Ebon's Lair

Here's hoping

2010-04-06T15:51:26Z

So... I have recently stumbled over the wonders of CKR RPS... I totally blame the awesomeness of Spuffyduds writing.

I just clicked 'join' at the community and hope to hell they'll accept me.

(And if you're reading oh mighty mod(s), I don't write RPS yet, but I'm told that I'm a good reviewer and beta)

Happy Halloween!

2009-10-31T15:32:55Z

I am SO happy that we also import the good holidays from America here in Denmark.

As a poor Goth I have a hard time celebrating Valentine's Day, because hey: Single and hating it, here!

All Hallow's Eve on the other hand? Coolness incarnate!

I'm sitting here, being tortured half to death in the attempt to make my hair behave in an appropriately scary manner (usually not a problem AT ALL, especially when it's not supposed to) and loving every second (alcohol is good for your nerves, people!)

I'm going to Denmark's only proper Goth club tonight, having gotten the last tickets and we're gonna dance and drink and have a blast, hopefully!

Happy Halloween to all of y'all out there! And a very happy All Hallow's Eve to all you pagans!

(I'll be a pirate after discarding Khali, fire-spirit, medieval queen, highway woman and many others. What are you guys going as?)

I have a Delicious Account! YAYS!

2009-10-06T23:35:49Z

OMG, I have never felt so blessed in my LIFE!

I now have the (magical) ability to keep track of all the obscure links and stories and weird-ass stuff I wander onto when I can't sleep.

I'll be doing mainly fic-recs and whatnot, so check it out (in a week or so, when I get it all together; I've only gotten a few things up right now)

My username is ebonhush, like here (can't do links for shit, sorry)

*feels happy and acomplished*

I can haz Koolness nao? kthxbai

2009-07-03T00:18:17Z

Warnings for rantiness and grumpy exclamations apply!

Alright. It's now *checks watch* two-oh-four AM and I'm trying desperately to sleep, because hey, work day tomorrow; only I can't 'cos it's 25 degrees (that would be centigrade, as we're in Europe, here). I don't even know (or care to calculate) what that is in Fahrenheit, but suffice to say that it's sweltering! SWELTERING! AT NIGHT! In Denmark?!?

There was a time when Denmark was home to some of the fiercest Viking tribes of the day, and I'm pretty sure they didn't have to shuck their (manly) pelts and leathers because it was too hot to sleep!

Now, I might not be a Viking; in fact I am merely a lowly Medieval reenactor (two steps up from prepubescent LARPers according to Viking reenactors *makes a note to rant about them when I can think of anything but the HEAT*), but I'm still of the conviction that it is massively unfair, that we don't just have to deal with soggy spring times, soggy winters, soggy autumns but also with soggy summers!

Yes, it's not just the heat; it's the humifidy. I took a bath this morning (a cold one, thank you; for once not caused by reading fanfic) and SEVEN hours later my hair was still wet! The mind, she boggles!

I want DRY heat, damn it. *throws hands up in disgust*. I feel much put upon, being as I am, a type who goes on vacation to places where the sun isn't likely to shine too much. Can't I get a break IN MY OWN COUNTRY?!?

Argh! *Dies from heat stroke, thus ending the rant*

Community Posting: YAY!

2009-06-30T10:08:22Z

I've just started posting my backlog of Highlander-, X-Men-, and SGA-fic to communities and I've already gotten positive reviews on the Highlander one: about ten of them! YAYS!

I really didn't expect that fandom to be the most active one, but being as rabid a Methos girl as I happen to be *is slightly embarassed* it really shouldn't be a surprise. At the moment I'm brimming over with gratitude and happy feelings. My Methos muse is already poking me, demanding I write him an epic.

Michael Jackson.

2009-06-26T11:39:15Z

Of course, being human I hope he rests in peace. However; being me, I rather hope he'll rest in SILENCE!

Plea to technological non-idiots aka flist, sorry for the spammage!

2009-06-25T16:24:14Z

Hello... as I am slowly making my way to becoming a real girl (poster) can someone tell me if there's some arcane secret to how one posts to a community that doesn't involve first copy/pasting my document into a journal post and then copy/pasting the same document into a community post?

