Tea and Sympathy, Part 2
Apr. 9th, 2008 09:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
osprey_archerTitle: Tea and Sympathy, part 2
Author: osprey_archer
Pairing: Owen/Ianto, Past Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13 for language
Sequel: Tea and Sympathy
Disclaimer: Still don't own them.
Summary: “What’s in the bag?” asks Owen. “A bomb? Jack’s hand in a fish tank? An alien aphrodisiac from Splot?”
The road to Hell may be paved with good intentions, but Ianto wouldn’t know. He can’t seem to keep to any of his intentions, good or bad, and that’s why he’s breaking into Owen’s apartment for the second night in a row. It’s really Owen’s fault. He should have called in sick.
About halfway through the lock-picking attempt Ianto realizes that the door’s unlocked. Either an alien has gotten to Owen, or…
Ianto pushes open the door. “Took you long enough,” says Owen.
It’s a better welcome than a gun pointed at his head, at least. Owen’s half-sitting up in bed, wearing a white t-shirt that he might have stolen off Andre the giant (Ianto can see his collarbones). He combed his hair, or tried to. Ianto wants to smooth it down. Damn obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
“What’s in the bag?” asks Owen. His voice is still hoarse but the mockery has returned. “A bomb? Jack’s hand in a fish tank? An alien aphrodisiac from Splot?”
Ianto never blushes anymore: a legacy from Jack. It’s just coffee beans, anyway. Ianto holds them up for Owen’s viewing pleasure. “An alien aphrodisiac from Costa Rica,” he says. “Torchwood’s finest.”
“You stole it?” says Owen, as if Ianto stealing breaks some law of nature. Owen—despite all evidence (Lisa) to the contrary—likes to think he’s more devious than Ianto. “You?”
Ianto nods, though he didn’t. He considered it but couldn’t go through with it. The lie is worth the clear “what the fuck?” on Owen’s face.
This feels almost comfortable. Perhaps despite everything he and Owen can create something resembling an amicable relationship. “You’ve been waiting for me?” Ianto prompts.
Owen frowns. “I figured you couldn’t resist another chance to torture me with your terrible coffee.”
“The terrible coffee was from your cupboard,” says Ianto. “And you never tasted it, so you can hardly know if it was good.”
“Oh, but I do know,” says Owen, and his smile sharpens. “You made it, and your coffee is never any good.”
God, he hates Owen. “I’ll leave you to work with the coffee maker, then,” says Ianto, and sets down the coffee and leaves.
Owen follows him, hanging off the door, goose pimples rising on his arms. “Scared you off, did I?” he calls, snide and delighted.
Ianto stalks back, grabs Owen’s shoulders, and pushes him back into the flat. Owen pushes Ianto’s back, and Ianto stumbles a little, but Owen is weak with sickness and Ianto grabs his wrists and slams them against the wall. Owen tries to kick him. Ianto pushes him against the wall again.
“You don’t know when to quit,” he snaps at Owen.
“I don’t know when to quit?” Owen’s bony wrists twist in Ianto’s grasp, but Ianto doesn’t loosen his grip. “You kept your psychotic girlfriend alive for months in the basement, you still think Jack is coming back—”
Ianto holds both Owen’s wrists in one hand, and twists the other in Owen’s shirt to lift him off the floor. Owen chokes a little, and snarls, “—so pathetic, you can’t let go of anything—”
Ianto drops him. Owen lands in an angular heap.
“That’s what they call a metaphor,” says Ianto.
“You’re just as psychotic as cybergirl,” says Owen. “You might even be as psychotic as Jack.”
Ianto kicks him, or tries to, but Owen grabs his foot and next thing Ianto knows he’s on the ground throbbing from tailbone to head and Owen looks concerned: “Ianto?”
Ianto moans, mostly to see if Owen flinches (he does). Owen really has beautiful eyes. “Your floor is almost as hard as your head,” Ianto says.
“Oh, shut it,” says Owen, without force. He sits back and pulls his knees to his chest. He’s shivering, out of apology? fear? Owen starts coughing, and Ianto concludes it’s fever. “Here, look at my finger, follow it.”
“I haven’t got a concussion,” says Ianto, pushing himself into a sitting position. He feels dizzy, but damned if he’s going to look weak in front of Owen.
