Of All The Times
Title: Of All The Times
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Gwen, Jack, Ianto
Spoilers: Non-explicit for Exit Wounds
Words: ~650
Rating: PG
Prompt: redisourcolor Challenge #17: Weather (dowdy, chocolate wrapper, vituperate; that night, (insert name here) drank the last of the (drink of choice here) him/her/itself) // docwholand Big Bang: Artist's Choice
Summary: The heater in the Hub breaks down in the middle of a snowstorm. Gwen looks up weather predictions. Ianto makes coffee. Jack's solution is a little more creative.
“Is it just me,” Gwen said, frowning at the weather patterns on her screen, “or did the Rift just dump a load of snow on the Plass and nowhere else?”
Jack yawned from his position on the sofa, his breath misting in the bitter underground air. “Wouldn’t put it past it. We got a block-wide blizzard from Bothpimir back in ’87. August, I think. They were in the middle of a block party and everything.” As he spoke, his hands fiddled distractedly with a discarded chocolate wrapper from the floor, probably Myfanwy’s.
Gwen smiled vaguely, returning to her computer. “It’s going to be minus fifteen all week, Christ - of all the times for the heater to break down.”
“Working on it.” Sounding faintly amused, Ianto’s voice crackled through her comms. “The circuitry’s burnt out; might be a while.”
“Hey, Gwen. Pass me the calendar?”
The Welshwoman complied, casting Jack the paper Word-A-Day calendar they kept in the Hub for just such days as these. He caught it and touched his comm, switching it on.
“Okay, Ianto,” he spoke into it, his eyes flicking across the page. The date was several days behind; they didn’t actually use it to keep track of the passage of time. “Verb. To use or address with harsh or abusive language; revile.”
There were several moments of silence from the young man on the other end, broken only by a faint static. “First letter?” he said finally, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of wire-cutters.
“V.”
“Hm.” He fell silent again, and Jack pictured the archivist's face set in calm focus, pale fingers deftly sorting out fried wires. The chocolate wrapper crinkled in his own large hands. “V,” Ianto murmured, probably to himself. “V, vi . . . vituperate?”
“I give up,” Jack laughed, tossing the calendar aside in mock frustration. “You know everything.”
“As I’ve been telling you for years, sir.” The quiet smile was evident in his voice.
“So you have.” Jack climbed to his feet, stretching his long limbs. “Why don’t you come back up, Ianto; we’ll do without the heater. I have a better idea.”
“Oh?”
Approximately five minutes later, when Ianto arrived back at the cavernous main room of the Hub, Jack was nowhere to be seen.
“In his bunker,” Gwen said, answering the unspoken question. “God knows what he’s planning.”
Ianto deadpanned, “I doubt it.” He went about collecting the abandoned mugs on the desktop and busied himself with the coffee machine; if he wasn’t going to fix the heater the least he could do was make them all hot drinks. He’d just delivered Gwen her brew (well-steeped, dash of cream, one sugar) and was about to break in his own when Jack reemerged, a suspiciously-colored cloth bundle under each arm. Approaching with long strides, the older man dumped the things unceremoniously into their laps before snatching his cup from the tray and nursing the hot drink gratefully.
“What’s this?” Gwen asked in surprise, setting down her mug (later that night Ianto would drink the last of the coffee himself) in favor of the heavy parcel resting on her thighs. She grasped it by one end, shaking the cloth out to full size, and then laughed in disbelief. “You can’t be serious?”
“Really, sir?” Ianto raised an eyebrow at his lover, a smirk playing across his features. “I thought you preferred me in a suit.”
“Oh, I do,” Jack assured him with a wink, draping the blue coat over the Welshman’s shoulders.
Gwen shrugged on the borrowed coat, wriggling happily in the heavy folds of cloth. “Oh, it’s warm!” She glanced down at herself. “I do feel a bit dowdy, though.”
Jack scoffed. “My coat is not dowdy.”
“When did you get three of these?” Ianto wondered out loud, doing up the top few buttons.
Jack chuckled. “See there, you don’t know everything, Ianto Jones.”