*is lost* I feel like I'm missing something...

I can haz Fabriks?

2009-06-25T16:15:17Z

I cannot help but think that it's mortally unfair that my friend has a tendency to buy the most lovely fabrics for medieval use, when I can't afford 'em!

My friend Miriam and I have spent the past two hours bugging her to give it up for the greater good - namely my wardrobe of period costumes. Alas, no joy.

Why oh why must I have such uncharitable friends? Imagine: buying something you love and then refusing to give it up because I want it! The nerve!

Precioussssssss......

Attack of rabid plot bunnies! Atlantis, Highlander, crossovers.

2009-06-17T21:51:48Z

So many ideas, my friends, and so little time!

Below you will find a list of things I'd love to be able to do. There are some ideas for vids and fics. Please feel free to see any one of them as a challenge open to anyone. Grab, write/vid and let me know so I can enjoy the fruits of others' labours!

Fandom: Highlander: the Series/ Stargate: Atlantis crossover:

I recently had this image pop into my brain and like any good (eeevil) plotbunny it wouldn't leave me alone! The image is simply this, put into words:

"Recovering with the speed inherent in his race, Methos stepped out of the even horizon and Atlantis came alive."

Fandom: Highlander: the Series. Vid request.

I recently saw an AWESOME vid on youtube. It was SGA to the Hammerfall song 'Last Man Standing'. (It's on my favourites list on the tube; I'm drunkenfianna there; check it out. Right. NOW!)

I'd love to see a video to the same song, only in the Highlander fandom. I'd like to see Kronos, Methos and Duncan and maybe others? Go wild!

Other ideas will be added as I think of them...

Fanfiction Highlander. First time, be gentle!

2009-06-17T21:21:30Z

Genre: Fanfiction

Fandom: Highlander the Series

Title: Five things Methos never told MacLeod about his past.

Rating:

Characters:

Summary: What is says on the box.

Author's Notes: My first Highlander fanfic. I wanted to see if I could capture a Methos-voice. Let me know if I did. I'd rather not write the ROG than write him badly!

1: When he said that he'd stood on stage with Ceasar as well as the Rolling Stones, he didn't mention that on that stage in Rome, he'd been a part of the inventory rather than a part of the festivities. Methos doesn't really see it as an important ommision; after all, the point was made and adding that he'd been the slave with the fruit bowl was neither here nor there.

2: Methos does remember his days as a mortal. This is something he's never told anyone – not MacLeod, not Joe, not Alexa or Darius or even Kronos. He doesn't really see the point as he's more than convinced that no one would believe him anyway. Some of the things he remembers are hazy, true enough, but well... let's just say he wasn't quite as owerwhelmed as most others when they found a mamoth with it's fur intact. Besides, 5000 is such a nice number.

3: Methos isn't the first name he remembers having; it is, however, the first one that had any meaning to him.

4: After his time with the Horsemen, Methos didn't pick up a sword for nearly eight centuries. He became quite the archer, though. He's always liked ranged weapons: for their tactical value, their finesse and the focus needed to use them to any great effect. He doesn't care for machine guns, though. Far too great a potential for collateral damage. He might be a pragmatist, but he's not a monster anymore.

5: There was a period where he hated beer. Methos is aware that – were he to divulge this tidbit – he wouldn't be believed. He got caught in a year-long siege during the nasty business that was theThirty Year War and after having to drink beer all day every day lest he should 'die' of cholera or other such nonsense, even Duffman would start to look ascance at the good Lord's brew.

Please let me know what you think, and please feel free to let me know how one crossposts. I wanna get into the community thing!

Cuts, crossposting and Stuff. HELP!!!!

2008-03-22T12:05:28Z

Dear sweet Lord, am I ever a Tech-idiot!

I have no idea how to put things behind one of those all important 'cuts', as you can see *points to posts*.

As I will mostly be uploading fanfiction and long entries of other kinds, can someone PLEASE tell me (in childrens' language, preferrably) how to do it? Assume I know nothing and you will assume correctly.

