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Still not dead. Still snowed under. Still horrified that I wrote this.
Title: "Childish Things"
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. Also, please note that any other media property presented here is property of its own rightful company, occurs here for humorous purposes, and absolutely no infringement is intended.
Pairings: N/A
Rating: Gen
Notes/Summary: Team Torchwood goes toe to toe with a nasty case of bad childhood nostalgia.
Owen cursed under his breath, banged his fists against the corrugated metal of the warehouse wall. Their guns were useless, at best able to rip through cloth and fluff but not enough to kill, and now they were cornered to boot.
“Rhiannon and I used to watch them on telly when we were little,” Ianto said as the horde of smiling, brightly colored assassins closed in. “I never thought I’d be done in by an army of plushies who think I’m the bad guy.”
Owen shrugged. “Could be worse.”
“How?”
“At least you didn’t come back from the dead to do it.”
Ianto tilted his head to the side. “Good point.”
“Alright, Care Bears!” the orangey-brown one at the front called out as the symbol on its belly began to glow. Its compatriots followed suit, closing their eyes as if to channel and focus their energy. “Staaa—“
“Hey!” a voice – Jack’s – called out from behind the mass. “It’s impolite to stare.”
Without warning, twin gouts of fire poured into the niche as Gwen and Toshiko charged in with flamethrowers. Owen stumbled back to shield himself from the flames. Across from him, Ianto did the same. Within seconds, the whole place was filled with screams and acrid smoke. He counted himself lucky he no longer had to breathe. Only when the hiss of the flamethrowers went silent did he dare to sit up and survey the wreckage. The warehouse floor was littered with charred lumps of cloth and fluff.
“I think my little cousins are getting books for Christmas this year,” Ianto said as he brushed uselessly at his now-ruined suit.
“Good idea,” Gwen said. “Now come on. Andy says there’s been a Teletubby sighting near Tyndall Street.”
---
(Author's note: if you have no idea what just happened here, this YouTube clip should help clear things up.)
Title: "Childish Things"
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. Also, please note that any other media property presented here is property of its own rightful company, occurs here for humorous purposes, and absolutely no infringement is intended.
Pairings: N/A
Rating: Gen
Notes/Summary: Team Torchwood goes toe to toe with a nasty case of bad childhood nostalgia.
Owen cursed under his breath, banged his fists against the corrugated metal of the warehouse wall. Their guns were useless, at best able to rip through cloth and fluff but not enough to kill, and now they were cornered to boot.
“Rhiannon and I used to watch them on telly when we were little,” Ianto said as the horde of smiling, brightly colored assassins closed in. “I never thought I’d be done in by an army of plushies who think I’m the bad guy.”
Owen shrugged. “Could be worse.”
“How?”
“At least you didn’t come back from the dead to do it.”
Ianto tilted his head to the side. “Good point.”
“Alright, Care Bears!” the orangey-brown one at the front called out as the symbol on its belly began to glow. Its compatriots followed suit, closing their eyes as if to channel and focus their energy. “Staaa—“
“Hey!” a voice – Jack’s – called out from behind the mass. “It’s impolite to stare.”
Without warning, twin gouts of fire poured into the niche as Gwen and Toshiko charged in with flamethrowers. Owen stumbled back to shield himself from the flames. Across from him, Ianto did the same. Within seconds, the whole place was filled with screams and acrid smoke. He counted himself lucky he no longer had to breathe. Only when the hiss of the flamethrowers went silent did he dare to sit up and survey the wreckage. The warehouse floor was littered with charred lumps of cloth and fluff.
“I think my little cousins are getting books for Christmas this year,” Ianto said as he brushed uselessly at his now-ruined suit.
“Good idea,” Gwen said. “Now come on. Andy says there’s been a Teletubby sighting near Tyndall Street.”
---
(Author's note: if you have no idea what just happened here, this YouTube clip should help clear things up.)