This Thing Is Built From Broken Parts

[nothing_rhymes_with_ianto]

Title: This Thing Is Built From Broken Parts
Author: qafkinnetic
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Owen/Ianto
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ianto wonders if this is his brain’s new version of fucked up, falling in love with the people he’s supposed to hate.
Authors' Notes: This story is way, way longer than I originally anticipated. It also took me forever to write, for some reason. Thanks to snarkymuch for betaing! The story was inspired a bit by this photo manip. This was written for the "rejection" square of my hc_bingo card. It's more hurt than comfort.

Somehow they manage to keep their weird relationship mostly secret, for a little while. Jack sometimes catches him in the archives, where he knows no one else will go, and they’ll have a quickie there, or Ianto will stay after everyone else has gone home. He and Jack will sip brandy and talk about Torchwood. Jack will tell some amusing stories that are probably mostly made up, then he’ll get that leer on his face that’s been hiding behind his eyes all evening, and they’ll head down into the Captain’s bunker for a much more thorough kind of connection. It’s all shallow fun for a while.

But somewhere along the line they must have gotten attached, because Jack’s flirting with him far more openly now, even after Lisa, and coming round to his flat with food and a movie. They’re not just fucking anymore. This worries Ianto because months ago, he’d promised himself this would never happen. He hates Jack Harkness for the apathy he showed the Canary Wharf survivors, for his arrogance, for his disregard for everything but the insular population of Torchwood Three.

Who was it that said the opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference? Somewhere along the line, he must’ve gotten his hatred all twisted round backward because something that feels like love squirms in his gut when he looks at Jack, and six months ago it was the last thing he would’ve wanted, but now he has no idea what it is that he wants.

But he doesn’t say any of that when Jack flirts with him in front of the others, or corners him by the coffee machine for a snog, insisting that the rest of the team won’t notice. Gwen does seem oblivious, and Tosh is probably ignoring them now in favour of inspecting the CCTV footage later, but he does catch Owen eyeing them more than a few times. He doesn’t look angry or disgusted; something else.

“You free?” Jack asks when Ianto answers the door to his flat. He doesn’t wait for a response, though, just pushes past with a “Good,” and sets a bag full of food on the table.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re wearing pyjamas. You didn’t have to.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not like you have a life, anyway,” Jack points out as he unlaces his boots. “You work for Torchwood.”

Ianto distributes the takeout onto plates and opens a couple of beers while Jack pokes around his flat. As he sets the plates down onto the coffee table, he wonders for a moment why Jack gets to snoop, gets to know everything like he owns Ianto, while Ianto knows nothing about him. But that’s silly because Jack’s his boss, and this is Torchwood, and maybe Jack’s a little entitled to know everything after something like Lisa.

They watch a movie Ianto’s never heard of and doesn’t really like, but Jack’s arm is around his shoulder, his fingers drumming softly on Ianto’s clavicle, and Ianto doesn’t think he’s ever felt this conflicted before, or this decisive, and it’s the weirdest thing he’s ever experienced. He doesn’t want to love Jack. He doesn’t want to feel like he’d do anything for the Captain. But he knows without a doubt that that’s exactly how he feels. It’s like breaking and coming together at the same time and it’s absolutely ridiculous.

“What’s wrong?” says Jack, prodding him with a finger.

Ianto shakes his head. “Just thinking.”

But Jack can never leave anything alone. It’s what makes him so good at what he does, what makes him infuriatingly attractive, what’s breaking Ianto down into little pieces of confusion and increasingly fucked up desire to please.

“’Bout what?”

“You, me, life, the universe.”

Jack’s hand slides away and Ianto feels bereft. “Ah, the big, unanswerable questions.”

“I don’t suppose you have any answers, oh great wizard.”

“It really depends on what you’re asking.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if you don’t know, then—”

“Don’t tell me you have no answers. I already know that. I’m not asking for any.”

“Alright, I won’t.”

But Jack’s hands are clenched at his sides and Ianto knows that Jack has sensed his confusion about their relationship—or whatever it is. He also knows that Jack is the last person who would be willing to discuss their relationship. So he lets it drop and allows Jack to lead him into the bedroom.

They settle down to sleep after a nice bout of sex, Ianto’s head in the crook of Jack’s shoulder, Jack’s hand settled comfortably on Ianto’s hip. In the middle of the night, Ianto wakes to find Jack has rolled away from him, curling into himself at the very edge of the bed. He stares at Jack’s back until his eyes fall closed.

