Lady Paperclip (paperclipbitch) wrote,
Lady Paperclip

Argh. I am just not writing fast enough at the moment.

Title: There
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Owen/Ianto (Gwen/Owen)
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Slash
Sequel to: Here
Summary: But he begins to think that he may have fucked Ianto.
Author’s Notes: What is it with me and impractical pairings? Oh, right, cuz they’re shiny.

Owen tells himself that he hates every inch of her. Her smile, her skin, her hair, her lilting Welsh accent that used to faintly annoy him, and now makes him want to- well, he’ll leave it at that. It makes him want to do something. Fuck her or kill her, one or the other. Who really knows? And Owen hates himself for thinking like this because it was only ever supposed to happen once or twice or three times and instead he let it become a standing arrangement and he forgot the golden rule: Don’t Become Attached. But he did and he shouldn’t have done and it is too late now. Much too late.

It’s not even as though they were being discreet about it, towards the end. Jack’s desk, the downstairs cells, everywhere but Tosh’s workstation because Gwen had drawn an invisible but firm line, making it very, inescapably clear that that was off-limits. Owen still winces at that. He’s not entirely inhuman, after all. He’s cruel, unbelievably so sometimes, but he still has a conscience and he’s still human. Just about. Still. Maybe not human enough for Gwen and her but everyone must have bleeding hearts and FEEL, damn you, FEEL! approach, but then even Mother Teresa probably didn’t measure up. Owen knows that he’s bitter. He… doesn’t care.

But he begins to think that he may have fucked Ianto.

It’s never mentioned and no one’s even implied it, but shreds and shards of razor-edged memory slowly start to slot themselves into place. Owen vividly remembers being drunk, and he’s watching Ianto hand out mugs of tea one day and thinks: I kissed you. It’s a sudden and uncomfortable revelation, but if Ianto notices the way that Owen is staring at him he doesn’t mention it. Just keeps on pottering about in that smart black suit and exchanging looks with Jack. Owen sometimes thinks that the two of them have their own private language, at least in the Hub; they’re the only ones who actually seem to know what’s going on. Ianto may not see himself as a member of the team (if that Cyberbitch taught them nothing else, she taught them that), but in some small ways he’s closer to Jack than the rest of them will ever be.

Owen grits his teeth and watches Gwen and Tosh laughing over something on her computer screen. For a moment, he wonders if it’s CCTV footage of him and Ianto, a fortnight ago, doing- whatever it was that they did. Owen has a definitely hazy memory of kissing Ianto and then a hungover memory of waking up naked and sticky, and no idea what happened in between. Then he remembers that Ianto would have erased any incriminating footage, and forces himself to breathe. No one (except for maybe Ianto, and, come to think of it, Jack) knows what happened. Sadly, Owen doesn’t know either. Shit.

Eventually, Owen forces himself to ask. It’s late without being obscenely late; Gwen has rushed off home to Rhys (he won’t think about that, no, he can’t think about that) and Jack is out (code for “whoring himself about in the local bars”), but Tosh and Ianto are still here. Actually, Ianto is always around. If he ever goes home, Owen has no proof of it. Anyway, he climbs the stairs to reception, where Ianto is hiding out behind the tasteless beaded curtain and fiddling with stacks of files.

“Ianto,” he begins carefully, wishing he didn’t feel like an awkward teenager, because he’s fucked enough people; men and women (and alien, but only on two- ok, three occasions) for this to not be awkward, and he still feels uncomfortable.

“Owen. Can I help you?” There’s a carefully plastered smile on Ianto’s face, bland and unreadable. It makes Owen want to hit him, in some obscure and unidentifiable way. But hitting Ianto is not in the agenda of this conversation, so he clears his throat, and tries to find some of those useful word things.

“Ianto, about-”

“Yes,” Ianto tells him calmly, smirking slightly. “Yes.”

Owen wants to say something like but what if my question was: are you harbouring yet more deadly machine people set to kill us all in the basement? but just about manages to keep his mouth shut.


“I didn’t think you remembered,” Ianto says lightly. “Has Jack been talking?”

Owen just about resists the urge to choke. “You told Jack?”

Ianto just gives him a look. It’s about the most scathing look Owen’s ever received, and he’s had a few in his time.

