eyes as the memory of a gunshot echoed through his head, and the memories he had been avoiding were trying to swarm to the surface. They had heard nothing of Owen yet, and Ianto's stomach was eating itself with guilt.
He glanced over at Jack’s sleeping back, wondering what in Hell was going through his head. He flinched as Jack jumped suddenly, then tried pushing something invisible from his dream-world away. Jack turned violently, almost thrashing, fisting the covers as his other arm stuck out and came into contact with Ianto's stomach. Instinctively, Jack curled around him, arms pulling him in tight with mutters of ‘no, no, no, no. Not him ...’ and it frightened Ianto. He tried to shush and calm him, stroking his hair and feeling his breathing ease as the nightmare ebbed.
Ianto never recalled Jack having nightmares, and frowned at him as he reached out to switch off the bedside lamp. He felt helpless and alone, not knowing if he had anywhere to go, conflicting with the knowledge he didn’t want to go. There was still that emptiness when Jack touched him that used to be filled with something so beautiful, and that beautiful feeling was drifting further and further away from them as this strange, new, mad Jack held him in his bed.
Ianto made his decision.
Next time Jack asked him for sex, he would decline and pull away. If he was forced, he would leave. If he wasn’t, and Jack was complacent, he would stay and try and help him. Jack had only ever tried to do the best for Ianto since taking him from Sarah Jane’s, so maybe trying to do the best for Jack now was the only fair thing to do.
FIN
SPOILER-ETTE FOR WATERS OF MARS - MORE OF A TINY HINT OF A SPOILER-ETTE BUT I'M WARNING YOU ANYWAY!!!!!
We all really enjoyed most of 'Waters of Mars', but my little cousin has decided he doesn't like 'serious drama' if it turns the Doctor into a 'law-breaking, self-loving, nincompoop'. Those are his exact words, people. They amused me so a I shared them ^_^.
Next Part | Previous Part | Torchwood Index | Request a Convo/Prose Fic
Author: a_silver_story
Chapter: 23/?
Genre: AU, Romance, Angsty, fluffy
Rating: NC17 / 18
Pairings: Main Pairing is Jack/Ianto. Also includes Ianto/Martha, Ianto/Tosh friendship, Ten/Tosh, Mickey/Martha (mentioned)
Warnings: M.M, rentboy!Ianto, Alternate Universe, Torture (not graphic)
Disclaimer: If I owned anything in this, I'd be a rich rich rich bitch. However, I am not a rich rich rich bitch so you may all, therefore, assume I own nothing. Which I don't. It all belongs RTD and the BBC, in case any of you didn't know. Now pass the retcon ...
Summary: Started as a PWP, but since it's me (sorry folks!) and I really can't do things by halves, it grew and grew and grew (and not in an innuendous sort of way). Doctor Smith owns a posh Cardiff hotel, and the respectable Sixth Earl of Boeshane is coming to stay - and he brings with him some very specific demands.
The story follows Ianto from being born, meeting Toshiko and them running away together to the city, right up until Ianto is taken to work in the Doctor's hotel as a 'service' butler for - you guessed it - Jack.
Everyone's fave OTP ensues. BOO YA!
Torchwood Index/Masterlist
FIRST PART | Chapter 1
Click banner for Fic!
Ianto woke up slowly, hearing the water in the bathroom tumbling into the tub, smiling to himself and knowing that Lisa only had a bath instead of a shower when she wanted him to join her.
His eyes snapped open, he saw where he was, and everything came back, hitting him so hard he nearly started crying again. The pillowcase by his head was still damp from the night before, and he could feel it cold against his face. Jack’s part of the bed was still a little warm, but he’d been gone long enough to wake Ianto with his absence.
The sound of the water stopped, and Ianto closed his eyes and pretended to sleep when he heard bare-footed steps approaching behind him. The mattress dipped as Jack knelt and leaned over him, kissing his shoulder blade and working his way up his neck. Ianto opened his eyes, and remained still until Jack noticed and stopped.
“C’mon ...” Jack whispered, taking his head and pulling him out of bed. “We’re having a bath.”
