Fic: What would it take?
*facepalm* I seem to have written Ianto/Owen. To my shame. I'm sorry, Janto shippers. Much like certain others *coughep13cough*, I have allowed anger at Jack and his lack of correct attention to Welsh coffee gods to compromise my faith in him and the love that is Janto.
I forget who it was who first described Owen's hair as 'ridiculous'. Whoever they are, I owe them a debt of thanks for a perfect phrase.
Title: What would it take?
Rating: FRT. PG13ish. Language.
Pairing: Ianto/Owen.
'What would it take for me to get the good coffee for a change?'
Ianto didn't look around, despite Owen's unusually thoughtful tone. A small private part of him, the Valleys that famously couldn't be taken out of the Boy even after the Boy had taken himself very firmly out of the Valleys, whispered you could try being less of a cunt. Professional Ianto, more Cardiff and London than Newport and Glyn Ebbw, made a note on the inventory clipboard.
'Never call me teaboy again. My name is Ianto or Jones' he said flatly.
'Yeah' Owen scoffed. 'I'll call you Jones in a crowd in the Plas and half of Cardiff will turn around.'
'Ianto then. Most people manage.'
'Ianto. Ianto. Yan' Owen rolled the words around, as if he had nothing better to do.
'Ianto' Ianto corrected.
'Yan' Owen said, with an air of finality. He turned and left, probably not to sign the quarterly reports that were threatening to landslide off the pile on his desk.
'What would it take to get you to wear a t-shirt for once?'
That question Ianto didn't dignify with an answer. It got one less than a week later, anyway, because Ianto wasn't going to hunt through the grubby pubs and clubs of Cwmbran in tailored pinstripes. The old Black and Ambers rugby shirt and battered jeans also had the advantage of rendering Owen speechless for a full minute, and making Tosh giggle. Ianto pulled a dark cap over his head to hide his expression, because he wasn't sure what it was.
'What would it take to make all this go away?'
Owen waved vaguely at spilled pile of the paperwork- submissions to Torchwood 1, debriefing notes, relevant research papers, lab reports, plots and charts of sightings and phenomena. Ianto sighed and made a similar gesture of dismissal before sitting down. Owen grinned and scampered away, wisely keeping his mouth shut.
A block of chocolate appeared on Ianto's desk the next day, indiscreetly hidden under a class 5 sighting form. Not his favourite, the dark chocolate with dried sour cherries, but a close approximation to it. Dark chocolate with coffee beans. A good guess.
'What would it take?'
Ianto was not a fool. He knew by now that Owen isn't angling to move into Jack's office, or to have another awkward call to the Prime Minister covered. He didn't ask if it was a serious question or not, because the answer wouldn't be worth much anyway. Owen might not know, and if he did, he might or might not tell the truth. Ianto paused in his work, straightened, and thought. Being someone's second choice no longer bothered him. Many, many things no longer bothered him. There were some that still did.
Respect, Ianto's younger self said. The older one laughed, bitterly, in his head.
'Dinner. A visible show of effort. Clean sheets.'
'High standards' Owen remarked, idly playing with a pen. Ianto shrugged in a take-it-or-leave-it way.
It was hard to tell because of the pouring rain, but Owen might even have made an effort with his shirt and his hair. By the fire in the Plough and Harrow, a surprisingly long way from Cardiff, both dried out. His usually ridiculous hair was rendered even more ridiculous, all fluffy and clumpy, by the warmth. Ianto didn't smile at it.
Jack's hair would have looked ravishing wet, and dried perfect. Owen wasn't Jack, and Ianto found himself fiercely glad that his hair looked a little bit stupid.
They ordered Glamorgan sausages at the bar, both of them. An amused part of Ianto regretted that the pub didn't do laverbred, because it would be fun to see if he could get Owen to eat it voluntarily. The rest of him turned its attention to the basket of chips between them. Common ground between the tower blocks of Lambeth and the miner's terraces of Gwent. The little sachets of Heinz ketchup and brown sauce looked out of place in the old pub, with its thick whitewashed walls and ancient hearth, heavy leather horse collars hanging on the walls like they'd been left by the same man who used the plough and the harrow.
Ianto sipped his real ale and picked at the last of the chips. Owen's fingers had sauce on them. Owen had annoyed Ianto every day since the one they'd first met. Painstakingly, Ianto performed an internal search to see if he cared. It was liberating to find he didn't. It would be so much simpler, after all, to fuck someone whose good opinion he couldn't gave a toss for. He was pretty sure Owen felt the same way.
Owen's clean sheets were purple satin. He'd fallen asleep almost immediately afterward, which suited Ianto well and didn't surprise him at all. Nor did the way Owen pushed his face into Ianto's chest and closed his eyes- pugnacious little bastard even then. Ianto's fist closed into the ridiculous hair tight enough to hurt, and Owen didn't care.
Bastard he was, certainly, but Owen Harper hadn't wanted to be a murderer. Ianto could have laughed. Here they were in this ridiculous bed, being Jack for each other. They had played out the last kiss and the forgiving embrace for one another tonight. It was still going on.
True, Ianto mused, Owen was far less skillful than Jack, far less beautiful and completely without Jack's charisma, humour and charm, but the real difference was that Owen would still be beside him in the morning.
