Ianto was incredulous; surely he must have misheard.
“You want to turn the old boardroom into what?
“A hothouse,” Owen repeated, arms folded defensively across his chest. “You know, for plants.”
“Because we don’t have anywhere to keep the alien plants that come through the Rift. Look. Right now, most of them don’t survive; we can’t provide the right conditions for them, so we end up tossing them in the incinerator. It’s a waste. Some of them could have valuable medicinal properties, but we’ll never know if we can’t keep them alive long enough to run tests on them.”
Ianto had to admit Owen was right.
“Okay, you have a point. But who’s going to look after them? I’m already overstretched with Jack gone, and anyway, I’m not exactly green-fingered.”
“No problem, it’ll be my project. I like plants, they don’t complain about the way they’re treated.”
“No, they just wilt and die if you get it wrong.”
“That the voice of experience speaking?” Owen smirked.
“Yep. These hands have committed herbicide countless times.”
“So, do I get my hothouse?”
“Make a list of what you need and I’ll see you get it.”