Fic: They come in batches (Gold dust deleted scene for mtgat, J/I/L)
Title: They come in batches
Author: amand_r
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack/Ianto/Lisa
Rating: PG, possibly pg-13. I'm bad that this rating stuff.
Wordcount: 2, 129. I might have got carried away.
Author's Notes: this is for mtgat, who commissioned it in the help_haiti auction. She requested a deleted scene from We held gold dust in our hands. This is set between TKKS and OOT.
Jack sits on the barstool on the other side of the kitchen's half-island and watches Ianto scoop the flour into the measuring cup with a spoon. Once it is full to overflowing, Ianto sets down the spoon and picks up a butter knife, using the flat of the blade to level the flour.
'That's three steps too many,' Lisa says, slapping Ianto's arse as she wheels by, a plastic jug of orange juice in her lap.
Ianto shies away from her swat and then cups a hand under the measuring cup as if it's going to spill something on the three-inch trip from over the flour canister to the mixing bowl. Jack resists the urge to blow a little bit and kick up the flour.
'If you scoop it directly, then it packs the flour too much,' Ianto says, eyes on the cup. They flit to the recipe in the book and back, and he dumps the flour in. 'I wish I had a sifter.'
Jack makes two mental notes: one, research 'sifter'; two, buy sifter.
Lisa disappears into the dining area, popping out of view for a second in his eyeline and then back again, her hair a shiny cap on her skull. Jack can hear her clinking silverware from the sideboard; instead of setting the places, she'll toss it all in a pile in the center of the table and they can grab what they need. Lisa is a big believer in economy and no frills. Jack looks at the vest he's wearing (he doesn't even know where his button-down has got to) and while it's clean, smells like a mountain spring, in fact, it's wrinkled from sitting in the dryer and then being hung out too long and then languishing unfolded in a clothesbasket for another day before he dug it out that morning to tug it on.
Jack can't complain, mostly because he hasn't done his laundry in years-he sends it out, and the one time he had discovered the Torchwood laundry facilities, he'd left a load of socks and shorts in the washer for three years before remembering that they had a washing machine and that he had been using it. That probably said more about how many clothes he had and less about his memory as a whole. At least, that's what he tells himself.
Ianto would never forget a load of laundry. He might get delayed, and then he'd run the wet clothes in the wash again, but he'd never forget. Ianto likes everything to be measured; the chain of his watch gleams when he turns to reach behind him for something. Ah, eggs, two actually. Jack smirks when he cracks them off the counter and then into a separate bowl.
'The point of dirtying another dish,' he says to Jack without looking up, as if he has said anything. Oh hell, Jack admits as he laces his fingers on the countertop, he was thinking it. 'Is that if one of the eggs is bad, then you don't sully what you already have.'
Jack snorts and then jumps when hands come from behind and slide around his waist. Lisa is in stealth mode. 'Every time he's anal like this,' Lisa says, pressing her cheek into the small of Jack's back and rubbing just a little. 'I like to remind myself that later such meticulousness will be used to my advantage.'
'Not if you keep talking about him like he's not here,' Ianto says.
'What are you making, anyway?' Jack finally asks, because he's sure that it is something that he will have to eat, and not that there's much they could make that he won't eat, but he's afraid that it was mentioned earlier, and he hadn't been paying attention because he'd been staring at Ianto's cock or the way Lisa lifts her breasts individually to settle them after she puts on a bra. It's easy to see why he gets distracted. Well, in his mind it's easy to see why he gets distracted.
Ianto doesn't look at him as he slides the book across the counter. Jack closes the book to look at the cover: American Cooking. The spine has that uncracked, pristine look, and the pages are flattened in that way that tells him Ianto purchased the book, opened it directly to the thing he wanted and hasn't even leafed through the rest of it.
Lisa leaves him to wheel about the kitchen, gathering random implements. She's told him that she wants a basket for these occasions, that she can hook over the arms of her chair so that things are gathered in her lap but don't fall off. Jack had bought her one for Christmas, actually, it's back at the Hub, a white plastic wicker thing with flowers on it and a little bell that goes 'ding ding'. Ianto will roll his eyes but she'll love it.
