Advent '10 Fic: The Technical Term is 'Weather Dissonance'
Title: The Technical Term is 'Weather Dissonance'
Author: heddychaa
Characters: TW Team
Rating: PG
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Wordcount: ~1070
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Steven Moffat, and the BBC.
Summary: It's mid-September. There's nearly two feet of snow. (Along this street, anyway.) Team Torchwood does damage control.
A/N: Happy December! The first of 25 advent fics. This one is from a prompt by the lovely iceshade: "Team Torchwood has a snowball fight". Enjoy! Thank you to azn_jack_fiend, _lullabelle_, and count_to_seven for the support and beta for all of this month's stories! :) And see you all tomorrow!
The Technical Term is “Weather Dissonance”
“You think Earth is the only place where ski resorts have to fudge it sometimes?”
Jack is holding a device no larger than the Gameboy Ianto’d had as a kid, twisting a dial on its face back and forth experimentally and periodically craning his neck to peer at the clouds gathered overhead. Ianto busies himself with brushing clumps of wet snow off of the shoulders of Jack’s coat, trying to ignore the painful cold creeping damp up his toes.
They’re standing in the middle of a residential street, Stepford-identical row houses stretching out for miles (blocks) on either side. Also, everything is coated in nearly a foot of wet, heavy snow. Also, it’s only September.
Jack seems content enough, buttoned and belted into his big coat, and Ianto’s been worse-off than this before, but Tosh in her smart pencil skirt and tights has to be uncomfortable, and Owen in jeans and bomber jacket might as well be wearing a Hawaiian shirt and swim trunks, for all he’s complaining.
“So let me get this straight,” Owen says, scuffing his palms together and blowing on them, “We’ve just found an honest-to-god device that controls the weather?”
They all look expectantly to Jack. Before he can reply, Owen mutters, “And I thought the pulp-fiction pinup-slash-android was cliché.”
Ianto’s head snaps to look at Owen, unable to suppress a scandalized should-I-shoot-you-a-second-time-then glare. Owen just smiles back, somehow mean and mild at the same time, head tilted a little in challenge. Yeah, and what’re you gonna do about it, Teaboy?
Gwen would say, ‘It means he’s forgiven you, that he’s willing to rib you about it.’ But sod Gwen, basically.
Jack interrupts by clearing his throat, speaking especially loudly: “Not exactly, no. This thing’s a one-trick pony. All snow, all the time.”
Somewhere a door slams shut, the sound of it echoing down the empty street like a ricochet. Speak of the devil, Gwen trumps out of the one of the houses on the left side, arms wrapped around herself. She marches right into the middle of the road, coming to stand on Jack’s other side. “Right,” she announces. “Ms. Clayton given a half dose of retcon. Should knock out the last couple of hours. As for her son Evan, I gave him a Very Serious talk about state secrets, so I expect news of the ‘British secret weapon wot controls the weather’ to be all over his school by eleven tomorrow morning.”
“Eleven? That’s a bit of a conservative estimate, don’t you think?” Ianto quips, and it would be perfectly dry, except for his teeth chattering.
Gwen smiles, nose and cheeks ruddy already. “I guess so,” she says. “But the important thing is, there’s no one in their right mind that would believe a twelve year old boy’s conspiracy theories.”
“I would,” Jack says, ponderously.
“Well,” Ianto starts.
Owen barks out a laugh. “That’s just the point, isn’t it?”
“So what now?” Tosh asks, peaky, pointedly ignoring Owen and turning, instead, to Jack. She holds her hands to her face, PDA clutched between them, and blows on her fingers. Her hair is mussed, strands lifted and tangled by the shifting wind.
“Nothing,” Jack replies with a shrug. “I’ve disabled the device, now it’s just a matter of waiting until the snow melts.”
“Are you saying we’re done here?” Owen asks hopefully, looking over his shoulder at the parked SUV sunk in the snow. It’ll have to be dug out, and Ianto dreads that it’ll likely be him doing the work. With his bare hands. Owen kicks his boot through the snow, a wet clump of it hitting Ianto’s trouser leg and soaking straight through until the wool sticks to his calf. “No cleanup? No casualties?”
“Until someone drives through this place in a car without proper tyres,” Ianto suggests, gloomy, and shakes his wet leg. “I’ll get the police tape then, shall I? Cordon off the neighbourhood?”
