Challenge/Prompt: Written for misplacedmarble and fanfic100, 073. Light
Summary: Owen and Ianto at the end of a long day.
Author’s Notes: misplacedmarble and I were playing “Stump The Writer” and she couldn’t stump me and I couldn’t stump her, so we just agreed to write for each other. She wrote me some Ianto/Cameron and asked for fluffy O/I from me. I don’t know if this is fluff, but it’s a tiny bit established and a tiny bit cute, so I think it’ll do.
“Why exactly does Jack pay you?” Owen enquires with passing interest. “You’re so slow!”
“I’m thorough,” Ianto responds placidly. “And perhaps I wouldn’t spend so much time clearing up if people wouldn’t insist on leaving their rubbish lying about. There are several strategically placed wastepaper baskets, you know.”
“There are?” Owen looks bemused, leaning further back in Tosh’s chair. “I’m bored, Ianto.”
But Ianto isn’t listening, because he has just discovered what Owen has spent the afternoon doing.
“These,” he says, voice trembling slightly, “Are official Torchwood incident forms, and they have to be filled out by every team member after contact with any form of alien life or technology.”
“And?” Owen asks. He is a twat, he is such a twat, Ianto thinks.
“Would you mind telling me how I’m supposed to file these now, Dr Harper?” he enquires irritably, voice brittle, holding up the paper aeroplanes Owen has meticulously folded his forms into.
“Eh.” Owen waves a careless hand. “Use your imagination.”
“Can I remind you that I have enough blackmail material on you to go to Jack right now and get you fired?” Ianto asks mildly.
“Ah, but Jack’s not here right now,” Owen points out smugly. “Besides, if I got fired, who would antagonise you?”
“It might be nice if we got a tidy new doctor; one who is capable of putting things away and doesn’t feel the need to ruin his paperwork just to torment me,” Ianto says. “He’d have to be devastatingly good-looking of course. Nice bit of eye candy to improve the working day.”
“Ha bloody ha,” Owen mutters. “Look, I’ll copy the notes onto new, untouched forms if it’ll calm down your disturbingly anal panic attack.”
“Each of the incident forms has a serial number,” Ianto says. “It’ll ruin the entire filing system. Just be glad Torchwood One is still mostly rubble, or you’d be getting a slap on the wrist.”
“It’s paperwork, Ianto!” Owen exclaims, getting up to take the aeroplanes out of his hand and chuck them unceremoniously back on his messy workstation. “It doesn’t matter!”
“I’m getting increasingly attached to the idea of us getting an incredibly good-looking doctor to come and replace you,” Ianto whispers, unable to stop a little smirk crossing his mouth as Owen practically pouts. “The sort of smile that makes men, women, small children and domestic animals weak at the knees-”
Owen decides at this point to shut him up by pulling Ianto close and kissing him, the fingers of his left hand clenching in the back of Ianto’s hair, right hand resting on his hip.
“If you want to get laid at any point tonight,” he whispers, “I’d shut up right there.”
“Longish blonde hair, but not too blonde or effeminate…” Ianto grins, feeling Owen’s hand tighten possessively. “And a habit of wearing tight jeans. I suppose he’d have to have the world’s most perfect arse, and-”
Owen pins him hard against the desk, hard enough that the edge digs into the back of Ianto’s thighs, but Ianto is in no position to complain.
“Thought you liked my arse,” Owen mumbles against Ianto’s mouth, but he pulls away when Ianto leans into kiss him.
“I think I said that I’d seen worse,” Ianto replies, trying to get his wrists free of Owen’s hands and failing. “Jack could come in at any minute.”
“Yeah, but he won’t.” Owen smiles and Ianto tries to lean forward to kiss that smirk away, but Owen snickers and doesn’t let him move. “It’s just you, and me, and the pterodactyl.”
“Sounds like a great idea for a sitcom,” Ianto smiles, closing his eyes. With Owen this close, he can smell aftershave and formaldehyde and coffee and feel him breathing. It’s distracting. “Not at work, Owen,” he adds, more to remind himself. “I’m not shagging you at work.”
“So bloody unadventurous,” Owen mumbles against his neck. “Don’t know why I bother sometimes.”
“I make good coffee?” Ianto suggests, suppressing a shiver as Owen’s teeth scrape over his neck.
“So does Starbucks,” Owen points out.
“Now I’m offended,” Ianto replies, jerking away from Owen, except there’s nowhere to go and all he manages to do is bang his coccyx on the desk. “Ow!”
Owen looks almost penitent for a split second and then a wicked grin spreads across his face.
“Want me to kiss it better?”
Ianto glowers at him and then feels his own face break into a grin.
“Be my guest.”