Characters: Jack, Ianto, Owen.
Summary: Ianto has a very lucky escape.
Word Count: 533
Written For: My own prompt ‘Any, any, the sound of smashing crockery,’ at fic_promptly.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters. They belong to the BBC.
The sound of smashing crockery is loud in the silence of the Hub, and Jack leaps to his feet, paperwork forgotten. To be fair, it doesn’t usually take much to distract him from paperwork anyway, he’ll use any excuse to put it off until later, or never, but this sounds serious.
Dashing out of his office and heading in the direction of the crash as fast as is humanly possible, he arrives in the kitchen area, breathless, to be confronted by an alarming sight.
Ianto is slumped on the floor holding one hand to his head, blood trickling between his fingers. There are shards of chinaware all around him and it looks like he’s cut his hand as well.
Ianto seems dazed, blinking at Jack several times before appearing to register that he’s been asked a question.
“I said, what happened?” Jack repeats.
“Oh, sorry, my ears are ringing, it’s a bit hard to hear.”
“I’m okay, I think I just got clipped by the door.” He waves his hand towards the wall cabinet, which is now hanging precariously half off the wall. When it makes an ominous creaking noise, Jack darts forward, scoops Ianto up, and hauls him out of harm’s way. It’s just in time, as the cabinet surrenders to gravity and falls, smashing onto the concrete right where Ianto had been sitting seconds before. “Oh, that was close!” Ianto sounds awed. “Thanks, Jack.”
“All I did was put the mugs away. Turned my back on it and…” Ianto throws his arms in the air, narrowly avoiding hitting Jack in the face. “Crash! You know?”
“I know,” Jack agrees. “Why don’t we go over to the sofa and I’ll call Owen. I think you might need a few stitches.”
“But I have to clean up the mess.”
“It’s not going anywhere.”
Ianto seems a bit unsure about that. “It isn’t?”
“No, not without help.”
“Who’s going to help it?”
“Nobody right now.”
“I hope nobody will be careful. They might get cut.”
Jack steers Ianto to the sofa, sits him down, and calls Owen, who’s not terribly pleased at having to return to the Hub when he’s only just left, but at least he’s only had one pint so he’s still capable of stitching Ianto’s head and hand.
“Mild concussion,” he diagnoses. “You know the drill.”
Jack nods; they’ve all been here before. “I’ll look after him. Enjoy your evening.”
After Owen leaves, Jack cleans up the mess; tomorrow, he’ll let Ianto order new crockery, but they’re not having another cupboard on that wall; it’s too dangerous. Sheepishly he thinks of his blue and white striped mug, sitting on his desk in his office, the only piece of crockery to survive the carnage aside from one miraculously undamaged plate. He feels a bit guilty and hopes none of the others were too attached to their mugs.
Ianto had a lucky escape; if he hadn’t already been walking away when the cupboard started to fall, it could have been a lot worse. As he settles beside his lover on the sofa and wraps one arm around him, Jack prays that Ianto will always be so lucky.