[fic] Eat at Jack's (Torchwood, Jack & Ianto, PG-13)
Title: Eat at Jack's
Series:Torchwood
Characters/Pairing: Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones
Rating: PG-13
Length: 2060
Genre: Dark fic/drama/horror
Warnings: People... who eat... other people...
Summary: dark_fest fic, prompt: Torchwood, Jack & Ianto, Cannibalism, anyone? The rift strands Jack and Ianto, maybe others too, on a planet with nothing edible. There's water, air, and some poisonous plants, but nothing else. (Maybe they have the SUV with them, because the rift opened on the road in front of them, so there's some emergency supplies.) They wait a while and nobody comes to save them. No rift opening, no TARDIS materialising. They're there for the long haul. Obvious solution: Jack as renewable food source.
Notes: Thanks to foxysquid for the beta! Dedicated to obeythebunny for turning me onto dark_fest!
Eat at Jack's
This is not at all what Ianto had imagined when he'd suggested he and Jack go on holiday together.
For one thing, he's been wearing the same clothes for near three weeks now. This would already be intolerable, but his good silk tie has been reduced to holding his jacket around his head when the two suns of this alien wasteland are brightest, and his once beautiful shirt is a ragged, sweat-stained mess. As for his trousers, they're beyond help. His shoes are back in the very dead Torchwood SUV, which is probably a good thing, as they would've been destroyed by the sand fairly quickly.
For another, there are no tall, complimentary Mai-Tais and endless buffet-table spreads of cocktail shrimp and little chicken drumsticks. In fact, there's no food at all. One wrong turn, and the Rift very kindly regurgitated them onto a deserted island full of nothing but poisonous flora.
Ianto thinks: story of his life.
Jack has died of poisoning twenty-three times on behalf of their aching, screaming bellies, six of those deaths so horrible that Ianto still has nightmares. But he's never asked Jack to stop. He can't.
Jack is sprawled on the ground as a result of their most recent experiment. Ianto crouches next to him, clutching his hand, trembling with hunger. Some part of him doesn't care that he just witnessed Jack jerking and foaming at the mouth; it wants to pick up what's left of the root Jack just chewed and gobble it down. He shuts his eyes, imagines that the rest of the team is burrowing through to them even now, that in five minutes, ten minutes, two hours, that soon they will be home, back in the Hub. They'll eat pizza and coleslaw and sandwiches and roasts and mac and cheese and baked beans and steak...
No more thinking about food, Ianto tells himself, but that only makes him think of fish and chips, of curries and salads and his mother's pudding. His mouth waters, threatening to spill over. He mops it neatly with the end of his tie.
"We'll be rescued soon enough," he says out loud, and squeezes Jack's cold dead fingers in his own. "You'll see. They'll sort it out in no time." Clenches his eyelids together, pictures it; he's always been good at this game. He can imagine their rescue so clearly that he can see it, see the glow of the rift opening, see Gwen shouting for them to hurry through. When he opens his eyes, he decides, it will be real.
Of course, there's only the endless sand and water when he does look. At least, he tells himself, it's very pretty.
His mind wanders to the last thing he ate, a half-stale pastry he grabbed just before he and Jack hurried out of the Hub, crammed down so quickly he didn't taste it. He's always hated eating in a hurry, but he absolutely regrets every crumb not savored now. If that pastry were here, in front of him, three weeks old and dry as cardboard, he'd linger over every bite.
Ianto's stomach doesn't just growl at the memory of that pastry; it twists itself into knots, hurts so bad he wonders if it's decided to digest itself in lieu of outside sustenance. Every part of him is ravenous. Hunger shrieks in every last cell of his body. He clutches his knees and grits his teeth, driving his toes down into the sand to make himself feel something else. He stares at Jack's inert body and thinks, If Jack were really dead, I think I'd be hungry enough to eat him.
Jack's body chooses that moment to finish regenerating, convulses. Jack's eyes open wide as his mouth gapes, lungs fighting for that first breath.
Surprise, always surprise on Jack's face when he first comes back, though surprise at returning to life or surprise that something managed to kill him, Ianto doesn't know. Wouldn't he be surprised to know what Ianto's been thinking? Ianto schools his mouth into a small smile.
"Welcome back," he says, softly.
"How long?" Jack croaks, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. A moment later he rolls onto his side and vomits up a nasty, greenish liquid. Ianto can't help but marvel at Jack's unsunken cheeks, his solid biceps and thighs. Whatever force keeps him alive also keeps him in very healthy condition.
