Fic, FAITHFUL, Ch. 36/60: The Well-Oiled Machinery

[loveslashangst]

Story: Faithful
Author: The relieved-not-to-be-dying loveslashangst
Beta: the back-in-school-already ophymirage
Characters: Ianto Jones, Captain Jack Harkness, Gwen Cooper, Captain John Hart, Rhys Williams, Janet the Weevil, Bradwyn Kapo, & a cast of (literally) thousands.
Rated: Adult for slash, canon bisexuality, non-gratuitous drug use, language, violence, and lots and lots of sex (various pairings and kinds.)
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. (There is no Children of Earth in this series.)
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...

Yuletide fic was a success. (See also http://archiveofourown.org/works/34712.) In the coming weeks, we will probably be loading fics into Archive of our Own, just to hedge our bets. I also need to let y’all know what I was up to over Christmas, as it was suitably fannish AND insane. [O sez: Underline the insane. She channeled fannish Martha Stewart. It was terrifying.] Another for-hire fic has me tied up with nervousness, as it feels like an eternity since the last time I did something I might actually get paid for. Meanwhile, O and I have been hammering out more and more of the core of Faithful, to try to get/keep it back on track while not skimping on the smut that I know all y’all have come here for.

On with the show...

“There were those empty threats and hollow lies
And whenever you tried to hurt me
I just hurt you even worse
And so much deeper

“There were hours that just went on for days
When alone at last we'd count up all the chances
That were lost to us forever.

“But you were history with the slamming of the door
And I made myself so strong again somehow
And I never wasted any of my time on you since then...

“If you forgive me all this
If I forgive you all that
We forgive and forget
And it's all coming back to me
When you see me like this
And when I see you like that
We see just what we want to see
All coming back to me
The flesh and the fantasies
All coming back to me
I can barely recall but it's all coming back to me now...”
(Celine Dion)

(In which Jack makes advances and John is flying high.)



With a final half-hearted protest that he’s not a child, Ianto curls up and sinks into a deep sleep.

Jack can’t resist brushing fingertips along Ianto’s cheek. How a grown Ianto manages to be this childlike and adorable is beyond him.

“Jack,” says John quietly but firmly. “We need to go.”

“Just a minute.”

“No. Now.” John’s already stripping out of his borrowed clothes. (Oooh, he’s almost forgotten how he and John used to run a ship.) “You and I have work to do. Now strip down so we can get started.”

He glances back at Ianto, and finds he can’t take his eyes off this beautiful young man who loves him in spite of everything. “He’s so sweet.”

“Yeah, and no thanks to you he almost suffered permanent damage from exhaustion, dehydration, and hunger.” John’s already halfway across the quarters.

“Aren’t we in a mood?” He bends to kiss Ianto’s forehead. “He’s just a little worn out. Besides, I would never have let anything serious happen to him.”

“Jack.” Yup, John’s in a bitchy mood. “I hate to break up your happy little bubble of afterglow, but if you and I don’t fix this ship, we’re all going to die horribly, almost two thousand years behind the world you left. Not to mention almost FIVE thousand years from my home time, not that you give a shit. And that’s IF the Cythraul don’t manage to track us down first.”

He stands and starts to strip. “What’s the matter, John? Pissed off that we didn’t wait for you?”

John’s eyes are grey steel. “What’s the matter, Jack? Looking forward to watching the suddenly-discovered love of your life die slowly of asphyxiation and exposure?”

The image of a blue-lipped Ianto sends unpleasant shivers up his spine. “The hell are you talking about?”

“We’re lost, Jack,” says John coldly, “and I can’t un-lose us without some help. If we spend too much time being lost, we’ll run out of fuel, run out of food, and run out of air. If we’re really lucky, it’ll be in that order. To you, that’s an annoyance, but to Ianto and me, it’s a little more serious, so please excuse me for being impatient to fix things.”

He strips off the last of his clothes and follows John to the bridge, though he’s not about to let his lover have the upper hand. “Says the man who just went down to wank at the Weevils.”