Everything’s fine at the Hub, of course. Jack goes on flirting with him and kissing him and occasionally fucking him. Gwen still doesn’t notice, Tosh still ignores them, and Owen is still watching them, this time with something like jealousy in his eyes now that Diane is gone. When Ianto looks, Owen turns away from them, face dark and unreadable. And Ianto still has no idea how to feel about any of this.

Of course, then everything all goes to shit. Jack and Tosh are stuck in the 1940’s and Owen is far too broken and Ianto has no idea how stop everything from breaking down, but somehow, something inside him makes a choice and decides that Jack needs him and this is how it will go.

And when Jack does come back, he’s distant and depressed and doesn’t want to talk, and Tosh just smiles sadly at him and then glances away from Ianto. And Owen cracks a little further at Jack’s sharp reprimand, and then further still when the Rift decides to split apart, until he’s broken open and bleeding hurt all over the Hub when Jack fires him.

There’s silence when Owen leaves. Owen, who’s spoken what they all thought but would never say. Owen, who needs Torchwood to stay whole more than any of them ever will, but who’s been cast out for saying the truth. When he brings Jack his coffee, Ianto can’t bring himself to ask what Jack wants so badly to keep secret.

And then everything goes to ruin and Ianto’s mind is chanting Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, and Owen is on the verge of tears and histrionics, and Jack is dead, and then dead again. The coat hanging on the hook offers little comfort; the scent of Jack is partially hidden under the heavy smell of fear-sweat and death, but it’s enough. It’s enough until Jack comes back, because he has to: he can’t die.

The whole world is grey and listless without Jack. They repair the Hub sluggishly, like Jack’s death has turned the air to sludge and sucked the strength from their bones. Tosh still looks shocked, and Ianto is pretty sure he has a frightened, devastated look on his own face. Owen walks about like a crooked ragdoll, limp and broken, constantly on the verge of tears. Then Tosh’s face lights up.

The kiss Ianto receives is somewhere between a thank you and an apology, but too quickly he’s pushed away for Owen’s broken figure. He watches Jack holding his colleague like a wise father, and realizes that he still has no idea what he wants.

“Are you okay?” he asks, after, when Owen has gone to the loo to clean himself up and Tosh is back at her workstation and Gwen is sitting on the couch coordinating with the police.

“I guess. You all…I didn’t expect that.”

“Our worlds don’t revolve around you, Jack.”

Jack’s hand is clenched around his glass of brandy, knuckles white. “I thought you all understood when I said I need to have your complete trust.”

“You can’t, Jack. Look at all of us. You can’t have that from anyone here, except maybe Gwen. It’s Torchwood. Do you really expect us to trust you completely? After the things we’ve experienced? The things we’ve done and seen?”

“I need that from you all if I’m going to run a proper team.”

“You can’t run a team by forcing us to trust you. You don’t own us. And we can’t trust someone who won’t tell us anything.”

Jack stands up and for a moment, Ianto is terrified that he’s going to hit him. Then he leans over and hisses into Ianto’s face, “Take Owen and Tosh with you to the shop for coffee.” Then he walks away.

Ianto watches his back as he strides down into the morgue, shoulders taut, hands clenched. It’s his last view of Jack.

§

Ianto has been surreptitiously trying to sew Owen back together for about a month and a half. He sort of thinks he’s succeeding. Owen has mostly gotten over being shot, and has pulled himself together after the loss of Diane, the need for everyone to pull double after Jack’s disappearance outweighing his own personal needs.

And Ianto has no idea how things have developed the way they have, but somehow he and Owen have become closer to each other than they ever were before, than they are with any of the others. They take smoke breaks together, go out to the bars. Far too often, Ianto will open the door in the middle of the night to a drunken Owen, floppy and wasted, expecting Ianto to solve all his problems. Sometimes Ianto will sit on the couch and shove another beer into Owen’s hand and proceed to get just as rat-arsed as Owen. Other times, he’ll pour Owen’s wobbling drunken frame onto the couch or into his own bed to sleep it off, setting water and aspirin on the table for when he wakes up. Somehow, neither of them questions their newly close relationship.

It’s like all their fighting and animosity from before has just been put off to the side. And this is fine by Ianto; he’d really rather not fight with Owen. Instead, they’re spending nights in the Hub together, unwilling to leave, or sitting in bars with their heads together, pissed and moping and far too wrapped up in the world of Torchwood to check out random strangers. Gwen and Tosh go home to their own lives, but Owen and Ianto are together almost constantly. It would be weird considering their previous hatred. But this is Torchwood, and nothing is weird once your leader disappears on you without a word.

Ianto only notices how extreme this is getting when he realizes that they both have more than three changes of clothes at the other’s house and preferred food in the fridge. Of course, when he realizes it, they’re both half-asleep in Owen’s purple bed after finally rounding up everything the Rift spat at them earlier, and it makes Ianto jerk awake for a moment before he decides he doesn’t care right now and goes back to sleep.