That was, maybe, what it would take.
Gently, Ianto smoothed down Owen's hair.
I forget who it was who first described Owen's hair as 'ridiculous'. Whoever they are, I owe them a debt of thanks for a perfect phrase.
Title: What would it take?
Rating: FRT. PG13ish. Language.
Pairing: Ianto/Owen.
'What would it take for me to get the good coffee for a change?'
Ianto didn't look around, despite Owen's unusually thoughtful tone. A small private part of him, the Valleys that famously couldn't be taken out of the Boy even after the Boy had taken himself very firmly out of the Valleys, whispered you could try being less of a cunt. Professional Ianto, more Cardiff and London than Newport and Glyn Ebbw, made a note on the inventory clipboard.
'Never call me teaboy again. My name is Ianto or Jones' he said flatly.
'Yeah' Owen scoffed. 'I'll call you Jones in a crowd in the Plas and half of Cardiff will turn around.'
'Ianto then. Most people manage.'
'Ianto. Ianto. Yan' Owen rolled the words around, as if he had nothing better to do.
'Ianto' Ianto corrected.
'Yan' Owen said, with an air of finality. He turned and left, probably not to sign the quarterly reports that were threatening to landslide off the pile on his desk.
'What would it take to get you to wear a t-shirt for once?'
That question Ianto didn't dignify with an answer. It got one less than a week later, anyway, because Ianto wasn't going to hunt through the grubby pubs and clubs of Cwmbran in tailored pinstripes. The old Black and Ambers rugby shirt and battered jeans also had the advantage of rendering Owen speechless for a full minute, and making Tosh giggle. Ianto pulled a dark cap over his head to hide his expression, because he wasn't sure what it was.
'What would it take to make all this go away?'
Owen waved vaguely at spilled pile of the paperwork- submissions to Torchwood 1, debriefing notes, relevant research papers, lab reports, plots and charts of sightings and phenomena. Ianto sighed and made a similar gesture of dismissal before sitting down. Owen grinned and scampered away, wisely keeping his mouth shut.
A block of chocolate appeared on Ianto's desk the next day, indiscreetly hidden under a class 5 sighting form. Not his favourite, the dark chocolate with dried sour cherries, but a close approximation to it. Dark chocolate with coffee beans. A good guess.
'What would it take?'
Ianto was not a fool. He knew by now that Owen isn't angling to move into Jack's office, or to have another awkward call to the Prime Minister covered. He didn't ask if it was a serious question or not, because the answer wouldn't be worth much anyway. Owen might not know, and if he did, he might or might not tell the truth. Ianto paused in his work, straightened, and thought. Being someone's second choice no longer bothered him. Many, many things no longer bothered him. There were some that still did.
Respect, Ianto's younger self said. The older one laughed, bitterly, in his head.
'Dinner. A visible show of effort. Clean sheets.'
'High standards' Owen remarked, idly playing with a pen. Ianto shrugged in a take-it-or-leave-it way.
It was hard to tell because of the pouring rain, but Owen might even have made an effort with his shirt and his hair. By the fire in the Plough and Harrow, a surprisingly long way from Cardiff, both dried out. His usually ridiculous hair was rendered even more ridiculous, all fluffy and clumpy, by the warmth. Ianto didn't smile at it.
Jack's hair would have looked ravishing wet, and dried perfect. Owen wasn't Jack, and Ianto found himself fiercely glad that his hair looked a little bit stupid.
They ordered Glamorgan sausages at the bar, both of them. An amused part of Ianto regretted that the pub didn't do laverbred, because it would be fun to see if he could get Owen to eat it voluntarily. The rest of him turned its attention to the basket of chips between them. Common ground between the tower blocks of Lambeth and the miner's terraces of Gwent. The little sachets of Heinz ketchup and brown sauce looked out of place in the old pub, with its thick whitewashed walls and ancient hearth, heavy leather horse collars hanging on the walls like they'd been left by the same man who used the plough and the harrow.
Ianto sipped his real ale and picked at the last of the chips. Owen's fingers had sauce on them. Owen had annoyed Ianto every day since the one they'd first met. Painstakingly, Ianto performed an internal search to see if he cared. It was liberating to find he didn't. It would be so much simpler, after all, to fuck someone whose good opinion he couldn't gave a toss for. He was pretty sure Owen felt the same way.
Owen's clean sheets were purple satin. He'd fallen asleep almost immediately afterward, which suited Ianto well and didn't surprise him at all. Nor did the way Owen pushed his face into Ianto's chest and closed his eyes- pugnacious little bastard even then. Ianto's fist closed into the ridiculous hair tight enough to hurt, and Owen didn't care.
Bastard he was, certainly, but Owen Harper hadn't wanted to be a murderer. Ianto could have laughed. Here they were in this ridiculous bed, being Jack for each other. They had played out the last kiss and the forgiving embrace for one another tonight. It was still going on.
True, Ianto mused, Owen was far less skillful than Jack, far less beautiful and completely without Jack's charisma, humour and charm, but the real difference was that Owen would still be beside him in the morning.
That was, maybe, what it would take.
Gently, Ianto smoothed down Owen's hair.