Torchwood fic: Spruce Moose
So, Hope and I are still at the conference. The very serious work conference, featuring international humanitarians of great reputation and world-class speakers. Last night we had a very serious work dinner.
With free wine.
Oh dear.
Spruce Moose
By Mary and Hope though it's mostly Hope's fault, so all credit and blame goes in that direction.
A Torchwood Story.
The ladder from Jack's bedroom into his office was fitted with a motion sensor, because once upon a time Jack had been entranced by a DVD of 'Sorority Boys' which Tosh had accidentally left in her locked desk drawer overnight. He'd enjoyed the film very much but felt perplexed and unfulfilled by the scene in which that lovely Adina had been forced to do a Walk of Shame. Jack felt very strongly that exits from sexual encounters should be accompanied by music, certainly, but not a chant of disgust and guilt -- social orgasms were an occasion for fanfare.
Thus, the motion sensor. And thus, Gwen's bleary-eyed wait in front of the microwave for her mug of hot water with a teabag in it was interrupted one morning by a blare of Philip Sousa's "Liberty Bell" as Ianto climbed into view. He held a white t-shirt and a pair of navy blue socks to his face with the hand not holding the topmost rung, and was in the process of taking a long inhale through his nose.
Gwen regretted deciding to come into work early.
"Sniff test," Ianto explained cheerfully. "I always do it on Jack's clothes when I can get away with it, to see what needs washing. If something's especially bad, I microwave it before I take it to the laundromat, to make sure there's no living tissue still attached."
Then, obviously taking pity on the expression of utter dismay on Gwen's face, Ianto added, "I'll make you a cup of coffee, shall I?"
--
This happened to be the same day as the day on which Jack decided that a much faster way to grow a TARDIS would be to cover his coral cutting in fertilizer and stick it in the microwave for twenty minutes.
In the first five minutes, nothing happened. In the sixth minute, the smell began to emerge and permeate the kitchen, and Ianto -- despite being three miles away with Owen, Tosh, and Gwen on a case which Jack hadn't been allowed to come along to because he'd spent the morning trying to convince them that fashioning origami genitals out of bits of case files was legitimate paperwork -- flinched and felt a pain somewhere deep in his soul.
In the twelfth minute, small adorable children all over the city began complaining of headaches. In Canadian accents, speaking a twenty-ninth century Hungarian dialect.
At the end of the twentieth minute, the microwave pinged and the light went off, and Jack opened the door.
--
When Ianto stepped into the kitchen area of the Hub and Jack immediately pointed a gun at him, Ianto reflected that this was a depressingly frequent tableau in their relationship. At least Jack wasn't wearing empty tissue boxes on his feet this time.
"Right. I'm going to assume there's a good reason for this," Ianto said, though really he was assuming that his mother hadn't known the half of it when she'd gotten teary after he came out, because she'd been worried it would mean he had a hard life.
"Saving time," Jack answered easily, using the muzzle of his pistol to gesture at the open microwave. "If I said 'come on, Ianto, you have to see this, get in the microwave,' you'd protest and refuse and I'd have to threaten you with the gun before you'd humor me. So I'm saving time and skipping forward to that part."
"... where you threaten me with a gun until I climb into the microwave," specified Ianto. Jack nodded. "And if I don't, you're going to shoot me."
"Yep."
"I'm not getting in the microwave, sir."
Jack pouted. "Come on! Don't you trust me? Have I ever steered you wrong?"
"No, and yes," Ianto answered. "And I'm still not climbing in the microwave."
"It's bigger on the inside!"
"It's a kitchen appliance."
Jack huffed, holstering his gun and scowling. "Don't believe me? Fine. I'll go first." And then he climbed in the microwave.
Ianto rubbed his forehead, feeling a migraine threaten, and followed Jack.
--
For a long, long moment, Ianto was speechless.
Then he was speechless for another long moment, but this one was less surprised and more trying very hard not to laugh, because he suspected Jack was the sort to get very sensitive at people who laughed at his secret microwave den which defied the laws of time and space. Only 'den' wasn't really the most appropriate description...
"The microwave has a shag pad inside it," Ianto observed.
Jack sat down on the edge of the circular, rotating, satin-sheeted bed and grinned happily. "Don't you just love it?"
"There are pointy-arrowed symbols denoting masculinity picked out in silver mosaic on the walls."
"I know!" Jack patted the mattress beside him fondly. "A TARDIS after my own heart."
"The couch is red pleather."
"Yep."
"There is a stylised mural of you, naked, on a bear-skin rug in front of a fire."
"Yep."
"There is... is that a lubricant dispenser built into the wall, there?"
Jack's grin got wider, if that were actually possible. "It's got eight flavours, including three which won't be invented or discovered for a number of centuries."
Ianto loosened his tie. He'd learned long ago that resistance was generally futile, when all was said and done.
--
The last time Gwen Cooper was the first team-member of Torchwood Three to arrive for work in the morning was the morning when she cautiously stepped into the Hub, looked around, listened for noises which might signal impending Liberty Bell, and headed for the kitchenette.
She was getting her favourite mug down out of the cupboard when the microwave pinged. She turned as the door swung open and Ianto emerged, smelling a pair of Jack's trousers and with residual gold body paint behind one ear.
"I'll... make a coffee?" he tried weakly, seeing the expression on her face.
"And a muffin. One of the ones from the nice bakery, not just from the fridge in the tourist office."
Ianto nodded. "All right."
"I never thought I'd miss the bloody motion sensor," Gwen griped, before curiosity got the better of her. "The microwave? Really?"