Jack got in first, and spread his legs wide for Ianto to sit between them. Ianto did, not looking him in the eye, and sat up straight trying not to touch him, to try and get him to realise this isn’t what he wanted. Jack chose to be oblivious, though, and pulled him back so that he was lying against his chest with Jack’s arms around him, being kissed on his forehead, cheeks and temple and nose. He didn’t move into the touch, nor reciprocate when kisses were pressed to his lips. He remained motionless and emotionless, letting Jack do what he liked.
The water was too hot, but Ianto didn’t complain. He complied when Jack made him lean forward after a while, and kept still as Jack shampooed, conditioned and washed his hair thoroughly, obligingly keeping still as his body was washed with vanilla-scented soap. Jack hummed to himself, sounding a little mad, and Ianto began to get nervous as Jack forced him to spin around and face him, a leg either side of each other. Jack pulled him closer and pressed their mouths together, and Ianto let him push his tongue forward, not wanting him angry.
Ianto didn’t reciprocate further than that - not even closing his eyes. He opened his mouth, and let Jack do as he wished with his tongue, but his own did nothing. After a few minutes, Ianto could feel him getting hard against his own unresponsive penis, and began to fully face up to where this was going.
As he lay on his front and felt Jack move deep inside him, he closed his eyes and thought about everything that had happened. A bubbling hatred for Mickey was bursting forth, and Ianto was more than happy to believe this was all his fault. Why had he said that? Why couldn’t he let it lie? He probably hadn’t thought Jack would have reacted the way he did, and he was hopefully feeling very guilty right now.
Jack’s teeth were nipping at the spot he just loved, and the memory of them discovering it resurfaced unexpectedly. It was followed by recollections of days spent in bed, rolling around in passion, or lazy lovemaking, or heated, angry and rough sex. The laughter they’d shared, the mischief. Sneaking greasy fast food up to the room just to see the looks on the clientele’s faces when they wandered through the lobby with it. The first time they had sex.
The first time had been in this position. Ianto lying on his front, Jack on top. Ianto remembered the nerves and the fear, and the pleasure and ecstasy and happiness. He could feel the friction of the duvets below him, realising he was hard and that he was starting to enjoy himself. He felt Jack stop, push them both down into the mattress, and Ianto internally groaned with frustration. He clenched hard and Jack moaned, running his fingers up and down Ianto's back before starting his thrusts again. On his hands and knees, he pushed down into Ianto's body, watching the flush finally starting to creep over pale skin.
Ianto panted and writhed. Why not enjoy himself? What else did he have left if not sex? What else did he have left if not sex with Jack?
He came with his head buried into the bed clothes, not making a sound. He felt Jack pull out and hot liquid spurted over his back before strong hands rubbed and massaged it into his skin. Content, Jack was smiling and climbing under the covers, holding them up for Ianto to crawl beside him. Ianto did so, and found himself gathered up in a heartfelt embrace.
“Let’s stay in bed all day.” suggested Jack. Ianto nodded, his cheek brushing against Jack’s chest.
Bed.
What else did he have left?
~*~*~*~
One month and two weeks earlier ...
Okay, coming to terms with it now.
Not allowed to be alone with Ianto. For five and a half years.
There were worse fates, right?
What did you expect of him, anyway? To cheat on Lisa? Well, you hoped he would - don’t lie to yourself - but you can’t be that surprised that he didn’t.
Loyal to the end, your Ianto. And you don’t quite deserve that loyalty, do you, Jack?
Back to the plan: find a bar. Preferably a classy one. Maybe not a wine bar, but not a local pub either. You promise yourself that this one will not have dark hair, will not have blue eyes, will not have proud, noble features and most certainly will not be Welsh. The chances of finding anyone Welsh would be slim tonight - hopefully - in this part of Sunderland.
There’s ambient music pouring onto the street from a chill out bar a little way down. You give a quick look-in, just to check the talent, and decide that these kids are far too chilled out for your liking. All sat lounging around, not even talking to each other, trapped in a daydream or waking sleep while low mood lighting changes from blue to purple to pink to blue. As you leave, you’re fairly certain they’ve just started playing Whale song.