Before I learn how to do cuts and also how to cross-post, I can't get my ficcies out there, and I really want to!

I hope there is a good Samaritan out there, who makes more sense than the FAQ section on LJ...

Please? Help? *wibbles*

Turning and Returning Chapter 1, Hey hey, I saved the world Today. Iceman/Pyro. Rated T

2008-03-22T11:51:47Z

Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men the movies, comics or X-Men Evolution. They belong to their respective owners and are only borrowed with respect. No money is being made from this piece of fiction.

A/N: Warning! This piece of fiction will include romance between members of the same sex. You have been warned! (So don’t bitch about it…)

That being said, the romance will not be graphic and I will endeavour to keep everyone in character.

Please, give it a try.

This is my first attempt at slash or yaoi or whatever, so please let me know what you think.

This chapter is the introduction and the romance will probably be a while in coming.

(Oh, and I’ve never been to Phoenix, I know nothing of the layout of the surrounding lands, so bear with me)

Turning and Returning

Chapter 1: Hey, Hey. I Saved the World Today

Xavier’s school for Gifted Youngsters, state of New York.

A few months after Alcatraz

The summer sun turned the spouts on the dried up fountain a burnished bronze. It was mid July and the Institute was empty and quiet, most of the students having gone home for the summer holidays.

Bobby Drake sat at the edge of the empty stone pool, lazily trailing his fingers back and forth across the reflective surface of a small puddle of still water left at the bottom, watching the fractured light created by the ripples.

He had stopped being envious of the students lucky enough to have a home to go to in the summer. He kinda liked the quiet.

He was glad on their behalves; he really was, even if the thought of his own family and their disgusted expressions still caused a small lump to form in his throat.

At least there was still hope for some.

Things had changed for the mutant community after the battle at Alcatraz. In the weeks following the confrontation between the X-Men and the Brotherhood, the story of their ‘Heroic Sacrifice’ had spread across the nation, gaining momentum and drama with each retelling.

He was quite sure that each and every member of the team resembled honest to God superheroes in the minds of the public by now.

Bobby found it slightly embarrassing.

Some good had come of all the hoo-hah, though. All of a sudden, having a mutation wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Even if some humans still feared and distrusted most carriers of the X-gene, being a mutant now had a certain coolness factor.

The general relaxing in attitude towards his kind was helped along by the fact that the Brotherhood had been decimated beyond repair. Their leader was now human, just an old feeble man, wanted by the police. Their greatest weapon, the Phoenix, was gone… and so was one of their most ardent supporters.

Pyro had been brought down by Bobby’s own hand.

He still remembered the sharp ‘crack’ when ice had met flesh and bone.

Ice had won.

Bobby had felt bone break and seen the first line of blood make its way down the face of his erstwhile best friend. At the time he had felt no remorse, only a very slight tinge of regret.

Now, however…

Before Alcatraz, summer was a time when Bobby had elected to stay at the Mansion for most of the break to hang out with their resident pyrokinetic.

John didn’t have anywhere to go, making him one of the ten or so people who always stayed. His parents had kicked him out when he manifested at the age of eleven, and he’d lived on the streets of Perth, Australia, for a year or so, before the Professor had shown up with a document signing him over to the custody of the Institute.

Yes; Mister and Mrs. Allerdyce had been all too eager to send their son across the world to America and had never been heard from again.

When Bobby had come to the Institute, he and John had been roommates for while; until, for some reason, Pyro had been moved in with Piotr instead. The two foreign boys had gotten along surprisingly well. The stoic Russian never let anything rile him up, and after a few weeks, John had stopped trying.

This time of year had traditionally been devoted to motor crossing across the grounds or in the hills nearby, going entirely too fast, or just perfecting the teenage art of doing absolutely nothing.

Bobby still did nothing, but…

Things change.

There just didn’t seem to be much of a point anymore.

Bobby had always had a drive, a will to exert himself.

Before the Institute, there had been school sports and academic competition. After he manifested and came to New York, those things had been replaced entirely by John.

