Author's Note: This is my first Torchwood fic and my first slash fic beyond the very mild, and it's an non-canon ship that I don't really believe in that much, so maybe it's not the smartest move for my premiere into a universe. But this song 'Thanks For the Memories' by Fallout Boy just painted me a picture of this story, and who was I to refuse?
Rated M for some sexual content and Owen's swearing. I never put in swears if I don't think they're necessary, but swears are in-character for Owen, so I had to write them. Please tell me if this ought to be rated T instead, I'm not really sure.
Also, I'm not British, and while I've tried to sound like the show, please forgive if I've failed horribly.
[*]
Owen has just finished putting on the last of his bar gear (without the handy alien perfume, nowadays) when three quiet, controlled knocks sound at his door and his heart freezes. For a moment, it's all he can do to stare in the mirror of his bathroom at his own expression, shocked, afraid, but at the same time, insurmountably elated. Because he recognizes that knock. He knows that knock in the deep crevices of his heart. He prays for that knock, every night, even as he dresses up with the expectation that it won't come, that he won't come.
He rushes to the door, hand stopping millimetres away from the handle. Why is he doing this? It's pointless, really. There's no way this will ever become what he wants it to be, and it only gives the one outside his door more power over him. Sometimes, when Owen catches those eyes, he swears he can see a challenge there, a defiance. Who does he think he is? Owen would think. But the sound of a single quiet footstep, a footstep moving away outside his door makes him jump into action instantly, not wanting to lose the little bit of hope he has.
"Ianto," he says quietly. The Welshman turns back, face completely impassive, and Owen's breath catches for an instant that he would never admit at the sight of the deeply intelligent blue eyes that shine next to the pale skin.
"Owen," the other man acknowledges in that voice that seems to control Owen's breathing and walks into the flat. His ever-present suit-jacket brushes Owen's wrist, making him shiver.
As he closes the door he berates himself. When did the Teaboy come to be the one whose touch he craved, instead of the multitude of glorious woman and men who could be found in Cardiff? When had their relationship become so bent and broken that Owen found himself following Ianto to his bedroom silently, and watching as that three-piece he admired so much earlier today is neatly folded over his chair?
And when did the man he'd once ignored and ridiculed come to be pressing into him while he keened in exultation, back on his own mattress and hands held above his head?
[*]
Afterwards, while Owen is still shivering on his bed, Ianto is taking care to put his suit back on without instilling any wrinkles into the fabric. The medic lifts his head, wanting another glimpse of this man who has, for some reason, become the center of his universe. It slips out before he notices.
"Where do you see this in a year?"
He's screwed his eyes shut before his own Cockney accent has finished bouncing off the empty walls of his bedroom. When he opens them again, an instant later, the Welshman hasn't moved. Slowly, though, Ianto's posture relaxes and he turns to face the still-naked man on the bed.
"This was the last time, Owen."
Even as he sits up to respond, angered and scared by the words, his heart jumps a bit by the Welsh twist Ianto adds to his name. "You say that every time."
"This time I mean it."
"He's not coming back!" Owen's raised voice bounced off the walls with a cracking reverberation.
Ianto's face still hasn't moved, and Owen's chest is heaving. He's been wanting to say these words for months, ever since he came to terms with the depths of his feelings toward the Archivist.
"He's not coming back, Ianto! He left you, he left us, that's it! He's a selfish bastard and he doesn't deserve you! Why can't you see it for yourself, you fucking idiot!"
Ianto is still, a statue in the dark room, and Owen is desperate. "He's gone, and I'm not! I'm right here!" He spreads his arms out, an offer, a plea. "Why can't I possibly measure up to the great Jack Harkness?" He shouts, his God-given gift of sarcasm thrown viciously on the last phrase.
Before he knows what's happening, his back is on the mattress again and those blue eyes are blazing into his. Ianto's weight is forcing him into the bed, and the movement was sudden and powerful enough to make him breath harder, staring into his lover's burning eyes. In barely a few seconds, however, the uncontrolled anger is gone, leaving an emotion Owen doesn't recognize.
Ianto bends slowly, and Owen breaths even faster before Ianto's lips touch his, tongue probing ever so slightly, just enough to make him suck a sharp breath in through his nose. Then those plump, smooth lips are disappeared from his.