You smile to yourself, imagining what the look in his face would be if he saw the state of the lazy youths haunting the bar, before reminding yourself that you’ve forgotten to remember to forget him.
For now.
Further down the street and you give a club overfilled with sweating bodies and leaking a constant thud thud thud thud thud thudthudthudthudthud noise that you can’t understand why people call music a wide berth. You hate nightclubs. The music was far too loud to socialise, constantly having to shout to be heard. There were always young girls wearing far too little and looking like complete sluts. And then there was the ‘dancing’. You snort at the idea of calling that strange rocking, arms in the air, gyrating against strangers movement as ‘dancing’. You’re all for gyrating, but at least against someone whose name you know.
Let’s hope no one gets you started on the dance floor itself. Always packed so full of people pretending they’re dancers, rubbing up against you like some strange clothed gang rape.
You shudder.
You miss the days when dancing took talent, and was interesting to watch beyond, ‘Wow, she can move those hips to the beat. Well done’.
Still, what was Strictly Come Dancing for, if not publicly showing a wistful nostalgia for the days when pretty much everyone could foxtrot and waltz, and gentlemen had manners.
Don’t smirk to yourself, people will think you’re weird.
Though the reason why you are smirking to yourself is laughable. You know your own manners are appalling, but at least when you make an effort ...
That was a strange noise.
You pause, squinting in the darkness of a side street leading away from the main stretch. How would you describe that sound? A low growl, like a guard dog, but with a strange ... owl-like ... quality. An owl-y dog.
Maybe it was one of the clubbers, you think. Their loud shrieks and jeers echo up and down the street, it could be hard to tell where all the sounds were coming from. You keep your hand on you Webley through the greatcoat anyway, just in case.
“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!” a group of boys are chanting and jeering, stood in a tight-knit crowd in a circle around two kids brawling in the street. The bouncers for the nearby club are taking bets on the winner, doing nothing.
You’re feeling charitable, and that wiry little kid doesn’t stand a chance against the man pummelling his innards through his back and out. Yay! You get to play the Big Damn Hero, and you just love it when crowds all freeze to turn and stare at you. Always have, always will.
You fire the shot into the air, quickly followed by another. Silence apart from that bloody thudthudthudthud from the club falls, and the crowd all turn to stare at you. You leave a dramatic pause before speaking, because the dramatic pause is the best weapon in your repertoire.
“Look at the state of yourselves.” you tell them simply. “I hope your mommys are all very proud of what you’ve turned out to be.”
One of the fighters, the bigger one, turns on you with a leer. “What do you know ‘bout my mother?” he asks.
“Rumour has it she’s a Geordie.” you reply coolly, knowing the exact level of the insult borne in Sunderland.
“You basta’d!” he yells and swings for you, and quite suavely (if you do say so yourself) you step aside and let him keel.
“Shall I give you a clue as to why attacking me isn’t such a great idea?” you ask as he climbs to his feet, snarling. “You; fists. Me; gun.” You hold up the Webley, and the kid’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times, before conceding defeat. You grin, and see the flicker of interest in the guy’s face.
But you’re not interested in him.
You carry on down the street, and there’s an Irish themed pub less than fifty metres further. As good a place as any, you decide, and there’s always a great atmosphere in those places.
‘God bless the Irish,’ you think as a pretty young girl with dark hair and hazel eyes winks at you from the other side of the room.
May as well have a Guinness, you decide, going with the theme of the pub, wondering to yourself if when the Muslims stop being stereotyped as the terrorists, they’d get their own themed pubs too. Alcohol free, of course, and probably as peaceful as the main interpretations of their holy text teaches.
The lack of bacon sandwiches would be hard on you, though.
The pretty girl is kissing another girl, and once again you say thanks to the love of the Irish, and make the quick decision to buy some property there. Maybe sell the Spanish place and buy a house in a city for a change ...
