Fic, FAITHFUL, Ch. 27/50?, "The White Star"

[loveslashangst]

Story: Faithful
Author: Love! Slash! Angst! loveslashangst
Beta: the chipperly-organizing ophymirage
Characters: Ianto Jones, Captain Jack Harkness, Gwen Cooper, Captain John Hart, Rhys Williams, Janet the Weevil, & a cast of (literally) thousands.
Rated: Adult for implied slash, canon bisexuality, mature content, language, and lots and lots of sex (various pairings and kinds) -- but not in this chapter.
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did, Torchwood 3 would be a much more crack-tastic place.
Spoilers: If you haven't seen the first two series of Torchwood, you WILL be spoilered. I like to mess with canon, especially when it pisses me off.
Summary: AU. OT3 ZOMG Jack/John Hart/Ianto. Captain Hart is back in town. The Weevils are acting weird. It might be the end of the world. Let the crack-tastic smut ensue.

Okay, so here's the dealio...

RL ganged up on me all in one week. Please think happy thoughts for my wife. She had some unexpected medical issues, but is out of danger now. Hopefully, at the time of this posting, she’ll be back home again. (I don’t EVER want to be that scared again.) I appreciate the patience, the new faces, AND everyone who sticks with me.

Anyway...

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, so it’s not smut. But there WILL be smut. (Really frickin HAWT smut, if things go as planned.) So hang in there with me for one more semi-plotty chapter.

On with the show...

“I've got you
under my skin
I've got you
deep in the heart of me
So deep in my heart, that you're really a part of me
I've got you
under my skin

“I've tried so hard
not to give in
I've said to myself this affair
never will go so well
But why should I try to resist, when baby will I know so well
That I've got you
under my skin

“I'd sacrifice anything come what might
For the sake of having you near
In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night
And repeats, and repeats in my ear

“Don't you know little fool,
you never can win?
Use your mentality,
wake up to reality!
But each time I do, just the thought of you
Makes me stop

before I begin

'Cause I've got you
under my skin”
(Cole Porter)

(In which Ianto is a lost cause, John is a notorious tease, Gwen is the voice of reason, and Jack is an inter-temporal grease monkey.)



Hard as he tries, Ianto can’t help the blush when John waggles his eyebrows at him. His body seems to have developed a Pavlovian response to the slightest suggestion of sex with either captain. (Or both. Both would be good. Was really good. Could be really -- dammit, if he doesn’t watch himself, he’ll be reduced to panting like a dog in heat in front of Gwen.)

Not for the first time that morning, he’s glad high collars come with the job description. The love-bites twinge a little when he turns his head. (Jack’s sucking kisses….John’s possessive bites…)

Yes, he is definitely a lost cause.

Add to his discomfiture that Jack smirks a bit at him before turning his Dour and Disapproving look on John. (Though Ianto highly doubts the look’s going to do much good when the evidence in Jack’s khakis says that he’s neither dour nor disapproving.)

“This will never work, John,” says Jack

John does a spot-on Yoda. “So certain are you?”

With an apologetic look at Jack, Ianto hurries to keep up with John. “So you can get it up and running?”

John arches a lascivious eyebrow -- Ianto suspects, just to see him blush again. (Which he does, damn that autonomic response.)

John grins. “Getting it up and running is easy. KEEPING the thing up and running? Now that is the challenge.”

“Keeping it up has never been a problem…” Jack’s blue eyes twinkle maliciously. “For me, anyway.”

“Bloody hell,” says Gwen as the four of them enter the hangar that -- if anyone were gullible enough to believe Jack’s forged reports -- was supposedly destroyed by a stray bomb more than sixty years ago. (He still can’t believe UNIT bought the artfully-dishevelled pile of rubble up there.) The hangar itself is permeated with the mild reek of fish and salt and a bit of mildew. Ianto fights down a shiver and turns up his collar as proof against the dank.

The ship is just massive -- hundreds of metres long. Curvaceous, as if Jaguar had designed a bomber. Silvery blue with patches of mismatched metal here and there. (Probably where Jack affected repairs over the years.) The thing has the wounded sleekness of a craft that used to be the fastest in whatever fleet it came from. It rests in a Rube-Goldbergian series of jury-rigged cables, supports, and struts, all of which utterly ruin the inherent symmetry and pleasing shape of its aesthetics.

“Don’t mind her appearance.” John says in his ear. “She’s lovely on the inside.”

