Disclaimer: I'm not even pretending I own them. Please don't sue me.
*.*.*
Ianto enjoys it when Jack sleeps over. He's always been a fan of sex where no one has to slink off afterwards. And waking up in the wee hours with warm lips around his cock…well, that's definitely a perk.
What he does not enjoy are the mornings.
There is a reason he's so skilled with coffee. He needs the bloody caffeine nearly as much as he needs to breathe. He requires at least two cups before he's even functional enough for a shower and a shave, let alone breakfast or human interaction.
But Jack—cheerful, irritating Jack who claims not to even need sleep—has no such requirements. To him, caffeine is simply a recreational drug. And an excuse to feel Ianto up four or five times during the workday.
There is simply nothing sacred to the man. Ianto doesn't reckon he asks for much of a morning. Just be quiet, Jack. Don't make a mess. And, for God's sake, don't touch the coffee maker.
Jack, of course, ignores this completely. He's nauseatingly chipper when his sock-clad feet hit the bedroom floor and sings show tunes at the top of his lungs while banging pots and pans about.
Ianto suspects that "Chiquitita" will send him into a murderous rage for decades to come and cowers under the duvet, praying to deaf gods that his lover isn't destroying his kitchen.
About twenty minutes later—after the alarm had actually gone off—Jack came bounding back in to the bedroom, clad only in tube socks and a hideous apron decorated with a Welsh dragon. "Reveille, reveille, reveille! Time to rise and shine!"
Making no effort to suppress his groan, Ianto pulled on his pyjama bottoms and padded after Jack. The kitchen, to the surprise of no one, was a disaster.
He was certain that he'd feel better about the whole situation after a warm shower and a cup of coffee or seven, so he kept his temper in check. It was…sweet, really, that Jack made him breakfast.
Even if his stove was covered in splattered bacon grease and his countertops were coated in…egg? He hoped it was egg, at least. In their line of work, a laissez-faire attitude towards slimy substances was never a good idea. The coffee maker had coffee in it and it was surrounded by a dusting of coffee grounds.
Jack, looking so bloody proud of himself, handed him a mug and stared at him until he took a sip.
"Mmm, well done," he lied. It was burnt. The three thousand teaspoons of sugar Jack added took away most of the bitterness, though, which made it palatable, at least.
He tried, Ianto reminded himself. He's making an effort. It's sweet. Don't murder him.
Beaming and happy, Jack led him to the table, where two plates of scrambled eggs—oh, thank God. It was egg on the counter—bacon and slightly burnt toast sat. He was relieved that it was something simple, because even Jack couldn't bugger this up, and tucked in.
The eggs were…wet. And crunchy. The chef du jour watched him closely, clearly excited and anxious to see Ianto's reaction.
It is entirely too early for this.
He gave Jack a thumbs-up as he reached for his mug to wash the eggs down, deciding that even burnt, sickly-sweet coffee was better than that god-awful texture.
Ianto closed his eyes mid-gulp, just as Jack picked up his own fork.
Three.
Two.
One.
"That's disgusting! Why didn't you say something?!"
*.*.*
A/N: The word was "early." I, personally, am not what you'd call a morning person and I have an unhealthy relationship with caffeine, so this amused me. Reveille (rev-i-lee) is a military wake up. At least it is in the US Navy, but I think I heard it on reruns of MASH, too. It generally goes "Reveille, reveille, reveille! All hands heave out and trice up! The smoking lamp is now lit." My dad was in the navy and was fond of waking us up like this when we tried to sleep in on school days. It's usually accompanied by an annoying bugle tune of the same name, but that would have been a bit *too* cruel for poor Ianto.