Rating: Adult content
Word count: 1460
Warning: Assumes knowledge through “They Keep Killing Susie”
Summary: It’s not in his job description, after all: nowhere does it say, Make coffee, take out garbage, service Captain Jack.
Jack is on his knees and Ianto is doing his damnedest to stay utterly silent. Why he does this, Jack has no idea: everyone else has gone home and the occupants of the cells don’t care. It’s becoming a fixation with him, to get Ianto to make a noise, any kind of noise, something to show he’s not doing this out of some weird sense of duty. It’s not in his job description, after all: nowhere does it say, Make coffee, take out garbage, service Captain Jack.
Jack’s hands dig into Ianto’s thighs and he tries harder, deeper, getting a twitch and a whimper in response. It’s not enough, not enough at all, and Jack pulls back and wipes his mouth with the side of his hand. Ianto, still desperately gripping the arms of the chair, looks at him with dark, full eyes. “Sir?”
“Enjoying yourself, Ianto?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” He licks his lips, eyes on Jack’s mouth. “Are you finished, sir?”
Jack smiles and holds Ianto’s chin, and kisses him, hard. “No. Not at all.”
Later, maybe, he’ll figure out how to crack Ianto. Later.
* * *
Fidelity is a concept from long before his time, but Jack is so preoccupied with Ianto that no one else he meets even attracts his attention. Well, attracts it for long. Easy partners are one thing. He could go to the pub and find any girl, any boy, who’d jump into his bed and let him know exactly how much they appreciate being there.
But then there’s Ianto. Ianto comes when Jack fucks him, Ianto kisses him back, Ianto even smiles when Jack tosses him a grin. But Jack is still “sir,” resolutely “sir,” as if Ianto saying his name would somehow change things.
* * *
Ianto sets a coffee cup on Jack’s desk and Jack glances up long enough to say, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” He turns to go.
Jack puts down his pen. “Ianto.”
He turns back and looks at Jack patiently. “Sir?” When Jack doesn’t speak again he adds, “You have some further need of me, sir?”
Jack whispers, “Come here and touch me.”
The blank, professional expression softens and Ianto comes around his desk, to gently press the backs of his fingers to Jack’s cheek. “It’s working hours, sir.”
“I know. This’ll just take a minute.”
Ianto’s hand turns to cradle his cheek in his palm. Jack closes his eyes, inhales slowly, exhales just as slowly, and smiles when Ianto says in a mild tone, “Your coffee will get cold, sir.”
“You’re right.” He opens his eyes and moves his face from Ianto’s hand. “Thank you. I feel much better.”
“I’m glad to be of assistance, sir.” Ianto looks confused but it passes, and he leaves Jack’s office to go about his quiet way into the day.
* * *
Ianto is bleeding and Jack is trying not to panic, trying to let Owen do his work, but it’s hard not to yell, “Work faster, do it better, it’s Ianto!” He folds his arms over his chest, frowning and wondering when it started getting out of control, this obsession, and Owen murmurs, “There, see? Just a flesh wound. You’ll be fine. It won’t even hurt in a tic.”
Ianto nods, pale, and his eyes meet Jack’s. Jack tries to nod and smile reassuringly. I want to touch you, he thinks, I want to hold you—imagine I’m holding you, Ianto, imagine you’re in my arms and nothing will ever touch you but me.
Ianto’s mouth lifts. Just a bit. Just the tiniest bit of a bit. “Owen says I’ll be fine, sir.”
“Of course you will,” Jack says, and ignores the confused looks from the others.
* * *
Ianto’s bed is small, but there’s room enough for two. Ianto’s back is to his chest, one hand reaching back so their fingers can weave together over his ribs.
This is the only reason, Jack tells himself, that he hasn’t left yet. There’s no reason to stay the night: Jack has no romantic notions of having breakfast together or even of timing their arrivals at Torchwood so that no one suspects. Hell, let them suspect. They probably expect it. They probably know.
