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Title: Only The Flowers
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG
Notes/Summary: In which Jack's aesthetic sense is impugned, and the boys are paranoid. Written for the July 19 prompt at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
horizonssing.
Wednesday was a slow morning for Torchwood, but Cardiff’s hearty tourist industry stopped for no man. He and Ianto had holed up together in the tourist office for the morning on the assumption that most of Jack’s paperwork could be managed there just as well as in his office, particularly since Ianto was generally the one to handle it after he was finished with it.
Of course, the other advantages of doing paperwork with Ianto present weren’t lost on Jack. Even if he couldn’t wheedle Ianto into doing it for him by asking what the point of a 14-264g was when it was basically identical to a 14-264a, or coax him into a quickie in the back storage area, it was nice to have a little conversation to go with his coffee.
“Listen, all I’m saying is that I don’t see why expenses for damages to personal property can’t go on the same form as damages to personal clothing and equipment. A car is equipment,” Jack pointed out.
Ianto picked up his mug and leaned against the counter. “The distinction is in the licensing and taxation involved, and thus the liability involved on our end. Gwen’s Jimmy Choos don’t have numberplates.“
“Yeah, but they could.”
“Possibly, though I think Gwen might object.” He raised his coffee to his lips, but slipped it onto a lower shelf as the office door jangled open. “Good morning, sir. How may I help –“
“Delivery for a Mr. Jones,” the floral courier said, interrupting him. In his hands he held a rather garish bouquet in a glass vase, wrapped in a bit of cellophane. He plonked it down on the nearest clear surface and held out a clipboard. “Sign here, please.”
Ianto signed the sheet, somehow managing to glare at Jack in the same movement. “Tell me these aren’t from you.”
“Hello?” Jack scoffed as the courier checked the signature, nodded, and left. “I wasn’t born without taste.”
“Fucking hell.” Ianto examined the arrangement with horrified curiosity. “It’s like a wedding and a funeral all at once. Or my grandmother’s upholstery brought to life and sent to punish me.”
Jack leaned over to join him. “Is there a card?”
Ianto plucked a small yellow envelope out of the foliage and tore it open. “It’s blank.”
“I think,” Jack said quietly as his hand drifted to the grip of his Webley, “that maybe we should get rid of these flowers.”
“If only for aesthetic reasons,” Ianto agreed. He pressed the panic button to alert Gwen to a possible breach and then checked under his coat for his own weapon.
So much for a slow morning.
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG
Notes/Summary: In which Jack's aesthetic sense is impugned, and the boys are paranoid. Written for the July 19 prompt at
horizonssing.Wednesday was a slow morning for Torchwood, but Cardiff’s hearty tourist industry stopped for no man. He and Ianto had holed up together in the tourist office for the morning on the assumption that most of Jack’s paperwork could be managed there just as well as in his office, particularly since Ianto was generally the one to handle it after he was finished with it.
Of course, the other advantages of doing paperwork with Ianto present weren’t lost on Jack. Even if he couldn’t wheedle Ianto into doing it for him by asking what the point of a 14-264g was when it was basically identical to a 14-264a, or coax him into a quickie in the back storage area, it was nice to have a little conversation to go with his coffee.
“Listen, all I’m saying is that I don’t see why expenses for damages to personal property can’t go on the same form as damages to personal clothing and equipment. A car is equipment,” Jack pointed out.
Ianto picked up his mug and leaned against the counter. “The distinction is in the licensing and taxation involved, and thus the liability involved on our end. Gwen’s Jimmy Choos don’t have numberplates.“
“Yeah, but they could.”
“Possibly, though I think Gwen might object.” He raised his coffee to his lips, but slipped it onto a lower shelf as the office door jangled open. “Good morning, sir. How may I help –“
“Delivery for a Mr. Jones,” the floral courier said, interrupting him. In his hands he held a rather garish bouquet in a glass vase, wrapped in a bit of cellophane. He plonked it down on the nearest clear surface and held out a clipboard. “Sign here, please.”
Ianto signed the sheet, somehow managing to glare at Jack in the same movement. “Tell me these aren’t from you.”
“Hello?” Jack scoffed as the courier checked the signature, nodded, and left. “I wasn’t born without taste.”
“Fucking hell.” Ianto examined the arrangement with horrified curiosity. “It’s like a wedding and a funeral all at once. Or my grandmother’s upholstery brought to life and sent to punish me.”
Jack leaned over to join him. “Is there a card?”
Ianto plucked a small yellow envelope out of the foliage and tore it open. “It’s blank.”
“I think,” Jack said quietly as his hand drifted to the grip of his Webley, “that maybe we should get rid of these flowers.”
“If only for aesthetic reasons,” Ianto agreed. He pressed the panic button to alert Gwen to a possible breach and then checked under his coat for his own weapon.
So much for a slow morning.
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