Advent '10 Fic: Baby I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm
Title: Baby I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Jack/Ianto, Jack/Estelle, Team
Rating: R
Genre: Romance
Wordcount: ~1447
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Steven Moffat, and the BBC.
Summary: It's practically a Torchwood tradition. Christmas Eve, just Jack, more eggnog than strictly appropriate, the Weevils, and a bit o’ Bing Crosby.
A/N: The 24th and final advent fic! Thank you for sticking with me, everyone! This one is for _lullabelle_, who requested "Christmas and Jack has the humbugs." But of course, it's Christmas eve so I couldn't very well let him suffer on his own, could I now? Comes with a bonus 40s-50s Christmas soundtrack. To all of you who celebrate it, have a very merry Christmas, and to everyone, I hope your winter's a warm one full of love and happiness (wherever you can find it). Finally, I'd like to give a massively enthusiastic thank you to azn_jack_fiend, _lullabelle_, and count_to_seven for the support and beta for all of this month's stories, and to everyone who took the time to comment: 20,000+ words later and we are DONE! See you all in the New Year!
Baby I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm
His first Christmas without Estelle, and he doesn’t even realize it until it’s Christmas Eve day and he hears Gwen humming “Baby It’s Cold Outside” to herself while she types up incident reports.
He bites back the strong and completely irrational urge to snap at her, instead fleeing up to his office and locking the door behind him. He leans against the inside of the door like a man pursued and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose against tears.
It’s ridiculous, is what it is. “Baby It’s Cold Outside” didn’t pop up on the radio until several years after the war, and by that time his days with Estelle were long over, anyway. And yet somehow that cloying back-and-forth in the lyrics, the charismatic man who just can’t take no for an answer, the headstrong but tempted woman giving him every excuse in the book, caught up in social obligations... that was him and Estelle down to a ‘T’. The first time he’d heard it, he’d already long moved on, was dating a snide Englishman named James, and yet in that moment all he could think of was the colour of her hair, the smell of her lipstick, the feel of her waist between his hands.
Over the years, Estelle had become a presence in absentia, a fixture in his life, her long life without him serving a sort of comfort, and then he’d met her again, and although there’d been a minute or two of dissonance at the sight of her, he’d realized she was still beautiful and still witty and still optimistic and still flirtatious, and... well, he doesn’t know what that meant to him, really, but it was something, something comforting and warm and dependable.
And now she’s gone, and he hadn’t realized just how much that indescribable something had meant until it wasn’t there anymore. And it’s not just her, either, it’s everything she symbolized to him, that stability, that grace of years, the entire twentieth century, his past, the war, the ‘greatest generation’, everything he’s clung to, and now it’s gone.
He chokes out a laugh. For all he knows Gwen’s probably humming the version with Kylie Minogue and Robbie Williams.
When the hell did he get so irrelevant, anyway?
--
“Go on, get out of here,” he says, trying to sound generous.
Tosh looks up from her monitor. All around the hub, the three of them are stopping whatever they were doing, staring at him like he’s got three heads and they’re all mean. “But- ” Tosh protests.
“No buts!” Jack interrupts her. “It’s Christmas Eve. I can keep an eye on things here. In fact, it’s pretty much a Torchwood tradition by this point for Christmas Eve to just be me, more eggnog than strictly appropriate, the Weevils, and a bit o’ Bing Crosby. No need for all of you to be sitting around here feeling sorry for yourselves.”
He manages what he hopes is a convincing smile, tugging at the end of a length of sparkly red tinsel and dislodging it from where it’s taped to Gwen’s workstation. He loops it around his neck like a boa. Okay, maybe the lady doth protest too much.
“Gwen,” he orders, acting the sergeant even though he probably looks a pillock. “Go have supper with Rhys at a decent hour, for once. No, don’t say anything, just turn off your computer and go. Ianto, find an open pub and make sure Tosh and Owen both get there. Use the company account to buy yourselves a few rounds of drinks. Think of it as your company Christmas party. Of sorts. At least you don’t have to bring a date.”