“You do that,” Owen says. “I’m waiting in the SUV where it’s warm.” And with that, he turns on his heel in the snow and starts his trudging march toward the passenger side door.
Tosh watches him go in disbelief, eyebrows up. Her knees shake back and forth on calves planted in the snow. A little huff of breath floats up past her face. She looks absolutely pathetic. Absolutely-
“You prat!” Gwen shouts, and then, with a wet thwack, pelts a well-aimed snowball right into the back of Owen’s head. It plops into his raised collar, making him flinch.
Ianto is swallowing a laugh when Owen rounds on them. It earns him a hard-packed snowball in the cheek. The cold stings more than the blow. Jack laughs, loud and bellowing.
“Not so funny now, is it?” Owen taunts, but is cut off by another snowball exploding dead centre on his chest.
Tosh flashes them all an innocent look, hands already stuffed into the pockets of her coat. “Is to me,” she says, sweetly.
“So it’s me against everyone is it? Owen against the world?” Owen gripes. Another snowball-Jack, now-hits him on the shoulder.
“I’m trying to have pity on you bu-” the snowball thumps right into Ianto’s chin, smashed rather than thrown. Jack grins, smearing his hand back and forth to rub it in. His wet fingers rub Ianto’s lips.
“You traitor!” Gwen shrieks. “I thought we were a team!”
“I didn’t,” Owen grumbles to himself, missing it when Gwen crouches, gathers up a fistful of snow, and tosses the hastily-packed snowball into Jack’s stomach.
Ianto doesn’t know how it happens, but suddenly the four of them, Gwen and Ianto and Tosh and Owen, are all presenting a united front, pelting snowballs at Jack in tandem, one after the other, and Jack squirming in the centre of it, bombarded from all sides.
The snow is melting faster than they can throw it, the air back to its usual September briskness. And yet they just keep on, chasing each other, no allegiances whatsoever, Jack throwing at Ianto and Ianto throwing at Gwen and Gwen throwing at Tosh and Tosh throwing at Jack and Owen throwing at everybody, all of them soaked and cold and laughing.
A door on the left side of the street opens, silhouetting the boy, Evan, standing with one hand pressed to the frame. “You can’t be the government,” he accuses, surveying the scene. “I don’t believe it.”
Author: heddychaa
Characters: TW Team
Rating: PG
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Wordcount: ~1070
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Steven Moffat, and the BBC.
Summary: It's mid-September. There's nearly two feet of snow. (Along this street, anyway.) Team Torchwood does damage control.
A/N: Happy December! The first of 25 advent fics. This one is from a prompt by the lovely iceshade: "Team Torchwood has a snowball fight". Enjoy! Thank you to azn_jack_fiend, _lullabelle_, and count_to_seven for the support and beta for all of this month's stories! :) And see you all tomorrow!
The Technical Term is “Weather Dissonance”
“You think Earth is the only place where ski resorts have to fudge it sometimes?”
Jack is holding a device no larger than the Gameboy Ianto’d had as a kid, twisting a dial on its face back and forth experimentally and periodically craning his neck to peer at the clouds gathered overhead. Ianto busies himself with brushing clumps of wet snow off of the shoulders of Jack’s coat, trying to ignore the painful cold creeping damp up his toes.
They’re standing in the middle of a residential street, Stepford-identical row houses stretching out for miles (blocks) on either side. Also, everything is coated in nearly a foot of wet, heavy snow. Also, it’s only September.
Jack seems content enough, buttoned and belted into his big coat, and Ianto’s been worse-off than this before, but Tosh in her smart pencil skirt and tights has to be uncomfortable, and Owen in jeans and bomber jacket might as well be wearing a Hawaiian shirt and swim trunks, for all he’s complaining.
“So let me get this straight,” Owen says, scuffing his palms together and blowing on them, “We’ve just found an honest-to-god device that controls the weather?”
They all look expectantly to Jack. Before he can reply, Owen mutters, “And I thought the pulp-fiction pinup-slash-android was cliché.”
Ianto’s head snaps to look at Owen, unable to suppress a scandalized should-I-shoot-you-a-second-time-then glare. Owen just smiles back, somehow mean and mild at the same time, head tilted a little in challenge. Yeah, and what’re you gonna do about it, Teaboy?
Gwen would say, ‘It means he’s forgiven you, that he’s willing to rib you about it.’ But sod Gwen, basically.