“Unlike certain members of the team,” he says dryly, “I do not feel the need to walk into work waving a banner saying wham bam thank you ma’am every time I have sex.”

“That was one time,” Owen mutters sheepishly. He’s feeling disconcerted around Ianto, and he doesn’t like it. “So you didn’t tell Jack then.”

“No, I didn’t.” Ianto offers him another one of those bland smiles. “I believe that Jack worked it out all by himself.”

Owen sighs. It would explain a lot. Jack has this frustrating method of knowing fucking everything. Ianto is turning away, abruptly cutting off the conversation, returning to his filing. Owen doesn’t want that either, because he can talk to Ianto, or go home to his empty flat and not be able to look at any of the furniture because the ghosts of Gwen cling to everything.

“What was it like?” he asks, before he can stop himself. Ianto turns back around.

“Do you actually want to know?” he asks carefully, laying a couple of manila folders onto the table and turning to face Owen properly. Owen grimaces. He’s suddenly getting the feeling that this isn’t going to be a gushing account of his assets. Pity really. He shrugs his shoulders, sets his feet apart, lets out a slow breath.

“Go on, out with it.”

“Fine.” Ianto looks at him. “You were completely and utterly drunk, and I was half-convinced Jack was going to find us and ask to join in. How do you think it was?”

“Ah.” Owen grimaces. There’s an awkward pause, and he reaches a determined decision, which he will later blame on Gwen and the voyeuristic nature of the Hub and the fact that for the first time in months Ianto actually doesn’t look penitent or frightened.

“I am normally better than that, you know,” he says slowly. “I’m very good. Never had any complaints.”

“Really.” Ianto’s tone is unreadable but he isn’t backing away shrieking either. Owen reflects that maybe he does just want to know what Ianto is like in bed- he seems so restrained and uptight in those carefully ironed suits that he is curious as to what Ianto becomes after he unknots the tie- but who really cares. He doesn’t need a motive and this entire fucking thing is Gwen’s fault anyway.

“Wouldn’t want to send you away with the wrong impression,” Owen smirks, taking a step closer, “It would ruin my reputation.”

“And we wouldn’t want that,” Ianto mutters sardonically, but is cut off as Owen kisses him, hard, the kind of kiss that could get Gwen wet and begging for it in seconds. And then he pulls back. He thinks for one very strange moment that Ianto is trembling, and then realises he’s trying to keep from laughing out loud.

“Did you not get the memo?” he asks. Owen frowns.

“What memo?” he enquires carefully. Ianto gives him a wide grin.

“The one where it says that you don’t have to fuck every single member of the team,” he replies.

Owen’s initial response is to say but how did you find out? but he manages not to. Instead, he pulls Ianto closer and kisses him deeply, proving a point even as he runs his tongue across Ianto’s teeth, the way Gwen always did to him, and there’s something hardening in a distracting fashion against his hip. Good. And Ianto is no longer attempting to burst out laughing, one hand warm on the back of Owen’s neck, the other gripping his hip. They stumble backwards into a filing cabinet with an unsettlingly loud bang, and Owen reflects that the last thing they need right now is anyone coming up to investigate.

Ianto is obviously thinking the same thing, because he pulls back, away from Owen’s grasp, and rapidly begins straightening his suit. There’s no disguising his swollen mouth and the hard-on straining the front of his black trousers is pretty obvious too, but Ianto has apparently had some experience with this because he grabs a coffee mug and some files just in time to step back in and say goodnight to Tosh, apologising profusely for the noise he made dropping half his filing, and telling her to have a nice evening. All professional and calm, straight-suited Ianto to the core; but when Tosh is gone and Owen comes through the curtain, the Welshman turns to look at him with nothing but lust in his eyes.

Maybe there is more to Ianto than coffee and filing and a really, really sharp suit.

How they get downstairs Owen doesn’t remember, nor can he work out quite how Ianto manages to get him into one of the rooms in the winding, labyrinthine corridors without touching him, but manage it he does, and there’s a moment of are we actually going to do this? Ok, we’re actually going to do this before Owen pins the other man against the door, letting the black jacket drop to the floor, fumbling with the knot of the tie. Ianto’s hands are roving over his back, fisting in Owen’s white t-shirt. A breathless split-second where they both know it’s a bad idea and neither of them care.

