Captain Jack Harkness is not the sort of man you would deem 'inexperienced'.

He's screwed, shagged, had sex, got laid, made love, fucked, done it, got it on and bonked more times than even he can count.

He's not a notches on the bedpost sort of a guy. Which is probably a good thing. If he was, the bedpost would have so many notches it would have long since been whittled down to a toothpick.

He is always amazed at how different people can be in bed. Well, not necessarily in bed – that's one difference in itself. Different people have different styles, different moves, different fantasies… and Jack is never bored by them.

Still, there are quite a few similarities, as is to be expected. One of the nicest things about sex for him is those few universal consistencies. For example, the genital area is usually somehow involved. Usually. There are some weird species out there.

Another consistency is the kissing. All humans love kissing, that's a given. But each different race that Jack has been with had some form of kissing – a kind of facial contact less crude and much more tender than the act of sex itself. It's there to remind the two that they love each other.

And Jack does love almost everyone he has sex with. Truly, he does.

He just happens to be a very, very big-hearted guy.

Still, Jack reckons that some of the similarities he's noticed in sex have something to do with him in some way. Like the compliments. Almost every time that he screws someone new, they compliment him in some way. Sometimes it's the technique. Other times it's the bedside manner. Often – and Jack can't help but agree – it's the genital area.

But one thing does crop up more often than all the others. His smell.

"God! You smell amazing, Jack!"

"That smell…"

"How do you smell so good?"

Sometimes Jack wishes he could smell himself, just to see what all the fuss is about.

Well, he knows what the fuss is about. Fifty-first century pheromones. He loves them. They mean he doesn't need to bother with cologne and the like, and yet he'll still smell the best in a pub.

He never lets slip the secrets of his smell. Well, he couldn't. He can't just blab to everyone he shags that he's from about three thousand years into their future. No one would believe him, anyway. And if they did believe him, well, that was a whole new set of problems in itself.

But now…

There's this guy he's just met. Jones, Ianto Jones. Literally just met him the other night.

He was helping Jack fight a weevil, of all things. This person he'd never met – a Welsh boy, for God's sake – was fighting off a weevil with him as if they'd known each their whole lives.

They'd got it, in the end, together. He'd seen Jack's wounds heal before his eyes, and he'd called a weevil by it's name. He'd been sceptical of Jack's lies, and thrown cheek in the face of Jack's condescending lines. He could have been a very dangerous enemy.

So Jack had looked into this Ianto Jones. He soon found out that he was nothing more than a Welsh boy who, until recently, had worked as a junior researcher at Torchwood One. There was no threat there. He probably thought he knew more than Jack, anyway. Most from One were like that.

He hadn't thought anymore about him until he'd rocked up on the front doorstep of the hub. This by itself worried Jack.

He'd come bearing coffee. Jack wasn't quite sure why, but he'd taken it anyway. It was ridiculously stupid of him. It could have been poisoned – not too much of a problem for him – or worse, retconned. But it wasn't either. It had tasted good, really good. And it was at about this point in time that Jack had realised how outstandingly attractive this strange young Welsh boy was.

But it wasn't the time to think those sort of thoughts. Jones was trying to ween himself a job at Torchwood Three.

"I want to work for you."

"Sorry, no vacancies."

Still, ever since their last meeting, Jack hasn't been able to get the pretty Welsh boy with a nice accent and a nicer arse out of his head.

And now he's on the coms to his team. And he's in the SUV. And he's driving at night, and he's sill on the coms, and he's still thinking about the Welsh boy…

And then, there he is. Right there – Jones – in the middle of the road, like a deer in headlights. And suddenly, Jack's angry at the apparent-stalker that knows his way around coffee too well for his own good. And he's rolling his eyes, and he's groaning, and he's striding out of the SUV, and he's slamming the door as he goes. And he's yelling at the boy who, of course, is not really a boy at all…

"…I don't have time for this. Look, I don't care what your problem is, but I want you out of this city by sunrise. There is no place for you here. Go back to London, find yourself another life. Keep stalking me, and I'll wipe your memory…"

"…No, but the thing is…"

"…Look, any conversation between us, no matter what the subject, is over, finished, done. Forever. I'm getting back behind the wheel of that car, if you're still standing in the road, I'm going to drive through you…"

And then Jones announces that he's found a pterodactyl. Just there; in the middle of the road, against the rain and the hum of the SUV engine, Jones mutters it just loud enough for Jack to hear.

And Jack stops in his tracks.

And Ianto Jones gets into the car. And there's dead silence as they drive. Not an uncomfortable silence, not an angry silence… not even a contemplative silence.

Just a silence.

And now they're at a warehouse in the middle of nowhere, and Jones tells Jack that it's inside. And they set up just outside the warehouse, and Jack gets out a tranquiliser and fits it into a large needle, and he and Jones argue.

And then they run into the warehouse. And there is a pterodactyl, and it seems so... real. And it flaps towards them, shrieking it's lungs out. And they realise how unarmed they are, and how unready they are. And Jones says something Jack doesn't quite hear before they retreat back outside.

And they lean against the door. And Jack's running on adrenaline, and he's sure from the panting that Jones is, too. And the freezing air swipes at their faces, and they're half-ecstatic, half-terrified.

"It's quite excitable." Jack admits eventually, with a laugh. Jones snickers.

"Must be your aftershave."

And Jack grins. He hasn't even got the kid into bed yet, and he's already complimenting the smell.

"Never wear any." Jack falls back into automatic, the usual routine.

"You smell like that naturally?" asks Jones. His face is alight with the usual sexually-orientated fascination. And Jack knows what's going on in the Welshman's head. He's wondering what it would be like to just pin Jack down and have his way with him, right there.

That was how powerful the pheromones were.

Except…

Jack doesn't feel the usual satisfaction he usually derives from knowing that, sooner or later, this person will be more than willing to put out for him. It just brings a kind of tired self-pity.

And even though he knows the idea will bore him by the time he gets back to the hub, for a moment he's just sick of being such a bastard.

And he's tired of manipulation. He doesn't want it anymore. He wants to have sex because they both really want to have sex, not because he was born smelling good.

And he realises that this man – Welsh or not – has been through so much. The fall of Torchwood One before his eyes, the death of a girlfriend, the Cybermen. No one deserved that, least of all so young.

Jack's mouth has already formed a reply – the usual 'yep'. But he shakes himself.

"Fifty-first century pheromones," he admits. "People have no idea."

And there's no explosion, or shocked gasp from Ianto Jones. There's just a vague; 'Oh'.

And Jack realises happily that there might still be a change to hire Ianto Jones. To make him a part of Jack's life.

And to get him into bed.

"Ready for another go?"

"I'm game if you are."

"Three… two… one…"

And, laughing and smiling, armed only with an enormous needle, they run back into the warehouse together.