[Torchwood] "'Zat You, Santy Claus?" (PG-13)
Author's Note: Written for < lj user="adventchallenge">'s "kissing Santa". Jack/Ianto, also mild "Santa Claus"/Jack. Yeah. I went there. I could not resist: this idea started scratching at my brain and would not be quiet.
Ianto woke up hearing a soft crash coming from the front room of his apartment, followed by a muffled curse and a surprised burble coming from a manly set of lungs. He poked his head out from under the duvet -- thankfully not pulled across the bed and wrapped around Jack for a change. Jack's side of the bed lay empty: no surprise there, as Jack tended to creep out of bed and rummage about the apartment. A soft glow of colored light shone around the bedroom door, which stood ajar: someone had the Christmas tree lit, though the window showed no sign of daylight: 4.30, according to the clock on the bedside table.
"Umff, hey, could you... mff!" Jack's voice said, clearly trying to deal with some less than welcome and decidedly amourous personage. Ianto sat up, reaching for the cricket bat that he kept under the bed: he hardly expected to fend off intruders, particularly the nights when Jack slept over, but it sounded like Jack had gotten in over his head -- err, ears...
He fumbled for his pants, hauled them on, then hoisting the cricket bat, tiptoed out into the hallway, heading for the front room.
He found Jack by the gas fireplace, back against the bricks, an equally tall, jolly figure in a red suit holding him there, hands on Jack's waist, full on snogging him.
"Santa Claus?!" Ianto said, the hand gripping the bat sinking. He felt like a tit for saying it.
The red clad figure looked up, the face looking not quite right, as if someone had plopped the face onto a different-shaped skull.
"This is not Santa Claus," Jack gasped. "I've met the guy. Had no interest me. Forget what you know about that silly song."
"Then who is it?" Ianto demanded.
The faux Santa released Jack, turning on Jack, raising a hand from which long talons protruded from the fingers. Or through the fingers, as if they pierced through the skin.
"Oooh, another tasty little human. You didn't tell me you had company, Harkness," Santa burbled, in a weirdly reverberating voice, as if Santa either had a frog in his throat or he spoke through a voice changer. Or his voice belonged to something not of Earth.
"Ianto, get in the kitchen," Jack snapped.
"Excuse me?" Ianto asked. Jack had teased him about taking the part of the wife in their relationship, but this pushed it a bit.
"No, seriously, get that gallon jug of vinegar you bought, I think I know what we're dealing with," Jack said.
"Oooh, seeing right through me," the fake Santa burbled. A set of eyes behind the eyes seemed to narrow, calculating. "Who shall I go after first, the naughty one or the nice one? I'm not sure which is which now."
Ianto did not linger to hear the answer. Dropping the cricket bat, he bolted for the kitchen, slamming the light on and darting his gaze about the cupboards and counters, looking for the vinegar. He spotted the jug on the floor in the corner between the dresser and the wall. Snatching it up and ripping the top off, he bolted back for the living room.
The thing had grabbed Jack around the waist with one hand, the other hand free, trying to reach for Jack's face. Jack laid about the thing's head with the bat. The skin over the face had slipped, like a stretched out rubber Halloween mask, revealing a greenish face visible through the eyeholes and especially the mouth, which uncovered one cheek of a blobby, currant bun face.
"Throw the vinegar on this thing! I can't hold it off forever," Jack yelled, the cricket bat cracking as he brought it down on the thing's skull.
"Telling all my secrets, eh, Jack?" the thing burbled. "You're so deep on the naughty list, you're on the dead list."
Everything happened at once. The thing's taloned hand plunged into Jack's chest. Ianto emitted a roar and lunged at the thing, getting inside its reach, putting himself between it and Jack's body, before dumping the vinegar over its head.
The thing let go of Jack's limp body, staggering back into the Christmas tree and knocking it to the floor. "You ruined it, Ianto Jones," the thing rasped. "You ruined Chris--"
The thing exploded, sending clumps of greenish, vile-smelling stringy gunk flying everywhere: the floor, the walls, the Christmas tree, and especially Ianto.
"Ugh," he grunted, staring down at the wreckage.
Jack gasped back to life behind him. "Gaaah, who sent a Slytheen to Grinch out on us?" he muttered.
Ianto dropped the empty vinegar bottle and turned to Jack, falling to his knees. "Are you all right?" he asked, knowing the answer to that question, even as he slipped an arm under Jack's neck.
"You need to ask?" Jack said, with a mischievous chuckle, grinning up at him.
"What is -- what was that thing?" Ianto said, glancing back at the gunk that covered everything.
"It was a Slytheen, member of a crime family from the planet Raxicoricofallipatorius," Jack said, sitting up. "And you took it out, single-handedly."
"Do I want to know why it was disguised as Santa?" Ianto asked, looking at the wrecked Santa suit, which lay on the carpet like some soggy, macabre chrysalis.
"Skin suit, helps them blend it," Jack said. "They take the skins of humans -- usually the ones with more generous physiques -- fit it over themselves."
"Someone like Santa Claus," Ianto said, feeling a pang of horror in a corner of his mind, where a seven year old version of himself still dwelt.
"Or a mall Santa who happened to cross its path. What I want to know is why it came after me? Who'd I tick off now?" Jack said, getting up, helping Ianto to his feet. "Something to think of later. Let's get you to the shower and get you cleaned up."
