m_findlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
m_findlow) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fan_flashworks2023-04-01 05:32 pm
m_findlow) wrote in fan_flashworks2023-04-01 05:32 pm
Entry tags:
Torchwood: Fanfic: Just go with it
Title: Just go with it
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 2,783 words
Content notes: Spoilers for “Almost Perfect” by James Goss
Author notes: Written for Challenge 402 - Flow
Summary: Ianto’s latest predicament is cause for concern.
Ianto was woken abruptly by the sensation of cold water lapping at his body. It rolled up a second time and he let out a yelp at the cold sensation, feeling mud and sand underneath him as the water rose to try and cover his mouth and face. He spluttered, dragging himself away from its clutches, revealing himself to be knee deep in salty muck on a remote part of the coast, without a soul, or even a light, to be seen. He was alive at least which, all things considered, was a good start.
It wasn't until he picked himself up off the manky beach that he understood why he was so freezing cold. His arm was bare all the way to the shoulder. In fact, it wasn’t even his arm at all but rather that of a woman, youngish, maybe only a few years older than him, and toned enough that it looked like she must work out. His knees and legs were the same, though scraped up a bit from the sand and the obvious struggle to shore. Everything below the upper thigh was bare, leaving the rest of him there shivering in what was a figure-hugging dress, which he noticed only after clocking the decently sized breasts that impeded his view down south as he staggered to his feet.
Woman, his brain told him. All woman, it reiterated, trying and failing to remember how the hell that had happened. His last recollections – and those were hazy at best – he’d been a man, dressed in his usual attire, and nowhere near any large body of water. Why couldn't he remember where he'd been and what he'd been doing? Clearly it was very much to do with his current state, and that was alarming enough to be getting on with.
He was still him though, he tried to console himself. Apart from the grievous gap in his current recollections he still held memories of his old life before now: accidentally dropping a bowl of ice cream on his sister’s head at her eighth birthday party, making her erupt in tears; the look on his dad’s face picking him up from the police station after he'd been busted shoplifting; that girl he met at a mates party when he was nineteen, asking if he was okay with going down on her after he admitted he hadn’t brought any condoms with him; being caught by Gwen as he and Jack were going at it in the hothouse, and how much Jack had made him laugh about it afterwards, doing his best impression of Gwen’s horrified face. Yep, every embarrassing indictment on his ego up until the current day present and accounted for.
He slowly crawled his way back up the shore, feeling every stone and sharp bit of sand cut into the soles of his feet. No shoes, he observed, hardly surprising if he'd been in the drink, and wondering what a lady in a skin-tight dress would wear. Probably something with a four inch heel that was scarcely walkable in, but looked great. Shoes like that wouldn't help him in his current predicament.
He finally made it up to the road, disposing of the last of the sharp stones from the undersides of his bleeding feet and began to trudge along the pavement, letting his innate sense of direction head him back towards the city. He couldn't even see the low city skyline twinkling in the night from here so it had to be miles. Miles in bare feet and sheer stockings with large runs in them, and his freezing cold upper body which was now covered in goosebumps no matter how much he rubbed them and hugged his body into the smallest shape he could make it. There was a drizzle and a breeze that wasn’t helping. First chance he got to find a payphone he was calling Jack reverse charge. If you couldn't call for help in the middle of the night, when could you?
He didn't get that far before a panel van slowed and stopped just a few yards ahead of him. Bloody great, he thought, having already tried and failed to hitch a lift, but having received several honked horns and hoots from unhelpful drivers, shouting out obscenities like “Fit legs!” and “Free ride if I get one from you first!” This one might have stopped without the catcalls, but Ianto was now worried there was no such thing as a free ride.
‘You okay, love? Need a lift somewhere?’ The man who asked the question didn't sound like a deviant but then you never knew. He was old enough to be Ianto’s father, but that didn’t mean much. Plenty of dirty old men who wouldn't mind a bit of joystick action. The rain began to fall a little heavier and Ianto chose to take his chances. He still knew how to throw a decent right hook if it came to it.
‘Boyfriend kick you out or something?’ came the question.
‘Something like that,’ he replied, clipping the seatbelt and realising he must have stunk to high heaven of seaweed. Thank God not everyone was as picky as him about his passengers. Moreover perhaps he should have thanked the fact that if he had to be a woman at least he was an attractive one. Even as he caught the startled reflection of himself in the side mirror for the first time, he looked pretty good for being wet, smelly and bedraggled. In fact he looked curiously too good. Better than he had a right to be if he’d been washed up from the bay.
