TW -- Irish Cream
Title: Irish Cream
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Tosh and Ianto
Rating: G
Word Count: 844
Warnings: none?
Summary: Another one of those nights. Are there any nights that aren't one of those?
Author's Note: I BFF-ship Tosh and Ianto so hard. Also, this is set just before "Greeks Bearing Gifts," though that's actually the episode that inspired it.
IRISH CREAM
Tosh stares at the middle screen until it starts to blur. She’s told herself six times in the last five minutes-if she’s going to be here this late, she’d sure as hell better be working, because she can bemoan the inadequacies of her life just as well at home.
Besides, it’s not as if it’s complicated. The novelty of Gwen will wear off-Tosh likes Gwen, but they could all do with a bit of honesty here-and Owen will go back to philandering and forgetting names, not always in that order. And that’s all right, which Gwen will understand in time; she should be so grateful someone loves her as broadly, as hugely, as unconditionally as Rhys does, and instead she…
Tosh scrubs at her eyes, and when she looks up, Ianto has appeared in that wizardly way he does.
“Coffee?” he asks, gesturing with a mug for good measure.
“Oh,” Tosh manages. “No, thank you. Thanks.”
Ianto smiles. “Whiskey?” he asks.
Tosh blinks. “We don’t have any whiskey.” Not that she’s checked, or anything.
Ianto plucks an empty cup off of her desk without disturbing an avalanche of files, and then he takes the crumpled napkins, too. “We don’t,” he says. “But Jack does.”
Nothing in the Hub is safe, and nowhere is sacred, which Tosh will keep in mind when she’s done taking advantage of the fact.
Momentarily, Ianto climbs back out of the hatch to Jack’s room, having somehow conveyed a small collection of bottles up the ladder with him. When Tosh is settled at the table, he mixes her an Irish Cream on the spot, twirling the liquor bottles like Tom Cruise in “Cocktail.”
He sees her surprise and greets it with a typical thin smile.
“There are a few things I omit from my C.V.,” he says.
“At least you’ll have a fallback plan,” Tosh replies, drinking deeply as gratitude overwhelms her better judgment. She coughs when the whiskey burns down her throat, the cream tingling after, and then she worries that her reaction might seem rude and adds a “Thank you” to the end.
Ianto smiles again, sitting across from her, laying one arm on the table, and letting his shoulders relax. “You work harder than anyone here,” he says.
“Except Jack,” Tosh points out.
“I suspect that Jack isn’t entirely human,” Ianto remarks, “so he doesn’t count.”
“That would explain a great deal,” Tosh admits.
“Including his supernatural ability to hide alcohol from Owen,” Ianto says.
Tosh grimaces, and Ianto shoots her a sympathetic look but doesn’t try to take it back.
Tosh admires that about Ianto-he doesn’t apologize for the way things are. He doesn’t pretend that things are different, and he doesn’t lie.
Not to mention that he’s brilliant. He doesn’t fuss about it, but Tosh can almost see the sheer potential of him bleeding like a halo from the edges of his form. Tosh thinks that if any of them knew-really knew-just how smart Ianto is, they’d be running in the other direction as fast as they could go.
“How do you deal with it?” she asks him over the rim of the glass he poured for her. “With-people. With people who just can’t see it like you do, who don’t even see the same thing.”
Ianto considers, and she waits, because she’s never met anyone who makes words count as much as he can when he tries.
“The options seem to be patience or suicide,” Ianto says. “Extensive research hasn’t yielded a particularly sanitary method of self-murder, so I’ve favored the former thus far.” She smiles weakly, and he smiles back. “On the downside, Doctor McAllister tells me he’s never seen a worse teeth-grinding habit in twenty years of practicing dentistry.”
Tosh smiles a little more. “I went to a chiropractor once. He was nearly crying by the time he sent me right back out the door.”
Ianto stretches his arms over his head. “I’ll have to sneak an Ikea trip onto Jack’s calendar. Then we can have ergonomic chairs with names like ‘Skärgårdenrakning.’”
Tosh grins, briefly but fully now. As she finishes her drink, she starts to think about all the things he’s done-for her, for them, for Torchwood, for order, to keep the peace, to save their sanity as well as their lives. Ianto holds a hand out for her glass when she’s done, and she gives it to him.
“I think you’re superhuman, too,” she says.
Ianto shrugs, rearranging the cups. “You won’t see me roaming the city in spandex,” he says. “Though I’d watch out for Jack; he’d get off to that.” He meets her smile with another of his own and balances the tray. “I’m not extraordinary,” he tells her. “Just very, very… patient.”
As he walks away, off into the shadows where he holds so much of this together on his own, Tosh adds an item to her to-do list: first thing tomorrow, she’s going to hack into the payroll and give Ianto Jones a raise.
