Fic, Faithful 13/33?: The Weevils' Racetrack

[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.
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.

A theatre technician in a black sweatshirt and jeans comes out and taps nervously on the microphone.

"Ahem. MelindaKitty will not be appearing this evening, due to a slight case of absence. I mean, we know where she is, she's just not here. I'm her stand-in, so I'll just be.. er.. standing in. I mean, not standing IN something, because that would be.. well." *scratches back of neck* "Anyway, she's left me some stuff to do, so I'll just, er, get on with it then."

"IN SLEEP HE SANNNG TO MEEE.. IN DREEEAMS HE CAAAAME.. THAT VOICE WHICH CAAAAALLS *erk*"

*giant hook steals techie off stage*

"Anything you can do
I can do better.

"(Hah!)

"I can do anything
Better than you.

"(No, you can't.)
Yes, I can.

"(No, you can't.)
Yes, I can.

"(No, you can't.)
Yes, I can! Yes, I can!"

(Irving Berlin, Herbert Fields & Dorothy Fields, ANNIE GET YOUR GUN)

(In which Jack is in the lead, Gwen reloads, the Kapo makes his demands, John almost gets hung out to dry, and Ianto seals the deal with a kiss.)

(There. THAT should set off your "WTF?!" meter.)

(Oh, and just for the fun of it, check out JB being cute with his rendition of the above song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=stF2mXucm_w&feature=related )



"Marriage."

The single word burns a hole in Ianto's imagination as he follows Hart down to the garage. He wants to know. He's afraid to ask. And with these new senses, he's a little more aware of Hart than is comfortable. The slight smirk. The exact rate of his breathing. The caress of cinnamon/smoke/musk pheromones, which tempts without compelling. (They call to the sensing mind. If he let them, Hart could seduce him again, just with that.)

But as they approach the SUV, thinking and sensing minds agree: TRAP. Like any consummate liar, Hart's undoubtedly lacing this latest con with just enough truth to make it believable. Best to ignore him and keep him where he can see him. (And watch the lean and nearly edible movement of that lovely a-- NO. Ianto's not thinking that. He's not looking either... much.)

Jack and Gwen are already in the SUV. Jack leans out the driver's window, annoyed. "What kept you?"

"Nothing," says Hart with blindingly false innocence. He quirks an eyebrow. Ianto's sensing mind kicks in. Subtle changes in sweat. Pulse rate fluctuates. Amusement tastes like woodsmoke and musk.

And as Ianto opens the back door to the SUV, the warm, clean vanilla of Jack allows him to focus and ignore Hart. (That is, until the Psychopath slides in next to him on the back seat.)

"Report says the woods by Leckwith," says Gwen as Jack peels out. "First wave has disappeared to God knows where. They wreaked havoc with the Leckwith Road roundabout."

"I'll bet," Jack says. "Ianto?"

Ianto's sensing mind (which has apparently memorized every square inch of Cardiff quite without his being aware) wars with his thinking mind, which instantly conjures up a labelled mental map of the city.

"Leckwith Road," he muses. "Fronts on the racetrack and the football pitch at Ninian Park. Mostly industrial. Some wooded and wild areas and of course it's near the river."

"And the rail lines," says Jack grimly.

"Oh come on," says Hart. "You're not suggesting the Kapo intends to hijack the..." All the blood drains out of his face. "Major form of mass transit for the area and use it to make his army more mobile. SHIT! Step on it, Jack!"

Ianto ignores the brief flash his sensing mind sends of Weevils on the commuter lines. (Would they bother to make a show of reading the papers? Sip lattes from paper cups. Queue up to complain when the schedule was delayed?)

He banishes the errant thoughts. "So what's the plan, sir?" he says to Jack.

"Ooh!" says Hart. "We finally get to shoot something!"

Jack's blue eyes go piercing in the rearview mirror. "Shoot to wound and incapacitate."

Hart sulks prettily, muttering about Jack not being any fun anymore.

Jack catches Ianto's eyes in the mirror. "Assume all Weevils are not in their right minds. Protect yourself, but we're going to try to herd them if possible."

"And me without my shepherd's crook," snipes Hart, arms folded petulantly.

Gwen frowns at Jack. "Is that the sum total of your plan? Four of us against God knows how many of them?"

"Got any better ideas?" says Jack. "It's us or Andy's lot."

"Andy can take care of himself AND you," Gwen fires back.

