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“No,” Mickey said. “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”
“Yes,” Ianto said again, simply. “Aren’t you?”
“Monsters live in the dark,” John said with acute unconcern. “Horrible things come out of the darkness.” He paused for a long time and raised his eyebrows at Ianto with a half-smirk. “Not going to say it?”
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It was obvious that whatever Mickey wanted, John wanted to play Hide And Shoot Someone’s Brains Out in the motel corridors.
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“Don’t anthropomorphise the bloody motel!” Mickey snapped.
“Don’t use words you can’t spell,” John muttered.
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“I got you chocolate,” he announced to the room, casting the half-melted Mars bar onto the bed.
They stared at it him.
“What? What?” John demanded, annoyed. “I got you chocolate.”
They stared some more.
“WHAT?”
It was Mickey who answered him, in that tone he had. “You’re … you have … there is blood all over you.” He didn’t bother to say ‘again’. John knew the ‘again’ was there, it didn’t need voicing. Mickey had ‘again’ on his face.
FIREWORKS,” John shouted as the ringing started up again. “FIREWORKS WILL SOLVE THIS.
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John looked affronted. “I was getting them out of the way, so you don’t get dead person on your skin,” he explained, as though Ianto was stupid rather than simply possessed of a functioning sense of humanity. “They can’t feel it, they’re dead.
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The distance was one he’d calculated on the plane to Shanghai from Heathrow, the optimum distance for remaining out of John’s horrible personal-space invasion tactics, but close enough to be able to throttle him to death when Ianto’s temper finally snapped.
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– and bringing with him the smell of rum-based cocktails and smugness mingled with that manufactured but unfortunately effective waft of 51st-century pheromones. Ianto also resented John’s ability to smell like sex all the fucking time.
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Everyone wants Jack,” John said sullenly. There was something under the petulance that Mickey didn’t want to go within a thousand miles of. “I do, Eye-Candy does, you probably would do if you’d give up this pathetic sexual dichotomy bullshit your century indulges in, Martha does, Gwen does … what’s new?” It didn’t matter that he’d said ‘what’s new?’ instead of ‘but who wants us?’, because Mickey could hear it anyway.
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I’m allergic to Arctic rain,” John put in. “It makes me come up in goosebumps. That’s not natural. Also, hard work makes me sneeze.
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Two hours later John woke up, groaned, “Fucking Haiti, fucking wind, fucking Jack, fucking bloody fucking Russia,” and staggered off to unroll a sleeping bag. After a moment’s hesitation with the purple-and-black slug of fabric dangling from his hands and his bearskin draped over his shoulders, he unzipped it, tossed it blanket-like over Ianto’s twitching and shivering body, and lay back down on the floor, wrapped in his coat once more. He finished the samogon. “Fucking samogon, too,” John muttered, and he went back to sleep.
They are very selfishly having sex without me,” John grumbled, on his back on the floor, hugging the mostly-empty samogon bottle to his chest like an errant child. “And now I’m too drunk to fuck you either. I knew I should never have come out here. Excitement and adventure my perfectly-formed arse. All there is out here is the audio track to the live sex show in there and a howling fucking gale. I should have gone to Haiti –
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Looks like it,” Mickey sighed. John bounded over, clanking – he’d refused to change his boots, and his concession to ‘bring supplies’ amounted to stuffing so many bottles of vodka into the pockets of his enormous bearskin coat that he sounded like a milkfloat on collection day – and Ianto examined the threatening off-white skies with a blank face.
