Disclaimer: I don't own Ianto, Jack or Torchwood.
*.*.*
Standing on a darkened stage,
Stumbling through the lines.
Others have excuses.
I have my reasons why.
-Nickel Creek
*.*.*
I don't even recognize myself anymore.
I know that the things I do are necessary. I'll never be able to save Lisa without all of this deception. Harkness would put a bullet in her skull and mine before he'd help. He's been clear on his stance about the Cybermen, even if Lisa isn't.
It's not enough to hide her in the lower levels and hope nobody ever wanders down there. The conversion unit—no, life support unit—was a massive energy drain, even on the Hub's grid. Lights have been flickering on and off for over a week now and, even though I said I was taking care of it, I'm not always here. The Captain never seems to leave—surely he has a flat somewhere?—and it just takes one flickering light bulb in the dead of night to send a curious man on an investigation.
No, it wasn't enough to just hope no one notices. I lied constantly. I'd always been a fairly honest bloke. Once, as a teen, I'd been bullied into stealing a pocket knife—come on, ickle Ianto, show us you're not a poncey little baby!—but I'd barely made it out of the shop before I had to turn myself in, confessing to the cashier with tears dripping down my face. But now…now, lies drip from my tongue like honey.
I lie about everything. I don't like going home to an empty flat, so I don't mind working late. I couldn't get back to sleep, sir, so I thought I'd see to Myfanwy's training. No, my girlfriend died in the Battle, was electrocuted by a Dalek. My dad was a tailor, sir, so I'm more comfortable in the suits.
It was a job in itself, to keep track of the stories I've told. It's exhausting. It's all exhausting. I'll never mention it—not now and not when she's better—but looking after Lisa is…horrible. Half the time, when the pain is just too much, she just cries. The other half, she's so distant it breaks my heart. I know it's just a way to cope with everything, but it's like…she isn't even there anymore. I'm so alone and I don't know how much longer I can handle it.
I've already been pushed farther than I thought I could. Lies only go so far, especially with someone like Harkness.
I needed—need—him distracted. I need him not to question my actions, my motives. He's already suspicious of me because I come from Director Hartman's regime and I suspect he's worked out that I kept the pterodactyl in that warehouse. I should have thought it through better than to outright declare it liked dark chocolate. It was an amateur mistake. But, well, I am an amateur.
After lies came flirting. It was easy, with the blatant innuendo that Harkness put into ever sentence. Flirting didn't last nearly as long as I had planned. He was like…a predator, almost, once I started. When I was in the Hub proper, he was everywhere, with casual touches and inappropriate suggestions.
He started following me up to the Tourist Office, too, which really, was better. So few people even bothered coming inside, but down in the Hub, there was always someone about to make a smart-arse or to shoot me a cheeky look.
But it had to stop when he followed me down to the Archives. That is entirely too close for comfort. Too dangerous.
It's how I came to be where I am right now, in on my knees in the Captain's office. Jack's office. The concrete is cold and the thin wool of my trousers is doing nothing to add to my comfort. I'm so nervous, so afraid, so inexplicably, irrationally turned on.
I've barely touched him and Jack's coming undone. His long legs are splayed to either side of me and he's panting like he's run miles.
My name is a litany on his lips, always sounding not quite right in his flat, American accent, but arousing nonetheless. Ianto, Ianto. Oh, god. Please, Ianto.
I've never touched another man, not like this, but it's more of a rush than I'd have thought. And Jack…he's just so beautiful. His hair is tousled, sticking up in all directions. His eyes are dark and his hips—slimmer than I thought they were—are rocking slightly in my hands.
Faced with him like this—wanton, vulnerable—I suddenly want to be good at this. Not just to protect Lisa, my poor, sweet Lisa, but to just…be the reason someone feels good. With Lisa, the best I can make her feel is numb. But Jack, even through all the lies and deception I've thrown his way these few weeks, I can make him scream with pleasure.
He moans when my mouth wraps around him. And oh God, I can feel his heartbeat against my tongue. As hard as he is, his cock is more yielding than I would have imagined, when I press my flattened tongue along the pulsing underside. Fearful of gagging—the last thing I want to do is kill the mood—I hardly move at all, just explore him with my tongue.
Jack has no complaints—at least, not ones that he verbalizes. He seems beyond speech, which makes me feel absurdly proud of myself. He comes with a shout, his hips lifted from his office chair and his fingers clawing at my hair.
I spit into a half-empty cup of cold coffee and take a long gulp of my own lukewarm brew, letting the bitterness wash away the taste.
I stand to tidy my clothes, willfully ignoring both my own erection and Jack's lazy, satisfied smile, and catch my own reflection in the door glass.
I don't recognize myself anymore. But I find I care less and less.
*.*.*
A/N: The prompt was "reasons." Thanks for reading.