m_findlow

Title: Footloose
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters/Pairings: Ianto, Rhys
Word Count: 500 words
Rating: PG
Notes: Written for Challenge 125 - Dancing at anythingdrabble
Summary: Ianto is confronted by something unexpected in his kitchen.

Ianto dropped his keys on the sideboard with an exhausted sigh. A scent of garlic and mushrooms was emanating down the hallway. 'Thank God I at least don't have to cook,' he muttered, proceeding into the kitchen.

'Hello,' he called out over the sound of the radio playing. He nearly wished he hadn't when he spotted Rhys, spoon in one hand, hips swaying to the beat as he moved from oven to stove.

'Oh! Hiya,' Rhys chirped, rushing over to turn the radio down. 'Dinner won't be ready for a bit yet.'

'Oh, well don't let me interrupt you, uh... shaking your bon bon.' Rhys went red from ear to ear at the statement. 'Is this something you often do at home?' Ianto asked. He wasn't curious as such, but he didn't know what else to say. He couldn't very well just stand there and watch Rhys resume his, er, gyrations. His flat had never felt so like someone else's. Not that it was Rhys' fault of course. He had offered to take Rhys in and help him prevent the world from ending two weeks from now. He didn't have time to worry about what Rhys got up to when he wasn't home. It was enough that he, Jack and Gwen could stop everything else that was going on, so that there'd actually be a world for Rhys to save

'You're telling me you've never twirked in your flat when no one else was here?'

Ianto gave him a look that was part horrified and part appalled. 'I have never twirked. Not even when we all got hideously drunk at Tosh's birthday at the pub.' He may have been on the table top, but he definitely wasn't dancing. What he and Jack might have been doing that was entertaining everyone else was far worse than that, he begrudgingly recalled. 'I don't dance.'

'Hang on,' Rhys said, 'I remember you dancing at our wedding.'

It was Ianto's turn to blush. He was definitely going to blame the three glasses of champagne he'd consumed during the evening. 'I'd describe it more as swaying,' he said, trying to regain some composure.

'Well, maybe that's your problem,' Rhys said, declaring it as if it were a diagnosable condition.

'What's my problem?'

'You need to relax more. Just go with it. Enjoy the music.'

'I enjoy music.'

'Mate, to be fair, I've checked out your CD collection, and let me tell you, no one is jiving to Katherine Jenkins and Paul Potts. Now me, I've been stuck in more lorries caught up in traffic jams than you've had got breakfasts. I could give you a few pointers. Set you up with a Spotify Playlist?' Rhys sounded hopeful, like he was offering food to a village of starving African children, not setting Ianto up with music he might attempt dancing along to in his kitchen.

'Perhaps when the world isn't about to end,' Ianto suggested, hoping that might put an end to it.

'When's that, eh?'