Double Drabble: Automatic
Title: Automatic
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Owen.
Rating: G
Written For: Challenge 585: Habit at tw100.
Spoilers: Dead Man Walking.
Summary: Ianto can’t get used to only making four coffees.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
A/N: Double drabble.
Arriving at the Hub, Ianto made for the kitchen, got the coffee machine fired up, and opened the wall cabinet, lining up five mugs beside Old Faithful, ready to be filled with the first brew of the day. He stared at them, a distant look in his eyes, and his shoulders drooped as he ran one hand wearily over his face. How long was it going to take before he broke this particular habit?
Shaking his head, he picked up one of the mugs and put it back in the cabinet, feeling awful as he did so. No coffee for Owen; he couldn’t drink it. What kind of torture must it be for their undead medic, watching the rest of the team enjoy their coffee ever day, their pizza, a pint at the pub, or a shot of the hard stuff after a rough day? All the pleasures of life were denied him now, he didn’t even breathe, or sleep, he just went through the motions day after day, like some kind of human automaton that might never wind down.
Jack should never have tried to bring Owen back, not using one of those damned gloves anyway. Owen deserved better.
The End
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Owen.
Rating: G
Written For: Challenge 585: Habit at tw100.
Spoilers: Dead Man Walking.
Summary: Ianto can’t get used to only making four coffees.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
A/N: Double drabble.
Arriving at the Hub, Ianto made for the kitchen, got the coffee machine fired up, and opened the wall cabinet, lining up five mugs beside Old Faithful, ready to be filled with the first brew of the day. He stared at them, a distant look in his eyes, and his shoulders drooped as he ran one hand wearily over his face. How long was it going to take before he broke this particular habit?
Shaking his head, he picked up one of the mugs and put it back in the cabinet, feeling awful as he did so. No coffee for Owen; he couldn’t drink it. What kind of torture must it be for their undead medic, watching the rest of the team enjoy their coffee ever day, their pizza, a pint at the pub, or a shot of the hard stuff after a rough day? All the pleasures of life were denied him now, he didn’t even breathe, or sleep, he just went through the motions day after day, like some kind of human automaton that might never wind down.
Jack should never have tried to bring Owen back, not using one of those damned gloves anyway. Owen deserved better.
The End