Pairing: Owen/Ianto (with hints of Owen/Gwen and really quite blatant Jack/Ianto)
Genre: Slash (het)
Sequel to: Here and There and Nowhere and Somewhere and Above AND Below
Summary: Jack has a very, very bad idea and Owen makes a decision Ianto didn’t see coming.
Author’s Notes: I came up with the plotline for this at one o’clock in the morning while lying around in bed, and had to write it on my thigh in pen so as not to forget it, so naturally it’s a lot cracky and a lot weird. Also, now I’m playing up bastard!Jack, because he is fun. And I guess I should warn for borderline non-con.
Ianto is tidying up the autopsy room, which Owen has left in a horrendous state. Everyone else has gone home and the Hub is blissfully quiet.
“You know”, Jack says casually, appearing soundlessly behind him, “You are going entirely the wrong way about getting Owen to jump you.”
Ianto nearly drops the tray of scalpels he’s about to sterilise (because Owen is far too lazy to do it himself. He knows that Ianto will do it for him. Ianto does everything for everyone. Sometimes he likes to imagine himself walking out, and the Hub collapsing in on itself within about three days).
“What?” he asks intelligently.
“Ianto, I can read you like a book,” Jack explains. “I’ve finally gotten the hang of working out what those bland facial expressions mean.”
That makes one of us, Ianto thinks dryly. All he says aloud, though, is “ah”.
“Really, Ianto,” Jack continues, “You should just use the method everyone else in this Hub does.”
“What,” Ianto says, “Saying those three magic little words? ‘I’ve got Retcon’?”
Jack laughs in a way that somehow manages to make his teeth look even whiter.
“Well, that’s one system,” he accedes, “Although I was going to suggest that you make some form of incriminating CCTV footage.”
Ianto just stares at him.
“There’s nothing more appealing to Owen than someone who’s taken,” Jack adds. “Just look at Gwen.”
“Jack,” Ianto says, attempting not to sound as hysterical as he feels, “Jack, no.”
It’s been months since the last time he and Jack fucked. Somewhere between Gwen’s arrival and Lisa’s death. He and Jack really do have a no-strings-attached relationship; occasionally shagging when there’s nothing else to do, returning to a cold and professional relationship at all other times. Ianto wants nothing more than that, and Jack would never even suggest it.
“Come on.” Jack takes the tray of scalpels from his hands, setting it aside carelessly.
“Jack,” Ianto tries, “I am not seventeen. I am not at a nightclub dancing with someone else to make my boyfriend jealous. Stop it.”
Jack pouts. “It’ll work,” he points out.
“And what do you get from this?” Ianto enquires, trying to cling on to the last shreds of his sanity.
“A chance to grab your pretty ass,” Jack shrugs. “That enough?”
“This is a really bad idea,” Ianto says, or, at least, tries to say. Jack is swiftly pushing him back against the autopsy table, kissing him deeply without any form of preamble, kissing him like they’re already naked, and Ianto just does his best to keep up. After all, it takes a stronger man than Ianto to say ‘no’ to Jack when he really wants something.
Owen has left his car keys behind, because he is a twat and because he was in a hurry to get out, sick of being ignored by Ianto and laughed at by Jack. He hurries back down the stairs from reception, muttering about how stupid he is, when suddenly he remembers that he did put his keys in his pocket. They’re not there now. Must’ve been Jack, casually putting an arm around Owen before he went home, telling him he needed a set of autopsy results as soon as possible. Bastard probably lifted the keys from his coat. His idea of a joke- or maybe punishment for punching Ianto.
Sure enough, his keys are sitting jauntily on top of a pile of not-done paperwork on his workstation. Owen grabs them and shoves them into his jeans pocket. And then something on one of the computers of Tosh’s workstation catches his eye. The screen is flicking through the various CCTV cameras in the Hub, and for a crazy moment Owen thought he saw-
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, dropping into Tosh’s chair and hitting the keyboard to bring up the live feed from the autopsy lab. He isn’t overtired, he didn’t imagine it- that really is Jack pinning Ianto against the table, and that really is Ianto with his fingers in Jack’s hair, kissing him as though everything depends on it. He thinks he’s in shock, just for a moment, a split second of but he’s mine! before Owen remembers who he is and where he is and that Ianto was never, ever his, and Owen never wanted him to be. Or maybe he did.
