4 - Owen
He'd never thought of this when he decided to study medicine. It had never crossed his mind at uni, and through most of his training. The concept had fleetingly occured to him during his time working in A&E, seeing all around him how suddenly random lives could change in the flicker of an eye, but he'd never seriously entertained the idea. Working at Torchwood though, then the reality had hit hard and fast.
How many colleagues had he checked now? Vital signs - gone, pupils fixed and dilated, skin cooling as body stiffened. Only one diagnosis to make. He'd never get used to it, never could, losing one of their own.
Sitting here, having avoided Ianto, for the first time he could suddenly understand why people wanted to talk to dead bodies. Someone who would let you say what you wanted without judging, never offering back daft advice and never revealing what you confided. He didn't think the others would understand how he felt, he didn't understand himself how he felt. He had shot Jack, had felt all that rage and frustration building in him for longer than he knew, come to the fore. All the things in his life which had failed him, from Diane leaving on down, added to the mystery, evasions and need-to-know secrecy he got from Jack, had all culminated in a finger pulling a trigger.
He remembered Jack teaching him to shoot.
He didn't hate Jack, had never hated Jack. Family: he'd made a family here. And of all the members of that family, Jack was the stand out figure. The big brother he'd never had, the rock, the centre. Reliable, solid, charasmatic, industructable. So now, to see him lying there, too pale, too cold, too quiet, too still... was...
'Losing' they called it, as if you'd put them down somewhere and temporarily forgotten where. This wasn't losing, this was having your life wrenched apart - again. It was all too much. He needed an emotionectomy to eliviate the symptoms of gut-twisting, heart-punching, head-spinning pain that the abscence of one broad-shouldered, period-dressing, flirt caused. He wanted the detachment back, the necessary sign of a doctor, caring enough to heal, but not to feel. He'd lost that alright, lost it the moment he had the gun in his hand and pointing at Jack.
Now he had what he thought he had wanted, responsibility, control, trust. Command of Torchwood Three, and keys to the safe. The paperwork, the phonecalls, the ultimate decision. Now he knew what he really wanted, and he'd give everything up to feel Jack's hand on his shoulder and see that wry grin.
Owen forced back the tears threatening to...
...and stared blindly at his paper until he heard voices outside, and he could let Gwen take his seat.
ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo
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