#yayy our favourite idiots

[indigodawns]

46. A lingering kiss before a long trip apart

fuck, I accidentally deleted my response and with it your ask so here we go @ashes-and-dust; our favourite niche pairing and 46. A lingering kiss before a long trip apart (post with prompts here)

--

‘You’re kidding me,’ Owen says, staring at Norton, who is currently spread languidly across a queen-size bed in their – yes, their – hostel room. ‘Where the fuck is the other bed?’

Norton blinks in that slow, infuriating way of his that Owen has become tragically familiar with during his month-long stay in the 1950s. A month of spending too much time with Norton Folgate as they tried to figure out how to get Owen back to his own time. Owen hadn’t attempted to shake him off and find Diane instead. Really, he hadn’t. 

(He had. The 1950s had proven awfully difficult when it came to tracing people, as had Norton, who had somehow seemed to know about his plans and made sure to cross them at every possible opportunity.)

‘Even you can’t be that dense, darling,’ Norton drawls, unmoved. ‘This was the only room they had left.’ His eyes flit over Owen’s frame. ‘Just one more night and we might never see each other again. Let’s at least make it memorable.’

Owen rolls his eyes. ‘In your dreams, Folgate.’ Definitely not in his. That weird dream from last week doesn’t count, it’s been over two months without getting laid, so sue him. Anyways, tomorrow he’ll be back in his own time, free to pick up anyone who was wanting. If that someone didn’t have impeccable composure and eyes a colour Owen never did figure out, well, he would be all the better for it. 

It’s just that Owen loves pushing people until they show their cracks, bleeding through it bit by bit and granting him the upper hand. This way people either begin to trust him – mistaking their own eagerness to be heard for a genuine connection – or grow wary of him, desperate to keep him at bay, like Jack. 

It’s just that Owen has the unsettling feeling that Norton understands this, somehow, and is beating him at his own game.

--

Otherwise naked, Owen steps into one of the ugly striped pyjama pants he’s been borrowing from Norton this month, ignoring the man’s presence in the bed at the other side of the tiny room. Despite the February chill that creeps into the old (new?) buildings here, he’s refused to wear any of the shirts as well. Who the hell wears a preppy full-body suit to bed? Except Norton Folgate, of course. Owen himself wouldn’t want to be found dead in it. He doesn’t let himself linger on how viable that would be, knowing his luck and, well, Torchwood. Maybe those two went hand in hand. Either way, this Alejandro or whatever of Norton’s has terrible taste. 

As Owen slips under the covers, Norton turns to look at him. His normally immaculate hairdo has been slightly ruffled by the pillow already, a strand of it teasing at the corner of his eye.

‘I am sorry you didn’t get to find Diane.’

The statement hangs heavily in the few inches between their faces. 

Owen looks away, scoffs. ‘Right, even though you were so bloody helpful.’ He doesn’t have to look to see Norton raising an eyebrow. Again, tragically familiar by now.

‘We both know that if she’d been the kind of woman to stay, you wouldn’t have wanted her.’

Something uncoils inside Owen at that, rears its dark and ugly head. ‘You don’t know shit, Norton,’ he snaps. 

‘Charming attitude, Doctor Harper, that’ll do the job nicely.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ 

‘Yes, that. I mean the snappishness, darling. That whole uncaring, roguish thing you’ve got going on. Perfect for keeping people at a distance, isn’t it?’

He can feel Norton’s eyes boring into his back. ‘Isn’t the whole Freud thing a bit outdated, even for you?’

Norton hums. ‘Far from it, I’m afraid.’

Owen waits for the biting remark that’ll surely follow, but it never comes. Instead, a hush falls over the room. He hates how loud it makes the pounding of his heart sound. It makes his skin crawl, restlessness itching its way through his body. 

He turns around to face Norton again, suddenly desperate for a reaction. He’s not prepared for the thoughtful look he finds in Norton’s eyes.

‘I understand.’ 

The admission is quiet, and it’s as if a sort of veil Owen hadn’t noticed before it disappeared has fallen away from Norton’s face, leaving him rawer, exposed almost. If he didn’t know the man any better, Owen would say he looked vulnerable. 

He rolls over to his other side.

‘Good night, Folgate.’

The reply doesn’t come right away, and Owen thinks maybe he’s broken something again without wanting to. But then, quietly, composed again:

‘Good night, Owen.’

--

The portal is fizzling, sparks flying off it every now and then, and Owen wonders not for the first time how the hell he ended up in a shitty old sci-fi movie. 

‘It may not look it,’ Norton is saying, voice echoing off the walls of the abandoned warehouse, ‘but they promised it’s completely safe – well, they said it shouldn’t kill you. Immediately.’

‘Right,’ Owen mutters, ‘that’s incredibly reassuring, thanks.’ He doesn’t trust Norton for a second, but what choice does he have at this point? He has to get back to his own time. Still, something other than distrust holds him back, has him hesitating to return. He tries to reason it away: he hasn’t managed to find Diane in a month – who’s to say he would’ve in a year? That is, if she ever made it back at all. 

His eyes catch Norton’s, and he hates the haughty, knowing look he finds there. The restlessness that has been lingering under his skin is suddenly back tenfold, pushing at him, making him close some of the distance between him and Norton. Anything to stop this, to stop the way he can feel everything he’s locked away trying to rise up through his insides like bile.

Norton’s breath rushes over his face, those unreadable eyes still trained on Owen’s. Neither of them moves. 

Something snaps in Owen.

His lips are on Norton’s before he can think better of it, desperate and demanding. He doesn’t know what he expected – hesitation perhaps – but Norton doesn’t waste a second before responding in kind, lacing his fingers in his hair and dragging him closer, teeth dragging over his lips. It stirs something low in Owen’s belly, pushes against the hollow feeling that’s settled there. He lets himself cup Norton’s jaw, slips his tongue past the other’s lips for just a moment, tasting. Then he steps back.

Breathing hard, he makes his way to the portal. It’s only when he turns around that he catches the light flush on Norton’s cheeks, the slightest tremor in his composure. 

‘Doctor Harper,’ Norton says, inclining his head, voice smooth and steady as ever. ‘It’s been a, ah, pleasure.’ The smile curling his lips is almost genuine, and just a little bit dangerous.

‘I’ll see you around, Norton.’

Not looking back, he steps through the portal, back into his own time.