The girl winks at you again, breaking away from her partner, who glances over, too. She giggles and whispers in her girlfriend’s ear, and they both begin to make their way over. ‘Ohhh this could be a fun night,’ you think as they introduce themselves as Sarah and Kimberley.
~*~
Mmmmm that’s a good ache, and you grin to yourself as you lay back, finally having your breathing under control. The girls are still panting (always a good sign, unless they’re asthmatic) and you’ve got them both on one side of you. They’re cuddling and kissing each other, and you’re not going to interfere. This is their moment, and you can see the affection.
Coming between two lovers was never you thing - but Ianto and Lisa was different. You were there first.
A CRASH reverberates outside, and on full alert you sit straight upright. The girls jump and curl up a little as a hand hammers on the door frame, and you reach for your Webley and some trousers.
You’re not prepared when six men pile into the dingy room you hired for the night, and you take out two at the kneecaps before a sharp pain in your arm tells you you’ve been shot. You glance down and see a tranquilizer dart sticking out of your skin, the liquid pumping into your system. The girls are screaming, and you can’t remember their names anymore as you hit the ground hard, falling unconscious.
~*~
FUCKING COLD WATER!
You hate being woken up like that!
You’re angry, but when you try and move your arms you realise you’re bound to the chair, handcuffs tight and cutting. You’re still shirtless, and when you calm yourself you can hear the sniffling of the girls in the corner. Five of the men have disappeared, but you can hear the other one shuffling around.
Still in the bedsit of a room, you glance around. The shade has been taken from the light, leaving the bulb harsh and bare. The windows are blacked out, and in front of you is a table with a laptop set up with a webcam. The screen saver is a black and blue coat of arms, and you know exactly what is going on.
Saxon.
The man who threw the water over you is very proud of himself, scruffing your hair and grinning. He moves the mouse, and sets up the video connection on the laptop, sitting on your lap to use you as a chair. Not cool.
You can’t hear exactly what Saxon is saying, realising the guy is wearing headphones so that none in the room can hear Saxon’s half of the conversation. It was just standard kidnap stuff, really: we’ve got him, he’s awake, what next? ... that kind of thing.
The head phones are removed, the guy gets up and the jack is pulled from the laptop so that the audio comes out of the speakers and everyone can hear.
“Hello, Jack. Your Lord and Master speaking.” smirks Saxon. Just keep cool, and raise an eyebrow.
“Heya Harry. Can’t really catch up right now - I appear to be cuffed to a chair in that way I don’t enjoy.”
Saxon chuckles.
“What do you want?” you sigh.
“The gauntlet.” scowls Saxon. “Why won’t it work?”
You blink. “I ... don’t know. I’ve never used it so ... I don’t know how it works to start with.”
“I want your research. Every last scrap of it.”
“I burnt it.”
“Liar.”
“I burnt it all.”
“Liar!”
You smile. It’s the truth.
Harold Saxon glares at you, then schools his features and turns to the other man in the room. “You say he has two lovely lady friends with him?”
“Yessir.” the man replies gleefully.
“Shoot one ... in the leg. Preferably thigh.”
“No!” you yell, and the high-pitched singing of a silencer rings out before ... what was her name? Sadie? Kerry? ... started screaming. Her girlfriend started yelling, too, eyes wild, comforting her.
“So, Captain Harkness: why won’t the gauntlet work?”
“I. Don’t. Know.” you tell him, teeth gritted, struggling against the restraints.
“Give the other girl a matching scar.” he orders lazily, and you shout and yell as the other girl screams and cries, clutching her bleeding thigh.
“Leave them alone! They’re nothing to do with this!”
“And that makes it all the more tragic.” sighs Saxon. “So tell me: how do I make the gauntlet work?”
“All I know is you need a corpse of someone recently dead, you put the gauntlet on, you hold their head with it and ... they come back. That’s all I know.”
“Liar!”
You bite your lip. There is more to it than that - you know how to bring them back permanently - but no matter how many pretty young girls Saxon had shot, you would never, ever impart that information.