He shivered again and the driver turned up the heater, asked him for an address he could drop Ianto off, and after that avoided asking any more questions, for which Ianto was immensely grateful. He had enough of his own to contend with. He slumped inward towards the door and hugged himself, feeling ridiculously tired and his head getting more hazy by the minute. He just needed a shower and a few hours of sleep. He couldn't find it in himself to worry about what had happened to him or whether his body was somewhere else, with someone else occupying it. Perhaps the rest of the team were still dealing with whatever this was and he'd become separated from them. What if they were in a similar predicament? God his head hurt. He couldn’t get anything to stay straight in his head. It felt like it was slipping away the harder he tried to keep hold of it.
He jumped at the hand on his shoulder, shaking it. He bolted up and the hand disappeared.
‘Woah, easy. Didn't mean anything by it,’ the man apologised. ‘Just wanted to let you know we're here. You were off in the land of nod.’ The man gave Ianto a sympathetic look he didn’t think he deserved.
Ianto blinked a few times. Where was he? He looked at the man then out the side window, seeing his apartment block looming. ‘Oh, thank you,’ he muttered, fumbling with the seatbelt.
‘Anything else I can do? He's not in there, is he?’
Ianto frowned. He couldn't remember getting in the man's panel van, or what his name was. He probably should. ‘Who?’
The man nodded towards the apartment block. ‘Your boyfriend.’
Ianto frowned again, not quite following the line of conversation. ‘Don't think so.’ Jack almost never came over. He certainly didn't sit there waiting for Ianto. He was going to be in for a shock if he was.
‘Well, just look after yourself. Even pretty girls get mistreated these days. If someone did that to my daughter I'd clock him one, you hear?’
Ianto nodded, smoothing down the damp little black number that barely covered his thighs. He alighted from the van before he had to listen to any more lectures about how girls should be more careful and not dress like they were asking for it. He hadn't chosen this – whatever this was. He didn't let his breath go until the panel van pulled back out into the night, leaving him within feet of the relative safety of his apartment.
No phone, no keys, but despite his increasingly fuzzy head, he still knew where to find his spare key, hidden strategically behind a planter pot two apartments further down the hall. Thank God for small mercies, he thought, twisting the key in the lock.
He still stank but now he was exhausted. He'd been meaning to do something when he got here but now he couldn't remember what it was. So tired. Head stuffed full of wool. He stripped off what was left of his clothes – well, not his, but someone's – dumping them in an unceremonious pile, and pulled back the duvet and crawled under it. Maybe when he woke up he’d find out all of this had just been a really bad dream.
When he woke he didn't remember anything. His head hurt like a hangover he didn't recall enjoying the night before. He lumbered from the bed to the bathroom, eyes still gummed shut with sleep, feeling the cool air on his skin before finally forcing an eye open to study his hungover-ness, and seeing not his face, but that of an attractive woman with long auburn hair, falling in neat waves over both slender shoulders. Even through bleary eyes, the rest of his face looked perfect; no makeup required.
‘Oh… fudge,’ he finally muttered, hearing someone else's voice in place of his and taking it all in. The hangover from hell would have been better.
Twenty quid in spare change from his bedside drawer got him a taxi to the hub, forcing himself into a pair of jeans and a loose hoodie for a lack of anything else that would fit his new slimmer hips. Even then the jeans were not his, but a pair he'd salvaged from a box of Lisa's things that he'd never gotten around to donating to charity. Even in such daggy clothes, he struck a remarkable figure – photo shoot ready – even if he did say so himself, blushing at the vanity of the thought. He just needed to get to the hub, and Jack, so that he could start figuring out what had happened to him and why he couldn't remember a thing. It wouldn't take long to do a test for retcon and check if he hadn't done this to himself. If he had, he wanted a very good explanation from himself as to why. Wasn't it bad enough waking up naked in his own bed without all the things that made him, well, him?
Not for the first time he thanked the gods that the hub's main security was a series of keypad locks that could be used in place of a swipe card. He'd made the passwords so ridiculously long and complicated – and in Welsh – that Owen used to complain endlessly about it because Ianto was the only one with memory capable of remembering them. Shame he couldn't remember anything else important, he sulked, letting himself in the tourist office door. Jack would know what to do, though. Problem was, he first had to convince Jack it was him. That much of his plan he at least had sorted. He just needed the guts to go through with it.
