Owen is easy to push around, easier than Jack.

He's easy to catch hold of and drag in, all angry mouth and sharp restless hands, which dig under the trailing edge of Ianto's untucked shirt.

They hit the medical table hard enough to fling silver across the tiled floor. Ianto half expects Owen to protest but he doesn't. The noise is loud in the hub, a tumble of metal and plastic. But there's no one here to hear it, everyone else has gone. Everyone else has gone and Ianto doesn't care.

Because Jack only wants him when it suits him, only wants him when it's easy.

Jack doesn't want him today. He's drifted from the hub bare seconds after the close of the latest near alien invasion and Ianto- Ianto does't want to sit around tonight and feel like something unwanted. He doesn't want to stew in his own adrenaline, sliding paper into filing cabinets and cleaning coffee stains off of the many shining surfaces, like some sort of office robot.

Ianto doesn't want to be available, today he just wants for himself.

Owen is here, and Owen doesn't make things complicated. Oh he'll bitch about it and he'll snap back if you push him hard enough but he doesn't say no. No matter how fucked up their relationship gets he never says no.

Fingernails catch on Ianto's waist, score lines over the top of his arse when Owen gets a good handhold on the waistband of both his trousers and his shorts, drags them as far as his hands will allow.

Ianto shifts to let him, makes only the barest effort to shove Owen's T-shirt up his chest because that's not what this is about and Jack will be back eventually.

Eventually, but not for him.

Ianto's bare hip smacks into the table and he hisses a protest, Owen crushes him there, pushes hard enough that Ianto tips back onto the surface. He lets him go long enough to drag one of the cupboards open.

The metal is freezing under Ianto's arse, and medical lubricant is always, always cold.

For lack of anything better to do Ianto drags Owen's mouth back within range while he works him open with quick impatient fingers.

"Fuck," Owen hisses when they break for air, he shifts, pushes in close. Then loops a hand under Ianto's knee and lifts it, the other pushing his jeans low enough that they drop on their own.

"Up," he demands against Ianto's mouth, one shaking breath that makes Ianto tilt his hips and drop back onto one hand.

There's nothing polite about the way Owen drags his hips close, presses against and then into him in one greedy push that has Ianto groaning through his teeth, fingers going white on the table and then sliding across the slippery surface.

But he needs it, he fucking needs it and he spreads his legs just a fraction wider, makes Owen lean into him, makes him press him down into the table. Because now, now is when Ianto doesn't want it nice, or clean, or perfect.

It's nothing like Jack, it's awkward and untidy and more than a fraction too hard.

And it's exactly what he needs.