TW Fic: What Seems Like Surrender
Oct. 2nd, 2007 01:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereTitle: What Seems Like Surrender
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Ianto/Jack
Rating: R
Summary: Jack’s return, and what really matters.
Disclaimer: Not RTD. No money for me.
Notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
oxoniensis for being a fantastic beta and making this much, much better than it would have otherwise been. The quote and title come from “The Horse Whisperer”, which is a movie I should probably get around to seeing someday.
Sometimes what seems like surrender isn’t surrender at all. It’s about what’s going on in our hearts. About seeing clearly the way life is and accepting it and being true to it, whatever the pain, because the pain of not being true to it is far, far greater.
After everything’s said and done – danger over, stories told – they get pizza.
Jack listens in as Owen orders it and Ianto gets drinks from Jack’s office.
Jack’s never needed a drink more in his entire life, and scotch has never tasted better. Unfortunately, a whole mouthful of that scotch gets wasted by Jack spluttering when Owen gives a name to the pizzeria.
“Firestick?” Jack manages as he wipes his mouth. “You guys order pizza under the name of Mr Firestick now?”
“Firestick, Torchwood,” Owen says with a shrug. “It’s better than the anagram.”
“The anagram?”
“Doctor How,” Tosh puts in. “We used that one for a few days but everyone kept thinking we were setting up a bad knock-knock joke.”
“I think next week we should use Big Foot.” Gwen gives a sharp smile. “In honour of the Tibetan trip.”
As she says it, Gwen looks over at Ianto, who rolls his eyes, replying, “Yes, let’s commemorate that trip, shall we?”
They’ve already told Jack about the wasted trip, trekking through never-ending inclines of snow. Jack had loved sitting back, listening to the four of them explaining: Owen and Gwen trying to talk over each other; Tosh pushing in details here and there; Ianto mostly quiet except for a pointed, “As I said at the time, there were no actual readings from the area and sending the entire team was very suspicious, sir.” It’s Ianto’s version of ‘I told you so.’
The pizza is amazing. Hot cheese stretching from the slice to his mouth, crust crunchy and satisfying as he bites down on it. Jack’s missed this over the last year: food and conversation and alcohol. He’s missed being able to bite into food, to have crunch, to have flavour. To have anything but endless porridge and gruel, tasteless mush meant to be swallowed with no enjoyment whatsoever. He understands, intellectually at least, the need for torture but taking the joy out of eating was plain wrong.
Halfway through the third pizza, the conversation seems exhausted. There’s only so much that can happen in two weeks, after all, and Jack’s spent most of his year being very, very bored. There aren’t many stories to tell.
Gwen yawns, wide-mouthed, gap-toothed, hand coming up a touch too late to hide the sight. “Sorry. Been a bit of a day.”
“You should go home,” Jack says warmly. “Go home, get some rest. All of you.”
All of them. All of his team. All of his gorgeous, complicated, human-to-a-fault team. These people that he cares for, more than he’d realised; that he’d fallen for in so many ways, most of them not even sexual. (Not that he’d say no to any of them, if the offer were there and the timing right.) These people who’d made this time, this place, feel like home. Without realising it, he’s found people he loves and a place he fits into. It’s nothing short of amazing.
He walks the four of them to the lift and tells them that as the doors open. “You’re gorgeous and amazing, and I love all of you.”
Owen snorts. “I bet you say that to all your employees.”
“I’m saying it to all of my employees, but I mean it.”
Tosh reaches out, gives his bare forearm a quick squeeze.
Gwen steps forward and pecks him on the cheek, adding, “We love you too, Jack.”
Owen makes no physical gestures. He only says, “You’d better be here in the morning, Harkness,” but there’s a pleased twist to that generous mouth.
The five of them standing in the lift bay, crammed close together, and the space itself may be small but what it contains is huge. What it contains is everything that makes Jack happy here, that makes this alien time, this century or so between historic events, this currently insignificant city, the place he most wants to be.
There’s not much else that Jack could want.
But the only reaction from Ianto is a brief frown and, “I’ve left my keys on your desk,” said with the annoyance of any employee kept late. As he walks off to get them, Owen and Gwen share a knowing glance and Tosh wonders aloud, “What’s the point of being subtle about it now?”