The realization is still nagging at him when he wakes up in the morning. Owen’s cooking eggs for breakfast but leaves the coffee to Ianto.

“Do you realize,” Ianto mentions once they’re sat at the table with their eggs and coffee. “Just how much time we spend together?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Is it weird?”

“Come on, Ianto. You work for Torchwood and you think this is weird? It’s practically a requirement to have ambiguous, badly-defined relationships with our various coworkers. It really doesn’t matter.”

Ianto’s not so sure, but Owen’s looking at his watch and it really is time to get to work, so he drops the subject and follows Owen out the door.

It’s probably a bad idea that they didn’t talk about it, because it’s still going round and round in Ianto’s head like an annoying gnat as they chase down a group of aliens with freaky guns that shoot green lasers. And of course, because he over-thinks everything, Ianto is slightly distracted by his own brain as they all rush in to save the day, and some asshole of an alien shoots him through the right shoulder. Suddenly everyone is yelling, and shots are being fired and it’s too loud, and Owen’s hands are on him; and as he blacks out, Ianto has the thought, At least I match Owen now.

Owen’s scowling face swims into view when Ianto wakes up. His shoulder is throbbing, but it’s not the sharp all-consuming pain from before. He blinks to clear his vision, staring up at the doctor.

“You bloody idiot!” Owen exclaims once he’s realized he has Ianto’s attention. “What the hell were you thinking out there?”

“I dunno,” Ianto mumbles.

“That thing could’ve killed you! You’re lucky it was just your shoulder.” Then he shrugs. “Least now you know how it feels.”

“Shut up,” Ianto grunts.

“Is he okay?” Gwen is standing on the landing above.

“Yeah,” Owen helps him sit up. “But you’re coming home with me, Ianto. So I can keep an eye on that wound.”

“Fine. Can I have my trousers?”

They’re silent in the car on the way home, but it feels like Owen wants to say something, and Ianto can’t figure out if that’s a good thing or bad. So he just focuses on the throbbing shoulder and maybe starts to dwell on his weird relationship with Owen again.

When they get inside the flat, Owen wheels, and Ianto thinks he’s going to start yelling, or hitting things, or freaking out in some considerably more violent way. Instead, the other man steps forward and yanks him into a hug, hands clutching at the back of his shirt, lips mouthing something into his good shoulder. Ianto pats his back awkwardly until Owen shoves away.

“Don’t do that shit, getting shot. We don’t need another man down. I’m not going to be adding your job to the half of Jack’s that I already do, alright?” He sits down on the sofa, gesturing toward the door. “Now go sleep; you’re going to need it. Don’t bleed on my sheets.”

Ianto has no idea what just happened, so he goes into Owen’s bedroom, closes the door, and lies down on the purple bed, which is far softer than his own, so he should be able to sleep, but he can’t. He debates back and forth in his head for a moment, because when the fuck did things gets so mixed up? But he sighs and stands up with a wince and opens the door to the bedroom.

Owen is staring out the window, expression twisted. He looks up. Ianto has no idea what to say, so he just stares back for a moment before turning and lying down in the soft purple bed again, leaving the door open.

It doesn’t take that long for Owen to join him. They’re not wrapped around each other like lovers or sixteen miles apart on the mattress; they’re shoulder to shoulder because it’s nicer to sleep with a warm presence next to you than it is to wake up cold and alone and injured in your friend’s bed.

Ianto is nearly asleep when Owen’s thumb brushes the edge of the adhesive dressing on his shoulder, and he kisses Ianto’s jaw by his ear, whispering “Stupid git.”

Ianto feels warmer, and for the first time in far too long, slides into a dreamless sleep.

Somehow, without talking about it, they drift into a sort of relationship. Nothing like dating, because Owen and Ianto are not the kind of people who can date without too many painful memories. But there’s a closeness and the spending far too many nights in each other’s beds, and a sort of sloppy softness covering the usual sharp edge of their interaction.

And Ianto remembers that only a few months ago, he hated Owen. Hated him enough to shoot him, to throw petty insults back and forth, tiny but sharp, made to get under the skin like little slivers of glass. He remembers that he used to hate Owen, but now there’s something else in its place. Ianto wonders if this is his brain’s new version of fucked up, falling in love with the people he’s supposed to hate.

They’re lying in bed, Ianto’s got one leg slung over Owen’s, leaning up on his elbow to peer into the doctor’s pale face. Owen has stitches marching across the back of his hand, up his arm to the crook of his elbow. He’s staring wearily at the ceiling.

