![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Story: Remote Control
Author: The Cleaning-Out-Her-Half-Finished-Files![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
loveslashangst
Beta: the Doesn’t-Ship-These-Two-But-Along-For-The-Rideophymirage
Characters: Owen Harper, Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones (implied), Gwen Cooper.
Rated: Adult for canon slash, language, implied slash and mature content.
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys (and girl). Probably better that way.
Spoilers: Post “Countrycide” (S1 of TW). Otherwise, not much.
Summary: Drabble-ish for me. Written for a long-ago fic-prompt challenge over atthe_tenzo's LJ, consisting of a line chosen at random from THE JOY OF SEX: "Gentle pressure, rhythm, sight and scent, and a knowledge of remote-control methods are all that are needed."
Okay, so here’s the dealio. I’ll try to have a draft of the Amy/Eleven/TARDIS to O tonight. We’ll see about getting it up before the weekend. Then back to 38. Then finish off Venezia. Hopefully, Moffat won’t break my heart on Saturday by doing something stupid with characters I’m really starting to love.
Meanwhile…
On with the show…
Owen.
Hates.
Evaluations.
Bad enough to have to suffer through them and make nice when, as a shiny-new and heavily-in-debt intern, he needed to keep his place at the hospital. Yes, sir. No, sir. Thank you, sir, I'll keep that in mind, sir. Bollocks. Great heaping load of shite, the lot of it.
But evaluations from the likes of "Captain" Jack Harkness? Double bollocks with a pint of cold cum, not helped in the least by his sneaking suspicion that cum is now playing a very large role in Jack's "evaluation" of Ianto.
Then again, at least having to follow Ianto means Jack is likely to be in a good mood.
"Owen?" He's actually always envied Jack's voice. Mellow as warm chocolate. No wonder everyone wants to fuck him. (Not that Owen's ever been tempted.) And Jack can pitch it to carry without shouting like a complete boffin. Owen appreciates not being summoned like a naughty schoolboy to the headmaster's office. Because he definitely doesn’t want to think about headmasters or naughty schoolboys. Or Jack’s desk.
Annoyed, Owen wrenches his brain firmly back on topic.
So he trots his arse up the stairs, glaring at Ianto as he passes him. What Jack sees in the milquetoast Welshman is beyond Owen. Suzie, Owen understood -- the girl may have ended up crazy, but she was sarcastic, witty and fecking brilliant with anything mechanical. Plus, she had a kinky streak a mile wide. But Ianto? Unless Jack’s suddenly gotten a hard-on for polite butlers, Owen can’t see the appeal.
Jack is waiting for him at the top of the stairs. Owen shoulders his way past him. Sulks his way across the office. Slouches into the chair before Jack's desk, not even bothering to pretend he has a good attitude about this whole one-ring circus. "Right. Let's get this over with."
"Good to see you too," says Jack in that tone that means he's either being pissily charming or graciously passive-aggressive. "Have a seat."
"Got one." Owen hates sitting and talking. Pisses him off. A quick scan of Jack's desk says that it's mostly paperwork and the same fecking bottles and flotsam that were there four years ago when Owen first came to work in this madhouse. There's a new bit of alien tech there, though. Some kind of remote-control thing, from the look of it. Good enough to pointedly fiddle with, and hopefully annoy Jack enough to shorten the interview.
Jack swats Owen's hand when he reaches for the device. "Focus, Doctor. We're here to talk, so let's talk."
Owen slouches even lower in his chair. "Bollocks."
So Jack starts rattling on and on about the requirements for semi-annual staff evaluations, but it’s the same shite he’s heard at least half a dozen times now. Bastard doesn’t even change the speech, so Owen tunes him out until the time comes when he’ll have to respond. Plus, there’s something… bothering…There's an odd sound in the room. Granted, the Hub's full of odd sounds and noises and smells, but this one's not anything he can readily identify. Humming. Low frequency.
"Owen?" says Jack softly.
"What?" He leans casually forward again, making another half-hearted grab for the new gadget.
Jack slides between him and the desk, gracefully blocking his attempt to swipe the tech. "We're here because Very Bad Things have been happening lately. Wasn't one of your complaints that I don't listen to you guys?"
"Would've kept my big mouth shut if I'd known you were going to get all touchy-feely," Owen grumbles. He avoids Jack's eyes, though -- Jack being Flirtatious is par for the course; Jack being Sensitive and Compassionate is more nauseating than Bailey’s-and-lime shooters.
And what the fuck is that noise? It's making him crazy. Not loud -- really subtle, like it's being muffled by something.
"Cannibals," says Jack.
