I didn't actually plan to add any more chapters to this, but Lady Analyn suggested in a review that the boys should have a talk, and the idea got stuck in my head and wouldn't leave. So here it is, (well part of it, there's more in the works) and I hope it does the suggestion justice.


It's one of those days. There was a bad one. Too close to home. Some poor sod possessed by an alien parasite, and wouldn't you know the damned thing lodged in the brain. And it killed the host when Owen tried to remove it. Déjà vu, in spades. At least it wasn't a woman.

Still, way too close. So here Owen is again, watching the pub swirl around him. About as drunk as he's going to get before passing out, so the Knights in the Black SUV should arrive any minute.

Owen contemplates the colorless liquid in the bottom of his glass. Maybe two mouthfuls left. He can have another sip, then. It's a matter of pride that he makes his keepers wait while he finishes his drink. Can't let them think he's actually waiting for them.

The vodka slides down smoothly. Owen's not surprised he can't feel the burn any more. He's far gone enough not to try standing up unassisted and his throat's numb. He hasn't had that much tonight, but there's been a decent gap between bouts, and it seems to have affected the Harper tolerance levels.

He has no idea how long ago the last time was. Doesn't keep track. Less than a year, more than a month. Long enough to hope he was getting past this stage, that he wasn't finding a trigger so often. But once again Katie's dress lies crumpled on the wardrobe floor, waiting for his hung-over self to find and store it carefully away, until the bell tolls for the next round of self-flagellation.

Owen's grateful that he's at least trained himself not to try to put the dress away while drunk. The last time he did that, there was a day of penance involving a steam iron with accompanying weird-legged ironing board. Both of which he'd had to borrow from Ianto, Owen not being the sort to own anything so domestic as an iron. And even after Ianto morphed back into Teaboy he retained the tact not to mention it. Owen refuses to be grateful. He owes Teaboy nothing, except possibly discretion, and only selected instances of that.

The pub door creaks open with a sobering blast of cold air. Owen looks up blearily, and here's a new one for the booze goggles to interpret - he's seeing single. Ianto walks in alone. No Jack, no matter how hard Owen rubs his eyes and looks again. Unsettling, that. You just don't see those two apart any more. They come in pairs, like gloves.

Ianto shakes the rain off his coat and hangs it on a hook near the door. Eyes roam the room, settle on Owen huddled in a corner.

The other seat at the table screeches against the wooden floor. Owen used to wonder how Ianto knew the difference between the times he's ready to be taken home and the times he needs to talk. Jack never had the slightest idea, which was why he'd occasionally had to knock Owen out to get him home.

Owen doesn't wonder anymore. No point. Ianto knows everything. It's an unwritten law of the universe.

"Where's Tweedle-dum?" Owen asks, as the younger man settles into the chair.

Ianto raises an eyebrow. "I'm flattered. I'd have thought you'd save Tweedle-dum for me."

Owen waves his glass. "He's Tweedle-dum, you're Tweedle-dumber, see?"

Ianto chuckles softly. "You're actually amusing when you're plastered, did you know that?"

"Shameless flatterer," Owen grunts, tipping his glass to catch the final mouthful.

The barmaid approaches with a tray. Owen didn't notice Ianto order, but he must have, somewhere between the coat rack and the table. The barmaid's a bit of all right, but she'd been avoiding Owen for at least the last hour. Not that he blames her. He's well past the point where 'Responsible Serving of Alcohol' would allow him a refill, and should probably be thankful she hasn't had him thrown out yet.

There's a glass for each of them. Owen's might look like vodka, but Ianto's done this to him before, when he'd been at the belligerent stage, and he knows it's just water. Feels bloody good on his parched throat though.

Ianto takes a swallow of something straw-colored. Scotch, perhaps, or maybe brandy. The remains of Owen's powers of observation make a valiant attempt to focus. Ianto knocking back spirits on a mission to collect the drunken doctor doesn't bode well.

"So," Owen drawls, eyes fixed on Ianto's face. "Where is he?"

Ianto sets the glass down with a sigh. "Recovering," he answers.

Owen waves his glass at the other man, in a manner that might be threatening if the water wasn't sloshing onto the table. "From what?" he insists.

"There was a Blowfish," Ianto responds tiredly. "Who seemed curious as to whether he could get an entire clip into Jack's belly."