Shivering pleasantly, he presses back against John, loving the feel of that wiry body. “It’s beautiful.”

John’s hands brush Ianto’s hipbones, over the jacket. “Not as beautiful as you, darling.” His lover (God that’s both giddy and completely terrifying to consider) gently presses against him, through the layers of jeans and trousers. “No wonder Jack insists on keeping you in these suits.”

If John -- Gianni -- keeps rubbing him the right way (which he is), Ianto’s in dire peril of giggling like a schoolgirl. And not caring if Gwen watches.

“Captain Hart,” Jack warns. “Focus.”

John pulls him closer. “Truth is…” It’s impossible not to watch John’s hands as they come to rest on his chest. “…this particular Minbari cruiser is a hunk of junk…” Those incredibly expressive fingers slide down slowly. “…probably only made worse by Jack’s tinkering.”

“Hey!” says Jack.

John kisses Ianto’s temple, a leisurely press of lips that makes his entire body tighten at once. Those beautiful hands brush the front of his trousers before reluctantly leaving his waist.

John presses a quick kiss to the tips of his fingers. (And Ianto is determined to repress the goofy grin.) “Our Jack always did put on a good show,” says John. “But he’s really only good for minor repairs and heavily-supervised rewiring.”

Jack folds his arms, looking even more annoyed than he did during the negotiations with Bradwyn. “My rewiring got us out of the Time Loop.”

“A quirk of luck and FATE got us out of the Time Loop.” John runs a hand along the underside of the ship’s hull. (And damn him if that touch doesn’t remind him of the way John caresses up his thigh. The hard-on is becoming almost painful.)

“Sad to say --” that twinkle in John’s eyes tells Ianto that John is far from oblivious about what he’s doing to him “--but unless Jack’s trying to make a ballistic weapon out of spare parts, he’s always been pants with the finer points of repair.”

“Now I know you’re high.” Jack blocks John’s way. “I suppose you know how to recalibrate the Time Rotor on a TARDIS?”

John scoffs. “Of course not.”

Jack looks momentarily well chuffed.

“MY expertise,” John enunciates, “is limited to ships that actually EXIST.”

Glaring, Jack thrusts an arm across the door-sized portal in the side of the ship. “And who saved our asses in the Time Loop by setting the replicators to--”

“Jack,” John says with his trademark longsuffering look. “Open the damn door so we can save the universe, or I’ll have Ianto shoot you again.”

And it’s a sure (and slightly worrisome) indicator of how mad his world has become that the thought of shooting Jack has a certain erotic flair to it, when suggested by John. (Not that he would ACTUALLY shoot Jack again, but...)

Sulking, Jack twists his palm over some kind of sensor. The portal unlocks with a mechanical CHUNK. The door slides in and back out of the way. A jury-rigged set of stairs drops down with a rusty squeak. John doesn’t look back, striding in with the confidence of a man who assumes command wherever he goes. Jack, glaring, follows close behind.

He glances at Gwen.

“We’re mad to even consider it,” she says.

“I don’t think I’ve been entirely sane since we faced down three thousand Weevils and lived.” He offers her his arm.

She takes it, though not happily. “Anything leaps out at me and I’ll be gone s’fast you won’t even see the blur.”

“That will make two of us.”

He leads her inside what appears to be some kind of airlock. Smooth walls. No equipment. Ports for some kind of tech to interface with, though he’s not entirely sure he wants to know what kind.

“Now all they need are the space-suits,” says Gwen.

“Coming, darling plus one?” booms John’s voice through some kind of PA system, though damned if he can see any speakers.

“Be right there.” He leads the way, following half by instinct, and half by the traces of John’s woodsmoke/cinnamon and Jack’s ocean-breeze/vanilla in the hall. Neither man is overwhelming, and the mix of scents entrances him.

“Are you scenting them?” says Gwen. He can’t tell if that expression is one of horror or bemusement.

“A little?” he admits.

Gwen just chuckles. “Far be it from me to disdain the nose that keeps us from getting lost in these corridors.”

It’s a maze, and whatever filtering system the ship uses doesn’t seem to be online. The air has the thick stillness of inertia, like no one’s been in here much in years. John and Jack have left behind the splendidly odoriferous version of a trail of breadcrumbs.

And having to scent them all the way to what appears to be the cockpit (control room, bridge, whatever you call it) is doing nothing to make this erection go away.