"Good way to start Christmas: killing a Santa-killing alien that exploded all over the living room," Ianto said, following Jack to the bathroom.
Ianto woke up hearing a soft crash coming from the front room of his apartment, followed by a muffled curse and a surprised burble coming from a manly set of lungs. He poked his head out from under the duvet -- thankfully not pulled across the bed and wrapped around Jack for a change. Jack's side of the bed lay empty: no surprise there, as Jack tended to creep out of bed and rummage about the apartment. A soft glow of colored light shone around the bedroom door, which stood ajar: someone had the Christmas tree lit, though the window showed no sign of daylight: 4.30, according to the clock on the bedside table.
"Umff, hey, could you... mff!" Jack's voice said, clearly trying to deal with some less than welcome and decidedly amourous personage. Ianto sat up, reaching for the cricket bat that he kept under the bed: he hardly expected to fend off intruders, particularly the nights when Jack slept over, but it sounded like Jack had gotten in over his head -- err, ears...
He fumbled for his pants, hauled them on, then hoisting the cricket bat, tiptoed out into the hallway, heading for the front room.
He found Jack by the gas fireplace, back against the bricks, an equally tall, jolly figure in a red suit holding him there, hands on Jack's waist, full on snogging him.
"Santa Claus?!" Ianto said, the hand gripping the bat sinking. He felt like a tit for saying it.
The red clad figure looked up, the face looking not quite right, as if someone had plopped the face onto a different-shaped skull.
"This is not Santa Claus," Jack gasped. "I've met the guy. Had no interest me. Forget what you know about that silly song."
"Then who is it?" Ianto demanded.
The faux Santa released Jack, turning on Jack, raising a hand from which long talons protruded from the fingers. Or through the fingers, as if they pierced through the skin.
"Oooh, another tasty little human. You didn't tell me you had company, Harkness," Santa burbled, in a weirdly reverberating voice, as if Santa either had a frog in his throat or he spoke through a voice changer. Or his voice belonged to something not of Earth.
"Ianto, get in the kitchen," Jack snapped.
"Excuse me?" Ianto asked. Jack had teased him about taking the part of the wife in their relationship, but this pushed it a bit.
"No, seriously, get that gallon jug of vinegar you bought, I think I know what we're dealing with," Jack said.
"Oooh, seeing right through me," the fake Santa burbled. A set of eyes behind the eyes seemed to narrow, calculating. "Who shall I go after first, the naughty one or the nice one? I'm not sure which is which now."
Ianto did not linger to hear the answer. Dropping the cricket bat, he bolted for the kitchen, slamming the light on and darting his gaze about the cupboards and counters, looking for the vinegar. He spotted the jug on the floor in the corner between the dresser and the wall. Snatching it up and ripping the top off, he bolted back for the living room.
The thing had grabbed Jack around the waist with one hand, the other hand free, trying to reach for Jack's face. Jack laid about the thing's head with the bat. The skin over the face had slipped, like a stretched out rubber Halloween mask, revealing a greenish face visible through the eyeholes and especially the mouth, which uncovered one cheek of a blobby, currant bun face.
"Throw the vinegar on this thing! I can't hold it off forever," Jack yelled, the cricket bat cracking as he brought it down on the thing's skull.
"Telling all my secrets, eh, Jack?" the thing burbled. "You're so deep on the naughty list, you're on the dead list."
Everything happened at once. The thing's taloned hand plunged into Jack's chest. Ianto emitted a roar and lunged at the thing, getting inside its reach, putting himself between it and Jack's body, before dumping the vinegar over its head.
The thing let go of Jack's limp body, staggering back into the Christmas tree and knocking it to the floor. "You ruined it, Ianto Jones," the thing rasped. "You ruined Chris--"
The thing exploded, sending clumps of greenish, vile-smelling stringy gunk flying everywhere: the floor, the walls, the Christmas tree, and especially Ianto.
"Ugh," he grunted, staring down at the wreckage.
Jack gasped back to life behind him. "Gaaah, who sent a Slytheen to Grinch out on us?" he muttered.
Ianto dropped the empty vinegar bottle and turned to Jack, falling to his knees. "Are you all right?" he asked, knowing the answer to that question, even as he slipped an arm under Jack's neck.
"You need to ask?" Jack said, with a mischievous chuckle, grinning up at him.
"What is -- what was that thing?" Ianto said, glancing back at the gunk that covered everything.
"It was a Slytheen, member of a crime family from the planet Raxicoricofallipatorius," Jack said, sitting up. "And you took it out, single-handedly."
"Do I want to know why it was disguised as Santa?" Ianto asked, looking at the wrecked Santa suit, which lay on the carpet like some soggy, macabre chrysalis.
"Skin suit, helps them blend it," Jack said. "They take the skins of humans -- usually the ones with more generous physiques -- fit it over themselves."
"Someone like Santa Claus," Ianto said, feeling a pang of horror in a corner of his mind, where a seven year old version of himself still dwelt.
"Or a mall Santa who happened to cross its path. What I want to know is why it came after me? Who'd I tick off now?" Jack said, getting up, helping Ianto to his feet. "Something to think of later. Let's get you to the shower and get you cleaned up."
"Good way to start Christmas: killing a Santa-killing alien that exploded all over the living room," Ianto said, following Jack to the bathroom.