Author: A Lanart
Title: Eight Hours
Fandom: Torchwood/Highlander
Characters: Jack/Ianto/Methos
Rating: This part NC-17 for a touch of smut and a stopwatch
Warnings/Spoilers: None/TW S1, KKBB and DW S3.
Disclaimer: Torchwood belongs to Aunty Beeb. Methos belongs to Panzer/Davis productions
Summary: Temporal Displacement? Makes your tongue tingle...
A/N: I've done the wordy thing again. This thing is now over 14k words and still not quite finished, though it will be soon. Also I thought I'd better mention, if it isn't already obvious, that I'm ignoring the BBCA Captain's Blog for this episode.
Previous parts:
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine ~10~
There was something tickling the back of Jack’s neck. And his shoulder. And the small ridges down his spine. Something teasing lightly at his skin. Something... some *one* he realised as he clawed his way up out of sleep enough to become fully aware of the gentle nip of teeth and rasp of tongue against his skin. Ianto. There was a special sort of thoroughness he put into every feather light touch of his lips that couldn’t be mistaken, even to someone as sleep dazed as Jack. He blearily pried open his eyes, even as the rest of his body started to tell him that yes, this was a very nice way to wake up thank-you-very-much and could he now please do something about it, the sooner the better. He blinked. Methos was sprawled just out of reach with Ianto’s stopwatch in one hand, wearing a huge grin and nothing else.
“You just squeaked inside the minute by 3 seconds. Didn’t think you were going to make it for a moment,” Methos said, apparently to Ianto as the gentle onslaught of Jack’s skin paused momentarily as Ianto raised his head to answer.
“I only bet on a dead cert.”
“Are you sure about that?” Methos commented languidly, his eyes sparkling. Jack didn’t like to think about the things that Methos’ smile was doing to him, not when he couldn’t touch him at least.
“Yup.”
“In that case, you’ve got 5 minutes... and counting.”
Jack had no further thought to spare Methos as he became the sole focus of a very determined Ianto. He managed a slightly strangled sounding “What?” in Methos’ direction but he had neither the breath nor the inclination to pursue the questioning. Methos helpfully provided him with an answer anyway.
“It appears that someone wasn’t as fast asleep as we thought last night, but couldn’t manage to wake himself up enough to join us. He said he could wake you within a minute without using his hands, and then he wanted to get his own back. I told him he had 5 minutes...” There was a pause. “Make that 4 minutes and 30 seconds... before I joined in. Not that I think he needs any help, you seem to be falling apart quite nicely as it is.” Jack had to agree, but he could do no more than moan incoherently in answer; Ianto’s tongue in his arse and his hands roaming pretty much anywhere and everywhere they pleased made sure of that. Methos, and the stopwatch, became entirely inconsequential in comparison to what Ianto was doing to him; he had no chance to reciprocate, and then he had no inclination to as Ianto seemed to be working his way through a mental list of every single thing he had discovered that would make Jack writhe and moan and thrash with pleasure, without giving him the time to truly lose himself in each sensation. His climax, as it slammed into him and he spilled himself into Ianto’s mouth, was as much about relief as it was about completion. He lay there gasping, feeling like he had been very thoroughly and efficiently taken apart, examined intimately, and put back together again in a way that pleased everyone even though it left him... disjointed. He felt Ianto move as he turned toward Methos, though he didn’t completely break contact.
“So?” Ianto sounded as breathless as Jack felt. Not surprising, he thought to himself, trying to decide if he could spare the effort to open his eyes again.
“Four minutes and 42 seconds.” Methos, in contrast, sounded almost dispassionate.
There was a wheezy sounding chuckle in reply from Ianto.
“Not too bad. Think you can do better?”
Jack felt as much as heard the thump of the stopwatch hitting the bed, before Methos growled,
“I *know* I can.”
*
Jack’s arms were full of a still trembling, sweat-slick and breathless Methos and Ianto and he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather be wrapped around. Eventually Methos and Ianto broke apart, enabling him to tighten his hold while being able to breathe a little deeper as they collapsed bonelessly against him. He dropped a chaste kiss onto Ianto’s cheek and brushed Methos’ sweaty hair away from his forehead.
“I think you set a new record,” he commented, not really trying to keep the smirk off his face or out of his voice.
“Not complaining,” mumbled Ianto into Jack’s neck. Jack hugged them both hard, then stilled as he listened to the slowing rasp of their breathing. It was a wonderful sound. Soon he found himself growing restless, so rather than disturb them by his endless fidgeting he wriggled out from under and between them, ensuring they could still snuggle into each other, his hands lingering on the curve of shoulder and hip.
“I’m going to hit the shower, okay?” Jack knew he wasn’t just asking permission, but he didn’t think he could manage to articulate what he really wanted to say. He squeezed Ianto’s shoulder gently, smiling when 2 sets of shaky fingers fumbled their way up to clutch at his hand in return. It was a more than good enough answer for Jack and he clambered off the bed after dropping one more kiss on their linked hands.
*
It was the singing that completely roused Ianto from his sated half-dose. He’d mostly been able to ignore Jack clattering round his bathroom and the sound of running water, but the voice that echoed round his flat was not the sort of thing that could be ignored, not when it was singing with the power of a very good set of lungs behind it. Ianto heaved himself up onto one elbow and threw an incredulous glance in the direction of the bathroom.
“Since when did Jack sing in the shower?” He asked, not sure if he would receive an answer or not. Methos stretched indolently against him and rolled onto his back.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said with a yawn. Ianto snorted and glanced back at the bathroom as Jack segued into another song. He sounded happy, and Ianto found he was glad about that, as well as being surprised at just how fine a voice Jack had.
