For writers_muses: 129.6 Covert
Ianto had just dozed off. He had just dozed off, and he was warm, and he was pretty sure he'd just begun what was going to be a very nice dream, and that, of course, was when someone knocked on the door.
He muttered something about not answering it into his pillow and reached out to nudge Jack to make his point.
Only Jack wasn't there, and all too suddenly Ianto remembered that the reason he had been awake in the first place was that Jack was incapable of getting himself out of bed and into the shower without waking up everyone else in the room.
Not that there was anyone else there, of course, but Ianto was certain that if there had been they'd have woken up as well--and probably wouldn't have been as gracious about it.
Just as he was enjoying that thought, whoever it was knocked again.
A few more seconds passed, and finally Ianto forced himself to sit up. Without really opening his eyes, he fished around on the floor until he found something that felt wearable. It took a few moments to get his arms and legs through all the right holes, or at least not through the wrong holes, but by the time he stumbled to the door he was wearing an unbuttoned shirt (inside out) and boxer shorts.
He opened the door blindly, still rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to make the room less bleary. When he opened his eyes a few seconds later, there was Martha Jones standing in the hallway, looking quite put-together in a pantsuit and giving the impression that it was all she could do not to laugh.
"Good morning," she said as she crossed her arms.
"Morning," Ianto yawned. And then, in an attempt to produce more than one word at a time, he added, "Early."
Apparently, she'd given up, because she laughed. "First meeting's in a half an hour, and I thought a certain Captain might like to escort me to breakfast. I didn't know you were in London."
"I wasn't," he said, finally managing a sentence. He leaned against the door frame and swiped at his hair, not that it did much. "Drove in last night. Be back to Cardiff in time for lunch."
Martha's expression went from amused to thoughtful and back again, but Ianto refused to look embarrassed. He also refused to look embarrassed when an older couple walked by; they were in a hotel, after all, and should expect strange conversations in the hallway.
"Yes," he said, then, so that she wouldn't have a chance to comment. "Don't say it. I'm just here for the night."
"I wasn't," she protested, doing her best at innocent--but that soon transitioned into a smirk. She tilted her chin up and moved one hand to her hip. "I was going to ask you if you wanted to get coffee."
"Well, in that case," he started, but before he could finish a door opened behind him.
Footsteps.
"Good morning, Jack."
"Martha," Jack called, and Ianto could hear the incorrigible grin in his voice. He could also, he thought, hear the wrinkle in Jack's forehead, as well as the frown it became, as he said, "Is that my shirt?"
Ianto didn't answer. Instead, he looked very carefully at Martha, at her smile and at the way she was trying not to let her gaze settle on the space behind Ianto's left shoulder.
After a moment, he sighed.
"He's naked, isn't he?"
She nodded. Twice. Both times very slowly.
Ianto pressed his lips together. "I should probably, uh," he said. "Close the door."
"Probably," Martha agreed, and he was unsurprised to note that she didn't look terribly concerned. Still, he started to ease the door shut, but she caught it with one hand. "Coffee," she reminded.
Ianto winked and mouthed, "Call me."
He muttered something about not answering it into his pillow and reached out to nudge Jack to make his point.
Only Jack wasn't there, and all too suddenly Ianto remembered that the reason he had been awake in the first place was that Jack was incapable of getting himself out of bed and into the shower without waking up everyone else in the room.
Not that there was anyone else there, of course, but Ianto was certain that if there had been they'd have woken up as well--and probably wouldn't have been as gracious about it.
Just as he was enjoying that thought, whoever it was knocked again.
A few more seconds passed, and finally Ianto forced himself to sit up. Without really opening his eyes, he fished around on the floor until he found something that felt wearable. It took a few moments to get his arms and legs through all the right holes, or at least not through the wrong holes, but by the time he stumbled to the door he was wearing an unbuttoned shirt (inside out) and boxer shorts.
He opened the door blindly, still rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to make the room less bleary. When he opened his eyes a few seconds later, there was Martha Jones standing in the hallway, looking quite put-together in a pantsuit and giving the impression that it was all she could do not to laugh.
"Good morning," she said as she crossed her arms.
"Morning," Ianto yawned. And then, in an attempt to produce more than one word at a time, he added, "Early."
Apparently, she'd given up, because she laughed. "First meeting's in a half an hour, and I thought a certain Captain might like to escort me to breakfast. I didn't know you were in London."
"I wasn't," he said, finally managing a sentence. He leaned against the door frame and swiped at his hair, not that it did much. "Drove in last night. Be back to Cardiff in time for lunch."
Martha's expression went from amused to thoughtful and back again, but Ianto refused to look embarrassed. He also refused to look embarrassed when an older couple walked by; they were in a hotel, after all, and should expect strange conversations in the hallway.
"Yes," he said, then, so that she wouldn't have a chance to comment. "Don't say it. I'm just here for the night."
"I wasn't," she protested, doing her best at innocent--but that soon transitioned into a smirk. She tilted her chin up and moved one hand to her hip. "I was going to ask you if you wanted to get coffee."
"Well, in that case," he started, but before he could finish a door opened behind him.
Footsteps.
"Good morning, Jack."
"Martha," Jack called, and Ianto could hear the incorrigible grin in his voice. He could also, he thought, hear the wrinkle in Jack's forehead, as well as the frown it became, as he said, "Is that my shirt?"
Ianto didn't answer. Instead, he looked very carefully at Martha, at her smile and at the way she was trying not to let her gaze settle on the space behind Ianto's left shoulder.
After a moment, he sighed.
"He's naked, isn't he?"
She nodded. Twice. Both times very slowly.
Ianto pressed his lips together. "I should probably, uh," he said. "Close the door."
"Probably," Martha agreed, and he was unsurprised to note that she didn't look terribly concerned. Still, he started to ease the door shut, but she caught it with one hand. "Coffee," she reminded.
Ianto winked and mouthed, "Call me."