Oh My & A Tiny Snippet
Oh my. I'm overwhelmed by the 'Welcome back's. Thank you! Yes, I'm pro-writing, yet the urge to write fanfic battles for attention. As for comparison to Bujold or Harper? (blush) I'll just be happy if the book sales pay for our roof and the rising cost of food (growing kids + soccer practice = eek!).
I've only begun writing something other than fanfic and it gives me a huge, even larger respect for the writers out there. How do they do it? Where do they get their ideas? How do they stay focus? Did I remember to separate my whites from my--never mind. LOL.
The shadow that paced along the wall was almost as riveting as its owner.
"So," he said evenly because he was still indecisive with where they stood with this, "Captain Hart."
The shadow stilled. It attached itself to the shadows already on the wall. It looked like it's been devoured. There was an overwhelming urge to turn on another light, banish the rest.
Jack exhaled. "He went by another name once. Old friend."
"Old friend," Ianto commented as he loosened his tie and let it drape around his neck. "Or old friend?"
The puzzlement was audible in Jack's voice. "Now, okay, that was a twenty-first century reference, right? When you repeat the same word but using a different tonal--you know what? Yes, he was an old, old friend. We did the horizont--"
Ianto burst out laughing, which was inconvenient since he was trying to step out of his trousers. One leg in, one leg out, he flopped onto the bed on his back.
"Where on Earth did you learn that reference?" he said between gasps. "I thought you were fortunate enough not to live through the eighties and nineties?"
"Owen was showing me some key movie moments on YouTube." Jack chuckled, almost hesitant, still not having caught on the joke.
Realizing this, Ianto sobered quickly. He raised himself up on his elbows and looked at Jack, at his shadow overtaken by the darkness.
"You shouldn't watch anything Owen shows you," Ianto told him seriously.
"Yeah, I'm getting that. He was going to show me El Oh el cats next?"
Lolcats? Ianto was going to salt his coffee for weeks; even if the bastard carried him down the Himalayas with Gwen.
"No cats," Ianto said firmly. After a second, he added, "And no more Captain Hart." He sat up and began undoing his shirt. He said nothing, but kept his eye on the shadow that gingerly stepped away from black.
"So," Jack said tentatively. "Was that our first lover's spat?"
Startled, Ianto paused at the last button. "What? No, of course not."
"I didn't think so," Jack said thoughtfully, "It didn't seem there was a lot of spitting involved."
"What?" stammered Ianto. "No, I, th-that's not what--" He narrowed his eyes.
A stifled giggle betrayed Jack. "Come on, I did live through the 1940's, not the 1840's."
Ianto sniffed and continued slipping off his shirt.
"Ianto."
Ignoring him, Ianto unrolled the socks off his ankles. They still ached like it was he who broke his legs, not Jack.
"Ianto." Jack sighed. "Okay, now you are angry about Hart."
"No, I'm not," Ianto said primly, "I'm more pissed at the fact I was left behind for 'my own good'."
"Ianto--"
"I'm Torchwood, Jack!" Ianto snapped. "For God's sake, we all went through a year in hell trying to find you! You can't just go off on your own just because you don't want to endanger us! Gwen and Owen were nearly caught twice by the Toclofane. Tosh was working in secret with Martha's family! And I--"
"Died." Jack's quiet voice cut through Ianto's red haze sharper than any knife. Ianto's breath stilled in his chest.
"No, I didn't," Ianto managed out.
"You nearly did and for a good part of that year, I..." Jack audibly swallowed.
"What?"
"Never mind. I don't want to talk about it anymore."
"Jack--"
"No, Ianto." Now Jack sounded angry.
"All right," Ianto murmured, subdued. He dropped his eyes to the socks in his hands. He began to roll them. Without looking, he heard Jack undressing, the snap of his suspenders, the hushed glide of his trousers sliding down his legs.
"That was our first spat, you know," Ianto offered as he tucked his socks into his shoes. He made a note to clean the blood off later.
"Without the spitting."
Ianto smiled wearily to himself. "Yes, without the spitting."
Jack said nothing more as he stepped out of his trousers. His shirt crunched vaguely, dried blood sprinkling the rug as he shrugged the shirt off.
"So," Jack drawled. "Does that mean we can have make-up sex now?" He sounded gleeful, hopeful, too hopeful as if desperate for anything else.
Today, tonight, Ianto let him. He sat back on the bed, shirtless, sockless, his boxers tenting.
"I think that's how the tradition dictates," Ianto murmured as he met Jack's eyes. He couldn't help but flush at the look of Jack drinking him in.