“You should try the gun again next time,” says Owen. His teeth have started to chatter. “Must easier than beating me to death.”
“I’m not aiding in your fantasies of heroic suicide,” Ianto says, standing. “Get back in bed before you freeze.”
Of course if Ianto puts it that way Owen won’t move. Ianto kneels down again (his head protests the movement), puts his hands under Owen’s armpits, and drags him to his feet. Owen smells sourly of sweat. “Come on now,” Ianto says. “To bed with you.”
“Is that how you talk to Jack?”
“Jack doesn’t need any prompting.” Ianto grips Owen’s sides more firmly and propels him forward. “You’re never going to shut up about him, are you?”
“He’s a bastard.”
“So are you,” says Ianto.
Owen twists to look at Ianto over his shoulder, confused and cute again as he was last night. Ianto pushes him gently onto the bed. It doesn’t feel safe to mention coffee yet, so he says, “Are you hungry?”
Owen burrows under the covers. “The menus are in the drawer.”
The menus are crumpled and spotted with grease and drink rings. Ianto wants to wash his hands just touching them. “Pizza or Chinese?” he asks.
“Pizza,” says Owen. “You can’t spoon feed it to me.”
Ianto gets very busy with the telephone.
He tips the pizza delivery boy well—he always tips pizza deliveries well, as if that makes up for that girl from Jubilee Pizza that Lisa killed. He sits next to Owen on the bed, which is nearly big enough for an all-Torchwood orgy, and they chew in silence. Owen gives up halfway through his second slice and watches Ianto eat until Ianto feels screamingly uncomfortable. It’s not really a lustful look, but dammit, Ianto’s supposed to be the one watching Owen, not the other way around.
“We found two baby brontosaurus in Splot,” he says in self-defense.
“Did they try to eat you?”
“No. They were very playful, actually. Very cuddly. Tosh wanted us to keep them as pets.”
“Typical.”
“But then one of them spontaneously combusted in the Hub.”
Owen sighs. “Nothing exciting, then.”
Ianto feels obscurely sorry that he doesn’t have a more impressive story for Owen. “It ruined my suit,” he offers.
Owen snorts and starts coughing again. Ianto gives up on the pizza. “Coffee,” he says with decision, packing up the pizza and marching off to the kitchen. “Coffee?” he calls to Owen.
No reply, but surely Owen doesn’t want to miss the main event of the evening. He really does have a nice coffee maker. Anyone with such good taste in coffee makers must be all right underneath.
Ianto makes coffee so perfect that just the aroma would make Jack shag him senseless. Owen ignores it.
Two nights in a row is really too much. “Well, drink it, then,” says Ianto. Owen shakes his head, and it occurs to Ianto that maybe Owen really doesn’t like his coffee. Never mind he drinks five liters a day. Maybe he just likes making teaboy jump.
“I’m going to be sick,” says Owen, and Ianto is about ready to beat him to death with the coffee maker, but then Owen really is sick, disgustingly, until his face is ashen and his eyes bloodshot and teary.
“Ah,” says Ianto. “Oh.”
Ianto finds some bags in the kitchen and piles the soiled blankets into them. It’s not quite as disgusting as spontaneously combusted brontosaur. At least it doesn’t get all over his suit—Jack liked this suit. “Perhaps some tea?”
“No,” snaps Owen, in a tone that suggests he thinks tea is a prelude to ravishment.
“I’ll need your shirt at least,” says Ianto, which is the wrong follow-up request. But Owen removes the filthy t-shirt without protest.
There are a couple bruises on his skinny, skinny chest, and goose pimples already rising. He looks like an anorexic’s pin-up; he can’t have eaten since Jack left. Ianto realizes he’s staring and rushes off with the bags.
When Ianto comes back Owen’s huddled under his two remaining blankets, shivering and smelling like he tried to drown himself in mouthwash. Ianto sits next to him. Now that the bed’s not covered with Owen’s entire linen closet he can smell how rank it is. “Do you have any other sheets?”
“The sheets are fine.”
“They smell like they’re breeding cholera.”
“Then maybe they’ll get you sick,” says Owen. “And then I can come over to your flat and torture you.”
He’s hoping to get a rise out of Ianto, so Ianto leans back into the pillows and hooks his hands behind his head. Owen frowns. “Do I have to insult your mother to get you to go away?”
