i.
He's ready now. He's ready for her, and for them, and that giant pronoun – us – that he was never ready for before.
His present, his right now let's go can't wait is her too late, her past, her slipped through my fingers.
She's dating now, and it's his turn for jealousy, for the desperate wanting. It's only fair, he thinks, that fate got him in the end with what he deserved. Karma.
It's when she comes in, grinning, that he realizes. She speaks excitedly to Gwen about wedding plans, about what Jamie did, what Jamie said, their new life together. He is the Other, he is the outsider.
He opens his mouth to offer congratulations, but they stick in his throat.
When she moves to embrace him, hug him, as friends do, her arms curl warmly around his form briefly, and he thinks, this is it. The loss. He's losing her to this man, Jamie, who clearly was more deserving of her than he ever was.
Years. He kept her away for years. It's only fair – he gets her years of anguish in one cosmic sucker punch.
She smiles, chatting breathlessly, and he turns away.
(what goes around comes around)
ii.
Owen's got his arms wrapped around Suzy, even though they're at work, and she can't think, can't process.
She naively thought they were friends, her and Suzy. This is a low blow.
Ianto comes over – "Tosh, would you like some tea?"
She inquires about Lisa and he answers amicably. They sip their tea. She can feel his sympathy even as Suzy giggles, even as she hears the soft sounds of people kissing.
(the knife turns and turns)
She feels like she's trapped in an Eliot poem (he was always her favorite, despite her fondness for maths and the sciences).
She stares blankly at her computer screen when Suzy comes over, draping her arms familiarly over Tosh's shoulders. "How goes it, hm?"
"Well," Tosh replies.
"Oh, just leave her, Suze," Owen says. "We should be heading out, anyway."
Tosh stammers, "What?"
"Oh, Jack called," Suzy says, shrugging on her coat. "Just asked for us, though. Don't need you this time around. See you later."
They run out the door. Ianto places a hand on her hand.
iii.
She is bleeding, bleeding into his hands as she coughs and he tries to tell her that it's okay, that he can save her.
(he can't save her)
Jack's brother has shot her and left her for dead, and the world is saved, the universe is safe, and here she is, not even crying, just lying here, quiet, as she stains his skin and marks him.
"Tosh," he says, hands pressed against the wound.
"It's all right," she whispers, voice soft. "You don't have to worry about me."
He scoffs. "What are you talking about?"
She wraps her hand around his wrist, thumb pressed against a pulse point. "Still beating," she murmurs. She tugs at his hand, until it's hovering inches away from her wound. She bleeds even faster. She laces her fingers through his and tries to roll onto her side, though it makes her gasp with pain. "You'll be okay."
He presses a long kiss to her cheek, as his hand touches the other side of her face. He wants her to stay, he wants to be forgiven.
She laces her fingers through his hair, breath ragged.
(He doesn't move for hours after she dies.)
iv.
They tried.
They tried, or are trying, struggling, something. She sits on the edge of the bed, back to him. Her back is stiff, his joints are aching. Guns lay on the dresser, clips and cartridges beside them.
She sighs. "Owen."
"I know," he says. "I know." I know it isn't working, but I just want to know why, why.
"Maybe it wasn't for us."
"What," he replies, scornfully. "We didn't love each other enough?"
She sniffs resentfully, stands and heads for the kitchen. He follows her. "That's not what I meant," she says, uncorking a bottle of wine. She doesn't even bother to reach for a glass, just tilts it so the burgundy liquid splashes between her lips.
"What were you saying?"
"Forget it."
"No, I want to know."
"Well, I don't feel much like talking to you anymore."
"You're angry at me," he concludes, "for all the shit that happened before, and you know what, yes, that was me, but I can't change anything about it." He taps the side of his head, "You've built up such an image of me in here that even I can't compete with that."
"You know what," she says, with a slow smile. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I thought you were this person, and you're not. You're a lot shallower than I thought you were, a lot more immature."
"And you're so fucking perfect."
"I never broke someone's heart over years, did I?"
"You could've changed. You clung on to me, Tosh."
She grimaces. "I'm going to bed."
"You know I'm right," he says. His scornful laughter rings down the empty hallway of their flat.
v.
He doesn't reach out to her.
He's dead, for fuck's sake, the goddamn King of the Weevils, and what the hell is she going to do, check an equation to see if he's dead? Nope, he thinks, he already bloody knows it, so she can stuff her sympathetic words and tender glances.
"Tosh," he growls, "I can feel you lookin' at me, so just stop it."
"I want to help," she says.
"Nothing you can do."
Her fingers itch. She reaches for a pencil and twirls it between her fingers. "I want to help, Owen. There has to be a way—"
"Stop it," he snaps. "Stop your pity and your sympathy. I don't want it."
"Owen—"
He cuts, and he knows it. "What, you think you're needed here? What the fuck do you do? We don't do anything. We think we're closing the Rift, but we're not. Opens up too damn much for us to do anything productive. We're useless."
She opens and closes her mouth, unsure of how to proceed, so he does it for her. He leans in to her space.
"I don't want you, I don't need you, so just go back to your own business."
(he can hear her crying when he's halfway down the hall)