Torchwood: Fanfic: Knit two together
Jan. 7th, 2026 11:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
m_findlowTitle: Knit two together
Fandom: Torchwood
Character: Jack, Ianto
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 850 words
Content notes: None
Author notes: Written for endlesstwanted ’s prompt any, any, doing someone's hobby for some quality time with them at ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fic_promptly
endlesstwanted ’s prompt any, any, doing someone's hobby for some quality time with them at fic_promptlySummary: Jack has a hobby that catches Ianto completely by surprise.
Ianto found many things about his lover strange and unexpected. It was hard to imagine a man living for as long as Jack had, doing the kinds of things Jack did for a living, that wouldn't end up with a few quirks along the way. Jack always had twenty eight things on the go all at once, some cases recent, others mysteries that had been stretching on for decades, but which he could never quite let go of. Like a pulled thread, Jack just had to keep tugging at it until the whole thing finally unravelled and revealed itself.
That was one of the reasons Ianto expected that a man like Jack wouldn't have hobbies beyond a penchant for firearms and learning how to get the most out of them. He supposed you couldn't class eating as a hobby. Some people might have been connoisseurs of food, desperate to always try out that new restaurant that had three Michelin stars, or attempt to replicate at home something they'd eaten out. Jack on the other hand ate just about anything you put in front of him, often inventing the most bizarre combinations, but at least he did so with a good amount of gusto.
He didn't follow sports, or play them, had no ear for musical instruments and, if his doodling during boring briefings was anything to go by, he was no artist either.
That was why knitting came as a complete shock to Ianto when it was revealed as Jack's closet hobby – something he rarely had time for, but enjoyed endlessly. ‘It takes me out of my own head,’ Jack had explained to Ianto. ‘When I'm knitting, that's all I'm thinking about, like being in a hypnotic trance. All the problems of the world disappear.’
That sounded nice, Ianto thought. He didn't understand it himself. Knitting seemed like a complicated business of coded patterns that had to be deciphered and translated into actions, thousands and thousands of times if you planned on making anything larger than a potholder. Jack didn't strike him as someone with the necessary patience for all that. Still, Jack had surprised him, not least by the beautiful grey scarf he produced as a gift one day, totally out of the blue. Ianto made a point of wearing it as often as he could, whilst being mindful not to drag it into work situations where it might be damaged. No one had ever made him anything before and he was touched by the thoughtfulness of it.
Now he took pleasure in returning the favour, pausing to stop in the haberdashery on St Mary Street when he happened to be out on business, perusing the wool section for things that felt nice or were lovely colours. Jack might not get the chance to indulge his hobby very often, but if he did he should at least have something nice to work with, or a specific project in mind. For a man that was impossible to buy for, Ianto liked buying him things that brought him joy. If that meant a riotous rainbow of wool then so be it.
Jack had even tried to teach him the basics but Ianto found himself floundering to do more than manage a single row of basic stitches without ending up with more or less than he was supposed to. He didn't like getting frustrated or asking for help because he felt that it took away from Jack's enjoyment, even if he assured Ianto that it didn't.
On a rare quiet evening at Ianto's flat that was exactly what they were doing, revelling in not being needed for a few hours. Ianto had given up on knitting, but he'd bought a book on crochet, which seemed sufficiently adjacent to knitting. It still required wool and a secret code of stitches, but at least Ianto only had to contend with worrying about having one stitch on his hook at all times. He didn't always get the pattern right, but it felt a whole lot easier.
‘You've got quite a few squares there now,’ Jack commented whilst his needles continued to clack away without him even looking at them, which Ianto still found confounding. You couldn't possibly do all that without even watching what you were doing. He looked down at the neat little pile of slightly imperfect squares, done in shades of blue and green and grey. He almost didn't need to consult his pattern book anymore.