“It wouldn’t hurt.”
“She’s sleeping with Jack,” says Owen.
“Everyone’s sleeping with Jack,” says Ianto.
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
It sounds like a serious question. Ianto stares fixedly out Owen’s windows and tries to steer the conversation back to safe waters. “My mother, or—?”
“Everyone.” Still seriously.
Ianto always figured that was the price of keeping Jack interested in him: with no one else to occupy him Jack would get sick of boring old Ianto Jones in a week. Owen starts coughing again. Ianto puts an arm around his shoulders.
“I think you’re clinical,” says Owen, between coughs. “You have a clinical need to be needed. That’s why you liked Jack, he’s like a great sucking black hole that drags everything out of you and doesn’t give anything back.”
“Like,” says Ianto, leaning his cheek on Owen’s hair. “I still like him.”
He braces himself for some annihilating comment. Owen shifts restlessly and mutters, “Why are you here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does it ever occur to you that it’s a bad thing that you only like me when I’m dying?”
“No,” says Ianto. He suspects most of the world prefers Owen when he’s incapacitated. “Who says I like you, anyway?”
Owen sinks out from under Ianto’s arm, under the covers. He rolls onto his side away from Ianto. “Turn the lights off on your way out.”
Ianto turns off the lights and sits down next to Owen again. He doesn’t stroke Owen’s hair, but it’s so tempting. Beyond tempting. All right, he does stroke it a bit, but Owen doesn’t object.
“Did Gwen and Tosh ask about me?” Owen asks.
“Tosh thought we ought to send you the second dinosaur.”
“Oh,” says Owen in a very small voice.
“That was before the first one exploded,” Ianto reassures him. “They were very cuddly then.”
“Oh,” says Owen again.
“But then Gwen gave one of them coffee and…well. Now we have stains of baby dinosaur goo all over the Hub.” Owen’s teeth start chattering again. Ianto gives in to temptation and lies down next to him, face in his neck and arm around his waist.
“I’ll be sick on you if you try anything funny.”
“I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” Ianto murmurs in his ear.
Owen flinches. “I mean it,” he says. “Moving makes me nauseous.” He turns his head, trying to see Ianto over his shoulder. “I don’t think it’s possible for you to be a gentleman in that position.”
“This is perfectly within the bounds of propriety,” says Ianto. “All these layers of cloth between us. Your clothes, your filthy sheets, two blankets, my clothes…”
His clothes. His poor suit, when he already ruined one today with the exploded brontosaur. He gets up. “Where’re you going?” Owen mutters.
Ianto divests himself of his coat and tie. “Hanging up my suit. Can I borrow some of your clothes?”
“No.”
“You’re right, this will work so much better if I’m naked. I’m not ruining my suit for you, Owen.”
“Go plunder my closet then.”
Owen is mostly asleep by the time Ianto returns. Ianto lies down next to Owen again (he considers getting under the covers, but he suspects even dozing Owen will protest and anyway he can’t deal with the filthy sheets), puts an arm around his waist, and presses his face into Owen’s hair.
He’s way too comfortable snuggling up to a guy whose head he tried to kick in half an hour ago. But at the moment Owen is quite as cuddly as the baby brontosaur was before it exploded, so Ianto holds him close and falls asleep.
He does have the presence of mind to leave before Owen wakes up.
Author: osprey_archer
Pairing: Owen/Ianto, Past Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG-13 for language
Sequel: Tea and Sympathy
Disclaimer: Still don't own them.
Summary: “What’s in the bag?” asks Owen. “A bomb? Jack’s hand in a fish tank? An alien aphrodisiac from Splot?”
The road to Hell may be paved with good intentions, but Ianto wouldn’t know. He can’t seem to keep to any of his intentions, good or bad, and that’s why he’s breaking into Owen’s apartment for the second night in a row. It’s really Owen’s fault. He should have called in sick.
About halfway through the lock-picking attempt Ianto realizes that the door’s unlocked. Either an alien has gotten to Owen, or…
Ianto pushes open the door. “Took you long enough,” says Owen.
It’s a better welcome than a gun pointed at his head, at least. Owen’s half-sitting up in bed, wearing a white t-shirt that he might have stolen off Andre the giant (Ianto can see his collarbones). He combed his hair, or tried to. Ianto wants to smooth it down. Damn obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
“What’s in the bag?” asks Owen. His voice is still hoarse but the mockery has returned. “A bomb? Jack’s hand in a fish tank? An alien aphrodisiac from Splot?”