Ianto's stomach launches another painful assault on itself. He clears his throat. "Not long," he says, uncapping the flask slung at his hip and taking a long drink before offering it to Jack. When they'd first realized they were stranded, they'd been so pleased to find the water stretching around them was not only non-poisonous, but also salt-free, entirely potable. They had been less pleased to find it contained no life at all, nothing visible and edible, at least. "Perhaps five minutes, I'd guess."
Jack shakes his head at Ianto's flask and reaches for his own. He drinks, swishes the water in his mouth, spits. Ianto stares at the muscles of Jack's back as Jack bends over to expel the mouthful of water.
"I don't know which tastes worse, that plant-thing going down or coming up." Jack grimaces. Ianto thinks he's attempting to smile.
"It'll be dark soon," Ianto says. He caps his flask and lets it drop to his side. "We should get back to the SUV."
Jack nods. Ianto starts to stand and the world lurches. He gasps as everything shifts left, starts spinning around him. He feels his palm hit the sand, the burn of a pebble opening up his skin.
Jack is there, gripping his shoulders, shouting in his face.
"Ianto!"
"Sorry." Ianto blinks. "Been in the sun too long, I suppose."
"No," Jack says, frustration in every line of his unnaturally well-nourished body and face. "You need food."
Ianto manages half a tight smile. "Don't worry. When I'm dead, you can eat me."
Jack pales. "Don't say things like that."
"Why shouldn't I?" Ianto's head is really spinning now. "When you were lying there, dead, I thought about eating you."
Jack's eyes widen and his mouth goes taut. He's bloodless under his twin-suns tan.
Ianto's head steadies a little. "Only joking," he lies.
Jack looks away, unhooks Ianto's flask and holds it up to Ianto's mouth. "No jokes. You need to save your energy. Drink."
Ianto drinks and closes his eyes. Eventually, the world goes still again. He tries to get up, musters the energy this time. They make it to the SUV before he passes out a second time.
***
When he comes to, it's already dark. By the light of the little fire, Ianto can see Jack is holding a knife from the survival kit. Jack's toying with it, turning it around and around in his hands. The crease is deep between his brows.
"Jack?"
Jack looks up. "You're awake. Thank god. How do you feel?" He scoots closer, offers Ianto water. Ianto drinks. It's warm, and fills his aching belly a little.
"I'll live," Ianto says, though he's not really sure he will, not for much longer. The weight of the flask in his hands feels outlandishly heavy.
Jack's fingers brush his forehead, touch his sunken cheek. "I've been thinking about what you said."
"What I said?"
"You should..." Jack makes a weak attempt at a suggestive grin, "eat me."
"Jack, don't be ridiculous."
Jack says, "I'll grow it back. I've lost bits before. There was this time when I blew off my foot--and my arm, once--"
"You can't." Ianto shakes his head. "I can't. I won't eat--you."
"You need to eat," Jack says. "I want to eat--God, I can't even describe how much--but I'm clearly not gonna die." He squeezes his own healthy, meaty shoulder ruefully. "You, on the other hand, Mr. Jones..." His voice drops into nearly a whisper. "I'm worried about you." Jack plays the knife over his bicep, across his body, down to his thigh. His smile is grim. "So which cut will you have tonight, sir?"
Ianto wants to tell him no, but his mouth is watering at the thought of food. His entire body is desperate for it.
"I don't want to see," he finally says. "I don't want to know."
Jack stares at him, and then nods. He gets up, the knife still in his hands. "Get some rest," he says. "I'll be back soon, all right?"
Ianto turns his face away. He closes his eyes. He imagines he's on a sandy beach somewhere in the Caribbean, a tall drink nearby and the buffet tables waiting, the ocean lulling him to sleep.
***
The smell of cooking meat works its way into his fantasy. He pictures steaks, burgers, kebab. Jack is grilling, he tells himself. They're... at his sister's, with the kids. Johnny is making steaks in the backyard. Whole spitted chickens and pigs and lambs and little Bo-Peep. Or maybe not that last one.
He opens his eyes. No backyard, no grill, but there is meat.
Jack has found flat rocks, set them around the fire. On each of them is a lump of meat, red and sizzling.
"I didn't trust the sticks," Jack says. Ianto looks up, meeting his eyes, only his eyes. He doesn't dare look at any other part of Jack, not even Jack's mouth. He can't bear to see Jack's mouth drawn tight, the lines beside it deep with pain. "Probably leach some poison sap or something."