“Near enough.”
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Gwen, Jack, Ianto
Spoilers: Non-explicit for Exit Wounds
Words: ~650
Rating: PG
Prompt: redisourcolor Challenge #17: Weather (dowdy, chocolate wrapper, vituperate; that night, (insert name here) drank the last of the (drink of choice here) him/her/itself) // docwholand Big Bang: Artist's Choice
Summary: The heater in the Hub breaks down in the middle of a snowstorm. Gwen looks up weather predictions. Ianto makes coffee. Jack's solution is a little more creative.
“Is it just me,” Gwen said, frowning at the weather patterns on her screen, “or did the Rift just dump a load of snow on the Plass and nowhere else?”
Jack yawned from his position on the sofa, his breath misting in the bitter underground air. “Wouldn’t put it past it. We got a block-wide blizzard from Bothpimir back in ’87. August, I think. They were in the middle of a block party and everything.” As he spoke, his hands fiddled distractedly with a discarded chocolate wrapper from the floor, probably Myfanwy’s.
Gwen smiled vaguely, returning to her computer. “It’s going to be minus fifteen all week, Christ - of all the times for the heater to break down.”
“Working on it.” Sounding faintly amused, Ianto’s voice crackled through her comms. “The circuitry’s burnt out; might be a while.”
“Hey, Gwen. Pass me the calendar?”
The Welshwoman complied, casting Jack the paper Word-A-Day calendar they kept in the Hub for just such days as these. He caught it and touched his comm, switching it on.
“Okay, Ianto,” he spoke into it, his eyes flicking across the page. The date was several days behind; they didn’t actually use it to keep track of the passage of time. “Verb. To use or address with harsh or abusive language; revile.”
There were several moments of silence from the young man on the other end, broken only by a faint static. “First letter?” he said finally, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of wire-cutters.
“V.”
“Hm.” He fell silent again, and Jack pictured the archivist's face set in calm focus, pale fingers deftly sorting out fried wires. The chocolate wrapper crinkled in his own large hands. “V,” Ianto murmured, probably to himself. “V, vi . . . vituperate?”
“I give up,” Jack laughed, tossing the calendar aside in mock frustration. “You know everything.”
“As I’ve been telling you for years, sir.” The quiet smile was evident in his voice.
“So you have.” Jack climbed to his feet, stretching his long limbs. “Why don’t you come back up, Ianto; we’ll do without the heater. I have a better idea.”
“Oh?”
Approximately five minutes later, when Ianto arrived back at the cavernous main room of the Hub, Jack was nowhere to be seen.
“In his bunker,” Gwen said, answering the unspoken question. “God knows what he’s planning.”
Ianto deadpanned, “I doubt it.” He went about collecting the abandoned mugs on the desktop and busied himself with the coffee machine; if he wasn’t going to fix the heater the least he could do was make them all hot drinks. He’d just delivered Gwen her brew (well-steeped, dash of cream, one sugar) and was about to break in his own when Jack reemerged, a suspiciously-colored cloth bundle under each arm. Approaching with long strides, the older man dumped the things unceremoniously into their laps before snatching his cup from the tray and nursing the hot drink gratefully.
“What’s this?” Gwen asked in surprise, setting down her mug (later that night Ianto would drink the last of the coffee himself) in favor of the heavy parcel resting on her thighs. She grasped it by one end, shaking the cloth out to full size, and then laughed in disbelief. “You can’t be serious?”
“Really, sir?” Ianto raised an eyebrow at his lover, a smirk playing across his features. “I thought you preferred me in a suit.”
“Oh, I do,” Jack assured him with a wink, draping the blue coat over the Welshman’s shoulders.
Gwen shrugged on the borrowed coat, wriggling happily in the heavy folds of cloth. “Oh, it’s warm!” She glanced down at herself. “I do feel a bit dowdy, though.”
Jack scoffed. “My coat is not dowdy.”
“When did you get three of these?” Ianto wondered out loud, doing up the top few buttons.
Jack chuckled. “See there, you don’t know everything, Ianto Jones.”
“Near enough.”