Ianto seems to be laughing softly as Jack carefully pushes him onto his back on the table, climbing over him to press kisses against his neck. Owen wonders quite why he feels like he’s been sucker-punched, because this shouldn’t-can’t- matter, but it does. Ianto with his eyes shut and wet mouth open as Jack’s lips find a particularly sensitive spot on his neck. Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps it’s because it is Jack, because Owen thought for a few weeks that he had something on Ianto and apparently he never did. Perhaps because this proves that all along Jack and Ianto were-
He’s seen enough. Owen shuts the screen off and makes his way back up the stairs, fingernails biting into his palms.
“Jack-” Ianto begins hesitantly, torn somewhere between oh God keep going and stop it, stop it now.
“Shhh,” Jack whispers, returning to brush a light kiss across his mouth.
“This is still not a good idea,” Ianto protests against his lips, fingers biting into Jack’s shoulders, seduced every step of the way because he can’t say no to Jack, can’t say no to that charisma, that smile, those eyes.
Jack’s laugh is almost too ugly and intimate this close, as his hands slide down Ianto’s chest, heading unerringly for his groin. Ianto makes a very soft groaning sound, because he can’t help it. Jack starts to slide himself that way as well, then returns to flicking his tongue over Ianto’s ear.
“Tell me, Ianto,” he says softly, voice still seductive as fuck and full of soft nuances that send shivers down his spine, “Who will you be thinking of as I go down on you?”
Ianto feels physically sick, the words breaking the world apart around him. He pushes Jack away, sending him stumbling back against the wall.
“You really are fucked up beyond belief,” he says quietly, shakily, trying to button his shirt back up with trembling fingers, “Sir.”
Jack shrugs in that callous way he has, the expression on his face making him look barely human, and every inch the bastard Ianto knows him to be.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Ianto shrugs his jacket back on, practically runs for the computers in the Hub. The footage has got to be gone. It cannot be here tomorrow. He was stupid for thinking he wanted this and stupid for a lot of reasons besides. His fingers dance quickly over the keys, swiftly removing the autopsy lab footage for the last half hour. There, fixed. Ianto allows himself to breathe again.
Jack is leaning against the doorframe of his office, watching him with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“I’m not a toy, sir,” Ianto says quietly, getting to his feet. He’s still got to get those scalpels sterilised, finish the nightly ritual before he can go home.
“No, you’re not.” Jack’s tone is saying a hundred things that Ianto can’t even begin to pull apart, but he thinks that there might be a slight apology in there somewhere.
The coffee Ianto lays beside Owen’s wrist on his workstation the next morning is very possibly the best cup of coffee ever made in the history of the universe. Owen takes a mouthful, and almost wants to groan from just how good it is. Strong, just the right side of bitter, probably brewed right down to the second for it to be perfect. But he can’t drink it. He doesn’t want to drink it. He manages three sips before he has to put it down, hands trembling.
“Is everything all right, Owen?” Ianto asks, tone utterly bland and helpful.
“Fine,” Owen says, and the first chance he gets he knocks the mug off the desk, cracking porcelain and sending coffee all over the floor. Even then, Ianto doesn’t react, calmly dabbing the coffee up with kitchen towels, wrapping the shards of mug up in yesterday’s newspaper (“Hey,” Jack says, “I haven’t done the crossword yet”).
“Can I get you another?” Ianto asks. Owen just about manages to meet his eyes, but can’t read anything in them. They’re blank and cold and impassive.
“No,” he says, turning away too quickly. “I’m all right.”
But, he reflects furiously, he isn’t. And he has no idea when it got out of hand like this, or why. He suspects that somewhere it’s Gwen’s fault.
Jack insists that Owen stay in the Hub while he, Gwen and Tosh go and investigate the latest reports of UFOs over Splott (always Splott, Ianto reflects. And none of them have ever got the hang of pronouncing it right, no matter how many times he tries to correct them. No one ever listens to him). If Ianto were in a slightly saner frame of mind, he would punch Jack for so obviously setting this up, but as it is he merely nods and shrugs. Owen’s got an autopsy to be getting on with anyway, and they can both take care of the communications if something falls apart.
Owen looks understandably grumpy about this (and who wouldn’t? Ianto spends anything up to twenty-two hours a day in the Hub, and he is now irreparably cracked. No one else deserves to suffer the same fate), but Ianto is not in the mood for childish tantrums, and instead goes to get on with the archives. Jack’s hate-hate relation with paperwork is making his filing job increasingly difficult.