“Owen, what are we doing?”

Owen sighs, looking at him sideways without moving his head. “I don’t know, but I like it. Whatever it is, I want to hold on to it until Torchwood destroys it. And if you try to kill it before Torchwood does, so help me I will—”

Ianto pokes him in the ribs to get him to shut up. “Okay, okay, I was just wondering if you had a clearer idea than I do.”

“No. I don’t care.”

“Well, that’s good to know, I guess.”

“Just quit thinking about it. You over think everything and fuck it all up. Let it go.”

“Alright.”

And it does seem to make things easier. Strange, ill-advised relationships with coworkers are right in the middle of both of their comfort zones, so it’s only natural that they take this route. Once Ianto stops fretting about it so frequently, it becomes easier to live with. No weirder, but definitely easier.

The girls don’t seem to mind, or maybe they just don’t notice, since everyone is pulling double the weight after Jack’s disappearance. All have them have stopped looking for Jack, mostly because holding Cardiff together is more immediate, but also because they’re all starting to believe that maybe Jack isn’t coming back.

And Ianto really doesn’t want to start thinking that way, but he can’t help it. They’re all still lost and angry. But the set of Jack’s back and his clenched fists are the last image Ianto has and all he can think is that maybe Jack didn’t want to be around them anymore. They didn’t trust him enough. They never will. But strangely, they seem to trust each other.

It takes them five hours of running through Pontcanna and the surrounding fields to destroy a heard of huge wolf-like aliens that fell through the Rift and immediately started eating people. Tosh nearly gets an arm bitten off luring a wolf-thing closer, but her reflexes are quick and her weapons are strong and she manages to bring it down. They all haul the dead aliens closer to the road and heave them into the back of the SUV. It smells. Ianto knows he’ll be the one cleaning it out later.

“You know, one of these days one of us is going to get killed, or seriously injured or something,” Owen remarks as he gets behind the wheel.

Ianto hates it when Owen’s right.

He also hates it when it’s himself and Tosh nearly being killed.

The group of aliens currently have both of them lashed to X-shaped crosses and are carrying them to some quarry in Caerphilly. It’s fast approaching evening and their surroundings all look monochrome. The aliens are singing or maybe chanting; Ianto can’t really tell because it just sounds like staccato grunting. It’s all a bit too religious for Ianto’s tastes, but he can’t really say anything about it because he’s got a gag tied round his mouth. Anyway, he’s far more concentrated on figuring out where they are.

When they’re finally set down, he gets a good look at Tosh. Her jaw is set, and she looks terrified, but unharmed. He has the automatic instinct that she must stay that way. She’s far more useful and important than he is; she’s a genius and their best tech. He’s just the coffee boy and archivist.

The strange aliens—who look like a child tried to use a morphing computer program to combine a lizard, an elephant, and a warthog, and didn’t do a very good job of it—convene in a circle in front of them. Ianto can’t understand anything, but it seems to be a very interesting discussion. He wriggles in his bindings, testing them. They’re far too tight to even try to loosen. He glances at Tosh. She’s staring at him. He stares back. Then, very deliberately, she slowly lowers her gaze to her left foot. He frowns. She blinks at him. Then he gets it. Tosh has a tracer in her shoe. A tracer that will send a GPS signal to Gwen and Owen. A weight is lifted from his chest. Then the aliens turn around.

The devices they’re holding can immediately be labelled Not Good. And considering the expressions on their faces as they advance toward Tosh, they’re Not Good for a reason. Ianto wriggles and heaves against his bindings, hoping to make it clear that he wants to speak. Somehow, it seems to get through.

“Me!” he cries when they pull the gag off him. “If you’re going to hurt someone, hurt me.”

The aliens converse amongst themselves for a moment, and when they turn back, Ianto can see them grinning. Or, what passes for a grin, anyway.

A device that looks like a glowing potato peeler descends upon him, and suddenly his arm and torso are burning, boiling, it feels like he’s become lightning, like his entire left side has become an inferno, blistering and sizzling until he can’t take it anymore. He grits his teeth but a few whimpers escape, and when they take the device away he’s left hanging from his restraints, panting. Tosh is biting her lip so hard it’s bleeding, her eyes filled with tears. He glances at her foot. She nods almost imperceptibly.

The next tool that’s brandished looks considerably sharper, and Ianto hangs his head, closing his eyes in preparation for whatever comes next. But he knows whatever pain he endures is worth keeping Tosh safe and unharmed.

Except, jesus christ, they’re attaching things to his head and he feels like Walter Tell, only his head actually is the target. Two sharp points of something poke at his temples and he tries not to move.