There were lights on downstairs, which was a good sign. Jack hadn't gone prowling overnight, yet to return. The outline of the back of his head could be seen clearly through the glass as Ianto slipped through the open cogwheel door, padding up the stairs in ill-fitting sneakers that threatened to trip him up. He made it as far as the threshold to Jack's office before Jack noticed the movement from the corner of his eye and looked up and straight at him.
‘Jack.’ He covered the five strides between the door and Jack's desk quickly, knowing he only had about four seconds before Jack's curiosity at the mystery woman turned to suspicion and danger. It was now or never if he was going to do it. He grabbed Jack's face in his hands and kissed him, long and hard. His tongue delved into a mouth that was momentarily not reciprocating out of caution. Ianto's hands worked their way around his neck, one cupping the familiar curvature, the other drifting into his hair and curling in it the way it always did, finding that little hollow just above the base of Jack's skull where his fingertips fit perfectly. Jack's lips then did start to respond, as if nothing at all were wrong, letting the kiss carry on for another sixty seconds before Ianto finally, reluctantly, pulled away.
Jack blinked, took in the attractive feminine face and then, with only a slight hesitation, said ‘Ianto?’
Ianto grabbed his head in both hands and leaned his own head forward, forehead resting against Jack's. ‘Oh, thank God. I had no idea what I was going to do if that didn't work.’
‘Well, nobody kisses quite like you, Ianto Jones.’ Jack pulled back to take in his altered appearance. ‘What happened?’
‘I was hoping you could fill me in. I'm drawing nothing but a blank.’
‘Nothing?’ There was a look of concern furrowing Jack's forehead.
‘Just woke up like this in my own bed. Phone missing, keys missing, car parked somewhere other than at my flat, wherever that might be.’ He paused to consider if that was a full account of all the relevant facts. ‘Though there was a little black dress and some nylons that had seen better days on top of my laundry hamper.’ He felt like he should remember it, but there was just a blank space where memories should have lived. His head felt like a sieve, leaking vital information where it normally filed absolutely everything for prefect recall at a later date.
‘Ooh, a little black number, you say? There was a typical Jack Harkness lascivious grin that accompanied the query.
‘Stop trying to imagine me wearing that.’
Jack shrugged off the warning. ‘Too late.’
‘Let's just focus on what's gone wrong, shall we? I mean, is this some kind of holographic camouflage, neural transposition, cloning, DNA manipulation…’ One simply didn’t wake up in someone else's body with no recollection of it happening.
‘It's not holographic,’ Jack replied. ‘No hologram has an arse that realistically pert.’
‘You should know,’ Ianto replied, having noticed Jack giving it an experimental squeeze through the skin tight denim during their identification kiss. He was prepared to let that go if it meant Jack didn't question that he really was Ianto Jones, former member of the opposite sex and Torchwood operative. People had been locked up for less.
‘Never waste an opportunity to enjoy the finer things in life,’ Jack told him. ‘And that is one very fine arse. Not that you're old one wasn't, but maybe I should take another closer inspection, just to compare. What else are you hiding under that hoodie Mrs Jones?’
‘Hands off, Captain. That kiss served a vital purpose. It wasn't just a spur of the moment attempt to get into your pants. I can't believe you can be so calm about all of this.’
Jack chuckled and shook his head. Ianto pouted in reply. At least he thought he was pouting. It was hard to tell when he wasn't accustomed to pulling faces with this particular face. ‘I don't think any of this is funny,’ he told Jack.
‘Oh, Ianto,’ Jack said, sighing and pulling his rather more narrow hips close until he was lost in the curves of Jack's larger frame. ‘You accuse me of being the one who just goes with the flow and just listen to yourself. All of this happens and yet you still made it here with a cool head and proved who you were in under sixty seconds. Which of us is the one going with the flow most, do you think?’
Ianto bristled, but appreciated the feel of being back in Jack’s arms. ‘I prefer to call it my self-preservation instinct.’
Jack pressed a kiss into his forehead, reaching up to brush long auburn hair behind Ianto’s ear with practised ease. ‘Call it what you like. It's gotten you this far, now we go the rest of the way to fix it together.’
