TORCHWOOD – Their Date
Unless tackling a specific case, on the weekends Gwen is at home with Rhys, Owen is sleeping off the night's "bag 'n shag", and who knows where Jack goes. Toshiko and I typically work on Saturdays albeit for different reasons – she's got no one and I'm trying to avoid someone, namely Jack Harkness. Tosh brings the scones and I make the coffee, my best Ethiopian blend, Tosh's favorite. I like Tosh as we are cut from the same clothe. People tend to dismiss us, and our bookish skills but whenever there is a complex question requiring expert analysis, we become invaluable.
This was weeks after the incidents with John Hart, one of Jack's old lovers. My ego was still smarting from his insinuation that I was nothing more than "eye candy", I had no value specifically to Jack. But what pissed me off the most was that after Hart was gone, Jack did nothing, said nothing to counter the description nor did he say anything about going out on the date he mentioned. I decided that Hart was right and Jack was just fucking with my head. Today's workout was an attempt to put my heart back in its place, somewhere between the 1904 and 1905 Torchwood alien archives.
"Tosh!" I called entering the Hub from the tourist center entrance. "Tosh! Sorry I'm late, but you wouldn't believe the lines." I put the small bag on a table near Tosh's station. "It won't take but a few to get this going." I then noticed that her coat wasn't on her chair but reckoned she chanced it as the weather was supposed to be warm in the afternoon. "Hey, where are you hiding?" I started pulling the container of fresh beans and new sack of sugar from my mesh bag when I heard footsteps from upstairs, near the alien plant lab. I dropped everything, pulled my glock from its holster and turned toward the sound.
"Morning!" said a cheerful Jack.
"Geeze, Jack," I lowered the gun while my heart sank into my gut. "Give a man a warning, will ya?" I bent over to pick up the bag's contents, which had fallen to the floor in my haste. "Where's Tosh? I've got her favorite blend."
"She's monitoring rift activity from her mom's house," he said coming down the stairs toward the computer stations. "I insisted she take a real day off."
"Oh, okay," I shrugged, deciding to store the special blend for another time and about to go for a regular blend. "You're off soon then?"
"Yep," he said, now standing in front of me, sending a steady stream of his remarkable pheromones past my nose, "and you're coming with."
"Where? Has there been a Weevil sighting by the docks again?"
"No. On that date I promised you." He gave me one of his typical wolfish side grins. "We're traveling to London for the day. I've got reservations at The Narrow for dinner. But before, I thought we'd catch that indie movie you wanted to see."
"How did you know I wanted to see Let the Right One In?"
He rolled his eyes, "You've only been watching for it on the 'Net for two months and read no less than six reviews since it came out." Jack waved two pre-pay theater tickets.
Like a schoolgirl promised a pony, I started to quickly finish packing the coffee items to ready them for Monday. He stopped me from walking to my special storage area by grabbing my arm, "Just put 'em back in the bag. You'll probably want them in the morning."
I felt my cheeks burn red.
It's a three and a half hour drive from Cardiff to London mostly on the M4. Although I was excited about a day trip (who wouldn't be?) cautious irritation toward this ridiculously handsome man left me pensive and admittedly somewhat distant. I said little during the first hour. My partner however preferred to fill the air with chatter about various intergalactic misadventures of no import – glory days of past triumphs if offered by your average bloke. I nodded my head in all the right places but kept my face looking out the window. I have to say Jack tried to engage me but I was sulking and enjoying it, as doing so was easier than being honest.
Alias, being a petulant child is a hard exterior to keep up. Eventually I felt stupid and Jack stopped trying. I pulled out my PDA, deciding to rely on my brains to get me back to some semblance of maturity. "We're going to The Narrow? That's one of Gordon Ramsey's places, eh?"
"Yep," Jack answered before nearly side swiping a fellow driver. "I swear the closer we get to London, the worse the drivers get!"
I insured that my seat belt was well secured. "It's in the Limehouse area of East London."
He continued to scream at the driver, "I can't believe they sold you a car! Even I can tell from your face you can't drive!"