As soon as he finishes, Gwen’s up like a shot, pressing a kiss onto his jaw because she can’t quite reach his cheek. “Happy Christmas, Jack!” she says, cheerful, and then busies herself with packing her purse, throwing on jacket and scarf. The sight of her, so happy and so thankful to leave, twists in his chest. He smiles again, making sure to flash teeth.
“There’s a body on the slab,” Owen says as he strips his apron and gloves like he can’t be rid of them fast enough. “Don’t fucking touch it.”
Jack salutes him.
“I’ll just-” Tosh tries, looking longingly to her monitor.
“You’ll just nothing,” Jack says. “Owen, pick her up bodily and carry her out if you have to. The mainframe will still be here on Boxing Day.”
“Sir-” Ianto says, weakly, exasperated.
“You have a job to do, Ianto, so I suggest you make sure it gets done.” His voice is serious, boss serious, but he finishes it off with a wink. “And keep those two away from the mistletoe.”
Tosh blushes furiously as she packs her laptop and Owen snorts.
“The Weevils!” Ianto protests.
“I got it,” Jack says, through his teeth. Why do they have to make it so hard on him? “Really, Ianto.”
--
“But baby you’ll freeze out there!” he sings, swinging around the mop handle gracefully. Janet doesn’t pick up her part of the duet, just hunches and moans.
“It’s up to your knees out there!” he serenades her, “I thrill when you touch my hand!” He clutches the mop handle like a microphone, leaning into it passionately, continuing in a faux-sob “How can you dooo this thing to me!?”
He’s pretty much done here, so he skips to the big finish: “Ooooh baby it’s coooooold out-side!”
Janet stares at him without blinking.
“Aw, you always play hard to get,” he says to her, turns off the overhead lights, and leaves.
--
He hears the sound of brass instruments blaring when he’s halfway up the stairs to the main atrium. He picks up his pace, hand on his gun. After that run-in with John, anything unexpected in the hub (even if it’s just his favourite festive vinyls) has very little chance of being a good thing. At least he’d sent the team home. That last time had been too close. Way too close.
He follows the sound to his office, where he finds the lights on and the door cracked partway. Cocking his gun, he creeps the rest of the way up as quiet as he can manage, cursing every groan of the metal grating under his feet, but it isn’t too tough to go undetected with the gramophone playing at full volume.
Standing just outside the door, back to the wall, he can hear Frank Sinatra’s voice: “I can’t remember a worse December!” And Jack can’t help but agree.
He pushes the door open with one hand, quickly returning both palms to the grip of his Webley and taking aim.
“Off with my overcoat, off with my glove!” Sinatra sings, and there’s Ianto in the centre of the office with his back to Jack, down to his untucked red shirt and trousers, doing quite possibly the worst excuse for dancing Jack’s ever seen, arms up in the air and arse out and shaking, like the record’s playing Black Eyed Peas instead of Sinatra.
“I need no overcoat, I’m burning with love!” Jack sings, his voice loud over Sinatra’s.
Ianto spins, face absolutely mortified, just in time to see Jack quirk his eyebrow in question.
“My heart’s on fire, the flame grows higher,” Sinatra croons, crackly, “So I will weather the storm!”
Ianto interrupts him breathlessly. “Jack! I, uh, I saw to Tosh and Owen like you said but I-” He winces, like he’s fully expecting to be reprimanded.
Jack strips his coat without saying anything, spotting the two nutmeg-dusted glasses of eggnog on his desk.
Something in his expression must be encouraging, because Ianto defiantly lifts his chin despite his blush. “Well, that is, I just thought maybe we could start a new Torchwood tradition, since everything changes and all.”
“Oh?” Jack asks, feeling himself prowling closer.
“Yeah,” Ianto says, more boldly, “Just you, more eggnog than is strictly appropriate, the Weevils of course, a bit of Frank Sinatra, and me.”
Their chest and bellies align, Jack catching Ianto by the hand and lower back and gathering him close.
“What do I care how much it may storm?” Sinatra belts out in the background, and Jack remembers all the steps, like no time’s passed at all. He swings them both around the small floor of his office like it’s the Astoria Ballroom. Ianto laughs in shock when Jack dips him back.
