FIC: Faithful, 5/33?

[loveslashangst]

Story: Faithful
Author: Melinda Kitty melindakitty
Characters: Captain Jack Harkness, Captain John Hart, Ianto Jones
Rated: oh, so Adult for slash, bisexuality, mature content, language, violence, and lots and lots of sex (multiple pairings/groupings)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did there would be no doubt who Jack came back for, Gwen would stick with the man who loves her, we'd have regular doses of Unexpected!John, and everyone would cheer the f*** up and stop being so angsty.
Spoilers: AU. 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. The PROLOGUE takes place right after "Countrycide" in series 1. The rest of the story, from Chapter 1 on, takes place about three weeks after "Exit Wounds", the end of Series 2.
Summary: Torchwood OT3 ZOMG! Jack/John/Ianto. The Rift is active, the Weevils are acting weird, and Captain John Hart is back in town. Let the crack-tastic smut ensue. I think there's a happily ever after in here somewhere, but until then, enjoy the insanity.

When I wrote this, I hadn't planned on Ianto/John having this kind of chemistry this quickly, but you know what they say about when the cat's away... GRIN. Let the games begin!

And yes, my betas are the best in the world. It's a fact.

"It's the wrong time
And the wrong place
Though your face is charming
It's the wrong face

"It's not his face
But such a charming face,
That it's all right with me."
(Cole Porter)

(In which Ianto makes the first overture and John makes the first move.)



As soon as Jack and Gwen leave the room, Ianto pockets the gun and gets to his feet. "Please follow me, Captain."

"So polite. I love that." Hart bounces to his feet. "Where are we going?"

"Jack's office." Makes his stomach churn just to think about it. "I have some unanswered questions."

Hart looks intrigued. "Won't the Lord and Master kill you for letting me into his inner sanctum?"

Ianto decides it's best not to answer as he leads Hart up the stairs to Jack's office.

Hart loiters at the top of the stairs, hand on the railing, blue eyes grey and wary. Probably wondering what he's up to.

Ianto's not sure himself, though if his time with Jack has taught him nothing else, it's to trust his instincts. He heads for the safe. Opens the outer door.

"You're opening the safe right in front of me?" Though Hart tries to keep his voice light, Ianto can hear the honest surprise in it. "Jack really is going to kill you."

Even without looking, Ianto can sense Hart's relative position in the room. A slight stirring of air currents. The muted brush of booted feet on the floor. The soft-sharp scent of Hart drifts over, enticing. Cinnamon and cedar. Traces of woodsmoke and old leather from those exquisite boots (seventeenth century, unless Ianto's somewhat rusty eye for costume fails him). A hint of dark musk, warm and wild and untamed where Jack is sweeter and less subtle and dammit, he's letting Hart get to him. The Psychopath probably had that erotic aftershave whipped up especially for this little trip just to see if the way into Ianto's pants is through his olfactory senses. Ianto inhales deeply. (To settle his stomach and gain his composure, of course.)

He wills his voice to sound offhanded. "Don't see why he should."

A glance back reveals that Hart's leaning on Jack's desk, arms folded across his chest. (All lean lines and casual grace and he is NOT looking.) Hart appears interested, which was part of the point of this. "But aren't you worried I'll learn which magic buttons to push to open that thing?" Hart says. "Knowing Jack, there's probably a fortune in artefacts and technology in there."

Ianto shrugs. "You already know which magic buttons to push without any help from me." (And damn Hart anyway; he must've known cinnamon is one of Ianto's favourite scents.) He begins the sequence to open the inner door. "Either you performed extensive reconnaissance on Torchwood before Gray sent you back, you downloaded everything the first time you showed up with the 'canister' con, or you're up to a new con. Either way, this century is primitive by your standards. I'll wager that even without advance knowledge of all our systems, you could take this place apart just with the technology and data in that wrist-strap of yours."

The hint of a smile flickers across Hart's lips and is gone. "So why the backstage pass?"

Ianto can feel those eyes, boring into the back of his head as he finishes entering codes that theoretically only Jack knows. "It's a test," he says. "I want to see what you'll do."

A mellifluous chuckle, one of the first honest and unguarded noises he's ever heard come out of the Psychopath. "And what will you do if I just roll over the top of you, steal everything, and take over?"

Ianto hides a smile, thinking of the tweaks and modifications he's made to Torchwood's security. (Mercifully, Tosh left extensive notes and documentation on all existing protocols, in addition to a few fiendishly clever proposals. Ianto's never considered computers to be his forte, but with a book or reference manual in hand, most things are manageable.)

"I'll stop you," he says in answer to Hart's question. "Or die trying."