Ianto never blushes anymore: a legacy from Jack. It’s just coffee beans, anyway. Ianto holds them up for Owen’s viewing pleasure. “An alien aphrodisiac from Costa Rica,” he says. “Torchwood’s finest.”
“You stole it?” says Owen, as if Ianto stealing breaks some law of nature. Owen—despite all evidence (Lisa) to the contrary—likes to think he’s more devious than Ianto. “You?”
Ianto nods, though he didn’t. He considered it but couldn’t go through with it. The lie is worth the clear “what the fuck?” on Owen’s face.
This feels almost comfortable. Perhaps despite everything he and Owen can create something resembling an amicable relationship. “You’ve been waiting for me?” Ianto prompts.
Owen frowns. “I figured you couldn’t resist another chance to torture me with your terrible coffee.”
“The terrible coffee was from your cupboard,” says Ianto. “And you never tasted it, so you can hardly know if it was good.”
“Oh, but I do know,” says Owen, and his smile sharpens. “You made it, and your coffee is never any good.”
God, he hates Owen. “I’ll leave you to work with the coffee maker, then,” says Ianto, and sets down the coffee and leaves.
Owen follows him, hanging off the door, goose pimples rising on his arms. “Scared you off, did I?” he calls, snide and delighted.
Ianto stalks back, grabs Owen’s shoulders, and pushes him back into the flat. Owen pushes Ianto’s back, and Ianto stumbles a little, but Owen is weak with sickness and Ianto grabs his wrists and slams them against the wall. Owen tries to kick him. Ianto pushes him against the wall again.
“You don’t know when to quit,” he snaps at Owen.
“I don’t know when to quit?” Owen’s bony wrists twist in Ianto’s grasp, but Ianto doesn’t loosen his grip. “You kept your psychotic girlfriend alive for months in the basement, you still think Jack is coming back—”
Ianto holds both Owen’s wrists in one hand, and twists the other in Owen’s shirt to lift him off the floor. Owen chokes a little, and snarls, “—so pathetic, you can’t let go of anything—”
Ianto drops him. Owen lands in an angular heap.
“That’s what they call a metaphor,” says Ianto.
“You’re just as psychotic as cybergirl,” says Owen. “You might even be as psychotic as Jack.”
Ianto kicks him, or tries to, but Owen grabs his foot and next thing Ianto knows he’s on the ground throbbing from tailbone to head and Owen looks concerned: “Ianto?”
Ianto moans, mostly to see if Owen flinches (he does). Owen really has beautiful eyes. “Your floor is almost as hard as your head,” Ianto says.
“Oh, shut it,” says Owen, without force. He sits back and pulls his knees to his chest. He’s shivering, out of apology? fear? Owen starts coughing, and Ianto concludes it’s fever. “Here, look at my finger, follow it.”
“I haven’t got a concussion,” says Ianto, pushing himself into a sitting position. He feels dizzy, but damned if he’s going to look weak in front of Owen.
“You should try the gun again next time,” says Owen. His teeth have started to chatter. “Must easier than beating me to death.”
“I’m not aiding in your fantasies of heroic suicide,” Ianto says, standing. “Get back in bed before you freeze.”
Of course if Ianto puts it that way Owen won’t move. Ianto kneels down again (his head protests the movement), puts his hands under Owen’s armpits, and drags him to his feet. Owen smells sourly of sweat. “Come on now,” Ianto says. “To bed with you.”
“Is that how you talk to Jack?”
“Jack doesn’t need any prompting.” Ianto grips Owen’s sides more firmly and propels him forward. “You’re never going to shut up about him, are you?”
“He’s a bastard.”
“So are you,” says Ianto.
Owen twists to look at Ianto over his shoulder, confused and cute again as he was last night. Ianto pushes him gently onto the bed. It doesn’t feel safe to mention coffee yet, so he says, “Are you hungry?”
Owen burrows under the covers. “The menus are in the drawer.”
The menus are crumpled and spotted with grease and drink rings. Ianto wants to wash his hands just touching them. “Pizza or Chinese?” he asks.
“Pizza,” says Owen. “You can’t spoon feed it to me.”