I’ve got my love to keep me warm.
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Jack/Ianto, Jack/Estelle, Team
Rating: R
Genre: Romance
Wordcount: ~1447
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Steven Moffat, and the BBC.
Summary: It's practically a Torchwood tradition. Christmas Eve, just Jack, more eggnog than strictly appropriate, the Weevils, and a bit o’ Bing Crosby.
A/N: The 24th and final advent fic! Thank you for sticking with me, everyone! This one is for _lullabelle_, who requested "Christmas and Jack has the humbugs." But of course, it's Christmas eve so I couldn't very well let him suffer on his own, could I now? Comes with a bonus 40s-50s Christmas soundtrack. To all of you who celebrate it, have a very merry Christmas, and to everyone, I hope your winter's a warm one full of love and happiness (wherever you can find it). Finally, I'd like to give a massively enthusiastic thank you to azn_jack_fiend, _lullabelle_, and count_to_seven for the support and beta for all of this month's stories, and to everyone who took the time to comment: 20,000+ words later and we are DONE! See you all in the New Year!
Baby I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm
His first Christmas without Estelle, and he doesn’t even realize it until it’s Christmas Eve day and he hears Gwen humming “Baby It’s Cold Outside” to herself while she types up incident reports.
He bites back the strong and completely irrational urge to snap at her, instead fleeing up to his office and locking the door behind him. He leans against the inside of the door like a man pursued and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose against tears.
It’s ridiculous, is what it is. “Baby It’s Cold Outside” didn’t pop up on the radio until several years after the war, and by that time his days with Estelle were long over, anyway. And yet somehow that cloying back-and-forth in the lyrics, the charismatic man who just can’t take no for an answer, the headstrong but tempted woman giving him every excuse in the book, caught up in social obligations... that was him and Estelle down to a ‘T’. The first time he’d heard it, he’d already long moved on, was dating a snide Englishman named James, and yet in that moment all he could think of was the colour of her hair, the smell of her lipstick, the feel of her waist between his hands.
Over the years, Estelle had become a presence in absentia, a fixture in his life, her long life without him serving a sort of comfort, and then he’d met her again, and although there’d been a minute or two of dissonance at the sight of her, he’d realized she was still beautiful and still witty and still optimistic and still flirtatious, and... well, he doesn’t know what that meant to him, really, but it was something, something comforting and warm and dependable.
And now she’s gone, and he hadn’t realized just how much that indescribable something had meant until it wasn’t there anymore. And it’s not just her, either, it’s everything she symbolized to him, that stability, that grace of years, the entire twentieth century, his past, the war, the ‘greatest generation’, everything he’s clung to, and now it’s gone.
He chokes out a laugh. For all he knows Gwen’s probably humming the version with Kylie Minogue and Robbie Williams.
When the hell did he get so irrelevant, anyway?
--
“Go on, get out of here,” he says, trying to sound generous.
Tosh looks up from her monitor. All around the hub, the three of them are stopping whatever they were doing, staring at him like he’s got three heads and they’re all mean. “But- ” Tosh protests.
“No buts!” Jack interrupts her. “It’s Christmas Eve. I can keep an eye on things here. In fact, it’s pretty much a Torchwood tradition by this point for Christmas Eve to just be me, more eggnog than strictly appropriate, the Weevils, and a bit o’ Bing Crosby. No need for all of you to be sitting around here feeling sorry for yourselves.”
He manages what he hopes is a convincing smile, tugging at the end of a length of sparkly red tinsel and dislodging it from where it’s taped to Gwen’s workstation. He loops it around his neck like a boa. Okay, maybe the lady doth protest too much.
“Gwen,” he orders, acting the sergeant even though he probably looks a pillock. “Go have supper with Rhys at a decent hour, for once. No, don’t say anything, just turn off your computer and go. Ianto, find an open pub and make sure Tosh and Owen both get there. Use the company account to buy yourselves a few rounds of drinks. Think of it as your company Christmas party. Of sorts. At least you don’t have to bring a date.”
