FIC: The Moral of the Story
Title: The Moral of the Story (Red Is My Colour Prompt for Day Twenty-five)
Author: blue_fjords
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Owen, Jack, Gwen, Ianto, Tosh, Jack/Ianto
Setting: early season two
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Words: 875
Summary: Jack tells a story. Owen should have taken it to heart.
A/N: I wrote a story earlier in this prompt series, “Suzie Costello Has Two Daddies,” and she wore pink boots in that one. So for this prompt, I was going to do an angsty “Ianto finds the boots while packing up her stuff after her first death” story. Then I had an Experience with the metro transit police. I now have a wicked fever. This story came about instead of the angsty one. That other one will get written at some point, probably.
Prompt: pink Wellington boots
“No, Harkness, I do not believe you!” Owen retorted, as Gwen and Tosh burst into peals of laughter.
“I don’t know, Owen, it makes perfect sense to me,” Ianto responded, straight-faced.
It would to you; you’ve been fucked twelve times since Sunday and it’s only Tuesday, Owen thought sourly. Whereas I’ve -
“Now, now, Ianto, if Owen doesn’t want to believe me, I can get over the disappointment,” Jack reached across the conference room table and speared a snow pea off of Owen’s plate. “Now, this next one, however,” Jack continued, mouth full, “this next one you have to believe.”
Gwen leaned in eagerly, catching Ianto’s eyes and flashing him another gap-toothed grin.
And the Welsh contingent is firmly in Daddy’s camp. Owen rolled his eyes. Tosh kicked his shin. Hard.
“Okay, Jack,” Owen grumbled, begrudgingly conciliatory. “Pander to me.”
“Thanks,” Jack said drily. He paused as Ianto sneaked his chopsticks over to his plate, swiping a wide noodle. Owen could see him lose his train of thought as Ianto slurped up his booty.
“Pink Wellies!” Jack announced suddenly, shaking himself. “It’s all about the Pink Wellies.”
The other four blinked up at him.
Jack nodded. “Right. So, there I was in the middle of a swamp on Clastorv-9. I was,” he paused abruptly, eyes shifting to Ianto. “Never mind what I was doing there. The swamp -“
“Now, hold on, Harkness,” Owen interrupted, eyes gleaming. “How do we know that what you were doing there does not pertain to the rest of the story?”
Gwen giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand, for which Owen was grateful. Moo shu pork looked jumbled enough on the plate.
“It just doesn’t,” Jack dismissed airily. Ianto was smirking slightly in his seat.
“Then by all means, please continue,” Ianto gestured with his chopsticks.
Owen snorted, but quietly to himself. He should be grateful, he supposed, that they weren’t going at it on the conference room table right now. He swallowed. Shit. They probably went at it on the conference room table last night. He surreptitiously raised his plate of noodles off the table.
Jack settled further back into his chair. “As I was saying. The swamp was home to this type of eel, slippery little suckers - literally. Hence the Pink Wellies. Their suckers weren’t sharp enough to pierce the rubber. Gotta love that British engineering.”
He lifted his glass in Owen’s direction, and gave him an exaggerated wink. Tosh looked up, startled.
“You mean they were actual Wellies? When was this?”
“Oh, that’s not important to the story. The eels -”
“Now hold on,” Owen interrupted again. “What type of story are you trying to tell here? We have no timeframe to work with, no clue of your motivation - ”
“Fine! Fine!” Jack threw his hands up in the air, a filched bit of Tosh’s kung pao chicken flying off the end of his fork. Ianto sighed. “I went to the swamp on Clastorv-9 in the 25th Century for a remedy for a particularly nasty venereal disease. And I was wearing Hunter’s Pink Wellies. Are you happy?”
Ianto looked a little disgruntled, Owen vindicated, Gwen amused, but Tosh leaned forward interestedly. “So . . . we should really invest in the Hunter company then? I mean, if they’re still around in the 25th Century . . .”
“Moving on!” Jack cleared his throat hurriedly. “So there I was. Forging my way through the swamp, trying to avoid the eels, and looking for this plant with certain healing properties.”
Ianto crossed his legs primly.
“I had to wrestle a Tvorchik to get into the clearing with the plants - oh, that’s kind of like a boar, Tosh, but with flippers,” he added as Tosh opened her mouth, “-and I was just completing my harvest, when flashing lights, sirens, the whole shebang. It was the damn transit police!”
Gwen looked confused. “Why?”
“I shouldn’t have been there on foot, apparently - ”
Gwen frowned. “Were there signs?”
“Well, yeah, but I had my Pink Wellies! I didn’t need a vehicle to navigate that swamp.”
Gwen shook her head. “There are rules for a reason, Jack. What did you do to the transit police?”
Jack looked affronted. “What makes you think I did anything to him?”
Owen barked a laugh. “You probably slept with him. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Owen, you’re forgetting why I was there in the first place. No way was he going to sleep with me; I had bunches of the damn Clast plant hanging from my fists!”
Owen looked skeptical. “And you just calmly went to jail?”
“Of course not! Remember what I was wearing? Well, in a race between a man wearing Pink Wellies and a copper pedaling a swamp buggy, the Pink Wellies will win out!”
“Really?” Tosh looked delighted.
“Um, I may have thrown an eel or two at him on my way out, but yes. That is the moral of the story, kiddies: always wear your Wellies.”
The moral came back to Owen with all of the subtlety of a jackhammer just two days later as he stood, trousers soaked from the knees down in alien snot, in an abandoned warehouse along the docks. He sighed. I should have worn the fucking Wellies.