The smell is so good. Ianto's stomach is howling now, twisting like a mad thing, battering his poor, strained heart. He somehow finds the energy to roll over, to crawl towards the fire. His mouth is so wet that spit leaks out, trickles into the sand. He makes it to one of the flat rocks, and defying all his mother's lectures on gentlemanly behavior, he seizes the nearest meat-chunk with his fingers and crams into his mouth. The heat of it burns his tongue but he doesn't care. He chews; it's tough and he has to chew for a long time. With every bite the juice of it runs down his throat, not much but just enough to make his stomach snarl for more. When he can manage to, he swallows it down, too quick--it stretches his throat, and for a moment he thinks it will stick--he'll die having wolfed down meat like some unmannered hooligan, serves him right, his mother's voice says--but then it goes down.
He barely manages to keep from grabbing another piece and repeating his uncivilized performance. Instead, his gaze creeps upwards, to Jack. Jack looks away, swallowing.
Ianto sees Jack's crudely bandaged thigh.
"Sorry," Ianto manages, and then he's gagging, his gorge rising as his brain acknowledges what he's just done, what he's just gobbled down. He retches several times but nothing comes up; his stomach holds desperately onto its prize.
Jack hobbles over, hovers. Clears his throat to say something. I've done worse, Ianto expects to hear. Needs to hear. Wants. There was this time when we were stranded on the mountains... or During the war, things got really bad, and...
Instead, Jack kneels in the sand beside him, picks up a piece of the meat and then drops it in the sand, cursing. Picks it up again, brushes away the sand. He gives Ianto a "here goes" smile and says "Can't be any worse than anything else I've eaten while we've been stuck in this hell hole, right?"
Ianto stares as Jack chews, then swallows.
"Hm," Jack says, "It does kinda taste like pork. You know, there are some tribes that call this stuff 'long pig'?"
He stands abruptly, and Ianto is sure Jack is going to vomit. His breathing is fast, and he's pale and sweaty. The muscles in his jaw are jumping. But Jack only walks (limps) over to the SUV, comes back with the lid of the first aid kit and a Swiss army knife. He flips out the fork extension with a smile.
"Civilization." He transfers several pieces of meat from the hot stones to the lid using the Swiss army knife. Offers it to Ianto.
Ianto is disturbed to find he is salivating again.
"Slowly," Jack says. "Or you'll make yourself sick."
Ianto can't help it. He laughs at this. And then he eats. Oh god, he eats, and it tastes like gristly, chewy, wonderful heaven.
Series:Torchwood
Characters/Pairing: Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones
Rating: PG-13
Length: 2060
Genre: Dark fic/drama/horror
Warnings: People... who eat... other people...
Summary: dark_fest fic, prompt: Torchwood, Jack & Ianto, Cannibalism, anyone? The rift strands Jack and Ianto, maybe others too, on a planet with nothing edible. There's water, air, and some poisonous plants, but nothing else. (Maybe they have the SUV with them, because the rift opened on the road in front of them, so there's some emergency supplies.) They wait a while and nobody comes to save them. No rift opening, no TARDIS materialising. They're there for the long haul. Obvious solution: Jack as renewable food source.
Notes: Thanks to foxysquid for the beta! Dedicated to obeythebunny for turning me onto dark_fest!
Eat at Jack's
This is not at all what Ianto had imagined when he'd suggested he and Jack go on holiday together.
For one thing, he's been wearing the same clothes for near three weeks now. This would already be intolerable, but his good silk tie has been reduced to holding his jacket around his head when the two suns of this alien wasteland are brightest, and his once beautiful shirt is a ragged, sweat-stained mess. As for his trousers, they're beyond help. His shoes are back in the very dead Torchwood SUV, which is probably a good thing, as they would've been destroyed by the sand fairly quickly.
For another, there are no tall, complimentary Mai-Tais and endless buffet-table spreads of cocktail shrimp and little chicken drumsticks. In fact, there's no food at all. One wrong turn, and the Rift very kindly regurgitated them onto a deserted island full of nothing but poisonous flora.
Ianto thinks: story of his life.
Jack has died of poisoning twenty-three times on behalf of their aching, screaming bellies, six of those deaths so horrible that Ianto still has nightmares. But he's never asked Jack to stop. He can't.
Jack is sprawled on the ground as a result of their most recent experiment. Ianto crouches next to him, clutching his hand, trembling with hunger. Some part of him doesn't care that he just witnessed Jack jerking and foaming at the mouth; it wants to pick up what's left of the root Jack just chewed and gobble it down. He shuts his eyes, imagines that the rest of the team is burrowing through to them even now, that in five minutes, ten minutes, two hours, that soon they will be home, back in the Hub. They'll eat pizza and coleslaw and sandwiches and roasts and mac and cheese and baked beans and steak...