“Shoot the uglier girl.” Saxon orders, and it takes a good five minutes for the lackey to decide which is the least attractive of the two.
The whole time you try and talk him out of it, imagine how the girls would be feeling, imagine how he would feel, appeal to his better nature, make him wonder what his mother would think if she could see him now. It doesn’t work, and the dark-haired one - the one that winked at you across the pub - is dead.
“You can save the other one,” Saxon assured him quietly. “all you have to do is tell me how to use the gauntlet.”
“I know only what I’ve told you.”
You hang your head, then glance over at the other girl. She’s silent, and staring at her girlfriend’s body. The silencer sings, and she slumps forward.
“What next?” you sneer. “You’ve killed them both - so what’s next?”
“A little bit of genius on Aaron Copley’s part.” smirks Saxon. “All that time we thought he was obsessed with dragonflies, when in actual fact his work was ... quite remarkable. Genius, even. I mean ... you saw what his last little creation did, and how quickly it was healed.”
“Don’t you dare touch my family!” you order, trying the restraints again while the lackey starts moving the girls’ bodies. You feel guilty for not remembering their names now.
“Oh no - this time, I’m threatening you. My man, there, has a syringe filled with a pretty cool little parasite, mutated from some rare dragonfly larvae blah blah blah who cares? It’s what it does that’s important - and we’ve been testing this one for months - and now we finally get to try it on someone for our own personal benefit!”
You don’t reply as worry begins to properly take hold, and you remain rigid in your seat as Saxon continues.
“Similarly to our previous little experiment, it affects the brain, too. Who you are now will be nice and neatly boxed away, and all that will be left on the outside is a madman. You will still be very much aware of everything that’s happening, like a gross and permanent point-of-view TV show, but you won’t be able to do anything about it. You won’t even be able to speak for yourself as the parasite decides which bits of you to use and which bits are going to go. There’s only one flaw, however ...”
“Oh? Really? Just one?” you growl.
“Yes. It requires a trigger. Usually something ... bad. Something that makes you angry. Though on the plus side, letting you find the trigger yourself will, most probably, be lots and lots and fun!” He bounced gleefully on his chair, staring out at you. “Oh! And I nearly forgot! The side-effect!”
“Hm?” you ask, trying to slip your hands from the cuffs still, aware of a syringe being prepared just out of your line of sight.
“The nightmares! Oh they are awful! - aren’t they, Lucy?”
Saxon reaches out and moves the camera so that you can see his wife, Lucy Saxon, sat beside him. Here eyes are more vacant than ever, unfocussed and wandering. Her skin is grey, even behind her thick layer of makeup. She wears a low-cut silk bodice, dressed up like a doll. On hearing her name, she turns to Saxon and smiles adoringly, kissing him full on the mouth and forcing her tongue forward, revelling in the attention finally paid to her.
He shoves her off and grins manically at you. “It affects different subjects differently. I wonder ... will you be murderous? Vengeful? Or just a happy little puppy, wandering around after everyone with big eyes and a cheeky little grin?”
“You’ve been drugging her ...” you breathe, staring at Lucy.
“Yep.”
“Oh ... Harry. She was such a good woman ...”
Lucy scowls at you. “Not good enough.”
“Listen to her!” Saxon chirrups. “Now: Branscombe!”
The lackey turns, a painfully large-needled syringe in hand.
“Shoot ‘im up!” claps Saxon. “Don’t bother looking for a vein, just shove it in!”
You gasp in pain and writhe as the blunt needle plunges into your stomach, and instantly drowsiness sets in. You groan as the syringe is withdrawn, and desperately you focus on the laptop.
“When you wake up,” Saxon is saying. “you won’t remember a thing about this. You won’t remember the girls, you won’t remember me, and you won’t remember the drug. And the second you find your trigger, that’s it: Captain Jack Harkness, lost forever - because I’m never going to give you the cure, am I?”
“Wh-What is all this about?” you gasp, fighting the sedative. “Y-you knew I didn’t know how the g-gauntlet workssss ... you just want t-t-t-to ...”
