Length: 530 words
Summary: for the prompt winning the lottery (under the name of Torchwood).
"We can't claim it," says Jack, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb.
"I don't see why not."
Owen folds his arms, perches his arse on the edge of the conference table, stretches out his legs and crosses those too. It's an artful display of lounging, but Jack has seen bodies lounging in ways that Owen couldn't even imagine. Hell, he's seen bodies that Owen couldn't even imagine lounging in ways that Owen couldn't even imagine.
"Because it's under the name of Torchwood, that's why."
"Never made any difference with the pizza," says Owen, tilting his head to one side and smirking.
"People will notice this," says Jack. "It's the Euro millions, not a spicy chicken special!"
Ianto brings in the coffee, closely followed by Gwen, as a coffee bearing Ianto often is at this time of the morning.
"What's Owen done now?" she asks, taking in the situation and coming to the right conclusion. She's getting better at that.
“Forget it.” Jack takes a seat, Ianto places a cup in front of him, and Jack uses both hands to pull it closer. “I said no and that’s the end of it.”
“Sorry, so sorry,” says Tosh, hurrying in with a bunch of files clutched to her chest. “There were some interesting anomalies on the inverted – well, never mind. What did I miss?”
“You won the lottery.” Owen stands up straight, abandoning his pose but not the smirk. “Congratulations.”
Tosh places her files on the table, eyeing Owen warily, and slides into the seat next to Gwen.
“In fact,” says Owen, “we all won the lottery. Happy days and break out the champagne.”
“Which you wouldn’t be able to drink,” says Ianto, taking a seat himself now that the coffee has been handed out. “What with being dead.”
Owen scowls. Jack thinks it’s Ianto’s ‘just being helpful’ tone that bugs Owen as much as the constant reminders, or maybe it’s that Owen hasn’t managed to come up with a good rebuttal yet.
“Sorry,” says Gwen, “but going back to the part where we won the lottery?”
“Torchwood syndicate,” says Owen, finally sitting down. “Only Jack’s refusing to let us claim it.”
“Why Torchwood?” Tosh wraps both hands around her coffee mug. “Why not just in your own name?”
Owen shoots her a nasty look and Tosh stares down at her coffee, as if it holds the key to all the mysteries of the universe, so that she can pretend she didn’t see it.
“Why can’t we claim it?” asks Gwen.
Ianto shakes his head at her.
“Anything that brings Torchwood to the attention of anyone is a bad idea,” Jack tells her.
He takes a drink of his coffee and then deliberately puts the cup back on the table harder than necessary. The noise makes them all look at him.
“Anything that brings Torchwood to the attention of anyone is a bad idea, so stop throwing the name around. Got it?”
His team make various noises of assent and Jack supresses a sigh. The twentieth century may be when everything changes, but the inability of some humans to keep a secret never does.
Title: Of Wake-Up Calls And Possible Skull Fractures
Length: 516 words
Summary: for the prompt Amy/Rory + Eleven, “WAKEY, WAKEY!”. In which bunkbeds have their uses.
Amy hates their bunkbed and Rory isn’t fond of it either. It’s nothing to do with sex. Neither of them is opposed to snuggling up together on a bunk designed for one person and they’ve gotten inventive with the ladder a time or twelve. Knowing that Melody was conceived there adds a certain fondness as well. The problem is that back home both of them slept on a normal bed and whilst she likes to think that they’ve adapted to space and time travel, she still can’t get used to sleeping in a bunkbed.
If she takes the bottom one when she sits up in the morning she whacks her head on the upper bunk. If she takes the upper bunk sometimes she rolls off and on the days where she doesn’t and uses the ladder she falls off of that instead. Basically, she just isn’t coordinated in the morning and she doesn’t need a bloody bunkbed reminding her of it everyday.
Rory doesn’t have it quite as bad, being more of a morning person. Many a time he’s woken up long before her and demonstrated his ability to speedily shift from sleep to a fully alert and functional person. Amy is more than okay with waking up to his tongue making her body sing or his hand gently stroking her hair, lips pressed to her ear murmuring endearments.
In fact for Rory it’s not that the bunkbed is a problem so much as the bunkbed in combination with their morning wake-up call. When the Doctor bangs open their bedroom door shouting, “Wakey, wakey!” at the top of his voice even Rory sits up straight in shock and slams his head into the bunk above, or throws himself out of bed in a panic without realising he’s on the top bunk.
“How many times do we have to ask to lose the bunkbeds?” he groans after yet another morning of possible skull fracture.
“Still easier than trying to teach him not to barge in,” says Amy, lying back down with her head on Rory’s thigh.
“How about we ask for an alarm clock?”
“He’s a Time Lord,” says Amy. “A Lord of Time. I’m not sure he even knows what a clock is, let alone owns one.”
“Right.” Rory runs his fingers through her hair and she smiles against his skin. “Lock for the door?”
“He’s got a sonic screwdriver.”
“We could just buy ourselves another bed.”
“I’d like to see you try and fit it through the door of the TARDIS,” says Amy, moving lower to place a kiss on the soft skin behind Rory’s knee.
His fingers pause and tighten in her hair.
“IKEA. Flat pack bed. Problem solved.” Rory traces her lips with the fingers of his free hand and she sucks the tip of his index finger into her mouth. “Last chance to make use of the bunkbed then.”
Amy kisses his finger and sits up.
“You said that about the centurion outfit,” she says with a grin and Rory laughs.
“Alright, well maybe we can keep the bunkbed for special occasions.”