Challenge/Prompt: 5drunkfics #1. Tipsy
Rating: PG-13 (just in case…)
Genre: Slash (with a big side order of crack)
Summary: While undercover at an alien-possessed wedding, Owen gets a little more than he bargained for.
Author’s Notes: Jack/Owen is full of anger and angst and that is why I like it. However, sometimes it’s nice to just write something where nothing bad happens to anyone, just stupid things. Uncontrollable amounts of stupid things. So… drugged!champagne crackfic. *grins*
The bride, or maybe it’s the groom, is an alien; at least according to Jack. While it’s true that Jack cannot always be trusted, especially when it comes to wanting to gatecrash parties, Owen has to admit that when two people are getting married, they probably shouldn’t mention World Domination six times in their vows. He thinks it’s six times, anyway. Jack is sitting next to him, crushing Owen uncomfortably hard into Gwen (no one should have elbows that bony, it’s uncalled for) and gleefully scanning the guests with his wristband thing, and it’s more than a little distracting.
Owen shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He hates wearing suits, and this one is being unreasonably itchy. Ianto burst out laughing for at least ten minutes when he saw him, then made an irritating amount of fuss straightening Owen’s haphazardly knotted tie, until Owen slapped his hands away, calling him a poof and accusing him of trying to feel him up. Ianto had given Owen a Look, muttered in your dreams, and it was only Tosh’s quick intervention that prevented Owen doing something unforgivably violent.
He is just not a suit person. It’s not his problem if Ianto is, and therefore wants to mock everyone else in the world who doesn’t look absolutely fantastic when trapped into button-down shirts and ties and irrationally itchy trousers.
Weddings are normally quite good fun, if only because all the women there are incredibly insecure and therefore convinced that no one will ever love them and marry them, so it’s easy to pick up a friend of the bride or six. However, Owen is normally not looking quite so formal and he knows that Jack will probably hurt him if he stops doing his job in order to shag a maid of honour (or two). Besides, this wedding is probably going to end in bloodshed, because the bride/groom is an alien and Owen has learned that this sort of thing never ends well.
While the photographer is leaping about taking pictures of everyone in a time-consuming and frankly irritating way, and Gwen is quietly wondering about the logistics of setting a Weevil on him, while Ianto tries to explain how much red tape they’d have to cut through, Jack tells them that he needs to get closer to scan and find out what kind of aliens they are. Owen nods like he actually cares and then, the first chance he gets, loses the rest of the team and goes off to lay his hands on some champagne. If he’s going undercover, he might as well bloody enjoy it for once.
He’s had somewhere around five glasses and even though he can normally hold his drink better than this, much better than this, the world is starting to wave and bend in a faintly worrying way.
“Alien possession,” Jack explains cheerfully, taking Owen’s elbow and steering him into a quiet corner, “So if we can force the aliens out, then the newlyweds should be able to go on their honeymoon none the wiser. Ok?”
Owen frowns at him. He knows that Jack is talking and saying words and they should, in theory, make sense, but they don’t. And trying to figure out what they mean is making his brain feel like it’s starting to trickle out of his ears.
“Fuck off Harkness,” he mumbles, because that just saves time all round. Jack looks angry for a split second and then just plain amused.
“I would go and find somewhere quiet to sit down for a bit,” he says, patting Owen’s hip in a way that seems unsettlingly familiar and under other circumstances Owen would probably hit him for it, and then he walks off, that damn coat billowing behind him.
“I’m not drunk,” he tells no one in particular, and watches a bridesmaid throwing up into a plant pot. Something is probably wrong around here. He just isn’t sure what it is. He puts a hand up to the comm device in his ear.
“I think,” he begins carefully, trying to find some of those useful word things, “I think they’ve put something in the drinks.”
Jack’s voice is very crackly when it comes through. “Owen, if you’d like to still have a job tomorrow, I’d go and lie down until this is all over.”
Owen wants to argue, but all his excellent comebacks appear to have dissolved into whatever the hell the aliens have put in his bloodstream. This isn’t a good sign, so he obediently stumbles off to find somewhere to hide.