“To torture you, yes. Now nighty-nighty, Captain. And do be more careful in strange places in the future, okay?”
Everything goes black.
~*~*~*~
Cardiff
I’m simply not going to speak, decided Ianto. I’ll call it a Vow of Silence, and I won’t speak until he lets me go.
His mind was wandering while Jack was babbling on happily, sat up in bed, arms around Ianto and talking about Ireland. His free arm was gesticulating in wide, sweeping movements, bobbing a little as he showed him the sea. “... not as beautiful as you though.” he finished, cupping Ianto's face, curling fingers under his chin and gently raising his head to look at him. Ianto kept his eyes down cast, and opened his mouth as Jack pushed his tongue inside it.
He was being laid down again, and he closed his eyes as Jack began to kiss his body, lying still while Jack did all the work, getting him hard, preparing him and then pushing himself into Ianto's body. Ianto arched his back silently, and Jack was kissing his mouth again as he began to move. Ianto decided that he would reciprocate during sex, and kissed him back lazily, his body buzzing at the attention Jack was lavishing on it. Jack moved his limbs to his liking, started thrusting again, moved Ianto's arm, thrust again, adjusted his head ... Ianto felt like a sex doll.
He concentrated on Jack inside him instead, and the hand that had just grasped his cock hard and started stroking expertly. He really had missed this, though. Sex and Lisa was great and fun, but that’s all it was. Sex with Jack had been games, and power, and strength and dirty and rough and romantic and hot. He came all over himself, and Jack followed soon after, slumping beside him. He wasted a little time recovering before reaching for wet wipe from the bedside table and carefully cleaning Ianto's stomach, kissing and licking at little bits of splashes.
Jack was asleep pretty instantly, and Ianto lay lost in this thoughts in the position Jack had left him in. He had a moral dilemma. Was it rape if he was unresponsive, but willing to give his body? Was it rape if his mind was elsewhere while Jack was doing it? He didn’t feel forced, but he didn’t feel right.
What if he’d have said no? Would Jack have forced him? He didn’t seem angry anymore, so maybe Ianto could try and gain some semblance of control - control of what he could grasp, anyway. He shut his eyes as the memory of a gunshot echoed through his head, and the memories he had been avoiding were trying to swarm to the surface. They had heard nothing of Owen yet, and Ianto's stomach was eating itself with guilt.
He glanced over at Jack’s sleeping back, wondering what in Hell was going through his head. He flinched as Jack jumped suddenly, then tried pushing something invisible from his dream-world away. Jack turned violently, almost thrashing, fisting the covers as his other arm stuck out and came into contact with Ianto's stomach. Instinctively, Jack curled around him, arms pulling him in tight with mutters of ‘no, no, no, no. Not him ...’ and it frightened Ianto. He tried to shush and calm him, stroking his hair and feeling his breathing ease as the nightmare ebbed.
Ianto never recalled Jack having nightmares, and frowned at him as he reached out to switch off the bedside lamp. He felt helpless and alone, not knowing if he had anywhere to go, conflicting with the knowledge he didn’t want to go. There was still that emptiness when Jack touched him that used to be filled with something so beautiful, and that beautiful feeling was drifting further and further away from them as this strange, new, mad Jack held him in his bed.
Ianto made his decision.
Next time Jack asked him for sex, he would decline and pull away. If he was forced, he would leave. If he wasn’t, and Jack was complacent, he would stay and try and help him. Jack had only ever tried to do the best for Ianto since taking him from Sarah Jane’s, so maybe trying to do the best for Jack now was the only fair thing to do.
FIN
SPOILER-ETTE FOR WATERS OF MARS - MORE OF A TINY HINT OF A SPOILER-ETTE BUT I'M WARNING YOU ANYWAY!!!!!
We all really enjoyed most of 'Waters of Mars', but my little cousin has decided he doesn't like 'serious drama' if it turns the Doctor into a 'law-breaking, self-loving, nincompoop'. Those are his exact words, people. They amused me so a I shared them ^_^.
Next Part | Previous Part | Torchwood Index | Request a Convo/Prose Fic