Gwen’s battle cry breaks through the dim light and Ianto barely keeps from jerking forward in fright. He closes his eyes and concentrates on not moving, not flinching, not breathing, as a firefight of some sort rages on in front of him. He can hear Owen shouting profanities of various sort at the creatures. Shrieks ring out. Then all is quiet.

There’s a pneumatic-sounding hiss, and the points digging into his head disappear. Something clatters onto the ground. He can hear Tosh and Gwen speaking frantically, crunches of their feet on the gravel. He won’t open his eyes. Owen’s hands are untying his wrists and ankles and lowering him to the ground, checking his body for breaks and injuries, then sliding up to his neck to take his pulse.

“Oh, thank god for your tracker,” he hears Gwen say.

“Yeah,” Tosh’s voice is shaky.

“You can open your eyes now, Ianto,” Owen’s voice says above him. “It’s safe.”

Ianto blinks his eyes open. It’s still dark. There’s some light coming from the alien’s weird bonfire thing and Owen and Gwen’s torches. Owen’s face is above him, looking steely and professional, but his lips are quivering in a way that isn’t good. He still has a hand on Ianto’s neck.

Ianto groans. “Sorry.”

“About what?”

“Not having the right weapons.”

“Bollocks.” Owen helps him sit up. “You couldn’t have known. Can you walk?” Ianto isn’t sure, but he nods. “Good.”

Together they manage to get Ianto upright, though he’s practically hanging off of the medic. Gwen runs to get the SUV and they pile in. Owen examines him when they get back to the Hub and determines no lasting damage. The alien device only left slight blisters and an obvious redness, but no worse. Still, Ianto is feeling woozy from the residual pain and the quickly-fading adrenaline. He takes a cab home, not trusting himself to drive.

He’s mostly asleep in his bed when the sound of someone trying to break down his door jerks him awake. He’s too tired find his gun, but he goes to the door anyway. Peering through the peephole, he can see Owen’s drunken face close up, distorted. It looks like he’s been crying. He opens the door.

“Owen?”

Owen pushes his way in, then shoves Ianto back against the door, slamming it closed. He’s got his hands fisted in Ianto’s shirt, but the look on his face is one of fear, not anger.

“You could’ve died. You really could have fucking died.” Owen growls into his face, eyes bloodshot. He smells like alcohol. Ianto doesn’t know what to say.

“Sorry?”

“Don’t apologize. Don’t.” He can feel Owen shaking, eyes glassy, breath coming out in little puffs. Owen is terrified. Of losing him?

“Okay,” Ianto breathes.

He pushes himself away from the door and wraps his arms around Owen’s small frame. The medic clings to him, pressing his forehead against Ianto’s shoulder. Ianto rubs Owen’s back, the cotton of his shirt rough under his hands. He can feel Owen’s twitching, erratic breaths, the tensing muscles of his back.

“Hey, come on, Owen. I’m fine. Just a little red, is all. Come on. Look at me.” Owen shakes his head and pushes his face into Ianto’s neck. Ianto pets his hair. Owen makes little kitten noises, warm breath huffing against Ianto’s skin. His hands clench in the fabric at Ianto’s back. “Okay. Okay.”

After a few moments, Ianto’s feet are falling asleep and Owen’s fingers are twitching at his hips. He pulls away and presses the angular corner of Owen’s jaw with a thumb to get him to lift his head.

“I’m alive, Owen. I survived. See? You saved me.”

Something seems to break inside Owen, and his face crumples. Ianto opens his mouth to say something, anything, when Owen surges up and kisses him. His hands are warm and gentle, his left cupping Ianto’s cheek while his right slides along the back of his neck. Ianto is surprised, but this has been building for months, and when Owen runs his tongue along Ianto’s bottom lip, he opens his mouth and pulls Owen closer. Owen makes a small sound at the back of his throat, one that sounds a little bit like relief, but mostly like want.

Somehow they manage to make it to the bedroom, though Ianto can’t exactly remember how, and fall back onto the bed, dragging at each other’s clothes. Owen is kissing fire down Ianto’s neck and chest, his hands following. He groans when Ianto bucks up against him and pulls Ianto’s pyjama bottoms off as he tries one-handed to open his belt buckle. Ianto helps him, and then they’re both wrapped around each other, kissing, hands exploring. Owen sits up, groping in Ianto’s drawer for a condom and lube. Ianto kisses his throat, scrapes his teeth against a collarbone. His breath catches when Owen’s fingers enter him, and then he’s pressing inside.

Owen is gentler about it than Ianto expected, though he suspects it’s because of his near-death thing and not because this is what he’s usually like in bed, though he could be wrong. He knows Owen’s got a vulnerable side he doesn’t want people to know about.