Jack takes advantage of their momentary distraction to gather them into a group hug. “I really did miss you guys. It’s so good to be home.”
Even Owen squeezes back.
Ianto’s keys really are sitting on his desk, Jack notices when he walks back in to his office. They’re on the left-hand corner, and Ianto’s leaning right beside them, tie loose and jacket removed.
The hatch to Jack’s quarters is already open. From this angle, Jack can see his own neatly-made bed. “A little presumptive, don’t you think?” Jack asks, nodding towards the open hatch.
“If someone tells me they love me, and that I’m gorgeous, it’s a fair assumption the night will end with sex.”
“Ianto Jones, I never knew you were so easy,” Jack replies, sounding appropriately scandalised.
“I’m a sucker for a compliment,” Ianto says with a shrug, reaching up to finish undoing his tie. The tie pulls off smoothly, then his fingers move to the buttons at his collar. That’s when Jack notices what else is missing: Ianto’s waistcoat is gone, was gone when Jack walked into the room, and at the end of those long, lovely legs, Ianto’s feet are bare.
“I have to admit,” Jack says, fully enjoying the view, “I was expecting a few more recriminations with my return.”
“From me?” Ianto asks with surprise, pausing halfway down his shirt. He only pauses for a minute, then starts methodically attacking the next button. “Did you want more ‘Alas, my love, you do me wrong’?”
“I didn’t want it, but…” Jack swallows. Ianto’s shirt is fully undone, pulled out and hanging loose, framing the pale, bare skin very nicely. It takes Jack a little effort to remember to speak. “I thought I’d have to work to be forgiven.”
“Yes, because all this time I’ve known you to be so committed to monogamy,” Ianto says with a smile, no sting to the words. Removing his cufflinks, Ianto drops them, clink-clink, beside his keys on the desk. “And this has always been such a conventional relationship.”
Ianto peels the shirt from his shoulders, laying it across Jack’s desk. It’s a performance: Ianto would prefer to fold it tidily, or hang it neatly over a chair, not leave clothing lying about the office.
Jack appreciates the show.
He rocks back on his heels, burying his hands in his pockets. “Is audience participation encouraged or should I sit back and watch?”
Ianto gives a quick, sweet smile and starts undoing his belt.
Those long, nimble fingers capture Jack’s attention. Jack’s into bondage as much as the next 51st century guy, but being strung up for months on end encourages the mind to wander; his mind kept wandering back to images of Ianto’s fine, efficient fingers, of Ianto’s innocent smiles and wicked eyes.
As far as welcome home celebrations go, this may beat the four day spa with those Sumerizt triplets.
Ianto leaves the belt undone, brown leather ends hanging loose, then walks over to Jack. He hooks two fingers beneath Jack’s suspenders, tugging them slowly down Jack’s shoulders. “This would be the time for audience participation.”
Sliding a hand over the cool skin of Ianto’s back -- he’d forgotten how cold it was in the hub, always cold down here -- Jack grins. “If I’d known this was the reception I’d get, I would have disappeared months ago.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows that from the way Ianto tenses beneath his fingers, from the slightly puzzled expression on Ianto’s face. “I’ve been locked up for a year. My flirting skills are a little rusty,” Jack says quickly.
“Captain Jack Harkness is having trouble flirting?” Ianto asks, entirely deadpan. “There must be another Armageddon scheduled next week.”
Jack hides his laugh in the curve of Ianto’s neck, breathing in that familiar, not quite remembered, scent. A slight twist of his head and Jack’s pressing open-mouthed kisses against Ianto’s neck, moving down to shoulder and collarbone.
A kiss is brushed against Jack’s temple and Ianto says, “Your quarters would be a more appropriate place for this.”
“Warmer, too,” Jack adds, thinking of Ianto’s bare feet on icy stone and the chilled fingertips curled around his neck.
“Precisely.”