In the hour that follows, there is a lot of screaming, the building rocks at least three times on its foundations, and half the windows shatter. Owen watches all this happen without much interest, realising that as the team doctor he is probably meant to be analysing what the aliens used to drug the wedding guests to make sure it’s not harmful. He is not supposed to be metabolising it, along with a lot of alcohol, on an empty stomach.
Then again, Torchwood isn’t exactly known for its professionalism.
Jack finds him sitting on a flight of stairs, clinging to the banisters in a vague attempt to make the world stop sliding around in slow motion. Jack’s shirt is torn, he has what is very probably green blood smudged on his cheek, and he is holding a bottle of champagne in his left hand.
“I sent Ianto and the girls back to the Hub,” he says, with a grin that really is too blinding for Owen in his current state of sedated-out-of-his-mind. “Told them I’d handle you.”
Something about the way he says handle makes a couple of the dead synapses in Owen’s brain wake up and spark in a kind of concerned fashion.
“What exactly have I taken?” he asks slowly, thinking about the words and shuffling them into a logical order.
“It’s like an alien version of rohypnol,” Jack explains brightly, taking a drink straight from the bottle. “Nothing to worry about.”
Owen is about to say something along the lines of how this probably is something to worry about, when he realises that there’s no point protesting against something that’s already happening.
“How are we going to get back to the Hub?” he asks eventually, because if the extraterrestrial date-rape drug doesn’t make them crash the SUV, the alcohol certainly will. Jack shrugs.
“It’ll wear off eventually,” he mutters, sitting down beside Owen on the stairs, offering him the bottle. Working for Torchwood for the last few years has taught Owen a thing or two, and all his self-preservation instincts are screaming at him to run away. Then he remembers that is actually physically incapable of running right now, and so he shrugs and takes another mouthful.
“This is a very stupid thing to do,” he tells Jack, feeling that someone ought to get that out of the way. “I should take this back to the lab, run tests on it…”
Most of Jack has green blood splashed on him, Owen realises, little emerald drops that sparkle in a way that isn’t reassuring. He suspects he missed what must have been a pretty cool fight. And then realises that he’s got distracted again.
“Deliberately drinking something that you know has been drugged is bloody idiotic,” he mutters, swiping the bottle back from Jack.
“You’re starting to sound like Ianto,” Jack warns him, but his voice isn’t exactly steady any more either. “Besides, it has fun side-effects.”
Only Jack could do something this ridiculous for the sheer hell of it and drag Owen along with him.
“What kind of side-effects?” Owen asks warily.
“Sensitivity to light, relaxed muscles, lowered inhibitions, delusions of grandeur…” Jack’s smile, even though it’s getting steadily more crooked, still manages to turn wolfish, “Increased libido.”
“You are a manipulative bastard,” Owen mutters, realising that he’s already practically draped himself across Jack without even noticing.
Jack just laughs, the sound blurring slightly.
“Drink up,” he murmurs.
This is too sodding absurd to be allowed to happen, and someone should stop it. Someone should stop it now.
“What are the odds of me actually getting out of this?” he asks helplessly, because although he’s not averse to sleeping with whatever happens to fall into his path, Jack is a line that he really shouldn’t cross. At least, not under the influence of an unidentified alien drug, and most of a bottle of fairly expensive French champagne. It occurs to Owen that it may be too late to back out anyway, his fingers are already curling around Jack’s shirt collar, breath coming in unsteady gasps.
(This stuff is good. He should really get his hands on some once he’s recovered.)
“Slim to nil,” Jack mumbles back, and this close his toothy grin is terrifying. His eyes aren’t quite focused, though, and Owen thinks this is probably one of the most inane things they’ve ever done.
It’s not enough to prevent him from pulling at Jack’s collar, dragging him down into a hungry and not-really-very-coordinated kiss.
Alcohol and alien drugs that make you horny. If it weren’t for the fact that organising an alien possession is both reckless and time-consuming, Owen would swear to God that Jack had planned this.