Ianto looked into Jack's face only to find his gaze had drifted down to the large bosom he was failing to hide underneath the navy hoodie. He certainly hoped so. He didn't know how much more ogling he could take. Snogging his way out of trouble was only going to get him so far.
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 2,783 words
Content notes: Spoilers for “Almost Perfect” by James Goss
Author notes: Written for Challenge 402 - Flow
Summary: Ianto’s latest predicament is cause for concern.
Ianto was woken abruptly by the sensation of cold water lapping at his body. It rolled up a second time and he let out a yelp at the cold sensation, feeling mud and sand underneath him as the water rose to try and cover his mouth and face. He spluttered, dragging himself away from its clutches, revealing himself to be knee deep in salty muck on a remote part of the coast, without a soul, or even a light, to be seen. He was alive at least which, all things considered, was a good start.
It wasn't until he picked himself up off the manky beach that he understood why he was so freezing cold. His arm was bare all the way to the shoulder. In fact, it wasn’t even his arm at all but rather that of a woman, youngish, maybe only a few years older than him, and toned enough that it looked like she must work out. His knees and legs were the same, though scraped up a bit from the sand and the obvious struggle to shore. Everything below the upper thigh was bare, leaving the rest of him there shivering in what was a figure-hugging dress, which he noticed only after clocking the decently sized breasts that impeded his view down south as he staggered to his feet.
Woman, his brain told him. All woman, it reiterated, trying and failing to remember how the hell that had happened. His last recollections – and those were hazy at best – he’d been a man, dressed in his usual attire, and nowhere near any large body of water. Why couldn't he remember where he'd been and what he'd been doing? Clearly it was very much to do with his current state, and that was alarming enough to be getting on with.
He was still him though, he tried to console himself. Apart from the grievous gap in his current recollections he still held memories of his old life before now: accidentally dropping a bowl of ice cream on his sister’s head at her eighth birthday party, making her erupt in tears; the look on his dad’s face picking him up from the police station after he'd been busted shoplifting; that girl he met at a mates party when he was nineteen, asking if he was okay with going down on her after he admitted he hadn’t brought any condoms with him; being caught by Gwen as he and Jack were going at it in the hothouse, and how much Jack had made him laugh about it afterwards, doing his best impression of Gwen’s horrified face. Yep, every embarrassing indictment on his ego up until the current day present and accounted for.
He slowly crawled his way back up the shore, feeling every stone and sharp bit of sand cut into the soles of his feet. No shoes, he observed, hardly surprising if he'd been in the drink, and wondering what a lady in a skin-tight dress would wear. Probably something with a four inch heel that was scarcely walkable in, but looked great. Shoes like that wouldn't help him in his current predicament.
He finally made it up to the road, disposing of the last of the sharp stones from the undersides of his bleeding feet and began to trudge along the pavement, letting his innate sense of direction head him back towards the city. He couldn't even see the low city skyline twinkling in the night from here so it had to be miles. Miles in bare feet and sheer stockings with large runs in them, and his freezing cold upper body which was now covered in goosebumps no matter how much he rubbed them and hugged his body into the smallest shape he could make it. There was a drizzle and a breeze that wasn’t helping. First chance he got to find a payphone he was calling Jack reverse charge. If you couldn't call for help in the middle of the night, when could you?
He didn't get that far before a panel van slowed and stopped just a few yards ahead of him. Bloody great, he thought, having already tried and failed to hitch a lift, but having received several honked horns and hoots from unhelpful drivers, shouting out obscenities like “Fit legs!” and “Free ride if I get one from you first!” This one might have stopped without the catcalls, but Ianto was now worried there was no such thing as a free ride.
‘You okay, love? Need a lift somewhere?’ The man who asked the question didn't sound like a deviant but then you never knew. He was old enough to be Ianto’s father, but that didn’t mean much. Plenty of dirty old men who wouldn't mind a bit of joystick action. The rain began to fall a little heavier and Ianto chose to take his chances. He still knew how to throw a decent right hook if it came to it.
‘Boyfriend kick you out or something?’ came the question.
‘Something like that,’ he replied, clipping the seatbelt and realising he must have stunk to high heaven of seaweed. Thank God not everyone was as picky as him about his passengers. Moreover perhaps he should have thanked the fact that if he had to be a woman at least he was an attractive one. Even as he caught the startled reflection of himself in the side mirror for the first time, he looked pretty good for being wet, smelly and bedraggled. In fact he looked curiously too good. Better than he had a right to be if he’d been washed up from the bay.