Another chuckle. "Careful, Eye-Candy; I'm not supposed to like you."

"Why not?"

Hart blinks as though the question had never occurred to him. "I tried to kill you for a start."

Ianto shrugs it away. "Just about everyone on the team has held a gun to my head at some point or other. Including Jack."

Hart's look darkens a little. "And that's another thing; you're shagging Jack well enough that now he won't even give me the time of day."

He can't quite repress the smirk. "And he did before?"

"What did he tell you?" The scents of woodsmoke and musk get stronger when Hart's annoyed. Interesting.

What did Jack tell him? That Hart was hot as hell but mad as a hatter? That he was embarrassing, but Ianto knows he's one of Jack's favourite mistakes? "That it's been over between the two of you for a very, very long time," he says at last.

Hart glares. "That was politic. And low."

"It was," Ianto agrees. He opens the inner door to the safe. "But no less true."

"Thank you, Eye-Candy." The sardonic sharpness is back in Hart's voice. "I'm back to not liking you anymore."

"Always glad to oblige." He withdraws the sword slowly, careful not to ding the beautiful snakeskin scabbard on the side of the safe.

Hart pushes off the desk, eyes wide, all arrogance gone. "You're giving me back my weapon?" (Cinnamon again, warmer than before.)

Ianto indicates Hart's twin pulse pistols with his free hand. "You're not exactly unarmed as it is." He lays the sword carefully across his forearm, offering it hilt first. "Consider it a gesture of good faith."

Though he knows Hart is a marvellous actor, Ianto doubts he's quite good enough to pull of that level of surprise. Hart's features relax slightly into a smile that warms his eyes. "This is about the nanogenes, isn't it?"

Ianto waits for him to take or refuse the offering. "I don't like being in anyone's debt."

Suspicion darkens Hart's look. "What about Jack?"

He can feel the tension around his own eyes. "He should never have kept what doesn't belong to him."

Hart gives him a measuring look. After a moment, he bows, very formally. Inclines his head just the right amount to indicate gratitude for a gift from an equal.

Ianto smiles as Hart takes the sword. "It's Korean, isn't it?" (And he quashes the flutter in his chest when Hart's fingers brush his. He is NOT interested in Captain John Hart.)

Hart nods. He's looking at the sword with eyes that, though guarded, betray some deeper emotion.

It's getting harder and harder to ignore the heavenly complexity of the scent that envelops Hart. Worse, if the Psychopath keeps up the sincerity, Ianto may be forced to admit he's starting to like him as well. "According to my research," he says, "your weapon dates back to the nineteen twenties, which makes it exceedingly rare."

"It's older than that." Hart never takes his eyes off the sword. He slips the scabbard into the appropriate belt loops. (Don't look below Hart's waist. Eyes above the belt.) Hart draws the blade with a lover's hands. Checks the blade with a caress of fingertips and a swordsman's eye. "Family heirloom."

Ianto closes the safe, cheeks burning. "Who did you kill to get it?"

"It wasn't supposed to happen." Hart's tone goes sharp, defensive. "I was in 1918 Korea. We were using the confusion of the Japanese occupation as the cleaning mechanism for a con. Meet some guys. Receive half of a small fortune up front. Take the marks to the place where the merchandise rests. 'Unexpected' bomb goes off. Merchandise goes BOOM! We drown our sorrows at the local bar and go our separate ways."

"So what happened?" Thus far, Hart's story jives with what the appraiser told him of the blade's origin. (Though Ianto was disinclined to explain to her how it could be in such good shape after all these years.)

Hart moistens his lips. When he did that before in the Briefing Room, it was a calculated gesture, bait for whoever would be stupid enough to be enticed by the offer. Now if Ianto didn't know him better, he'd say Hart was... uneasy.

"They were destroying swords," Hart says at last. "The Japanese I mean. Stupid wasteful bastards, though I have to admit, it was a helluva good plan for breaking the will of the locals. Lose your weapons, your crest, your history all in one fell swoop." He looks down the length of the sword again, eyes hard. "Girl was running from some soldiers. She was bleeding, though I don't think all the blood on her clothes belonged to her. I never quite had the balls to look her up and I doubt I could've found the records if I tried, but I have a feeling she was the last left in her family." Hart's throat works as he swallows. "She ran into me. Pressed the sword into my hands. She said..." The rest is a jumble of sounds that Ianto can only assume is Korean.

"Which means?" (Hart speaks Korean? Wonders how many other languages the man knows.)

Hart shakes it off. Lowers the blade. "'Take care of her,'" he translates. "'She's the last of us.'" He sheathes the sword. "So I took it."