"Non sequitur," Owen replies.
"Thoughts?" The only thing more alluring about Jack than that voice is that scent. Relaxed Jack. Warm and fuzzy, like a well-banked fire on a cold night and GODDAMMIT this is why all the blokes who work for Torchwood Three go gay.
"Rather not be one," Owen picks at a hangnail, ignoring Jack as pointedly as he can.
Jack's chuckle is as winsome as every other bloody thing about him. "That makes two of us."
Owen loves stretching silences. Nothing tickles him half so much as fucking outwaiting someone else when the annoying sod wants to have a chat. Let 'im wriggle. Let 'im squirm. All this means is Owen will spend that many fewer hours elbows-deep in something stinky and alien.
He's on salary. What the fuck does he care?
Jack pushes off the desk. "You're not going to cooperate, are you?"
"I'm here," says Owen. "We're talking."
"We're not talking."
"Words are coming out of my mouth." He mimes a yapping mouth for effect. "Counts as talking in my book."
"You saved Gwen's life," says Jack.
That hits him square in the gut. Low blow. His hangnail is suddenly intently fascinating. "I did my job."
"She told me how you kept her calm. You were kind to her. Gentle."
He shrugs it off. "Just 'cause I'd wanted to shag her."
"You hate people, Owen," says Jack.
He glares. "I hate ANNOYING people, Jack, which you are rapidly becoming."
"You soothed her," says Jack. "She told me how you talked her through it. Kept her from panicking. Perfect bedside manner."
He has no answer to that, so he shrugs again and says nothing.
"You did a good job," Jack continues. "Thank you."
The words mean a ridiculous amount to him. An embarrassing amount. God, the way things are going, he'll be panting after Jack like the bloody Teaboy.
"Did you hear what I said?" Jack moves around behind him. Sets a hand on his shoulder.
"Start massaging my shoulders, Jack Harkness," he says roughly, "and so help me, next time you’re on my table, I will stitch your dick to it.”
Chuckling, Jack takes the hand off his shoulder. Pats him with irritating confidence. "Thanks all the same."
Jack thanked him. It irritates him to no end how warm and fuzzy the thought of Jack's praise and approval makes him. "Welcome," he mutters. "We done now?"
“We could be.” Jack goes back toward the desk.
Owen seizes his chance (and the alien device). Twists the knob.
Jack stumbles. Catches the side of the desk. And is it his imagination, or is that irritating humming sound louder and higher-pitched?
Jack is panting. Why is Jack panting?
Then two-and-two make four. The grin is slow. Satisfying. Makes this whole sodding nonsense worthwhile. And Jack’s eyes widen. Stupid sod knows the gig is up.
He and Jack move at the same moment. Jack makes a dive for the device. Owen’s up out of his chair and halfway across the room. He cranks the knob all the way up.
Jack collapses, half in the chair. Panting. Sobbing. Sweating.
Owen raises an insolent eyebrow at him. “So that’s how it is, is it?” He cranks the knob down so Jack can answer.
Jack tries the Stubborn on him. “Don’t know... what you mean.”
“Oh,” he says. “Really?” Turning the knob is like a really good come after a night of cock-teasing.
Jack flails. All but humps the chair. It’s hilarious. And sad. (Mostly hilarious.)
Grinning, he lets the poor bastard catch his breath. “Did Ianto set this up?” The thought is suddenly repugnant. All his humour drains out as quickly as it came. “Did that... did the Teaboy set this up? So you two could have it off? Have a laugh at my expense?”
“Wasn’t...” Have to give Jack credit. He does manage to pull himself together. “It’s not like that, Owen.”
Good, he’s now free to be a complete cunt. “And what the bloody fuck is it like? Oh, let’s shove an alien vibrator up our arses and have a wank under the table while poor old stupid Owen doesn’t notice?” He moves, slowly but surely toward the door.
“I just--” Another good shock to the system knocks all the words out of Jack.
The remote in front of him to ward Jack off, he makes it to the stairs. “Well, play all you want. Shag him ruddy for all I care, but let this be a lesson to you, CAPTAIN Jack Harkness. Next time you want to liven up a round of evaluations, lay off the hardware.”
On his way down, he slaps the remote into Gwen’s very startled hand. She looks at him as if he’s gone round the twist.
“He’s all yours, sweetheart.” And then, in as dignified and self-righteous a manner as he can, he buggers off before Jack can follow him.
“Is this for the evaluation then?” Gwen yells after him.
"Gentle pressure, rhythm, sight and scent, and a knowledge of remote-control methods are all that are needed," he shouts back. And grins all the way back to his med bay.
