Torchwood Fic: Mythology (1/?)
Title: Mythology (1/?)
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R/NC17
Warning: None
Spoilers: Set after 2.13. Spoilers for both series 1 and 2, and a bit of DW: Last of the Time Lords and The Shakespeare Code
Summary: With mythical beasts turning up all over Scotland, Torchwood Two thought they were in charge; however, so did Torchwood Four. Unfortunately for both parties their main suspect was refusing to talk to anyone other than Torchwood Three’s Ianto Jones.
Beta: rakina
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em - unfortunately
A/N: Set after my stories Lynchpin and Constant. Okay folks... time to investigate the other side of Ianto’s family tree! This one is lighter in tone to Constant - time to have a bit of fun!
Lynchpin here: http://hel-bee.livejournal.com/21730.html
Constant here: http://hel-bee.livejournal.com/23390.html
I was asked for a brief summary of the story so far (an overview of Lynchpin and Constant) when I post so as not to confuse …
Ianto Jones, Torchwood Three’s mild-mannered teaboy, is so much more than meets the eye. His secret is no longer his own when the leader of Torchwood Four, Philip Henshaw, contacts him in need of his special talents. Revealed as a psychically talented individual who was the reason for the formation of Torchwood Four in 1923, Ianto is over 100 years old and physiologically not exactly human. After psychically linking the six members of Torchwood Four, and helping them seal a hole in the Rift, he also has to confess to Jack Harkness that he is not only the grandson of a half-Carronite, but also the Time Lord known to most as the Master. And things only get more complicated when Granddad decides to turn up, superficially to check how Ianto is coping after Gray’s exploits almost destroyed Cardiff. Unsurprisingly, it is Jack and Ianto who are left to pick up the pieces after the Master’s visit.
Now on to Mythology...
Chapter One
Snippet:
“Unlike Torchwood Four, the Torchwood Two and Three teams actually talk to each other - and Jack’s an old friend of mine.”
Philip Henshaw scowled at the young policewoman who impeded his progress. She stood her ground refusing to let him past the police line. “I don’t care if you’re the reincarnation of Bonnie Prince Charlie, you ain't going in there until the SOCOs have finished,” she said in a high-pitched Glaswegian accent.
“What part of Torchwood did you not understand?” he growled, frustrated at the thought of a team of civilian forensic scientists crawling all over the area, potentially contaminating the artefact - or worse, triggering it.
“I don’t know who you think you are, but I know the Torchwood guys - and you sure as hell ain’t Stuart. And unless she’s really let herself go, you ain't Mary either!”
Henshaw groaned. Trust the local plod to know the members of Torchwood Two. “Look,” he said with annoyance, “we’re from a different branch. So just let me and my friend here through.”
Standing in the middle of the rose gardens of Queen’s Park in the pouring rain was not high on Henshaw's list of ways to spend a Saturday night. The light was fading and the damp air of the early spring evening was seeping through the lightweight material of his coat. He extracted a cigarette from its crumpled box and lit it, allowing the nicotine to work its magic on his patience. In front of them was a large white tent, the contents of which were the reason they were there. Inside were the remains of a grade three psychic bomb, and not the body of a jogger that the police thought they were examining.
The young WPC look unconvinced, and Henshaw doubted she was any more pleased than him to be spending her evening here, but if he and his second-in-command, Siobhan, didn’t get into that tent soon they were going to have a lot more to worry about than the hurt feelings of the local constabulary. Henshaw was about to open his mouth to continue the argument when the screech of the balding tyres of a battered-looking Jaguar XJS rent the air. Henshaw seethed silently as he watched the car halt suddenly on the supposedly pedestrian walkway of the park. A man in his late thirties wearing a long, brown, duster jacket and a face so sour it could turn milk got out. He was accompanied by an equally unhappy looking woman, with a skirt short enough to make his mother blush and an orange complexion straight out of a bottle.
“Who are you?” demanded sour-face.
Henshaw recognised him as the head of Torchwood Two, Stuart Dunston, and not for the first time he wondered how the hell the other branches functioned with their appointed leaders. Dunston had all the egotistical mannerisms of Harkness of Torchwood Three, without the captain’s charm, and with no Ianto Jones to keep him in line.
“I’m Philip Henshaw, Torchwood Four.” He didn’t bother extending his hand, Dunston wasn’t about to shake it.
Dunston looked confused, he raised his eyebrows at his companion - one Mary Sinclair - who shrugged and dug out a handheld scanner from her patent leather handbag and pointed it at Henshaw. Her eyes widened when her scanner beeped. “He matches the description in the database.”
“Okay,” said Dunston, clearly not happy. “So the rumours are true and you lot have decided to stop hiding - congratulations. Now tell me why you’re here. This is Torchwood Two’s jurisdiction.”
“The energy traces we’ve been picking up are of a paranormal nature. Therefore, we’re in charge. Besides, Torchwood Two doesn’t have the resources to deal with this situation.”
“And you do?” scoffed Dunston.
“Yes, we do,” said Henshaw, stepping forward, intentionally trying to intimidate the younger man. “Leave this to us.”
