(no subject)
Title: Folded
Author: Unmikely
Rating: PG
Warnings: Nada
Characters: Owencentric. Though I tried desperately to Iantofy
Disclaimer: I own nothing. It is all for fun.
Note: 1.Planes. 2.Rifts, flying into. Yes, it is as heavy handed as it gets.
Jack has a quirky sort of fondness for Owen's skillfully crafted paper planes. He outwardly marvels at the accuracy in the tiny reproductions, acknowledging the unspoken respect suggested by Owen's attention to detail and ignoring the occasional abuse of important paper documents. Owen takes pride in the way Jack can easily identify each aircraft's exact model.
Tosh is quite taken by the little masterpieces as well, though her appreciation lies in the science of aeronautics and something else just slightly more grounded. Owen's pointy little fingers seem to have a gift for balance these days. She blushes outrageously on the catwalk, Owen guiding her hand with his as she successfully telegraphs a forties bomber into the gentle updraft near the tower basin.
It's the playfulness that appeals to Gwen. Owen's timing is impeccable for distraction, feeling out the tension in the room and shattering it by sending a fleet of paperclip fighter pilots to their fates. Gwen particularly enjoys the tiny pornographic drawings he occasionally scrawls on the tail rudders. There's something unspeakably charming about a man with a gun and alien body parts scattered across his desk turning to paper airplanes as the ultimate method for making mischief.
Ianto has never minded cleaning up after Owen, really. There's a sort of hangar cupboard in the autopsy bay, with the best examples of certain models preserved alongside crumpled fifty mission cappers retired from active duty. The hangar at least appeals to Ianto's sense of order and reverence for the past. But it's the wreckage that gets to him. He's undertaken hundreds of little rescue operations, fishing soggy planes from the rift pool, crumpled jets out of tangled wires, always smoothing out the salvageable ones and returning them to the cupboard for repairs, whisking the hopeless cases away for silent bin funerals.
And it's Ianto who finds him, legs swinging, arms wrapped tightly over the railing. He's got a box next to his hip on the balcony, filled to the brim with what's left of his collection of planes. A half empty bottle within reach. There was a time when Ianto would have sent him home like that, with one look at his alcohol-slackened face, taken his car keys away and shoved him gently out the door. It's hard to say what makes him crouch down beside Owen instead. Maybe the suspicious lack of airplanes littering the Hub floor.
“Watch,” Owen demands, although he makes no other move to acknowledge Ianto's arrival.
He's been waiting, it seems, for a witness. Ianto is the man for the job. He's never particularly impressed by Owen, but he's quiet and patient. He drops down all the way, only mildly concerned for what the metal grill floor might do to his suit, and sits on the edge of the walkway beside Owen.
Owen extends a forefinger to indicate a point in space.
“There,” he says, and he floats a plane towards the point.
Ianto's eyes are scanning. He's not entirely sure where to look but the white of the paper plane stands out in stark contrast to the dim light of the Hub at night settings.. His glance naturally attaches to it. There is a sudden sort of blue flash, small, like any lone indicator light on a car dashboard. The plane disappears. Ianto's mouth drops open.
“What--”
“Again,” Owen interrupts, and he sends a second plane towards the same spot only to have it disappear just as instantly as the first. A third and fourth plane meet the same fate and Ianto starts to feel sick.
“Stop it, Owen,” he says sharply. “Just stop it.”
He's almost rougher than he intends, hauling Owen to his feet and leading him down the stairs, one hand fisting the back of Owen's shirt at the collar, the other carrying the box of planes. He leaves the box on Tosh's desk and pushes Owen into her chair before turning his back on him. Ianto mutters under his breath while using the greatest care to move Tosh's things in the near-dark. A half-cannibalized circuit board, a scanner undergoing repairs, and finally a cloth-bound hardback book, which Ianto holds out to Owen with both hands.
Sensing more rough treatment if he ignores it, and too tired to fight, Owen takes the book being presented to him and stumbles over the title.
“Hiden Senbazuru Orikata.”
Ianto nods patiently, so Owen pages through the book.
“Oh,” he says. “Origami.”
Letting the pages fall back, he catches sight of the note under the front cover. Tosh's fine handwriting, elegant and simple, inscribed to Owen.
“In case you grow tired of planes,” he reads.
Ianto scoops up the box of aircraft and wanders off to Jack's office, leaving Owen clutching the book and looking over Tosh's workstation, the smallest of smiles breaking free in his eyes.
