Disclaimer: Alas, earwax. I do not own Torchwood.

"Sin," bellowed Father Daffyd from behind his pulpit, "is an old archery term. It meant 'missing the mark.' For us, it means that we failed to achieve the goals the Almighty has set for us."

Ianto Jones, in his sombre, conservative suit, shifted uncomfortably in the pew. He swore Jack did this on purpose—that he was wilfully rougher in bed on Saturday night simply because he enjoyed the mental image of Ianto sitting sore and sated at church.

The priest, having given his parishioners enough time for the dramatic pause to sink in, continued. "Does that mean that our sins are trivial things? That we may shrug our shoulders and say 'Ah, well, I missed the mark there! Let's just try again!' and move on? No, it does not."

Sometimes, Ianto thought that Jack forgot not everyone lived forever, that other people were still anxious about eternal damnation. And he never did he forget more than on Sunday mornings when he dropped Ianto off with a playful grope and a lewd joke about altar boys.

"What it does tell us, however, is that the Lord views all sin as equally heinous. Whenever you sin, whenever you choose not to follow the path God has set for you, you are missing the mark. It does not matter how close your arrow landed nor how far away. You miss the target. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand-grenades."

Ianto reminded himself to check how many concussion grenades were still packed in the SUV. Tosh had used some to escape that nest of Weevils on Thursday night.

"When you stand before St Peter, you will receive judgement for each and every sin, no matter how trivial you make it to justify your wicked behaviour. Every sin is equal. Adultery." He looked pointedly around the room.

Not that one, the Welshman mused, yet.

"Lying."

Oh, eventually even St Peter would tire of archiving every lie that's passed my lips. Son of a Master Tailor, indeed.

"Stealing."

He was still very proud that he'd only been caught the once. He was a regular Artful Dodger in his younger days.

"Pride."

Ianto turned an involuntary chuckle into a snort, earning him a stern glare from the old woman across the aisle.

"Murder."

He tried to recall when he'd last been to confession. This list was starting to make him feel a bit guilty. He shifted in his seat, smothering a groan when soreness reminded him of all the glorious sinning he'd done the night before.

"Lust."

He did laugh then, hastily turning it into a cough when he felt eyes burning into him.

Father Daffyd was rambling on again, having given up his list for more fire and brimstone, but Ianto tuned him out. Lust, indeed. He didn't think Christ himself could spend time around Jack without feeling at least a little lustful. And, honestly, the man's skill ensured that lust was one vice Ianto Jones was unlikely to give up any time in the near future. Saint Peter would just have to understand.

Ianto was still daydreaming about Jack's skills, about his mouth and tongue and, sweet mercy, his cock, when the congregation began to shuffle towards the cathedral doors. He got to his feet, pretended not to notice the priest try to catch his eye for a scolding about being disruptive during the sermon, and followed the exodus outwards.

In the cool Cardiff rain, it took him a moment to locate the waiting SUV. Ianto climbed in just as Jack slid a bookmark in a worn copy of Scavengers in Space and tucked it into a coat pocket. "Hello, handsome! How was it? Is confession really good for the soul? Because I've been very, very naughty." Jack said with a wink.

Ianto rolled his eyes in answer. He'd walk over hot coals before admitting that he was fantasizing instead of listening, so he changed the subject.

"You ever consider taking up archery, sir?"

*.*.*

A/N: Today's prompt was "sin." The sin being an archery term thing is true, but the implications were heavily exaggerated and I know I'll be burning in hell for blasphemy. It was fun, though, so I'm not sorry. Father Daffyd was called Father Daffyd simply because I am entirely too lazy to name a second priest this week. Concussion grenades were mentioned in the audio drama "Asylum" in which Andy was a hero, Ianto was hilarious and Jack was oddly xenophobic. The Artful Dodger was a pickpocket in Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. Scavengers in Space is the prop you can see Jack fidget with throughout the series—the one Mr Barrowman nicked before the Hub went boom. It's a real book published in the 1950s by a man named Alan Edward Nourse. Thanks for reading!