TW -- Being Jack
Title: Being Jack
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto (as a subset of Jack/Everyone)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 519
Warnings: sketchiness, crack, a very specific reference to 2.1
Summary: "Jack," Ianto says slowly. "What's it like being you?"
Author's Note: I'm strongly considering doing an entire series of "(Gerund) Jack" ficlets. Extra-special thank you to eltea and richelle2972 for being my read-aloud test audience. XD
BEING JACK
Because someone who will go nameless (Owen) saw fit to forget a barbecue-chicken sandwich on his desk overnight, Jack and Ianto are picking up and sorting the impressively large quantity of loose paperwork that Myfanwy was kind enough to redistribute around the entire Hub. Jack has considered and rejected several topical come-ons, because there is something inherently not-sexy about papercuts, but he hasn’t given up just yet.
“Jack,” Ianto says slowly, and Jack drops the list of strip clubs with the detailed, color-coded comments. “What’s it like being you?”
Jack pauses. He has anticipated this question for a long time, and for a long time, he has struggled with strategies for answering. He has a few ideas, though, and Ianto’s waiting, so he picks one at random and runs with it.
“Do you like puppies?” he asks.
Ianto stares at him. A Post-It note slips out of the pile of papers in his hands and drifts to the floor.
“Everyone likes puppies,” Jack decides, forging on. “So imagine you’re in a room full of puppies-all kinds of puppies, dozens and dozens of them. And all of them are adorable. Even the ones that aren’t as cute on the outside run up and lick your hands and give you big ol’ puppy eyes, so all of them matter, and they’re all different, and you just never want to leave. You want to get to know all the puppies and play with all of them, but then someone comes in and says ‘You can only have one puppy. Just one. And you can never play with any of the others ever again, or at least not until the puppy that you choose dies.’” Jack runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it. “How is that fair? What about all the other puppies? They’re all fun to play with in different ways. Why do you have to pick one? Why can’t you just love all of the puppies for all of the things they are?”
Ianto blinks, which is a relief, because he’s been staring for so long that Jack was starting to think he’d gone into a coma standing up.
Is that even possible?
“I meant ‘What’s it like not being able to die?’” Ianto says.
Jack pauses.
“Oh,” he says. “It’s… weird. But convenient.”
“Ah,” Ianto says. He shuffles his stack of papers.
“I really like puppies,” Jack offers.
“At least you didn’t mention poodles,” Ianto replies, straightening the papers and setting them on Owen’s desk. He either hears or intuits Jack’s raised eyebrows and launches into an impression: “‘That’s gorgeous.’ ‘That’s a poodle.’ ‘’S nice!’”
Jack attempts to identify the accents. “Is that John?” Ianto’s smirk is enough of a reply, and Jack grins. “John,” he says, “is a very bad dog.”
Ianto looks at him, completely seriously. “Am I a good puppy, sir?”
Jack’s face is the only thing about him that’s remotely straight. “I think there’s a terrible doggy-style joke to be made here.”
Ianto chokes so badly that Jack has to go pound a fist on his back.
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto (as a subset of Jack/Everyone)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 519
Warnings: sketchiness, crack, a very specific reference to 2.1
Summary: "Jack," Ianto says slowly. "What's it like being you?"
Author's Note: I'm strongly considering doing an entire series of "(Gerund) Jack" ficlets. Extra-special thank you to eltea and richelle2972 for being my read-aloud test audience. XD
BEING JACK
Because someone who will go nameless (Owen) saw fit to forget a barbecue-chicken sandwich on his desk overnight, Jack and Ianto are picking up and sorting the impressively large quantity of loose paperwork that Myfanwy was kind enough to redistribute around the entire Hub. Jack has considered and rejected several topical come-ons, because there is something inherently not-sexy about papercuts, but he hasn’t given up just yet.
“Jack,” Ianto says slowly, and Jack drops the list of strip clubs with the detailed, color-coded comments. “What’s it like being you?”
Jack pauses. He has anticipated this question for a long time, and for a long time, he has struggled with strategies for answering. He has a few ideas, though, and Ianto’s waiting, so he picks one at random and runs with it.
“Do you like puppies?” he asks.
Ianto stares at him. A Post-It note slips out of the pile of papers in his hands and drifts to the floor.
“Everyone likes puppies,” Jack decides, forging on. “So imagine you’re in a room full of puppies-all kinds of puppies, dozens and dozens of them. And all of them are adorable. Even the ones that aren’t as cute on the outside run up and lick your hands and give you big ol’ puppy eyes, so all of them matter, and they’re all different, and you just never want to leave. You want to get to know all the puppies and play with all of them, but then someone comes in and says ‘You can only have one puppy. Just one. And you can never play with any of the others ever again, or at least not until the puppy that you choose dies.’” Jack runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it. “How is that fair? What about all the other puppies? They’re all fun to play with in different ways. Why do you have to pick one? Why can’t you just love all of the puppies for all of the things they are?”
Ianto blinks, which is a relief, because he’s been staring for so long that Jack was starting to think he’d gone into a coma standing up.
Is that even possible?
“I meant ‘What’s it like not being able to die?’” Ianto says.
Jack pauses.
“Oh,” he says. “It’s… weird. But convenient.”
“Ah,” Ianto says. He shuffles his stack of papers.
“I really like puppies,” Jack offers.
“At least you didn’t mention poodles,” Ianto replies, straightening the papers and setting them on Owen’s desk. He either hears or intuits Jack’s raised eyebrows and launches into an impression: “‘That’s gorgeous.’ ‘That’s a poodle.’ ‘’S nice!’”
Jack attempts to identify the accents. “Is that John?” Ianto’s smirk is enough of a reply, and Jack grins. “John,” he says, “is a very bad dog.”
Ianto looks at him, completely seriously. “Am I a good puppy, sir?”
Jack’s face is the only thing about him that’s remotely straight. “I think there’s a terrible doggy-style joke to be made here.”
Ianto chokes so badly that Jack has to go pound a fist on his back.