Fic: What Happens In Vegas (1/1)
Title: What Happens In Vegas (1/1)
Rating: R
Pairing: Jack/Ianto (established relationship), mentions of Jack/Gwen
Word Count: 1,597
Summary: Ianto knew how it worked, but never quite understood why.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Just a little ficlet based on the back story for a larger plot idea I had recently.
What Happens In Vegas
Ianto Jones could honestly say that he understood the hows of just about everything. As it happened, it was the whys that always seemed to trip him up.
He understood the biological explanations to the nature of human sexuality, of physical attraction. He knew the theories involving why particular body types were interpreted as more attractive from the standpoint of procreation, the postulations behind chemical reactions and pheromones; he knew from experience the reactions, how his heart would race and his breath would grow damp and heavy, leaden in his lungs and moist in his palms as everything grew hotter and closer and louder until the flush of his skin was only the exterior reflection of the blood rushing all through his body. He understood how sometimes, most of the time, one couldn’t control that response - that sometimes it happened, even against one’s will. He knew that, had felt it more than once, and he didn’t - couldn’t - find condemnable fault with it. It was simply natural, and it couldn’t be helped. He understood that. He just wasn’t able to grasp why Jack never managed to see the expression, the hurt he knew showed on his face every time Jack took his incessant flirtation with random strangers - and even worse, with random colleagues - just a little to far.
He understood the concepts of hope, of faith, in regards to the abstract, in a frame of reference he could imagine far better than he could accept. He knew in his mind that they were constructs; that logically, they existed only as a form of comfort, an appeasement for the human consciousness, an indulgence of the subconscious at best. He knew that they were useless, fleeting sensations that did nothing but betray the truth in the end, prolonging the inevitable only leaving it to resonate, to sting all the worse. And yet, he knew what it felt like to lie in bed at night, alone with an empty pillow to his side, hoping and praying to every force or power in the universe that the person who was meant to be next to him would come home, would return to him when it was all said and done; promising an invisible, nameless entity with every fiber of his being that he wouldn’t hold anything against that person, would harbor no ill will, so long as they came back, safe and sound. He spent more time than he liked to admit in such a state, relying solely upon irrational hope and a blind, thoughtless faith in the fact that everything would turn out all right in the end. It was just that sometimes, he just didn’t understand why he kept hoping.
He understood what it meant to forgive a person, what forgiveness meant for humanity, for interpersonal communication. He knew that if people were unable to forgive the faults in those they interacted with, relationships would never form. He knew that it was required of every human being to overlook the small flaws in those close to them in order to relate to them, in order to know them, to establish a bond with them. He knew he himself possessed more faults than he felt he deserved, and that he was lucky he’d found anyone who could overlook them, even for a moment. It was beyond his good fortune that he’d found more than just the one person who was willing to undertake such an endeavor, even if the majority of them had only lasted for a short time in the struggle. He considered himself a forgiving person by nature, someone who was willing to excuse the wrongs done unto him because it was harder to hold the grudge than simply forgive and forget. He knew that people were fallible, that they gave into the wrong impulses sometimes, yielded to the wrong temptations, and that in order for the world to continue spinning, they would often have to be forgiven those transgressions, whether or not they deserved it. He knew this. He just didn’t know why Jack felt compelled to make a night with Gwen, of all things, the one transgression he so desperately needed Ianto to forgive him.
He understood the inexpressible necessity, the incomprehensible meaning of an apology. He understood what it felt like to have fucked everything up so terribly as to want nothing more than to dissolve into the earth beneath your feet, to desire death above continuing to labor under the guilt that bore down upon you with every moment, every breath. He knew that feeling all too well, and knew that apology - an endless stream of “I’m sorry’s” and “I’ll do anything to make it right’s” - they were all a person had in the darkness, the isolation, the sheer and painful loneliness of failure and regret. He knew that the way Jack babbled, talked his way around the issue before admitting to it in broken, stuttered speech was a product of fear more than actual reluctance, that the apologies that followed were more heartfelt than the majority of the words Ianto suspected Jack has ever uttered in his entire life. He knew that, when Jack had stopped the intermittent flashes of that trademark grin, he was truly remorseful, and he knew beyond any doubt that as Jack explained exactly what had happened, down to the very detail that Ianto had never wanted to know, but had needed to hear, the few successive droplets that streamed from his eyes down his cheeks were genuinely shed, physical manifestations of an inner conflict that Jack, in all likelihood, hadn’t felt many times before. He knew that Jack was sorry, truly and deeply sorry for his indiscretion, his infidelity. He just didn’t know why Jack came back to apologize at all; why, in the end, Jack came back to him.