Owen shudders and comes with Ianto’s name on a shaky exhale, lips against his. Ianto’s orgasm crests over a few moments later, a sigh, Owen’s name tight on the rough inhale.

Afterwards, Owen is curled up against Ianto, his face pressed into the crook of Ianto’s neck, Ianto’s left arm curled round him, his right hand stroking through Owen’s hair. Owen is mostly asleep, and Ianto wonders how often the medic gets the tactile reassurance, the physical contact he so desperately seems to need. Judging by the figure folded against him, clinging like a limpet, not nearly enough. He kisses Owen’s forehead and the man sighs. Ianto sighs in reply, hoping this thing, whatever it is, will go up instead of down. He relaxes and slides into sleep, Owen’s hair tickling his lips.

It’s not awkward when they wake up. Owen was drunk and now he’s not, but Ianto was in his right mind and they both still feel the same way about each other, so really, it’s not so bad. What they had before was so close to a relationship that this is barely even a hop. Owen makes breakfast (blearily, with groans of hungover pain) while Ianto makes coffee. They eat together and go to work.

This time, the girls do notice their closeness. Tosh doesn’t seem to care, but Gwen watches them touch and talk and laugh with jealousy for a little while before she, too, gets over it because there are more important things to worry about with Jack gone.

They’ve taken to sleeping at Owen’s flat because it’s closer to the Hub. Ianto doesn’t mind the exhibitionist windows, either. Like Owen’s hidden gentleness, Ianto’s got a bit of a kinky streak in him and doesn’t mind in the least.

Every so often when the Rift is quiet, they spend the day watching telly or talking, which generally degenerates to bantering back and forth, or catching up on much-needed sleep. It’s weirdly comfortable, and though there are still some edges (“You shot me.” “You called me a worthless tea boy.” “You set your crazy robot girlfriend on us.” “Fuck you.” “Sorry. I went too far.” “You damn well did.”), it’s softer and closer than they’ve been to anyone in years.

They soon start a game in the Hub. Tosh is probably completely aware of it. Gwen, too. But Tosh probably keeps the CCTV footage afterward. One of them will corner the other, somewhere in the Hub, and they’ll try to distract the other from their work for as long as possible, kissing, touching, pulling at clothes. It usually ends in fits of laughter, and sex or jerking each other off quickly before one of the girls comes in and sees. It’s a ridiculous and incredibly inappropriate game, but it’s one of those things that you do when you work for Torchwood. Fucked up games are never out of the question.

And then suddenly the Rift decides to challenge them. It spits out alien after alien, case after case. Ianto’s glad he already knows field medicine, because Owen needs to be patched up twice in as many days. The Rift has run them ragged, they’re catching naps on the sofa, then it’s calm for just a moment. Ianto feels a strange bit of dread at the abrupt stop, like the calm before a storm.

Then a Blowfish steals a sports car.

Ianto’s trying his hardest to ignore Jack, but he really does want to know where their leader was. Luckily Gwen breaks first and asks, so all he has to do is ask the other thing he knows they’re all thinking: “Are you going back to him?”

Jack finally looks at him; he’s been avoiding his gaze since he got back. “I came back for you.” Then he blinks, like he’s just realized what he said, and his eyes get cold and hard. He turns to the rest of the team. “All of you,” he amends.

It doesn’t surprise Ianto that no one else notices.

Jack’s friend (if he can be called that) is a menace, Ianto can tell already. A handsome, charming asshole and Ianto really doesn’t like him. The canister thing is mad, but Jack’s back and he’s the leader again, so they’re going to do what he says. Jack seems to think this is legit. Ianto thinks it’s bollocks, but then what does he know? Of course, Gwen pairs him together with Jack, and Ianto knows that’s all bad.

Jack babbles as they take the lift up to the top floor. Ianto listens with one ear, his head mostly taken up by the job and this John guy and what the hell is Owen going to say?

His brain tunes in to Jack’s chatter at precisely the right second. “You know while I was away, I was thinking. Maybe we could, dinner, a movie…”

Ianto raises a brow, searching Jack’s face. His features are nearly impassive. “Are-are you asking me out on a date?”

“Interested?” There it is. The insincere flash of Jack’s voice, the cold anger in his eyes, the distance. Ianto knows this is just for show.

“No, Jack. I’m not interested.” He turns back to his work. “Why don’t you take the roof? You’re good on roofs. I’ll work down here.”

Jack nods, once, eyes full of cool detachment. “All right.”

He leaves, and Ianto releases the breath he’d been unconsciously holding. He searches the desks, finding nothing. The ding of the lift catches his attention and he cocks his gun, edging into the hall.