He thinks about painting flames on the sides of the sifter he's sure he'll buy for Ianto.
'Pancakes,' she says with finality, as he follows her into the small space and they prove just how adept they are at stepping around each other.
'Pancakes,' Jack echoes, wondering how long it's been since he's eaten pancakes. 'Why?'
Lisa hands him the skillet and he sets it on the stove. It is now his turn to cook. He's good with meat, he likes to say. 'American, aren't they? It was Ianto's idea.'
'It was not,' Ianto says, turning and cradling the bowl in the crook of one arm, whisking with the other. 'You said something about a proper American breakfast, without beans or tomatoes or anything.' He tilts his head from side to side as he does his American Lisa impression: 'Y'know, with steak and eggs and pancakes with maple syrup!'
Lisa pulls a paper wrapped parcel from the fridge and lobs it at Jack. It's hefty, so it's not sausages. Jack raises an eyebrow. 'You really want a steak in the morning?'
Lisa waves her hands and does her own American impression: 'I need me some steak and eggs before I go out on the ranch today. Those cattle aren't going to rustle themselves! Golly!'
Jack laughs and lights the burner. Steak and eggs and pancakes it is, then.
He doesn't-can't tell them yet that he's, well that this is as far from a Boeshane breakfast as blood sausage and fried mushrooms, even those corn flakes with the sugar that come in the tiger box. He can't tell them because he doesn't know how. It isn't the first time he's done this dance, and it won't be the last, he knows, a realisation that sits on his chest like a stone every time he remembers it, something weighted and lopsided that makes his stomach turn like a washer off balance.
Because there's a window for these things. Lucia had explained this to him once, after they had split and Alice was young enough that she didn't understand that when he came to visit he wouldn't be staying forever (her forever, but also definitely not his forever). There's a truth window, or an honesty window, about explaining yourself, big things, not little things like, 'I don't like caviar' or 'My favorite colour is puce.' If there is such a thing, and Jack is starting to wonder if he should have paid more attention when his girlfriends, boyfriends, fuckfriends tried to explain the twentieth century relationship rules to him, if there is such a window, then he has no idea how he could even get the sash up anyway.
'Yeah, by the way, I'm not from this time or planet. See there was this Doctor. No wait, farther back. I grew up on--no wait. Okay so I was in this war and then--no wait, I worked for a time traveling organisation that--no, okay wait. A long time ago in a galaxy far far--wait."
He unwraps the steaks as the skillet heats, and Ianto stands next to him, the griddle on the other front burner and beading shortening. Ianto is close enough to hug, to smell, to lick, and perhaps Jack would do all three, if he wasn't juggling a bunch of beef and Ianto weren't studiously pouring silver dollar-sized dollops of batter onto the griddle with the precision of a pastry chef. His watch fob rattles against the plastic handle of the griddle, and Lisa bumps him minutely with her chair, on purpose, Jack is sure. The batter bowl jolts and suddenly one of the pancakes has an extra side to it, like Amputee Mickey Mouse. Ianto makes a noise of dissatisfaction, and Lisa mumbles something insincere, and Jack's skillet is smoking, so he adds the steaks, and sets about making his part of his American breakfast.
The steaks are on the table, with some eggs and the pancakes and juice and coffee and tea and toast and fruit and god knows what else by the time he figures out that this is all somehow related to Suzie. Not that either of them would say that to him, but it's true. He's been turning the events in his mind, and trying to figure out what could have spurned their sudden need to make him comfortable. That's what this is, right? he thinks as he accepts the plate of pancakes from Lisa and drops two onto his plate. What is he supposed to do with them now? Ianto hands him the syrup and sits back, watching expectantly.
Several unflattering things go through his head: is this a test? If he doesn't do it right, will Ianto know? Is there a trick to this? Some American thing he's never bothered to figure out? He doesn't even like pancakes. Lisa has been less affectionate for the past few days, a little, and he'd just thought it was shark week. What if they were prodding? What are they looking for?
Furthermore Jack, he thinks, maybe he should tell them. Maybe he shouldn't wait any longer, maybe he shouldn't wait for the Doctor anymore and just go with this, because this is now and it's good and they're amazing and they love him and he loves them and--
But what would they say? If they knew? It's never gone well. Telling people about the dying and the coming back to life and the Doctor, that's all one thing. The telling them about the past and his childhood and the Time Agency and all that, that's another level. What if they just decide it's too much?
