m_findlow

Title: Cooking up trouble
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack, Ianto
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 684 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for badly_knitted's prompt "Any, any, what was that?" at fic_promptly
Summary: No kitchen is safe with Jack at the helm

What was that? It sounded like smashing crockery. No, on second thoughts, he really didn't want to know.

Bloody Jack. Why couldn't he just leave them to have a nice peaceful morning off? Ten minutes ago he'd been happily tucked in bed with his lover, looking forward to their Sunday off, in full knowledge that Owen was at the hub at seven am to feed the residents and check out any overnight rift readings, so that they could have a well deserved day off. It didn't happen too often, and Owen volunteering for morning duties was even rarer, but today all of the planets had aligned, or so he thought.

Snuggled against Jack, he'd murmured a good morning, before settling back into what would hopefully be another hour or two of sleep. Instead Jack was fidgety and it was driving him mad.

'Go to sleep,' he mumbled, knowing that it was nine in the morning, and he'd have otherwise been up three hours by now, but a lie in was all he wanted, listening to the rain pattering outside on the cold wintery morning.

'Can't sleep,' Jack replied.

'Try, or at least cuddle without squirming.'

'I'd much rather shag the living daylights out of you.'

'So why don't you?' He was sleepy, but there was a rule in place for such things. If Jack could get him interested within three minutes, it was game on; if not, Jack would be resigned to letting Ianto snooze. Jack wasn't worried though, Ianto never made it past the first sixty seconds before he had his tongue shoved down Jack's throat, desperate for more.

'I'm going to need food first,' Jack replied. 'It takes a lot of energy to give you the best lovemaking in the universe, even for a fabulous immortal like me.'

Before he even had a chance to reply with his own drywitted quip, Jack was throwing himself out of the bed. Ianto quickly pulled the duvet back down, trying to trap the warm air inside despite Jack's attempts to free it. He snuggled back down, enjoying the peace that had descended after Jack had left the room.

Then it began. The noise coming from the kitchen. His kitchen. His nice, neat kitchen.

Jack was in his kitchen making breakfast, and it didn't sound like he was fetching cornflakes and tea. Jack wasn't a bad cook, in fact he was surprisingly good, it was just that he had a nasty habit of destroying the kitchen in the process. It was more like a science experiment, than cooking, with not a single dish, cup, or measuring spoon left to sit things out on the bench. He cringed at the thought of what his kitchen always going to look like once Jack had finished with it. Still, there was every chance he was making French toast.

Jack made the most incredible French toast he'd ever eaten. It was crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, and just the right amount of cinnamon. Added to that was the delicious caramelised fruit that adorned any serving. It didn't matter what kind of fruit was in the bowl, be it apple or banana or something more exotic, it was duly cut into small pieces and sautéed in a pan with lashings of butter and brown sugar until the whole thing was one soft, sweet pan full of deliciousness, heaped on top of that perfect toast. Add some perfectly blended coffee, and there was no breakfast that could rival it for sheer indulgent pleasure. Ianto could forgive Jack's mess for the resultant effort.

Another loud crash emanated from the kitchen. What was that? It sounded like something clattering to the ground.

'Jack, what are you doing?'

'Making French toast,' he yelled back.

Oh, Ianto thought, flopping back down onto the pillow, smiling and remembering the handful of peaches in the fruit bowl. Jack had been spot on. He was definitely going to need some food to keep his strength up when he rewarded Jack for his efforts with some very long rounds of lovemaking.

'Carry on then,' he replied.