Jack interrupts by clearing his throat, speaking especially loudly: “Not exactly, no. This thing’s a one-trick pony. All snow, all the time.”
Somewhere a door slams shut, the sound of it echoing down the empty street like a ricochet. Speak of the devil, Gwen trumps out of the one of the houses on the left side, arms wrapped around herself. She marches right into the middle of the road, coming to stand on Jack’s other side. “Right,” she announces. “Ms. Clayton given a half dose of retcon. Should knock out the last couple of hours. As for her son Evan, I gave him a Very Serious talk about state secrets, so I expect news of the ‘British secret weapon wot controls the weather’ to be all over his school by eleven tomorrow morning.”
“Eleven? That’s a bit of a conservative estimate, don’t you think?” Ianto quips, and it would be perfectly dry, except for his teeth chattering.
Gwen smiles, nose and cheeks ruddy already. “I guess so,” she says. “But the important thing is, there’s no one in their right mind that would believe a twelve year old boy’s conspiracy theories.”
“I would,” Jack says, ponderously.
“Well,” Ianto starts.
Owen barks out a laugh. “That’s just the point, isn’t it?”
“So what now?” Tosh asks, peaky, pointedly ignoring Owen and turning, instead, to Jack. She holds her hands to her face, PDA clutched between them, and blows on her fingers. Her hair is mussed, strands lifted and tangled by the shifting wind.
“Nothing,” Jack replies with a shrug. “I’ve disabled the device, now it’s just a matter of waiting until the snow melts.”
“Are you saying we’re done here?” Owen asks hopefully, looking over his shoulder at the parked SUV sunk in the snow. It’ll have to be dug out, and Ianto dreads that it’ll likely be him doing the work. With his bare hands. Owen kicks his boot through the snow, a wet clump of it hitting Ianto’s trouser leg and soaking straight through until the wool sticks to his calf. “No cleanup? No casualties?”
“Until someone drives through this place in a car without proper tyres,” Ianto suggests, gloomy, and shakes his wet leg. “I’ll get the police tape then, shall I? Cordon off the neighbourhood?”
“You do that,” Owen says. “I’m waiting in the SUV where it’s warm.” And with that, he turns on his heel in the snow and starts his trudging march toward the passenger side door.
Tosh watches him go in disbelief, eyebrows up. Her knees shake back and forth on calves planted in the snow. A little huff of breath floats up past her face. She looks absolutely pathetic. Absolutely-
“You prat!” Gwen shouts, and then, with a wet thwack, pelts a well-aimed snowball right into the back of Owen’s head. It plops into his raised collar, making him flinch.
Ianto is swallowing a laugh when Owen rounds on them. It earns him a hard-packed snowball in the cheek. The cold stings more than the blow. Jack laughs, loud and bellowing.
“Not so funny now, is it?” Owen taunts, but is cut off by another snowball exploding dead centre on his chest.
Tosh flashes them all an innocent look, hands already stuffed into the pockets of her coat. “Is to me,” she says, sweetly.
“So it’s me against everyone is it? Owen against the world?” Owen gripes. Another snowball-Jack, now-hits him on the shoulder.
“I’m trying to have pity on you bu-” the snowball thumps right into Ianto’s chin, smashed rather than thrown. Jack grins, smearing his hand back and forth to rub it in. His wet fingers rub Ianto’s lips.
“You traitor!” Gwen shrieks. “I thought we were a team!”
“I didn’t,” Owen grumbles to himself, missing it when Gwen crouches, gathers up a fistful of snow, and tosses the hastily-packed snowball into Jack’s stomach.
Ianto doesn’t know how it happens, but suddenly the four of them, Gwen and Ianto and Tosh and Owen, are all presenting a united front, pelting snowballs at Jack in tandem, one after the other, and Jack squirming in the centre of it, bombarded from all sides.
The snow is melting faster than they can throw it, the air back to its usual September briskness. And yet they just keep on, chasing each other, no allegiances whatsoever, Jack throwing at Ianto and Ianto throwing at Gwen and Gwen throwing at Tosh and Tosh throwing at Jack and Owen throwing at everybody, all of them soaked and cold and laughing.
A door on the left side of the street opens, silhouetting the boy, Evan, standing with one hand pressed to the frame. “You can’t be the government,” he accuses, surveying the scene. “I don’t believe it.”