Hart's thigh presses against Ianto's, distracting him from the rest of Jack and Gwen's verbal skirmish. What tastes to Ianto's mind like concern (slight sour tang to the cinnamon. Increase in skin temperature.) disappears behind a smirk. "Don't worry, Eye-Candy," says Hart. "I'll protect you."

"That won't be necessary." He checks himself. Spray. Nine millimetre. Taser. The prototype new canister (not enough time to put together a full complement, especially as this will be the first live-fire test for this formula and dispersal system.) He must need less sleep than before because all his senses are razor sharp, as though someone turned up the focus on his whole mind and body.

Hart is watching him with something like anticipation. "You can feel it, can't you, Ifan?"

"Feel what?" He should really move his thigh away from Hart's. And he will... in another minute.

Hart smiles, eyes twinkling like the sensual predator he is. "The hunt."

Leckwith Road is a morass of fleeing civilian cars, flashing lights on police vehicles, haphazard crowd control, and people in various stages of panic.

Gwen checks her radio link. "Bloody hell. Game this afternoon at Ninian Park."

"Injuries?" Jack says.

She shakes her head no. "None reported. Kapo marched the entire lot of Weevils right across the bloody pitch right in the middle of the game. Broad daylight -- the balls on that bastard -- it's like he WANTED to be seen." She presses her earpiece. "Andy says they're trying to keep the evacuation orderly."

Hart peers out the window at the melee of cops and cars and frightened people. A panic-stricken mother holds her toddler in her arms, herding two more children before her. She's crying hysterically.

And Ianto tries not to remember too vividly the incident that shattered his world and led Torchwood 1 to seek him out and offer him the worst choice of his life.

"One wonders if they cast for emergencies like this or if people just show up." Hart snorts. "Good thing Cardiff's finest is here to save us."

Gwen shoots him a dagger look. "Watch it, you."

"So sorry, P.C. Panties-in-a-bunch," says Hart. (More cinnamon/woodsmoke. One wonders if he knows she's immune.) "Didn't realize your threesome arrangement with Jack and the old ball and chain included a side of plod."

Jack jerks the shifter into park, jolting them out of any further bickering. "No weapons until we're sure where they are." He gives Hart a pointed look. "We don't need to make this any worse than it already is."

"I'm never going to get to shoot anything, am I?" says Hart, petulant. "Honestly, Jack, what's the point of carrying guns if you never actually shoot anyone?"

Amusement dances in Jack's eyes. "Cheer up, honey. Maybe one of them will eat you."

Hart shudders. "Weevil fellatio: there's a mental image I didn't need." He quirks an eyebrow at Jack. "So does that make the cells your own private bordello?"

Ianto is NOT laughing as he gets out of the car.

Hart is close behind him. Too close. Ianto shoots him a warning glance. Hart smirks, but backs off, hands up in submission.

"Location, Gwen?" Jack's scanning the crowd. Ianto has a feeling he's just as much at a loss for where to begin as any of them.

Gwen gives the hand-held detector a good thwack with one hand. Shakes her head no. "It says they're everywhere and nowhere."

"What is this?" Hart says, caustic. "Primary school? The Kapo's from the fifty-first century. In case you've completely forgotten, Jack, in the fifty-first century, the average five-year-old moron could jam your equipment for fun and I can assure you, the Kapo is not a moron." He shrugs. "Though he may be only five -- they batch-grow them quick nowadays, I hear."

"Shut up, John," says Jack. "And make yourself useful."

He misses Hart's childish (and really quite funny) foul face behind his back when he turns.

"Move out," says Jack.

They thread their way through the crowd. (No chance of their falling into line for what Owen used to refer to as the "badass hero walk".) Ianto dodges around cars. Keeps Hart and the others in line of sight.

He can smell the Weevils. Dry. Faintly faecal. Wild things. The sensations won't sort themselves into words, but he knows them all the same. There's a trace of something else on top. It gets stronger the farther Ianto goes. Fouler than the others. This something eats blood and flesh and he can't pin it down.

"Ianto?"

Jack's voice breaks him from his musing. The thinking mind snaps back into control. "He's close, sir."

"What, you can smell him?" Despite the tease, Jack's eyes are serious.

Ianto nods.

"So can I." Hart scents the air, mouth slightly open. "If it weren't for all these damn civilians, I could get a lock on him."

"He's a Weevil in a three-piece suit who's leading an army," says Gwen. "Shouldn't think he'll be able to hide for long."

Distant snarls. Every muscle in Ianto's body tenses. Jack draws his pistol. Heads off at a run. (Typical Jack.) With a grin at him, Hart draws his twin pistols. Not to be outdone, Ianto draws his own double-fisted weaponry -- though, not being stupid, he prefers the nine millimetre to the taser. (And here's hoping he won't have to get close enough for the spray; no telling if it'll have any effect.)