He shivered again and the driver turned up the heater, asked him for an address he could drop Ianto off, and after that avoided asking any more questions, for which Ianto was immensely grateful. He had enough of his own to contend with. He slumped inward towards the door and hugged himself, feeling ridiculously tired and his head getting more hazy by the minute. He just needed a shower and a few hours of sleep. He couldn't find it in himself to worry about what had happened to him or whether his body was somewhere else, with someone else occupying it. Perhaps the rest of the team were still dealing with whatever this was and he'd become separated from them. What if they were in a similar predicament? God his head hurt. He couldn’t get anything to stay straight in his head. It felt like it was slipping away the harder he tried to keep hold of it.
He jumped at the hand on his shoulder, shaking it. He bolted up and the hand disappeared.
‘Woah, easy. Didn't mean anything by it,’ the man apologised. ‘Just wanted to let you know we're here. You were off in the land of nod.’ The man gave Ianto a sympathetic look he didn’t think he deserved.
Ianto blinked a few times. Where was he? He looked at the man then out the side window, seeing his apartment block looming. ‘Oh, thank you,’ he muttered, fumbling with the seatbelt.
‘Anything else I can do? He's not in there, is he?’
Ianto frowned. He couldn't remember getting in the man's panel van, or what his name was. He probably should. ‘Who?’
The man nodded towards the apartment block. ‘Your boyfriend.’
Ianto frowned again, not quite following the line of conversation. ‘Don't think so.’ Jack almost never came over. He certainly didn't sit there waiting for Ianto. He was going to be in for a shock if he was.
‘Well, just look after yourself. Even pretty girls get mistreated these days. If someone did that to my daughter I'd clock him one, you hear?’
Ianto nodded, smoothing down the damp little black number that barely covered his thighs. He alighted from the van before he had to listen to any more lectures about how girls should be more careful and not dress like they were asking for it. He hadn't chosen this – whatever this was. He didn't let his breath go until the panel van pulled back out into the night, leaving him within feet of the relative safety of his apartment.
No phone, no keys, but despite his increasingly fuzzy head, he still knew where to find his spare key, hidden strategically behind a planter pot two apartments further down the hall. Thank God for small mercies, he thought, twisting the key in the lock.
He still stank but now he was exhausted. He'd been meaning to do something when he got here but now he couldn't remember what it was. So tired. Head stuffed full of wool. He stripped off what was left of his clothes – well, not his, but someone's – dumping them in an unceremonious pile, and pulled back the duvet and crawled under it. Maybe when he woke up he’d find out all of this had just been a really bad dream.
When he woke he didn't remember anything. His head hurt like a hangover he didn't recall enjoying the night before. He lumbered from the bed to the bathroom, eyes still gummed shut with sleep, feeling the cool air on his skin before finally forcing an eye open to study his hungover-ness, and seeing not his face, but that of an attractive woman with long auburn hair, falling in neat waves over both slender shoulders. Even through bleary eyes, the rest of his face looked perfect; no makeup required.
‘Oh… fudge,’ he finally muttered, hearing someone else's voice in place of his and taking it all in. The hangover from hell would have been better.
Twenty quid in spare change from his bedside drawer got him a taxi to the hub, forcing himself into a pair of jeans and a loose hoodie for a lack of anything else that would fit his new slimmer hips. Even then the jeans were not his, but a pair he'd salvaged from a box of Lisa's things that he'd never gotten around to donating to charity. Even in such daggy clothes, he struck a remarkable figure – photo shoot ready – even if he did say so himself, blushing at the vanity of the thought. He just needed to get to the hub, and Jack, so that he could start figuring out what had happened to him and why he couldn't remember a thing. It wouldn't take long to do a test for retcon and check if he hadn't done this to himself. If he had, he wanted a very good explanation from himself as to why. Wasn't it bad enough waking up naked in his own bed without all the things that made him, well, him?
Not for the first time he thanked the gods that the hub's main security was a series of keypad locks that could be used in place of a swipe card. He'd made the passwords so ridiculously long and complicated – and in Welsh – that Owen used to complain endlessly about it because Ianto was the only one with memory capable of remembering them. Shame he couldn't remember anything else important, he sulked, letting himself in the tourist office door. Jack would know what to do, though. Problem was, he first had to convince Jack it was him. That much of his plan he at least had sorted. He just needed the guts to go through with it.
