A/N : Ok, this is my first story, please enjoy and review. Any suggestions or ideas are welcomed! xx

Owen would never have admitted to anyone that he sometimes slept with his bedside light still on, and would probably have taken the piss out of anyone he knew that did. Even so, there he sat, bolt upright in his bed, the sheets a tangled, sweaty mess, and a cold sheen on his forehead, and he was grateful for the small patch of safety that bulb promised.

His breath came in cold, shuddering gasps, and he shook all over. He disengaged himself from the sheets, and heaved his legs over the side of the bed. He paused for a moment, his head in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees, searching for the strength to stand.

Still shaking, he forced himself up, and stumbled heavily to the bathroom, flicking down every light switch on the way. Once there, he rested his hands on the edge of the sink, and peered into the mirror above it. His skin was ice white, paler even than usual, and his hair was damp from sweat, of which a cold trickle was beginning to run down the side of his face.

Owen found his hands to be running the taps. He scooped up the cold water and clamped his eyes shut, splashing his face methodically over and over again. When he was done, and had dried himself on a towel, he made his way out of the bathroom and towards the kitchen in search of solace. He found it in the shape of a bottle, and sat on the counter like an overgrown schoolboy, drinking and considering his latest nightmare.

He'd been running. There was darkness pressing in on both sides, but light ahead. Behind – he hadn't dared look. He'd known there was something coming; something terrible, and so he'd kept on running. There hadn't been far to go, he'd been close to safety. And then –

"OWEEEEEN!!!!" a dreadful, throaty scream came from behind. Gwen's scream. He'd turned, only to find darkness, and no sign of her. He'd turned back, towards the light, but it had gone, and he was engulfed by blackness.

"OWEEEEEEEEN!!!"

Gwen had screamed again, but this time Owen couldn't tell which direction she was in, and he'd spun wildly in all directions, pushing against the darkness.

"OWEEEEEEEEEEN!!!PLEASE!!!!OWEEEEEEEN!!!!!"

Pushed down by the darkness, Owen had been forced into a ball on the ground, surrounded by Gwen's screams. And then the whispers had started, hissed in the voices he knew so well, magnified around him, twisted with malice.

"You didn't save her"

"You couldn't save her"

"You were too weak"

"Too weak"

"You let her die, Owen Harper"

"Let her die"

"You didn't find her"

"You let her die"

"Let her die"

"You let her die!!!"

"Let her DIE!!!!"

And the word 'die' had echoed around him again and again in multiple voices as Jack, Tosh and Ianto had taunted him, mixed with what Owen knew to be Gwen's dying screams. The darkness had pressed down harder on Owen, and he'd found himself screaming too.

"No. I tried. No, please, I tried, I tried. No – please, Gwen no, nooooo!!!!"

"OWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN!!!!"

Owen was jolted back to reality once more as a resounding crash told him he'd let the bottle slip from his fingers. He looked down and blinked at the amber liquid pooled on the black tiles, decorated with fragments of glass. He swore, then scooted along the counter so as to be able to get down without stepping on the glass or in the puddle.

Whilst soaking up the alcohol with a tea-towel, and going round on his hands and knees to collect the broken glass, Owen cursed softly, mentally shaking himself for being stupid, for having nightmares, for letting Gwen get under his skin.

This wasn't Owen's style. He fucked and then forgot. That was the rule he worked under. The rule he'd given himself. He told himself (and the others if they asked, which was rare) that the rule was there because of Torchwood. It was safer not to get involved with anyone, better all around. He was protecting people. In truth, if he was honest with himself, the rule was there because of Katie. He was protecting himself.

Things with Gwen had been different from the start. They'd needed each other. Despite how much Owen had wanted to laugh at Gwen's struggle to accept what they'd witnessed in the countryside, Owen had had difficulty coming to terms with it himself. He'd been close to calling her himself when she'd shown up at his door, hair tangled softly around her shoulders, leather jacket wrapped tight around her, blood soaking through the dressing on her side, staining her t-shirt.

The sight of her standing there before him, falling to pieces, had evoked so many parts of Owen. He hadn't known whether to check her stitches, comfort her, or kiss her. In the end he'd gone with all three.

She'd needed him, needed someone who understood. She'd needed to be able to let it all out, to cry freely and give no reason for it. She'd needed someone to hold her tight, and reassure her that it was all ok, that she was safe. In truth, so had Owen.

That's why it's different, Owen told himself firmly, there were already emotions attached. We were already close.

Owen bundled the bits of glass into the sodden tea-towel, and dropped the whole lot into the kitchen bin. He wandered across the open-plan living area and stood in front of the window, gazing out of it and trying not to think about Gwen.

He failed miserably.