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03 August 2009 @ 03:37 pm
Drabble dump, July 2009 edition  
"That's a talented mouth you have there, Mr. Jones," whispered Jack into his ear. By then, Ianto had forgotten just what he'd said -- some one-liner or another in response to some sort of catfight between Gwen and Owen -- but he sure didn't forget that, especially at the end of the day when he was cleaning up the remains of the pizza the rest had left behind. A piece of cheese was dangling off the edge of the box, and in the midst of hoisting it, Ianto grabbed with his teeth at the fragment and gobbled at it in a rare moment (for him) of unhygenic greed.

"Something else you can do with that mouth of yours," said Jack's voice behind him. Ianto smiled, perfectly willing to let it go. He didn't even turn around.

A moment later, though, unsure if Jack was still in earshot, he said, "There's more, you know."

"More what?"

Ianto smirked. Jack hadn't left the room after all. He turned to face him.

"More I can do with my mouth," he said, taking a step forward.

"Is that so?" Jack lifted himself off the wall he'd been leaning on and began his own series of slow steps.

"For example," Ianto said, "I lick envelopes extremely well."

Jack cocked his head. "That's very handy." They continued to move toward each other.

"Yes, and I once bit a Weevil and scared it off. True story."

"That's not as attractive," Jack made a face. They were close enough to reach out and touch.

"And I can drink extremely hot tea without burning my mouth," Ianto offered. Just two more steps.

"Ooh, you live dangerously," Jack said. One more step.

Jack's hands found his waist. Ianto's knees buckled. "I'm very talented," he bragged halfheartedly.

"Prove it," whispered Jack as their lips met.

--

It hurts when Elle touches her. That's the burden and the beauty of their strange romance. It always hurts, but the burns never stay, and they keep coming back for more.

--

"Ianto." Jack's voice is flat, unimpressed.

"Yes, sir?" Every inch the gentleman, suit pressed to perfection, in the back of the office. It's after hours.

"This isn't a biscuit." Jack looks at the thing suspiciously.

A hint of a smile. "Indeed not."

Jack looks disgusted. "It's too soggy to be a biscuit."

"It's Tiramisu, sir." Sir not because Ianto is his employee, which of course he is, but because it makes everything so much more fun.

"Tiramisu?" Jack's been everywhere and seen everything, but occasionally something slips by without him knowing it. He's never heard the word.

Ianto's instantly by his side, reaching down to grab one of the pieces. His fingers are damp with liquor as he raises it to the level of Jack's mouth. "Ladyfingers, sir. Soaked in rum and..."

"Ianto." Jack puts his hand on the wrist. "Why on earth would you think I'd want ladyfingers?"

"Well, I--"

Jack's chin darts out to the side, and he nibbles on the edge of one sweet-tinged finger. "When I have these fingers right here," he says.

A bit of a pout plays on Ianto's face. "Does that mean I can't feed you?"

Jack does let Ianto feed him, and by the end of the night there are ladyfinger crumbles all over the paperwork and clothes all over the floor, and Jack still thinks Ianto's taste better.

-

Merlin did a lot of watching. At first it jarred Arthur, then he grew used to it. It wasn't as though he could do much about it-- Merlin was his servant, he couldn't very well tell him not to pay attention to him. But still.

As Arthur reigned on the sparring patch, Merlin's eyes gleamed with pride. (Of the pristine state of his armor, no doubt.) When Arthur sought audience with his father, Merlin would look on in concern. (Worried, perhaps, that Arthur would take out his frustrations with the king by sacking him?) As his knights gathered around him and they laughed, telling tall tales and smacking together mugs of ale, Arthur felt Merlin's eyes on him. Jealousy, surely. A servant wishing he were a knight.

But Arthur had no explanation for the look he saw in Merlin's eyes now, as he was undressing after a particularly sweaty session of sparring. Merlin was standing by, ready to take the pieces of his armor as he doffed them, quiet and passive as Arthur passed the chains over his head and then struggled with the heavy breastplate.

He handed it off to Merlin and met a very strange set of eyes. Same when he handed him the sword, same with the leg braces. When he peeled off his tunic, smelly as it was, and Merlin took it with the same rapt gaze, Arthur lost his patience. "What?" he demanded.

Merlin blinked, his expression going from reverie to confusion. "...What?" he echoed dumbly.

Arthur frowned. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Again, the dumb stare, the blink. "Looking at you.. how?"

"You know!"

Now it was Merlin's turn to frown. "I'm not looking at you."

Arthur turned. "Good," he said, his back to him.

"Fine."

"Great."

"All right."

There was silence.

"I just..."

Arthur turned. There it was again, that look. Merlin had stopped mid-sentence, but now he pulled one hand into a fist and swallowed hard. "I just was thinking," he said. "What a miracle it is... that you're such an arse."

"What!" A scowl darkened Arthur's features, and he leaned forward as though to advance on him. "I should put you in the stocks--"

"You're such an arse," Merlin went on, "and yet-- even when your armor is gone you still look every inch the prince."

The blank confusion that lit Arthur's face for a moment softened into something more tempered, less definable. He stayed quiet and watched the light flicker in Merlin's round, dark eyes.

"And I think," Merlin said quietly, "if my destiny is to protect you... maybe it's worth it after all."

A strange thumping rose up in Arthur's chest. For a moment he thought he might drown. He could see his own expression in the reflection of those black beads of eyes, and it was the same one Merlin had given him. Silent, they breathed in and out in unison, staring.

Then, Arthur turned. "Your destiny, as you put it, is to clean up after me," he said sharply.

Merlin tried to respond, but a stinking undergarment thrown into his face took away any thought of a reply.