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Fic Meme of DOOM!
I've seen this going around. I didn't think I had enough to justify this, but then I looked and OH. I DO. Wow. Eight things, to be precise. EEK!
So, I guess these are the teaser trailers of what's to come (not including the super-sekrit surprise, because that's DONE. And it's a surprise, okay!?) Or maybe of what's never to come, if I keep procrastinating. Huh.
Spoilers, obviously.
Post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Untitled Torchwood Retelling of Velvet Goldmine; Part of Prologue
Histories, like ancient ruins, are the fictions of empire. While everything forgotten hangs in dark dreams of the past, ever threatening to return.
It is 1854. In exactly fifteen years, a man choosing to be called Jack Harkness will descend from the stars through a rift in time and space approximately one hundred and eighty eight miles away in Cardiff, Wales.
Right now, here in Dublin, Ireland, a carnation-green space ship (a class Harkness would certainly recognize were he in attendance) makes a delivery of its own.
The house to which this delivery has been made is quaint and loving, well-off enough to afford servants. A door opens cautiously and a maid, prim and proper despite the late hour, peers out. She gasps at the bundle lying upon the step.
“Lord’n Heaven,” she exclaims, lifting the squirming bundle in her welcoming arms. She isn’t quite sure why, but she looks up suspiciously, as though God himself had delivered this child into her care.
“Madam Wilde!” she cries out, her voice shattering the eerie silence of the night. “Richard! Come. Quickly!”
The mistress of the house (always Madam Wilde to her servants, though she begs them call her Speranza) comes running, as does dear Richard. The manservant raises a lantern and gasps in the same manner as the maid.
Madam Wilde unfurls part of the blanket and a baby coos contentedly. The pale yellow light of the lantern catches on something, sparkles, and draws their eyes. It is an ornate pin of green amber, a bit of bauble, perhaps to entice them into taking the child. Maybe it’s worth something, and maybe it isn’t.
“Oscar, I think,” Madam Wilde murmurs before looking at her two coconspirators with an engaging smile. “And won’t Sir William be surprised!”
After a Fall…![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xrai_namere 's Holiday Fic Gift from Saria Claus; A SMALL excerpt.
The store was large and filled with the familiar musty atmosphere of books that sent shivers down Ianto’s spine. He was surprised that, not only did Gwen seem to know her way around the establishment, her face seemed to crinkle up in delight as she entered.
“They’ve some really nice journals,” she was saying as she glanced around. “But Jack would probably need a lorry-full. Or he would end up writing his own personal Kama Sutra.”
“Which would still entail a lorry-full,” Ianto informed with a mischievous glint in his eye.
She chuckled and slapped his arm playfully before disappearing behind a precarious stack of books. Shaking his head, he perused the selection in front of him, following the path of alphabetized authors into the depths of the store. This section seemed to be historical, all supposedly non-fiction; while he knew Jack would have a field day pointing out the inaccuracies, he didn’t think any would make a particularly meaningful gift.
Untitled –badly_knitted ’s Holiday Fic Gift from Saria Claus; A SMALL excerpt.
Despite having been inducted into what he termed the “secret lift club,” the plummeting sensation of traveling downward without a bit of railing to keep him from tumbling off always unnerved Rhys. That he was uncomfortably clutching a precarious tower of presents didn’t help matters. The bloody swooping pteranodon wasn’t much of a comfort, either.
“Father Christmas!” Ianto shouted from somewhere below him. Rhys didn’t dare to look down, but he could hear the grin in his voice.
“Aw, I told him to dress up. Rhys, love, I even rented you a costume!”
Oregon Trail – Short thing written before I wrote Manifest Destiny.
Standing in the doorway, warm mug of freshly brewed coffee in his hands, Ianto watched Jack. The captain had locked himself in his office for most of the day and Ianto was nothing if not pleased. He had left a pile of reports and forms on the polished desk over a week ago, and it now looked as though they were getting completed. Ianto had every intention of rewarding Jack, firm believer in behavioral conditioning that he was.