In a school were everyone was special, unique, there had been no point to physical competition and the classes had been so personalised that any academic achievement was singular and therefore not comparable.

John had been the standard he measured himself against. That contest in it self had become sort of a point of pride for them. They were polar opposites. Their backgrounds, their tempers, their very natures had always been at odds, and they liked it that way.

Bobby had been the positive, John the negative. And now that the negative was missing, the positive had no point, nothing to push against. He felt like a compass needle with no North Pole to point to.

You’re getting maudlin’ in your old age, Drake. You won, you finally won, so suck it up and be happy for fuck’s sake!

At some point in time, his mind had started to compensate for the loss of the taciturn pyrokinetic and had developed a lovely little voice of its own. It even sounded like Pyro.

It just went to show how well they had known each other. Bobby didn’t really need John to actually be there with him. He already knew exactly what his friend’s reaction to every single scenario would be and the voice supplied appropriate comments.

No, he didn’t need John.

A call sounded across the grounds from the PA system, telling the students and faculty that lunch was served.

Bobby suddenly realised that the right side of his face was burning from having sat still in the sun for over an hour. He chilled his hand and sighed in relief as he placed it against his cheek to cool it off.

John never got sunburn. It was like the heat of the sun bypassed his skin completely and went straight to his core, transforming into energy.

Pyro had been downright chipper on sunny days, Bobby remembered. He’d always thought that to be damned unfair.

God, I’m parched. Hope they got juice…

Most kinds of fruit had been hard to come by that summer. Great fires had swept across the country, destroying plantations throughout the South. Water had been rationed for months, and lawn watering had been prohibited along with outdoor fires. That year, the Fourth of July had been celebrated without barbeques and fireworks.

As Bobby made his way to the French doors leading to the dining room, he winced slightly at the dry crunching of the grass under his feet.

Stepping into the interior, he breathed a sigh of relief. The AC unit was working overtime trying to keep the Mansion cooled down to a manageable temperature, often helped along by himself and Storm. The thick walls of the old manor house helped isolate the building and all together, they were luckier than most.

The TV was playing in the dining room. It was a news broadcast showing yet another conflagration, this one sweeping across the parched landscape of Arizona. Great tracts of grassland were being devoured by the flames. The tendrils reached heights of fifteen yards and more.

A group of people had gathered in front of the screen, staring at the destruction in avid fascination.

Storm looked like she was considering jumping on the Blackbird and raining the flames into submission. She couldn’t though, as she had explained to the government earlier in the summer. Causing a rainstorm in one place at that time, would only remove moisture from another part of the atmosphere and that would lead to another fire breaking out. It simply wasn’t a viable option.

The officials had been less than thrilled at that news.

Logan was clutching a cold beer in one hand and the remote in the other and scowling at the TV in an ‘I wanna beat your ass’ kinda way.

The students looked awed and more than a little scared.

In one corner, the insomniac techno kinetic Jones was fiddling with a police scanner.

Bobby couldn’t help the cynical thought that made its way to the front of his mind.

John would have loved this. Here we are, the mighty X-Men, powerless against something he has complete control over… He’d be laughing his ass off!

“Oh, Gods,” Storm suddenly exclaimed. “It’s moving towards a populated area!”

True enough; the camera angle had changed to show the high risers of the city of Phoenix, only a few miles in the distance. They could see that the journalists were busy packing up and readying to move out of harm’s way.

“Those poor people. There must be something we can do?” She turned to Logan as she had so often done in these past months. The two had become a unit. Not an item but a closely knitted entity, taking over running the school and leading the remaining X-Men.

Logan, however, just shrugged and growled: “ain’t nuthin’ we can do, ‘Ro. You know that.”

The weather goddess nodded her head once in resignation and turned back to the screen with a sigh.

“I know,” she whispered, brokenly. Being helpless was the one thing she hated most in the world. She had always been able to rely on herself. Her powers were great. She was one of the most potent Class 4 mutants alive, and she had a keen mind. This feeling of impotence did not sit well with her.

The news cast shifted to a studio and the words ‘Government has a Solution’ scrolled across the screen.

Intrigued, Logan turned up the volume.

