Summary: It’s been a long, hard winter, but Ianto can see the signs that it’s coming to an end.
Word Count: 519
Written For: samuraiter’s prompt ‘Author's Choice, Any, washing away the last of winter as spring approaches,’ at fic_promptly.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters. They belong to the BBC.
It’s raining in Cardiff, which is nothing new, but for once Ianto isn’t complaining; rain he can live with, he’s used to it, and it beats getting more snow. As far as he’s concerned, he’s seen enough snow this winter to last a lifetime; they’ve been bogged down in the wretched stuff for what feels like forever, watching as it turned from a picturesquely soft and fluffy pristine white to hard, grey, icy lumps, and then to half frozen filthy slush before freezing solid again. It had made going anywhere, whether on foot or by car, a danger to life and limb, not to mention suits; two of his had wound up with nasty tears, and he’d lost count of the bruises, cuts, grazes, and twisted ankles he’d suffered from losing his footing on the icy pavements. Compared to those treacherous conditions, the rain is a blessing sent from heaven.
With temperatures having risen a degree or two, the steady drizzle is gradually eroding the remaining patches of snow and ice, dripping from roofs, and bare tree branches, and getting to all the places the sun, on the rare occasions it manages to break through the perennial clouds, can’t reach. The gutters of every street are running with water, and so are the drainpipes of the houses he’s passing. Ianto can hear a continuous merry gurgling as he makes his way along the street, sheltered and dry beneath his big red umbrella. The weatherman on the news earlier said there’s a chance of localised flooding from the combination of rain and snowmelt, but he’s hopeful that it won’t cause any serious problems. The rain isn’t heavy, and the drains are coping well so far. He feels optimistic, which makes a pleasant change.
Despite the dreary weather, Ianto’s spirits are high; the last traces of a long, miserable winter are gradually being washed away to make everything ready for spring. In a week or two the buds on the trees will be swelling, tiny green shoots of crocuses will shyly poke through the brown earth, the weather will start to grow warmer, and come March there will be pink and white blossom overhead. Everywhere in gardens and parks and grass verges green clumps of daffodils will be getting ready to flower. By April there will be brilliant colour everywhere and the monotonous greyness of winter will be hardly more than a distant memory. Just the thought of what’s to come is enough to put a seasonal spring in his step.
So he’s happy to let the rain fall without complaint; it’s a sign of better days to come, and anyway, Cardiff could do with a bit of a wash to freshen everything up; it’s been looking somewhat drab and grubby of late. The city never looks its best at this time of year, its streets streaked with the remnants of salt and grit, spread in an effort to help drivers and pedestrians cope with the snow and ice, but it’s his home, and for all its faults, he loves it anyway. There’s no place in the world quite like it.