No more thinking about food, Ianto tells himself, but that only makes him think of fish and chips, of curries and salads and his mother's pudding. His mouth waters, threatening to spill over. He mops it neatly with the end of his tie.
"We'll be rescued soon enough," he says out loud, and squeezes Jack's cold dead fingers in his own. "You'll see. They'll sort it out in no time." Clenches his eyelids together, pictures it; he's always been good at this game. He can imagine their rescue so clearly that he can see it, see the glow of the rift opening, see Gwen shouting for them to hurry through. When he opens his eyes, he decides, it will be real.
Of course, there's only the endless sand and water when he does look. At least, he tells himself, it's very pretty.
His mind wanders to the last thing he ate, a half-stale pastry he grabbed just before he and Jack hurried out of the Hub, crammed down so quickly he didn't taste it. He's always hated eating in a hurry, but he absolutely regrets every crumb not savored now. If that pastry were here, in front of him, three weeks old and dry as cardboard, he'd linger over every bite.
Ianto's stomach doesn't just growl at the memory of that pastry; it twists itself into knots, hurts so bad he wonders if it's decided to digest itself in lieu of outside sustenance. Every part of him is ravenous. Hunger shrieks in every last cell of his body. He clutches his knees and grits his teeth, driving his toes down into the sand to make himself feel something else. He stares at Jack's inert body and thinks, If Jack were really dead, I think I'd be hungry enough to eat him.
Jack's body chooses that moment to finish regenerating, convulses. Jack's eyes open wide as his mouth gapes, lungs fighting for that first breath.
Surprise, always surprise on Jack's face when he first comes back, though surprise at returning to life or surprise that something managed to kill him, Ianto doesn't know. Wouldn't he be surprised to know what Ianto's been thinking? Ianto schools his mouth into a small smile.
"Welcome back," he says, softly.
"How long?" Jack croaks, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. A moment later he rolls onto his side and vomits up a nasty, greenish liquid. Ianto can't help but marvel at Jack's unsunken cheeks, his solid biceps and thighs. Whatever force keeps him alive also keeps him in very healthy condition.
Ianto's stomach launches another painful assault on itself. He clears his throat. "Not long," he says, uncapping the flask slung at his hip and taking a long drink before offering it to Jack. When they'd first realized they were stranded, they'd been so pleased to find the water stretching around them was not only non-poisonous, but also salt-free, entirely potable. They had been less pleased to find it contained no life at all, nothing visible and edible, at least. "Perhaps five minutes, I'd guess."
Jack shakes his head at Ianto's flask and reaches for his own. He drinks, swishes the water in his mouth, spits. Ianto stares at the muscles of Jack's back as Jack bends over to expel the mouthful of water.
"I don't know which tastes worse, that plant-thing going down or coming up." Jack grimaces. Ianto thinks he's attempting to smile.
"It'll be dark soon," Ianto says. He caps his flask and lets it drop to his side. "We should get back to the SUV."
Jack nods. Ianto starts to stand and the world lurches. He gasps as everything shifts left, starts spinning around him. He feels his palm hit the sand, the burn of a pebble opening up his skin.
Jack is there, gripping his shoulders, shouting in his face.
"Ianto!"
"Sorry." Ianto blinks. "Been in the sun too long, I suppose."
"No," Jack says, frustration in every line of his unnaturally well-nourished body and face. "You need food."
Ianto manages half a tight smile. "Don't worry. When I'm dead, you can eat me."
Jack pales. "Don't say things like that."
"Why shouldn't I?" Ianto's head is really spinning now. "When you were lying there, dead, I thought about eating you."
Jack's eyes widen and his mouth goes taut. He's bloodless under his twin-suns tan.
Ianto's head steadies a little. "Only joking," he lies.
Jack looks away, unhooks Ianto's flask and holds it up to Ianto's mouth. "No jokes. You need to save your energy. Drink."
Ianto drinks and closes his eyes. Eventually, the world goes still again. He tries to get up, musters the energy this time. They make it to the SUV before he passes out a second time.
***
When he comes to, it's already dark. By the light of the little fire, Ianto can see Jack is holding a knife from the survival kit. Jack's toying with it, turning it around and around in his hands. The crease is deep between his brows.
"Jack?"
Jack looks up. "You're awake. Thank god. How do you feel?" He scoots closer, offers Ianto water. Ianto drinks. It's warm, and fills his aching belly a little.
"I'll live," Ianto says, though he's not really sure he will, not for much longer. The weight of the flask in his hands feels outlandishly heavy.
