Disclaimer: Nope. Not mine. All ownership claims are firmly the property of the BBC. As far as I'm concerned, they have the best toys.
*.*.*
The crystalline clattering of glass woke him from a dead sleep. He almost had dozed back off when he heard it again. He was up like a shot, tugging on yesterday's pair of trousers from where he'd tossed them only hours before. He didn't bother doing up the zip or fastening the button, but it was enough. He just didn't fancy confronting a thief in his pants.
As quietly as he could, he rifled through the drawer of his bedside table until he found his gun and its magazine. He cursed the darkness in the room, though he knew flipping on the light would be a bad idea, tactically.
He slinked out into the hall and slid into the living room. It was empty. He swept the room for damage or for missing items. TV, still there. Sound system, still there. DVD player, still there. DVD collection he never had time to watch, also still there. Nothing had been so much as moved.
This thief wasn't a very good thief, really.
It struck him briefly that there was the chance work had followed him home. He hoped that whatever had gotten into his flat was at least humanoid. The last thing he wanted was his kitchen—the only other place the sound could be coming from—covered in alien mucous or fur.
He stepped back into the hall, wondering if the intruder had buggered off when it had realized how much noise it had made. As he got closer, he could see the movement of shadows in a light he knew he hadn't left on. He was glad of his bare feet. He could move even more quietly than he normally did. He'd be able to get the jump on whomever or whatever it was. He was completely aware combat wasn't his strong suit and he'd gladly take the element of surprise when he could.
He took a deep breath and stepped into his kitchen. Looking down the barrel of his handgun, he took in the sight in front of him.
A man was standing in front of the open refrigerator, its light giving him an eerie sort of silhouette, and was drinking milk.
Out of the jug.
Disgusting. He'd be pouring that out.
"Jesus Christ, Jack. I could have shot you!" he exclaimed, setting his gun down on the clean Formica countertop before hopping up to sit next to it. He pinned his boss with his best glare.
"Sorry. I was trying to be quiet."
"You were doing a rubbish job at it. I've known Weevils to be quieter." He sighed. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I was doing retrieval nearby and I…got thirsty," Jack said, looking sheepish.
He decided not to comment on the 24-hour petrol station just around the corner, filled to bursting with fizzy drinks and bottled water. Instead he pointed to a cabinet. "I do have glasses, you know."
"Yeah. I...um…I broke one. Decided not to risk the rest of them."
He just raised an eyebrow.
"Listen, Ianto. I'm…I'm sorry for intruding. I got…I dunno, zapped or something…by the tech I was after. It was meant to be used as a kind of picnic basket or packed lunch…It depletes the body of nutrients and fluids and stores it. Kind of ingenious, really…I couldn't think of anywhere else to go that I wouldn't have to answer a lot of questions."
It was then that he noticed Jack's hands shaking and the sickly pallor underneath his perpetual tan. He trampled down the urge to coddle the other man, to make him the sweet, hot tea his mum claimed to be the cure for every ailment one could possibly think of and to wrap him in a thick, comfy blanket. They weren't at the point where he could do those things without seeming clingy or…well, like a smitten girl.
So instead, he shrugged and glanced over at his boss and sometimes lover. "I'm going to get dressed and we'll go for an early breakfast. You'll feel better once you get some food in you."
*.*.*
A/N: The prompt was "Intruder." I was practicing a semi-ambiguous writing style here. I dunno if I like it. Thanks for reading.