"Jack," I continued, well use to his road rage, "Did you know Limehouse became a significant port in late medieval times, with extensive docks and wharves."
"You don't say."
"No really!" I pleaded. "Also, did you know on 12 February 1832, the first case of cholera was reported in London at Limehouse."
"Really?" Jack teased.
Ignoring him and continuing to read from my PDA, I countered, "Yes, there is likely a rift connection with that as . . . "
"Enough!" Jack demanded. "Ianto, you have to be the only person I've ever taken out who deconstructed the date's locale." He chuckled, "It reminds me of when I was going out with Sarah Finklestein in the 70s. She was a librarian. She always researched the sanitation reports for the restaurants we visited – all before there were home computers or the internet. I still don't know how she did it." His voice trailed off wistfully. After a moment, he must have sensed that my soar sour mood had returned. "I've had a lot of past, Ianto Jones - most of which is not worth remembering. However, the recherché - our interplay - brings something unique to my life."
"Are you suggesting I be less insecure?"
"It would make things easier on you."
The atmosphere in the SUV turned to a thoughtful silence as we entered the outskirts of London proper. Jack was concentrating on weaving in and out of traffic, beating yellow lights, and overpowering other cars on the road. I found myself counting the number of traffic tickets I'd have to vanquish and thinking of Lisa. I hadn't thought of her in quite some time. Even though we worked for Torchwood One, it was in the research division – we rarely saw the level of combat I do in Cardiff. London was a larger and in some ways a more sophisticated team. We were clerks working for an organization that was more like an arm of Downing Street than some rogue group existing off the radar.
But at Cardiff I found myself. I was regularly tested, challenged. I had people who depended on me and appreciated my expertise (even Owen, quiet as it is kept). In Cardiff, I not only knew about aliens, I appreciated the danger some of them posed and the importance of Torchwood in keeping the world safe. I came face to face with creatures that had just as much right to exist as I. I came to love life maybe more than I ever did before.
And then there were these strange, confusing feelings for a man who looked like the rest of us but lived a life the rest of us wish we could yet one he wished he could avoid. The few times I stayed overnight at the Hub with Jack, I would often hear him talk in his sleep. Jack Harkness was tortured by memories and longed to die like a cancer survivor begs to live. I glanced at him, driving like a bipolar sufferer who forgot his ADHD meds. I'm not sure I'm in love. I do know that the time I have with him are just seconds compared to the life he's lived and the living he has to come. But I want to make those his best seconds. I'm determined I will not be forgotten easily.
"Excellent movie choice, Mr. Jones!" Jack said as we left the theater and got into the car.
"Wasn't it!", I said smugly. "The rare horror film that's many different kinds of scary."
"True. A 12-year-old vampire and . . . I'm still not quite sure if that guy was her father, caretaker, or – eek - a former boyfriend," said Jack as he put the SUV into gear. "There are few creatures or cultures that condone relations between close relatives."
It was the early evening now and the streets of posh London were teeming with the stylish and their wannabes. The Narrow is directly alongside the River Thames. The building is a registered architectural landmark constructed between 1905 and 1910. It is referred to as 'classic English pub style refined dinning', a warm and relaxed environment where the emphasis is on good quality food with real ales and ciders.
Jack had reservations for a prime table overlooking the water and the city lights on that warm, unusually clear evening were shimmering like stars in the sky. The dinning area's wall colours are a muted brown, highlighting the fireplaces, cozy lounge armchairs, and black and white photography referencing the history of the area. The air was caressed by fresh, savory herbs, a staple of the Ramsey style. "I'll have the roasted iron bark pumpkin soup," I ordered once we were seated.
Jack asked for the potted Morecambe Bay shrimps with toasted sourdough. "And we'll have a bottle of the Viu Manent Secreto Viognier, 2008."
"A good choice sir," replied the attractive young waiter with a hint of French in his tone. "Will you be ordering your main course at this time?"
"Leave the menus and give us a few moments," answered Jack with a wink.
"As you wish, sir," he smiled back coquettishly, likely hoping for more than a good tip.
I shook my head and chuckled.
"What?" he responded, "People like to be admired by a good looking person such as myself."
