Road Trip, and a Bit of Bonding
“I don’t know what’s worse, Jack,” Ianto Jones called out over the sound of loud air gushing in the front window of their rented trailer, “... the fact that you thought you could fly her or the fact that she wouldn’t let you.”
“Shut up Ianto. She’s worried about him, that’s why. Just... just shut it, all right?”
“And you’re not? Look at you! You’re worse than Owen without his morning cuppa.”
The stick grew sluggish. The car swerved; Ianto dodged Jack’s fist.
“You know, if I didn’t know better, and I don’t, I’d almost think you still loved him.”
“Whatever you want to believe, Ianto. Just... try not to mention Owen while I’m driving a European car. He’s dead. We don’t like dead, remember? Besides, the Doctor doesn’t have my panache with a gun.”
“Don’t be so modest, sir. Your skill doesn’t stop there. And how do you know? Have you ever seen the man handle a firearm?”
Jack leaned over to kiss Ianto Jones on the mouth, just to shut him up. Of course, the kiss turned into two, then a bit of friendly touching, and soon the car was swerving again, skidding to the right, to the left, streaking back and forth up the Autobahn and leaving a few too many streaks zigzagging rubber to explain with any decency to the authorities, should they happen by. Despite their hands tangling in the steering wheel and each other’s hair, clothing, ties...both men managed to get a car door open and fall into a life-saving roll onto the pavement. But the two ex lovers could only watch as their doomed rental wrapped itself around a thick, sturdy black apple some fifteen feet from where they’d landed. Still, the bloody blue Ship they’d been hauling behind them was sitting close to the wreckage, affecting something resembling inculpable innocence and humming along sedately as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She was so going to tell The Doctor about this... damn her. Nice to see she still had her sense of humour, at least.
Ianto stood up first; then looked at Jack. “Jack?” he asked softly.
The man didn’t answer.
Captain Jack Harkness was lying on his face in the road. With an inward groan, Ianto stifled the desire to reach for him, to caress his cheek; instead, he merely opened his mouth.
And it was enough, thank god.
“Marmph. Marumph! mrrr. Marrrr! Maaaarr!”
Jack’s hands curled, twitching in a perfect imitation of an ancient martial stranglehold.
“I take that as a possible, then,” said the Welshman dryly as he offered his boss with the pretty arse a hand.
Jack’s face had scraped itself off onto the hot asphalt; his chin and mouth were a molten ruin of blood and lacerated ribbons of skin. Most of his nose was blackened by steaming tar, and there were splotchy red streaks of burned flesh where his left cheek had been. Thankfully, Jack being Jack, every trace of injury would heal within minutes. Ianto thanked god again as he led the Captain in through the double TARDIS doors, which were hanging ajar. Served him right, didn’t it? Stupid man, always trying to defy the facts, he thought to himself, and just for a moment, the lights in the console room flickered in pattern so briefly, almost in code. It was as if she were agreeing with him.
But that’s why we love them, Ianto Jones. Because they Can.