This chapter dedicated to Lady Analyn for continuing to put ideas in my head that won't go away.
And to Brionjae, sounding board without peer. Thank you Cyberdaughter.
Ianto's slumped against the back of the couch, eyes fixed blindly on the window. Owen can't bear to look at him just now, so he looks at the view, too. Cardiff sparkles beneath them. Behind each point of light someone plays, beneath each patch of dark someone sleeps. They wouldn't sleep quite so well if they knew all that stands between them and chaos is four screwed-up individuals with nothing left to lose plus one with no idea what she's risking.
When did the rest of them somehow make a pact to ensure she never finds out? And why? Questions for a more sober night.
Owen looks across at one screwed-up individual and wonders how he can care so bloody much about the bloke and detest him at the same time. Or maybe it alternates, because he doesn't hate Ianto tonight. Ianto meets his gaze. Eyes are the window to the soul, and Ianto still hasn't drawn the shutters. The trust continues to make Owen dizzy, unless that's the scotch. Or the vodka.
The silence between them seems to sigh, or maybe it's just the fridge going through its cycle again.
"There are people out there," Owen says, waving his glass at the window, "Who'd clap you on the back and tell you to go for it. With Jack. With anyone. Better to have loved and lost, and all that."
Ianto's eyes follow the movement of Owen's hands, until he's lost in the view again. "Guess they've never done it," Ianto murmurs. "Or else they're a hell of a lot braver than me."
Owen raises his glass towards the window in a mocking toast. "Than us," he corrects.
Ianto doesn't return the toast. His glass is empty and the bottle is depressingly close to matching it. It appears the party, such as it is, is drawing rapidly to a close.
They've had a jug of water along with it, or maybe two. Ianto obviously does have that legendary Welsh stamina, at least as far as alcohol goes, because he's steady enough to make coffee without burning himself, without even spilling a drop.
It's weird, Owen thinks, mulling over the night while the coffee mug warms his hands. They'd gone from antagonistic to playful – bloody hell, they'd sung together, hope he forgets that bit – to…..and even now he shudders from the painful honesty they'd shared towards the bottom of the bottle.
If this was a movie, there'd be dramatic music playing in the background. Or soulful, perhaps. Instead, they get some twanging country and western voice yowling that 'Oh Lord, it's hard to be humble when you're perfect in every way."
It's Ianto's phone ringing, and Owen laughs helplessly. If deep and meaningful was the bottom of their shared pit, laughter must be mean they're on their way back out. It has to be Jack. Who else would Ianto assign that particular ring-tone to?
Ianto stalks to the window again and the song cuts off abruptly as Owen tries not to snort coffee over his sofa. Unsuccessfully.
"I'm still here," Ianto says into the phone, trying to muffle his voice by placing his hand over the mouthpiece. Doesn't work. The flat has good acoustics. "Be leaving soon. No, he's OK, I think. Left the bar without too much trouble. Being a bit thick, but we can't expect booze to fix that, hey?"
Owen flicks him the finger, knowing Ianto can see it in the reflection from the window.
"I got some water into him, but he wanted a drinking buddy," Ianto explains into the mouthpiece. "I'd imagine he tells himself he doesn't actually have a problem if he isn't drinking alone."
Owen would throw something but his co-ordination is off. He settles for the finger again, and now that Ianto's given up trying to stop Owen hearing he's got a hand free to return the gesture.
"Of course not, Jack," Ianto continues. His voice is tainted by sodden indignation and it sounds, of all things, cute. The man can't become unattractive even when he's drunk. That's not fair, that isn't. "My car's still back at the Hub, anyway. I'll call a cab."
Owen has to think a bit to work that one out. Oh yeah, Ianto drove them back from the pub in Owen's car. Jack must have been telling Ianto not to drive. What a laugh. Jack Harkness, rule-breaker extraordinaire, is getting all tizzy about Ianto driving himself home. And while Owen's thinking, he watches Ianto's face change. It's softer, but somehow a bit stronger, too. Either he isn't scared anymore or he's doing a damned good job of hiding it. He's good at hiding, Ianto Jones is.
Ianto's moving away now, muffling the mouthpiece again. Serious about Owen not hearing this time, which means Owen's listening even harder. He can't catch every word, but he can hear the tone. Ianto's voice is lighter than it's been all night. Younger. More playful. Damned near happy. Something firms within Owen, something less selfish than he's been in a long time. He wants Ianto to sound like that more often and it's becoming increasingly obvious Jack's the only one who can do it. At least, the only person Ianto lets close enough to try.
Owen listens with half an ear to the disjointed conversation while considering what, if anything, he should do. Ianto's on the edge. All he needs is a bit of a push and he'll fall. Fall for Jack. Owen frowns to himself. It's a hell of a risk for a broken young man to take. Jack's a flighty, selfish shit most of the time. Ianto's right to be wary. Jack might well shatter him before he's done. How many times can a young bloke break before all the king's horsemen can't put him back together again?
Yeah, it's a risk. But the possibility pales against the knowledge that Jack may well be the only person who can put Humpty Jonesy together in the first place.
"…no need, Jack. Are you sure…Hub?...Rest, Jack." A chuckle. A warm, happy sound that makes Owen burningly jealous, only he doesn't know who he's jealous of, or why, or even of what exactly. "In ….dreams Harkness…oh all right." And whatever he didn't want Owen to hear is obviously over, because Ianto strolls back into the living room. "See you soon," he concludes, snapping the phone shut.
