Title: Eight Green Bottles
By: bittersweet
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: gen mostly
Summary: Ok, this is a short one. A little plot bunny thingy. There's this bit, in Dead Man Walking, where Owen walks up the stairs after being resurrected and his hand is moving along the handrail… and Ianto's hand is resting on the rail… and just before they meet the camera moves away… Anyway, I wanted some love between Owen and Ianto. (Nearly) entirely platonic love.
Disclaimer: I like ice-cream, but I don't own the rights to it. Now replace 'ice-cream' in that sentence with 'Torchwood'.

***

Eight green bottles, sitting on the wall…not really, though. Two of them are orangey, one is deep blue and the rest are clear. Not a single green bottle. Eight bottles, and every single one is empty. That didn't take long. I need another fucking drink.

"Owen?"

I have a visitor. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. That's right teaboy; interrupt a man while he's drowning his sorrows. Well, dampening them. Possibly giving them a touch of pneumonia. I haven't got anywhere near drowning them yet. I will, though.

"Owen, what are you doing?"

"My mother was an alcoholic and I'm trying it on for size."

Kid can't think up a reply to that one, can he? Ha. Quite well put if I do say so myself. Not a hint of slur. Now if I can just stay upright…my god, I deserve a bloody academy award for this.

Oops, should have remembered the chair. Stupid chair. I'd kick it the damn thing till it breaks if it would just stop spinning around… upside down… I'm starting to suspect that the ceiling is not supposed to be vertical. Or move quite so much. I think I'm going to vomit.

Yep. There I go. Right on the teaboy's shiny shoes.

"Jesus, Owen…"

Uh oh. I'm in for it now. The tea fairy doesn't like it when his clothes get dirty. Is he going to hit me? He's crouching down, reaching over...he's gonna hit me. Shitshitshit.

Hang on, what's he doing? Hands on my shirt - undoing buttons. Warm gentle hands. This isn't so bad... But I'm not Jack. This is silly, he thinks I'm Jack…ha ha! Silly teaboy.

"Owen, stay still. You've thrown up all over yourself… let me help you get into a clean shirt, ok?"

Oh. Clean shirts, ok, in the cupboard, on the left – no, we're at the Hub, aren't we? No cupboard. No shirts. Not even a magical Welsh tea fairy can make shirts out of nothing. Oh god, what am I thinking? No such thing as Welsh fairies. Only Irish ones. Lepra–thingies, they like gold and weird shaped leaves…hey, where'd he get that shirt from? Smells like coffee and chocolate. Smells nice. He's moving me to the couch now, and it's making my head swim. I get it now, it's his shirt. Why does he have a spare shirt?

"Owen? Owen, stay with it. I'll get you a taxi home."

"Don't wanna go home. S'lonely at home."

I said that out loud, didn't I? But I was very, very quiet, and no one will ever, ever know. Except he's looking at me funny. His eyes have gone all soft. They seem more colourful like this. Blue-ey grey. Grey-ey blue. With a speckle of green on the side, heh – a side serve of green salad. Hey look, I made a funny! They only do that in the Hub, though. Outside in the sun they're very clear. Clear grey-blue. Pretty eyes. Not so pretty as her eyes, though.

Her.

She is gone.

She has left.

"Fuck off, Ianto. Don't want you here."

"Owen, it's ok. Trust me, you won't remember in the morning. Just cry on me."

He has a point. He always makes so much fucking sense. I don't think he's a person, not a real person; he's a filing machine with a nice ass. A coffee-making paper-filing tea fairy. So crying in front of him doesn't technically count, right? Maybe it will help. It might help if I say her name.

"Diane…"

Eight green bottles, sitting on the wall…not really, though. Two of them are orangey, one is deep blue and the rest are clear. Not a single green bottle. Eight bottles, and every single one is full. Untouched, unopened. I need a fucking drink.

Except I'm dead.

Which means no drink.

It seems such a pity for all this to go to waste. I only ever poisoned myself with the best. Odd, really. I was never picky about the women. So indiscriminate, in fact, that a few of them turned out to be men. Which wasn't a problem.

None of that now, of course. I'm a honest-to-god zombie, right out of a bloody B-grade horror movie. All I need to do is drool a bit and develop an unhealthy fixation on brains. It's fucking ironic, that's what it is. My philosophy was always 'give your body what feels good, and screw the rest.' Now my body doesn't work, and the rest is all I've got left. I can't taste, I can't eat, I can't drink. I can't feel touch on my skin, I can't feel pain. I can't get it up anymore – you need some blood flow for that. This must be what getting old feels like.

I should give them to someone. Spread the love, spread the alcohol. They may as well be enjoyed, appreciated. I could give them to Ianto.

I wonder why do the bottles make me think of Ianto?

Give them to Ianto…why the hell not? Gwen's not a pretty sight tipsy, so she's off the list. Jack has his own, and plenty of it. Not Tosh. Just… no. Besides, I'm thinking the teaboy needs a drink or two. A bit of fun. God knows I owe him one. Just a few words - I've seen you dissect alien corpses. I've seen you save so many lives. Are you really going to let this beat you? – but they made all the difference. He wasn't patronising. I hate it when people are patronising.

"Hey! Teaboy! Have some booze."

"I'm sorry?"

"I can't drink it. You may as well. If I can't get trashed myself, I'm gonna get my kicks watching you come out of your repressed little shell via the wonders of 55 per volume pure ethanol."

"Right. As thoughtful as ever, Dr Harper."

"I aim to please, Mr Jones."

Sometimes I think if I ever had a little brother he would be like Ianto. Then again, if Ianto was my brother I'd be giving Jack a sock in the jaw. Zombie or not, I'm still the kids doctor. He can hide the bruises from Gwen and Tosh, but not from me. I don't know what he did to make Jack angry, but what's worse it was the day after Gwen caught them shagging. And then Ianto goes on as if nothing has happened. That kid makes me feel protective. In my opinion he mainly needs protection from himself.

"Oh, Owen? One question."

"What?"

"How many times, now, has Tosh told you she loves you?"

Quick rethink: he may also need protecting from me. Seriously, I give the man a gift and he goes for the emotional jugular.

"Don't go there, teaboy. It's none of your business."

"Tosh is a beautiful person, Owen. Stop being a prick for long enough to see that."

Damn him. I do see it. That's the thing. I know how special she is. Why would she want a dead man? She's in love with the Owen that was alive. Besides, I will tell her. Tell her that I feel the same. Just as soon as I work out how to say it.

After all, I've got all the time in the world. I'm dead. Nothing can happen to me now.

***