Author: Unmikely
Rating: PG
Warnings: Nada
Characters: Owencentric. Though I tried desperately to Iantofy
Disclaimer: I own nothing. It is all for fun.
Note: 1.Planes. 2.Rifts, flying into. Yes, it is as heavy handed as it gets.
Jack has a quirky sort of fondness for Owen's skillfully crafted paper planes. He outwardly marvels at the accuracy in the tiny reproductions, acknowledging the unspoken respect suggested by Owen's attention to detail and ignoring the occasional abuse of important paper documents. Owen takes pride in the way Jack can easily identify each aircraft's exact model.
Tosh is quite taken by the little masterpieces as well, though her appreciation lies in the science of aeronautics and something else just slightly more grounded. Owen's pointy little fingers seem to have a gift for balance these days. She blushes outrageously on the catwalk, Owen guiding her hand with his as she successfully telegraphs a forties bomber into the gentle updraft near the tower basin.
It's the playfulness that appeals to Gwen. Owen's timing is impeccable for distraction, feeling out the tension in the room and shattering it by sending a fleet of paperclip fighter pilots to their fates. Gwen particularly enjoys the tiny pornographic drawings he occasionally scrawls on the tail rudders. There's something unspeakably charming about a man with a gun and alien body parts scattered across his desk turning to paper airplanes as the ultimate method for making mischief.
Ianto has never minded cleaning up after Owen, really. There's a sort of hangar cupboard in the autopsy bay, with the best examples of certain models preserved alongside crumpled fifty mission cappers retired from active duty. The hangar at least appeals to Ianto's sense of order and reverence for the past. But it's the wreckage that gets to him. He's undertaken hundreds of little rescue operations, fishing soggy planes from the rift pool, crumpled jets out of tangled wires, always smoothing out the salvageable ones and returning them to the cupboard for repairs, whisking the hopeless cases away for silent bin funerals.
And it's Ianto who finds him, legs swinging, arms wrapped tightly over the railing. He's got a box next to his hip on the balcony, filled to the brim with what's left of his collection of planes. A half empty bottle within reach. There was a time when Ianto would have sent him home like that, with one look at his alcohol-slackened face, taken his car keys away and shoved him gently out the door. It's hard to say what makes him crouch down beside Owen instead. Maybe the suspicious lack of airplanes littering the Hub floor.
“Watch,” Owen demands, although he makes no other move to acknowledge Ianto's arrival.
He's been waiting, it seems, for a witness. Ianto is the man for the job. He's never particularly impressed by Owen, but he's quiet and patient. He drops down all the way, only mildly concerned for what the metal grill floor might do to his suit, and sits on the edge of the walkway beside Owen.
Owen extends a forefinger to indicate a point in space.
“There,” he says, and he floats a plane towards the point.
Ianto's eyes are scanning. He's not entirely sure where to look but the white of the paper plane stands out in stark contrast to the dim light of the Hub at night settings.. His glance naturally attaches to it. There is a sudden sort of blue flash, small, like any lone indicator light on a car dashboard. The plane disappears. Ianto's mouth drops open.
“What--”
“Again,” Owen interrupts, and he sends a second plane towards the same spot only to have it disappear just as instantly as the first. A third and fourth plane meet the same fate and Ianto starts to feel sick.
“Stop it, Owen,” he says sharply. “Just stop it.”
He's almost rougher than he intends, hauling Owen to his feet and leading him down the stairs, one hand fisting the back of Owen's shirt at the collar, the other carrying the box of planes. He leaves the box on Tosh's desk and pushes Owen into her chair before turning his back on him. Ianto mutters under his breath while using the greatest care to move Tosh's things in the near-dark. A half-cannibalized circuit board, a scanner undergoing repairs, and finally a cloth-bound hardback book, which Ianto holds out to Owen with both hands.
Sensing more rough treatment if he ignores it, and too tired to fight, Owen takes the book being presented to him and stumbles over the title.
“Hiden Senbazuru Orikata.”
Ianto nods patiently, so Owen pages through the book.
“Oh,” he says. “Origami.”
Letting the pages fall back, he catches sight of the note under the front cover. Tosh's fine handwriting, elegant and simple, inscribed to Owen.
“In case you grow tired of planes,” he reads.
Ianto scoops up the box of aircraft and wanders off to Jack's office, leaving Owen clutching the book and looking over Tosh's workstation, the smallest of smiles breaking free in his eyes.