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As Ianto awkwardly stood across from him, Owen slouched back further in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and cemented his scowl even further. His clothes were sopping - murky droplets streaming steadily to the floor. "That's not even the worst part," Ianto observed, pointing to the growing puddle. "Water-logged clothes don't just make the body heavy, they'll -"
"Make me miserable?" Owen quirked an eyebrow, "just out of interest - is that on top of or alongside all the other shit?"
"On top of," Ianto moved away from him and towards Owen's bedroom. He decided almost subconsciously to try his best not to disrupt whatever Owen's system was as he looked about (he couldn't actually see that there was a system, but was careful not to move anything on the off chance). He sorted through the shirts in the dresser, picking out a random pair of jeans. "Do you have a preference?" he called out if courtesy, already pacing back through.
"Hardly fucking likely," Owen fixed his gaze on the floor. "Maybe one day I'll have been stuck here so long they don't even wear clothes on Earth,"
"I don't think so, Jack would've mentioned it by now," Ianto smirked. He thought a smile might be the thing that really did get Owen to tell him to fuck off home at this point- and besides, he didn't smile much nowadays anyway.
(Other stuff??)
"It's not just cause I miss her," Owen finally broke the silence.
Ianto didn't answer, unsure where this was going.
"It's about - it's about having someone to talk to," his lip twitched, "not just about Torchwood and all that shit but, everything,"
"Everything?"
"All the little things. I feel like they're filling me up and I've got nothing to do with them." Owen pulled his jacket off - suddenly, as if something great came over him. His fingers slipped over the buttons, small and treacherous. "Fucking -"
Ianto lurched forward. He hand was caught up in Owen's, making to help him rather than calm his actions. Progress was progress, didn't always matter what got you there.