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Tosh and Ianto
Rating: G
Word Count: 844
Warnings: none?
Summary: Another one of those nights. Are there any nights that aren't one of those?
Author's Note: I BFF-ship Tosh and Ianto so hard. Also, this is set just before "Greeks Bearing Gifts," though that's actually the episode that inspired it.
IRISH CREAM
Tosh stares at the middle screen until it starts to blur. She’s told herself six times in the last five minutes-if she’s going to be here this late, she’d sure as hell better be working, because she can bemoan the inadequacies of her life just as well at home.
Besides, it’s not as if it’s complicated. The novelty of Gwen will wear off-Tosh likes Gwen, but they could all do with a bit of honesty here-and Owen will go back to philandering and forgetting names, not always in that order. And that’s all right, which Gwen will understand in time; she should be so grateful someone loves her as broadly, as hugely, as unconditionally as Rhys does, and instead she…
Tosh scrubs at her eyes, and when she looks up, Ianto has appeared in that wizardly way he does.
“Coffee?” he asks, gesturing with a mug for good measure.
“Oh,” Tosh manages. “No, thank you. Thanks.”
Ianto smiles. “Whiskey?” he asks.
Tosh blinks. “We don’t have any whiskey.” Not that she’s checked, or anything.
Ianto plucks an empty cup off of her desk without disturbing an avalanche of files, and then he takes the crumpled napkins, too. “We don’t,” he says. “But Jack does.”
Nothing in the Hub is safe, and nowhere is sacred, which Tosh will keep in mind when she’s done taking advantage of the fact.
Momentarily, Ianto climbs back out of the hatch to Jack’s room, having somehow conveyed a small collection of bottles up the ladder with him. When Tosh is settled at the table, he mixes her an Irish Cream on the spot, twirling the liquor bottles like Tom Cruise in “Cocktail.”
He sees her surprise and greets it with a typical thin smile.
“There are a few things I omit from my C.V.,” he says.
“At least you’ll have a fallback plan,” Tosh replies, drinking deeply as gratitude overwhelms her better judgment. She coughs when the whiskey burns down her throat, the cream tingling after, and then she worries that her reaction might seem rude and adds a “Thank you” to the end.
Ianto smiles again, sitting across from her, laying one arm on the table, and letting his shoulders relax. “You work harder than anyone here,” he says.
“Except Jack,” Tosh points out.
“I suspect that Jack isn’t entirely human,” Ianto remarks, “so he doesn’t count.”
“That would explain a great deal,” Tosh admits.
“Including his supernatural ability to hide alcohol from Owen,” Ianto says.
Tosh grimaces, and Ianto shoots her a sympathetic look but doesn’t try to take it back.
Tosh admires that about Ianto-he doesn’t apologize for the way things are. He doesn’t pretend that things are different, and he doesn’t lie.
Not to mention that he’s brilliant. He doesn’t fuss about it, but Tosh can almost see the sheer potential of him bleeding like a halo from the edges of his form. Tosh thinks that if any of them knew-really knew-just how smart Ianto is, they’d be running in the other direction as fast as they could go.
“How do you deal with it?” she asks him over the rim of the glass he poured for her. “With-people. With people who just can’t see it like you do, who don’t even see the same thing.”
Ianto considers, and she waits, because she’s never met anyone who makes words count as much as he can when he tries.
“The options seem to be patience or suicide,” Ianto says. “Extensive research hasn’t yielded a particularly sanitary method of self-murder, so I’ve favored the former thus far.” She smiles weakly, and he smiles back. “On the downside, Doctor McAllister tells me he’s never seen a worse teeth-grinding habit in twenty years of practicing dentistry.”
Tosh smiles a little more. “I went to a chiropractor once. He was nearly crying by the time he sent me right back out the door.”
Ianto stretches his arms over his head. “I’ll have to sneak an Ikea trip onto Jack’s calendar. Then we can have ergonomic chairs with names like ‘Skärgårdenrakning.’”
Tosh grins, briefly but fully now. As she finishes her drink, she starts to think about all the things he’s done-for her, for them, for Torchwood, for order, to keep the peace, to save their sanity as well as their lives. Ianto holds a hand out for her glass when she’s done, and she gives it to him.
“I think you’re superhuman, too,” she says.
Ianto shrugs, rearranging the cups. “You won’t see me roaming the city in spandex,” he says. “Though I’d watch out for Jack; he’d get off to that.” He meets her smile with another of his own and balances the tray. “I’m not extraordinary,” he tells her. “Just very, very… patient.”
As he walks away, off into the shadows where he holds so much of this together on his own, Tosh adds an item to her to-do list: first thing tomorrow, she’s going to hack into the payroll and give Ianto Jones a raise.