Characters: Ianto, Jack, Coat.
Summary: Rainy summer weather is making life harder than ever for Torchwood.
Word Count: 500
Content Notes: None necessary.
Written For: Prompt 103: Rot at anythingdrabble.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
Even for Wales, that greenest of green lands, it was proving to be a wetter than usual summer. Ianto squelched his way back across the field where the Rift’s latest gifts had made landfall, hair plastered to his head, rainwater dripping down the back of his neck. Jack, carrying the other end of the heavy containment unit, didn’t look any better; despite the brisk wind, Coat hung limply about him, its sodden folds too heavy to flounce and flair as it normally would following a successful retrieval.
It had been a cheerless task, braving the pouring rain, unprotected by umbrellas partly because of the gusting wind that would probably have turned them inside out, but mostly because neither of them had a hand available to hold one. The Rift, in Ianto’s opinion, was being entirely perverse, having scattered dozens of hard-skinned, warty objects, ranging in size from egg to cantaloupe melon, across the length and breadth of the muddy field. Jack said they were gubrons, a type of alien fruit like a sweet onion. Ianto didn’t think that sounded particularly appealing.
“Let’s just get them back to the Hub so we can dry out,” he said as they hefted the containment box into the SUV’s boot. “I swear I’m starting to rot from the damp.”
‘You’re not the only one,’ thought Coat, water pouring in steady streams from its hem.
“You’re Welsh; I thought you were used to rain,” Jack teased.
“I’m also used to umbrellas,” Ianto replied, shutting the boot and going around to the driver’s side with a roll of black trash bags to protect the leather seats with. “Here.” He tore off several bags and tossed the roll across to Jack. “Put your Coat in one and cover your seat.”
“Why do I have to cover my seat if I’m taking my Coat off?”
Ianto rolled his eyes. “Your trouser legs are soaked and your hair’s dripping. You ruin the upholstery and you’ll be in big trouble.” Covering the driver’s seat, Ianto whipped his own coat off, shoved it in a bag, dumped it unceremoniously on the floor in the back, and jumped in the SUV, slamming the door behind him and starting the engine. Jack followed suit, but set his Coat, carefully folded into its bag, on the floor at his feet.
“Damn Owen for using all the towels this morning and not telling me,” Ianto was muttering as he wiped his face and mopped at the front of his hair with his handkerchief, trying to keep water from running into his eyes.
Jack turned the heater up high. “Relax; we’ll be mostly dry by the time we reach the Hub.”
Halfway back to Cardiff, Ianto sniffed the air. “What is that vile smell?”
Sniffing too, Jack twisted in his seat. “Oh no!”
“The gubrons! They must be rotting from the damp and heat!”
“Wonderful,” Ianto groaned. “When we get back to the Hub, you can deal with them.” Surely today couldn’t get any worse.