Ianto gets very busy with the telephone.
He tips the pizza delivery boy well—he always tips pizza deliveries well, as if that makes up for that girl from Jubilee Pizza that Lisa killed. He sits next to Owen on the bed, which is nearly big enough for an all-Torchwood orgy, and they chew in silence. Owen gives up halfway through his second slice and watches Ianto eat until Ianto feels screamingly uncomfortable. It’s not really a lustful look, but dammit, Ianto’s supposed to be the one watching Owen, not the other way around.
“We found two baby brontosaurus in Splot,” he says in self-defense.
“Did they try to eat you?”
“No. They were very playful, actually. Very cuddly. Tosh wanted us to keep them as pets.”
“Typical.”
“But then one of them spontaneously combusted in the Hub.”
Owen sighs. “Nothing exciting, then.”
Ianto feels obscurely sorry that he doesn’t have a more impressive story for Owen. “It ruined my suit,” he offers.
Owen snorts and starts coughing again. Ianto gives up on the pizza. “Coffee,” he says with decision, packing up the pizza and marching off to the kitchen. “Coffee?” he calls to Owen.
No reply, but surely Owen doesn’t want to miss the main event of the evening. He really does have a nice coffee maker. Anyone with such good taste in coffee makers must be all right underneath.
Ianto makes coffee so perfect that just the aroma would make Jack shag him senseless. Owen ignores it.
Two nights in a row is really too much. “Well, drink it, then,” says Ianto. Owen shakes his head, and it occurs to Ianto that maybe Owen really doesn’t like his coffee. Never mind he drinks five liters a day. Maybe he just likes making teaboy jump.
“I’m going to be sick,” says Owen, and Ianto is about ready to beat him to death with the coffee maker, but then Owen really is sick, disgustingly, until his face is ashen and his eyes bloodshot and teary.
“Ah,” says Ianto. “Oh.”
Ianto finds some bags in the kitchen and piles the soiled blankets into them. It’s not quite as disgusting as spontaneously combusted brontosaur. At least it doesn’t get all over his suit—Jack liked this suit. “Perhaps some tea?”
“No,” snaps Owen, in a tone that suggests he thinks tea is a prelude to ravishment.
“I’ll need your shirt at least,” says Ianto, which is the wrong follow-up request. But Owen removes the filthy t-shirt without protest.
There are a couple bruises on his skinny, skinny chest, and goose pimples already rising. He looks like an anorexic’s pin-up; he can’t have eaten since Jack left. Ianto realizes he’s staring and rushes off with the bags.
When Ianto comes back Owen’s huddled under his two remaining blankets, shivering and smelling like he tried to drown himself in mouthwash. Ianto sits next to him. Now that the bed’s not covered with Owen’s entire linen closet he can smell how rank it is. “Do you have any other sheets?”
“The sheets are fine.”
“They smell like they’re breeding cholera.”
“Then maybe they’ll get you sick,” says Owen. “And then I can come over to your flat and torture you.”
He’s hoping to get a rise out of Ianto, so Ianto leans back into the pillows and hooks his hands behind his head. Owen frowns. “Do I have to insult your mother to get you to go away?”
“It wouldn’t hurt.”
“She’s sleeping with Jack,” says Owen.
“Everyone’s sleeping with Jack,” says Ianto.
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
It sounds like a serious question. Ianto stares fixedly out Owen’s windows and tries to steer the conversation back to safe waters. “My mother, or—?”
“Everyone.” Still seriously.
Ianto always figured that was the price of keeping Jack interested in him: with no one else to occupy him Jack would get sick of boring old Ianto Jones in a week. Owen starts coughing again. Ianto puts an arm around his shoulders.
“I think you’re clinical,” says Owen, between coughs. “You have a clinical need to be needed. That’s why you liked Jack, he’s like a great sucking black hole that drags everything out of you and doesn’t give anything back.”
“Like,” says Ianto, leaning his cheek on Owen’s hair. “I still like him.”
He braces himself for some annihilating comment. Owen shifts restlessly and mutters, “Why are you here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does it ever occur to you that it’s a bad thing that you only like me when I’m dying?”
“No,” says Ianto. He suspects most of the world prefers Owen when he’s incapacitated. “Who says I like you, anyway?”