Ianto sounds certain. When Jack pulls back to see his expression, Ianto looks determined and resolute. In Jack’s experience, sex isn’t something you need to be resolute for (saying no to sex requires determination and effort; saying yes shouldn’t). “Are you sure this is--”
“You left.” For the first time, Ianto looks down, looks away, avoids Jack’s eye. Jack keeps his hands where they are, fingers spanning the bony stretch of rib just beneath Ianto’s skin. “It wasn’t because you had to, because it was the end of the world. You wanted to.”
“I’m back now,” Jack says and it doesn’t feel like enough. It feels important to salvage this; he’s a little amazed at that. If you’d asked before he left, Jack would have said that Ianto was a wonderful way to spend an evening, that he liked Ianto -- how could you not? -- but it hadn’t been anything deeper than that. He’d still been living with the ghosts of the Doctor and Rose, immortality wrapped up in memories of redemption and abandonment, and he’d never shaken the feeling that this time he had to find them. Find them the way they’d first found him, martini glass in hand, death looming large and ugly in his immediate future.
He kept thinking that this time he had to save himself, find his own way back to them. “I love him, you know. The Doctor. I think I always will.”
For some reason, that’s what makes Ianto meet his eyes. There’s a long moment where Ianto watches him. For once, Jack doesn’t try to charm, doesn’t try to smile his way through it. It’s better for Ianto to see who he is.
It takes a small eternity, then Ianto nods. “I think you will.”
“Ianto,” Jack says and pauses, not sure what to say. He leans forward, kisses Ianto’s mouth gently, lips on lips, eyes closed. This isn’t something he needs, but Ianto is something he wants very, very badly.
“It’s okay, Jack.” The Welsh accent sounds like a lullaby. “You loved him and you left for him, but the thing is, you’re back here. And it’s not because you have to be. We’d manage without you. It’d be harder, a lot less fun, but we’d manage. You’ve taught us well.”
“I know, but--”
“You wanted to be back here, more than you wanted to travel through time and space, see anywhere and any time.” Ianto smiles, not his usual smile -- a quick twist of the lips -- but a proper grin, showing small, even, white teeth. “That’s what matters, Jack.”
For the second time in five minutes, Jack finds himself lost for words. He’s surprised by the unexpected kindness, touched by the consideration clear in Ianto’s tone, in Ianto’s bare arms coiled loosely around Jack’s shoulders. He takes a moment to luxuriate in the touch, to enjoy holding someone and being held in return as he tries to summon the right words.
This time, it’s Ianto who closes the gap and substitutes a kiss for conversation. Ianto kisses him wet, square on the mouth, welcoming but careful to keep the few inches of space between their bodies. Jack doesn’t doubt Ianto’s passion, but there’s a certain tenseness underlying it, a forced control over Ianto’s usually candid affection.
Then Jack recognises Ianto’s reserve for what it is. He’d assumed it was Ianto’s determination to act against his better judgement, a sign of Ianto’s doubts. But Ianto isn’t forcing himself to respond as he thinks he should. Instead, Ianto’s holding himself back.
This is Ianto trying not to spook him, not to rush him. The idea of being considered in such terms is both absurd -- he’s Jack Harkness, for god’s sake, he’s slept with more people than Ianto will ever meet -- and touching. Ianto is not naive. He’s young, but he’s intelligent and observant enough to even see through Jack on occasion.
As Ianto pulls back, all vigilant tenderness, Jack sees how obvious it’s been. All night, Ianto’s hovered, fetched drinks and plates, answered Jack’s questions when the others couldn’t. He hadn’t demanded answers, hadn’t demanded stories, he’d simply listened to what Jack wanted to say. (He’d let the others demand, true, but he knows as well as anyone how much Jack loves a captive audience.)
Jack’s lived for nearly one and a half centuries. It’s humbling to realise he can still be so very wrong. “I underestimated you,” he says, trailing a finger down the curve of Ianto’s cheek.
“Tends to happen,” Ianto replies lightly. “It’s to do with having an honest face. Useful for playing poker.”
Grinning, Jack pulls Ianto closer until they’re pressed together from thigh to chest. For all of Ianto’s careful restraint, he’s hard against Jack’s hip. “Now, what were you saying about my bed?”
“I didn’t say anything about your bed,” Ianto corrects, managing to sound prim despite the amount of bare skin exposed. “I suggested your quarters.”