He and Hart pound off after Jack, nearly in step with each other. (Though Ianto's pleased to note he's slightly faster.) Cursing like the beat cop she was, Gwen follows. Two fast clicks mean safety off and cocked. For better or worse, they're now armed and ready.

And running has never felt this good. Blood is a thrumming song in his veins. Every muscle strains to move more quickly. More efficiently. His vision narrows. Focuses. Clarifies to animal intensity.

The crowd thickens as they near the racetrack itself. Running against the crowd both energizes and frustrates Ianto. Close. The hunt is close. People stream by him. Young. Old. Serious. Frightened. Screaming. Silent. All with that look of complete shock, as if they've seen something that's caused their whole world to come crashing down.

He wishes he didn't know how that felt.

Jack pulls up short. Begins a measured walk. Ianto reaches his side at the same time as Hart. (No, Psychopath, you didn't win no matter how much you smirk.) Gwen falls in with them.

It feels unsettlingly natural to have her on his right and Hart on his left -- though he'd rather gnaw off his right arm than consider the résumé of Captain John Hart as a possible replacement team member. (1) The irony is too pointed and palpable, 2) Between him, Gwen, and Jack, Torchwood 3 is well-stocked on loose canons without adding Hart's insanity to the mix, and 3) Hart's work history would no doubt give him nightmares for weeks.)

The ground shakes underfoot. Rhythmic tremors. Marching. Lock-step marching. Lots and lots of somethings are moving toward them in a highly efficient manner. Dry. Blood-eaters. Things bred for killing and slaughter and mayhem. "Weevil" seems such a ridiculously inadequate word for what these things really are. His sensing mind can't put it to numbers, but Ianto knows how many there are just from the rhythm of the feet.

Hart gives him a look of understanding. "Five hundred and forty-three."

Ianto nods agreement.

He's seen many disturbing things since he joined Torchwood, but a Weevil army in full lurching goose-step ranks near the top.

"Ianto." Jack doesn't even have to tell him what.

He retrieves the canister from his pocket. Arms it. Throws. (Hope to God this works.)

Upon impact, the canister explodes into a series of smaller canisters, a Weevil-spray cluster bomb. The second detonation goes off, dispersing the spray. Not all the Weevils retreat, but it does throw the formation into chaos.

Hart grins approval. "Your design?"

Ianto nods again. (Sounds. Smells. He can FEEL each one of their prey.)

Hart spins his pulse-pistols. "Not very sportsmanlike, though you get points for style and efficacy. Shall we hunt?"

He cocks the nine millimetre. "After you."

Laughing, Hart throws himself at what remains of the first rank of Weevils. Fires madly. Hits everything he aims for. Weevils drop.

"Wound!" Jack shouts. "They may have been coerced!"

Hart advances like he hasn't heard.

Deep lowing fills the air, too loud to be from anything but an amplifier.

Gwen sinks to the same defensive crouch as Ianto does, eyes wide. "What the hell was that?"

Snarling, a group of Weevils dodges around John, who shoots like the psychopath he is, laughing in delight.

"I have a funny feeling," says Jack to Gwen, "we're about to find out." He and she aim for arms and knees. Ianto hits a few shoulders. Tries to preserve his ammunition. (Only three more clips left and they seem to be up against every Weevil in Cardiff.)

"Racetrack," Jack says. Gwen covers him as he reloads. Ianto covers them both when Gwen's glock clicks empty. He turns to spray a Weevil who's a little too close.

"I'm out!" shouts Gwen.

Ianto tosses her another clip. (One of these days she'll learn to carry more than one spare.)

The retreat is messy at best. (And too damn slow.) Too many sides to keep track of. Not enough ammunition. And these Weevils seem to recover even faster than usual. Only Hart seems to be making any progress toward the racetrack stands, and instead of protecting the team, he appears to be on safari.

"Now you know why we broke up," says Jack dourly.

Ianto tasers a Weevil before it can rip Jack's face open. With a stern look, he hands Jack another box of bullets.

But no amount of ammunition can hold back this horde forever. By Ianto's best estimation, they're still about five snarling, sharp-clawed yards from anything resembling cover and moving as a group is slowing their progress.

