Part 1 of Uncomfortable Realizations
Title: The Uncomfortable Moment in Which Jack Realizes He Has Tasted a Grande Soy Latte, and Others.
Rating: PG
Genre: Slash
Summary: Jack realizes, after decades upon decades, what his real problem is, and it wasn't what he would have thought. (Companion piece to Ianto's uncomfortable moment.)
Jack's main problem in life is simple, and when the thought occurs to him, it surprises him to realize it's not exactly what he would have thought it'd be. No, Jack's biggest problem in life is this: No one does what he wants them do. No one listens or follows directions. Not ever.
He suspects most people feel they have this same problem; but, sadly, the difference is people simply ought to be doing what Jack wants, especially in 21st century Cardiff.
Idly, Jack wonders if part of the issue isn't his American accent. Given the political climate of the past eight years -- or, say, the past 68 years -- he can hardly be surprised at the vaguely ruthless glances he receives any time he opens his mouth in public; made all the more pointed, of course, in contrast to the very different looks he'd usually been enjoying just prior to speaking. So, yes, he'd just quietly sighed and lifted one irritated corner of his mouth upon discovering some horrendously scalding concoction in his mouth -- the cup marked Grade Soy Latte upon closer inspection -- after ordering a simple coffee. It had only been the driving desperation of an all-day field hunt that had persuaded Jack into a Starbucks in the first place; he tended to avoid the mundane gathering places of ordinary life, but desperate times and all that. At least he had appreciated the irony that his unwelcome vowels had generated in the Welsh barrista within the extremely crowded "Seattle" coffeehouse.
Sadly, though, Jack knows there must be more to things than that. Because even the people paid to listen to him on a regular basis, those who put on the occasional passion play of listening to him, clearly DO NOT LISTEN. And, not in any ordinary way of not listening; no, those people turn their disobedience into theatrical spectacle.
Jack is not certain if the trend toward dissent simply began to hit its stride with Susie, but she may as well have moonwalked her way up the lift and out the front door with her lone glittering glove.
And, all he had asked of her was to not take her work home with her, for her own sake.
Hell, at this point, chemistry itself seems to turn its nose up to Jack. The retcon, which should have parlayed his instruction into the fact of a puzzling but easily dismissed blurry evening, simply turned its back on its own purpose. Sorry, Jack, not this time. See, we know that you expect this Gwen character to lose the past 24 hours, but... well, not so much.
Tosh, bloody Owen, the child in the forrest, faeries, mind-reading aliens, lovers, twisted up humans, not a one made the slightest move to follow a single order (though Jack may really have started to get nervous had this last been the only creatures in the universe to take his direction). And, although it is no laughing matter, and Jack knows this, he peevishly thinks to himself that it is no wonder he is sometimes a little happy with the gun. And even then, the chances of compliance remain depressingly low.
But no one -- not even the Doctor, who had dismissed so completely every plaintive, bald request Jack had made: Keep me, Take me, Validate me -- no one had ever not listened to him, not done what he wanted, the way Ianto Jones had NOT.
And, worse still, all the while he was utterly, universally, violently not listening to Jack, Ianto Jones had been gorgeously misdirecting every movement and word to make it appear as though he were actually listening to Jack.
Though he is marginally ashamed and even amused to admit that he had not really regarded Ianto beyond the extemporaneous, Jack thinks -- had someone asked -- he might have said, "Ianto: Yes, at least there is one person who might not not be listening to me."
Jack does not know, now that he does regard Ianto, whether his assistant has ever done a single thing Jack has directly put to him. Even bloody Owen, on occasion, manages to dissect the odd unclassified body in the morgue. (Though, Jack must also acknowledge to himself this is probably more because his purpose and bloody Owen's happen to coincide on some subjects. Still.)
But Ianto... No, even the bantering flirtation Jack produces with less than 1% of his consciousness is met entirely with cloaked disobedience from one Mr. Jones.
Jack, smiling with one million teeth: Ianto, if I drop my carton of yellow curry with lamb in the next few moments, will you bend over in front of me to pick it up? Suggestive eyebrow waggle.
Ianto, straightening from behind a nearby desk where he has been gathering several days worth of used newspapers: No, Sir. Innocent yet mildly suggestive grin, exit stage left, newspapers in hand.
Now Jack wonders if he would ever recall those throw-away moments between himself and Ianto, had he not made the startling realization re: The Central Quagmire of His Life.
He also wonders if he would have been so fortunate -- or not, depending on one's mood -- to have stumbled across this clarifying epiphany had he not been caught behind what surely constituted the two worst drivers in all the known galaxies. He'd honked, three times, momentarily lost his temper, cursed, shouted out clear -- and then increasingly colorful and creative -- driving instructions to the cars in his way.
It is at this point he thinks, "How much better would this world be if everyone just followed my instructions?"
In the next moment, before it dawns upon him that this lack of discipline really is the ultimate problem in his life, Jack suddenly loses all his transient ire, smiles, realizes that after untold years, untold vehicles, inestimable travel, something totally new about himself: He has road rage. And occasionally, even occasionally, heroes get caught up in traffic.
He barks out one unsuppressable grunt of laughter, followed by another a second later, the second in which he sees that it's Ianto -- not the Doctor and not Susie and not even bloody Owen -- who had bizarrely not listened to him the most of any sentient creature he has ever met.
