Fanfic challenge response
Okay (deep breath), this is hopefully where I'm posting my response to the fanfic challenge over on horizonssing. Last time I tried I made a botch of it, so fingers crossed!
Title: Capturing Jack
Characters: Jack & Ianto
Rating: Open
Spoilers: Mention of events in Cyberwoman
Disclaimer: Not mine; they belong to RTD and to the BBC
Summary: Hobbies can be soothing or they can be stimulating. Sometimes they can be both. (Response to the July 1st prompt horizonssing.
"Summer afternoon - summer afternoon;
to me those have always been the two most
beautiful words in the English language."
- Henry James
He doesn’t like to admit it, in case doing so somehow draws the Torchwood Curse down on it, but Ianto Jones does have a life away from the Hub. Not a very frantic one, or one that’s all that exciting, but that makes it all the more precious. When you spend most of your life chasing after alien beings, or averting some kind of Armageddon, a weekend doing small mundane things becomes infinitely more precious.
So one weekend a month, he stays away from the Hub. It started just after Lisa, when he was suspended for a month. Some time during those long weeks, the old Ianto managed to seep through the shattered cracks in the Post-Battle Ianto and he had started to do some of the things he had thought he had left behind for ever. Things like horse-riding and archery, taking long walks and spending an afternoon cooking some complicated dish. Things like painting….
He stands back from the easel to give the canvas a critical look. He’s never been one for modern art, although he can appreciate the whys and wherefores behind it. He’s old-fashioned and likes to reproduce what his eyes sees and his heart feels when he paints. All of his efforts were dark and terrible things just after Lisa, but in a way they helped and gradually the light crept back in. That doesn’t mean he’s often satisfied with what he achieves; he can count the number of paintings he is actually proud of and would be willing to show others on the fingers of one hand.
This one is a case in point. How can he accurately portray someone like Jack with simple paint and canvas? He needs something suitably 51st century in order to even begin to delineate someone so utterly larger than life. He’s made more than one attempt; the cupboard under the stairs has an entire row of canvases and pads filled with Jack’s image, but he’s never satisfied. There’s always something missing, some element that is ever-so-slightly off and the failure screams off the canvas and paper at him until he can barely stand to look at them.
He’d had high hopes for this one. This one had been going so well he had started to think that he had finally managed it. Now he glares at the painting and feels like taking a knife to it. He’s so taken up with his silent tantrum that he almost leaps out of his skin when a pair of arms slide around his waist and Jack is suddenly there and oh-so-warm against his back.
“Jack! I didn’t hear you come in!” Ianto is mortified, since he’s more than a little embarrassed about the fact that he’s at home during a perfectly glorious summer’s afternoon and trying to paint his boss instead of doing something suitably manly and heroic.
“Obviously, which is very unlike you, Ianto I-have-ears-like-a-cat Jones,” Jack says with a rumble of amusement. He makes a pleased sound as he looks at the canvas. “You didn’t tell me that you painted.”
“I don’t,” Ianto says hurriedly, then has the grace to blush as Jack gives the canvas and then his paint-spattered hands a pointed look. “Well, not seriously.”
“Do you dabble?” Jack says, pure mischief in his voice.
Ianto glares, knowing that the blush is getting deeper. “You are never going to let me forget that, are you? Look, I panicked, all right? I’d barely been introduced to her and she’s wanting blow-by-blow details of bedroom activities!” He snorts in annoyance as Jack makes a sound that is perilously close to a giggle.
“That’s very good,” Jack persists.
Ianto sighs. “No, it’s rubbish. I thought I’d cracked it, but it doesn’t look anything like you.”
Jack gives him a nonplussed look before switching his attention back to the picture. It’s a picture of him lounging back in his chair, holding his favourite mug of coffee and gazing off into the distance, a small smile tugging at his mouth. To Jack it has an almost eerily photographic quality, with that indefinable nimbus to it that makes it something more than a faithful reproduction of an image.
“It looks like me,” he says in a stage-whisper against Ianto’s ear and smirks at the shudder that runs through the younger man.
“No, it doesn’t,” Ianto says with a growl and Jack feels a shiver all of his own because Ianto isn’t using his office voice and that means all kinds of interesting things might be persuaded to happen.
“So what’s missing? You’ve caught my incredible good looks, my stunning physique, my overwhelming presence-“ He pauses and peers a little closer at the painting. He might not be gifted in this particular art but he does appreciate it and he’s bedded more than one artist in his time. “You paint from memory?” he asks, just to confirm.
Ianto shrugs. “No, I usually paint from life…”
Jack watches as the penny finally drops and Ianto visibly connects the dots. He’s known artists like this before; artists who need a connection with their subject in order to make that final leap from very good to brilliant. That’s why a muse can sometimes be the difference between fame and obscurity. He doesn’t think for one moment that Ianto is after fame, but he does know what a perfectionist he is. He sheds the coat and throws it carelessly over the computer chair before turning back to give Ianto his most mischievous smile.
“So… where and how do you want me?” he asks.