“I do what I have to, to survive,” says John. “The Weevils calm down when they smell my pheromones, so yeah, I had a very nice wank to keep them from rampaging and killing us all. They were supposed to be in their version of stasis for this trip, but having our arses shot off woke the poor bastards up, so excuse the fuck out of me if I tried to solve the problem instead of just wringing my hands and doing nothing.” With a deep breath, John holds out his wrists. Twin cabling splits the skin. Interfaces with ports on the console before him.

And John calls HIM melodramatic. “Wouldn’t the chair be easier?”

But John’s shaking with more than just concentration. (Oh, honey, does it really hurt that badly?) “Love to,” says John tersely. “But it’s broken. Everything’s broken. Really broken. So this is going to fucking hurt, and keep fucking hurting ‘til we get there.”

“John.” He touches his fellow captain’s arm. “You don’t have to do this. I can jack in-“

John jerks his arm away. “You don’t have the hardware, Jack. Your stupid Boeshane body purity taboos have never been more fucking inconvenient.”

“I can at least keep the core systems-“

“On second thought, Jack,” says John. “Fuck off.” The bioport at the back of his neck sparks alarmingly. The symbiont must still be a little fried from the blast through time and space. How long will John need before...

He shudders in sympathy when cabling snakes up from the console and into the sparking bioport, which crackles blue, then emits the long, static-y hiss of a half-functioning connection. John bites back a cry. Takes the kind of slow, steadying breaths he uses only when in serious pain.

It’s enough to make him want to just hold John until the pain goes away. (Which it won’t.) “John... Please let me-“

“Fuck OFF, Jack,” says John through clenched teeth. “Yeah, I could wet-jack you in, but all you’d do is scream and suffer. Satisfying though that would be to watch, I’ve already got a data migraine. I have the hardware. It’s torn all to shit and yes, this hurts like FUCK, but we’re running low on options. The worm’s doing the best it can. We’ll manage. Go tend the boy. Make sure he’s all right.”

When he reaches out again, John blasts him with a scathing glare. Pain. The man’s in pain, because his higher-tech ports aren’t interfacing correctly with the ship’s cables. Insult to injury, John won’t even be able to sit down, but will have to stand - perhaps for hours - while incompatible systems overwhelm his senses with information. The symbiont will undoubtedly do its best to sort, filter, and organize, but there are limits to what the little worm can do, especially as it’s already working overtime to manufacture painkillers and restore implants.

“I’ll do you one better than that,” Jack says, his tone gentler this time.

So he does head back to his quarters, but not just to look in on Ianto (who is, for the record, still sleeping peacefully in those ridiculously adorable pyjamas). Instead, Jack heads straight for the liquor cabinet. He returns with a bottle of truly exquisite hyper-vodka and offers it, grinning, to John. “Least I can do.”

John uncaps it like a dying man reaching for water. Swallows gratefully. Then, inexplicably, his expression changes. For a moment, Jack thinks his lover must’ve downloaded some strange information, then John turns on him with such a look of fury that Jack almost drops the bottle when John thrusts it at him.

“On second thought,” says John, “why don’t you fucking keep it?”

And he turns back to the console as if Jack’s given him a mortal insult.

Puzzled, Jack sets the bottle in the neglected pilot’s chair. “I thought you liked hyper-vodka. And God, I don’t know how long it’s been since you had a drink--”

“Four days, five hours, three minutes and twenty-one seconds,” says John. “Not that I’m counting.”

“You must be hurting,” he says. And then it occurs to him. “Withdrawal. You’re going through withdrawal too?”

“Yeah. That adrenaline shot from the infirmary helped some, but I’ve taken serious damage since then.” John’s eyes are on his work, though. Another set of cables snakes out from the lower panel. Jacks into the damaged bioports at the base of his spine. More blue sparks crackle, and a thin trickle of blood oozes from the damaged iris. John shouts. Swears. Pants, then slows his breathing by force of will. “I’ll manage.”

Jack fetches a glass from the built-in cupboard in the side of the pilot’s chair. (Who doesn’t fly better with a mild buzz to relax the conscious mind and allow the data stream to flow more smoothly?) He pours himself a drink. “John? Love? Do yourself a favour and take some of the edge off.”

“That’s what you’d like, isn’t it?” John snarls. “Just another addict, unable to function without his next fix.”