He understood the need for human contact, the need to talk, to touch, to be with another person, the desire to listen to a heart beating next to yours for just an instant, so that you could know for certain that you weren’t alone. He also understood that Jack wasn’t like him - wasn’t someone who could easily conform to rules, let alone to the restrictions and limitations of monogamy, and he’d never expected him to. Ianto knew that Jack required a freedom that he alone could not provide, and had convinced himself long ago that if he told himself he didn’t mind often enough, firmly enough, that eventually it would become the truth. And yet, even after Jack had slid down his body, kissed him hard and long and deep, hands firmly planted on the sides of his face, the traces of tears salty between their lips; even after Jack curled up next to him, legs threaded between his own, knees interlocked, whispering nonsense and shaking his head as Ianto stared at the ceiling, sifting his fingers idly through Jack’s soft hair - even as they lay together, breathing deep and close, Ianto was ill at ease. It wasn’t the fact that Jack had been unfaithful. It wasn’t even that Jack had chosen quite possibly the most inconvenient person to be unfaithful with. It was just that he couldn’t comprehend why Jack kept up the pretenses, why he even bothered to pretend that they were in a serious, committed, exclusive relationship in the first place if he obviously couldn’t manage it.
Above all things, perhaps; he understood that people made mistakes - that in being human, it was unavoidable. He made plenty of them, made them daily, hourly even - sometimes he wondered if everything he did was simply part of a greater mistake he was partaking in, a larger sin he was about to commit. When neither he nor Jack could sleep that night, the tang of betrayal still bitter in his mouth, Ianto had bit back the blood on his tongue telling him to stop Jack as he slowly, carefully, painstakingly made his way down Ianto’s body, taking him in his hands and drawing out the pleasure in a way Jack, who was all about instant gratification, particularly his own, had never bothered to try before. He said not a word when Jack swallowed his hardened length, sucked him desperately, every pass of his tongue and graze of his front teeth an extension of his apology, begging for absolution. It was in the end, when Ianto could contain himself no longer, as he reached his orgasm with a dry, heaving sob, that he made his own fatal mistake; one that hurt so much more than Jack’s had. Spilling hard down Jack’s throat, feeling the reverberations as his seed was swallowed, Ianto was compelled to speak the unspeakable, felt the words tingling behind his lips, begging to be said. Three words that meant everything that he could never have, especially not with Jack; three little words that could never touch what they shared, whatever it was - that in his fantasies some time before the present, he may have entertained in a naïve flight of fancy, but he knew now could never be their reality, couldn’t never be at all. He wasn’t that desperate of a fool - he didn’t delude himself otherwise. He was fairly certain he didn’t even wish for it anymore, either. He just didn’t know, as Jack lay unsatisfied next to him, why he couldn’t stop himself from wishing that Jack had spoken instead, had said what he couldn’t; why he could not help the aching desire for Jack to have read his thoughts and, wrapped as he was around Ianto’s sweaty torso, that he had responded in kind.
Rating: R
Pairing: Jack/Ianto (established relationship), mentions of Jack/Gwen
Word Count: 1,597
Summary: Ianto knew how it worked, but never quite understood why.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Just a little ficlet based on the back story for a larger plot idea I had recently.
What Happens In Vegas
Ianto Jones could honestly say that he understood the hows of just about everything. As it happened, it was the whys that always seemed to trip him up.
He understood the biological explanations to the nature of human sexuality, of physical attraction. He knew the theories involving why particular body types were interpreted as more attractive from the standpoint of procreation, the postulations behind chemical reactions and pheromones; he knew from experience the reactions, how his heart would race and his breath would grow damp and heavy, leaden in his lungs and moist in his palms as everything grew hotter and closer and louder until the flush of his skin was only the exterior reflection of the blood rushing all through his body. He understood how sometimes, most of the time, one couldn’t control that response - that sometimes it happened, even against one’s will. He knew that, had felt it more than once, and he didn’t - couldn’t - find condemnable fault with it. It was simply natural, and it couldn’t be helped. He understood that. He just wasn’t able to grasp why Jack never managed to see the expression, the hurt he knew showed on his face every time Jack took his incessant flirtation with random strangers - and even worse, with random colleagues - just a little to far.
He understood the concepts of hope, of faith, in regards to the abstract, in a frame of reference he could imagine far better than he could accept. He knew in his mind that they were constructs; that logically, they existed only as a form of comfort, an appeasement for the human consciousness, an indulgence of the subconscious at best. He knew that they were useless, fleeting sensations that did nothing but betray the truth in the end, prolonging the inevitable only leaving it to resonate, to sting all the worse. And yet, he knew what it felt like to lie in bed at night, alone with an empty pillow to his side, hoping and praying to every force or power in the universe that the person who was meant to be next to him would come home, would return to him when it was all said and done; promising an invisible, nameless entity with every fiber of his being that he wouldn’t hold anything against that person, would harbor no ill will, so long as they came back, safe and sound. He spent more time than he liked to admit in such a state, relying solely upon irrational hope and a blind, thoughtless faith in the fact that everything would turn out all right in the end. It was just that sometimes, he just didn’t understand why he kept hoping.