Jack laughs one more time as he realizes this could be why he has started to really, really like Ianto Jones.
( Fic Index)
Rating: PG
Genre: Slash
Summary: Jack realizes, after decades upon decades, what his real problem is, and it wasn't what he would have thought. (Companion piece to Ianto's uncomfortable moment.)
Jack's main problem in life is simple, and when the thought occurs to him, it surprises him to realize it's not exactly what he would have thought it'd be. No, Jack's biggest problem in life is this: No one does what he wants them do. No one listens or follows directions. Not ever.
He suspects most people feel they have this same problem; but, sadly, the difference is people simply ought to be doing what Jack wants, especially in 21st century Cardiff.
Idly, Jack wonders if part of the issue isn't his American accent. Given the political climate of the past eight years -- or, say, the past 68 years -- he can hardly be surprised at the vaguely ruthless glances he receives any time he opens his mouth in public; made all the more pointed, of course, in contrast to the very different looks he'd usually been enjoying just prior to speaking. So, yes, he'd just quietly sighed and lifted one irritated corner of his mouth upon discovering some horrendously scalding concoction in his mouth -- the cup marked Grade Soy Latte upon closer inspection -- after ordering a simple coffee. It had only been the driving desperation of an all-day field hunt that had persuaded Jack into a Starbucks in the first place; he tended to avoid the mundane gathering places of ordinary life, but desperate times and all that. At least he had appreciated the irony that his unwelcome vowels had generated in the Welsh barrista within the extremely crowded "Seattle" coffeehouse.
Sadly, though, Jack knows there must be more to things than that. Because even the people paid to listen to him on a regular basis, those who put on the occasional passion play of listening to him, clearly DO NOT LISTEN. And, not in any ordinary way of not listening; no, those people turn their disobedience into theatrical spectacle.
Jack is not certain if the trend toward dissent simply began to hit its stride with Susie, but she may as well have moonwalked her way up the lift and out the front door with her lone glittering glove.
And, all he had asked of her was to not take her work home with her, for her own sake.
Hell, at this point, chemistry itself seems to turn its nose up to Jack. The retcon, which should have parlayed his instruction into the fact of a puzzling but easily dismissed blurry evening, simply turned its back on its own purpose. Sorry, Jack, not this time. See, we know that you expect this Gwen character to lose the past 24 hours, but... well, not so much.
Tosh, bloody Owen, the child in the forrest, faeries, mind-reading aliens, lovers, twisted up humans, not a one made the slightest move to follow a single order (though Jack may really have started to get nervous had this last been the only creatures in the universe to take his direction). And, although it is no laughing matter, and Jack knows this, he peevishly thinks to himself that it is no wonder he is sometimes a little happy with the gun. And even then, the chances of compliance remain depressingly low.
But no one -- not even the Doctor, who had dismissed so completely every plaintive, bald request Jack had made: Keep me, Take me, Validate me -- no one had ever not listened to him, not done what he wanted, the way Ianto Jones had NOT.
And, worse still, all the while he was utterly, universally, violently not listening to Jack, Ianto Jones had been gorgeously misdirecting every movement and word to make it appear as though he were actually listening to Jack.
Though he is marginally ashamed and even amused to admit that he had not really regarded Ianto beyond the extemporaneous, Jack thinks -- had someone asked -- he might have said, "Ianto: Yes, at least there is one person who might not not be listening to me."
Jack does not know, now that he does regard Ianto, whether his assistant has ever done a single thing Jack has directly put to him. Even bloody Owen, on occasion, manages to dissect the odd unclassified body in the morgue. (Though, Jack must also acknowledge to himself this is probably more because his purpose and bloody Owen's happen to coincide on some subjects. Still.)
But Ianto... No, even the bantering flirtation Jack produces with less than 1% of his consciousness is met entirely with cloaked disobedience from one Mr. Jones.
Jack, smiling with one million teeth: Ianto, if I drop my carton of yellow curry with lamb in the next few moments, will you bend over in front of me to pick it up? Suggestive eyebrow waggle.
Ianto, straightening from behind a nearby desk where he has been gathering several days worth of used newspapers: No, Sir. Innocent yet mildly suggestive grin, exit stage left, newspapers in hand.
Now Jack wonders if he would ever recall those throw-away moments between himself and Ianto, had he not made the startling realization re: The Central Quagmire of His Life.
He also wonders if he would have been so fortunate -- or not, depending on one's mood -- to have stumbled across this clarifying epiphany had he not been caught behind what surely constituted the two worst drivers in all the known galaxies. He'd honked, three times, momentarily lost his temper, cursed, shouted out clear -- and then increasingly colorful and creative -- driving instructions to the cars in his way.
It is at this point he thinks, "How much better would this world be if everyone just followed my instructions?"
In the next moment, before it dawns upon him that this lack of discipline really is the ultimate problem in his life, Jack suddenly loses all his transient ire, smiles, realizes that after untold years, untold vehicles, inestimable travel, something totally new about himself: He has road rage. And occasionally, even occasionally, heroes get caught up in traffic.
He barks out one unsuppressable grunt of laughter, followed by another a second later, the second in which he sees that it's Ianto -- not the Doctor and not Susie and not even bloody Owen -- who had bizarrely not listened to him the most of any sentient creature he has ever met.
Jack laughs one more time as he realizes this could be why he has started to really, really like Ianto Jones.
( Fic Index)