Jack approached the bed, unabashed in his nude state, eyes fixed on Ianto like a target. He stood between Ianto's legs, their bare knees touching.
"Who am I," Jack said huskily, "to break from tradition?"
I've only begun writing something other than fanfic and it gives me a huge, even larger respect for the writers out there. How do they do it? Where do they get their ideas? How do they stay focus? Did I remember to separate my whites from my--never mind. LOL.
The shadow that paced along the wall was almost as riveting as its owner.
"So," he said evenly because he was still indecisive with where they stood with this, "Captain Hart."
The shadow stilled. It attached itself to the shadows already on the wall. It looked like it's been devoured. There was an overwhelming urge to turn on another light, banish the rest.
Jack exhaled. "He went by another name once. Old friend."
"Old friend," Ianto commented as he loosened his tie and let it drape around his neck. "Or old friend?"
The puzzlement was audible in Jack's voice. "Now, okay, that was a twenty-first century reference, right? When you repeat the same word but using a different tonal--you know what? Yes, he was an old, old friend. We did the horizont--"
Ianto burst out laughing, which was inconvenient since he was trying to step out of his trousers. One leg in, one leg out, he flopped onto the bed on his back.
"Where on Earth did you learn that reference?" he said between gasps. "I thought you were fortunate enough not to live through the eighties and nineties?"
"Owen was showing me some key movie moments on YouTube." Jack chuckled, almost hesitant, still not having caught on the joke.
Realizing this, Ianto sobered quickly. He raised himself up on his elbows and looked at Jack, at his shadow overtaken by the darkness.
"You shouldn't watch anything Owen shows you," Ianto told him seriously.
"Yeah, I'm getting that. He was going to show me El Oh el cats next?"
Lolcats? Ianto was going to salt his coffee for weeks; even if the bastard carried him down the Himalayas with Gwen.
"No cats," Ianto said firmly. After a second, he added, "And no more Captain Hart." He sat up and began undoing his shirt. He said nothing, but kept his eye on the shadow that gingerly stepped away from black.
"So," Jack said tentatively. "Was that our first lover's spat?"
Startled, Ianto paused at the last button. "What? No, of course not."
"I didn't think so," Jack said thoughtfully, "It didn't seem there was a lot of spitting involved."
"What?" stammered Ianto. "No, I, th-that's not what--" He narrowed his eyes.
A stifled giggle betrayed Jack. "Come on, I did live through the 1940's, not the 1840's."
Ianto sniffed and continued slipping off his shirt.
"Ianto."
Ignoring him, Ianto unrolled the socks off his ankles. They still ached like it was he who broke his legs, not Jack.
"Ianto." Jack sighed. "Okay, now you are angry about Hart."
"No, I'm not," Ianto said primly, "I'm more pissed at the fact I was left behind for 'my own good'."
"Ianto--"
"I'm Torchwood, Jack!" Ianto snapped. "For God's sake, we all went through a year in hell trying to find you! You can't just go off on your own just because you don't want to endanger us! Gwen and Owen were nearly caught twice by the Toclofane. Tosh was working in secret with Martha's family! And I--"
"Died." Jack's quiet voice cut through Ianto's red haze sharper than any knife. Ianto's breath stilled in his chest.
"No, I didn't," Ianto managed out.
"You nearly did and for a good part of that year, I..." Jack audibly swallowed.
"What?"
"Never mind. I don't want to talk about it anymore."
"Jack--"
"No, Ianto." Now Jack sounded angry.
"All right," Ianto murmured, subdued. He dropped his eyes to the socks in his hands. He began to roll them. Without looking, he heard Jack undressing, the snap of his suspenders, the hushed glide of his trousers sliding down his legs.
"That was our first spat, you know," Ianto offered as he tucked his socks into his shoes. He made a note to clean the blood off later.
"Without the spitting."
Ianto smiled wearily to himself. "Yes, without the spitting."
Jack said nothing more as he stepped out of his trousers. His shirt crunched vaguely, dried blood sprinkling the rug as he shrugged the shirt off.
"So," Jack drawled. "Does that mean we can have make-up sex now?" He sounded gleeful, hopeful, too hopeful as if desperate for anything else.
Today, tonight, Ianto let him. He sat back on the bed, shirtless, sockless, his boxers tenting.
"I think that's how the tradition dictates," Ianto murmured as he met Jack's eyes. He couldn't help but flush at the look of Jack drinking him in.
Jack approached the bed, unabashed in his nude state, eyes fixed on Ianto like a target. He stood between Ianto's legs, their bare knees touching.
"Who am I," Jack said huskily, "to break from tradition?"