“We’re obviously a good combination,” he said. Methos smiled up at him, his eyes crinkling in that way that Ianto just couldn’t seem to resist, and rarely tried to. He leaned down to press a quick kiss to Methos’ lips.
“Mmm. Obviously,” agreed Methos. Ianto wriggled until he was more or less upright against the pillows and tried to rub some life back into his eyes. It was well and truly daylight outside, and things that had seemed so uncomplicated the night before in the sheltering darkness threatened to bog him down in the cold light of day.
“Methos, what happens to us now?” Ianto tried to keep the quaver of uncertainty out of his voice, but he wasn’t entirely sure he’d succeeded; he wasn’t used to hiding things from Methos any more. The gentle press of fingers on his own told him he hadn’t.
“Now that Jack’s back?” Methos queried. Ianto sighed; no, he could hide nothing from this man.
“Yes,” he answered softly. Methos moved to join him by the pillows and reached out to cup his cheek; Ianto leaned into the touch, loving the feel of Methos’ fingers against his face. He noticed Methos was grinning, though it was softened by the expression in his eyes.
“Well, *I’m* hoping I’ll still be welcome in your home and your bed, Ianto Emrys Jones,” Methos said. Ianto smiled back, turning to drop a kiss into the palm that cradled his face.
“Always,” he whispered. The hand moved to his shoulder, and squeezed.
“With or without Jack Harkness,” Methos added.
“Either is perfectly acceptable,” Ianto replied. He was pleased that he managed to say it in a good approximation of his normal impassive tone of voice, though that didn’t last as he blurted out, “He asked me out on a date.”
“He did? About bloody time.” Methos appeared to be pleased, but didn’t seem to be particularly shocked. Ianto envied Methos’ composure, he still felt flabbergasted by the whole incident.
“A *date* Methos! Jack doesn’t do that sort of thing.” It was a relief to voice his surprise; it wasn’t just being asked on a date in the first place, though that was startling enough, but also the surprise of how anxious it made him feel to have what he expected out of his relationship with Jack change without warning.
“Didn’t.” If Methos had heard the nervousness in his voice, there was no indication of it in the terse reply. Ianto’s mind was already trying to chase after maybes and what ifs and he didn’t immediately follow Methos’ train of thought.
“What?”
“Jack didn’t do that sort of thing,” Methos clarified. “Evidently he does now. It doesn’t surprise me.”
“Oh?” Ianto managed to make the question convey more than just the simple enquiry it could have been. He gazed at Methos, not quite demanding but certainly encouraging that the immortal explain himself. He felt Methos’ hand drift down his arm before clasping his fingers gently.
“Just think about what he told us before, and then ask yourself how much he neglected to tell us.” Methos was speaking quietly enough that Ianto had to listen carefully, rather than just hearing the words. He didn’t doubt for one minute that it was intentional, it was Methos after all. He indicated with a slight nod and a squeeze of fingers that he was listening. Methos continued, “Jack had a hell of a long time to think up there, Ianto; way too much time, I’m sure. More than enough to think about everyone who has meant something to him, good and bad; about life and death, you, me... us. I think that the year he lived through and we didn’t finally brought something very firmly home to him.” Methos seemed to be inordinately focused on their joined hands, rubbing his thumb gently over Ianto’s knuckles again and again. Ianto stared at the bent head, as he realised that Methos was avoiding eye contact.
“And what would that be?” He asked, still staring as Methos raised his head and finally met his eyes. Ianto nearly shuddered at the expression in them; there seemed to be such a weight of sorrow and loss reflected there. Almost without volition his fingers tightened around Methos’ once more in an instinctive need to offer comfort, whether it was actually required or not.
“His immortality.” The words dropped like stones into a pool of silence, sending ripples out in all directions to collide and combine with each other. Ianto tore his hand away from Methos’ loose clasp and rubbed at the back of his neck distractedly, trying to find the core of truth that would make sense of those two words. He felt like he was failing dismally and settled for stating the obvious.
“But he - *we* - have known he’s immortal for ages,” he said. “Plus the fact that you’re immortal was the reason you two were introduced in the first place.”
“I’m not disputing that. We’re immortal, yes; and you’re not. I don’t think Jack has ever allowed himself to think about it before, he knows what lies down that road.”
“And now he has?” Ianto heard the catch in his voice, but he found he didn’t really care. He, like Methos implied Jack had done, had tried not to think about the fact that the only certainty in his relationship with Jack and Methos was the fact that they would likely outlive him by centuries, if not millennia. He closed his eyes to avoid the hazel gaze that saw too much, and felt the reassuring weight of Methos’ hands come to rest on his shoulders briefly.
“Now he has,” Methos echoed softly. “Your life is precious to both of us, Ianto; every... single...moment...” Each brief pause was punctuated by a gentle kiss from Methos, to his forehead, lips and right over his heart.
“And you’d better believe that.” Jack’s voice was low, virtually a whisper but it was still enough to make Ianto start. He’d not heard Jack return, and wondered how much he’d overheard before coming to the conclusion that it really didn’t matter. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, and met Jack’s eyes.
“I’m not sure I can right now.” Ianto glanced from Jack to Methos, still close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, and back again. “I…” He shook his head slightly in frustration and distress, too overwhelmed and, if he was honest, too downright panicky to attempt to make any more sense of his feelings. He cast one last frantic look at Methos before he almost dived off the bed and fled for the refuge of his bathroom, locking the door behind him.