Jack stares at the pancakes, the syrup pouring from the bottle until they're drenched. Ianto takes the righted bottle from his hand without blinking an eye, and it all seems okay. Lisa forks a steak onto his plate and he watches the puddle of syrup collide with the edge of it and wonders if that's acceptable American cuisine. As far as he has been able to remember (it's been ages since he's been Stateside long enough to have made note), there is no hard and fast rule about American cuisine, let alone breakfasts (Aren't there supposed to be potatoes in here somewhere?).
By the time they all dig in, he feels as if he is on trial. Trial through breakfast. Before they clear the plates he'll be found guilty of something and kicked out of the flat and he'll have to go back to--
Something hits the side of his head and when he finally registers enough to look up, Lisa is smiling at him. Her hand slides back to her silverware.
Ianto sets down his fork and fills Jack's glass with milk. Milk goes with pancakes, Jack vaguely remembers. And with all that syrup, it makes sense. 'Eat your pancakes,' Ianto tells him. 'They're hot.'
Lisa blinks over the rim of her coffee mug. 'And whatever you're thinking, stop.'
Jack can feel his eyes narrow as he squints at her. He wonders what she's found on him in the UNIT database. He would ask (because there's always new things to erase, dug up from the archives like turning dirt in the spring and finding an old potato from the year before), but asking is admitting that there's something to find.
Ianto taps his own plate with his fork and chews for a moment, eyes off-centred. 'Well, they're sweet,' he offers after he swallows. 'Not that I'd want them every day, but-' His eyes cut. 'I can see the allure.'
Jack glances down at his pancakes, once a golden beige but now brown. 'Yeah,' he says when he cuts one with his fork. 'Just like mom used to make.' He spears the cake and shovels it into his mouth.
Just one more log to add to the fire, then.
END
Are you looking at this and thinking, "Dammit, I want fic from Amand-r too!"? Well now you can get it: Here for a longer wait, or here for a shorter by more instantly gratifying hit.
Author: amand_r
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack/Ianto/Lisa
Rating: PG, possibly pg-13. I'm bad that this rating stuff.
Wordcount: 2, 129. I might have got carried away.
Author's Notes: this is for mtgat, who commissioned it in the help_haiti auction. She requested a deleted scene from We held gold dust in our hands. This is set between TKKS and OOT.
Jack sits on the barstool on the other side of the kitchen's half-island and watches Ianto scoop the flour into the measuring cup with a spoon. Once it is full to overflowing, Ianto sets down the spoon and picks up a butter knife, using the flat of the blade to level the flour.
'That's three steps too many,' Lisa says, slapping Ianto's arse as she wheels by, a plastic jug of orange juice in her lap.
Ianto shies away from her swat and then cups a hand under the measuring cup as if it's going to spill something on the three-inch trip from over the flour canister to the mixing bowl. Jack resists the urge to blow a little bit and kick up the flour.
'If you scoop it directly, then it packs the flour too much,' Ianto says, eyes on the cup. They flit to the recipe in the book and back, and he dumps the flour in. 'I wish I had a sifter.'
Jack makes two mental notes: one, research 'sifter'; two, buy sifter.
Lisa disappears into the dining area, popping out of view for a second in his eyeline and then back again, her hair a shiny cap on her skull. Jack can hear her clinking silverware from the sideboard; instead of setting the places, she'll toss it all in a pile in the center of the table and they can grab what they need. Lisa is a big believer in economy and no frills. Jack looks at the vest he's wearing (he doesn't even know where his button-down has got to) and while it's clean, smells like a mountain spring, in fact, it's wrinkled from sitting in the dryer and then being hung out too long and then languishing unfolded in a clothesbasket for another day before he dug it out that morning to tug it on.
Jack can't complain, mostly because he hasn't done his laundry in years-he sends it out, and the one time he had discovered the Torchwood laundry facilities, he'd left a load of socks and shorts in the washer for three years before remembering that they had a washing machine and that he had been using it. That probably said more about how many clothes he had and less about his memory as a whole. At least, that's what he tells himself.