The -- cockpit, he supposes, considering the egos and libidos currently facing off in it -- has the sleek, tech-heavy, seamless feel of something from a different century. He grips the legs of his trousers to repress the urge to touch and fiddle and explore the various tech around him.

“… and THAT is why I did all the talking and you just sat back and looked pretty,” John finishes.

“And I’ll still be sitting back and looking pretty long after you’re dead and buried,” Jack says with venomous sweetness.

“And you think that’s a quality I should envy?” John throws up his hands. “Does your ego know any bounds?”

Jack stands nose to nose with John, who rocks up on the balls of his feet slightly. (Ianto suspects to try to compensate for the disparity in their heights.)

The tension is the kind that precedes either bodily harm or furious shagging. (In the case of these two, it could be both, which has him back to thinking about both. Wanting both. Needing--)

Gwen clears her throat pointedly.

Both captains glare at her. “What?”

Gwen folds her arms, glaring back. “Would a tape measure end this fight any sooner?”

“Hell no!” John smirks. “He’s bigger, but I’m more talented.”

And he’s very glad Gwen’s standing in front of him so she doesn’t see the full-body shiver that grips him at the thought of how very talented John is.

Jack grips the back of what appears to be a pilot’s seat with white knuckles. “On what planet are you more talented, John?”

John scoffs again. “On what planet am I not, JACK?”

“Moves or mods,” Jack counters. “Try it and see which earns the higher pay.”

“Some of us don’t need to get paid to know we’re good,” John says. “The irony is you missed the best part when you left.”

Gwen throws Ianto a desperate “can you stop this” look.

It’s his turn to clear his throat. (Not just being polite. For whatever reason, having them at each other’s metaphorical throats is really doing it for him.) “So, erm,” he says. “What’s the plan? For the Weevils, I mean?”

John snakes an arm out. Catches Ianto’s hand. Pulls him close. “Why don’t we start with this?”

The kiss is hot, brief, and sweet enough to have him using his peripheral vision to note any possible shaggable surfaces. (Not many in this immediate space, but surely there must be a captain’s quarters somewhere. Or a wall that’s not crowded with screens and things. Or maybe the pilot’s chair…?)

Jack is glaring at them, his look equal parts possessiveness and barely-contained fury. “I’ve been working on this ship for sixty years, John. It’s not like you can just--”

John pulls back. Sighs with a theatrical eyeroll. Hits a few buttons on his wrist strap. “And... SHAZAM!”

Deep in the ship’s bowels, machinery rumbles to life. Display lights blip on all over the console. Screens blink to life.

And Jack looks cornered and slightly embarrassed. “It already did that.”

Judging by the quirked eyebrow, Gwen doesn’t believe him either.

John takes a graceful leap. Lands in the pilot’s chair. Strips off his wrist strap. Says something in a language that isn’t even close to English. A lead snakes out from the panel. Fits itself into the strap. John drops the wrist strap on the console. Even as he blinks, the flat surface goes concave, forming a depression that seems tailor-made for the hardware. The depression snugs closer, almost GROWING around the wrist strap. More smaller leads find the right ports in the wrist strap, as though the ship wants to hold the tech closer and closer.

He watches, fascinated and slightly nauseated at the exquisite strangeness. “It’s a living ship.”

“It won’t work that way,” Jack insists, peevish.

“Oh really?” John quirks an eyebrow. Folds his arms like a genie. Nods his head at the console. “Open sesame!”

“Override accepted,” says a pleasant female voice. “Authorization: Time Agency. Subsection: Torchwood. Sanctioned by: The Shadow Proclamation.”

“Torchwood?” Ianto asks. (He can’t have heard that right. The Time Agency’s lightyears separated from Torchwood… isn’t it?)

“Membership has its privileges,” John adds.

“Initiating core sequences,” says the pleasant female voice. “Additional data required to complete sequencing.”

“English?” says Gwen, surprised.

He has to admit (with the ten percent of his brain that isn’t thinking about sex) that he’s wondering the same thing. “Why isn’t it speaking that weird language you and Bradwyn were using?”

“Neo-Standard?” John’s smile is ridiculously sexy. “I do so love you when you’re paying attention, darling.”

“Neo-Standard’s more of a lingua franca,” says Jack, his tone more curt and clipped than usual. “Required parlance in our time for anyone with a modicum of intelligence.”

“Ooh,” says John. “’Lingua franca’ and ‘modicum’ in the same sentence. Note to self -- it’s possible to shag a university vocabulary into Jack.” He turns to Gwen. “He means it’s a good way for people in the future to communicate, but it’s a somewhat clumsy, ugly language.”

