Sequel to: Here and There
Summary: The seventh time, Owen asks Ianto exactly what he gets out of this.
Author’s Notes: Yet more of this stuff. I can't stop myself!
The seventh time, Owen asks Ianto exactly what he gets out of this. Ianto sinks his teeth into Owen’s hip to shut him up, but he repeats the question again, post-coitally, when Ianto is panting against his chest and there is a two-minute window before real life and propriety have to crash back in. Ianto shrugs noncommittally, offering Owen a tiny smile. He either doesn’t know, or-
“You’re not, you know,” Owen begins uncomfortably, unable to finish the in love with me? Ianto hears it in his voice anyway.
“Yes,” he deadpans, the sarcasm somehow sharper when it comes from him, “Hold me. I need you. Oh baby. Oh baby.”
Owen pushes him away, laughing. Ianto winks and then gets up to get dressed.
The eighth time, there are still people other than Jack in the Hub. Ianto is on edge that someone will hear them, someone will walk in; but then Gwen’s been wearing a dangerously low-cut top today, and Owen has to get some relief somewhere or resort to his own hand, and of the many things Ianto has learnt about Owen over the last month, it is that he will never, never resort to his own hand.
They fuck; quick, hot, and hard, against the wall in the men’s bathroom. Owen sucks at Ianto’s neck just under the line of his collar so hard that Ianto knows he’ll spend the rest of the day poking at the bruise and frowning, but right now it seems perfectly normal. He keeps his eyes closed, focuses on the warm heat of Owen’s body against his. Of the pure contact, more than he’s had in longer than he cares to remember.
He makes everyone else coffee and biscuits when he returns fifteen minutes later, and prays that Gwen can’t smell Owen all over him.
The ninth time, Owen is watching the pale lines of Ianto’s unsettlingly muscled thighs disappear under a pair of nondescript, still-faintly-ironed-looking black trousers and pretending that he doesn’t want there to be a round two somewhere around now. That’s not part of the rules in this little game they’ve inadvertently built up.
“Don’t you ever wonder,” he begins, watching Ianto button up his shirt, “Why we do this?” It’s been preying on his mind the longer that this goes on. Ianto shrugs.
“I always assumed,” Ianto says slowly, “That one Welsh accent in bed is much the same as another to you.”
Owen thinks about saying that’s not why you’re here, it can’t be, except that he’s not entirely sure why they’re still doing this, since it wasn’t even supposed to happen the first time; he doesn’t know and maybe Ianto doesn’t know, so it’s much easier to shrug and say “yeah, pretty much”.
The tenth time, Ianto gasps breathlessly, eyes open and staring unseeingly at the ceiling, fingers tangled in Owen’s hair, as Owen licks and bites and sucks at his stomach, slick tongue sliding against his sweating skin. Ianto swears softly in Welsh as Owen’s unsettlingly-talented-for-a-man-who-clai
He bites down on his lower lip until he tastes blood, trying to keep silent because he swears that Jack is listening in, and if he isn’t he will be soon, and of all the things going on, he doesn’t want Jack getting himself involved with this. He’s getting more than a little tired of those knowing looks as it is. As far as Ianto is concerned, his mistakes are his mistakes, and shouldn’t affect anyone else.
The eleventh time, just as Ianto is trying to get off the cot and return to being Mr Cold, Bland and Competent, Owen pulls him back, hooking one leg over Ianto’s to keep him where he is, warm and heavy on top of Owen.
“I have to-”
“No, you haven’t,” Owen points out. “And I haven’t finished with you yet.”
“I’m not Gwen!” Ianto explodes furiously, “I can’t keep going all night. I don’t want to!”
“Tough,” Owen responds, running his tongue over Ianto’s lower lip, and then kissing him in a demanding fashion. “Right now, we’re doing what I want.”
“I really don’t like you,” Ianto informs him, but his fingers are digging into Owen’s hips hard enough to leave marks.