“… Senator Trask here with us today,” the anchorman was saying. “I understand that you have devised a solution to the imminent destruction of one of our great cities?”

Senator Trask was leaning back in his seat with a self satisfied expression on his face.

“Yes that is so, Mark,” he started. “We have the means of stopping the flames in their tracks as it were. I strongly urge the good people of Phoenix to stay in their houses at this point. All they need to do is close all doors and windows to avoid the smell, and breathe a sigh of relief. I give you my guarantee that not a single flame will touch you!”

“What is this plan, Senator?”

“Well, it’s part of our new program to utilise the mutant threat for the benefit of our nation. My party believes that it’s time the ‘Genetically Gifted’ gave something back to the community. Here, I am of course referring mainly to the subversive elements, such as the Brotherhood terrorists. We have developed a control unit called a Tourniquet. It works something like a choke collar for dogs, allowing us to cut of a destructive mutant from the use of his or her powers. It’s all very technical, so I think a practical demonstration is in order… ahh” he pointed to a screen in the studio showing a military helicopter approaching the fire’s front.

“And here it is…”

As the students and faculty watched with bated breath, the helicopter landed and five soldiers dressed in fire repellent clothing got out. As one, they pointed their rifles at the aircraft and a sixth figure emerged. The last figure was a male clad in what looked like grey pyjama bottoms and a sleeveless shirt. His hair was raggedly cropped close to his head, and around his neck he was wearing what looked like a collar. He had both hands cuffed behind his back.

“Hey, guys. I’m picking up their comm. traffic,” Jones exclaimed. The technical wunderkind brought over the radio and the gathered mutants could now hear the radio chatter of the soldiers and their laughter as the manacled mutant stumbled.

Other than hefting their guns a bit more enthusiastically, none of the soldiers moved a muscle.

The figure made its way to its feet and directed a glare at the soldier in front of him. At that point, the camera zoomed in on the captive’s face and the entire dining room became silent as the grave.

Blood shot hazel eyes seemed to bore through the screen to hit each and every one of them.

“This mutant was captured at Alcatraz and kept for experimenting,” Trask’s smug voice sounded. “He is one of the terrorists responsible for the attack on Worthington Labs, and therefore has been issued a Death sentence. Instead of executing him, we believe that its time this criminal learns how to use his powers properly!” he crowed.

Bobby couldn’t breathe. The last time he had met those eyes, it had been at Alcatraz through a veil of fire and ice.

All he could see was the look replayed in his mind; the surprise in his friend’s eyes as he crumpled to the ground. Bobby had been convinced that he would never meet that stare again.

One thought fought its way through the static noise in his head:

But John hates putting out flames.

Bobby knew that fire had been the only constant in Pyro’s life for years, his only friend. To him, fire was alive, and killing it with his powers would be like killing a close companion, like killing a part of him self.

Bobby could relate.

On the screen, the soldiers had removed the cuffs from Pyro’s wrists and he was now walking unsteadily away from the chopper, towards the towering inferno.

The pyrokinetic’s shoulders were sagging, like a great burden was trying to force him to his knees.

His arms were covered in needle marks and the speechless mutant spectators could see his veins clearly through almost translucent skin. He looked far too thin and unsteady.

Experiments, my ass! Bobby thought to himself.

The camera followed Pyro closely as he made his way through the throng of reporters. The soldiers surrounded him on all sides, blocking the army of microphones thrust in front of the mutant.

Pyro didn’t seem to notice them at all. He only had eyes for the flames.

Looking unblinkingly into the fire, Pyro just kept walking. About a hundred yards from the flames, the soldiers stopped, leaving him to approach the inferno alone. Soon he was fifty feet from them and he stopped in his tracks, his head thrown back in either ecstasy or prayer.

“At this point, the soldier in charge of the Tourniquet will disengage the collar and release the mutant’s powers. The mutant will then assume control of the fires and put them out,” the Senator was saying.

“Something of this magnitude?” the reporter asked in surprise. “Is that really possible?”