He watched Jack’s expression, the focus so intense it sent a shiver through him. He was reading something on the screen of his computer, eyes almost glazed with the strain.
“Ugh! Cholera again!?”
Ianto raised his eyebrow; he had no recollection of leaving anything about any sort of diseases. He thought perhaps Jack had gotten an email. He cleared his throat and Jack looked up guiltily.
“Is everything all right? Is there an outbreak?”
“An outbreak of what?” Jack asked innocently.
“Cholera.”
“Oh…uh…no. Sorry. It was…uhm….”
Ianto crossed the room to stand at Jack’s side. He was far too quick for Jack to close the game, and the older man cursed his speed. Upon looking at the screen, Ianto couldn’t tell if he wanted to burst out laughing or sob in frustration.
“Is this what you’ve been doing all day?”
Christmas in Cardiff - A Retelling of Christmas in Connecticut (small excerpt)
That the overabundance of rocking chairs made maneuvering around his flat difficult was an understatement. Some were bulky, ostentatious things of heavy dark wood. Others were lithe and decorated in light scrollwork carvings. All of them, though, rocked. And he'd stubbed his toe on most at this point, which added to their points of similarity.
As he sat in front of his tiny wooden desk on a sturdy chair (that decidedly did not rock), his tongue between his teeth in classic concentration, he allowed himself a silent laugh. His readership was devoted and that was certainly flattering. He wondered if his next piece should include his desire for diamonds or gold bars.
The bell to his flat buzzed insistently, the harsh vibration startling him out of his reverie and distracting him from his work. Sighing as he rose, he weaved his way past the scattered gifts to open the door.
"You've really got to learn to cook for yourself, mate!" proclaimed the man behind the door. Laughing, Ianto opened it further.
"Rhys!" Taking the tray that was balancing precariously in his friend’s hands, he led Rhys into his flat.
"What's with all the rocking chairs, then? Become a carpenter, have you?"
Ianto laughed as he set the tray down. "You remember my last article, don't you?"
Rhys paused in thought before a look of shock crossed his features. "No! You don't mean...? And they're all antique?"
"Most, I think. I haven't verified provenance for any of them, but they've the right patina, don't they?" He dug into his food with gusto.
"Christ." Rhys ran a hand admiringly over the smooth wood of a particularly stolid chair. Ianto eyed him.
"Take it," he instructed between mouthfuls of ham.
"I couldn't. Must be worth a small fortune."
"Take it," Ianto repeated. "I've another thirty or so in storage as well."
Rhys beamed at him. "Gwen'll love it. She’ll want it in the nursery." He paused. "She's worried about you. Says you haven't come over for coffee in a few days now."
Sighing, Ianto set down his fork and ran his hand through his hair. "It's the article. I'm drawing a blank."
Rhys threw his head back and laughed. "Maybe if you weren't making it all up as you go it wouldn't be so hard.”
Ianto rolled his eyes. "Somehow I don't think the truth would sell. Bachelor in Cardiff, living in a flat. His mates down the hall bring him food on occasion so that he doesn't subsist solely off of post-ration canned goods. How inspirational." It was hard enough to sell the idea of a man who did the cooking for his wife; at least women thought that quaint and endearing.
"Hmm." Rhys leaned against the wall. "Maybe all the lonely housewives would send you baked goods. That might be worth it."
Ianto laughed and finished off his meal in relative silence as Rhys hummed appreciatively at his new piece of furniture. Finally, Rhys broke the silence.
"I've got to head back soon or she'll be worried. Please see her tomorrow. Maybe she can help with the article in exchange for some of your coffee. We've some recipes for you to use, too."
"You're a lifesaver. I'll swing by," Ianto promised. "And thanks again for the food."
"Well," Rhys shrugged. "Can't have you wasting away, can we?" He closed the door behind him as he walked out, struggling with the cumbersome chair.