Owen finally manages to get Ianto’s tie over his head and starts ripping mercilessly because there are just too many buttons on the crisp white shirt, and it’s not as though Ianto doesn’t have dozens more secreted all over the place. His teeth bite down the Welshman’s neck, hard enough to make him gasp, not so hard that there’ll be marks tomorrow. Ianto backs him across the room, quick and awkwardly, pushing Owen on his back on the single bed, finally dragging off Owen’s t-shirt as he straddles his hips.

“Don’t even think about it,” Owen mutters, trying to get the leverage to flip Ianto over and finding that there just isn’t enough space. Ianto laughs breathlessly and it sounds strange and somehow too intimate in this tiny grey-painted room, pressing down with his hips and bringing a groan to Owen’s lips. “Jesus Christ.”

Ianto’s mouth streaks down Owen’s chest, teeth leaving red marks down his ribs until Owen remembers that he’s supposed to be the one proving that he’s a decent shag, and finally manages to force Ianto over so he’s the one gasping on his back. He starts pressing open-mouthed kisses along Ianto’s jaw and down his neck, pushing his knee between the other man’s thighs and making him moan softly, quietly, biting off the sound.

“I’m going to make you scream,” Owen offers quietly, mouth right next to Ianto’s ear, biting down on the lobe.

“Is that a threat?” Ianto enquires, and although he’s panting now, there’s still a hint of a laugh in his voice, as though this is all some terribly complex joke that only Jack will understand. Owen smirks.

“I wouldn’t be proving my point if I didn’t,” he says. Ianto raises an eyebrow and Owen adds, “Besides, there’s no one here to hear you.”

“Is this your way of suggesting that we get on with this on Jack’s desk?” Ianto enquires, giving Owen a look that tells him he’s seen a hell of a lot of Gwen and Owen CCTV footage. But Owen doesn’t want to think about Gwen right now, so he instead reaches a hand down to start attacking Ianto’s belt buckle, and kisses him again to shut him up.

There’s a lot of bickering, and biting, and grappling until the cot threatens to collapse beneath them before they settle on good, old-fashioned frottage, since Ianto refuses point-blank to let Owen fuck him outright, and there’s no way Owen is going to let Ianto go where no man- well, very few men-have been before. They wind up tangled with scratchy blankets and each other, panting heavily, sweating and sticky.

“What were you trying to prove again?” Ianto enquires, one slick hand sliding down Owen’s bare thigh as he tries to sit himself upright. For one moment, Owen honestly can’t remember.

“I was trying to prove that I’m a good shag,” he replies. “And now you have your proof.”

“Well,” Ianto murmurs, “It’s a definite improvement on last time, although-”

“Oh come on-” Owen begins hotly, as Ianto finally unsticks his right thigh from Owen’s left, uses the wall as leverage, and gets himself out of the pretty much trashed cot, and then he realises that the Welshman is teasing him. He’s bloody teasing him. He’s so shocked and amused by this that he stays lying down as Ianto cleans come off his stomach and thighs with Owen’s t-shirt and carefully dresses himself again, straightening his tie three times to get it absolutely right.

“I’ve got work to get back to,” he replies with a little smile, cold and competent armour snapping back into place in front of Owen’s eyes. And he walks out. Owen sighs, carefully easing himself off the bed to try and get dressed again, even though his t-shirt is utterly ruined and he just wants to lie there and go to sleep.

Jack is back when Owen finally finds his way back into the main Hub, looking too cheerful and sitting in his office humming something by Glenn Miller and reading an inappropriate-looking novel.

“Thought you’d gone home,” he remarks, “It’s not like you to stay so late, Owen.”

The bastard knows. Knows and is going to be giving him significant looks for weeks. Owen sighs and makes his way upstairs without saying anything in reply.

In reception, Ianto has finished his filing and is now straightening all the tourist brochures in a tired fashion. He gives Owen one of his bland, unreadable smiles, and wishes him good night as he walks past, as though absolutely nothing has happened.

“You’re fucking insane, Ianto,” Owen mutters back.

“Probably,” Ianto replies. “Have a nice evening.”

Tags: character: gwen cooper, character: ianto jones, character: owen harper, pairing: owen harper/ianto jones, pairing: owen/gwen, series: no sense of direction, tv show: torchwood, type: slash
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