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To start with, it had been Owen's fault, and if the man hadn't the benefit of a childhood with the occasional excursion to dig clams at the sea-side that was hardly Ianto's lookout. "This is not inspiring me to ask, 'are you going to eat that?' in the usual spirit in which the phrase is intended," the doctor remarked with a distaste that Ianto thought hypocritical from someone who routinely downed questionable take-away leftovers whilst elbow-deep in technicolour space-entrails.
"Go hungry then, if you like." Ianto poked at the shells in the coals with the length of driftwood, stirring them about as best he could. "Cockles have been a traditional breakfast in Wales for centuries. Although maybe not this many centuries," he allowed, glancing up at the shapes watching them from the clifftop.
And after everything Owen could still manage to twist this into being about himself, the twat. "You're trying to provoke me into saying something you can jump on for being racist again, aren't you."
"Yes, because I've been waiting for the opportunity to have it out with you about my country's honour in a setting where it hardly matters because there aren't any other humans about yet to understand the idea of 'country'. Or 'honour'." Ianto threw another handful of dried grasses into the fire, sparks spiralling up against the gathering dusk. "Look, I'm sure Jack will have helped Tosh get that device sorted before very long, it's only a matter of staying put until they find us."
For an instant Ianto thought he glimpsed a flash of vulnerability in brown eyes as Owen shivered in his shirtsleeves against a chill gust off the sea. "Assuming Jack wants us back after that."
"They'll come for us. I owe Tosh twenty quid."
Owen hunkered closer to the fire. "Can't be too bloody soon, I'm not about to start playing at Adam and Welsh Eve with you."
Mutual, then. Ianto settled back on the sand to wait for his supper, or a rescue party, wondering if Myfanwy would like any souvenirs from home.