Ianto couldn't help a small, smug smile. "It's got mirrors on the ceiling."
With free wine.
Oh dear.
Spruce Moose
By Mary and Hope though it's mostly Hope's fault, so all credit and blame goes in that direction.
A Torchwood Story.
The ladder from Jack's bedroom into his office was fitted with a motion sensor, because once upon a time Jack had been entranced by a DVD of 'Sorority Boys' which Tosh had accidentally left in her locked desk drawer overnight. He'd enjoyed the film very much but felt perplexed and unfulfilled by the scene in which that lovely Adina had been forced to do a Walk of Shame. Jack felt very strongly that exits from sexual encounters should be accompanied by music, certainly, but not a chant of disgust and guilt -- social orgasms were an occasion for fanfare.
Thus, the motion sensor. And thus, Gwen's bleary-eyed wait in front of the microwave for her mug of hot water with a teabag in it was interrupted one morning by a blare of Philip Sousa's "Liberty Bell" as Ianto climbed into view. He held a white t-shirt and a pair of navy blue socks to his face with the hand not holding the topmost rung, and was in the process of taking a long inhale through his nose.
Gwen regretted deciding to come into work early.
"Sniff test," Ianto explained cheerfully. "I always do it on Jack's clothes when I can get away with it, to see what needs washing. If something's especially bad, I microwave it before I take it to the laundromat, to make sure there's no living tissue still attached."
Then, obviously taking pity on the expression of utter dismay on Gwen's face, Ianto added, "I'll make you a cup of coffee, shall I?"
--
This happened to be the same day as the day on which Jack decided that a much faster way to grow a TARDIS would be to cover his coral cutting in fertilizer and stick it in the microwave for twenty minutes.
In the first five minutes, nothing happened. In the sixth minute, the smell began to emerge and permeate the kitchen, and Ianto -- despite being three miles away with Owen, Tosh, and Gwen on a case which Jack hadn't been allowed to come along to because he'd spent the morning trying to convince them that fashioning origami genitals out of bits of case files was legitimate paperwork -- flinched and felt a pain somewhere deep in his soul.
In the twelfth minute, small adorable children all over the city began complaining of headaches. In Canadian accents, speaking a twenty-ninth century Hungarian dialect.
At the end of the twentieth minute, the microwave pinged and the light went off, and Jack opened the door.
--
When Ianto stepped into the kitchen area of the Hub and Jack immediately pointed a gun at him, Ianto reflected that this was a depressingly frequent tableau in their relationship. At least Jack wasn't wearing empty tissue boxes on his feet this time.
"Right. I'm going to assume there's a good reason for this," Ianto said, though really he was assuming that his mother hadn't known the half of it when she'd gotten teary after he came out, because she'd been worried it would mean he had a hard life.
"Saving time," Jack answered easily, using the muzzle of his pistol to gesture at the open microwave. "If I said 'come on, Ianto, you have to see this, get in the microwave,' you'd protest and refuse and I'd have to threaten you with the gun before you'd humor me. So I'm saving time and skipping forward to that part."
"... where you threaten me with a gun until I climb into the microwave," specified Ianto. Jack nodded. "And if I don't, you're going to shoot me."
"Yep."
"I'm not getting in the microwave, sir."
Jack pouted. "Come on! Don't you trust me? Have I ever steered you wrong?"
"No, and yes," Ianto answered. "And I'm still not climbing in the microwave."
"It's bigger on the inside!"
"It's a kitchen appliance."
Jack huffed, holstering his gun and scowling. "Don't believe me? Fine. I'll go first." And then he climbed in the microwave.
Ianto rubbed his forehead, feeling a migraine threaten, and followed Jack.
--
For a long, long moment, Ianto was speechless.
Then he was speechless for another long moment, but this one was less surprised and more trying very hard not to laugh, because he suspected Jack was the sort to get very sensitive at people who laughed at his secret microwave den which defied the laws of time and space. Only 'den' wasn't really the most appropriate description...
"The microwave has a shag pad inside it," Ianto observed.
Jack sat down on the edge of the circular, rotating, satin-sheeted bed and grinned happily. "Don't you just love it?"
"There are pointy-arrowed symbols denoting masculinity picked out in silver mosaic on the walls."
"I know!" Jack patted the mattress beside him fondly. "A TARDIS after my own heart."
"The couch is red pleather."
"Yep."
"There is a stylised mural of you, naked, on a bear-skin rug in front of a fire."
"Yep."
"There is... is that a lubricant dispenser built into the wall, there?"
Jack's grin got wider, if that were actually possible. "It's got eight flavours, including three which won't be invented or discovered for a number of centuries."
Ianto loosened his tie. He'd learned long ago that resistance was generally futile, when all was said and done.
--
The last time Gwen Cooper was the first team-member of Torchwood Three to arrive for work in the morning was the morning when she cautiously stepped into the Hub, looked around, listened for noises which might signal impending Liberty Bell, and headed for the kitchenette.
She was getting her favourite mug down out of the cupboard when the microwave pinged. She turned as the door swung open and Ianto emerged, smelling a pair of Jack's trousers and with residual gold body paint behind one ear.
"I'll... make a coffee?" he tried weakly, seeing the expression on her face.
"And a muffin. One of the ones from the nice bakery, not just from the fridge in the tourist office."
Ianto nodded. "All right."
"I never thought I'd miss the bloody motion sensor," Gwen griped, before curiosity got the better of her. "The microwave? Really?"
Ianto couldn't help a small, smug smile. "It's got mirrors on the ceiling."