As soon as he finishes, Gwen’s up like a shot, pressing a kiss onto his jaw because she can’t quite reach his cheek. “Happy Christmas, Jack!” she says, cheerful, and then busies herself with packing her purse, throwing on jacket and scarf. The sight of her, so happy and so thankful to leave, twists in his chest. He smiles again, making sure to flash teeth.
“There’s a body on the slab,” Owen says as he strips his apron and gloves like he can’t be rid of them fast enough. “Don’t fucking touch it.”
Jack salutes him.
“I’ll just-” Tosh tries, looking longingly to her monitor.
“You’ll just nothing,” Jack says. “Owen, pick her up bodily and carry her out if you have to. The mainframe will still be here on Boxing Day.”
“Sir-” Ianto says, weakly, exasperated.
“You have a job to do, Ianto, so I suggest you make sure it gets done.” His voice is serious, boss serious, but he finishes it off with a wink. “And keep those two away from the mistletoe.”
Tosh blushes furiously as she packs her laptop and Owen snorts.
“The Weevils!” Ianto protests.
“I got it,” Jack says, through his teeth. Why do they have to make it so hard on him? “Really, Ianto.”
--
“But baby you’ll freeze out there!” he sings, swinging around the mop handle gracefully. Janet doesn’t pick up her part of the duet, just hunches and moans.
“It’s up to your knees out there!” he serenades her, “I thrill when you touch my hand!” He clutches the mop handle like a microphone, leaning into it passionately, continuing in a faux-sob “How can you dooo this thing to me!?”
He’s pretty much done here, so he skips to the big finish: “Ooooh baby it’s coooooold out-side!”
Janet stares at him without blinking.
“Aw, you always play hard to get,” he says to her, turns off the overhead lights, and leaves.
--
He hears the sound of brass instruments blaring when he’s halfway up the stairs to the main atrium. He picks up his pace, hand on his gun. After that run-in with John, anything unexpected in the hub (even if it’s just his favourite festive vinyls) has very little chance of being a good thing. At least he’d sent the team home. That last time had been too close. Way too close.
He follows the sound to his office, where he finds the lights on and the door cracked partway. Cocking his gun, he creeps the rest of the way up as quiet as he can manage, cursing every groan of the metal grating under his feet, but it isn’t too tough to go undetected with the gramophone playing at full volume.
Standing just outside the door, back to the wall, he can hear Frank Sinatra’s voice: “I can’t remember a worse December!” And Jack can’t help but agree.
He pushes the door open with one hand, quickly returning both palms to the grip of his Webley and taking aim.
“Off with my overcoat, off with my glove!” Sinatra sings, and there’s Ianto in the centre of the office with his back to Jack, down to his untucked red shirt and trousers, doing quite possibly the worst excuse for dancing Jack’s ever seen, arms up in the air and arse out and shaking, like the record’s playing Black Eyed Peas instead of Sinatra.
“I need no overcoat, I’m burning with love!” Jack sings, his voice loud over Sinatra’s.
Ianto spins, face absolutely mortified, just in time to see Jack quirk his eyebrow in question.
“My heart’s on fire, the flame grows higher,” Sinatra croons, crackly, “So I will weather the storm!”
Ianto interrupts him breathlessly. “Jack! I, uh, I saw to Tosh and Owen like you said but I-” He winces, like he’s fully expecting to be reprimanded.
Jack strips his coat without saying anything, spotting the two nutmeg-dusted glasses of eggnog on his desk.
Something in his expression must be encouraging, because Ianto defiantly lifts his chin despite his blush. “Well, that is, I just thought maybe we could start a new Torchwood tradition, since everything changes and all.”
“Oh?” Jack asks, feeling himself prowling closer.
“Yeah,” Ianto says, more boldly, “Just you, more eggnog than is strictly appropriate, the Weevils of course, a bit of Frank Sinatra, and me.”
Their chest and bellies align, Jack catching Ianto by the hand and lower back and gathering him close.
“What do I care how much it may storm?” Sinatra belts out in the background, and Jack remembers all the steps, like no time’s passed at all. He swings them both around the small floor of his office like it’s the Astoria Ballroom. Ianto laughs in shock when Jack dips him back.
I’ve got my love to keep me warm.