Author's Note:
This is a work of fiction, and not my usual. It is completely tongue-in-cheek, at least until the end. There are references to multiple addictions in these drabbles. Please heed the following tags: sex, drugs, gambling, dom/sub. No offense is meant and I hope none will be taken. I hope you will read it as it was meant to be read: with a laugh, a smile, a slightly uncomfortable frown, perhaps a sad sigh, and maybe an occasional "Awww!"
VII
Ianto Jones looked good in jeans and a leather jacket; he looked great in a pin-striped suit. Yet to Jack, he looked even better in a white chef's jacket, standing at the counter with a sharp knife flashing in the light. It wasn't just the jacket, though Jack had to admit that if Ianto put on a chef's hat he'd probably make a mess in his pants; it was rather the entire package. The jacket pulling tight against lean arms; the precise flick of a wrist; and more than anything the air of casual confidence Ianto embodied as he moved with complete dedication to the task at hand.
Ianto knew his way around a kitchen, and it was damn sexy. He wasn't faking it either, because the finished products were exquisite. Jack had never eaten better in his life. From grilled pork tenderloin with roasted potatoes that almost melted in his mouth, to the best butter chicken this side of Mumbai, Ianto Jones could cook. And bake. Jesus, the dessert sins he'd served Jack over the last several months. Jack didn't usually gain weight, given how much running (and dying) he did in the line of duty, but Welsh cakes, chocolate tortes, and apple crisps tended to settle on a man's waist no matter how many aliens he chased in a week.
Tonight it was mushroom risotto. Garlic and onion cooked in butter, champagne and rice and parmesan, with sautéed porcinis and creminis, a splash of truffle oil, and fresh basil added at the end. It was positively immoral in its rich creaminess. Paired with a delectable Pinot Noir and fresh ciabatta, Jack was in culinary heaven. He couldn't imagine being anywhere else with anybody else eating anything better. It was spectacular.
Watching Ianto as he sat down across from him was the only thing that could have possibly topped the dish itself. It was as if he were making love to each bite of the creamy rice, chewing slowly and savoring it. He picked up his wine glass with slim fingers, laid it against pink lips and sipped slowly, rolling it around his tongue. And after every taste of risottoor sip of wine, he smiled, and that was the best part of all. Because Ianto Jones never smiled enough.
Jack loved the coat. He loved Ianto's coffee. He loved the braised lamb shoulder and cawl and lavercakes with cockles and pudding and tea, as well a cold bottle of Brains with homemade pizza, spicy enchiladas with fresh margaritas, or the best fish and chips in Wales.
But it was the look on Ianto's face that Jack loved even more. The pride in a job well done and the joy of a well-loved pastime, tempered with defiance and a "yes, I can cook, what of it?" attitude, and seasoned with a hint of uncertainty and a dash of sadness that tugged Jack's heartstrings every time. Ianto had learned to cook at his grandmother's knee, finding refuge from a difficult childhood in the kitchen, but his father had bullied him into other pursuits. Ianto had given up his passion for cooking completely after his grandmother had died, only picking it up again after he'd run to London following his father's death.
Lisa had encouraged him to cook again, though Ianto rarely talked about her and their time together, her death still a raw hurt waiting to heal. Jack felt a strange sense of pride in being able to get Ianto back into the kitchen. The Welshman been devastated in the weeks following Lisa's death, refusing to even eat takeaway. When Jack had insisted on cooking Ianto a real meal three weeks into his suspension, Ianto had watched in shock until he'd jumped up with a curse, pushed Jack from the kitchen, and finished Jack's pathetic attempt at spaghetti Bolognese with a roll of his eyes.
Cooking had brought Ianto back from the edge, and eating those meals had brought them together. In the epicurean sense, at least. And if cooking had filled an empty place in Ianto's life, the time they spent enjoying it had done the same for Jack. It wasn't only the gourmet meals Jack enjoyed on a regular basis; it was the quiet companionship he hadn't even realized he needed.
Salted caramel crème brule was an added bonus. After a long day of chasing Weevils and running down Blowfish, sometimes Jack needed comfort food as much as the next person.
And Ianto Jones was quickly becoming his best source of comfort.