Crossposted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
torchwoodslash
Author: The Cleaning-Out-Her-Half-Finished-Files
loveslashangstBeta: the Doesn’t-Ship-These-Two-But-Along-For-The-Ride
ophymirageCharacters: Owen Harper, Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones (implied), Gwen Cooper.
Rated: Adult for canon slash, language, implied slash and mature content.
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys (and girl). Probably better that way.
Spoilers: Post “Countrycide” (S1 of TW). Otherwise, not much.
Summary: Drabble-ish for me. Written for a long-ago fic-prompt challenge over at
the_tenzo's LJ, consisting of a line chosen at random from THE JOY OF SEX: "Gentle pressure, rhythm, sight and scent, and a knowledge of remote-control methods are all that are needed."Okay, so here’s the dealio. I’ll try to have a draft of the Amy/Eleven/TARDIS to O tonight. We’ll see about getting it up before the weekend. Then back to 38. Then finish off Venezia. Hopefully, Moffat won’t break my heart on Saturday by doing something stupid with characters I’m really starting to love.
Meanwhile…
On with the show…
Owen.
Hates.
Evaluations.
Bad enough to have to suffer through them and make nice when, as a shiny-new and heavily-in-debt intern, he needed to keep his place at the hospital. Yes, sir. No, sir. Thank you, sir, I'll keep that in mind, sir. Bollocks. Great heaping load of shite, the lot of it.
But evaluations from the likes of "Captain" Jack Harkness? Double bollocks with a pint of cold cum, not helped in the least by his sneaking suspicion that cum is now playing a very large role in Jack's "evaluation" of Ianto.
Then again, at least having to follow Ianto means Jack is likely to be in a good mood.
"Owen?" He's actually always envied Jack's voice. Mellow as warm chocolate. No wonder everyone wants to fuck him. (Not that Owen's ever been tempted.) And Jack can pitch it to carry without shouting like a complete boffin. Owen appreciates not being summoned like a naughty schoolboy to the headmaster's office. Because he definitely doesn’t want to think about headmasters or naughty schoolboys. Or Jack’s desk.
Annoyed, Owen wrenches his brain firmly back on topic.
So he trots his arse up the stairs, glaring at Ianto as he passes him. What Jack sees in the milquetoast Welshman is beyond Owen. Suzie, Owen understood -- the girl may have ended up crazy, but she was sarcastic, witty and fecking brilliant with anything mechanical. Plus, she had a kinky streak a mile wide. But Ianto? Unless Jack’s suddenly gotten a hard-on for polite butlers, Owen can’t see the appeal.
Jack is waiting for him at the top of the stairs. Owen shoulders his way past him. Sulks his way across the office. Slouches into the chair before Jack's desk, not even bothering to pretend he has a good attitude about this whole one-ring circus. "Right. Let's get this over with."
"Good to see you too," says Jack in that tone that means he's either being pissily charming or graciously passive-aggressive. "Have a seat."
"Got one." Owen hates sitting and talking. Pisses him off. A quick scan of Jack's desk says that it's mostly paperwork and the same fecking bottles and flotsam that were there four years ago when Owen first came to work in this madhouse. There's a new bit of alien tech there, though. Some kind of remote-control thing, from the look of it. Good enough to pointedly fiddle with, and hopefully annoy Jack enough to shorten the interview.
Jack swats Owen's hand when he reaches for the device. "Focus, Doctor. We're here to talk, so let's talk."
Owen slouches even lower in his chair. "Bollocks."
So Jack starts rattling on and on about the requirements for semi-annual staff evaluations, but it’s the same shite he’s heard at least half a dozen times now. Bastard doesn’t even change the speech, so Owen tunes him out until the time comes when he’ll have to respond. Plus, there’s something… bothering…There's an odd sound in the room. Granted, the Hub's full of odd sounds and noises and smells, but this one's not anything he can readily identify. Humming. Low frequency.
"Owen?" says Jack softly.
"What?" He leans casually forward again, making another half-hearted grab for the new gadget.
Jack slides between him and the desk, gracefully blocking his attempt to swipe the tech. "We're here because Very Bad Things have been happening lately. Wasn't one of your complaints that I don't listen to you guys?"
"Would've kept my big mouth shut if I'd known you were going to get all touchy-feely," Owen grumbles. He avoids Jack's eyes, though -- Jack being Flirtatious is par for the course; Jack being Sensitive and Compassionate is more nauseating than Bailey’s-and-lime shooters.
And what the fuck is that noise? It's making him crazy. Not loud -- really subtle, like it's being muffled by something.
"Cannibals," says Jack.
"Non sequitur," Owen replies.