“Close enough.”
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Ianto/Jack
Rating: R
Summary: Jack’s return, and what really matters.
Disclaimer: Not RTD. No money for me.
Notes: Thanks to
oxoniensis for being a fantastic beta and making this much, much better than it would have otherwise been. The quote and title come from “The Horse Whisperer”, which is a movie I should probably get around to seeing someday.Sometimes what seems like surrender isn’t surrender at all. It’s about what’s going on in our hearts. About seeing clearly the way life is and accepting it and being true to it, whatever the pain, because the pain of not being true to it is far, far greater.
After everything’s said and done – danger over, stories told – they get pizza.
Jack listens in as Owen orders it and Ianto gets drinks from Jack’s office.
Jack’s never needed a drink more in his entire life, and scotch has never tasted better. Unfortunately, a whole mouthful of that scotch gets wasted by Jack spluttering when Owen gives a name to the pizzeria.
“Firestick?” Jack manages as he wipes his mouth. “You guys order pizza under the name of Mr Firestick now?”
“Firestick, Torchwood,” Owen says with a shrug. “It’s better than the anagram.”
“The anagram?”
“Doctor How,” Tosh puts in. “We used that one for a few days but everyone kept thinking we were setting up a bad knock-knock joke.”
“I think next week we should use Big Foot.” Gwen gives a sharp smile. “In honour of the Tibetan trip.”
As she says it, Gwen looks over at Ianto, who rolls his eyes, replying, “Yes, let’s commemorate that trip, shall we?”
They’ve already told Jack about the wasted trip, trekking through never-ending inclines of snow. Jack had loved sitting back, listening to the four of them explaining: Owen and Gwen trying to talk over each other; Tosh pushing in details here and there; Ianto mostly quiet except for a pointed, “As I said at the time, there were no actual readings from the area and sending the entire team was very suspicious, sir.” It’s Ianto’s version of ‘I told you so.’
The pizza is amazing. Hot cheese stretching from the slice to his mouth, crust crunchy and satisfying as he bites down on it. Jack’s missed this over the last year: food and conversation and alcohol. He’s missed being able to bite into food, to have crunch, to have flavour. To have anything but endless porridge and gruel, tasteless mush meant to be swallowed with no enjoyment whatsoever. He understands, intellectually at least, the need for torture but taking the joy out of eating was plain wrong.
Halfway through the third pizza, the conversation seems exhausted. There’s only so much that can happen in two weeks, after all, and Jack’s spent most of his year being very, very bored. There aren’t many stories to tell.
Gwen yawns, wide-mouthed, gap-toothed, hand coming up a touch too late to hide the sight. “Sorry. Been a bit of a day.”
“You should go home,” Jack says warmly. “Go home, get some rest. All of you.”
All of them. All of his team. All of his gorgeous, complicated, human-to-a-fault team. These people that he cares for, more than he’d realised; that he’d fallen for in so many ways, most of them not even sexual. (Not that he’d say no to any of them, if the offer were there and the timing right.) These people who’d made this time, this place, feel like home. Without realising it, he’s found people he loves and a place he fits into. It’s nothing short of amazing.
He walks the four of them to the lift and tells them that as the doors open. “You’re gorgeous and amazing, and I love all of you.”
Owen snorts. “I bet you say that to all your employees.”
“I’m saying it to all of my employees, but I mean it.”
Tosh reaches out, gives his bare forearm a quick squeeze.
Gwen steps forward and pecks him on the cheek, adding, “We love you too, Jack.”
Owen makes no physical gestures. He only says, “You’d better be here in the morning, Harkness,” but there’s a pleased twist to that generous mouth.
The five of them standing in the lift bay, crammed close together, and the space itself may be small but what it contains is huge. What it contains is everything that makes Jack happy here, that makes this alien time, this century or so between historic events, this currently insignificant city, the place he most wants to be.
There’s not much else that Jack could want.
But the only reaction from Ianto is a brief frown and, “I’ve left my keys on your desk,” said with the annoyance of any employee kept late. As he walks off to get them, Owen and Gwen share a knowing glance and Tosh wonders aloud, “What’s the point of being subtle about it now?”
