This chapter is mostly setting the scene for 'the talk'. A bit of a filler really, to give them blokey time to work up to actually talking. Hope you enjoy.
Owen's slumped against the arm of the sofa, wondering whether he'll be able to make it into bed tonight, or whether he'll just pass out right where he is. It probably depends on whether Ianto can be bothered extending his charity mission as far as dragging Owen into another room, 'cause right at the moment it's pretty unlikely he'll drag his arse off the sofa under his own steam. And of course he isn't going to ask for help.
He'll be fine on the sofa. Probably best to stay here, really, given that he's currently in that weird, wired, state where his body is knackered but his mind's still buzzing. Booze does that, much as people try to claim it relaxes them. As a doctor, Owen knows that's crap. Alcohol is a stimulant and the proof is racing around his brain right now. Even if Ianto does stop and help him across the flat into the bedroom, he'd probably just lie there for hours watching while the ceiling pretends it's a lava lamp.
The sound of footsteps says Ianto is headed for the door. Sofa it is then. Owen isn't going to look up as the other man leaves, though. Not going to say goodbye, or thank you. Or, God forbid, break down and ask the little twerp to keep him company for a bit longer.
No, the only way Owen can face work tomorrow is if he maintains the illusion that he only let himself be escorted home so as not to cause a fuss. It's a favor to them, not to him. Owen doesn't need help. Owen doesn't need rescuing. He's fine, thank you very much.
The footsteps pause. "Anything else you need, Owen?" He'd kind of expected the offer, but he'd assumed it would be delivered in that fake-polite 'please don't take me up on this' tone. Only it's not. It sounds suspiciously genuine, maybe even hopeful.
Now that, thinks Owen, is odd. Ianto's done his duty. He should be eager to get the hell out of here and get back to Jack, shouldn't he?
But look at him (not that Owen's looking, mind) dragging his feet on his way out. It occurs to Owen - possibly as a product of his over-stimulated brain - that Ianto is in fact stalling for time before he has to go back to Jack.
The notion brings Owen's head up, like a hound on a scent, which is an amusing analogy, except he hasn't decided if he's a wolf scenting prey or a St Bernard on a rescue. Something's not right, though. Something's off about the whole night, and it's not just Owen's stomach.
Ianto's just had his - err, whatever the hell Jack is to him - die in his arms. And resurrect, of course. Traumatic, regardless, and the poor bloke's alone in the Hub. Owen would bet half his liquor cabinet that Jack sent Ianto after him with one of those painted-on smiles and a booming fake reassurance. All of which Ianto could see right through, always had. Except tonight he'd smiled back, equally as fake, and left Jack alone while he ran off to minister to someone he didn't even like.
Owen would bet the other half of his booze that Ianto managed to make Jack think it was his own idea. Probably made the poor sap order him to do it, too. Sneaky sod.
But what sort of man does that?
A terribly screwed-up one, that's what. Owen's eyes narrow as he watches Ianto shift from foot to foot and quite suddenly he knows exactly what's going on here. Whatever happened with Jack tonight, it's pushed Ianto too close to the edge, and he's bolted. Owen knows. He's been there.
Diane had Owen on that very same edge. Balancing on one foot and terrified of stepping either way. She'd done him a favor, really, taking off in her plane, because now he'll never have to decide whether he was too much of a coward to step over the edge with her.
Stepping backwards was safer. Back to meaningless shags and too-loud laughter and enough booze to sleep without dreams. Forwards lay the abyss romance novels and Disney movies thrive on. It is real, that kind of love. Owen knows it's real. He had it, he lived it, and when it died the best of him went with it. Ianto knows it's real too. He lived it and fought for it and nearly killed them all to keep it.
Yeah, fairytale love is real. But it never ends in happily ever after.
-XXX-
Ianto watches Owen watching him. There's suspicion in that blue gaze, and a touch of calculation. It's ridiculous and confronting and a bit like looking into a mirror, because Owen knows he's looking at Ianto exactly the same way. Ianto breaks eye contact and draws his lower lip between his teeth and if Owen doesn't say something soon the sorry git might chew right through it. This, as a doctor, as Ianto's doctor, is something he's duty-bound to prevent, so he throws out a lifeline. Or tosses a bone, he corrects himself, remembering his earlier analogy. Wolf or St Bernard – looks like he's a rescue dog tonight. And if that's the case someone's forgotten the keg of brandy.
"I could use some more water," Owen says offhandedly, waving his empty glass.
"I'll fill a jug," Ianto offers. "You'll probably drink more of it if you don't have to go looking."
Owen watches the Welshman depart on his errand with a much lighter step and now he knows beyond doubt Ianto's using him as an excuse to delay returning to Jack. But for some reason that's OK. Owen doesn't mind if Ianto stays for a while. Actually, he kind of wants him to. Not that Owen's lonely or anything. The bloke's obviously freaking out, which makes it his duty as Ianto's doctor to find out what's wrong.
"You should have some yourself," Owen calls, without much conviction. Ianto's barely had one glass of booze and he probably possesses that legendary Welsh tolerance for alcohol anyway. He's in bugger all danger of dehydration. It's just to give the bloke an excuse to stay, as he obviously wants to. Maybe even needs to.
Truth is; they need each other tonight. Trouble is; which of them can swallow their pride enough to admit it? Not Owen. He'd rather swallow another bottle of Smirnoff, heaving stomach or not. And he suspects, no, he knows, that Ianto's just as stubborn.
So Owen merely watches his fingers twist around each other and waits for a response. His weak excuse hangs in the air, almost visibly, as if someone had written it there in spray-paint, looking more like a plea every second. When he finally looks up again, Ianto's back in the lounge room, with a jug of water and spare glasses resting on a tray Owen didn't know he owned.
Ianto's looking back at him, with eyes that cut right in to his soul, and suddenly Owen doesn't care what Ianto sees there. Because, for the first time he can remember, the shutters are gone from over those painfully blue eyes, and it's all there for him to see, too, and he can't remember the last time someone's trusted him that much.
Of course they'll both pretend this isn't happening. 'Cause it isn't really. It's the booze. Sure, Ianto hasn't had any yet, but he will, if for no other reason than to provide a cover story. It's not like they actually trust each other. Nothing they might accidentally say tonight is the truth anyway. Just winding each other up. They damn near hate each other, and they'll remember that. Tomorrow.
"Just have a bloody drink with me," Owen grouches. "Be a man instead of a babysitter, for gods-sake."
Ianto drops onto the sofa, flopping over the other arm like someone's cut his strings. "Got any Scotch?"
They smile. Twisted smiles, upside-down frowns, each offering the other a mental pact that tonight will never be spoken of, a pact signed and sealed through the quirk of an eyebrow.
More soon. Next chapter's kind-of written. Thanks!