There are no security cameras in the underground passages full of rooms of alien archives, compiled and badly-labelled by Ianto’s predecessors, and maybe that’s why it’s now that Owen follows him down the narrow, dimly lit corridor.
“What-” Ianto begins.
“I’m so fucking funny, aren’t I,” Owen says, something approaching fury raw on his angular face.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ianto says carefully.
“Of course you don’t,” he says. There’s a broken pause. “So, what, you’d wait till I was gone and then tell Jack about the whole thing, have a good laugh?”
“Owen, for god’s sake-”
“Because that’s all I really am,” Owen continues, “Something for your amusement. And you-” He’s laughing again, and the sound makes Ianto physically hurt, it’s so sharp and self-loathing. “You like sex without any form of attachment, don’t you? Sorry I made it so fucking difficult for you. You’d love it facedown, no eye contact- hell, I bet even kissing on the mouth was a problem for you.”
“You’re not listening to me,” Ianto begins.
“No,” Owen cuts him off, “I’m not. Because I’m fucking sick of listening to you lie.”
“Stop acting like a dick,” Ianto says, trying to push Owen away, but Owen shoves him back, pinning him to the wall.
“Shut up. I am tired of listening to you um and ah and generally fuck around with me.”
“Going to hit me again?” Ianto asks, temper flaring.
It’s then that Owen sinks his teeth into Ianto’s neck. Sharp and fast and he nips his way up to his ear and then back down again.
“I’m going to give you what you want,” he hisses against Ianto’s skin, more of a threat than anything else.
“Stop it,” Ianto hisses, trying to push him away, unable to forget that Owen has a dark, crazy side underneath the casual bastard he likes to play. “Owen, stop it.”
Owen’s eyes are slitted with anger and his nails dig in around Ianto’s wrists, too hard, too sharp.
“Don’t you dare tell me you don’t want this,” he hisses. And Ianto knows that he should take the opportunity to speak up, to clear this all between them, sort something out. But they need to be helping the team, in case something messes up, and Ianto can’t actually breathe.
“Get off me,” he snarls, pushing at Owen, who belies his skinny form and doesn’t shift.
“What, do you want to move to the autopsy room table?” he spits.
Ianto’s brain is starting to hurt, and he realises, suddenly, inexplicably, that Owen has seen him and Jack. But before he can explain, Owen is clapping his left hand over Ianto’s mouth, shoving his knee between Ianto’s thighs.
“This needs to stop,” Ianto shouts, biting at Owen’s hand until it moves, trying to push their doctor as far away from him as possible.
“I’m giving you what you want,” Owen snarls, “No attachments. No caring. You don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to.”
“This is insanity,” Ianto insists, pushing Owen across the corridor so that the other man hits the opposite wall, winded.
“Sorry,” he gasps, “I thought you were giving it away to anyone who so much as blinked in your direction.”
“That isn’t fair!” Ianto shouts. He knows that he needs to explain, only he can’t, because he doesn’t understand his relationship with Jack, not well enough to explain it. “It’s not what you think-”
“Oh, Ianto, I think it’s exactly what I think,” Owen mutters, pushing himself off the wall and walking up to Ianto again. He looks tired and mad and Ianto, for one moment, is almost afraid.
“Don’t-” he begins, trying to push Owen back, but the other man gets his hands on Ianto’s belt and is undoing the buckle. “Owen, you’re a bastard, but you’re not a rapist. Stop it.”
Owen flinches at the word ‘rapist’ and obediently steps away.
“Fuck,” he mutters, turning away, and Ianto needs to follow him, needs to- shit, he doesn’t know what he needs to do. But they can’t leave it like this.
Unfortunately, as they come out into the main Hub, they see the rest of the team trooping back in.
“Yeah,” Jack says, the minute he sees them, “Please don’t wear your headsets or be in contact while you’re in the Hub. Let us call for back-up and hear static.”
Ianto looks at Jack and then at Owen, who is already walking into his lab without bothering to say another word. He resists the urge to scream loudly and excessively, because everything has got complicated and Ianto is not in the mood to cope with it.
“I’m sorry sir,” he says tightly, “It won’t happen again.”
“It might,” Owen shouts over as he disappears down the stairs into the autopsy room.
Jack rolls his eyes, and Gwen is looking suspicious. Ianto suddenly wonders if perhaps some Retcon might salvage the situation somewhat; memory pills seem like a really good idea right now. He takes a breath, willing his calm to return.
“Coffee, anyone?” he offers with what he hopes is an approximation of a smile.