He understood what it meant to forgive a person, what forgiveness meant for humanity, for interpersonal communication. He knew that if people were unable to forgive the faults in those they interacted with, relationships would never form. He knew that it was required of every human being to overlook the small flaws in those close to them in order to relate to them, in order to know them, to establish a bond with them. He knew he himself possessed more faults than he felt he deserved, and that he was lucky he’d found anyone who could overlook them, even for a moment. It was beyond his good fortune that he’d found more than just the one person who was willing to undertake such an endeavor, even if the majority of them had only lasted for a short time in the struggle. He considered himself a forgiving person by nature, someone who was willing to excuse the wrongs done unto him because it was harder to hold the grudge than simply forgive and forget. He knew that people were fallible, that they gave into the wrong impulses sometimes, yielded to the wrong temptations, and that in order for the world to continue spinning, they would often have to be forgiven those transgressions, whether or not they deserved it. He knew this. He just didn’t know why Jack felt compelled to make a night with Gwen, of all things, the one transgression he so desperately needed Ianto to forgive him.
He understood the inexpressible necessity, the incomprehensible meaning of an apology. He understood what it felt like to have fucked everything up so terribly as to want nothing more than to dissolve into the earth beneath your feet, to desire death above continuing to labor under the guilt that bore down upon you with every moment, every breath. He knew that feeling all too well, and knew that apology - an endless stream of “I’m sorry’s” and “I’ll do anything to make it right’s” - they were all a person had in the darkness, the isolation, the sheer and painful loneliness of failure and regret. He knew that the way Jack babbled, talked his way around the issue before admitting to it in broken, stuttered speech was a product of fear more than actual reluctance, that the apologies that followed were more heartfelt than the majority of the words Ianto suspected Jack has ever uttered in his entire life. He knew that, when Jack had stopped the intermittent flashes of that trademark grin, he was truly remorseful, and he knew beyond any doubt that as Jack explained exactly what had happened, down to the very detail that Ianto had never wanted to know, but had needed to hear, the few successive droplets that streamed from his eyes down his cheeks were genuinely shed, physical manifestations of an inner conflict that Jack, in all likelihood, hadn’t felt many times before. He knew that Jack was sorry, truly and deeply sorry for his indiscretion, his infidelity. He just didn’t know why Jack came back to apologize at all; why, in the end, Jack came back to him.
He understood the need for human contact, the need to talk, to touch, to be with another person, the desire to listen to a heart beating next to yours for just an instant, so that you could know for certain that you weren’t alone. He also understood that Jack wasn’t like him - wasn’t someone who could easily conform to rules, let alone to the restrictions and limitations of monogamy, and he’d never expected him to. Ianto knew that Jack required a freedom that he alone could not provide, and had convinced himself long ago that if he told himself he didn’t mind often enough, firmly enough, that eventually it would become the truth. And yet, even after Jack had slid down his body, kissed him hard and long and deep, hands firmly planted on the sides of his face, the traces of tears salty between their lips; even after Jack curled up next to him, legs threaded between his own, knees interlocked, whispering nonsense and shaking his head as Ianto stared at the ceiling, sifting his fingers idly through Jack’s soft hair - even as they lay together, breathing deep and close, Ianto was ill at ease. It wasn’t the fact that Jack had been unfaithful. It wasn’t even that Jack had chosen quite possibly the most inconvenient person to be unfaithful with. It was just that he couldn’t comprehend why Jack kept up the pretenses, why he even bothered to pretend that they were in a serious, committed, exclusive relationship in the first place if he obviously couldn’t manage it.
Above all things, perhaps; he understood that people made mistakes - that in being human, it was unavoidable. He made plenty of them, made them daily, hourly even - sometimes he wondered if everything he did was simply part of a greater mistake he was partaking in, a larger sin he was about to commit. When neither he nor Jack could sleep that night, the tang of betrayal still bitter in his mouth, Ianto had bit back the blood on his tongue telling him to stop Jack as he slowly, carefully, painstakingly made his way down Ianto’s body, taking him in his hands and drawing out the pleasure in a way Jack, who was all about instant gratification, particularly his own, had never bothered to try before. He said not a word when Jack swallowed his hardened length, sucked him desperately, every pass of his tongue and graze of his front teeth an extension of his apology, begging for absolution. It was in the end, when Ianto could contain himself no longer, as he reached his orgasm with a dry, heaving sob, that he made his own fatal mistake; one that hurt so much more than Jack’s had. Spilling hard down Jack’s throat, feeling the reverberations as his seed was swallowed, Ianto was compelled to speak the unspeakable, felt the words tingling behind his lips, begging to be said. Three words that meant everything that he could never have, especially not with Jack; three little words that could never touch what they shared, whatever it was - that in his fantasies some time before the present, he may have entertained in a naïve flight of fancy, but he knew now could never be their reality, couldn’t never be at all. He wasn’t that desperate of a fool - he didn’t delude himself otherwise. He was fairly certain he didn’t even wish for it anymore, either. He just didn’t know, as Jack lay unsatisfied next to him, why he couldn’t stop himself from wishing that Jack had spoken instead, had said what he couldn’t; why he could not help the aching desire for Jack to have read his thoughts and, wrapped as he was around Ianto’s sweaty torso, that he had responded in kind.