But Ianto is holding his hand and Jack doesn’t want to move just yet. Not yet.
“Ianto,” he says finally. “Are you asleep?”
“Deeply, sir,” is the slurred response.
Jack chuckles and squeezes his fingers. “Stay asleep, then.” He sits up and stretches out his arms, then looks down in surprise when Ianto turns over and watches him. “What?”
“Are you leaving so soon, sir?”
“I didn’t think you’d want me here when you woke up.”
Ianto considers it. “I have no objection to that.”
“Oh,” says Jack. “All right.” He stays sitting up, though, and leans back against the headboard. After a moment, Ianto moves to lay his head against Jack’s chest, and Jack thrusts a hand into his hair and starts slowly scratching his scalp. “I’m not in love with you, you know.”
“I don’t expect you to be, sir,” is Ianto’s quiet response.
“This is just sex. You don’t mean anything more to me than anyone else.”
A beat passes. “I’m flattered, sir.”
“Just so we’re—what?”
“Well,” says Ianto and sits up, the sheets barely rustling with his movement. “You spend your days saving the world, sir. So it stands to reason that everyone else has a bit of meaning to you. And I think I can assume that I have the lion’s share of meaning: after all, you stayed when I asked.”
“I’m just being polite.”
Ianto’s expression gets the slightest bit exasperated. “Sir, you are many things, but polite is not one of them.”
“You can’t even say my name when we’re having sex,” Jack counters.
“Perhaps that’s a choice on my part.”
“You know, every time I think I have you figured out you confuse me all over again.”
Ianto shrugged. “I’m really not that complicated, sir. I merely wish to do my job to the best of my ability.”
“This isn’t part of your job. I wouldn’t fire you if you decided not to sleep with me anymore.”
“I should hope not, sir. I wouldn’t care to bring a sexual harassment suit against you.”
Jack sighs, fidgets under the duvet a moment, and says, “So why am I here, then?”
Ianto shifts. “You are here because it suits me. People . . . can need each other for things other than love.”
Jack thinks this over, then places a hand on the back of Ianto’s neck and tugs him forward enough to kiss. “Who am I?” he whispers against Ianto’s warm mouth.
“Captain Jack Harkness,” Ianto whispers with a ghost of a smile.
“Who am I?” Jack says again, gently.
“My boss, the head of Torchwood.”
“Who am I?”
Ianto sighs and whispers, “Jack,” kissing the corner of Jack’s mouth. Jack kisses him back, and Ianto whispers, “Jack, Jack,” as Jack kisses him, kisses his mouth and his throat, kisses his body, lifts Ianto’s legs over his shoulders and strokes into him until he can’t speak anymore.
* * *
In the morning things are the same. Coffee on the desk. “Thank you, Ianto.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” He starts to leave the office, and then pauses. “Sir?”
“Ianto?” Jack puts down his pen and looks up at him.
Ianto seems to think it over, and then says quietly, “Sir, if I were to say, Come here and touch me, would you?”
Jack starts to smile. “Try me.”
Ianto straightens his shoulders and says, “Come here and touch me, sir.”
Ianto watches him, then says again, “Come here and touch me. Jack.”
Jack smiles and gets up from behind the desk, crosses the office and takes Ianto’s face in both hands. “This is what you want?” he whispers, stroking Ianto’s cheeks and neck.
Ianto nods slowly, his eyes half-closed.
“When it’s you and me,” Jack says, “I’m Jack. When it’s . . . everything else, you can call me whatever you want. You can call me Nancyboy Supremo if that’s what you want.”
Ianto gives a quiet chuckle. “I won’t be calling you that, sir.” He removes his face from Jack’s hands. “Thank you. I feel better now.”
“Anytime.” He goes back to his desk and Ianto leaves the office.
People can need each other for other things than love, Jack thinks. He isn’t sure what he needs Ianto for. It isn’t sex: sex comes from everywhere, anywhere.
What he needs Ianto for, he thinks, is someone to come when he calls.
And someone to call for him.