“That’s what I said.” Jack’s not joking around. That should worry him more.

“No,” says John, “You said ‘lingua franca’. Ooh! And ‘modicum’.”

“They’re both legitimate words,” Ianto says.

Both men look at him, John with bemusement and Jack with a bit of sharply-edged gratitude. This will come to blows unless someone does something.

“Gentlemen.” Gwen sounds a bit short on patience herself. “And I use the term loosely, can we please get back to the mission?”

John applauds. “Ooh. Very butch. You really do know how to pick them, Jack.”

John presses an elaborate sequence of touch-panels/switches in a blur Ianto can only imagine is veteran experience. “Now then...”

“Passcodes.” Ianto is beginning to feel sorry for the way Jack is grasping at straws. “You don’t know the passcodes. And even if I knew them all, I’d never tell.”

“Don’t mind him,” says John confidingly to Gwen. “He still thinks this is the Amateur Hour.”

John’s charm must be persuasive, because Gwen grins a little, relaxing. (Or maybe it’s the cumulative effect of the all-night session with Rhys that put her in this mood. Either way, it’s a relief not to have her and John at each other’s throats.)

John clenches his fist. Extends his arm toward the console. Two lines pierce the skin on the underside of his forearm. Snake toward the panel. Find handy ports.

Ianto’s never been more aware of the holes in his vocabulary when it comes to dealing with John and Jack’s world. He’s not sure what exactly his madman lover is doing, but it appears to be... downloading. Whatever it is, the intense eyes-closed grimace on John’s face and the beads of sweat on his brow seem to indicate it requires a lot of effort. (And possibly pain.)

“Data accepted,” says the pleasant female voice at last. “Initializing core systems. Calculating trajectories. Mapping suggested flight plan. Unoccupied World Thirteen Fifty is next destination.”

The lines retract into John’s forearm. The skin heals immediately, which is both fascinating and disturbing. “And to answer the questions, boys and girls, English versions from the next ten centuries are on file on many smuggling vessels. Inter-temporal jobs are relatively easy to pull off in your time.” John holds out a hand to Jack. “Vortex Manipulator.”

“Wrist strap,” says Jack. “And the Doctor broke it.”

“Vortex Manipulator,” says John. “And anything he can break, I can fix better.”

“And you accuse ME of having an ego?” Apparently, that was crossing a line with Jack.

“Jack,” John’s eyes are hard. “Are you a hero or not?”

Cornered again, Jack glances at Ianto.

He shrugs, out of his depth, yet oddly fascinated. “Do we have a better option, sir?”

Jack surrenders the wrist strap with all the tragic pout of a five-year-old surrendering his beloved binkie. (God, he’s even starting to THINK like John.)

“If you screw this up...” Jack warns.

“We’ll all be dead and you can gloat,” John says.

“Erm…?” he hates to interrupt, but has to know. “How can you fix it if it was broken by a powerful alien?”

“Modern technology,” says John. He holds the other wrist strap close to the console. More leads snake out for it until the thing hangs, suspended in mid-air by cabling from the console. “Initiate repairs.”

John closes his eyes for a moment, then looks down at his own chest. “Two numbers?” He laughs. “Are you fucking KIDDING me? The great Time Agent Extraordinaire has been foiled by TWO NUMBERS?”

“It was a complex code,” says Jack, sullen.

“I’ve picked worse on a primary-school gym locker,” retorts John. The captain then glances at Ianto with liquid blue eyes that make him uncomfortably giddy. “Ifan, darling?”

“Yes?” That look turns him to water in all the good ways. He blushes again at the amusement in Gwen’s eyes.

“Ever been interstellar before?” says John.

“No.” And though his brain registers this as a simple question with no Freudian undertones whatsoever, his cock seems to have mistaken it for the most blatant chat-up line ever. “H-how long of a trip shall we plan for?”

“Four weeks linear time,” says John. “Even with the wormhole cheats and a little fancy flying, this isn’t an overnight jaunt. We’ll need supplies for the humans.”

“And, erm, the Weevils?” he asks.

“Have to double-check with Brad Kapo,” says John. “Jack, you have anything useful to offer here?”

Jack appears to be wavering between being serious and sullen. “There are enough supplies on board for five humans -- and me -- to survive for a year or more.”

“Which won’t do us a damn bit of good if all those lovely supplies are where the Weevils will need to be.” John smirks at Ianto again.