Drunk, Maybe - Small Excerpt
The repetitious blues beat pulsed over the persistent murmur of combined voices. He slid up to the bar and waited to be noticed. The bar was relatively empty, it being an early Wednesday evening, and he didn’t have to wait for long.
“What’ll it be, love?”
“One bourbon, one scotch, one beer.”
“Wrong song, mate,” chided a familiar voice.
Ianto turned to his left. “Owen,” he acknowledged halfheartedly. “Seemed appropriate.”
“What’s the difference?”
He turned to his right and his hopes for a quiet evening of drinking alone were crushed. “Between the songs?”
“Bourbon and scotch,” Gwen clarified as she took the stool next to him. “Aren’t they the same thing?”
Ianto felt a tentative hand on his shoulder and heard Tosh respond, “They’re both kinds of whiskeys. Bourbon has an intense color and a strong flavor which come from their predominantly corn ingredient. Scotch whisky is usually a blend of malt and grain whiskies.”
There was a moment of silence as they all blinked at the shy technician. Ianto finally broke the spell of confusion after he quickly downed his scotch.
“Who’s watching the rift?”
“I used the monitoring mechanism of the…oh, forget it.” Tosh waved a device in front of his face. “I sent the alerts here.”
“Oh. So, you followed me?”
“Er, yes?” Gwen had the decency to look sheepish. “Why’re you here by yourself, anyway?”
Ianto shrugged. “It’s been a tough week.”
“Cheers,” Owen agreed and drank down Ianto’s bourbon. He waved the bartender over again.
Hanes (Prequel to Hanesyddol in which Ianto is a TIMELORD! OMG!)
“Ianto Jones, born August 19th 1983. Able student but not exceptional, one minor conviction for shoplifting in your teens. Number of temporary jobs, mainly a drifter, until two years ago you join the Torchwood Institute in London. Junior researcher. Girlfriend, Lisa Hallett.”
He should know. He came up with the damn cover story. Except Lisa, and discovering that little tidbit had hurt.
“Deceased,” Ianto responds, his attempt at concealing his emotion screaming louder than if he had broken down and sobbed right there.
And that hurt even more.
*****
Of course, Jack can’t resist having Ianto around despite his better judgment. The need to protect him, watch over him, is too strong to resist although he knows it’s a big, giant, awful mistake.
And he wonders, briefly, if Ianto realizes that only a crazy (wonderful, beautiful, shut up Jack!) Time Lord would think to give chocolate to a pterodactyl. Pteranodon. Flying prehistoric creature. Whatever it is.
As Ianto lies on top of him, panting and hard, he wants to kiss him or fuck his memory back or cry or just simply command that Ianto remember him. Remember them. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he offers him a job.
He pretends it’s the suit, but it’s really the eyes.
*****
???? Wildcard!!
NB: I don't recall where I was going with this. Of course, I only titled it "WIP," so yeah, that was helpful.
When he was younger and naively confidant, he brushed off his sexual promiscuity (for his prowess still garnered that label even in the advanced 51st century) with a shrug. “You only live once,” he would say when prompted, grinning.
Youth. They think they know everything. And while he wasn’t sure if he should classify his current predicament as living multiple times or as one particularly long, continuous lifespan, he knew his original carefree stance had changed.
He certainly wasn’t all talk, although he had been a bit of a show-off. He felt the need to astound and impress and give hope, wanted the future to seem like paradise to keep them all fighting for it. And yet, he was sure that the past twenty plus years had seen Owen with more partners than it had him. Not that he minded.
“It’s still freezing.”
“Huh?” Jack blinked a few times.
“Thermostat. The one you said you were going to turn up. Ground control to Major Tom.”
Jack finally noticed the dial he had been staring at for a substantially long period and adjusted it to a warmer temperature.
“Better?”
“Yes, because the heat works instantaneously.”
He smirked and grabbed a throw from the closet. He settled on the couch, allowing Ianto to lean back against him, and covered them both.