I chuckled some more and our conversation kept to easy subjects - the movie, the beauty of the water, and the latest gossip from other Torchwoods. More than halfway through the bottle of wine, we started our appetizers and ordered our main course.
The last of the wine emboldened me. ""Why did you ask me out on this date?"
"Do you wish I hadn't?"
I hate when he answers a question with a question, so I try another angle, "Why don't you leave me be?"
"Is that what you want?"
"No, but if you did I reckon on a long, boring life."
Jack nodded at that while the waiter brought his butter-roasted Norfolk pheasant with creamed Brussels sprouts and my beer-battered fish with hand-cut chips and mushy peas. Jack ordered another bottle of wine. "I guess we'll walk to the hotel," he said smiling impishly. I wasn't complaining.
The food was succulent and the wine, with its deep flavors of honey, peach, apricot and tangerine and high alcohol content was lulling me toward contentment. I tried to get Jack not to order dessert but the waiter, with a wink and a smile, insisted Jack and I share a bread and butter pudding with vanilla custard. Jack gave me one of his classic sidelong glances and raised eyebrow as he watched me eat multiple bites. "It's even better than my mom's", I recalled with a mouth full. "She would make this on Sundays . . . so creamy . . . my sister and I always looked forward to stealing tiny bits before dinner."
Jack said nothing about my remembrance and only continued to stare at me strangely. Times like these he was impossible to read. I concentrated on eating and finally he took a forkful. In the background, Gabrielle Ducomble and her acoustic trio, had begun performing. The Belgian singer with her Gallic slanted jazz and blues repertoire was like listening to a happier Billy Holiday. "'J'ai Deux Amours'," said Jack. "'I Have Two Loves'".
"My French is rusty. Do you know the words?"
Jack stopped to listen more closely to the singer's sweet voice, repeating her lyrics just as sensually as she sang them, "'I have two loves, my country and Paris. By them always, is my heart ravished. Manhattan is beautiful, but why deny it; What puts a spell on me is Paris. Seeing it one day, is my pretty dream. I have two loves, my country and Paris.'"
"It's beautiful," said while taking another sip of wine.
"Mmm," Jack said. The waiter returned to ask if we wanted something else but before the words could leave the man's mouth, Jack waved him away. Then, looking at me so sharply I thought my soul was exposed. "You are a tasty morsel who has ruined my ability to look elsewhere."
This was shocking admission coming from Jack Harkness yet I still had to ask the stupid question, "What do you mean?"
He sighed heavily before answering, "You've got to be kidding."
"No, I'm not," I said defiantly. "Playing around was one thing – we did plenty of that before you left. And while you were gone, I didn't miss you. I assumed this . . . this thing between us . . . was a bit of fun, a lark for both of us. But then you returned and now I don't know what I feel and I certainly don't understand you."
"Ianto."
"No, let me finish. I need to say this and I have just enough liquid courage to get it all out." I sat a little straighter in my seat, "Forgive my caution. I have only one lifetime to salvage an already scarred heart. And this cacoethic passion toward an intergalactic, time traveling playboy is hardly what my mother would prescribe for a happy ever after life."
"Ianto."
"What!"
"You've got custard on your tie."
"Shit!" I got up and went immediately to the restroom.
"Nice!" said Jack who followed me into the restroom several minutes after a I left the table.
It was exceptionally white, clean. It had more stalls than most men's rooms and the urinals had the disinfectant smell of regular cleaning. The table stand with the towel warmer was a nice touch. I was standing at the automated sink, dapping furiously with a stain remover and cold water. It was my favorite silk red and I was not having success completely removing the spot. "Argh!" I said like Charlie Brown after another one of Lucy's pranks.
"Why don't you just take it off?" asked Jack. He must have taken the sharp raise of my eyebrow as an invitation. He didn't so much as walk toward me as saunter like a runway model working a slow beat. "Did I tell you why I like you in those suits you wear?" When he reached me, Jack tugged gently at my tie then said in a whisper, "It's like unwrapping an anticipated Christmas gift." I didn't know removing a tie could be so hot.
