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"So, how many Iantos does it take," Owen muses idly, "to change one tiny lightbulb?"
His voice rises and cracks on the last two words, threatening to become a full holler, but that's it, he's done, and they've been down here for twenty-five minutes already and so far? No lightbulb has been changed, no progress has been made, and if he gets to stare at the slightly damp walls of this sublevel's sublevel any longer, he's going to blow a blood vessel.
Heck, he doesn't even know why this particular lightbulb needs changing. It's at the end of a corridor he can't remember ever having been down before, for one, and two, there's nothing down here to shed light on, anyway. Just corridors, lots of them, and the odd storeroom piled floor to ceiling with rotting, old crates containing god-knows-what from devil-knows-where. There's nothing interesting in the crates, either - Owen must know, because he's spent the first ten minutes walking around with a scanner, waving it over this or that box in the hopes of unearthing something brilliant, something forgotten that might just tell him the secrets of the universe. But, nada. Zip. Zilch. Not even a blip on the screen, much less anything that went 'blip' at him.
Bugger. Where are the things that explode right in your face when you need them?
...and anyway, why is he down here? Nothing to see, nothing to do, Ianto didn't even need help carrying that stupid stepladder of his, the small paper box containing the spare lightbulb doesn’t need holding because it's tucked into Ianto's jacket pocket, and there's a faint drip-drip-drip of water around one corner or other that's slowly but surely driving Owen 'round the bend, and then some. Why is there always water in these sublevels, adding that extra bit of 'creepy' to surroundings Owen already considers uncomfortable?
He stomps in a small circle, ending right where he started, and puts his hands on his hips, foot tapping.
Ianto, standing silent and frozen on the stepladder, one hand reaching up to the damaged bulb hanging dead and lightless from a bare fixture, blinks down at him. "Breathe, Owen."
Owen breathes, but that just makes him smell the musty, stale air they've been suffering for the last twenty-seven minutes now, Jesus fuck and all that. "I hate it down here!"
"You didn't have to come," Ianto points out, frustratingly calm.
"But I wanted to!" Great, now he sounds just like those little squealing children Owen abhors. Stomping their feet and screaming at the top of their lungs to get what they want... "There could be anything down here. It's safer with two of us."
Ianto glances around dubiously, then gives Owen another of those faintly belittling glances that do nothing but raise Owen's hackles, get him going from zero to 100 in the space of a heartbeat. "Yeah," Ianto says slowly, drawing the word out into a drawl, "the dustbunnies are going to rise up and slay us any minute now."
Owen tackles him down from the stepladder before he knows what he's doing.
They land in an untidy heap of limbs, and Ianto's "Ow! Fuck’s sake, Owen!" accompanying the crunch of fragile glass in Ianto's pocket speaks of - something. Possibly revenge, because not only did the spare lightbulb just break, but Ianto's suit is also likely to suffer from the rough treatment ( not to forget the legions of aforementioned dustbunnies all sitting up and taking notice and rising up in a 'whooooof!' when Owen and Ianto land on the floor ).
There is a moment of complete and utter stillness. Owen contemplates the wisdom of what he’s just done, calculates his chances of making it back up to the Hub alive and coming up with zero, because Ianto’s scary when he’s angry. Beneath all of his helpful, silent butler behavior, he can be one hell of a mean bastard, and if the dangerous glitter of Ianto’s eyes is anything to go by, he’s currently discovering the Hannibal Lecter side of his personality.
Owen kicks with his feet, scrambles up Ianto's taller form, and snogs the hell - and hopefully, any thoughts of revenge - out of him. It's the short moment of peace before the storm, before they're suddenly clawing at each other, rolling around on the floor.
Ianto kicks the stepladder over in the process. Owen does something to his tailbone that will hurt like a bitch, later. He snarls and yanks at one row of too many buttons making up Ianto's outfit, liberating a few and listening to them ping away into the underworld of Torchwood Three's cellars, never to be heard of or seen again. Ianto curses at him, but he's giving as good as he's getting, nearly taking Owen's ears off when he yanks the doctor's t-shirt up and over his head.
They somehow manage to get enough clothes undone and shoved up or down and out of the way for Owen's hand to fit around both their cocks. Ianto arches beneath him, moaning, one long, drawn-out, heartfelt moan that warms Owen from his toes to the tips of his hair as he strokes them, precome making everything nice and slick and hot. Ianto's hands are wandering from Owen's shoulders to the small of his back and up again, squeezing and kneading, prodding and fuck, one clever set of fingers find Owen's left nipple and give a talented, mean twist that fires sensation all the way down into his balls.
He retaliates by sucking on Ianto's neck, tongue fluttering against the wildly beating pulse so close to the warm surface of the skin. That gets him a moan. He grazes the skin with his teeth, works his way up to the edge of Ianto’s jaw, skimming across one cheek to Ianto’s mouth, and, yeah, fuck, that’s it, they’re having sex here, wild, dirty, messy sex.
Owen pushes up, straddles Ianto’s thighs, hips canted forward so he doesn’t lose the grip he has on both of them – possibly because Ianto might kill him, most likely because Owen’s getting there already, gracelessly fast – and leans on one hand, wanting to see Ianto’s face when he comes.
…because that ‘smile and look faintly helpful’ thing? Yeah, that goes right out of the window when Ianto comes, when he’s getting there, and Owen must know: he’s seen that face a few times by now, delights in coaxing it out.
“Fuck,” Ianto gasps, “fuck, fuck, faster, fuck-” His hands grasp Owen’s hips, knead his thighs, fly up to torment his nipples again, but he’s losing control, wet-shiny lips shaping words and sounds that bounce around maniacally in the corridor. “Owen, fuck, Owen -”
“Yeah,” Owen breathes, letting go for the briefest of moments to lick his palm and – yeah. Yes. It starts in his toes, tingles its way up his thighs, and he’s seeing stars and cosmic eruptions to the sound of Ianto quite possibly shouting his name at the top of his lungs.
Owen collapses on top of Ianto, hand trapped between their slick bellies, just breathing, breathing in Ianto’s musky scent, face buried in the crook of Ianto’s neck. Long, sated minutes pass before he even considers lifting his head to take in their destroyed state: stepladder toppled over, clothes torn off and everywhere around them, come slowly gluing them together. Ianto looks like he’s passed out, eyelashes pretty against his cheeks.
They both jump at the sound of Jack’s voice booming through the corridor. “Hey, guys, I don’t want to interrupt whatever,” snort of laughter, “you’re doing down there, but it’s been nearly forty minutes and Mainframe is still complaining about that lightbulb. Any progress?”
It’s a miracle that Ianto manages to sound his voice somewhat normal. “Well, uh. Sir. I mean.”
“We kind of broke it,” Owen shouts, then plunks his head back down to the sound of Jack’s low chuckling, and adds a much quieter, “Piss off, Harkness.”
“You sure you don’t want me to bring you another one, then?” Jack’s tone of voice sounds positively lecherous now, and with a lightning-bright flash of insight, Owen realizes that CCTV coverage probably does extend all the way down here. Holy hell. “I could be down there in five min -“
“No!” Owen and Ianto shout, practically at the same time, and there’s more of Jack’s chuckling and the electronic click of the comm system being switched off.
“Tosser,” Owen mutters, for good measure. He buries his face against Ianto’s neck again, wanting to enjoy the aftershocks of a truly spectacular orgasm in peace, without Jack breathing down his neck. Besides, it’s nice, what with Ianto’s arms coming up to wrap around him.
“So,” Ianto inquires thoughtfully, a few minutes later, “how many Iantos does it take to change one tiny lightbulb?”
“One,” Owen says, “and I got him.”