“Now better?”
“Mmmhmm,” Ianto smiled.
Jack returned his focus to the program they had been watching. He’d seen the episode before, back when it had first come out (so innovative for its time!), long before Ianto had even been born. Well, that was a sobering thought.
“You know,” he heard over his thoughts, “when I was cleaning out our attic the other day, I found an old calendar called "The Week of Love." It had Monday for Meeting, Tuesday for Talking, Wednesday for Wishing, Thursday for Touching, and Friday for some reason had been torn out.”
Jack felt Ianto chuckle, the vibrations running through his body, and wrapped his arms around him.
“You’re rather quiet tonight,” Ianto mused, snuggling deeper into the embrace.
Jack kissed the side of his head and attempted a half-hearted shrug.
“Just thinking,” he responded.
“Dangerous, that. About?”
“What you said, earlier.”
“Oh.”
Somehow, despite the blanket and increased thermostat, there seemed to be a distinct chill in the air.
They had had their second date earlier in the evening, although a good two weeks had distanced the events. There had been dinner, of course, and it was much less awkward than their first date. He supposed that that (and the copious amounts of wine) was how Ianto had been able to broach the topic.
“You know,” Ianto had said, anxiety clouding his voice, “I don’t expect you to be…you’re from a time when….” He paused and sighed. “Look, I know who you are and what you are and I don’t need you to pretend to be anything you aren’t. Not for my sake.”
Not knowing quite how to respond, Jack had simply nodded.
Coming back into the present, he realized that Ianto was looking at him with that same expectant look.
“I’m not what you think I am,” he offered. “At least, not anymore.”
Ianto kept his attention focused on Jack, who got the distinct impression that he was meant to dig his way out of this without a shovel.
“I…I don’t have…I’m not….”
Ianto raised his eyebrow.
********************************************************************************************************************************************************
And that is all, folks. Please let me know what you think? Toss out ideas. Tell me I'm slightly less crazy than I think I am? Give me a hug? I dunno, something, ANYTHING! I wanna know if anyone read!
So, I guess these are the teaser trailers of what's to come (not including the super-sekrit surprise, because that's DONE. And it's a surprise, okay!?) Or maybe of what's never to come, if I keep procrastinating. Huh.
Spoilers, obviously.
Post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Untitled Torchwood Retelling of Velvet Goldmine; Part of Prologue
Histories, like ancient ruins, are the fictions of empire. While everything forgotten hangs in dark dreams of the past, ever threatening to return.
It is 1854. In exactly fifteen years, a man choosing to be called Jack Harkness will descend from the stars through a rift in time and space approximately one hundred and eighty eight miles away in Cardiff, Wales.
Right now, here in Dublin, Ireland, a carnation-green space ship (a class Harkness would certainly recognize were he in attendance) makes a delivery of its own.
The house to which this delivery has been made is quaint and loving, well-off enough to afford servants. A door opens cautiously and a maid, prim and proper despite the late hour, peers out. She gasps at the bundle lying upon the step.
“Lord’n Heaven,” she exclaims, lifting the squirming bundle in her welcoming arms. She isn’t quite sure why, but she looks up suspiciously, as though God himself had delivered this child into her care.
“Madam Wilde!” she cries out, her voice shattering the eerie silence of the night. “Richard! Come. Quickly!”
The mistress of the house (always Madam Wilde to her servants, though she begs them call her Speranza) comes running, as does dear Richard. The manservant raises a lantern and gasps in the same manner as the maid.
Madam Wilde unfurls part of the blanket and a baby coos contentedly. The pale yellow light of the lantern catches on something, sparkles, and draws their eyes. It is an ornate pin of green amber, a bit of bauble, perhaps to entice them into taking the child. Maybe it’s worth something, and maybe it isn’t.
“Oscar, I think,” Madam Wilde murmurs before looking at her two coconspirators with an engaging smile. “And won’t Sir William be surprised!”
