Author's note: Major spoilers for Season 2: 'Adam' and 'Reset'
A matter of life and death
The first thing Owen thinks is that he can't move, and how strange that is. He can feel what surrounds him so intensely; the hard, damp tarmac he's lying on; the mouldy, leafy smell of the undergrowth tangled behind the chain-link fence and overlaying it all the familiar acrid scent of gunshot: metallic, chemical; exciting.
Before he'd joined Torchwood he'd never handled a gun; now it's like an extension of his hand. He hasn't yet taken to sleeping with a gun under his pillow, Bond-style, but he knows it's only matter of time. There's a common thread running through everything Torchwood does, everything Torchwood is, and it's death. Owen's not an idiot. He's seen the medical records of every employee Torchwood's ever had. The average age of death is well below thirty and none of them die in bed. He never thought he'd buck the trend.
Jack's speaking to him, from a long way off. "Stay with me, Owen."
There's a crushing weight on his chest, like a giant invisible Weevil sitting on him. Where does Jack think he's going to go? He can hear Tosh weeping quietly behind him. Tosh. He was going to take her out tomorrow night, wasn't he? Quiet, lovely Tosh; Tosh who's always there, hiding in the corner, tapping away at her keyboard like a little mouse. He wants to bring that out of her; that fire he knows she keeps hidden. Maybe they'll complement each other, if he can just keep from criticising her till she cries. Or perhaps this is for the best; Tosh deserves more than someone who'll mock her lack of sexual experience and undercut her with sharp comments.
He hears Gwen's soft voice, speaking comfortingly to Tosh. She's not always so restrained. He remembers her saying You can be such a wanker, sometimes. That'll probably be his epitaph. He was so angry with her, back last winter. Angry with her, the world and specifically the bit of it that was out to fuck him, Owen Harper over, and Gwen had been standing in the way. He'd screwed her and argued with her and ignored her, and compared her unfavourably to Diane, and yet somehow in Jack's absence they'd become friends. The way she'd turned to him after Captain John released her. He could feel the anger and adrenalin coming off her in waves; could almost see it like a visible aura around her; yet she didn't let it show on her face.
Owen envies that about Gwen; her self-control. He can't keep anger off his face or out of his body language; however hard he tamps it down, it comes out in sarcasm and biting wit; leaks out around the edges like a noxious cloud that poisons all his relationships and interactions.
He knows it wouldn't have lasted with Diane, anyway. Fantasies like that never do. Dinner jackets; champagne; dancing on the roof with the stars overhead. What was he thinking? It was surprising, though, to find himself outmanoeuvred. He'd envied the easy way she'd adapted to her new circumstances, taking them for what they were, no more, no less, and finding what she needed in them. Could he have done that, if he'd found himself in her time?
He finds himself thinking of his mother, which is odd, because he never thinks about his mother but she's been in his mind these last few days, like someone set a tape going. The lowlights of Owen Harper's childhood. He remembers one particular day, his tenth birthday, in the kitchen of their cramped sixth floor council flat in Peckham, with her yelling, You're my son, I love you but I don't like you very much. He's forgotten now what his crime was; muddy football boots on the clean kitchen floor; something like that? She used to clean all the time. She used to hoover every morning before she took him to school and clean the kitchen and the bathroom when she got in from work, and it was all for nothing, because he didn't appreciate it and they never had any visitors.
She'd have been the same age he is now, twenty-eight. It's the first time he's thought of them as equals in any way. He thinks about how impatient he is; how badly he suffers fools. He wonders how he'd manage to take care of a ten year old. A bolshy, difficult ten year old who thinks he knows it all and won't take advice from anyone. He knows it wouldn't end well. She contacted him, last year. She'd Googled him, got his email at Torchwood. He'd never replied. Let her think it was a different Owen Harper. Now he wonders what she'd have said. What she looks like now. He could have asked her who his dad was. Is. He doesn't even know if he's alive. Does she?
Jack's still talking to him but the words don't make sense. He can feel Jack's hands under his head. It's nice to have Jack's attention on him. That's all he's ever wanted, really, Jack's approval.
Owen tries to speak. He wants to say, It was worth it, but he can't get the words out.