“Usually no,” Trask admitted, not loosing his smile. “The Tourniquet, however, allows the mutant to break through any barriers that might normally limit his powers. The procedure causes the mutant to burn out faster, and might even cause some internal damage, but as I mentioned before, this individual is a convicted terrorist and a murderer. This is simply another way of making him pay for his crimes against humanity!”

On screen, they could see one of the soldiers lowering his weapon and turning a dial on a device strapped to his wrist. The static of an active transmitter sounded over the scanner in the room and the words “Containment measures disabled,” sounded through the ether.

As the camera once again turned back to Pyro, Bobby watched his fists flex and relax. The flames suddenly seemed to pause and pay attention.

The pyrokinetic walked another ten or fifteen yards towards the tsunami-like wall of fire and slowly raised trembling arms as if to embrace it.

The red dots of five laser painters instantaneously appeared on the back of his head. The soldiers obviously weren’t taking any chances with the mutant on their hands, that much was clear.

The camera again zoomed in on the features of his former friend. A single tear was making its unheeded way down Pyro’s face and his lips moved, forming the words: “I’m so sorry,” before his eyes clenched shut.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the young mutant lowered his arms. His palms were facing down, and he seemed to be gently coaxing the fire to rest, like a caring animal handler would calm an angry but beloved predator.

Inch by agonizing inch, the fire seemed to draw into itself. Bobby could almost feel the sorrow emanate from his old friend as each flame shrunk, became smaller, and finally died.

He looked so alone.

The crowd gathered by the helicopter “ooh”ed and “ahh”ed. But, apparently, Pyro wasn’t moving quickly enough to please the soldiers or Trask.

“Get a move on, men,” the senator’s voice sounded over the comm. To the anchorman he continued: “You will now see the effects of the Tourniquet at full strength.”

On screen the soldier again fiddled with the dial on his wrist and John’s hands flew to his throat.

“Quit complaining, you little shit!” the soldier could be heard growling over the scanner. “Get your mutant ass in gear!”

As the dial kept turning, Pyro went to his knees and, at an ever increasing rate the flames started blinking out of existence.

The fire was dying.

Pyro was screaming by then. It seemed as though he was dying right along with it.

Great elemental turrets disappeared like they had never been, vaporizing like ice crystals in the sun.

In a matter of seconds, the inferno was reduced to a bonfire and in a few seconds more, only residual heat remained.

Lying only a few yards from the charred edge of grass and brush was the crumpled form of Pyro, stripes of dried blood running from nose and mouth.

On screen, the crowd went wild. People were jumping up and down, embracing and cheering.

In the Mansion’s dining room, silence reigned.

-&-&-&-

A few minutes later, outside the city of Phoenix.

Two soldiers were loading the unconscious mutant aboard the chopper. The manacles had been put back on, and the collar was again on full ‘suppress’ mode. They were waving to the cameras and their sergeant was giving an interview, consisting of little more than “no comments” and “the location of the mutant holding facility is classified.”

No one seemed to notice a dark clad man, standing on the periphery, sunglasses and scarf covering his face and gloves hiding the skin on his hands. Had they been paying attention, though, they would have seen the absolute outrage and anger painted across his irregular features.

As the chopper lifted off, he brought a small microphone to his mouth and spoke, accent clearly audible:

“Chopper’s in the air, luv. Those blokes never noticed a thing. Tracer’s in place. Blue, do you read?”

The earpiece he was wearing crackled to life and a strangely modified female voice replied.

“The tracer is active and broadcasting, Green. Well done, Mortimer.”

“I’ll see you at base. Out”

Looking to the sky, trailing the quickly fading military helicopter, the figure whispered:

“Won’t be long now. Hang in there, brother.”

TBC.

A/N: So… what do you think? I started out with a nice, long chapter and I hope to see some nice, long reviews!

Please! Don’t just write “loved it, please continue” or something. I’d really loooove to hear what your likes or dislikes are, so please take the time to drop me a line! (You know you want to!)