“But you ARE an addict,” he says. “In fact, I’ve never met someone who so thoroughly enjoyed being -“

“I suppose you’re offering to hook me up with something harder?” says John.

He mentally catalogues the supplies. “Got a bunch of opiates in the sickbay. A few shots of tetracet. Some diluthenol.”

John’s laugh is scathing. “You are such a fucking pansy. Don’t you stock any of the good stuff?”

He shrugs, suddenly regretting not having a larger pharmacy at his disposal. “Hard to get in my time. Besides, I’m immortal, which saves on the pharmaceuticals.”

“Lucky fucking you.”

“John,” he says. “Seriously. I can’t deal with you when you’re like this. Take a goddamn drink and save us all the headache.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” John snarls. “Get me good and liquored up, sloshed off my arse so when Ianto wakes...” Stony-eyed, he turns back to the console, flinching as the cabling twists and sparks in half-fixed ports. “Well I’ll be thrice buggered by a Judoon before I let you set me up like that.”

Oddly amusing though the image is, Jack suddenly realizes what it is that’s making John so pissy. “You’re in love.”

“Sod off,” says John.

How could he not have seen it sooner? “This isn’t a con. That’s what’s got you so bent out of shape. You’re actually in love with Ianto and you don’t want him to see you as anything but wonderful and perfect.”

“Congratu-fucking-lations, Miss Marple,” says John. “Now sod. Off.”

He knows John too well to let the bluff cow him. (You would’ve already shot me if you were serious, honey.) “What do you need? Right now, I mean?”

“Since you insist on being deaf AND stupid,” says John, “I need you to go the fuck away and leave me alone.”

He carefully approaches the far end of the console. John’s skin is glossy with a sheen of sweat, and even his usual glare isn’t enough to mask the grimace of pain. “Actually,” Jack says carefully to his lover, “I think that’s the one thing you DON’T need.”

John hangs his head. Swallows another groan of pain.

He grabs the hyper-vodka. “You need this. It’s faster and stronger than most of the rest of my arsenal. I know how much your symbiont fancies alcohol, and unless I’m mistaken, this was one of its favourite brands.”

“I’m not drinking that,” says John.

“Stop being stupid about Ianto,” he says. “When he loves someone, he forgives them damn near anything. Hell, I held a gun to his head and commanded him to go kill his girlfriend. If that’s not enough to make him stop loving someone, I don’t know what is.”

“His friends may be dead,” John says softly, “because I ignored you and egged him on.”

“Was that an apology?”

John shrugs in a way that means yes, though he’ll never admit it.

He thrusts the bottle at his stubborn lover. “You’ll feel better, you’ll hurt less, you’ll be much less of an arsehole, and then maybe I can actually help you.”

John takes the bottle with grim humour. “You haven’t got anything in your mickey-mouse first-aid kit near strong enough.” He drains half the contents in a few thirsty swallows.

“I was thinking a blowjob.”

John chokes. Swallows hard. Coughs for air. Takes another swig to clear his throat.

He can’t help laughing. “Natural high. Helps you think.” He folds his arms, amused. “You’re acting like I never did it before when you were flying.”

John looks at him with something that skirts perilously close to respect. “Could use some endorphins, yeah.” He licks his lips, thoughtful. “You kinky bastard. And you would too, wouldn’t you?”

“Yup. Now shut up and drink.” He tips the bottle to John’s lips. Holds it while John swallows the rest. Any normal human would be half-dead from alcohol poisoning, but his lover always did have the most insane tolerance for everything.

John shrugs again, ceding the point with much more jovial humour. His look turns wary. “You sure?”

He ducks under John’s arm. Slides between his lover and the console. Kisses him in reply, careful not to disturb the loosely-ported cable at the back of John’s skull. John responds to the kiss, though Jack hates the tension in his lover’s body. He can almost taste the pain. Pain of a damaged ship. Pain of damaged ports. Pain of a mind trying desperately to cope with unsorted and disorganized information. Pain of sensory overload with no real expectation of relief.

He kisses John slowly at first. Tongues deeper. Caresses bare shoulders and chest. Clothing-optional was the first thing he and John ever agreed on. Uniforms just meant more laundry (and strain on water supplies) and more wear and tear on fabric. Simpler and more efficient to adjust the thermostat, strip down to pants (or less), and wait to break out the rest of the kit until they were planetside.