I also didn't know he wasn't going to stop there. "Jack!" I pushed his hands away when he reached the third button on my shirt. "We're in a public place." I turned around and faced the mirror over the sink.
I guess I didn't protest enough for this hardly deterred him. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pressed himself against my backside. For a moment, he admired himself then us in the reflection. He then reached around and nibbled on my earlobe, which always makes me laugh like a teenager (he seems to like that sound). He looked at our reflection again and instructed me through it, "Should I undo your pants or will you?" I could feel his erection move against my ass.
"Jack we can't!" But I wanted to – badly. "What if someone . . . ?"
Just then our waiter opened the door widely, and walks in like a high school assistant principle busting kids smoking. He had the smile to match. "Your check, sir," he said holding up the bill.
It's true. You never really look at wait staff when they are serving you. I was looking at him now though. "Stan" was on the nametag pinned to a very broad chest, which was attached to a boyishly cute, brown face. I found myself wondering if his beard and mustache would tickle my scrotum while he blew me. "We're sorry. We'll be back at the table in just a moment. My friend here was just . . . eh, helping me clean my shirt, I mean my tie, . . . Stan," I said shaking Jack off of me nervously.
"Oh, sir," Stan responded, "That's no problem." He approached us stealthily, carefully putting the bill in his apron pocket. "I just wanted to see if there was . . . anything else you two needed."
Jack turned to face the waiter, pushing his hands in his pants, leaning against the sink, "What additional items are on the dessert menu?" Jack raised his eyebrow and gave the waiter a sidelong glance.
The waiter too smiled more fully, turned and locked the bathroom door. Was this really going to happen? "A romantic dinner?" asked Stan with a vulpine grin.
"He's the current love of my life," answered Jack.
"Love, really?" said the waiter, obviously a nonbeliever. His eyes slowly ran up and down my body. He gave me a lascivious grin like a lioness enjoying her prey. Suddenly, I felt excited and dirty all at the same time. Is this how gay men do it? I mean with a woman, you at least have to buy them a happy meal before you are offered the privilege of plowing them senseless. "I may have something, additional, for your dessert menu," he continued. Stan examined me further and I could read his mind – I was some greased-up piece of ass bent expectantly over the sink.
Jack growled, "We'll just take the check." He yanked the bill fold from the waiter's apron, put a credit card in the small slot, and dropped it harshly back in the apron just for additional affect.
Stan got the message, "As you wish, . . .sir." He turned on his heel, unlocked and opened the door. Probably in an effort to retain his dignity, he did not let the door slam on his way out. Why draw attention to rejection?
"I am perfectly suited to say no on my own," I said slightly disappointed.
"I know," Jack spit, "but would you?"
I turned to face the mirror and straighten myself up. That's when I caught the darken hue in his blue eyes. I had never seen him look this fierce accept when we were on a case. Then the realization hit me - he was right. I had never been with any other man than Jack and really have no desire to do so. But for someone like me there is nothing like sexual attention - from anyone cute. I would have let Stan fuck me "just 'cuz" and regretted it later. But there was something else – something extra in my partner's face. Jack Harkness was jealous. With this thought, I stifled a smiled and looked down, adjusting my pants buckle.
Jack insisted on holding my hand while we briskly walked through the streets of London. He was sulking and dragging me around like a novice at his first ballroom dance class. I had no idea where we were going and his continence let me know not to ask. But I was frankly getting irritated. Unlike my partner, however, I am not one for grandiose stances, particularly in public. So when we reached an alley break, I yanked him, nearly causing him to fall on his butt. He made an advantageous quick turn which stopped him from falling on his ass, stumbled forward, and landed pressing me to a wall on the shadow side of a large garbage receptacle.
"We seemed to be here again," he said.
"Except this time you're on top."
I could taste his breath on my face, "Kiss me."
He offered a rakish grin and braced his hands on either side of my shoulder as he leaned into my right ear. "Do you think you deserve a kiss?" he intimated. "Are you sure you don't want 'Stan'?"