There were lights on downstairs, which was a good sign. Jack hadn't gone prowling overnight, yet to return. The outline of the back of his head could be seen clearly through the glass as Ianto slipped through the open cogwheel door, padding up the stairs in ill-fitting sneakers that threatened to trip him up. He made it as far as the threshold to Jack's office before Jack noticed the movement from the corner of his eye and looked up and straight at him.
‘Jack.’ He covered the five strides between the door and Jack's desk quickly, knowing he only had about four seconds before Jack's curiosity at the mystery woman turned to suspicion and danger. It was now or never if he was going to do it. He grabbed Jack's face in his hands and kissed him, long and hard. His tongue delved into a mouth that was momentarily not reciprocating out of caution. Ianto's hands worked their way around his neck, one cupping the familiar curvature, the other drifting into his hair and curling in it the way it always did, finding that little hollow just above the base of Jack's skull where his fingertips fit perfectly. Jack's lips then did start to respond, as if nothing at all were wrong, letting the kiss carry on for another sixty seconds before Ianto finally, reluctantly, pulled away.
Jack blinked, took in the attractive feminine face and then, with only a slight hesitation, said ‘Ianto?’
Ianto grabbed his head in both hands and leaned his own head forward, forehead resting against Jack's. ‘Oh, thank God. I had no idea what I was going to do if that didn't work.’
‘Well, nobody kisses quite like you, Ianto Jones.’ Jack pulled back to take in his altered appearance. ‘What happened?’
‘I was hoping you could fill me in. I'm drawing nothing but a blank.’
‘Nothing?’ There was a look of concern furrowing Jack's forehead.
‘Just woke up like this in my own bed. Phone missing, keys missing, car parked somewhere other than at my flat, wherever that might be.’ He paused to consider if that was a full account of all the relevant facts. ‘Though there was a little black dress and some nylons that had seen better days on top of my laundry hamper.’ He felt like he should remember it, but there was just a blank space where memories should have lived. His head felt like a sieve, leaking vital information where it normally filed absolutely everything for prefect recall at a later date.
‘Ooh, a little black number, you say? There was a typical Jack Harkness lascivious grin that accompanied the query.
‘Stop trying to imagine me wearing that.’
Jack shrugged off the warning. ‘Too late.’
‘Let's just focus on what's gone wrong, shall we? I mean, is this some kind of holographic camouflage, neural transposition, cloning, DNA manipulation…’ One simply didn’t wake up in someone else's body with no recollection of it happening.
‘It's not holographic,’ Jack replied. ‘No hologram has an arse that realistically pert.’
‘You should know,’ Ianto replied, having noticed Jack giving it an experimental squeeze through the skin tight denim during their identification kiss. He was prepared to let that go if it meant Jack didn't question that he really was Ianto Jones, former member of the opposite sex and Torchwood operative. People had been locked up for less.
‘Never waste an opportunity to enjoy the finer things in life,’ Jack told him. ‘And that is one very fine arse. Not that you're old one wasn't, but maybe I should take another closer inspection, just to compare. What else are you hiding under that hoodie Mrs Jones?’
‘Hands off, Captain. That kiss served a vital purpose. It wasn't just a spur of the moment attempt to get into your pants. I can't believe you can be so calm about all of this.’
Jack chuckled and shook his head. Ianto pouted in reply. At least he thought he was pouting. It was hard to tell when he wasn't accustomed to pulling faces with this particular face. ‘I don't think any of this is funny,’ he told Jack.
‘Oh, Ianto,’ Jack said, sighing and pulling his rather more narrow hips close until he was lost in the curves of Jack's larger frame. ‘You accuse me of being the one who just goes with the flow and just listen to yourself. All of this happens and yet you still made it here with a cool head and proved who you were in under sixty seconds. Which of us is the one going with the flow most, do you think?’
Ianto bristled, but appreciated the feel of being back in Jack’s arms. ‘I prefer to call it my self-preservation instinct.’
Jack pressed a kiss into his forehead, reaching up to brush long auburn hair behind Ianto’s ear with practised ease. ‘Call it what you like. It's gotten you this far, now we go the rest of the way to fix it together.’
Ianto looked into Jack's face only to find his gaze had drifted down to the large bosom he was failing to hide underneath the navy hoodie. He certainly hoped so. He didn't know how much more ogling he could take. Snogging his way out of trouble was only going to get him so far.
no subject