The barrel of a gun is hard against the back of his head. “Get into the lift, Eye Candy.” John takes his gun. He gets into the lift. “Your friends are bleeding,” Tosh. “Dying.” Gwen. “You barely have enough time to save them.” Owen.

He presses his comm. unit. “Owen! Gwen!”

No answer.

John scoffs at him. “What am I, a child? That’s a primitive piece of technology, easily blocked. You should be embarrassed. And when you get to the bottom, run. You look like a man who enjoys a challenge, see if you can save them.”

Ianto does everything else on autopilot. Racing down the streets of Cardiff, he calls Gwen. There’s no answer. He calls Owen. No answer. The tracer on Owen’s phone says he’s closer. Ianto drives.

Owen’s been shot. But they don’t have time for anything, because Gwen’s not answering, and Gwen was with John, and neither of those things are good. It takes them a while to find her; she’s been poisoned, but Owen is a brilliant doctor. She’s up in no time.

Chasing Jack’s ex-lover around the Hub and then sitting in the back of the SUV while the man—handcuffed to Gwen—makes inappropriate remarks is something Ianto never wanted to cross off the list of things he’s done in Torchwood.

It’s gone dark. Owen is doubled over against the side of the SUV, hand over his wound, groaning. Ianto slides upright, using the car as support.

“Everything’s jumped back to the beginning of the night.” Jack announces.

“Like you were never here."

“Now we gotta avoid ourselves. Great.”

Owen is rocking on his feet as he explains the DNA samples confusing the disk, and Ianto has to restrain himself from moving over to hold him up. Finally, finally, everything’s over and John goes back through the Rift—not without some big flourishing announcement that means something to Jack, though—and Ianto feels like he can relax.

Tosh calls the St. David’s hotel and books rooms for all of them. Jack, Gwen, and Tosh turn back to the SUV. Owen starts after them, but he’s wobbling dangerously and Ianto grips his arm.

“We need to get you fixed up.”

“I’ll live.”

“You’re shaking, Owen.” Ianto gestures at him as if to illustrate. “You can barely stand. We need to get you patched up properly. More painkillers, too.”

“My place, then. Can’t go back to the Hub.”

Ianto slings Owen’s arm over his shoulder and Owen practically falls into his side. They stumble to the sports car. Ianto holds onto Owen’s hip as he opens the door. He glances towards the SUV that’s backing out. Jack is looking at them strangely. It doesn’t matter. Owen collapses into the car and closes his eyes.

“The box by the fridge,” Owen tells him, sitting down on the coach with a groan.

“Why do you keep it there?” Ianto asks, fetching the med kit and kneeling on the floor in front of Owen, pulling his shirt up to expose the wound.

“Faster to get at. Ah! That fucking hurts.”

Ianto is wiping the blood away from the hole in Owen’s side. He’s lucky it went all the way through. He disinfects the wound and Owen hisses at the sting, then screams through his teeth as Ianto packs the wound with gauze.

“Fuck. You.” He pants.

“You’re welcome.”

“That hurts like hell,” Owen groans. He helps Ianto dress the wound, then stands, wobbling. “Let’s get the meds and get out of here. I want to sleep.”

Their room keys are waiting for them at the front desk, but Ianto goes into Owen’s room and leaves his key next to the television.

“Christ, that was ridiculous,” Owen growls, kicking his shoes across the room. He pulls off his jeans and gets under the covers.

“You’re telling me.” Ianto is sitting in a chair by the wall. He doesn’t know what should be happening.

“Why are you all the way over there?”

Ianto shrugs, then strips off his suit and slides in beside Owen, who tucks himself around him, mindful of the bullet wound. Ianto pets his hair. They fall asleep together.

Ianto helps Owen shower the next morning, then they order breakfast and eat in bed, lounging. Jack bangs on their door around noon, telling them it’s safe and to get their butts back to the Hub. Owen replies with a generic insult and they listen to Jack’s footsteps recede.

“He asked me out on a date,” Ianto says, before his brain can stop his mouth. Owen’s face twists.

“What did you say?”

“I told him no.”

“Why?”

Ianto shakes his head. “Because he didn’t mean it. I could tell.”

“He didn’t mean to ask you on a date.”

“He wasn’t serious about it. It was just a pretence. He wanted things to be like they used to be.”

“Because how they used to be was so great,” Owen scoffs.

“That’s why I’m here.”

The Hub isn’t as welcoming the next morning, and Owen and Ianto don’t play any games. But Owen is receptive enough; Ianto serves him coffee and a kiss. It turns from a simple ‘hello’ kiss into something sweeter and longer. Owen’s hands are gentle on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Ianto can see Jack watching them with hard eyes, then he turns his back. Ianto has no idea what’s going on in the Captain’s head. He concentrates on Owen again.