"Shut the fuck up and kiss me Jack Harkness!" I closed my eyes thinking I would feel those slow, soft lips on mine. Instead, I felt his tongue making long, sensual circles on my neck just below my earlobe. He knows I love that. Within seconds, he had me panting like a begging puppy at the dinner table.
Grabbing my right ass cheek, he stopped his seduction long enough to ask, "I should I fuck you here or we can move to a more comfortable spot." He pulled back and I could see his face in shadow. His eyes were fiery now. "Listen, Ianto. I told you before. I don't know what's happening here but I . . . it's powerful." He pulled back completely and I felt the loneliness from his distance. He leaned sideways against the bin, putting his hands in the pants pockets. "I haven't had a monogamous, long-term relationship since the 70s. Honestly, I haven't been looking. I haven't wanted to impose my immortality on anyone again." Looking bashfully at his feet, he continued, "We've been shagging . . . playing on and off for over a year now." He raised his eyes, with a look that would have melted the heart of a dictator, "I think it is time for us to approach things honestly, that's all."
I love it when he gets like this. He probably says this kinda stuff to all his conquests. He gives you the sense that you have control over everything, that it's your choice, so that giving in feels more like indulgence instead of surrender. "Okay," I said, "but let's do this in a bed, for once."
There was that smile again. He grabbed my hand and we were off. He walked at the same speed as before but with slight skip.
We walked back to the SUV and Jack drove. The Berkeley is not the best known of the British five star hotels but it has a special place in the hearts of the well-heeled. When the aged doorman opened the door and said, "Well, hello there, Captain Jack! We haven't had the pleasure in sometime," I reckoned Jack had been to the spot maybe as far back as its beginnings at the turn of the 19th century, when it stood at the corner of Piccadilly and Berkeley Street. The concierge was even friendlier, promising that Jack's "favorite suite" was ready and waiting for us, giving me a wink and a nod. I guess the lack of luggage gave things away.
"I used to tip his grandfather something fierce just to get this room!" Jack joked while we rode up the elevator.
While certainly not large, the suite was classic luxury. The room's colours are a muted gray with light lavender trim and white ceilings and decorated with Victorian furniture and beautiful antiques. The sitting room is cozy with a fireplace and plush over-stuffed furniture, a gray love seat and two gray and white stripped chairs. A large coffee table has a self-warming teapot and matching large cups and a wonderful selection of exotic teas and coffees. A flat-screen tellie was mounted on the wall opposite the fireplace. Built into one wall was a mini-bar, complete with chilling champagne and handmade chocolates on the counter. A short hallway opens to a sleeping area with a beautiful Victorian four-poster and nightstands. Just beyond was sufficient closet space for the queen's servants and a black and white decorated bathroom with heated marble flooring in key locales to keep your feet warm and the floor dry. A dozen white roses in a goldfish bowl and lavender callas in tall stem vases in each room added an elegant finishing touch. "Nice," was all I could say.
"Ain't it though!" said Jack as he deposited his gray coat on one of the chairs and rolled up his sleeves. "How I enjoy the simple honesty of a warm romp in a well-stocked room!" He walked past me and walked to the bathroom. He returned with two bathrobes, giving me one. "Soak yourself in the Jacuzzi. We can leave our clothes with the staff and they'll be ready for us in the morning." Jack smiled and winked at the bellhop as he started to unbutton his shirt. I shook my head and went to the bathroom. I overheard him speak to the eager bellhop, "My friend is reserved. We'll leave our clothes on the hanger outside the door." The staff at the Berkeley is professional so the bellhop kept any reviews of the situation to himself and likely simply nodded then left.
G-d I love a Jacuzzi! The swirling, warm waters are just what a hard working Torchwood operative needs after chasing aliens around the planet. I'd get one for my flat if there was room and if I spent much time there. This one was deep, so I could submerge my entire body while still watching the Graham Norton Show from the second tellie inserted in the wall above - a good laugh from a witty fag. What a minute! I'm in a hotel room with a man . . . what does that make me? Oh, well . . . mmmm.
