Ianto can cook.  Toshiko - from her perch on the counter-top, a glass of red wine in her hand - watches him as he moves: selecting the right knife for the onions, searching through her cupboards for a chopping board and, when he finds one, cutting the vegetables with the deft speed that Toshiko has never seen in him before, his left hand resting ( Read more... )

“It’s hardly perfect, sir, but it’s the best that’s on offer.  I took the liberty of adding the sugar already.”

Jack grunts, taking the Styrofoam cup of coffee from Ianto without otherwise acknowledging him.  The wind off the peaks ruffles his hair and makes his coat billow about him in what Ianto can’t help but notice is a suitably melodramatic ( Read more... )