"Thoughts?" The only thing more alluring about Jack than that voice is that scent. Relaxed Jack. Warm and fuzzy, like a well-banked fire on a cold night and GODDAMMIT this is why all the blokes who work for Torchwood Three go gay.
"Rather not be one," Owen picks at a hangnail, ignoring Jack as pointedly as he can.
Jack's chuckle is as winsome as every other bloody thing about him. "That makes two of us."
Owen loves stretching silences. Nothing tickles him half so much as fucking outwaiting someone else when the annoying sod wants to have a chat. Let 'im wriggle. Let 'im squirm. All this means is Owen will spend that many fewer hours elbows-deep in something stinky and alien.
He's on salary. What the fuck does he care?
Jack pushes off the desk. "You're not going to cooperate, are you?"
"I'm here," says Owen. "We're talking."
"We're not talking."
"Words are coming out of my mouth." He mimes a yapping mouth for effect. "Counts as talking in my book."
"You saved Gwen's life," says Jack.
That hits him square in the gut. Low blow. His hangnail is suddenly intently fascinating. "I did my job."
"She told me how you kept her calm. You were kind to her. Gentle."
He shrugs it off. "Just 'cause I'd wanted to shag her."
"You hate people, Owen," says Jack.
He glares. "I hate ANNOYING people, Jack, which you are rapidly becoming."
"You soothed her," says Jack. "She told me how you talked her through it. Kept her from panicking. Perfect bedside manner."
He has no answer to that, so he shrugs again and says nothing.
"You did a good job," Jack continues. "Thank you."
The words mean a ridiculous amount to him. An embarrassing amount. God, the way things are going, he'll be panting after Jack like the bloody Teaboy.
"Did you hear what I said?" Jack moves around behind him. Sets a hand on his shoulder.
"Start massaging my shoulders, Jack Harkness," he says roughly, "and so help me, next time you’re on my table, I will stitch your dick to it.”
Chuckling, Jack takes the hand off his shoulder. Pats him with irritating confidence. "Thanks all the same."
Jack thanked him. It irritates him to no end how warm and fuzzy the thought of Jack's praise and approval makes him. "Welcome," he mutters. "We done now?"
“We could be.” Jack goes back toward the desk.
Owen seizes his chance (and the alien device). Twists the knob.
Jack stumbles. Catches the side of the desk. And is it his imagination, or is that irritating humming sound louder and higher-pitched?
Jack is panting. Why is Jack panting?
Then two-and-two make four. The grin is slow. Satisfying. Makes this whole sodding nonsense worthwhile. And Jack’s eyes widen. Stupid sod knows the gig is up.
He and Jack move at the same moment. Jack makes a dive for the device. Owen’s up out of his chair and halfway across the room. He cranks the knob all the way up.
Jack collapses, half in the chair. Panting. Sobbing. Sweating.
Owen raises an insolent eyebrow at him. “So that’s how it is, is it?” He cranks the knob down so Jack can answer.
Jack tries the Stubborn on him. “Don’t know... what you mean.”
“Oh,” he says. “Really?” Turning the knob is like a really good come after a night of cock-teasing.
Jack flails. All but humps the chair. It’s hilarious. And sad. (Mostly hilarious.)
Grinning, he lets the poor bastard catch his breath. “Did Ianto set this up?” The thought is suddenly repugnant. All his humour drains out as quickly as it came. “Did that... did the Teaboy set this up? So you two could have it off? Have a laugh at my expense?”
“Wasn’t...” Have to give Jack credit. He does manage to pull himself together. “It’s not like that, Owen.”
Good, he’s now free to be a complete cunt. “And what the bloody fuck is it like? Oh, let’s shove an alien vibrator up our arses and have a wank under the table while poor old stupid Owen doesn’t notice?” He moves, slowly but surely toward the door.
“I just--” Another good shock to the system knocks all the words out of Jack.
The remote in front of him to ward Jack off, he makes it to the stairs. “Well, play all you want. Shag him ruddy for all I care, but let this be a lesson to you, CAPTAIN Jack Harkness. Next time you want to liven up a round of evaluations, lay off the hardware.”
On his way down, he slaps the remote into Gwen’s very startled hand. She looks at him as if he’s gone round the twist.
“He’s all yours, sweetheart.” And then, in as dignified and self-righteous a manner as he can, he buggers off before Jack can follow him.
“Is this for the evaluation then?” Gwen yells after him.
"Gentle pressure, rhythm, sight and scent, and a knowledge of remote-control methods are all that are needed," he shouts back. And grins all the way back to his med bay.
Crossposted to
torchwoodslash