After a Fall…
xrai_namere 's Holiday Fic Gift from Saria Claus; A SMALL excerpt.The store was large and filled with the familiar musty atmosphere of books that sent shivers down Ianto’s spine. He was surprised that, not only did Gwen seem to know her way around the establishment, her face seemed to crinkle up in delight as she entered.
“They’ve some really nice journals,” she was saying as she glanced around. “But Jack would probably need a lorry-full. Or he would end up writing his own personal Kama Sutra.”
“Which would still entail a lorry-full,” Ianto informed with a mischievous glint in his eye.
She chuckled and slapped his arm playfully before disappearing behind a precarious stack of books. Shaking his head, he perused the selection in front of him, following the path of alphabetized authors into the depths of the store. This section seemed to be historical, all supposedly non-fiction; while he knew Jack would have a field day pointing out the inaccuracies, he didn’t think any would make a particularly meaningful gift.
Untitled –
badly_knitted ’s Holiday Fic Gift from Saria Claus; A SMALL excerpt.Despite having been inducted into what he termed the “secret lift club,” the plummeting sensation of traveling downward without a bit of railing to keep him from tumbling off always unnerved Rhys. That he was uncomfortably clutching a precarious tower of presents didn’t help matters. The bloody swooping pteranodon wasn’t much of a comfort, either.
“Father Christmas!” Ianto shouted from somewhere below him. Rhys didn’t dare to look down, but he could hear the grin in his voice.
“Aw, I told him to dress up. Rhys, love, I even rented you a costume!”
Oregon Trail – Short thing written before I wrote Manifest Destiny.
Standing in the doorway, warm mug of freshly brewed coffee in his hands, Ianto watched Jack. The captain had locked himself in his office for most of the day and Ianto was nothing if not pleased. He had left a pile of reports and forms on the polished desk over a week ago, and it now looked as though they were getting completed. Ianto had every intention of rewarding Jack, firm believer in behavioral conditioning that he was.
He watched Jack’s expression, the focus so intense it sent a shiver through him. He was reading something on the screen of his computer, eyes almost glazed with the strain.
“Ugh! Cholera again!?”
Ianto raised his eyebrow; he had no recollection of leaving anything about any sort of diseases. He thought perhaps Jack had gotten an email. He cleared his throat and Jack looked up guiltily.
“Is everything all right? Is there an outbreak?”
“An outbreak of what?” Jack asked innocently.
“Cholera.”
“Oh…uh…no. Sorry. It was…uhm….”
Ianto crossed the room to stand at Jack’s side. He was far too quick for Jack to close the game, and the older man cursed his speed. Upon looking at the screen, Ianto couldn’t tell if he wanted to burst out laughing or sob in frustration.
“Is this what you’ve been doing all day?”
Christmas in Cardiff - A Retelling of Christmas in Connecticut (small excerpt)
That the overabundance of rocking chairs made maneuvering around his flat difficult was an understatement. Some were bulky, ostentatious things of heavy dark wood. Others were lithe and decorated in light scrollwork carvings. All of them, though, rocked. And he'd stubbed his toe on most at this point, which added to their points of similarity.
As he sat in front of his tiny wooden desk on a sturdy chair (that decidedly did not rock), his tongue between his teeth in classic concentration, he allowed himself a silent laugh. His readership was devoted and that was certainly flattering. He wondered if his next piece should include his desire for diamonds or gold bars.
The bell to his flat buzzed insistently, the harsh vibration startling him out of his reverie and distracting him from his work. Sighing as he rose, he weaved his way past the scattered gifts to open the door.
"You've really got to learn to cook for yourself, mate!" proclaimed the man behind the door. Laughing, Ianto opened it further.
"Rhys!" Taking the tray that was balancing precariously in his friend’s hands, he led Rhys into his flat.
"What's with all the rocking chairs, then? Become a carpenter, have you?"
Ianto laughed as he set the tray down. "You remember my last article, don't you?"