I had to have been in there for an hour before I actually remembered Jack. I was so relaxed. Being with him is exciting and wonderful as well as tiresome and difficult all at the same time. However, he isn't one to be ignored and I was surprised he let me be away for so long. Got out of the tub and dried myself with a combination of an extra-large size towel and wall mounted blow dryers. Again, nice. I put on the robe while walking out of the bathroom. I walked out, still drying my hair. When I got to the room originally, I didn't realize behind the floor to ceiling curtain wasn't a window but a door to another area. The sitting room opened on to a small patio with a table and cushioned lounge seats overlooking a courtyard. The patio was decorated with numerous dangling greens and floor pots containing fragrant flowers and a completely naked Jack Harkness. Most people seem to think, the best part of Jack's backside is his ass, while personally, I like his broad shoulders.
He was talking on the phone. "Okay, Gwen. So let me see if I got this straight. The rift opened but nothing came through?" He paused obviously waiting for her response. "Well, this isn't too unusual. Tosh always described it as a temporal belch. Have the computers track its timing and any unusual frequencies. Keep me informed. I should be back in the afternoon." He hung up. I coughed and he turned around and walked back inside. Damn, the front side isn't bad either.
"Ah, thought I'd lost you in there," he said while putting the phone on the nightstand. "Something's up with the rift. It doesn't sound dangerous, just ominous. We should probably get back tomorrow morning."
I've always known Jack had a thing for Gwen. One night half-baked at a local pub while he was gone with The Doctor, she and I talked about it. We both agreed that his attraction to her was part admiration and part curiosity. She told me Rhys had asked her to marry him and that although she loved the excitement that came from working at Torchwood she had decided that at least one part of her life needed stability. She kindly smiled at my look of relief and encouraged me to "go for it" believing that I was probably the only person on this planet who had the guts to try to tame Captain Jack Harkness. We laughed hard at this, as by that point we didn't believe he'd be back. Now that he was back and knew Gwen's decision, I wondered how he felt. "What about Gwen?"
"What about Gwen?" He knew what I meant. I got a sour continence again which immediately irritated him. "Don't do that," he commanded. He approached me and grabbed me by my robe collar. "Who did I just spend £950 for a room on?" He cupped my face, "Who am I going to make crazy, passionate love to in 5 minutes?"
"5 minutes?"
"Yeah! You don't think I'm going to let this champagne go to waste, do you?" With a rakish grin, he went to the wet bar and examined the first bottle, "Ah, Francis remembers what I like, Alfred Gratien Cuvee Paradis Brut!" He opened the bottle with a subdued ping and poured us both a glass. I watched him take a large gulp.
"They serve this in first class compartments throughout UK transportation," I added as I sipped.
"Ah! A full-bodied Champagne with aromas of walnuts, honey and white fruit. Sumptuous!" He finished that glass and poured another before I could finish the first, "Glad they brought us two bottles."
I wasn't smelling the champagne but Jack Harkness. Still naked and perspiration still settled on his brow from our brisk walk earlier, his pheromones were talking to my groin. "It's rather tasty."
"Ianto, usually people don't refer to a £62 bottle of champagne as 'tasty'." I gulped down a sizable amount of my glass and stuck it out for more.
"Thirsty, eh?" Jack said while pouring me more. "How about a midnight swim? This hotel is one of the few with a rooftop pool and it is just lovely this time of night."
I finished my second glass and took the bottle from his hand and walked over to the bed, placing the items on the nightstand, "No, maybe next time." I retrieved my iPod from my bathrobe and stuck in the console. I had forgotten that I was previously listening to the soundtrack from the 2008 version of Pride and Prejudice.
He gave me one of his classic side-long glances, "Really? You're expecting to return some time, eh?"
"Ah yes, I imagine I will be a regular visitor."
"You do, huh?" He walked over to the other side of the bed and opened that nightstand drawer. "Hah! Right next to the Bible, as always!" He pulled out a kit containing condoms, K-Y Intense, and a strange looking device. "Did I tell you this hotel staff's fantastic or what?"
"And you're just the kind of sinner the Gideon Society is targeting."
"Targeted and failed miserably."
"I sense a story coming on," I said pouring myself a third glass and sat on the edge of the bed.
