Red Is My Colour Prompt for Day Seven
Author: blue_fjords
Pairings/Characters: Jack/Ianto
Setting: post-series two
Word Count: roughly 700
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jack makes dinner for Ianto. The world doesn’t end.
Prompt: RAF hat and gloves
The hat and gloves looked a little incongruous sitting there on the table next to the door. Balanced precariously atop chip shop flyers, coupons for half-price electronics, and a letter to the residents about parking, the hat and gloves seemed to be saying, "Hey! We're King of the Mountain! Just try to knock us down!" But perhaps that was giving too much metaphorical weight to a hat and pair of gloves, Ianto thought, eyeing them as he came through his front door.
Jack had left the Hub before him tonight, an unusual occurrence. When they stayed the night, or at least part of the night, at Ianto's flat, they tended to leave together. But today had been a rather slow day, Rift-wise, and Jack had spent most of the afternoon whispering with Gwen. Ianto could see them together on the CCTV feed from his spot in the Tourist Centre, dark heads bent conspiratorially over a book on Jack's desk. The Joy of Cooking - not a book he would have paired with Gwen who, like him, could make a cheese toastie and that was about it.
The mystery was solved as Ianto moved further into the flat. He sniffed the air appreciatively. The slightly salty scent of scallops reached his nose, coupled with the delicate tang of fresh herbs and crisp, dry white wine. Ianto hung his overcoat up in the hall closet and slipped off his shoes, then followed his nose to his tiny kitchen.
Jack filled the space with his presence, creating dinner like he was conducting an orchestra. Tantalizing hisses and pops issued from a skillet on the stovetop, and steam from a large pot on another burner turned the air hazy, giving the scene a mystical sheen. Jack was singing to himself, sliding from the cutting board on the countertop over to the stove to stir this or toss that. He turned as Ianto paused in the doorway, and shuffled over in a dance step to greet him with a kiss and a murmured, "Will you set the table for me?"
Ianto nodded, and maneuvered around Jack to get out a couple of plates, flatware, and wine glasses.
Jack took up his song again, something about love and springtime and forever. It called to mind images of gallant soldiers and proud sweethearts, and last dances amid the sound of air raid alarms. A great billowing cloud of steam poured forth from the kitchen as Jack drained the pasta, and the singing died to a hum as he carried out first the wine and two salads, then a bowl of pasta and platter of scallop scampi.
"Dinner is served," Jack proclaimed with a flourish. They both sat. Ianto poured the wine. Jack served the pasta and scallops, and licked a dollop of sauce off his fingertip.
They talked idly over the meal, about the parking situation at Ianto’s flat, a new special from Jubilee Pizza, a dog Jack passed on his walk back from the grocery store. When they finished their dinner, Ianto did the washing up and Jack did the drying, singing a jazzy little song about the rain and a pair of blue eyes. He leaned in to kiss Ianto as he hung up the dish towel, and didn’t stop as he gently herded them out the door and down the hall to Ianto’s bedroom.
Their feet tangled together as their hands tugged at clothing and they wound up stretched out on the soft cotton sheets of Ianto’s bed. Jack’s hands caressed Ianto’s bare skin, and Ianto could feel the flutter of Jack’s eyelashes on his own cheek when he nuzzled at his neck. Jack’s heart beat faster, and the rhythm seeped into Ianto’s skin, suffusing his own body with an assurance that was echoed in the words Jack gasped into his mouth between kisses. Words like “mine” and “stay” and “love.”
As Ianto drifted off into sleep hours later, cocooned under the duvet and Jack, he couldn’t help but think it was a little incongruous. Two men separated by betrayal and resentment, abandonment and fear, patched back together by a common cause and aliens, of all things, should not have had an evening like that. It did not make sense. But it worked for them.
And Ianto was grateful.
Pairings/Characters: Jack/Ianto
Setting: post-series two
Word Count: roughly 700
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jack makes dinner for Ianto. The world doesn’t end.
Prompt: RAF hat and gloves
The hat and gloves looked a little incongruous sitting there on the table next to the door. Balanced precariously atop chip shop flyers, coupons for half-price electronics, and a letter to the residents about parking, the hat and gloves seemed to be saying, "Hey! We're King of the Mountain! Just try to knock us down!" But perhaps that was giving too much metaphorical weight to a hat and pair of gloves, Ianto thought, eyeing them as he came through his front door.
Jack had left the Hub before him tonight, an unusual occurrence. When they stayed the night, or at least part of the night, at Ianto's flat, they tended to leave together. But today had been a rather slow day, Rift-wise, and Jack had spent most of the afternoon whispering with Gwen. Ianto could see them together on the CCTV feed from his spot in the Tourist Centre, dark heads bent conspiratorially over a book on Jack's desk. The Joy of Cooking - not a book he would have paired with Gwen who, like him, could make a cheese toastie and that was about it.
The mystery was solved as Ianto moved further into the flat. He sniffed the air appreciatively. The slightly salty scent of scallops reached his nose, coupled with the delicate tang of fresh herbs and crisp, dry white wine. Ianto hung his overcoat up in the hall closet and slipped off his shoes, then followed his nose to his tiny kitchen.
Jack filled the space with his presence, creating dinner like he was conducting an orchestra. Tantalizing hisses and pops issued from a skillet on the stovetop, and steam from a large pot on another burner turned the air hazy, giving the scene a mystical sheen. Jack was singing to himself, sliding from the cutting board on the countertop over to the stove to stir this or toss that. He turned as Ianto paused in the doorway, and shuffled over in a dance step to greet him with a kiss and a murmured, "Will you set the table for me?"
Ianto nodded, and maneuvered around Jack to get out a couple of plates, flatware, and wine glasses.
Jack took up his song again, something about love and springtime and forever. It called to mind images of gallant soldiers and proud sweethearts, and last dances amid the sound of air raid alarms. A great billowing cloud of steam poured forth from the kitchen as Jack drained the pasta, and the singing died to a hum as he carried out first the wine and two salads, then a bowl of pasta and platter of scallop scampi.
"Dinner is served," Jack proclaimed with a flourish. They both sat. Ianto poured the wine. Jack served the pasta and scallops, and licked a dollop of sauce off his fingertip.
They talked idly over the meal, about the parking situation at Ianto’s flat, a new special from Jubilee Pizza, a dog Jack passed on his walk back from the grocery store. When they finished their dinner, Ianto did the washing up and Jack did the drying, singing a jazzy little song about the rain and a pair of blue eyes. He leaned in to kiss Ianto as he hung up the dish towel, and didn’t stop as he gently herded them out the door and down the hall to Ianto’s bedroom.
Their feet tangled together as their hands tugged at clothing and they wound up stretched out on the soft cotton sheets of Ianto’s bed. Jack’s hands caressed Ianto’s bare skin, and Ianto could feel the flutter of Jack’s eyelashes on his own cheek when he nuzzled at his neck. Jack’s heart beat faster, and the rhythm seeped into Ianto’s skin, suffusing his own body with an assurance that was echoed in the words Jack gasped into his mouth between kisses. Words like “mine” and “stay” and “love.”
As Ianto drifted off into sleep hours later, cocooned under the duvet and Jack, he couldn’t help but think it was a little incongruous. Two men separated by betrayal and resentment, abandonment and fear, patched back together by a common cause and aliens, of all things, should not have had an evening like that. It did not make sense. But it worked for them.
And Ianto was grateful.