New Year's Day

[invisible_lift]

Last year I missed out on redismycolour. I only heard about it late in the month, and at that point I had a fair few things on my plate and couldn't imagine writing 30 short pieces in a handful of days. This made me sad, because I'd really enjoyed working through the horizonssing prompts a few months before.

And then 2009 kind of went sideways anyway, and I didn't read and post as much as I wanted to, and by the end of the year I decided that one of my resolutions for 2010 is to get back on the horse. It's not the only thing in my life by a long shot, but it's a thing that makes me pretty happy.

So. Here's my Jan 1 piece for redismycolour. I'm only a year late. Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey. Whatever.

Title: New Year's Day
Disclaimer: I'm not 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 greets the new year. Written for the January 1 prompt at redismycolour.





The ice rink was still up on New Year’s Day. Jack Harkness didn’t like to skate – his boyhood was a warm one, with soft warm sand and twisting trees, and winter on the Boeshane Peninsula was more like winter in Greece than winter in Wales – but he liked watching other people glide around the rink. There were always one or two skaters who put the rest to shame, and at least a few who were clumsy on the ice and wobbled like newborn foals.

Steven is not one of those. In fact, he’s a bundle of energy, and skates almost literal circles around his mother. Who, Jack is half-glad to see, hasn’t noticed him watching from the heated terrace. He watches them as long as he dares before he steps back and away to disappear into the last gasp of the winter funfair.

He remembers Lucia, who’d been gorgeous. He’d never married her, even though he’d half wanted to. When he’d suggested it, though, she’d thrown a glass of wine on him and called him ridiculous. The look on the maître d's face could still bring a chuckle, even now. Still, he regrets taking her on her word sometimes. She’d died too young. They always seem to die too young.

Jack takes a sip from his paper cup and pulls a face. He’s an old soldier, but Ianto has spoiled him for coffee. He hates to waste it, but he isn’t fond of drinking it either. He’s halfway to City Hall by the time he finds a bin to dispose of it in, and he’s had most of it already by then anyway, so he doesn’t feel too bad about chucking it. And then it’s walking. Walking all over because it’s New Year’s Day and he’s restless, and --

His mobile rings. The call ID box flashes up “IANTO” and he grins. “Missing me already?”

“Where are you?” Ianto’s voice is that careful neutral that he uses when he doesn’t want Jack to know that he’s worried. Not that Ianto would ever admit it, but every so often it seems like he’s keeping tabs. Like he’s frightened Jack will run off again.

“City Hall, more or less,” he answers, though his tone is a careful match to Ianto’s. You don’t want me to know you’re doing this, so I will pretend I haven’t noticed. “Why, need anything while I’m out?”

“No, it’s fine,” Ianto replies. “And take your time. I was just, ah, trying to guess who I’m ordering dinner for tonight is all.”

Jack smiles up at the darkening late afternoon sky as he changes course toward the Plass. “Count me in.”