(The chapter title comes from the awesome song of the same name by the Eurythmics. The story title is from ‘Take My Breath Away’ by Berlin)

Peace Out

Ebon Hush

Next on Turning and Returning: Chapter 2: War Heroes

Fic: Cake or Death? Jack/Ianto, (Owen/Tosh), Gwen

2008-03-22T11:31:25Z

Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood or any of the characters therein. No money is being made from this silly, silly piece of work.

A/N: Okay, so it’s half past four in the morning and I’ve been marathon-ing Torchwood all night high on fever medication. This is what you get: Utter and complete pointless fluff that probably doesn’t make the least bit of sense. Just drunken nonsense, really, so bear with me.

Cake or Death?

So they were all pretty drunk. It had been a hard couple of... well months really, and the entire team was drained and rather tired of it all; even Jack, though he'd never admit it.

After yet another exhausting hunt through some really class A sewage for yet another adventurous Weevil, he’d neither been able nor willing to gather enough boss-vibes to protest when Owen had broken out scotch and glasses from who knows where.

For some reason they had congregated in Jack’s office. He was slumped behind the desk in his armchair, and Gwen was curled up in the guest chair with her feet on the table. Owen and Tosh were sprawled on pillows scavenged from the dilapidated down stairs couch, decidedly NOT cuddling. As the night wore on and the alcohol flowed, Ianto had moved from his perch on the far side of the table to sitting very close to Jack, facing him, their legs almost touching.

Jack thought he might have been momentarily distracted by the almost tangible heat that was rising off Ianto’s leg to radiate through the fine wool of his trousers, when the next words he heard were “cake or death?”

“Huh?” he asked, looking at Owen like he’d suddenly grown purple pom-poms out of both arms and started cheering for Weevils’ rights to marriage.

The surly Englishman heaved an exasperated sigh and threw a long suffering look at Tosh before repeating: “Cake or death?”

Jack stared at his medical officer, for a moment pondering what standard procedure was for when one’s only trained doctor went nuts. Who did the diagnosis?

Surely Ianto would know. He knew everything; he was clever like that.

“Look, Jack,” Owen continued, before Jack had a chance to ask, “it’s not that hard a question. Cake or death, which would you choose? Me an’ Tosh would both choose cake, and I suppose Gwen would too?”

Gwen nodded once, her head rolling a little on her shoulders. “Most definitely,” she slurred. “I love cake I do.”

Jack thought about it. Even after all this time spent on Earth, he still didn’t get what the hell his team was on about most of the time. Cake or death? What kind of a question was that anyway? Was it a moral dilemma of some sort? A psychological test maybe? Some kind of team building, most likely.

“How much cake is there?” he asked.

“What has that got to do with anything?” Owen riposted. “Look just… a guy comes up to you and asks you: ‘Cake or death?’ What do you say?”

The alcohol was sloshing around in his stomach, a burning tide battling for supremacy against the heat given off by the warm body next to him. Jack looked up at Ianto.

"What did Ianto choose?" he asked.

"He has...not," Tosh replied with all the concentratred effort of someone very drunk, trying to sound sober and in control. Her head was resting on Owen's shoulder; neither of them seemed to notice or care.

“I’d say ‘death’,” Jack finally replied.

“You’d say what?” Owen asked incredulously.

“I’d say ‘death’,” Jack repeated absently, getting a little lost in the nearly unnoticable crinkling around blue eyes as his lover smiled at him in fond amusement. Such a rare sight: Ianto really smiling. Jack was happy that Ianto was happy.

A few seconds passed, the silence only broken by Tosh’s quiet giggles and Gwen’s gentle snoring. Owen was opening and closing his mouth like a fish gaping for air.

“But, but. That’s completely daft! Why would you say ‘death’?” he finally managed.

Jack’s hand was absently running up and down Ianto’s calf, searching out the pressed fold in the fabric and playing with it. The Welshman had been silent through the exchange, observing the ‘festivities’ as it were in his usual unassuming fashion. He’d no doubt be the last to leave, taking the time to put a blanket over Gwen’s sleeping form and be up at sunrise to clean up Owen’s vomit from the floor.

“Well,” Jack finally said, returning Ianto’s smile with a grin of his own, “what if there wasn’t enough cake?”

-Fin-