"It was just after the war and I was back doing contract work for Torchwood London. At that time, I was staying in the old Berkley waiting on a new assignment. One night," he gulped down more champagne, "or should I say the day after a night out, I returned to my room just as the maid was leaving. Still inside was an 18 year-old American in a neatly pressed suit just closing my nightstand drawer. I pulled out my pistol about to shoot him and he nearly lost his lunch. Turns out he was leaving a copy of the New Testament."
"'Rocky Raccoon, checked in to his room, only to find Gideon's Bible.'" I sang. Jack looked at me quizzically. "'Rocky Raccoon'? You know from The Beatles' White Album?" I shook my head. For a well-traveled man, sometimes Jack's cultural knowledge was somewhat lacking. "So what did you do? Seduce him?"
"Yeeeah!" he said as if doing so was perfectly logical. "I pointed to how limited the biblical interpretation of life was and how it places human-kind emotionally eons behind other similarly intelligent species around the galaxies."
"And that got him to sleep with you?"
"Well, not exactly." He sat on the bed and leaned back against the headboard, hands resting behind his head.
I long ago stopped questioning the credibility of Jack's stories – I'd seen too much. I too leaned back, watching his eyes dance as his mind recalled the scene and wondered if in some far distant future he would remember me similarly or, hopefully, more intensely. "You must have done some clever talking. If I remember my Sunday school lessons correctly, the Society links themselves to the story of Gideon, a biblical figure willing to do exactly what God wanted him to do, regardless of one's own judgment as to the plans or results." It suddenly dawned on me, "Ah Jack, you really are a cad!"
He could only offer a sheepish shrug, "What can I say? I haven't always been the nice, kind person I am now." He took another sip then continued, "I convinced him that being a humble servant for the Lord meant all kinds of sacrifice in the name of changing the world." I shook my head, not sure how piqued I was with Jack. "Don't judge just yet. It turned out I did a good thing."
"How's that?"
"He returned to America, graduated law school and became one of the founding members of the Mattachine Society."
"An early gay rights organization that in the 50s fought for the assimilation and respectability of homosexuals, I said. "They reasoned that they would change more minds about homosexuality by proving that gays and lesbians were normal people, no different from heterosexuals." I took another, albeit smaller sip. "So, in the end, Jack Harkness does do G-d's work after all, eh?" I leaned toward him reassuringly.
"Some would say so," his voice drifted off as it often does when he thinks too long about his past.
He had forgotten that he was still naked but I hadn't. And somehow, his story telling always, particularly the ones with the wistful endings, touch something in me. I looked at him at that moment and realized why Gwen was so encouraging of this relationship. Two leaders can't rescue one another – every Batman needs an Alfred. "C'mon," I said while nuzzling against his neck, "time to dry clean the cape." He turned and looked at me questioningly. I caressed his chin and lower lip, "This humbled servant needs to be brought a back to the fold." I kissed him.
His pensive moods, when he seems most lost in his thoughts, memories and regrets are the best times to drink from his soul. Everyone thinks Jack is at his best when he simulating an animated action figure molded from some Marvel comic. They miss the sheer beauty in the subtlety. His heart doesn't so much sing but croons like Sinatra talking to that Joe the bartender. His lips against my skin tell of desperate loneliness, his hands grasping my body speak of painful losses, and when he enters me I sense his savoring moments long gone and well before my time. But, in the end, I am the addicted one. Glenn Campbell may be a funny music choice for a Welshman but the words to Wichita Lineman made sense:
I am a lineman for the county.
And I drive the main road.
Searching in the sun for another overload.
I hear you singing in the wire.
I can hear you thru the whine.
And the Wichita Lineman,
is still on the line.
. . . And I need you more than want you.
And I want you for all time.
And the Wichita Lineman,
is still on the line.
He was lying atop of me, raining kisses and nibbles around my chest back up to me ears where I am most sensitive. "What do you want the most out of tonight, Ianto Jones?" Jack said with a strong, husky tone.
"To surrender." Male sex is so raw, dirty, delicious.
