Torchwood fic: Crème Brûlèe Over the Campfire (439 words, G, teeny hints of Jack/Gwen/Ianto)
Title: Crème Brûlèe Over the Campfire
Word Count: 439
Rating: G. PG if you notice the subtext.
Pairing(s): Shades of Jack/Ianto, Jack/Gwen, and Jack/Gwen/Ianto. Possibly. If you want there to be, I mean. Jack is an indiscriminate cuddler, what can I do?
Inspiration: Comments on my prompt post. Nora suggested "crème brûlèe." Chaos' "broken leaves" is implied. Many thanks to Wikipedia.
Teaser: "Ramekin," Ianto said placidly. "A small glazed ceramic bowl, typically fluted on the exterior, and engineered to withstand high temperatures." He pulled a propane torch from his inside jacket pocket and lit it with a woosh.
Crème Brûlèe Over the Campfire
The black-crackle campfire remains and cast-iron cooking stand were not nearly as elegant as the ceramic bowl. They made the bowl look snooty.
"This ramekin belonged to my great-grandmother," Ianto said gravely. His face floated like a second moon against the midnight forest and his dark suit. "It's been passed down from mother to eldest daughter for generations."
"Huh," said Jack.
"That's a lovely tradition," said Gwen.
Jack shifted his weight from one foot to the other, making leaves go crunch beneath him. "I can't help noticing," he said with his hands clasped deferentially behind his back, "that you're no-one's daughter. So how did you inherit it, exactly?"
Ianto's left nostril flared in disdain. "My Aunt Margot was using it for breakfast cereal," he ground out.
Jack grinned. "You nicked it," he said admiringly.
"Liberated it," Ianto replied.
"Ianto," said Gwen, sounding scandalized and heavily disappointed. She probably looked disappointed too, but it was difficult to tell, since she and Jack were little more than gray smudges on the other side of the extinguished campfire. Ianto had somehow found the only moonbeam in the dense forest cover and planted himself in it like a spotlight. Well, Ianto and the ramekin. Ianto's nose and forehead did their best, but the ramekin was rather shinier. Gwen hoped Ianto didn't feel too jealous about that; there were plenty of things he was better at than the ramekin, she was sure.
Ianto adjusted the knot of his tie, which was sheening quite nicely, but not attempting to compete with either the ramekin or Ianto's forehead. "Ramekin," Ianto said placidly. "A small glazed ceramic bowl, typically fluted on the exterior, and engineered to withstand high temperatures." He pulled a propane torch from his inside jacket pocket and lit it with a woosh. His smirk wavered gold.
"The sugar and heavy cream in the crème brûlèe should attract our mystery creature," Jack said in his best explaining voice.
"That fits nicely with what we know of its pattern of attack," Gwen said, nodding. "Those poor pastry shops," she added mournfully. Ianto stepped forward with the glowing torch and she shivered.
Jack pulled her in front of him, wrapping his arms and coat around her. He smelled like the smoke from earlier and a little bit like vanilla custard, which Ianto had smeared across Jack's cheekbone in a fit of chef-ly pique. They watched Ianto caramelize the crème brûlèe, firelight spitting violently in the furrow of his brow. Gwen felt only a little breathless, honest.
Jack held her tighter and put his mouth right up to her ear.
"You should see him do stir-fry," he murmured.
______________________
OMG I ROTE SUMTHIGN. WHOOOOO.
Word Count: 439
Rating: G. PG if you notice the subtext.
Pairing(s): Shades of Jack/Ianto, Jack/Gwen, and Jack/Gwen/Ianto. Possibly. If you want there to be, I mean. Jack is an indiscriminate cuddler, what can I do?
Inspiration: Comments on my prompt post. Nora suggested "crème brûlèe." Chaos' "broken leaves" is implied. Many thanks to Wikipedia.
Teaser: "Ramekin," Ianto said placidly. "A small glazed ceramic bowl, typically fluted on the exterior, and engineered to withstand high temperatures." He pulled a propane torch from his inside jacket pocket and lit it with a woosh.
Crème Brûlèe Over the Campfire
The black-crackle campfire remains and cast-iron cooking stand were not nearly as elegant as the ceramic bowl. They made the bowl look snooty.
"This ramekin belonged to my great-grandmother," Ianto said gravely. His face floated like a second moon against the midnight forest and his dark suit. "It's been passed down from mother to eldest daughter for generations."
"Huh," said Jack.
"That's a lovely tradition," said Gwen.
Jack shifted his weight from one foot to the other, making leaves go crunch beneath him. "I can't help noticing," he said with his hands clasped deferentially behind his back, "that you're no-one's daughter. So how did you inherit it, exactly?"
Ianto's left nostril flared in disdain. "My Aunt Margot was using it for breakfast cereal," he ground out.
Jack grinned. "You nicked it," he said admiringly.
"Liberated it," Ianto replied.
"Ianto," said Gwen, sounding scandalized and heavily disappointed. She probably looked disappointed too, but it was difficult to tell, since she and Jack were little more than gray smudges on the other side of the extinguished campfire. Ianto had somehow found the only moonbeam in the dense forest cover and planted himself in it like a spotlight. Well, Ianto and the ramekin. Ianto's nose and forehead did their best, but the ramekin was rather shinier. Gwen hoped Ianto didn't feel too jealous about that; there were plenty of things he was better at than the ramekin, she was sure.
Ianto adjusted the knot of his tie, which was sheening quite nicely, but not attempting to compete with either the ramekin or Ianto's forehead. "Ramekin," Ianto said placidly. "A small glazed ceramic bowl, typically fluted on the exterior, and engineered to withstand high temperatures." He pulled a propane torch from his inside jacket pocket and lit it with a woosh. His smirk wavered gold.
"The sugar and heavy cream in the crème brûlèe should attract our mystery creature," Jack said in his best explaining voice.
"That fits nicely with what we know of its pattern of attack," Gwen said, nodding. "Those poor pastry shops," she added mournfully. Ianto stepped forward with the glowing torch and she shivered.
Jack pulled her in front of him, wrapping his arms and coat around her. He smelled like the smoke from earlier and a little bit like vanilla custard, which Ianto had smeared across Jack's cheekbone in a fit of chef-ly pique. They watched Ianto caramelize the crème brûlèe, firelight spitting violently in the furrow of his brow. Gwen felt only a little breathless, honest.
Jack held her tighter and put his mouth right up to her ear.
"You should see him do stir-fry," he murmured.
______________________
OMG I ROTE SUMTHIGN. WHOOOOO.