lt_indigo

lt_indigo

badly_knitted

“Blue.”

“Yellow.”

“Red.”

“Pink and purple stripes.”

Something was going on. Because it sounded like they were placing bets on something, but Ianto couldn’t for the life of him work out what.

“Black with polka dots.”

He stepped up into the main Hub to find the whole team, including Rhys gathered.

“Orange and pink,” Meriel piped up, much to Jack’s horror. Not that Ianto felt that Jack had a leg to stand on with his pink and purple striped whatever-it-was.

“Do I even want to know?” he asked weakly as he collapsed beside his husband.

“Nosy’s missing,” Tosh said. She had yet to proffer an opinion that Ianto had heard. “They all think it’s off giving birth again.”

Ianto had actually seen Nosy earlier that day, slithering down into a quiet section of the archives that it knew it wouldn’t be bothered in. He had shown it to Nosy and Dizzy when the children were very small in case it ever needed a break from grabby hands and fur-tugging. But it had been a long time since Nosy had taken to that sanctuary – the children were well-past knowing that the Fluffs didn’t like rough handling. Indeed, Dizzy was draped over Anwen and Meriel like a massive black and purple scarf, humming contentedly as they fed it dried fruit pieces.

“Cress and coffee cake, wasn’t it?” Ianto asked with a groan. “For an infant Fluff?”

“Got some in the fridge already,” Owen said proudly. “Popped out to Sainsbury’s earlier.”

.oOo.

So they were all prepared when Nosy appeared some time later, with baby Fluff the colour of a red Setter. It was plopped carefully on Rhys’ lap, who cooed over it, enthralled. Not least because there were tenners heading his way from the betting pool (and a ten pence from Meriel). Upon closer inspection, it was discovered their newest addition had a ridge of fur that ran in a ridge along what served for its spine, sticking up, and no smoothing would make it lie in line with the rest of the baby’s fur.

“Hey, look at that!” Rhys exclaimed as Nosy went about feeding its latest offspring. “It’s a proper Welsh dragon! We should call it Draig.”

“Daisy,” Anwen countered.

“But, love, it looks like…” Rhys trailed off as he realised that Anwen was wearing that look that Gwen sometimes got; the stubborn one, the one that said there was no arguing with her. Nevertheless, he bravely gave it one last attempt: “But daisies are white.”

Anwen pointedly looked at the bobbles in Meriel’s hair, and Ianto realised this was suddenly going to be all his fault. Never mind how much he had tried to convince his daughter that the red flowers were gerberas, not daisies, like Gwen’s resolute Look, five-year-old logic was not to be argued with.

Rhys sighed in defeat. “Alright, my lamb: Daisy it is.”

But they all knew he would continue to call his little Welsh dragon ‘Draig’, but only in the privacy of his own head.