Enter the Psychopath like a whirling dervish. The chamber clicks empty on Jack's sidearm. Hart tosses him a pulse pistol. Draws the Korean blade. Weevil limbs and heads go flying. In a ballet that's as magnificent as it is macabre, Hart clears them a path with the fifty-first century equivalent of fighting Florentine -- pulse pistol to hold the distant Weevils at bay, sword to win and wound against any who charge before he can shoot.

"Hate to say it, sir." Ianto slaps in a new clip. (Number four. Have to really make every one count this time.) He takes torso shots, which aren't guaranteed to incapacitate, but he doesn't have the ammunition to waste with precision shots. "But I'm starting to see what you saw in the Captain."

"And is it me," says Gwen, breathless, "Or are the Weevils herding us?"

"They're herding us," Jack says. "John's good, but not that good."

And over the snarls of the current Weevils, Ianto can hear the heavy, lopsided march of what promises to be a fresh squad, approaching from the river.

"John!" Jack shouts, "Move back! Retreat!"

"What the bloody d'you think I've been..." Hart trails off. Shoots a Weevil in the head to give himself time to scent and listen. "Oh, bugger that!"

Ianto and the others pull up close to Hart. Ianto throws him a hopeful look. "Don't suppose you have any nifty fifty-first century tricks?"

"Concussion grenade." Hart neatly dispatches three Weevils in quick succession. "In the subdermals."

"You have a concussion grenade?" Jack sounds envious.

"I HAD a concussion grenade," Hart corrects. He kicks open the door to the stands. Ducks in. Signals them to follow. "Eye-Candy here shorted it out when he tasered me half a dozen times."

"I tasered you once." (Now he's not sure.) "Didn't I?"

Gwen secures the door behind them. "I tasered you the other times and can't we please FOCUS?!"

Jack, slightly breathless and flushed from the fight, points the pulse pistol down, both hands on the grip. "Options?"

Fresh air straight ahead. Ianto kicks his thinking mind back into control. "I vote we cut across the track, over the pitch, and try to make a break for an exit on the other side."

Gwen shakes her head no. "High ground. Let Vera do some sniping to thin the mob until his subdermal whatsis comes back online."

"Yeah, and let them trap us in someplace convenient?" Hart shakes his head no. "Thank you, no, I came back here to AVOID dying. I vote for Ianto's plan."

After a pregnant pause, Jack nods agreement with Hart. "Quickly and quietly."

Apparently, even Hart knows when to hold back a retort. As a group, they jog out past the dirt of the racetrack and onto the pitch.

"KEPT JAK DUMBASS," booms the loudspeaker.

All four of them freeze, bristling weapons outward as they stand back to back. (No matter that Gwen's out of ammo, some training you can't overcome.)

"Rknis!" Jack yells back.

"U GIF TIIM GINT. I GIF NO KEEL U. JA?"

It's the Kapo. The bloody Kapo's using the bloody PA system to sound like the bloody voice of God. And whatever he just said scared Hart badly enough that he instantly reeks of acrid fear.

"What does he want you for?" Jack asks quietly.

"Fuck if I know," says Hart. His eyes are full of quiet pleading that the usual smirk can't cover.

"Nai gif na," Jack shouts back to the Kapo. "Ni nao ni nai tiim."

Hart actually smiles. Relaxes. "I knew you loved me."

"Shut up," says Jack. He pitches his voice to carry. "U leef nao wii no keel u, ja?"

The Kapo's barking laugh booms across the field. He appears across from them, at the head of a neat column of Weevils, which spans the entire breadth of the pitch. All around them, more Weevils appear in row upon row.

Ianto and the others press together. Move a little more to the centre of the field.

"U DII NAO," says the Kapo. He doesn't even have to speak up to have his voice amplified through the PA. A press of his forearm indicates to Ianto that whatever tech he brought with him allows more than just short-range transport.

"I hate to admit it," says Hart," but he may have a point."

"How long until you're up?" says Jack.

"Five, ten minutes," says Hart. "I try a blast now and my arm flies off."

Ianto hopes against hope. "Jack?"

Jack shakes his head no. So does Gwen.

Ianto prays for a miracle. Control. They need control. Any moment now, the Kapo will give the command, several hundred (thousand?) Weevils will come loping across the pitch, and what's left of Torchwood 3 will make a last stand in the middle of impossible odds.

"U GIF TIIM GINT, JA?" says the Kapo slowly.

Before Jack can reply, inspiration comes.

Ianto drops his gun and spray. Grabs Hart's head in both hands. Pulls him forward. Presses his whole body against the lean muscle of the Captain. Kisses him deeply.

The world explodes in a bliss of cinnamon musk.

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Crossposted to jackxianto and torchwoodslash