Seeing the way he stands, outlined by the golden afternoon sunshine, Ianto swallows. He can definitely feel a creative frenzy coming on!
Title: Capturing Jack
Characters: Jack & Ianto
Rating: Open
Spoilers: Mention of events in Cyberwoman
Disclaimer: Not mine; they belong to RTD and to the BBC
Summary: Hobbies can be soothing or they can be stimulating. Sometimes they can be both. (Response to the July 1st prompt horizonssing.
"Summer afternoon - summer afternoon;
to me those have always been the two most
beautiful words in the English language."
- Henry James
He doesn’t like to admit it, in case doing so somehow draws the Torchwood Curse down on it, but Ianto Jones does have a life away from the Hub. Not a very frantic one, or one that’s all that exciting, but that makes it all the more precious. When you spend most of your life chasing after alien beings, or averting some kind of Armageddon, a weekend doing small mundane things becomes infinitely more precious.
So one weekend a month, he stays away from the Hub. It started just after Lisa, when he was suspended for a month. Some time during those long weeks, the old Ianto managed to seep through the shattered cracks in the Post-Battle Ianto and he had started to do some of the things he had thought he had left behind for ever. Things like horse-riding and archery, taking long walks and spending an afternoon cooking some complicated dish. Things like painting….
He stands back from the easel to give the canvas a critical look. He’s never been one for modern art, although he can appreciate the whys and wherefores behind it. He’s old-fashioned and likes to reproduce what his eyes sees and his heart feels when he paints. All of his efforts were dark and terrible things just after Lisa, but in a way they helped and gradually the light crept back in. That doesn’t mean he’s often satisfied with what he achieves; he can count the number of paintings he is actually proud of and would be willing to show others on the fingers of one hand.
This one is a case in point. How can he accurately portray someone like Jack with simple paint and canvas? He needs something suitably 51st century in order to even begin to delineate someone so utterly larger than life. He’s made more than one attempt; the cupboard under the stairs has an entire row of canvases and pads filled with Jack’s image, but he’s never satisfied. There’s always something missing, some element that is ever-so-slightly off and the failure screams off the canvas and paper at him until he can barely stand to look at them.
He’d had high hopes for this one. This one had been going so well he had started to think that he had finally managed it. Now he glares at the painting and feels like taking a knife to it. He’s so taken up with his silent tantrum that he almost leaps out of his skin when a pair of arms slide around his waist and Jack is suddenly there and oh-so-warm against his back.
“Jack! I didn’t hear you come in!” Ianto is mortified, since he’s more than a little embarrassed about the fact that he’s at home during a perfectly glorious summer’s afternoon and trying to paint his boss instead of doing something suitably manly and heroic.
“Obviously, which is very unlike you, Ianto I-have-ears-like-a-cat Jones,” Jack says with a rumble of amusement. He makes a pleased sound as he looks at the canvas. “You didn’t tell me that you painted.”
“I don’t,” Ianto says hurriedly, then has the grace to blush as Jack gives the canvas and then his paint-spattered hands a pointed look. “Well, not seriously.”
“Do you dabble?” Jack says, pure mischief in his voice.
Ianto glares, knowing that the blush is getting deeper. “You are never going to let me forget that, are you? Look, I panicked, all right? I’d barely been introduced to her and she’s wanting blow-by-blow details of bedroom activities!” He snorts in annoyance as Jack makes a sound that is perilously close to a giggle.
“That’s very good,” Jack persists.
Ianto sighs. “No, it’s rubbish. I thought I’d cracked it, but it doesn’t look anything like you.”
Jack gives him a nonplussed look before switching his attention back to the picture. It’s a picture of him lounging back in his chair, holding his favourite mug of coffee and gazing off into the distance, a small smile tugging at his mouth. To Jack it has an almost eerily photographic quality, with that indefinable nimbus to it that makes it something more than a faithful reproduction of an image.
“It looks like me,” he says in a stage-whisper against Ianto’s ear and smirks at the shudder that runs through the younger man.
“No, it doesn’t,” Ianto says with a growl and Jack feels a shiver all of his own because Ianto isn’t using his office voice and that means all kinds of interesting things might be persuaded to happen.
“So what’s missing? You’ve caught my incredible good looks, my stunning physique, my overwhelming presence-“ He pauses and peers a little closer at the painting. He might not be gifted in this particular art but he does appreciate it and he’s bedded more than one artist in his time. “You paint from memory?” he asks, just to confirm.
Ianto shrugs. “No, I usually paint from life…”
Jack watches as the penny finally drops and Ianto visibly connects the dots. He’s known artists like this before; artists who need a connection with their subject in order to make that final leap from very good to brilliant. That’s why a muse can sometimes be the difference between fame and obscurity. He doesn’t think for one moment that Ianto is after fame, but he does know what a perfectionist he is. He sheds the coat and throws it carelessly over the computer chair before turning back to give Ianto his most mischievous smile.
“So… where and how do you want me?” he asks.
Seeing the way he stands, outlined by the golden afternoon sunshine, Ianto swallows. He can definitely feel a creative frenzy coming on!