Ianto consents for the twelfth and thirteenth times, and then passes out with exhaustion. It’s been a while since Owen slept beside someone and he wonders exactly what’s going to happen tomorrow, but it turns out he needn’t have worried. He wakes up completely alone at six-thirty a.m, to a clean t-shirt and his jeans laid out neatly over a chair.
The fourteenth time doesn’t happen. Owen’s teeth are nipping down Ianto’s neck and Ianto has his hand down the front of Owen’s Levi’s when they both hear someone other than Jack in the Hub (they’ve sort of got used to his presence now. It was that or stay celibate). Someone sobbing. Ianto mentally sighs and pushes Owen away, rebuttoning the collar of his shirt and straightening his tie, swiftly neatening himself up as he walks back towards the boardroom, where the sound is coming from.
Gwen is sniffling on Jack’s shoulder, because Rhys has apparently got sick of the fact that they “never talk any more” and she’s also complaining about “this bloody job”, but then she always did feel too much. Ianto makes her coffee and adds a lot of brandy and watches Jack be sympathetic in between bouts of eye-rolling (they all saw this coming, so Ianto has no idea why Gwen should be so shocked); and Owen stands about awkwardly, hands in his pockets, refusing to look at Ianto.
“Made the mistake of getting accustomed, didn’t you Ianto?” Jack murmurs, after Gwen has curled herself up in a blanket on their sofa and gone to miserable sleep, and Owen has disappeared somewhere.
“I don’t give a shit about Owen, sir,” Ianto says quietly, and it isn’t a lie.
“I know.” Jack shrugs. “But a month and a half is long enough to count as an arrangement, if nothing else.”
Ianto considers this, and sighs. He was a replacement for Gwen. Owen was a replacement for Lisa. These things happen.
“Please stop talking, sir,” he murmurs. Jack claps him on the shoulder.
“Go home and get some sleep, Ianto,” he says, then jerks his head towards Gwen’s sleeping form. “I foresee us making a lot of noise in here about five a.m.”
Ianto wonders briefly if Jack even likes Gwen, even the slightest bit, but instead of asking, he smiles emotionlessly and walks away.
The fifteenth time doesn’t happen either. Owen has no idea what to think now that Gwen is available (a horrible part of him finds her much less attractive now that she’s attainable) and he knows that tomorrow he’ll be doing everything in his power to win her back, just because that’s the way that it works with him, but right now, he can’t think straight. No pun intended.
“He’s gone home,” Jack says lazily, where he’s sitting at Tosh’s workstation and reading up on how to recalibrate the invisible paving stone lift (Owen suspects that it will happen at an unfeasibly early time this morning, just to wake Gwen up with the crunching of gears and so on). Owen blinks. Ianto doesn’t do going home. Not ever.
“’Night,” is all that he says in reply. Jack winks at him and Owen has the sudden urge to hurt him. He walks out instead.
Ianto, hands in his pockets, is walking down towards the carpark near the bay where they keep their cars.
“Wait up,” Owen says, running to catch him. It’s cold out here and his breath is coming out in warm puffs in front of his face.
“Something I can help you with, Owen?” Ianto enquires politely. Efficiently. Completely detached.
“Not as such,” Owen admits, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. Ianto smiles.
“Goodnight then,” he replies, and turns away.
“Is that all I’m going to get?” Owen enquires before he can stop himself. “‘Owen, you were a good fuck, but hey, I’m just going now’?”
Ianto considers him for a long moment.
“I’m not exactly sure what you want me to say to you, Owen,” he says slowly, tone so bland and calm he could be talking about the weather or just how much sugar he’s added to his coffee, “But just for the record: I have never told you that you were a good fuck.”
And then he’s wrenching his car door shut and driving away. Owen stares for a moment, wide-eyed and momentarily shocked; then he mutters “shit” and turns back towards the Hub, because he has nowhere else to go.