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Entry tags:
Drabble_weekly Challenge 361 - Hidden talents
Title: Hidden talents
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack, Ianto
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 400 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for Challenge 361 - Thread at ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
drabble_zone
drabble_zoneSummary: Ianto has revealed a hidden skill. A quadruple drabble.
Jack stopped dead on the threshold as he spotted Ianto sitting in his chair with Jack's coat draped over his lap. No one ever sat in Jack's chair behind his desk. Not even Owen had the balls for that. Not even as a prank.
Jack folded his arms and leaned against the doorway. ‘What are you doing?’
Ianto paused, looking up guiltily at being discovered with a tiny piece of thread clutched between two fingers. ‘I, uh… Your coat,’ he stumbled through the reply.
He blushed, seemingly embarrassed at being caught in the act, as if he'd been pawing through Jack's underwear drawer which, ironically, was something Jack already allowed. Who had time for laundry? And Ianto always put the clean ones away so neatly. There were a lot of things Jack had taken for granted that their newest recruit simply took upon himself to make happen. The place had never run so smoothly.
‘I just saw that there was this little tear and…’ Ianto sat up a little straighter, defending his actions. ‘Well, we can't have the leader of Torchwood looking like he's just crawled out of the charity bin.’
‘I haven't had complaints before,’ Jack said, trying for one of his charming smiles which Ianto seemed totally immune to.
He wandered over and peered more closely over Ianto's shoulder, making sure the young man got a whiff of his fifty first century pheromones just for good measure. ‘Nice work,’ he said, marvelling at the neat and almost invisible stitching. Even the thread he was using to do the repairs was perfectly matched; not easy to do on a coat that was sometimes grey, sometimes blue and sometimes in between.
‘My dad was a master tailor,’ Ianto said. ‘Might have picked up a thing or two.’
‘Ah…’ Jack let the amusement in his voice linger. ‘What other talents did he teach you?’
Ianto's expression clouded over in an instant. ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘He's dead now,’ he added without emotion. ‘Cancer,’ he clarified.
‘I'm sorry,’ Jack said, feeling like he'd stepped into something he should have known about, though more perturbed by Ianto's cold acceptance of it. Jack picked himself back up and gave Ianto's shoulders a squeeze. ‘Great job, though. No doubt it won't be the last time I need your sewing skills.’
‘No doubt,’ came the reply, though his eyes remained fixed on the tiny needle and thread.
Jack stopped dead on the threshold as he spotted Ianto sitting in his chair with Jack's coat draped over his lap. No one ever sat in Jack's chair behind his desk. Not even Owen had the balls for that. Not even as a prank.
Jack folded his arms and leaned against the doorway. ‘What are you doing?’
Ianto paused, looking up guiltily at being discovered with a tiny piece of thread clutched between two fingers. ‘I, uh… Your coat,’ he stumbled through the reply.
He blushed, seemingly embarrassed at being caught in the act, as if he'd been pawing through Jack's underwear drawer which, ironically, was something Jack already allowed. Who had time for laundry? And Ianto always put the clean ones away so neatly. There were a lot of things Jack had taken for granted that their newest recruit simply took upon himself to make happen. The place had never run so smoothly.
‘I just saw that there was this little tear and…’ Ianto sat up a little straighter, defending his actions. ‘Well, we can't have the leader of Torchwood looking like he's just crawled out of the charity bin.’
‘I haven't had complaints before,’ Jack said, trying for one of his charming smiles which Ianto seemed totally immune to.
He wandered over and peered more closely over Ianto's shoulder, making sure the young man got a whiff of his fifty first century pheromones just for good measure. ‘Nice work,’ he said, marvelling at the neat and almost invisible stitching. Even the thread he was using to do the repairs was perfectly matched; not easy to do on a coat that was sometimes grey, sometimes blue and sometimes in between.
‘My dad was a master tailor,’ Ianto said. ‘Might have picked up a thing or two.’
‘Ah…’ Jack let the amusement in his voice linger. ‘What other talents did he teach you?’
Ianto's expression clouded over in an instant. ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘He's dead now,’ he added without emotion. ‘Cancer,’ he clarified.
‘I'm sorry,’ Jack said, feeling like he'd stepped into something he should have known about, though more perturbed by Ianto's cold acceptance of it. Jack picked himself back up and gave Ianto's shoulders a squeeze. ‘Great job, though. No doubt it won't be the last time I need your sewing skills.’
‘No doubt,’ came the reply, though his eyes remained fixed on the tiny needle and thread.
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