The Velocity Of A Kebab [5/7]
Title: The Velocity Of A Kebab
Rating: Teen [language and sexual situations]
Characters: PC Andy/Tosh, Owen, Jack, Ianto, Rhys
Advisories: AU, character death
Disclaimer: I'm denying I speak English at this point
Note: Written for tw_bigbang 2009
Summary: The flap of a wing, a slight change of angle, and the task of chasing after the spooky-do's could have fallen to another of Cardiff's finest...
**********
They'd got a traffic cone. That seemed to be the important part, somehow. It wasn't a good night unless you woke up in bed with your best mate and a traffic cone, Andy was reasonably sure he'd got this on a t-shirt or something. So Owen was spooning him, and he was spooning the traffic cone, and it had been a good night. Yeah.
He was supposed to be somewhere. That was probably why Ianto was sitting in that chair over there, giving them his best you are interfering with the neat and tidy operation of my system look. That was probably why Ianto was in this bedroom, full stop. Zombies didn't need anything from bedrooms, whatever Jack still had to say about that. He'd crept in to watch the normal people sleep, because if he'd crept into Jack's bedroom it'd have been too many bad necrophilia jokes instead, and yes, there was the headache.
Funny he could remember the zombie part and not where he'd been last night.
Owen seemed to be coming awake. Either that or his left shoulder had learnt how to swear. "Izzat a traffic cone?"
"...Yeah."
"Fuck me, must have been a proper piss-up. Tell me that's not Ianto."
"Think it is, actually."
"Tell me neither of us is naked."
"Tell me you have enough of a sense of shame left for blackmail to have any bloody effect," Ianto retorted. "Or that Jack doesn't already have six pictures of you on file wearing a policewoman's helmet and suspenders."
"Seven," Owen replied defiantly, and tried to sit up. It didn't go very well. "Proper piss-up," he mumbled into Andy's neck.
"It's eleven-thirty and we have to be at the church by one," Ianto continued, giving the debauched scene on the bed a jaded look as he stood up. "I'll make you some coffee, not that I'm sure it's going to help, the state you're both in, and then we'll just... have to pull it together as best we can. I'll ring Tosh and let her know you're alive, see if she's still on for it."
"Whaz'z Tosh to do with it?" Andy managed to gather together enough neurons to ask once the unquiet dead had left the bedroom.
"She might be worried 'cos of that thing bit you last night?" Owen hazarded, sounding none too sure of the conjecture.
Andy sort of recalled that part, some chase through a disreputable lav that had left him with a bunged-up arm and late for the damned party he couldn't even remember much of after all of that. There had been guns, and shouting, and then Jack had hit it with a shovel and they'd all gone to the pub. Or maybe Jack had hit him with the shovel and then the pub had shot them, it fitted the state of his head more closely. Christ, but this was a hangover for the ages. "Maybe she was just as pissed as us when he put her in a taxi," he guessed, trying to fit the idea into the vague outlines that were filling in. "...Oi, did Ianto just say something about a church?"
Something finally connected behind the eyes peering round his shoulder. "Your wedding."
Andy lurched upright at the words, memories of a particularly vulgar pole-dance slotting themselves back into place in his head as his stomach did a barrel roll. He absentmindedly reached to clutch grumbling innards --
And froze, fingers encountering an unfamiliar swell of taut skin.
Bloody Torchwood. Tell me that's some sort of stag-do jokey comedy belly, even working here it's still bloody absurd that I'd be...
"Owen, why am I pregnant?"
>
Rating: Teen [language and sexual situations]
Characters: PC Andy/Tosh, Owen, Jack, Ianto, Rhys
Advisories: AU, character death
Disclaimer: I'm denying I speak English at this point
Note: Written for tw_bigbang 2009
Summary: The flap of a wing, a slight change of angle, and the task of chasing after the spooky-do's could have fallen to another of Cardiff's finest...
**********
They'd got a traffic cone. That seemed to be the important part, somehow. It wasn't a good night unless you woke up in bed with your best mate and a traffic cone, Andy was reasonably sure he'd got this on a t-shirt or something. So Owen was spooning him, and he was spooning the traffic cone, and it had been a good night. Yeah.
He was supposed to be somewhere. That was probably why Ianto was sitting in that chair over there, giving them his best you are interfering with the neat and tidy operation of my system look. That was probably why Ianto was in this bedroom, full stop. Zombies didn't need anything from bedrooms, whatever Jack still had to say about that. He'd crept in to watch the normal people sleep, because if he'd crept into Jack's bedroom it'd have been too many bad necrophilia jokes instead, and yes, there was the headache.
Funny he could remember the zombie part and not where he'd been last night.
Owen seemed to be coming awake. Either that or his left shoulder had learnt how to swear. "Izzat a traffic cone?"
"...Yeah."
"Fuck me, must have been a proper piss-up. Tell me that's not Ianto."
"Think it is, actually."
"Tell me neither of us is naked."
"Tell me you have enough of a sense of shame left for blackmail to have any bloody effect," Ianto retorted. "Or that Jack doesn't already have six pictures of you on file wearing a policewoman's helmet and suspenders."
"Seven," Owen replied defiantly, and tried to sit up. It didn't go very well. "Proper piss-up," he mumbled into Andy's neck.
"It's eleven-thirty and we have to be at the church by one," Ianto continued, giving the debauched scene on the bed a jaded look as he stood up. "I'll make you some coffee, not that I'm sure it's going to help, the state you're both in, and then we'll just... have to pull it together as best we can. I'll ring Tosh and let her know you're alive, see if she's still on for it."
"Whaz'z Tosh to do with it?" Andy managed to gather together enough neurons to ask once the unquiet dead had left the bedroom.
"She might be worried 'cos of that thing bit you last night?" Owen hazarded, sounding none too sure of the conjecture.
Andy sort of recalled that part, some chase through a disreputable lav that had left him with a bunged-up arm and late for the damned party he couldn't even remember much of after all of that. There had been guns, and shouting, and then Jack had hit it with a shovel and they'd all gone to the pub. Or maybe Jack had hit him with the shovel and then the pub had shot them, it fitted the state of his head more closely. Christ, but this was a hangover for the ages. "Maybe she was just as pissed as us when he put her in a taxi," he guessed, trying to fit the idea into the vague outlines that were filling in. "...Oi, did Ianto just say something about a church?"
Something finally connected behind the eyes peering round his shoulder. "Your wedding."
Andy lurched upright at the words, memories of a particularly vulgar pole-dance slotting themselves back into place in his head as his stomach did a barrel roll. He absentmindedly reached to clutch grumbling innards --
And froze, fingers encountering an unfamiliar swell of taut skin.
Bloody Torchwood. Tell me that's some sort of stag-do jokey comedy belly, even working here it's still bloody absurd that I'd be...
"Owen, why am I pregnant?"
>