Jack takes advantage of their momentary distraction to gather them into a group hug. “I really did miss you guys. It’s so good to be home.”
Even Owen squeezes back.
Ianto’s keys really are sitting on his desk, Jack notices when he walks back in to his office. They’re on the left-hand corner, and Ianto’s leaning right beside them, tie loose and jacket removed.
The hatch to Jack’s quarters is already open. From this angle, Jack can see his own neatly-made bed. “A little presumptive, don’t you think?” Jack asks, nodding towards the open hatch.
“If someone tells me they love me, and that I’m gorgeous, it’s a fair assumption the night will end with sex.”
“Ianto Jones, I never knew you were so easy,” Jack replies, sounding appropriately scandalised.
“I’m a sucker for a compliment,” Ianto says with a shrug, reaching up to finish undoing his tie. The tie pulls off smoothly, then his fingers move to the buttons at his collar. That’s when Jack notices what else is missing: Ianto’s waistcoat is gone, was gone when Jack walked into the room, and at the end of those long, lovely legs, Ianto’s feet are bare.
“I have to admit,” Jack says, fully enjoying the view, “I was expecting a few more recriminations with my return.”
“From me?” Ianto asks with surprise, pausing halfway down his shirt. He only pauses for a minute, then starts methodically attacking the next button. “Did you want more ‘Alas, my love, you do me wrong’?”
“I didn’t want it, but…” Jack swallows. Ianto’s shirt is fully undone, pulled out and hanging loose, framing the pale, bare skin very nicely. It takes Jack a little effort to remember to speak. “I thought I’d have to work to be forgiven.”
“Yes, because all this time I’ve known you to be so committed to monogamy,” Ianto says with a smile, no sting to the words. Removing his cufflinks, Ianto drops them, clink-clink, beside his keys on the desk. “And this has always been such a conventional relationship.”
Ianto peels the shirt from his shoulders, laying it across Jack’s desk. It’s a performance: Ianto would prefer to fold it tidily, or hang it neatly over a chair, not leave clothing lying about the office.
Jack appreciates the show.
He rocks back on his heels, burying his hands in his pockets. “Is audience participation encouraged or should I sit back and watch?”
Ianto gives a quick, sweet smile and starts undoing his belt.
Those long, nimble fingers capture Jack’s attention. Jack’s into bondage as much as the next 51st century guy, but being strung up for months on end encourages the mind to wander; his mind kept wandering back to images of Ianto’s fine, efficient fingers, of Ianto’s innocent smiles and wicked eyes.
As far as welcome home celebrations go, this may beat the four day spa with those Sumerizt triplets.
Ianto leaves the belt undone, brown leather ends hanging loose, then walks over to Jack. He hooks two fingers beneath Jack’s suspenders, tugging them slowly down Jack’s shoulders. “This would be the time for audience participation.”
Sliding a hand over the cool skin of Ianto’s back -- he’d forgotten how cold it was in the hub, always cold down here -- Jack grins. “If I’d known this was the reception I’d get, I would have disappeared months ago.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows that from the way Ianto tenses beneath his fingers, from the slightly puzzled expression on Ianto’s face. “I’ve been locked up for a year. My flirting skills are a little rusty,” Jack says quickly.
“Captain Jack Harkness is having trouble flirting?” Ianto asks, entirely deadpan. “There must be another Armageddon scheduled next week.”
Jack hides his laugh in the curve of Ianto’s neck, breathing in that familiar, not quite remembered, scent. A slight twist of his head and Jack’s pressing open-mouthed kisses against Ianto’s neck, moving down to shoulder and collarbone.
A kiss is brushed against Jack’s temple and Ianto says, “Your quarters would be a more appropriate place for this.”
“Warmer, too,” Jack adds, thinking of Ianto’s bare feet on icy stone and the chilled fingertips curled around his neck.
“Precisely.”
Ianto sounds certain. When Jack pulls back to see his expression, Ianto looks determined and resolute. In Jack’s experience, sex isn’t something you need to be resolute for (saying no to sex requires determination and effort; saying yes shouldn’t). “Are you sure this is--”
“You left.” For the first time, Ianto looks down, looks away, avoids Jack’s eye. Jack keeps his hands where they are, fingers spanning the bony stretch of rib just beneath Ianto’s skin. “It wasn’t because you had to, because it was the end of the world. You wanted to.”
