This is a Lie

Title: Lots of Things you can do with a Stopwatch
Fandom: Torchwood
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. I am not affiliated with the television series Torchwood, nor any of the cast and crew. No harm is intended. It’s all just for fun.
Character(s): Jack, Ianto
Word Count: 800 (est)
Rating: 13 and up
Warnings: Nothing you haven’t seen on Torchwood already
Summary: This probably isn’t what they were doing with the stopwatch, either.

Author’s Note: For Lana’s birthday.

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IANTO: If you’re interested… I’ve still got that stopwatch.
JACK: So?
IANTO: Well. Well, think about it. Lots of things you can do with a stopwatch.
JACK: Oh, yeah. I can think of a few.
IANTO: There’s quite a list.
JACK: I’ll send the others home early. See you in my office in ten.
IANTO: That’s ten minutes (click stopwatch) and counting.
IANTO: Oh, Jack? (Jack pauses, turns to look back) What do you want me to say on the death certificate? (Watch still ticking in the background, audibly)
JACK: Good question.
IANTO: She had quite a few deaths in the end.
JACK: I don’t know. Death by Torchwood.
IANTO: I’ll put a lock on the door, just in case she goes walking again.
JACK: Nah, no chance of that. The resurrection days are over, thank God. (He starts off again)
IANTO: Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure. That’s the thing about gloves, sir. (Jack pauses) They come in pairs. (Jack looks back at him; Ianto looks down at the clipboard. Jack walks off.)

Jack is standing in his office with his back to the door when Ianto steps into Jack’s office. Jack pours himself a drink.

Ianto presses the button on the stopwatch. “Thirteen minutes, five seconds,” he says.”

I should punish you for being three minutes and five seconds late.” He doesn’t turn. He’s half-smiling, still looking at the shelf and the decanter of whiskey.

Ianto wipes a fingerprint from the face of the stopwatch. “Should you?” he asks very seriously. Ianto transfers the stopwatch to his left hand and stands very still. He clears his throat and Jack turns around.

Jack takes a sip of the whiskey and puts the glass down.

“You sure you want to do this?” He asks, one eyebrow raised.

“I am, Sir. I’m very sure.”

Jack slides the braces from his shoulders and unbuttons his shirt. “Probably fulfilling some fantasy of office workers everywhere, huh?” Ianto’s lips curl into a hint of a smile.

Jack takes his shirt off and hands it to Ianto. Ianto folds it and places it on Jack’s desk while Jack grabs the collar of his undershirt and removes it and hands it to Ianto as well.

“Shoes and socks, Sir.”

Jack rolls his eyes in mock irritation. “If I’d known you were going to be so demanding I never would have asked you.” Regardless, he balances first on one foot and then the other, tucks his socks inside his shoes, and hands the pair to Ianto.

Ianto shrugs one shoulder. “I believe I’m the one who made the offer, Captain. I’m also the one who would have to clean up any mess we leave. I’d just like to make my job easier.”

Naked to the waist, Jack puts his hands on the buckle of his belt and flashes his best grin. “Want me to keep going?”

“No, that’ll be fine, Sir.” Ianto says and reaches into his jacket, withdrawing something from under his left arm. A small, low-calibre pistol is in his right hand. In one practised motion the gun is armed, aimed, and fired.

Jack gasps as the bullet pierces flesh and shatters against bone.

Undaunted, Ianto fires again. The bullet lands true, tearing through a section of Jack’s heart. Jack drops to his knees and then collapses face down.

Ianto presses the button to start the timer, then kneels next to him and runs his fingers over the odd lump of the bullet; as Ianto had suspected, the velocity was too low for it to go all the way through, even at such close range.

Seconds tick by.

At forty-seven seconds, the lump of remaining bullet turns red and swells. The bullet pushes out slowly until it’s free from Jack’s body, leaving behind a wet, ragged hole. The bullet rolls off and lands on the floor with a mute tok.

Ten more seconds, and Ianto can see movement under the skin of Jack’s back. Muscle and organs and nerves and bones all reknitting themselves. New skin forms over the wound, weaving in pink and shiny and tight. In the blink of an eye it toughens and loses its colour and sheen until there’s no indication there was ever a mark there.

At one minute-twelve, Jack plants his hands on the floor and does a push-up as he gasps for air. He’s on his knees two seconds later, his hands on Ianto’s shoulders and a manic look in his eyes. There’s a large bruise, gun shot residue, and sticky blood on his chest where the bullets entered.

The first bullet - the one that lodged in his ribs - is on the floor beneath him. Ianto picks up both of them and puts them in the breast pocket of his jacket. There’s surprisingly little blood on the floor, which pleases him.

“So?” Jack pants, grinning like an idiot.

“One minute, fourteen seconds, Sir.” Ianto shows him the stopwatch.

“Excellent,” he says. He forces himself to breathe normally, but he can’t get the smile off his face. “Wanna see how long it takes for arsenic to kill me?”