Ianto would never forget a load of laundry. He might get delayed, and then he'd run the wet clothes in the wash again, but he'd never forget. Ianto likes everything to be measured; the chain of his watch gleams when he turns to reach behind him for something. Ah, eggs, two actually. Jack smirks when he cracks them off the counter and then into a separate bowl.
'The point of dirtying another dish,' he says to Jack without looking up, as if he has said anything. Oh hell, Jack admits as he laces his fingers on the countertop, he was thinking it. 'Is that if one of the eggs is bad, then you don't sully what you already have.'
Jack snorts and then jumps when hands come from behind and slide around his waist. Lisa is in stealth mode. 'Every time he's anal like this,' Lisa says, pressing her cheek into the small of Jack's back and rubbing just a little. 'I like to remind myself that later such meticulousness will be used to my advantage.'
'Not if you keep talking about him like he's not here,' Ianto says.
'What are you making, anyway?' Jack finally asks, because he's sure that it is something that he will have to eat, and not that there's much they could make that he won't eat, but he's afraid that it was mentioned earlier, and he hadn't been paying attention because he'd been staring at Ianto's cock or the way Lisa lifts her breasts individually to settle them after she puts on a bra. It's easy to see why he gets distracted. Well, in his mind it's easy to see why he gets distracted.
Ianto doesn't look at him as he slides the book across the counter. Jack closes the book to look at the cover: American Cooking. The spine has that uncracked, pristine look, and the pages are flattened in that way that tells him Ianto purchased the book, opened it directly to the thing he wanted and hasn't even leafed through the rest of it.
Lisa leaves him to wheel about the kitchen, gathering random implements. She's told him that she wants a basket for these occasions, that she can hook over the arms of her chair so that things are gathered in her lap but don't fall off. Jack had bought her one for Christmas, actually, it's back at the Hub, a white plastic wicker thing with flowers on it and a little bell that goes 'ding ding'. Ianto will roll his eyes but she'll love it.
He thinks about painting flames on the sides of the sifter he's sure he'll buy for Ianto.
'Pancakes,' she says with finality, as he follows her into the small space and they prove just how adept they are at stepping around each other.
'Pancakes,' Jack echoes, wondering how long it's been since he's eaten pancakes. 'Why?'
Lisa hands him the skillet and he sets it on the stove. It is now his turn to cook. He's good with meat, he likes to say. 'American, aren't they? It was Ianto's idea.'
'It was not,' Ianto says, turning and cradling the bowl in the crook of one arm, whisking with the other. 'You said something about a proper American breakfast, without beans or tomatoes or anything.' He tilts his head from side to side as he does his American Lisa impression: 'Y'know, with steak and eggs and pancakes with maple syrup!'
Lisa pulls a paper wrapped parcel from the fridge and lobs it at Jack. It's hefty, so it's not sausages. Jack raises an eyebrow. 'You really want a steak in the morning?'
Lisa waves her hands and does her own American impression: 'I need me some steak and eggs before I go out on the ranch today. Those cattle aren't going to rustle themselves! Golly!'
Jack laughs and lights the burner. Steak and eggs and pancakes it is, then.
He doesn't-can't tell them yet that he's, well that this is as far from a Boeshane breakfast as blood sausage and fried mushrooms, even those corn flakes with the sugar that come in the tiger box. He can't tell them because he doesn't know how. It isn't the first time he's done this dance, and it won't be the last, he knows, a realisation that sits on his chest like a stone every time he remembers it, something weighted and lopsided that makes his stomach turn like a washer off balance.
Because there's a window for these things. Lucia had explained this to him once, after they had split and Alice was young enough that she didn't understand that when he came to visit he wouldn't be staying forever (her forever, but also definitely not his forever). There's a truth window, or an honesty window, about explaining yourself, big things, not little things like, 'I don't like caviar' or 'My favorite colour is puce.' If there is such a thing, and Jack is starting to wonder if he should have paid more attention when his girlfriends, boyfriends, fuckfriends tried to explain the twentieth century relationship rules to him, if there is such a window, then he has no idea how he could even get the sash up anyway.