John’s not really in a position where he can return the caresses. (It’s okay, honey. Let me drive.) In fact, the cabling on the left wrist is painfully stretched, probably from being cut earlier. Jack caresses, strokes. Lets his fingers wander to the back of John’s head. John tenses at first. Tries to pull back. Jack lets him. Looks deep into those wary eyes. Bends forward for a kiss, which John eventually begins to return.

He kisses his way down John’s bare chest. Not surprisingly, his lover’s not hard. (I’m so sorry, honey. Let me fix that.) Jack licks up and then down those beautiful abs. Traces the outline of each with lips and tongue. John’s breathing a bit faster now, though Jack feels the tension shift from endurance to anticipation.

The skin is hot and feverish around the lower-back bioports. John hisses in pain. Yeah, those were torn worse than the other ones. “Sorry, honey,” Jack says. “I need to check these visually. See what we’re dealing with.”

John nods, face still tense with concentration. A bead of perspiration trickles from his temple.

With a parting kiss to John’s hip, Jack slides around back to look. Oh man, the ports are a mess. Blackened and crisped around the edges. The half-seated cables hiss and spark.

“Bareback is fun for a good fuck,” he teases, “but probably not so wise when you port up.” He opens the tool panel on the side of the pilot’s chair. Retrieves the siliCell slick from its compartment. Drenches one finger with it. He doesn’t want to disconnect the cables entirely, as the interrupt in the data stream might do more harm to John, but he can certainly ease its way.

He carefully slicks the edges of each iris, rubbing the lubricant into the bio/tech interface. John’s nanos have definitely been on the circuitry – both interfaces are shiny and look mostly functional - but haven’t gotten to the surrounding flesh yet. John groans as Jack fingers gently around the connection.

“You okay?”

John takes a sudden breath in. Holds it. Exhales painfully. “Peachy, thanks.”

“Gotta go a little deeper now, honey.”

John, now biting his lip, nods, eyes squeezed closed.

He caresses carefully. Pulls back if John flinches. Rubs more if he moans approval. Jack tentatively coaxes the upper iris open a little further to expose the ports more fully. Pauses to spread a little more siliCell. It’s cool on his fingers, growing slicker and slicker as the nanos in the solution engage. He daubs gently. As the inflamed skin cools, John sighs, a long, ragged sound.

He starts in on the second iris. Lets his caresses grow more and more suggestive. “Better, honey?”

“Yeah.” John tips his head back slightly. Flinches as the bioport at the back of his skull sparks.

Jack stands. Smoothes more siliCell on the neck bioport. Caresses. Lets the cool, slick stuff do its job of healing and easing the interface between flesh and tech. John’s eyes fly open, then relax closed. He brushes John’s lips with his free hand. They part. The tip of John’s tongue touches Jack’s fingertips, sending an almost electric shiver through them both.

Carefully, Jack lets his slickened fingers roam again. Caresses the damaged bioport at the back of John’s head. Shifts the cabling. Just a titch to the left. Twist slightly. The cabling slots into place. There. That’s better. The sparking stops. He gently kneads the pain-stiffened muscles surrounding the ports. Feels John relax into the touch, more enthusiastic. (Three down, two to go.)

He trails fingers down John’s back. Explores the slickened bioport. From the feel of it, the siliCell has eased the connection. He glances down. Yeah. Skin swelling’s down. No signs of sparking. He takes the cabling in his other hand -- it’s wriggling slightly now, a good sign. It pulses with the energy of a repairing connection. He grasps it more firmly. Twists. Slide-locks. It swells. Grows rigid under his palm. And, to his relief, the dataports on the console light up to bright chartreuse. (All systems functioning at acceptable levels.)

John’s long sigh of relief is more eloquent than words.

Jack slips under John’s arm again. Necks with him for a while, sharing this nonverbal celebration of the first step accomplished. Smiling, Jack slides slick fingers up the backs of John’s thighs. Down the fronts. Makes his way inward, caressing across John’s hips. Down the twin creases of his groin. John’s breathing speeds against Jack’s mouth.

