Owen POV:

Owen stood looking out Alex's floor-to-ceiling windows. His forehead was pressed against the cool glass, trying to alleviate the throbbing behind his eyes. His head seemed to be on the verge of splitting open. He shouldn't be standing by the window, the light too bright. He was to tired to move. Colours kept zigzagging in and out of his vision. He closed his eyes instead, fighting the feelings of nausea and fatigue that were trying to overtake him.

"Are the headaches back?"

Yes!

They were back.

Back to mess with his head some more. Although they'd never been this bad.

Owen felt like he was finally losing his mind; the seams of his consciousness unraveling around him. Or perhaps he just wanted to believe he was going crazy. It would be easier, right? If this was all some kind of dream or something he cooked up in his head. It would be better then facing reality.

Owen sure thought so.

It would help him make sense of his shitty, complicated, ongoing life. If he were crazy, then he wouldn't need Amanda for answers that he could just concoct himself.

For instance, what if Sam wasn't a killer? What is he was a bank robber? Or a stunt driver? Hell, even a clown at the circus sounded like a more appealing background story. It didn't matter what life Owen choose for Sam, because he could make any of them real.

That's what crazy people did, wasn't it? Make up completely rational stories about their behaviour, their thoughts, their pasts, that were real only to them, so they could function in real life.

In that case, maybe the whole world was crazy?

Owen was dealing with a lot of 'maybes' lately and, frankly, they were starting to piss him off.

But all of that didn't really matter, because that wasn't the main issue that Owen's mind kept circling around too.

The main issue; what if Sam really was a killer? Owen's shoulders were already heavy with the weight of the sins he committed over the past few years under Percy's command, literally and figuratively. His tattoos weren't for decoration. If he had to take on Sam's sins too - a guy he didn't even remember being - he wasn't sure if he cold handle it.

The sound of rustling bed sheets distracted Owen from his destructive thoughts, pulling him from the dark place in his psyche. He didn't bother turning around to see if Alex was awake, because he could feel her eyes boring holes into the back of his head. Or it could just be the headache.

"Owen?" Definitely not the headache.

Alex sounded hesitant, nothing like her usual confident self. She sounded, the way he felt, unsure of what the fuck was going on. He gained some comfort from that.

Taking a deep breath, Owen contemplated what he was about to say. She was probably going to argue with him, tell him it wasn't a good idea, but he wasn't taking no for an answer. She would accept his proposal and that would be the end of it.

"This is how it's going to go, Alex," he began, the throbbing behind his eyes and lack of sleep making his words sound hollow. His words sounding awful loud to his ears. He needed to get a grip. He didn't hear her get up from the bed or sense her approach, until her small hand was resting on the back of his neck.

That was bad.

Owen was a highly trained killer; taking him by surprise was extremely difficult. Imagine what would have happened if he was in the field right now. He'd be dead, his throat slit, a bullet through his brain. He didn't even attempt to recover the advantage; spin round, dislodge hand, grasp opponent by the throat and reverse positions.

No, he stood still and let Alex stroke the back of his head and neck.

"Owen, what's wrong?" This wasn't the first time she'd asked that question. He could hear the increasing concern in her voice, the touch of her hand.

"Headache," he managed, before a sharp pain robbed him of his speech.

"Owen, I want you to come sit on the bed," Alex requested, grabbing his hands. "God, Owen, your hands feel like ice."

That didn't stop her from pulling him over to the bed, where she made him sit down. She then started bustling around the room, like a woman on a mission. Ha, a woman on a mission. That was funny, because Alex was a spy and she went on missions.

Ugh, his headache was making him stupid too.

Alex closed the blinds, plunging them into darkness, which Owen was grateful for. Hopefully the lights would stop dancing in front of his eyes now. He heard her moving around the room and suddenly there was light spilling in from a door off to the right. Owen cringed away from it, his head falling into hands, so he could block it out.

What was she doing?

Deciding he didn't care, as long as she didn't leave the apartment or go looking for pills - there was none, he already checked - he collapsed back on the bed, rolling over on to his stomach, so that he could bury his head in a pillow.

As it turned out it was Alex's pillow, it still smelled like of her shampoo; something citrusy and clean. Breathing in, he felt his body relax. He knew it was strange, the scent of a woman he barely knew, calming him in a way nothing else ever had.

Oh, man, he really was crazy.

How else could he explain his behaviour over the last few hours?

Again, he didn't hear her get close to him, this time something ice cold on the back of his neck signalling her return. He jerked, slightly, confused by the sensation.

"It's a cold compress, Owen. I had one in my freezer," she explained, as if reading his mind. "I think you have a migraine so this should help with the pain." She was kneeling beside him, as far as he could tell, but then he couldn't think anymore, because her hands were massaging his head.

'Oh God, it feels like I've died and gone to heaven,' Owen thought, the throbbing in his head subsiding, somewhat, under her ministrations.

A question kept bugging him though and he eventually had to ask or he wouldn't be able to relax.

"Why?"

Alex paused, Owen instantly regretted asking. He hadn't meant to make her to stop. He opened his mouth to tell her she didn't have to answer right now, but she started massaging his head again, before he could get the words.

Alex's answer, when it finally came, was softly spoken, almost as if she didn't want him to hear it.

"You took care of me."