Ficlet: Master Manipulator
Title: Master Manipulator
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Jack, Ianto, Others.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Jack is the craftiest person Ianto has ever met; he almost always gets his own way in everything.
Word Count: 500
Content Notes: None necessary.
Written For: Prompt 83: Crafty at anythingdrabble.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
In all his admittedly short life, Ianto has never met anyone craftier than Jack. Maybe it’s ingrained habit from his years as an intergalactic conman, or maybe it’s genetic, there’s no way of telling; the point remains that Jack is an expert at getting his own way in all things. That can be annoying, but at the same time Ianto can’t help feeling a twinge of admiration. Being able to manipulate others so effortlessly takes a great deal of skill, and Jack is a master of the art.
Not that he’s always nice about it; he tailors his methods to whomever he happens to be dealing with, as well as to what he hopes to gain, which means the police have to deal with a high-handed jerk who gets on their nerves, and they tend to storm off, fuming, which is what Jack wants. It’s a far more effective method of clearing a scene quickly than turning on the charm would be.
Of course, Jack is blessed with an overabundance of charm, not to mention those fifty-first century pheromones that make him smell good enough to eat. It gives him an unfair advantage when it comes to getting people to trust him. Honestly, by now if it weren’t for Retcon he’d probably have half of Cardiff trailing after him wherever he goes, like ducklings following their mother. The mental image is so absurd Ianto has to stifle a chuckle.
Questioning and Retconning witnesses and those unfortunate enough to be affected by the stuff that falls through the Rift is something every member of the team has had to do on multiple occasions, but no one’s better at it than Jack. Sometimes Ianto is sure that if Jack were to ask them, they’d give him their bank details along with a full account of what they saw, especially the women. All he has to do is smile and flirt and they’re like putty in his hands.
There are occasional exceptions to that rule, people with bad colds who have no sense of smell, and certain others who are simply immune to being charmed, but ninety-five percent of the people Jack encounters fall under his spell easily enough, and to his chagrin, that includes Ianto himself. It’s infuriating.
Ianto doesn’t need to turn away from his current task to know when Jack appears in the doorway behind him. “What do you want, Jack? I’m busy.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“You’re kidding, right? With the ventilation system down here I can smell you coming.”
“Oh. Well I just came down to see what you were doing.”
“If that was all you wanted you would have just called me over the comms.” Ianto always wore his earpiece when working in the archives. “You were bored and thought you’d just come down here and seduce me, didn’t you? Well it’s not going to work.”
Half an hour later, as they’re pulling their clothes back on, Ianto sighs. Crafty Jack never plays fair.
The End
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Jack, Ianto, Others.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Jack is the craftiest person Ianto has ever met; he almost always gets his own way in everything.
Word Count: 500
Content Notes: None necessary.
Written For: Prompt 83: Crafty at anythingdrabble.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
In all his admittedly short life, Ianto has never met anyone craftier than Jack. Maybe it’s ingrained habit from his years as an intergalactic conman, or maybe it’s genetic, there’s no way of telling; the point remains that Jack is an expert at getting his own way in all things. That can be annoying, but at the same time Ianto can’t help feeling a twinge of admiration. Being able to manipulate others so effortlessly takes a great deal of skill, and Jack is a master of the art.
Not that he’s always nice about it; he tailors his methods to whomever he happens to be dealing with, as well as to what he hopes to gain, which means the police have to deal with a high-handed jerk who gets on their nerves, and they tend to storm off, fuming, which is what Jack wants. It’s a far more effective method of clearing a scene quickly than turning on the charm would be.
Of course, Jack is blessed with an overabundance of charm, not to mention those fifty-first century pheromones that make him smell good enough to eat. It gives him an unfair advantage when it comes to getting people to trust him. Honestly, by now if it weren’t for Retcon he’d probably have half of Cardiff trailing after him wherever he goes, like ducklings following their mother. The mental image is so absurd Ianto has to stifle a chuckle.
Questioning and Retconning witnesses and those unfortunate enough to be affected by the stuff that falls through the Rift is something every member of the team has had to do on multiple occasions, but no one’s better at it than Jack. Sometimes Ianto is sure that if Jack were to ask them, they’d give him their bank details along with a full account of what they saw, especially the women. All he has to do is smile and flirt and they’re like putty in his hands.
There are occasional exceptions to that rule, people with bad colds who have no sense of smell, and certain others who are simply immune to being charmed, but ninety-five percent of the people Jack encounters fall under his spell easily enough, and to his chagrin, that includes Ianto himself. It’s infuriating.
Ianto doesn’t need to turn away from his current task to know when Jack appears in the doorway behind him. “What do you want, Jack? I’m busy.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“You’re kidding, right? With the ventilation system down here I can smell you coming.”
“Oh. Well I just came down to see what you were doing.”
“If that was all you wanted you would have just called me over the comms.” Ianto always wore his earpiece when working in the archives. “You were bored and thought you’d just come down here and seduce me, didn’t you? Well it’s not going to work.”
Half an hour later, as they’re pulling their clothes back on, Ianto sighs. Crafty Jack never plays fair.
The End