"And the girl?" He can see by Hart's defensive body language that he's not going to like the answer.

"They caught her. Brought her to the officer who'd arrived on horseback." Hart turns away. "Sliced the kid's head clean off. One blow. End of a family."

Again, that shiver of truth creeps up Ianto's spine. "And the con?"

Hart straightens, though he doesn't look Ianto in the eyes. "I finished it. Got paid. Got the fuck out of there. Never looked back." And just like that, Hart shrugs off the emotion. When he looks up, his eyes have their usual sparkle of dark amusement. "So, was that a good enough story for you, Eye-Candy? Paint me black enough for your liking?"

The chance to catch a glimpse of the Jack-that-was is too tempting to resist. "Was this before or after you and Jack were partners?"

"After," says Hart. "Jack was entertaining the clients." He smiles, remembering. "That's right. It was before the loop, when I was in denial and Jack was in demand. Partnership was much less complicated then: I was the brains, he was the bait. He was useful to me because I could count on him to be pretty and sparkly and hot as fuck in bed -- if the client wanted it -- so we could finish the con without arousing suspicion."

Hart sighs. "And now you're going to give me a tight-lipped lecture on moral rectitude that we all know doesn't apply to the real world in your century, let alone in mine. I was good at what I did. Jack was the best -- not always the brightest, but the best. Charming. We survived in a universe that didn't always have a vested interest in making things easy for us. If you want--"

"I'm not here to judge you," Ianto cuts him off. "I was just curious."

Hart gives him another measuring look. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

A slow grin. "Making me like you."

"Sorry." But he's smiling too. (That masculine-cinnamon scent seems more friendly.)

"Don't be." Hart caresses the hilt of the sword, thoughtful. Looks up. "I have to level with you, Eye-Candy..." He pauses, frowning. "I can't keep calling you that if I'm going to take you seriously, and if you're going to help me save all of humanity, I'm going to have to start taking you seriously..."

"Jones," Ianto says in answer to the impending question. "Ianto Jones."

Hart gives him the strangest look. "Llanto?"

"Yes, 'Ianto'." It's his turn to be suspicious. "Why?"

"L-l-a-n-t-o?" Hart spells. "As in the Spanish?"

"I-a-n-t-o," Ianto spells back. "As in the Welsh. Why? What's 'llanto'?"

Hart smirks at him. "Means 'tears' or 'weeping' in Spanish."

He can't decide whether to be amused or annoyed. "Short for 'Ifan' in Welsh. And you speak Spanish too?"

And to his utter astonishment, Hart gives him a slight bedroom-eyed look and says in flawless Welsh, "I speak many languages, Ifan."

The lilting syllables and his given name are far too enticing in that voice. And the complex scent is stronger now. Cinnamon by firelight. Deep musk worked into old leather. Each trace enfolds Ianto in an almost tangible caress as Hart moves closer.

"When we first met, Ifan," John continues, still in Welsh. "I wondered why Jack bothered with you."

Hart's so close and might get closer. (Ianto hopes he'll get. Is afraid he could get. Hard to think straight. His whole body heats in a slow flush that starts at his heels and seeps upward to the very crown of his head.)

"Now," Hart leans on the rolling syllables. "I wonder why you bother with him."

Sincerity in those grey-blue eyes. Ianto can almost feel the heat of Hart's skin beneath his clothes. And the SMELL of him. Earthy. Wild. Exotic. Woodsmoke and sweet spices. He could brush his lips along that lovely jawline. Savour the rasp of stubble. And those hands...

Ianto pulls away. Fumbles in his pocket. His hand encounters the comforting reassurance of the nine millimetre's grip. "That's close enough, thank you."

Hart's attempt at contrition would be more convincing if he didn't have that wicked sparkle in his eyes. He does, however, switch back to English. "Sorry. I thought I was complimenting you."

"Th-thank you." God how he hates that stammer. Always comes up at the worst times. "Are you hungry?"

Hart moves a little closer with a leer that's half-serious.

Ianto draws the nine millimetre. Cocks it. Aims.

Chuckling, Hart goes over to Jack's desk. Settles into Jack's chair. "Can't blame a guy for trying." He rearranges a few of the items on the desk. (Straightening up. He's straightening up. Ianto is NOT finding that intriguing.)

He swallows hard against this irritating lump that's come up from nowhere. (If he can survive Owen's constant barrage of insults, he can manage John's constant flirtation.) "Do you eat pizza?"

Hart shrugs. "Prefer Indian." He looks puzzled. "Is there good Indian in Cardiff?"

The tension goes out of Ianto's shoulders a bit at the thought of something so mundane as food. He auto-dials his favourite Indian take-away. (Which was a damn lucky find and has better food than such an unobtrusive little place has any right to.)