Author: blue_fjords
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Owen, Jack, Gwen, Ianto, Tosh, Jack/Ianto
Setting: early season two
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Words: 875
Summary: Jack tells a story. Owen should have taken it to heart.
A/N: I wrote a story earlier in this prompt series, “Suzie Costello Has Two Daddies,” and she wore pink boots in that one. So for this prompt, I was going to do an angsty “Ianto finds the boots while packing up her stuff after her first death” story. Then I had an Experience with the metro transit police. I now have a wicked fever. This story came about instead of the angsty one. That other one will get written at some point, probably.
Prompt: pink Wellington boots
“No, Harkness, I do not believe you!” Owen retorted, as Gwen and Tosh burst into peals of laughter.
“I don’t know, Owen, it makes perfect sense to me,” Ianto responded, straight-faced.
It would to you; you’ve been fucked twelve times since Sunday and it’s only Tuesday, Owen thought sourly. Whereas I’ve -
“Now, now, Ianto, if Owen doesn’t want to believe me, I can get over the disappointment,” Jack reached across the conference room table and speared a snow pea off of Owen’s plate. “Now, this next one, however,” Jack continued, mouth full, “this next one you have to believe.”
Gwen leaned in eagerly, catching Ianto’s eyes and flashing him another gap-toothed grin.
And the Welsh contingent is firmly in Daddy’s camp. Owen rolled his eyes. Tosh kicked his shin. Hard.
“Okay, Jack,” Owen grumbled, begrudgingly conciliatory. “Pander to me.”
“Thanks,” Jack said drily. He paused as Ianto sneaked his chopsticks over to his plate, swiping a wide noodle. Owen could see him lose his train of thought as Ianto slurped up his booty.
“Pink Wellies!” Jack announced suddenly, shaking himself. “It’s all about the Pink Wellies.”
The other four blinked up at him.
Jack nodded. “Right. So, there I was in the middle of a swamp on Clastorv-9. I was,” he paused abruptly, eyes shifting to Ianto. “Never mind what I was doing there. The swamp -“
“Now, hold on, Harkness,” Owen interrupted, eyes gleaming. “How do we know that what you were doing there does not pertain to the rest of the story?”
Gwen giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand, for which Owen was grateful. Moo shu pork looked jumbled enough on the plate.
“It just doesn’t,” Jack dismissed airily. Ianto was smirking slightly in his seat.
“Then by all means, please continue,” Ianto gestured with his chopsticks.
Owen snorted, but quietly to himself. He should be grateful, he supposed, that they weren’t going at it on the conference room table right now. He swallowed. Shit. They probably went at it on the conference room table last night. He surreptitiously raised his plate of noodles off the table.
Jack settled further back into his chair. “As I was saying. The swamp was home to this type of eel, slippery little suckers - literally. Hence the Pink Wellies. Their suckers weren’t sharp enough to pierce the rubber. Gotta love that British engineering.”
He lifted his glass in Owen’s direction, and gave him an exaggerated wink. Tosh looked up, startled.
“You mean they were actual Wellies? When was this?”
“Oh, that’s not important to the story. The eels -”
“Now hold on,” Owen interrupted again. “What type of story are you trying to tell here? We have no timeframe to work with, no clue of your motivation - ”
“Fine! Fine!” Jack threw his hands up in the air, a filched bit of Tosh’s kung pao chicken flying off the end of his fork. Ianto sighed. “I went to the swamp on Clastorv-9 in the 25th Century for a remedy for a particularly nasty venereal disease. And I was wearing Hunter’s Pink Wellies. Are you happy?”
Ianto looked a little disgruntled, Owen vindicated, Gwen amused, but Tosh leaned forward interestedly. “So . . . we should really invest in the Hunter company then? I mean, if they’re still around in the 25th Century . . .”
“Moving on!” Jack cleared his throat hurriedly. “So there I was. Forging my way through the swamp, trying to avoid the eels, and looking for this plant with certain healing properties.”
Ianto crossed his legs primly.
“I had to wrestle a Tvorchik to get into the clearing with the plants - oh, that’s kind of like a boar, Tosh, but with flippers,” he added as Tosh opened her mouth, “-and I was just completing my harvest, when flashing lights, sirens, the whole shebang. It was the damn transit police!”
Gwen looked confused. “Why?”
“I shouldn’t have been there on foot, apparently - ”
Gwen frowned. “Were there signs?”
“Well, yeah, but I had my Pink Wellies! I didn’t need a vehicle to navigate that swamp.”
Gwen shook her head. “There are rules for a reason, Jack. What did you do to the transit police?”
Jack looked affronted. “What makes you think I did anything to him?”
Owen barked a laugh. “You probably slept with him. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Owen, you’re forgetting why I was there in the first place. No way was he going to sleep with me; I had bunches of the damn Clast plant hanging from my fists!”
Owen looked skeptical. “And you just calmly went to jail?”
“Of course not! Remember what I was wearing? Well, in a race between a man wearing Pink Wellies and a copper pedaling a swamp buggy, the Pink Wellies will win out!”
“Really?” Tosh looked delighted.
“Um, I may have thrown an eel or two at him on my way out, but yes. That is the moral of the story, kiddies: always wear your Wellies.”
The moral came back to Owen with all of the subtlety of a jackhammer just two days later as he stood, trousers soaked from the knees down in alien snot, in an abandoned warehouse along the docks. He sighed. I should have worn the fucking Wellies.