Owen sinks out from under Ianto’s arm, under the covers. He rolls onto his side away from Ianto. “Turn the lights off on your way out.”
Ianto turns off the lights and sits down next to Owen again. He doesn’t stroke Owen’s hair, but it’s so tempting. Beyond tempting. All right, he does stroke it a bit, but Owen doesn’t object.
“Did Gwen and Tosh ask about me?” Owen asks.
“Tosh thought we ought to send you the second dinosaur.”
“Oh,” says Owen in a very small voice.
“That was before the first one exploded,” Ianto reassures him. “They were very cuddly then.”
“Oh,” says Owen again.
“But then Gwen gave one of them coffee and…well. Now we have stains of baby dinosaur goo all over the Hub.” Owen’s teeth start chattering again. Ianto gives in to temptation and lies down next to him, face in his neck and arm around his waist.
“I’ll be sick on you if you try anything funny.”
“I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” Ianto murmurs in his ear.
Owen flinches. “I mean it,” he says. “Moving makes me nauseous.” He turns his head, trying to see Ianto over his shoulder. “I don’t think it’s possible for you to be a gentleman in that position.”
“This is perfectly within the bounds of propriety,” says Ianto. “All these layers of cloth between us. Your clothes, your filthy sheets, two blankets, my clothes…”
His clothes. His poor suit, when he already ruined one today with the exploded brontosaur. He gets up. “Where’re you going?” Owen mutters.
Ianto divests himself of his coat and tie. “Hanging up my suit. Can I borrow some of your clothes?”
“No.”
“You’re right, this will work so much better if I’m naked. I’m not ruining my suit for you, Owen.”
“Go plunder my closet then.”
Owen is mostly asleep by the time Ianto returns. Ianto lies down next to Owen again (he considers getting under the covers, but he suspects even dozing Owen will protest and anyway he can’t deal with the filthy sheets), puts an arm around his waist, and presses his face into Owen’s hair.
He’s way too comfortable snuggling up to a guy whose head he tried to kick in half an hour ago. But at the moment Owen is quite as cuddly as the baby brontosaur was before it exploded, so Ianto holds him close and falls asleep.
He does have the presence of mind to leave before Owen wakes up.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-04-10 03:26 am (UTC)He suspects most of the world prefers Owen when he’s incapacitated
*snerk* Poor Owen...more chapters to come, I hope? : )
no subject
Date: 2008-04-10 03:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-10 06:21 pm (UTC)Mind saying that, I love anything Ianto/Owen.
Great job! x
no subject
Date: 2008-04-10 10:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-11 11:55 am (UTC)(Also? I seriously want a baby brontosaur, even if there is the potential for explosiveness!)
Fantastic work sweetie.
xx
no subject
Date: 2008-04-11 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-11 10:17 pm (UTC)There will be more, yes.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-11 10:27 pm (UTC)Which is why Ianto/Owen is such a great pairing, because Ianto would definitely be willing to change the sheets if only Owen would let him.
You have a lovely icon, by the way.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-11 10:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-11 10:59 pm (UTC)Assuming my professors don't crank up the workload there will be more soon.
no subject
Date: 2008-07-02 09:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-03 04:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-03 07:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-04 01:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 08:03 pm (UTC)“Did they try to eat you?”
“No. They were very playful, actually. Very cuddly. Tosh wanted us to keep them as pets.”
“Typical.”
“But then one of them spontaneously combusted in the Hub.”
*DIESSSSS!!!!!!!!!* I just started laughing at work ahaha I should know better than to read fanfic at work *giggles* dude My boss is now wanting to know what's so funny! *gigglesss** This is awesome!
*rushes off to read more*!
no subject
Date: 2009-09-05 01:55 am (UTC)Oh, and I totally want a baby brontosaur, even if it might explode!
no subject
Date: 2009-09-05 03:08 pm (UTC)And YES - Owen does care what people think of him (probably more than he really should) but won't admit it even to himself, and therefore will remain screwed up forever.
no subject
Date: 2009-12-30 10:43 am (UTC)This just gets more and more fantastic!!!
“Tosh thought we ought to send you the second dinosaur.”
“Oh,” says Owen in a very small voice.
lol - the whole dinosaur thing was so funny.
Thank you!!!
no subject
Date: 2009-12-30 04:35 pm (UTC)