“Perhaps we could see if Bradwyn’s as good as his promise,” says Ianto. “Ask him to organize some Weevils?”

“Ianto.” That’s Jack’s “I’m really not kidding now” face. “I don’t care what John promised Brad to get his loyalty; no one is letting a pack of Weevils loose on my ship.”

“Not all of them,” he demurs. “But surely we could use a little Weevil muscle? Especially if John…?”

“Already three jumpgates ahead of you,” says John. “You gorgeous, brilliant thing. Yeah. Use the Weevils for heavy lifting. Get us in ship-shape in no time.”

“And then what?” says Jack. “We just blast out of Cardiff Bay? Do you have any idea of how many international alarms that would set off? There’s a REASON this was only to be used when humanity is so far gone that no one is LEFT to hear the alarms.”

“Don’t be more stupid than usual,” says John. “And would you please give me SOME credit for subtlety, Jack? No. We’ll use the Rift Manipulator to open the Rift just enough to disguise our exit.”

“What?!” “NO!!” Thank God Gwen and Jack share his disbelief.

Ianto recovers first, “Erm, I wonder if that’s wise, Captain, considering that the last time anyone opened the Rift, it nearly brought about the end of the world.”

“Well.” John continues to rummage and re-program with an expert eye. “Of course it did, darling. Didn’t I warn you that Jack’s a menace with re-wiring?”

“I didn’t rewire it,” says Jack coldly. “The man you murdered did.”

John gives him a contemptuous look. “Better a murderer than a traitor.”

Jack takes a threatening step closer. “You betrayed me first.”

“This is really not helpful,” says Gwen, annoyed. “If the two of you need to air your grievances, can you please do it somewhere OTHER than in the ship that might save us all?”

“As my lady, and I use that term loosely, commands,” says John. The grinding thrumming below calms into a more soothing tone and a breath of fresh, warm, pleasant air floods the cockpit. “Fortunately, I am a master of making lemonade from lemons.” The electric thrill of those eyes again. “Can you follow basic wiring schematics, Ifan darling?”

The thought of hours of painstakingly crawling around delicate equipment shouldn’t be a turn-on, but if his groin is to be believed, John just offered him an hours-long blowjob. “Yes, sir.”

John’s smile deepens into a predatory grin that’s now hard-wired to Ianto’s cock. John grins at Jack. “All right, I admit it -- the ‘sir’ is dead sexy.”

Ianto clears his throat in warning.

John looks directly back at him, more interested than ever. “Ooh. Was that a rebuke? Lovely.” He smiles. “I’ll send up instructions to those dismal machines you call computers. Which workstation would you prefer?”

“Tosh’s.” It still hurts, though a little less each time.

John regards Gwen. “And you, W.P.C. Bright-Eyed-And-Bushy-Tailed? Think you’re up for helping Ianto with a bit of rewiring?”

Gwen makes the mistake of glaring a challenge. “I can handle anything you can dish out.”

Ianto chokes a little. He decides not to disabuse Gwen of that mad notion.

“Oh, and Ifan darling?” says John. “A bit of takeout while you’re at it?”

“What d’you fancy?” He cuts John off before he can make another smart remark. “For lunch?”

“Pizza’s good.” Jack gives him a “get out now if you don’t want to be in the line of fire” look. “The usual.”

“I’ll just go wait for the delivery, then, shall I?” His mouth is bone-dry, half in nervousness, half in anticipation. “Will you be all right, sirs?” (Which he can only hope Jack will recognize as code for “please don’t kill John, because I’d really fancy a shag after lunch.”)

“Lunch would be good,” says Jack. “But do NOT touch the Rift Manipulator until I give you the okay..”

John snorts. Composes himself. “Schematics. Toshiko’s work station. And are they civilized enough in this part of the world to do a decent barbecue chicken pizza?”

The concept is equal parts alien and revolting. “I’m sorry?”

“This is Cardiff,” says Jack, dripping condescension. “Not California.”

“Right,” says John. “Bacon and pineapple, then.”

When Jack doesn’t laugh, Ianto realizes they’re both serious.

Jack bares his teeth at Ianto, which might in some capable-of-ignoring-thinly-veiled-rage universe might constitute a smile.

He takes the hint and leaves quick as he can, Gwen close on his heels.

Gwen casts a curious look behind them. “Did he say ‘pineapple’?”

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Link to previous Faithful!Verse stories

Crossposted to jackxianto, torchwoodslash