“I’m back now,” Jack says and it doesn’t feel like enough. It feels important to salvage this; he’s a little amazed at that. If you’d asked before he left, Jack would have said that Ianto was a wonderful way to spend an evening, that he liked Ianto -- how could you not? -- but it hadn’t been anything deeper than that. He’d still been living with the ghosts of the Doctor and Rose, immortality wrapped up in memories of redemption and abandonment, and he’d never shaken the feeling that this time he had to find them. Find them the way they’d first found him, martini glass in hand, death looming large and ugly in his immediate future.
He kept thinking that this time he had to save himself, find his own way back to them. “I love him, you know. The Doctor. I think I always will.”
For some reason, that’s what makes Ianto meet his eyes. There’s a long moment where Ianto watches him. For once, Jack doesn’t try to charm, doesn’t try to smile his way through it. It’s better for Ianto to see who he is.
It takes a small eternity, then Ianto nods. “I think you will.”
“Ianto,” Jack says and pauses, not sure what to say. He leans forward, kisses Ianto’s mouth gently, lips on lips, eyes closed. This isn’t something he needs, but Ianto is something he wants very, very badly.
“It’s okay, Jack.” The Welsh accent sounds like a lullaby. “You loved him and you left for him, but the thing is, you’re back here. And it’s not because you have to be. We’d manage without you. It’d be harder, a lot less fun, but we’d manage. You’ve taught us well.”
“I know, but--”
“You wanted to be back here, more than you wanted to travel through time and space, see anywhere and any time.” Ianto smiles, not his usual smile -- a quick twist of the lips -- but a proper grin, showing small, even, white teeth. “That’s what matters, Jack.”
For the second time in five minutes, Jack finds himself lost for words. He’s surprised by the unexpected kindness, touched by the consideration clear in Ianto’s tone, in Ianto’s bare arms coiled loosely around Jack’s shoulders. He takes a moment to luxuriate in the touch, to enjoy holding someone and being held in return as he tries to summon the right words.
This time, it’s Ianto who closes the gap and substitutes a kiss for conversation. Ianto kisses him wet, square on the mouth, welcoming but careful to keep the few inches of space between their bodies. Jack doesn’t doubt Ianto’s passion, but there’s a certain tenseness underlying it, a forced control over Ianto’s usually candid affection.
Then Jack recognises Ianto’s reserve for what it is. He’d assumed it was Ianto’s determination to act against his better judgement, a sign of Ianto’s doubts. But Ianto isn’t forcing himself to respond as he thinks he should. Instead, Ianto’s holding himself back.
This is Ianto trying not to spook him, not to rush him. The idea of being considered in such terms is both absurd -- he’s Jack Harkness, for god’s sake, he’s slept with more people than Ianto will ever meet -- and touching. Ianto is not naive. He’s young, but he’s intelligent and observant enough to even see through Jack on occasion.
As Ianto pulls back, all vigilant tenderness, Jack sees how obvious it’s been. All night, Ianto’s hovered, fetched drinks and plates, answered Jack’s questions when the others couldn’t. He hadn’t demanded answers, hadn’t demanded stories, he’d simply listened to what Jack wanted to say. (He’d let the others demand, true, but he knows as well as anyone how much Jack loves a captive audience.)
Jack’s lived for nearly one and a half centuries. It’s humbling to realise he can still be so very wrong. “I underestimated you,” he says, trailing a finger down the curve of Ianto’s cheek.
“Tends to happen,” Ianto replies lightly. “It’s to do with having an honest face. Useful for playing poker.”
Grinning, Jack pulls Ianto closer until they’re pressed together from thigh to chest. For all of Ianto’s careful restraint, he’s hard against Jack’s hip. “Now, what were you saying about my bed?”
“I didn’t say anything about your bed,” Ianto corrects, managing to sound prim despite the amount of bare skin exposed. “I suggested your quarters.”
“Close enough.”