Jack's fingers brush his forehead, touch his sunken cheek. "I've been thinking about what you said."
"What I said?"
"You should..." Jack makes a weak attempt at a suggestive grin, "eat me."
"Jack, don't be ridiculous."
Jack says, "I'll grow it back. I've lost bits before. There was this time when I blew off my foot--and my arm, once--"
"You can't." Ianto shakes his head. "I can't. I won't eat--you."
"You need to eat," Jack says. "I want to eat--God, I can't even describe how much--but I'm clearly not gonna die." He squeezes his own healthy, meaty shoulder ruefully. "You, on the other hand, Mr. Jones..." His voice drops into nearly a whisper. "I'm worried about you." Jack plays the knife over his bicep, across his body, down to his thigh. His smile is grim. "So which cut will you have tonight, sir?"
Ianto wants to tell him no, but his mouth is watering at the thought of food. His entire body is desperate for it.
"I don't want to see," he finally says. "I don't want to know."
Jack stares at him, and then nods. He gets up, the knife still in his hands. "Get some rest," he says. "I'll be back soon, all right?"
Ianto turns his face away. He closes his eyes. He imagines he's on a sandy beach somewhere in the Caribbean, a tall drink nearby and the buffet tables waiting, the ocean lulling him to sleep.
***
The smell of cooking meat works its way into his fantasy. He pictures steaks, burgers, kebab. Jack is grilling, he tells himself. They're... at his sister's, with the kids. Johnny is making steaks in the backyard. Whole spitted chickens and pigs and lambs and little Bo-Peep. Or maybe not that last one.
He opens his eyes. No backyard, no grill, but there is meat.
Jack has found flat rocks, set them around the fire. On each of them is a lump of meat, red and sizzling.
"I didn't trust the sticks," Jack says. Ianto looks up, meeting his eyes, only his eyes. He doesn't dare look at any other part of Jack, not even Jack's mouth. He can't bear to see Jack's mouth drawn tight, the lines beside it deep with pain. "Probably leach some poison sap or something."
The smell is so good. Ianto's stomach is howling now, twisting like a mad thing, battering his poor, strained heart. He somehow finds the energy to roll over, to crawl towards the fire. His mouth is so wet that spit leaks out, trickles into the sand. He makes it to one of the flat rocks, and defying all his mother's lectures on gentlemanly behavior, he seizes the nearest meat-chunk with his fingers and crams into his mouth. The heat of it burns his tongue but he doesn't care. He chews; it's tough and he has to chew for a long time. With every bite the juice of it runs down his throat, not much but just enough to make his stomach snarl for more. When he can manage to, he swallows it down, too quick--it stretches his throat, and for a moment he thinks it will stick--he'll die having wolfed down meat like some unmannered hooligan, serves him right, his mother's voice says--but then it goes down.
He barely manages to keep from grabbing another piece and repeating his uncivilized performance. Instead, his gaze creeps upwards, to Jack. Jack looks away, swallowing.
Ianto sees Jack's crudely bandaged thigh.
"Sorry," Ianto manages, and then he's gagging, his gorge rising as his brain acknowledges what he's just done, what he's just gobbled down. He retches several times but nothing comes up; his stomach holds desperately onto its prize.
Jack hobbles over, hovers. Clears his throat to say something. I've done worse, Ianto expects to hear. Needs to hear. Wants. There was this time when we were stranded on the mountains... or During the war, things got really bad, and...
Instead, Jack kneels in the sand beside him, picks up a piece of the meat and then drops it in the sand, cursing. Picks it up again, brushes away the sand. He gives Ianto a "here goes" smile and says "Can't be any worse than anything else I've eaten while we've been stuck in this hell hole, right?"
Ianto stares as Jack chews, then swallows.
"Hm," Jack says, "It does kinda taste like pork. You know, there are some tribes that call this stuff 'long pig'?"
He stands abruptly, and Ianto is sure Jack is going to vomit. His breathing is fast, and he's pale and sweaty. The muscles in his jaw are jumping. But Jack only walks (limps) over to the SUV, comes back with the lid of the first aid kit and a Swiss army knife. He flips out the fork extension with a smile.
"Civilization." He transfers several pieces of meat from the hot stones to the lid using the Swiss army knife. Offers it to Ianto.
Ianto is disturbed to find he is salivating again.
"Slowly," Jack says. "Or you'll make yourself sick."
Ianto can't help it. He laughs at this. And then he eats. Oh god, he eats, and it tastes like gristly, chewy, wonderful heaven.