"He tastes like you," Ianto murmured, looking into Owen's eyes once again, The medic doesn't understand the sentiment, but the softness there is almost enough to make him think he has a chance. Then Ianto sighs the slightest amount and looks aside. "Only sweeter."
Owen is frozen for the second time that night as the Welshman pulls away and grabs his jacket, pulling it on as he heads for the bedroom door. But Owen never could stop his stupid mouth from running, and he sits up on his elbows and says "S'that it then? It's over, nothing?"
Ianto looks back, one of those small, rare smiles that make Owen swoon curving his lips. "It's memories, Owen."
Owen shakes his head. Hypocrite. "Even though they weren't so great?" He asks wryly, sniping and begging in the same moment.
The smile widens, then fades. Ianto shakes his head, leaves. Lets his sweet voice flow through the door just before he closes it. "Thanks, Owen."
[*]
This is torture, Owen decided as he reclined at his desk. Ever since Jack had disappeared after Abbadon, Gwen had felt the need to fill up any silence with the sound of her own grating voice. Trust Gwen to decide that the lack of any interesting work wasn't enough, let's all torture ourselves with kiddie games. Listening to Gwen as she bragged about her last shag with Rhys, the former policewoman cajoling a blushing Tosh until the tech admitted having a thing going with a guy she'd met during some of her non-existent free time. Watching carefully out of the corner of his eye as Ianto chuckled at Gwen's attempts to tease an answer out of him, claiming impropriety in the workplace and other such nonsense. He didn't even glance once to the medic hunched over a pile of paperwork he'd finished at least an hour before.
"And what about you, Owen? When was your last shag?" He spun around in his chair, sighed loudly, the perfect picture of boredom and self-importance.
"We've graduated from snogging now, have we?"
He was gratified to see Gwen flush a bit, but the comment was quickly ignored.
"Cranky are we Owen? It's been a while, has it?"
Owen shook his head, feigning disbelief, while he was actually watching his 'last shag' pouring new coffee by the machine. When he'd been quiet for a while, Gwen looked about ready to jump in again, so he blurted out the truth. "Three nights ago, happy now?"
The girls giggled, and there was a marked lack of change in the pattern of movement from the coffee machine. "And what was her name, Owen?" Gwen remarked. "You did know it, didn't you?"
Before he could respond with a scathing remark, Tosh jumped in, grinning. "Of course he did, Gwen, he'd have to read their names on the ad in the paper!"
The two women dissolved into laughter again, and Owen turned back to his desk, scowling. That's what they all thought of him, was it?
[*]
The knock wasn't coming. Had he really expected it to?
No, Owen decided, he hadn't. That's why he wasn't dressed up for going out, his usual excuse that he hadn't actually been waiting for Ianto Jones, Teaboy, to knock on his door for a passionate and incredibly satisfying one-night stand. Because that's what they all were, Owen realized as he sat on his couch. Every time was a one night stand, he never felt anything for me.
He stood up, stomach clenched in decision, and found himself pounding on an anonymous door.
It wasn't until said door was wrenched open that he realized where he was. The wide, smooth face of Toshiko stared at him in shock, and he barged right in, nearly out of his mind with emotion. Anger, grief, lust? He didn't even know.
"Owen, what are you doing?" She gasped as he slammed the door behind him. Grabbing her arms, he pushed her to the island on her kitchen, the closest available surface to the door. He pressed himself against her, letting her feel the heat and wetness of his mouth on hers as well has the hardness at the front of his pants. He pulled away for an instant, reveling in the shock and dizzy lust on her face.
"You really think I'd go to the ads when I could have you?" He growled, and started pulling at her clothes, mouth connected to hers once more.
[*]
Hours later, the Asian tech expert curled beside him asleep in her bed, Owen thought about the last words Ianto had said to him in his flat. He licked his lips, a hint of Tosh's taste remaining. He was right, Owen realized. She can't taste as sweet as the one I actually want.
Owen burrowed deeper into the thick duvet of Tosh's bed, allowing a few tears to slink down his cheeks.
After all, it's not like there's anyone there to see them.
[*]
Okay, really don't know how I feel about this. I usually write happy endings, but this is what came out. Please tell me what you think, because I'm stressing about the characterization.