Need

by Gmariam

OWEN: Don't compare yourself to me. You're just a tea boy. IANTO: I'm much more than that. Jack needs me. OWEN: In your dreams, Ianto. In your sad wet dreams when you're his part-time shag, maybe. Nine ways in which Jack might have needed Ianto, and the one in which he actually did.

6. Chapter 6

Author's Note:
This is a work of fiction, and not my usual. It is completely tongue-in-cheek, at least until the end. There are references to multiple addictions in these drabbles. Please heed the following tags: sex, drugs, gambling, dom/sub. No offense is meant and I hope none will be taken. I hope you will read it as it was meant to be read: with a laugh, a smile, a slightly uncomfortable frown, perhaps a sad sigh, and maybe an occasional "Awww!"

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VI.

Christ, he hated this. And loved it. The wait, the nerves, the anticipation. The highs, the lows. Winning, losing. There were worse vices than gambling, he supposed, but sometimes Jack wished he'd taken up smoking instead. Light a fag, inhale, exhale, done.

Then again, he had an incredible bookie who had almost doubled his money. There had been that one major loss when Ianto had been on suspension, but the Welshman been mourning his dead girlfriend, and Jack had been more than willing to overlook the cost. What was ten thousand pounds when he had every confidence Ianto would get it back for him?

Jack loved watching Ianto work. Never mind that he had to turn a blind eye to the fact that one of his employees was working the alien gambling circuit in an illegal underground pub, because Ianto was brilliant. At everything—at working the room, running the numbers, playing the game. All of it. Booking let Ianto use his gift without gambling anyone's life. And he loved it too, Jack could tell. Ianto Jones was a conman at heart. How else had he managed to sneak his half-converted lover into the Hub and keep her secret for so long?

Sometimes Jack wondered if his obsession was about the money or about Ianto. It wasn't as if he needed the money, and there were better highs than winning a spot of cash, but there was something incredibly sexy about Ianto Jones sipping a martini as he worked, confident and assertive. Something that Jack found almost irresistible. He needed Ianto far more than he needed the money they won.

Sometimes Jack wondered if Ianto was playing with him as much as he was playing with the money, seducing Jack with every raise of that eyebrow, every quirk of those lips, every twist of those hips. And he wished the game would end soon, because tumbling Ianto into bed would be a win for them both.