Jack barely looks at him when Ianto brings him coffee. His “Thank you” is curt. He doesn’t sound hurt or jealous. Just distant and angry and tired. Ianto has no idea what to do with any of that, but when he puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, Jack makes it very obvious that he doesn’t want Ianto. Ianto shrugs and goes back to Owen. It doesn’t bother him. He got over it months ago.

They’re lying in Owen’s bed. They’ve got their arms around each other and their legs tangled. Owen is running his lips along Ianto’s collarbone. Ianto cups the back of his head. Owen’s breath hitches.

“You should go back to him.”

Ianto stiffens. “Why?”

“Because you’re supposed to be with him.”

“I’m not supposed to be with anyone.”

"You shouldn’t want to be with me." It’s self-deprecating. Ianto can feel the doubt spreading through Owen like blackness.

"But I do. Drop it, Owen. Please."

Owen does, sliding up and kissing him hard, and Ianto can taste his anger and confusion and passion. They cling to each other this time, holding on, clutching at the strands of whatever this crazy relationship is. It feels too final, too desperate. Owen’s name is on Ianto’s lips as they kiss, hands gripping desperately tight. Ianto isn’t ready to give up. It feels like Owen has surrendered the fight already. He tastes bitter.

In the Hub, everything is cold. Jack turns away from him. Doesn’t talk to him unless it’s orders or thanks for the coffee. Doesn’t look at him directly, not without those hard, angry eyes. Much as Ianto tries to hold on, Owen is distancing himself. It makes Ianto ache.

He corners Owen in the archives when the doctor comes down to file a new piece of alien medical equipment.

“What are you doing?”

Owen gives him an ‘are you kidding me?’ look. “Putting this away so you don’t get anal about it later.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re avoiding me.”

Owen won’t look at him. “I’m not.”

“Owen, please.” He crowds into Owen’s space. Owen’s fingers curl around his hips, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. He looks unsure. Ianto feels like he's drowning. “Say something.”

Owen closes his eyes. Ianto takes the chance to kiss him. Owen’s touch feels lost and desperate. He kisses Ianto back, though. He tastes like salt. Ianto lingers, breathing into Owen’s mouth, pressing their foreheads together. They stare at each other, close enough that they’re nearly cross-eyed. Owen’s fingers are gripping so hard, Ianto knows there will be bruises in the morning. He’s sure his grip on Owen’s shoulders is just as fierce.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“You should go back to him.” It’s the same argument as before.

“I don’t want to,” Ianto insists. He doesn’t. He can’t. Jack doesn’t want him. Jack doesn’t need him. Owen does.

“I don’t—” Owen swallows, closes his eyes. Steps away. He looks up into Ianto’s face. “I don’t want you any more. I can’t.”

“Owen—” Ianto can see the lie clearly in his eyes.

“Ianto. Don’t. Please.”

But Ianto is already moving, pressing Owen up against a filing cabinet and kissing him with everything he has left. The fingers of Owen’s right hand curl around the back of Ianto’s neck, his left hand on his hip. He kisses back frantically, like he’s gasping for air, his left hand caresses through Ianto’s hair, across his cheek. Then he pulls away. His right hand is still cupping the back of Ianto’s neck.

“I can’t. You can’t. I—” Ianto kisses him again. Quick, needy, hard. Owen pulls away, but he presses their foreheads together. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice shaking. His breath is cold on Ianto’s face. His cheeks are wet. “I’m sorry.”

His hand slides from Ianto’s neck. Cold air rushes in and Ianto feels bereft. He watches Owen’s back as he walks away. Owen pauses, looks back at him from the doorway. He looks as lost and empty as Ianto feels. Ianto watches him go. Everything looks bleak.

Owen’s voice drifts down from the corridor, a statement or apology, quiet and confessional. But it’s hollow and echoing, and Ianto can’t understand the words. He leans back against the filing cabinet in the dark and breathes. He can taste Owen’s tears on his lips.

Ianto aches. He runs a hand through his hair, sucking in a shaking breath. He feels empty, like there’s a hole where his guts should be. Owen is holding them in his hands, he thinks.

Already it’s breaking him that there’s nothing left. They all leave. And he’s alone and hopeless, left aching and reaching out for anything. But Jack is unreachable and Owen has pulled away, and Ianto has never realized until now the truth of the fact that Torchwood will always leave you broken and bitter, lonely with your cracks and your aching emptiness, wanting something that you’ll never get back.

Comments

[jo02]

This was a brilliant story - fantastic writing!