Rhys paused in thought before a look of shock crossed his features. "No! You don't mean...? And they're all antique?"
"Most, I think. I haven't verified provenance for any of them, but they've the right patina, don't they?" He dug into his food with gusto.
"Christ." Rhys ran a hand admiringly over the smooth wood of a particularly stolid chair. Ianto eyed him.
"Take it," he instructed between mouthfuls of ham.
"I couldn't. Must be worth a small fortune."
"Take it," Ianto repeated. "I've another thirty or so in storage as well."
Rhys beamed at him. "Gwen'll love it. She’ll want it in the nursery." He paused. "She's worried about you. Says you haven't come over for coffee in a few days now."
Sighing, Ianto set down his fork and ran his hand through his hair. "It's the article. I'm drawing a blank."
Rhys threw his head back and laughed. "Maybe if you weren't making it all up as you go it wouldn't be so hard.”
Ianto rolled his eyes. "Somehow I don't think the truth would sell. Bachelor in Cardiff, living in a flat. His mates down the hall bring him food on occasion so that he doesn't subsist solely off of post-ration canned goods. How inspirational." It was hard enough to sell the idea of a man who did the cooking for his wife; at least women thought that quaint and endearing.
"Hmm." Rhys leaned against the wall. "Maybe all the lonely housewives would send you baked goods. That might be worth it."
Ianto laughed and finished off his meal in relative silence as Rhys hummed appreciatively at his new piece of furniture. Finally, Rhys broke the silence.
"I've got to head back soon or she'll be worried. Please see her tomorrow. Maybe she can help with the article in exchange for some of your coffee. We've some recipes for you to use, too."
"You're a lifesaver. I'll swing by," Ianto promised. "And thanks again for the food."
"Well," Rhys shrugged. "Can't have you wasting away, can we?" He closed the door behind him as he walked out, struggling with the cumbersome chair.
Drunk, Maybe - Small Excerpt
The repetitious blues beat pulsed over the persistent murmur of combined voices. He slid up to the bar and waited to be noticed. The bar was relatively empty, it being an early Wednesday evening, and he didn’t have to wait for long.
“What’ll it be, love?”
“One bourbon, one scotch, one beer.”
“Wrong song, mate,” chided a familiar voice.
Ianto turned to his left. “Owen,” he acknowledged halfheartedly. “Seemed appropriate.”
“What’s the difference?”
He turned to his right and his hopes for a quiet evening of drinking alone were crushed. “Between the songs?”
“Bourbon and scotch,” Gwen clarified as she took the stool next to him. “Aren’t they the same thing?”
Ianto felt a tentative hand on his shoulder and heard Tosh respond, “They’re both kinds of whiskeys. Bourbon has an intense color and a strong flavor which come from their predominantly corn ingredient. Scotch whisky is usually a blend of malt and grain whiskies.”
There was a moment of silence as they all blinked at the shy technician. Ianto finally broke the spell of confusion after he quickly downed his scotch.
“Who’s watching the rift?”
“I used the monitoring mechanism of the…oh, forget it.” Tosh waved a device in front of his face. “I sent the alerts here.”
“Oh. So, you followed me?”
“Er, yes?” Gwen had the decency to look sheepish. “Why’re you here by yourself, anyway?”
Ianto shrugged. “It’s been a tough week.”
“Cheers,” Owen agreed and drank down Ianto’s bourbon. He waved the bartender over again.
Hanes (Prequel to Hanesyddol in which Ianto is a TIMELORD! OMG!)
“Ianto Jones, born August 19th 1983. Able student but not exceptional, one minor conviction for shoplifting in your teens. Number of temporary jobs, mainly a drifter, until two years ago you join the Torchwood Institute in London. Junior researcher. Girlfriend, Lisa Hallett.”
He should know. He came up with the damn cover story. Except Lisa, and discovering that little tidbit had hurt.