His whole body tensing in anticipation, Jack sinks to his knees before his lover.

Above him, John holds onto the console like a lifeline. He’s breathing faster, but in a good way. When Jack darts the first teasing lick along his cock, John moans. Jack tastes his lover slowly. Draws more and more of that heavenly cock into his mouth. Rolls John on his tongue.

Another of those eloquent exhales. John moves with him, fluid thrusts of his hips to match the bob of Jack’s head. (You still have it, honey, and how.) More than anything, Jack loves the way his lover moves. Fluidity made flesh. Complete lack of self-consciousness. John knows he’s gorgeous, and makes no apologies.

The tension’s going out of him now. Jack’s sure the data stream’s still painful and overwhelming, but John seems more focussed, and in all the right ways. Jack runs his hands up the slickened backs of John’s thighs. Draws John deeply.

John moans. Looks down at him, the eye contact deliciously intimate. John smiles, eyes dark and face relaxed. Jack smiles around his ample mouthful and redoubles his efforts.

************

John now remembers why he loved Jack. Of all his lover’s skills, the fine art of the blowjob was up at the top. (What Jack lacked in sophistication he always made up for in talent and enthusiasm.) He moves with Jack, loving the press into that hot, hot mouth. The tease of that beautifully-textured tongue. The hard hands on the backs of his thighs. Sliding over his buttocks. Kneading a little. Spreading him slightly. Fingers cool and slick with the siliCell lubricant.

“Yes, please.” Worm’s almost got the automated systems sectioned off and sorted. Things he doesn’t need to know, like the exact temperature of every room on the ship. As Jack’s fingers brush and tease and tempt him, the specs on life support fade from his consciousness and he can think a little more clearly about their relative position to their destination.

Jack’s teasing John’s head with the tip of his tongue. (Oh, yes, lover, right there.) “More slick?” Jack offers with another grin.

He nods, not trusting his voice. (Too many things to think about and oh GOD is it lovely to have that mouth...) Jack’s eyes are radiant blue as he pours more of the silver semi-liquid over two of his fingers. The sweet shock of slippery cold. Inside and insistent and need and want and oh does he love what Jack is doing to him.

His lover licks up one side of his cock. Down the other. Lets him writhe a bit in pleasure. (Astronometrics indicate only a twelve percent deviation from course. UW 1350 is an E-class planet with...) And Jack’s two fingers move. Slowly. (The lift is missing on the seventh level of the port dorsal side.) An exquisite contrast to Jack’s mouth, which assaults his cock with perfect determination. (Automated droids are en route to effect repairs on the starboard lateral side of the third engine.) Slow twist. Slow stretch. Three fingers. Beautiful. His breathing speeds, but he swallows it back. Forces himself not to rush. To take this as leisurely as he can. (Attempting sync with navigation systems. Fifty-three seconds to sync.) Four fingers. Jack’s deep-throating him now. A talented mouth and siliCell lube. Gentle strokes inside, almost torturous in their quiet confidence.

The bioport in his left wrist seats fully. The pain subsides. The worm uses the endorphins. Doubles the dose. Pleasure flows through him, a warm stream of facts and figures and trajectories and Jack’s mouth and fingers and oh GOD he’s building in spite of himself.

His right wrist cabling settles. The astrometrics slide into place before his eyes. Retinal controls engage. He relieves the auto-nav of its duty. Thrusts harder into Jack’s mouth. Moves with the ship. With his lover. With the arc of their path. Shift it slightly. Nudge. Just one man can’t steer well or quickly, but (Oh yes, darling, deeper now and faster. Be right there with you in half a mo’) he should have it. Yes. Two weeks. Can’t hurry them along, but a bit of slingshot around a gravity well. Yeah. Right there. Like that. Hurry them up. Not too fast, though. Just right. Just in the right spot. The sweet spot. Arcing into it. Finding it. Building up speed.