'Yeah, by the way, I'm not from this time or planet. See there was this Doctor. No wait, farther back. I grew up on--no wait. Okay so I was in this war and then--no wait, I worked for a time traveling organisation that--no, okay wait. A long time ago in a galaxy far far--wait."
He unwraps the steaks as the skillet heats, and Ianto stands next to him, the griddle on the other front burner and beading shortening. Ianto is close enough to hug, to smell, to lick, and perhaps Jack would do all three, if he wasn't juggling a bunch of beef and Ianto weren't studiously pouring silver dollar-sized dollops of batter onto the griddle with the precision of a pastry chef. His watch fob rattles against the plastic handle of the griddle, and Lisa bumps him minutely with her chair, on purpose, Jack is sure. The batter bowl jolts and suddenly one of the pancakes has an extra side to it, like Amputee Mickey Mouse. Ianto makes a noise of dissatisfaction, and Lisa mumbles something insincere, and Jack's skillet is smoking, so he adds the steaks, and sets about making his part of his American breakfast.
The steaks are on the table, with some eggs and the pancakes and juice and coffee and tea and toast and fruit and god knows what else by the time he figures out that this is all somehow related to Suzie. Not that either of them would say that to him, but it's true. He's been turning the events in his mind, and trying to figure out what could have spurned their sudden need to make him comfortable. That's what this is, right? he thinks as he accepts the plate of pancakes from Lisa and drops two onto his plate. What is he supposed to do with them now? Ianto hands him the syrup and sits back, watching expectantly.
Several unflattering things go through his head: is this a test? If he doesn't do it right, will Ianto know? Is there a trick to this? Some American thing he's never bothered to figure out? He doesn't even like pancakes. Lisa has been less affectionate for the past few days, a little, and he'd just thought it was shark week. What if they were prodding? What are they looking for?
Furthermore Jack, he thinks, maybe he should tell them. Maybe he shouldn't wait any longer, maybe he shouldn't wait for the Doctor anymore and just go with this, because this is now and it's good and they're amazing and they love him and he loves them and--
But what would they say? If they knew? It's never gone well. Telling people about the dying and the coming back to life and the Doctor, that's all one thing. The telling them about the past and his childhood and the Time Agency and all that, that's another level. What if they just decide it's too much?
Jack stares at the pancakes, the syrup pouring from the bottle until they're drenched. Ianto takes the righted bottle from his hand without blinking an eye, and it all seems okay. Lisa forks a steak onto his plate and he watches the puddle of syrup collide with the edge of it and wonders if that's acceptable American cuisine. As far as he has been able to remember (it's been ages since he's been Stateside long enough to have made note), there is no hard and fast rule about American cuisine, let alone breakfasts (Aren't there supposed to be potatoes in here somewhere?).
By the time they all dig in, he feels as if he is on trial. Trial through breakfast. Before they clear the plates he'll be found guilty of something and kicked out of the flat and he'll have to go back to--
Something hits the side of his head and when he finally registers enough to look up, Lisa is smiling at him. Her hand slides back to her silverware.
Ianto sets down his fork and fills Jack's glass with milk. Milk goes with pancakes, Jack vaguely remembers. And with all that syrup, it makes sense. 'Eat your pancakes,' Ianto tells him. 'They're hot.'
Lisa blinks over the rim of her coffee mug. 'And whatever you're thinking, stop.'
Jack can feel his eyes narrow as he squints at her. He wonders what she's found on him in the UNIT database. He would ask (because there's always new things to erase, dug up from the archives like turning dirt in the spring and finding an old potato from the year before), but asking is admitting that there's something to find.
Ianto taps his own plate with his fork and chews for a moment, eyes off-centred. 'Well, they're sweet,' he offers after he swallows. 'Not that I'd want them every day, but-' His eyes cut. 'I can see the allure.'
Jack glances down at his pancakes, once a golden beige but now brown. 'Yeah,' he says when he cuts one with his fork. 'Just like mom used to make.' He spears the cake and shovels it into his mouth.
Just one more log to add to the fire, then.
END
Are you looking at this and thinking, "Dammit, I want fic from Amand-r too!"? Well now you can get it: Here for a longer wait, or here for a shorter by more instantly gratifying hit.