The iPod was still playing. Was he thinking of these lyrics from Nine Inch Nail's Closer as he opened the tube of lube?
You let me violate you
You let me desecrate you
You let me penetrate you
You let me complicate you
I heard him take in a ragged breath before switching off all the lights, allowing moonlight to illuminate the shadows through the open patio door. His smile just adds to it. I sigh and completely relax, anticipating. Briskly, he turned me over, pressing my head down into the pillow while simultaneously pulling my ass up and inserting a greased finger in my puckered hole. "Ah finally," I thought as I enjoyed that exquisite burning sensation. Jack held still as in my sphincter became accustom to the expansion and I relaxed it, as he taught me many months before. Then he made slow circles to widen the opening to ready me for him. This slow build up is as much for me as it is for him. The tease drives me insane and makes me rock against his hand. Jack likes the control one gets from pleasing one's partner. He chuckled and inserted a second finger, which makes me moan, quite loud. He rubbed my back and moved his now three fingers in and out. This what I want the waves of sensual tension that build and shatter like ocean waves around a surfer.
Help me; I broke apart my insides
Help me; I've got no soul to sell
Help me; the only thing that works for me
Help me get away from myself
He waits for me to be nearly shattered and withdraws from me. This makes me whimper, "Jack."
He leans toward my ear, "Do you dream of my cock inside you? Of feeling the pressure, the pleasure of being filled by me?" He turned me over briskly again. Lying on my back now, Jack looked deeply into my eyes, his face dark and somewhat foreboding. He positioned his member at my entrance, already greased, harder than steel and smooth as a sea pebble.
I wanna fuck you like an animal
I wanna feel you from the inside
I wanna fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
He spreads my legs and enters me swiftly, causing my hips to rise to greet him. I closed my eyes and enjoy the sensations. Jack has girth and more than significant length. With it, he finds that spot inside of me that makes me quiver, shake and, although I hate to admit it, fall more in love with him than I already am. "Ah baby, it's so nice, so nice . . . ," I cried. I began stroking my own cock, slowly at first then briskly. Opening my eyes briefly, I saw his head fall back, mouth agap, occasionally biting his lower lip. Who was really surrendering?
Help me tear down my reason
Help me; it's your sex I can smell
Help me; you make me perfect
Help me become somebody else
The waves returned and grew into a raging storm in my ass. I let go of my cock to clinch Jack's hips. This does not stop my ejaculation as the real orgasmic surge came from deep within that part of me that is connected to Jack. Each time we cum together like this, I feel a little closer, more a part of him. I smile, looking up at him panting and sweaty. For a brief moment, I catch something in eyes. Typically he will pull out after he cums and make a quick get away, denying me the chance to read it his thoughts fully. But this time, I caught his arm in a firm grip, "Don't leave just yet."
I finally saw the look, the one he didn't want me to see – sadness. I couldn't understand it. Had I done something wrong? Why would such a beautiful, passionate moment bring pain to those lovely blue eyes? He started to pull away again, but I held firm. Eventually, he simply sagged in his body and looked down shamefully. "This relationship . . . I don't know what to do with it."
"You don't have to do anything." I pulled him in my arms and we laid down together. He nuzzled against my chest and soon was asleep.
You get me closer to G-d
Through every forest, above the trees
Within my stomach, scraped off my knees
I drink the honey inside your hive
You are the reason I stay alive
I awoke the next morning to find my suit and freshly polished shoes hung nearby the bed like a street signal. Jack was sitting on a patio lounge chair, showered and drinking coffee in a robe while dreaming off into the distance. "Gwen called. Those rift readings are getting weirder by the minute," he took a sip from the cup. "No time for breakfast, Ianto. We've got to get back." He jumped up and headed toward the inner room. He must have noticed my quizzical look, because he stopped briefly and whispered in my ear, "And yes, I had a good time too."
I smiled at him then nodded. There was only so far he was going to let me in at any given time. That's okay. As long as I'm not eaten by some alien, or blown away in a sonic blast or killed by some surgical device salvaged from the rift by Owen, I reckon I've got time to wait and learn. I'm a patient man.