"That was Jack," Ianto explains, unnecessarily.
"I could tell from the ring-tone," Owen agrees. He's pleased to find that his snark is back.
"He programmed that in himself," Ianto says defensively.
"How is he?" Owen asks. "I am his doctor, y'know," he persists, when no answer is forthcoming.
Ianto glowers. "Fully recovered, I'd say. He's insisting on leaving the Hub."
Owen rolls his eyes, in a creditable impression of Ianto's finest. "Coming to get you, is he?"
Ianto doesn't answer, which is answer enough.
"Thinks you can't make it home by yourself, does he?" Owen snickers.
Ianto merely sniffs.
"Or does he think you can't handle me alone?" Owen demands, with amusement, because he's becoming progressively more convinced that the bloke in front of him could manage just about anything. Maybe even Jack.
"No, that can't be it," Owen continues, with a noise which sounds regrettably close to a cackle. "I've got it. He thinks I'm leading you astray, right?"
"You did get me half-pissed," Ianto points out. He turns away with a distinct air of discomfort, and it's annoying, because Owen can see the shutters going up, and he'd liked what was behind them. What could Jack possibly have said to cause the sudden turnaround?
"Oh shit," Owen croaks, choking back laughter as enlightenment dawns. "He's bloody jealous, isn't he?" He can't hold back the laughter anymore. "This is priceless. Jack thinks I've gotten you drunk so I can have my wicked way with you."
Shadows flicker across Ianto's face. Owen's careful to keep laughing, because obviously neither of them is going to admit that tonight the idea might not be quite as preposterous as it was a month ago. Or a week. Or yesterday.
"Don't be ridiculous," Ianto huffs, after a disdainful pause.
"I knew he had it bad," Owen says, wheezing a bit because he's not used to laughing this much. "But I didn't think he had it this bad."
"I said shut up," Ianto growls. But Owen's enjoying this too much to stop.
"I didn't know Harkness could get it this bad….. Not Mr Bloody Quaint 21st Century Ideals."
"Shut the hell up, Owen."
Owen didn't see him move, but suddenly Ianto's fist is wrapped in Owen's collar and they can each feel the other's breath on their lips. Smells the same, strangely. Like the scotch they've just shared. Like calling to like.
"I thought he likes sharing," Owen whispers. He doesn't know, not right this second, whether he's carrying on the goading or whether maybe he actually means what he's just implied. Ianto's eyes are wide now, and impossibly blue. They're staring at each other, facing off like a pair of tom cats. Ianto's other hand rises to grip the other side of Owen's collar. It might not be a punch he's about to deliver. Ianto's headbutts are part of Torchwood legend.
Or there's the other thing. They're still breathing into each others' face. Tasting each other's scent. It wouldn't take much close the distance.
Jack might kill him for touching Ianto.
It might be worth it.
Ianto blinks, once, twice, shattering the eye lock. He shoves Owen onto the back of the sofa and his hands drop into his lap with a thud.
Owen pulls his head in, literally and figuratively, sinking back against the sofa and wondering what the hell just happened. Or, more correctly, what the hell just didn't happen. Contemplating the folly of letting the wrong head do the thinking. He's drunk, and these things always seem like a good idea when he's drunk. But this is Teaboy, for God's sake.
Jack's Teaboy. And Jack's on his way to claim his territory. That's not like Jack. It's enough unlike Jack to be a warning.
Ianto shakes his head, the way you do when your eyes are blurry, or when you're dizzy. He shuffles back, away, slumping against his end of the sofa, eyes closed.
"You're such an arsehole, Harper. I damned near punched you."
Liar, Liar, pants on fire.
"It wasn't gonna be a punch," Owen answers.
Ianto's eyes flutter open. "In your dreams, maybe."
Owen grins wildly, but doesn't deny it. He has strange dreams, sometimes.
"You detest me," Ianto mumbles through the hands rubbing distractedly over his face.
Oh yeah, Owen detests Teaboy. Detests him like the little girl at school whose ponytail Owen used to yank every day. To annoy her, of course. To make her notice him.
That's probably why he picks on Tosh so much.
Owen lounges back with the grin still decorating his face. "Course I do. Doesn't stop you being pretty, though, does it?"
Ianto's hands drop away. Ianto's staring at him again. With disbelief. Suspicion. And maybe something else.
They're on the edge again. A different edge. Two broken blokes. Insanity to consider it. They'd cut each other to pieces on their various jagged edges.
Or would they fit together like a pair of lost jigsaws? Different pictures cut from the same die, all wrong for each other, trying to fit together because they've lost all the best pieces.
No. Better they pretend it's antagonism between them. Safer.
If Jack breaks his Teaboy, Owen can hate him for it. Nobly. With a clear conscience.
If Owen breaks Ianto, he'd never forgive himself. Owen's collection of things he hasn't forgiven himself for doesn't need the addition.
"Relax, twat," Owen says, the words crackling through a thundering silence. "You're pretty, but you're too high maintenance for me. Jack can have you."
Ianto eyes him uncertainly for a moment, then breaks into a filthy grin. "And he does," Ianto agrees. "Frequently."
Owen mock retches. Ianto slaps him across the back of the head and heads off to make more coffee. When Ianto returns they laugh together over their second mug. It was all a joke, of course. Just taking the piss. Playing chicken. Killing time 'til Jack arrives.
They're not lying to each other. It'll be true by morning.
I have no idea how much more there is. This keeps writing itself. I'm just along for the ride.