Author's Note: It started out as an attempt at a drabble and then moved into a bit of a humorous character study. This is dedicated to the awesome skellerbvvt of LJ, who has been poking at me to try my hand at writing fanfic instead of just dolling out plot bunnies. This is my first Torchwood fanfic and also the first time in a long time that I've actually tried writing fanfic. It's also the only one I've ever finished that wasn't a challenge fic. Go me. So if I never manage another fic, I can at least say I've done it once.
Setting/Spoilers/General Warnings: Season 2, post Reset. No spoilers, except that Owen's all zombiefied. This fic contains minor Gwen-bashing.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Stop reminding me. But one day I shall rule the world with a devious plot that involves shiny pants. Why not? It worked for Pinky.
A is for Accident
by: Penelope Tweed
There were few things that could truly aggravate Ianto Jones. Mildly irritate? Yes. Annoy to no end? Quite possibly. But push to the point of either physical or emotional outburst? Very rare, indeed.
It was his secret weapon, of sorts. Why bother plotting revenge when you could frustrate your enemy to death by being the picture of civility? It took far less plotting and cut down on paperwork; because while Torchwood Cardiff had always been rather lax with disciplinary action, shooting your coworker was still frowned upon. Even if everyone else thought it was funny.
Currently, however, his easy going nature was being profoundly tested.
If Owen made one more remark about his… condition, Ianto was going to do some extensive testing on the theory that one could not kill a dead man. All of this was the medic's fault in the first place. Bastard never could clean up after himself.
"Oi!" Ianto's jaw clenched as the chalkboard syllable invaded his ears. No other sound grated his nerves more. "Teaboy!"
He stood corrected.
"Yes, Owen?" he tried his best to sound polite. He failed.
"Gwen's looking for you." the smug grin on Owen's face told Ianto that his frustrated groan was the desired reaction.
'Bloody sadist,' the thought carried him through the motions of his afternoon tidy-up. Owen, who had little better to do, stuck close by. Ianto didn't dare look back at him, even if he could feel Owen's eyes sweeping his backside as he bent to retrieve a pizza box from underneath the couch. He pushed away the fantasy of socking Owen in the jaw when the desire to do so became overwhelming. Instead he allowed his thoughts to drift to Gwen. He bit back another groan that threatened to tumble forth.
While Ianto was grateful for the sympathy, given his current situation, he was quickly tiring of Gwen's endless compassion brigade. He didn't care if her heart was in the right place; he did not, under any circumstance, wish to discuss the pros and cons of under wire. Ever. He wanted to crawl back into the archives, nestle between Do-Ea, and not come out for a month. Hopefully by then Gwen would have found another special project. Some alien puppies in need of rescuing, perhaps?
"Don't be such a baby. As far as techno mishaps go, this is tame-- Oi! Can't heal, remember?!" Owen ducked just in time as a coffee mug went whizzing by his head. The crash of porcelain against brick reverberated throughout the hollow belly of the Hub. But anger quickly shifted to mild amusement as he watched Ianto storm toward the archives; a feat that was difficult to do in shoes too large for one's feet. And when one had to pause every other step to tug up their baggy trousers. It was hard to feel guilty about the repercussions of leaving an unlabeled gender-swap device abandoned on one's desk when the results were this entertaining. Besides, it wasn't his fault that the alien tech strongly resembled a pen. Or that he left an unsigned report on his desk.
"So," he called out, unable to resist temptation. "How's the bra treating you?"
This time Ianto threw one of Tosh's computer manuals.
And he didn't miss.