“Gentlemen, and I’m using the term loosely,” interjected Siobhan, “this is neither the time nor place to have this discussion.” She flicked her eyes in the direction of the highly amused WPC.
Henshaw grabbed hold of Dunston firmly by the arm and dragged him out of earshot of their two female colleagues and the police. “I’m not here to argue with you,” he hissed. “What is in that tent is something you guys just don’t have the expertise to deal with.”
“Bullshit! You just consider cooperation a dirty word. I’ve heard about you - you’ve always been one to march in and walk all over people. I bet Harkness didn’t let you do that when you were in Cardiff!”
“How did you know we were in Cardiff?” asked Henshaw, puzzled and not too impressed to hear his business was common knowledge.
“Unlike Torchwood Four, the Torchwood Two and Three teams actually talk to each other - and Jack’s an old friend of mine.”
“Harkness seems to be everyone’s friend,” Henshaw sneered. Muttering more to himself than to Dunston he added: “I really must talk to Ianto about his pitiful taste.”
“Ianto? What, the teaboy?” said Dunston incredulously. “I doubt Jack would have to resort to him!”
Henshaw leaned in very close and looked Dunston directly in the eye. “You would do well not to insult Ianto Jones around me or my team - you wouldn’t be the first to underestimate him.”
Dunston didn’t flitch, he merely smiled and said, “Sounds like this Jones fella has ingratiated himself with more than one Torchwood head - makes me want to meet him myself.”
How he managed to keep his calm Henshaw would never know, but instead he pushed Dunston away. “I…”
He never got to finish his sentence as a loud bang from the direction of the white tent ripped the words from his mouth. Both Dunston and Henshaw turned to stare in the direction of the explosion, momentarily shocked they stared open mouthed at the scene before them. Gone was the white tent and in its place stood a large snarling dog, which would have resembled a Doberman if it wasn’t for the three heads.
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Siobhan, Henshaw now at her side.
“You must be reading a different bible, Shiv, cos that don’t look like the son of God to me.”
“Thanks, that’s really helpful. Do you have anything constructive to say, maybe some idea of what to do?” she said, annoyed.
“We could try and trap it in a stasis field… but what we’d do with it then I’ve no idea.”
“Okay, leave it to me,” said Siobhan, her jaw set and looking tenacious. “But be ready just in case it makes a run for it.”
Reluctantly Henshaw nodded and then shouted for the police to fall back as the beast growled and slobbered from its three snarling jaws. The WPC ran up to him. “Not now,” he said, trying to push her to one side.
“You’ve gotta listen to me. You ain't gonna believe it!”
“Say what you’ve gotta say and say it quick!” he ordered, watching with concern as Siobhan edged closer to the dog.
“If you weren’t Torchwood you’d think I was mad, but I’ve just heard a message over the radio that Nessie has just been sighted in the Union Canal!”
-----------
“When you said dinner and a movie all those months ago, I didn’t realise you meant re-enacting Deep Throat,” gasped Ianto Jones as he rode out the remnants of his climax.
“Well, you know me, Ianto,” said Jack, planting kisses on Ianto’s flushed skin as he worked his way up his lover’s body, “I like to multitask.”
“Multitasking? I suppose there’s a first time for everything!” Ianto bit down on his lip to contain a moan as Jack sucked leisurely on his nipple.
“I have another idea - how about Last Tango in Paris? Unless you have any other suggestions…”
Jack’s thought-wrecking kiss put paid to Ianto’s attempt at a sarcastic retort, and he surrendered to Jack’s gentle ministrations for the third - no maybe the fourth - time that afternoon. “You’ll be the death of me, Harkness,” he growled as Jack’s skilful fingers prepared him.
“Le petite mort only I hope,” whispered Jack as he slid into Ianto’s all encompassing heat.
Jack’s slow thrusts were maddening, building Ianto’s ire and pulling back to leave him on the brink of desperation. Ianto marvelled just how Jack could elicit such a reaction from his body having already pushed him over the edge with his amazing oral talents. Although Ianto was not physically capable of climaxing again, Jack delivered him pleasure after pleasure. Ianto urged Jack on; welcoming the other man’s heavy weight after Jack had experienced his own release.
“I know I joke about the effect of my 51st century pheromones, Ianto, but I'm beginning to believe you’re actually addictive.”
Ianto allowed Jack to pull him into his arms, extremely grateful that Gwen had insisted they attempted to spend some time together away from the Hub, even if it was only at his flat. However, Ianto knew it couldn’t last as the recognisable alert tone of Jack’s mobile beeped loudly.
Despite Ianto’s protests Jack reached down and extracted his phone from his hastily removed trousers. He activated his keypad and opened the text message.
All right, Jack! I did as you asked and passed your message to our mutual friend. He went very quiet, then muttered something I didn’t quite catch - I’d expect a visit if I was you… you know what he’s like! Martha xx.
Jack showed Ianto the message. Ianto promptly groaned, rolled over and pulled the duvet over his head. “We’ve only just got rid of one Time Lord; that’s all I need, a bloody ‘nother one!”
TBC
As always comments are appreciated :)
Chapter two: http://hel-bee.livejournal.com/25667.html