He opens his eyes. Stars on the screen. Stars before his eyes. And he’s full. Overflowing. It sears his consciousness. Arches his back. And Jack’s hot mouth speeds. Fingers grow more and more insistent. John relaxes his own hands, which have curled into fists. Lets the cabling hold him. Support him. And the worm sorts manual control. Everything slides into place. Ship is in pain. Still limping and wounded. He’s in pain. Limping and wounded. But it fades. Blurs. Pleasure overflows it. The calm impatience of knowing he’s going to come. In Jack’s hot mouth. Because of Jack’s talented fingers. He’s going to surrender to it completely. Let it fill him (like the data and plans and...). Let it flow over and through him. Give in and just BE.

His voice is gravelly to his own ears. Half-coherent. Spouting facts and figures and praise and pleas for Jack to hurry. To slow. To keep on. Harder. Faster. Slower. Deeper. Just do. Just be. Just needing. Needing. Building. Building. Soon. Coming soon. Almost there. Please yes. Please! Please!

With a primal cry, John lets the orgasm shudder in and through him. Gushes into Jack’s waiting mouth. Shivers again and again as aftershocks claim him.

And he’s in. Control. Not a perfect sync, but he should be able to do more than nudge and plead and hope for the best. The ship’s in pain and when the afterglow fades he will be too, but for now there is only the giddy surety that not only are they not going to die, but he may be able to complete this mission.

Jack is holding him when he opens his eyes. Strong, sure arms. Jack knows him. Knows what this is. The fuzzy bliss of afterglow settles in. He tests the controls. Minute shifts to test all three planes of thrust. See how the ship leans. How it moves. Yes. He can do this.

Jack types the sequence that blacks out the panel in front of him. Gently lays him down. He lets his arms splay so the cabling from his wrists isn’t stretched.

“John, honey?” He’s almost forgotten how gentle Jack’s voice can be. “Talk to me. Are you in there?”

“Yes.” He turns his head to look at his lover. “I’m in.”

Fortunately, Jack’s actually paying attention this time. “How bad is it?”

“I’ll manage.” He hums in the back of his throat. “God, not looking forward to coming down.”

“We’re not at hyper, are we?” Jack says softly. “We haven’t jumped yet?”

“No.” He could do it, but it’ll hurt more. He’s just stopped hurting - he’d really rather not.

“If you want,” Jack says softly, “I can help you get there.”

And a hand caresses his bare buttock. Slips down the cleft.

It wouldn’t be the first time Jack shagged him while he was jacked into something, but it has been a long time, hasn’t it? “You always could.” He closes his eyes. “Let’s give it a try.”

And Jack’s behind him. Spreading him. Sliding inside now, while he’s still blissed out. He reaches for the controls with mind and tech. Presses. A sudden spike of pain lances his head.

Jack moves with the unhurried strokes of a man who knows him inside and out. Pleasure. Endorphins. The worm does its job again. Filters out more of the superfluous crap. Jack fucks him gently but firmly. Slows strokes that hit every spot of pleasure. He moans. Pushes harder with mind and will. The ship resists. He forces. Jack moves faster. (Oh God, yes, darling.) Engines compensate. Gather power. Jack’s building, slow and steady. Speeding little by little. Reading every cue of his body. (Ninety percent optimal. Twenty-five seconds to jump.) Jack’s hips twist. That sweet, gorgeous cock fills him. (Ten seconds.) And just as he thinks Jack will time it wrong, Jack begins to fuck him in earnest. Faster. Harder. Pleasure arcs through him. Senses blurring, he prepares the systems. Closer. (Fuck me harder, love.) Closer. (Ninety-nine percent optimal.) Closer. (God, gonnacomeagaindoitjustlikeTHAT!) Closer. (Tracking in line with perfect trajectory.) Almost. Almost. Almost.

The ship bucks. Shudders once. Jumps to 3Φ light mils. Pleasure lightnings through him. He comes hard, jetting against the console. Jack bites his shoulder. Fills him.

And as afterglow settles in again, he readjusts the autopilot. De-cables. Slumps into Jack’s waiting arms.

Jack kisses him deeply. “That was a new one.”

“I hate you,” he says. “And I love you.”

“Is it set for now?”

He nods weakly. “Better than it was. Should get us there.”

Jack kisses him again. “I love getting you there.”

“I know.” He stretches stiffened joints and smiles. “Food. Food would be good.”

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Link to previous Faithful!Verse stories

Crossposted to jackxianto, torchwoodslash, guns_n_poodles