‘Maybe one day I'll have enough to stitch them all together into a blanket.’ He didn't think it would ever happen, but he liked Jack to think he had a plan in mind for the time they spent together like this. Truthfully, Ianto would have been just as happy to sit there and just watch Jack as he magicked a deep burgundy cashmere into the shape of a jumper. Still, it was nice to have something they found to do together that didn't require a bed and no clothes. There was only so much endurance he had on that front. One slightly blistered finger was worth it.
Ianto found many things about his lover strange and unexpected. It was hard to imagine a man living for as long as Jack had, doing the kinds of things Jack did for a living, that wouldn't end up with a few quirks along the way. Jack always had twenty eight things on the go all at once, some cases recent, others mysteries that had been stretching on for decades, but which he could never quite let go of. Like a pulled thread, Jack just had to keep tugging at it until the whole thing finally unravelled and revealed itself.
That was one of the reasons Ianto expected that a man like Jack wouldn't have hobbies beyond a penchant for firearms and learning how to get the most out of them. He supposed you couldn't class eating as a hobby. Some people might have been connoisseurs of food, desperate to always try out that new restaurant that had three Michelin stars, or attempt to replicate at home something they'd eaten out. Jack on the other hand ate just about anything you put in front of him, often inventing the most bizarre combinations, but at least he did so with a good amount of gusto.
He didn't follow sports, or play them, had no ear for musical instruments and, if his doodling during boring briefings was anything to go by, he was no artist either.
That was why knitting came as a complete shock to Ianto when it was revealed as Jack's closet hobby – something he rarely had time for, but enjoyed endlessly. ‘It takes me out of my own head,’ Jack had explained to Ianto. ‘When I'm knitting, that's all I'm thinking about, like being in a hypnotic trance. All the problems of the world disappear.’
That sounded nice, Ianto thought. He didn't understand it himself. Knitting seemed like a complicated business of coded patterns that had to be deciphered and translated into actions, thousands and thousands of times if you planned on making anything larger than a potholder. Jack didn't strike him as someone with the necessary patience for all that. Still, Jack had surprised him, not least by the beautiful grey scarf he produced as a gift one day, totally out of the blue. Ianto made a point of wearing it as often as he could, whilst being mindful not to drag it into work situations where it might be damaged. No one had ever made him anything before and he was touched by the thoughtfulness of it.
Now he took pleasure in returning the favour, pausing to stop in the haberdashery on St Mary Street when he happened to be out on business, perusing the wool section for things that felt nice or were lovely colours. Jack might not get the chance to indulge his hobby very often, but if he did he should at least have something nice to work with, or a specific project in mind. For a man that was impossible to buy for, Ianto liked buying him things that brought him joy. If that meant a riotous rainbow of wool then so be it.
Jack had even tried to teach him the basics but Ianto found himself floundering to do more than manage a single row of basic stitches without ending up with more or less than he was supposed to. He didn't like getting frustrated or asking for help because he felt that it took away from Jack's enjoyment, even if he assured Ianto that it didn't.
On a rare quiet evening at Ianto's flat that was exactly what they were doing, revelling in not being needed for a few hours. Ianto had given up on knitting, but he'd bought a book on crochet, which seemed sufficiently adjacent to knitting. It still required wool and a secret code of stitches, but at least Ianto only had to contend with worrying about having one stitch on his hook at all times. He didn't always get the pattern right, but it felt a whole lot easier.
‘You've got quite a few squares there now,’ Jack commented whilst his needles continued to clack away without him even looking at them, which Ianto still found confounding. You couldn't possibly do all that without even watching what you were doing. He looked down at the neat little pile of slightly imperfect squares, done in shades of blue and green and grey. He almost didn't need to consult his pattern book anymore.
‘Maybe one day I'll have enough to stitch them all together into a blanket.’ He didn't think it would ever happen, but he liked Jack to think he had a plan in mind for the time they spent together like this. Truthfully, Ianto would have been just as happy to sit there and just watch Jack as he magicked a deep burgundy cashmere into the shape of a jumper. Still, it was nice to have something they found to do together that didn't require a bed and no clothes. There was only so much endurance he had on that front. One slightly blistered finger was worth it.
