Finding Beauty (stray_heart) wrote,
Finding Beauty

WIAD 2.07 - So as Not to be the Martyred Slaves of Time (PG-13, Ianto-centric)

Title: So as Not to be the Martyred Slaves of Time
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For writerinadrawer's 2.07 challenge, 'Wasted!' with the added element of an Olympic sport. This one was a big ol' disaster for me, with too few words making the point I was trying to get across too confusing. Just the same, I'm archiving it here for the sake of completion, with a few revisions that I realized slipped through the cracks and probably made it more confusing to people.

Every now and then, Ianto might like a quiet night. Home by half five, without any scrapes or bruises or unidentifiable substances to wash out of his hair. Tonight isn't one of those nights, of course, as what started as a simple weevil hunt has since escalated into trotting down St. Mary Street on a Saturday night, dodging around inebriated men and being careful not to knock over the women who are teetering down the street in stiletto heels.

Fortunately, most people are too pissed to realize that the alien is anything other than a man in a smelly boiler suit and a wicked mask.

Pedestrian-trafficked Caroline Street, known as 'Chip Alley' amongst the locals for its array of late-night kebab shops, is crowded and certainly not the place for a weevil. Ianto presses his way through a group milling around outside Tony's Fish and Chips, while Jack sweeps down the center of the street.

It's somewhere between yelling "Weevil!" to Jack and getting the spray out of his jacket that Ianto gets punched. He hits the ground, dazed, and when he opens his eyes, Jack is looming overhead to help him up, looking like he's trying not to laugh. There's a goopy stain on the front of the captain's coat that looks like it might be a combination of fish grease and malt vinegar, and Ianto hates himself for wondering how he'll get that out, while his head feels like a split melon.

"All right?" Jack asks, steadying him when he sways.

"Yeah," Ianto insists. "What happened?"

Jack's grin is his best laughter-suppressing one. "Some guy thought you were calling his girlfriend a name."

Ianto becomes vaguely aware, then, of the fact that there's a fight going on behind and to his left; he turns to see a pile of young men in pulling attire, who can't be much younger than him, shifting from side to side as the tides change in their brawl. A pair of police constables are already jogging up from the other end of the street to try and break it up.

"C'mon." Jack winds an arm around the small of Ianto's back and guides him toward the SUV. Ianto takes a moment to look at his reflection in the dark-tinted window before getting in, and finds a bruise the rough shape of Splott spreading out from the corner of his eye.

A muffled groan from the back of the vehicle tells Ianto that Jack must have subdued the weevil himself.

"That was embarrassing."

Jack laughs. "We've had worse coincidences."

"Like the time we mistook those university girls boating down the Taff for Britain's men's 1948 Olympic rowing team, slipped through the Rift?"

"They had very manly upper bodies."

"That's exactly what I thought when the one punched you."

Jack gives him a cold-pack from the first-aid kit, and Ianto leans his head back while Jack drives. Watching apartment buildings and spring's first daffodils roll by as they move down Lloyd George toward the Bay, he thinks of all those people, blissfully unaware of things like weevils and aliens. Ianto can no longer say with any degree of honesty that he wants to be one of them.

Perhaps when you're Torchwood, this will suffice for a quiet night.

Tags: ianto jones, jack/ianto, torchwood, writer in a drawer

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