![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: "Hungry"
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: None.
Rating/Notes: PG-ish for a tiny bit of language. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tw_calender Halloween day #22. Prompt: witches.
Summary: I’m sitting in a gingerbread house, lost in some woods that shouldn’t exist, talking to a little old woman. Fan-bloody-tastic.
Cover:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
love_jackianto did a fabulous cover for this story. You can find it here.
Andy Davidson was not impressed.
For one, he was lost in a forest that had no right being there. Second, his mobile kept complaining that he was out of area, and his radio had gone curiously silent. And, well, then there was the gingerbread house. Oh, and it was getting dark.
No, he was not impressed. Also, he was hungry. This was rubbish.
He sighed and rapped at the door with his knuckles. It didn’t sound like wood – more of a muffled thump, really – and his knuckles came away covered with crumbs. Which he tasted. They were sweet.
“Hullo?” a woman’s voice called out from inside. “Who’s there?”
“Police Constable Andy Davidson, ma’am. I was hoping you might be able to help me with –“
The door swung open to reveal tiny old woman in bottle-thick spectacles. She gripped onto his forearm and tugged him in before he could protest. “A constable! Why, I haven’t seen a constable in years! Come in, lovey. Come in! Have a seat. I’ll make us some tea.”
She flung more than led him into a chair and began rifling about in a cupboard.
“I don’t – I mean, you don’t need to. I was just hoping you could give me directions. I’m a bit turned around.”
She brought down a pair of blue and white teacups. “Oh, of course you did, duck. Everyone gets turned around out here.” As if on cue, the kettle began to whistle.
Andy took in his surroundings with wry amusement. The house smelled like the inside of a cookie jar, and the kitchen was dominated by an old-fashioned bakery oven. From inside, the windows looked like sugar glass. He pressed a thumb against the cream-colored wall to find it soft. Marzipan.
I’m sitting in a gingerbread house, lost in some woods that shouldn’t exist, talking to a little old woman. Fan-bloody-tastic.
“There you go.” She came round to the other side of the table and put the cup down in front of him, along with a plate of biscuits. “Drink up, young man. Have a little snack. We’ll get you sorted.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Andy took a cautious sniff, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. It smelled good, like oranges and honey. He put the cup down. “So, if you don’t mind me saying, your house is a little unusual.”
“Oh, that,” she answered, and took a sip of her own tea. “Family tradition. We decorate in October.”
He eyed the oven. There was not a doubt in his mind that he could fit into it without much trouble. “Right.”
“You should drink your tea, Constable Davidson. Have a biscuit. It’s going to be a chilly night.”
Andy stood and straightened his coat, then picked up his flat cap. “Actually, ma’am, I think I’d better not.”
“And where do you think you’ll go?” she asked him with a sharp little frown. “Back into the forest?”
“If I have to,” he replied.
She glared at him over her tea for a long moment, and then gave him a wide smile. Too wide. Wide and toothy and sharp. The door swung open on its own. “Very well, Constable Davidson. You’re too clever for a little old woman like me.”
Andy ran.
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: None.
Rating/Notes: PG-ish for a tiny bit of language. Written for
tw_calender Halloween day #22. Prompt: witches.Summary: I’m sitting in a gingerbread house, lost in some woods that shouldn’t exist, talking to a little old woman. Fan-bloody-tastic.
Cover:
love_jackianto did a fabulous cover for this story. You can find it here.Andy Davidson was not impressed.
For one, he was lost in a forest that had no right being there. Second, his mobile kept complaining that he was out of area, and his radio had gone curiously silent. And, well, then there was the gingerbread house. Oh, and it was getting dark.
No, he was not impressed. Also, he was hungry. This was rubbish.
He sighed and rapped at the door with his knuckles. It didn’t sound like wood – more of a muffled thump, really – and his knuckles came away covered with crumbs. Which he tasted. They were sweet.
“Hullo?” a woman’s voice called out from inside. “Who’s there?”
“Police Constable Andy Davidson, ma’am. I was hoping you might be able to help me with –“
The door swung open to reveal tiny old woman in bottle-thick spectacles. She gripped onto his forearm and tugged him in before he could protest. “A constable! Why, I haven’t seen a constable in years! Come in, lovey. Come in! Have a seat. I’ll make us some tea.”
She flung more than led him into a chair and began rifling about in a cupboard.
“I don’t – I mean, you don’t need to. I was just hoping you could give me directions. I’m a bit turned around.”
She brought down a pair of blue and white teacups. “Oh, of course you did, duck. Everyone gets turned around out here.” As if on cue, the kettle began to whistle.
Andy took in his surroundings with wry amusement. The house smelled like the inside of a cookie jar, and the kitchen was dominated by an old-fashioned bakery oven. From inside, the windows looked like sugar glass. He pressed a thumb against the cream-colored wall to find it soft. Marzipan.
I’m sitting in a gingerbread house, lost in some woods that shouldn’t exist, talking to a little old woman. Fan-bloody-tastic.
“There you go.” She came round to the other side of the table and put the cup down in front of him, along with a plate of biscuits. “Drink up, young man. Have a little snack. We’ll get you sorted.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Andy took a cautious sniff, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. It smelled good, like oranges and honey. He put the cup down. “So, if you don’t mind me saying, your house is a little unusual.”
“Oh, that,” she answered, and took a sip of her own tea. “Family tradition. We decorate in October.”
He eyed the oven. There was not a doubt in his mind that he could fit into it without much trouble. “Right.”
“You should drink your tea, Constable Davidson. Have a biscuit. It’s going to be a chilly night.”
Andy stood and straightened his coat, then picked up his flat cap. “Actually, ma’am, I think I’d better not.”
“And where do you think you’ll go?” she asked him with a sharp little frown. “Back into the forest?”
“If I have to,” he replied.
She glared at him over her tea for a long moment, and then gave him a wide smile. Too wide. Wide and toothy and sharp. The door swung open on its own. “Very well, Constable Davidson. You’re too clever for a little old woman like me.”
Andy ran.