Owen grimaced. "Jack died then." A statement, not a question. No wonder Ianto's indulging in some steadying spirit tonight. A gut wound meant one of two things. Either Ianto held Jack through a slow, agonizing death, or he'd applied what used to be called the Mercy Thrust. Mercy Shot, you'd have to call it now. Either way, Ianto's earned a drink.

"He died," Ianto agreed. He's looking right at Owen but even drunk the doctor can tell the other man isn't seeing him. "It went for me, and Jack did the All-American Hero thing and threw himself in the way." Ianto tips his glass again. Owen watches the way his throat jerks as he swallows, and it isn't just the booze burning.

"Annoying habit of his," Owen agrees, raising his water in a toast to the absent hero. It's not the first time Jack's taken a hit for one of the team. Owen wonders if he's the only one who's noticed it happens more often when Ianto's the one in danger. And he also wonders if Ianto ever feels guilty that he can't - or is that won't? - fall in love with someone who'd die for him. And frequently does.

"You'd think," Ianto continues, taking another sip. "That I don't know how to fire a gun myself."

Owen gives his drunken best impression of shock. "You mean you can?"

For answer, Ianto gazes steadily at Owen's shoulder. Owen laughs the high-pitched, overloud laugh of the extremely sodden. He's really done a number on himself tonight. But he appears to be having an in-depth conversation here, so he attempts to concentrate on it.

"I still reckon you were aiming for my heart, that time," Owen says, trying to goad Ianto into he doesn't really know what. Just for the fun of getting a reaction out of Mr. Stuffed Shirt, perhaps.

Ianto only arches the eyebrow again. "I shoot straight enough to put one between that Blowfish's eyes tonight," he says. It'd be bragging in anyone else, but Ianto might be commenting on the weather rather than the fact that he's executed an alien. "Before it emptied the entire clip into him," Ianto adds. "Not that it made much difference."

Owen toasts Ianto, this time. But he still hasn't explained Jack's absence, and Owen's got the stubbornness of the inebriated to help him ignore the warning signs.

"Is he still dead?" Owen asks curiously.

Ianto actually sniffs. A sign of major offence. Owen adds a point to his side of the imaginary scoreboard.

"I wouldn't have left him alone if he was still dead," Ianto says, voice gritty with what Owen intends to assume is annoyance.

"But it was hard on him and he needed some rest," Ianto continues, daring Owen to disagree. Which he won't, having belatedly realised Ianto might clock him one to shut him up if he keeps on.

"So I said I'd come by myself," Ianto concludes. "I think he was relieved, to be honest." The blue eyes glint with humor. "I'm under orders to call him if you get difficult."

"Can't handle me alone, huh?" Owen asks smugly, downing the rest of his water.

"He'd like to think not," Ianto agrees. At which he contemplates his knuckles. "But I think I'd manage, somehow. You ready for home, yet?"

Owen might be drunk, but he knows better than to argue. He's seen the effect of Ianto's right hook. The pleasure he'd get from winding Ianto up isn't worth adding a bruised and aching jaw to the spectacular headache he'll have tomorrow.

-XXX-

The keys are being difficult, or else the keyhole's shrunk. Ianto sighs heavily and the keys disappear from Owen's hand. Ianto unlocks the door and stands back for Owen to enter. Owen snickers. It's like being on a date, and Ianto's the perfect gentleman.

This is the point where Jack used to throw him on the sofa and lock the door behind him. Ianto's far more solicitous. A born carer, as the girls say.

There's more water, with Vitamin B pills to take the edge off the approaching hangover, and help with knotted shoelaces. It's not like a date now, more like being a child, and it burns that Ianto's gentler than Mum ever was. Mum has a place in Owen's head hung with neon signs saying Don't Go There, so he doesn't. He'd love to distract himself by tormenting the Teaboy, but Teaboy isn't here. Ianto's in the spare room, brushing carpet fluff off the velvet.

Jack's never done that. Owen thinks he might've killed Jack for touching the dress. But Ianto's smoothing the dress onto its padded hanger and all Owen's fighting with is a sob of relief that he won't have to face it in the morning.

"In this wardrobe?" Ianto calls softly.

"Garment bag first," Owen croaks back.

There's the sound of a zip, and grief goes back into its bag, until next time.

Like I said, one more in the offing. Thanks for reading.