Author's Note: This is a slightly revised version of my entry for week six the Writer in a Drawer competition on LiveJournal. Set after "Countrycide." Don't own!
Gwen waited, buried under the covers, until the front door clicked shut, announcing that Rhys was off to work and she could now get ready for her day in private. She slipped out of bed and headed toward the bathroom. She pulled her nightshirt off over her head and looked in the mirror, staring at the nearly healed skin on her abdomen.
It hadn't been easy to keep the wound hidden from Rhys, slipping into bed after he'd gone to sleep, rising after he'd left for work or an errand, never letting him see her naked, pleading tiredness when he did wake and reach for her in the night.
No, not easy. But hiding was simpler than explaining. How could she explain? "Oh, sweetheart, I got shot on the job." He'd go spare, demanding explanations she just couldn't give.
He might even demand that she quit. Breaking up bar brawls on the beat was one thing, he'd argue. Getting pumped full of lead was quite another.
He'd want her to choose, and she just couldn't.
She sighed as she turned on the shower and stepped in, willing the water to wash her conscience clean.
It wouldn't, of course.
Her side didn't hurt any more. She and Owen had discovered that a few nights ago, when he skimmed his hands gently over that stretch of skin and she arched up into his touch instead of wincing and shying away. The end of the pain meant the beginning of new explorations and discoveries. That kept her out late and made it easier for her to get home and into bed long after Rhys was asleep.
She told him she was working late, and he believed it, never questioning because he trusted her. Because he loved her.
But that wasn't enough any more. His love had kept her grounded through all the little shocks and scares on the beat. But it just couldn't blot out all the terror and the blood and the death that had come into her world with Torchwood. She wasn't the woman Rhys had fallen in love with any more, and she wasn't sure if she ever could be again.
She rinsed her hair, turned off the faucet and reached for a towel. Once dried off, she went back into the bedroom and began pulling out clothing for the day. Her eyes fell on a framed photograph on the dresser. Herself and Rhys, snapped on a beach in Spain a few years ago, back when their love was still fresh and new and every night was filled with explorations and discoveries. Before they'd become—what did Owen call it? "Too familiar."
She looked down at the bra and g-string she'd taken from the drawer. Lacy confections in blush pink, the sort of thing she used to wear for Rhys, back before they'd become "too familiar."
Now she wore them for Owen.
She looked back at the photo. She had been smiling at the camera, but Rhys was smiling at her, giving her a look that had melted her heart back then. It still did now.
She needed to choose.
And she just couldn't.