There might have been a time/ When I would let you slip away [Open]
Gwen Cooper is pregnant. Not just a little pregnant either. She's nearly five months along, and it's gotten to the point where she can't hide that any longer. She's gone to the gym regularly, started to wear baggy clothes, and hoped people would just think she'd gained a little stress-weight from missing home and her husband. No one has said anything as of yet, and only Owen knows about her impending child. She's managed to keep it a secret for three months now, but she's beginning to realise she can't keep it up much longer.
Her jeans don't fit as of last week, and she can't wear sweatpants all the time. On top of it, she's busting out of the top of every blouse she owns. Which is why she's here, outside of a maturity store. She glances up at the store sign and slowly reads it out-loud.
Posh Mommy
Excuse her while she panics.
Ianto Jones is actually having a rather nice evening. For the first time since probably joining Torchwood he's taking the night off. No paperwork, no phone calls (he's shut his mobile onto vibrate), and no worrying about the End of the World. It's Chicago, after all, and the Apocalypse is nigh whether he likes it or not. He might as well enjoy a good Scotch on the rocks and watch a little bit of some shit reality show that's playing on the flat screen televisions in the bars.
Apparently singing and acting a fool is involved.
He lifts his drink and takes a sip, and then reaches out to pick up a nacho. Until he came to Chicago he'd never had a nacho before, but now he's found he's extremely fond of them, even if he seriously suspects the cheese isn't really cheese. Or food, for that matter, but this is his night off. He's wearing jeans and a forest green hoodie, his gun is tucked away in his waistband, carefully hidden from sight, and he has no intention of letting anything ruin his night.
That's when he feels that funny sensation itching the back of his neck like someone is watching him, and he glances around. His Torchwood senses are tingling.
Her jeans don't fit as of last week, and she can't wear sweatpants all the time. On top of it, she's busting out of the top of every blouse she owns. Which is why she's here, outside of a maturity store. She glances up at the store sign and slowly reads it out-loud.
Posh Mommy
Excuse her while she panics.
Ianto Jones is actually having a rather nice evening. For the first time since probably joining Torchwood he's taking the night off. No paperwork, no phone calls (he's shut his mobile onto vibrate), and no worrying about the End of the World. It's Chicago, after all, and the Apocalypse is nigh whether he likes it or not. He might as well enjoy a good Scotch on the rocks and watch a little bit of some shit reality show that's playing on the flat screen televisions in the bars.
Apparently singing and acting a fool is involved.
He lifts his drink and takes a sip, and then reaches out to pick up a nacho. Until he came to Chicago he'd never had a nacho before, but now he's found he's extremely fond of them, even if he seriously suspects the cheese isn't really cheese. Or food, for that matter, but this is his night off. He's wearing jeans and a forest green hoodie, his gun is tucked away in his waistband, carefully hidden from sight, and he has no intention of letting anything ruin his night.
That's when he feels that funny sensation itching the back of his neck like someone is watching him, and he glances around. His Torchwood senses are tingling.