Hart moves slightly in the chair. He's sitting, knees apart, hands folded in his lap. All completely innocent, except that it makes it very hard to keep one's eyes above the waist when he does that.

Ianto looks away, forcing himself to focus on the impending order. "We'll move back to the Briefing Room," he says to Hart. "No sense making a mess in Jack's office." (And it always takes the bloke at the take-away forever to pick up, but today he's slower than ever.) "D'you fancy mild or spicy?"

Hart's smirk deepens. "A bit of both always leaves a good taste in my mouth."

One of these days, Ianto will manage not to leave himself open for such an obvious double entendre. "Both it is." He pockets his weapon again and heads back to the Briefing Room, expecting Hart to follow, which he does.

The take-away bloke finally answers. Ianto identifies himself and consults his mental menu. "Veg pakora, green salad, yellow lamb curry, matter paneer and--" it's all he can do not to grin, knowing the chef's somewhat sadistic streak when it comes to hot spices "--lahsoni teekha prawn. Hot as you can make it." If Hart survives, Ianto will be impressed. "All three sauces too, please." Fortunately, they have all the necessary information on file, so after a quick double-check, he can consider it as good as done.

After a brief mental calculation, he sets the stop-watch for ten minutes. (Twenty to prepare the order, five to deliver. He has a ten minute walk up to the storefront. All things being equal, this'll give him five minutes to pretend he actually works there.)

"You're arming me AND feeding me?" says Hart. "I should compliment you more often."

Ianto holds the door for him. "We'll have time to discuss the Kapo while we wait."

Hart brushes close. Presses one hand to the wall by Ianto's head. Leans in ever so slightly.

Not going to close his eyes. Not going to yield to cedar and cinnamon and spice and musk and it's just not FAIR for a human being to smell that good. With another steadying breath, Ianto hardens his gaze.

The corner of Hart's mouth curves. His look of casual interest is enough to have Ianto's heart pounding. (And he smells like five kinds of bliss with a chaser of orgasm.) Hart pulls away and resumes his seat at the far end of the table.

Shaking, Ianto checks his pockets. Phone. Nine millimetre. Taser. Weevil spray if push comes to shove. He can handle this. He squares his shoulders. Sits across from Hart.

Hart watches him with that unsettling look of amusement/interest/appraisal. It's almost worse than Jack was before he became Ianto's lover. (Don't think about Jack because the truth is John smells even better and he... No. Jack trusted him. Ianto CAN do this.)

"The way I see it," says Hart. "There are two main bits of weirdness about the Kapo -- not counting the fact that it didn't just attack and rip us to shreds. It asked about naps and it wanted to know what sex we were."

"More specifically male?" It's a relief to be able to retreat to the cerebral.

Nodding approval, Hart plucks a hard candy from the bowl. When Ianto silently declines, Hart unwraps it himself and slips it into his mouth. (And he makes a sound of pleasure at the taste of it that sends a little flutter through Ianto's stomach.)

Ianto focuses very hard on his own hands, which are white-knuckled and neatly folded on the table before him. "So are the two related?"

"Could be." Hart rolls the candy from one side of his mouth to the other with a deft flick of the tongue. "But if they are, couldn't say how. So what about napping?"

"Sleep." Ianto realizes. "You don't suppose it was asking if you and Jack were sleeping together?"

"Never met a Puritanical Weevil," Hart muses. "No. I'd expect that if the Kapo wanted the sordid details of our respective sex lives, it would've led with something more direct, like: 'Ee fuk U?'"

The blush is fiery as it is instant. Ianto hates himself for it. (How does he keep losing control so completely?) He frowns and very pointedly ignores the way Hart's cheeks suck in slightly, accentuating those perfect cheekbones as he enjoys the candy a little too much. "Weevils don't take much sleep," Ianto says. "They go dormant, sort of a waking hibernation, but full-scale sleep is not that common that I've seen."

"And you study them that you'd know." It's not entirely a question, though the tease is still there. (And would he STOP doing that with the candy? It's too easy to imagine other...)

Focus. He can do this. Jack trusted him. "I do have most of the contact with them, yes, but there is admittedly a lot I may have missed or misinterpreted. I can get my notes if you like."

Hart nods, eyes warm and slightly affectionate. "We'll exchange some--" he flicks the candy to the other cheek "-- information."

Though it can't possibly have been ten minutes since Ianto placed the order, the beeping of the stopwatch saves him from further discussion. "I'll be back."

Hart lounges, booted feet on the table. "I'll be waiting."

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Crossposted to jackxianto and torchwoodslash