“Deceased,” Ianto responds, his attempt at concealing his emotion screaming louder than if he had broken down and sobbed right there.
And that hurt even more.
*****
Of course, Jack can’t resist having Ianto around despite his better judgment. The need to protect him, watch over him, is too strong to resist although he knows it’s a big, giant, awful mistake.
And he wonders, briefly, if Ianto realizes that only a crazy (wonderful, beautiful, shut up Jack!) Time Lord would think to give chocolate to a pterodactyl. Pteranodon. Flying prehistoric creature. Whatever it is.
As Ianto lies on top of him, panting and hard, he wants to kiss him or fuck his memory back or cry or just simply command that Ianto remember him. Remember them. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he offers him a job.
He pretends it’s the suit, but it’s really the eyes.
*****
???? Wildcard!!
NB: I don't recall where I was going with this. Of course, I only titled it "WIP," so yeah, that was helpful.
When he was younger and naively confidant, he brushed off his sexual promiscuity (for his prowess still garnered that label even in the advanced 51st century) with a shrug. “You only live once,” he would say when prompted, grinning.
Youth. They think they know everything. And while he wasn’t sure if he should classify his current predicament as living multiple times or as one particularly long, continuous lifespan, he knew his original carefree stance had changed.
He certainly wasn’t all talk, although he had been a bit of a show-off. He felt the need to astound and impress and give hope, wanted the future to seem like paradise to keep them all fighting for it. And yet, he was sure that the past twenty plus years had seen Owen with more partners than it had him. Not that he minded.
“It’s still freezing.”
“Huh?” Jack blinked a few times.
“Thermostat. The one you said you were going to turn up. Ground control to Major Tom.”
Jack finally noticed the dial he had been staring at for a substantially long period and adjusted it to a warmer temperature.
“Better?”
“Yes, because the heat works instantaneously.”
He smirked and grabbed a throw from the closet. He settled on the couch, allowing Ianto to lean back against him, and covered them both.
“Now better?”
“Mmmhmm,” Ianto smiled.
Jack returned his focus to the program they had been watching. He’d seen the episode before, back when it had first come out (so innovative for its time!), long before Ianto had even been born. Well, that was a sobering thought.
“You know,” he heard over his thoughts, “when I was cleaning out our attic the other day, I found an old calendar called "The Week of Love." It had Monday for Meeting, Tuesday for Talking, Wednesday for Wishing, Thursday for Touching, and Friday for some reason had been torn out.”
Jack felt Ianto chuckle, the vibrations running through his body, and wrapped his arms around him.
“You’re rather quiet tonight,” Ianto mused, snuggling deeper into the embrace.
Jack kissed the side of his head and attempted a half-hearted shrug.
“Just thinking,” he responded.
“Dangerous, that. About?”
“What you said, earlier.”
“Oh.”
Somehow, despite the blanket and increased thermostat, there seemed to be a distinct chill in the air.
They had had their second date earlier in the evening, although a good two weeks had distanced the events. There had been dinner, of course, and it was much less awkward than their first date. He supposed that that (and the copious amounts of wine) was how Ianto had been able to broach the topic.
“You know,” Ianto had said, anxiety clouding his voice, “I don’t expect you to be…you’re from a time when….” He paused and sighed. “Look, I know who you are and what you are and I don’t need you to pretend to be anything you aren’t. Not for my sake.”
Not knowing quite how to respond, Jack had simply nodded.
Coming back into the present, he realized that Ianto was looking at him with that same expectant look.
“I’m not what you think I am,” he offered. “At least, not anymore.”
Ianto kept his attention focused on Jack, who got the distinct impression that he was meant to dig his way out of this without a shovel.
“I…I don’t have…I’m not….”
Ianto raised his eyebrow.
********************************************************************************************************************************************************
And that is all, folks. Please let me know what you think? Toss out ideas. Tell me I'm slightly less crazy than I think I am? Give me a hug? I dunno, something, ANYTHING! I wanna know if anyone read!