Author's note: Well, I feel like I totally messed up the last chapter because I'm not good at making decisions, and I apologize for that. I'm going to add the last few lines from the previous part to this one to avoid any further confusion, and with any luck, it'll all make sense. Eventually. Also, yes - 5 parts :) Thanks for all the love, guys! You're the best :)

"There's always a choice."

"Not then, there wasn't. It wasn't like I killed someone, for Christ's sake! I owed a lot of money-"

"And I was pregnant, Owen," she cut him off.

xoox

Claire didn't remember how she got back in the car. Didn't remember driving either, her mind numb and empty. One moment, she was staring into Owen's eyes, wide with shock, and then somehow, she ended up back in her office, her hands shaking and her heart fluttering feverishly in her ribcage until she was dizzy and nauseated. No one knew, not even her family, and she was adamant to keep it that way. How on earth did she ended up blurting out her little secret at the worst possible moment to the worst possible person was beyond her comprehension.

She meant what she said. It was a mistake. A foolish, childish mistake. Everyone had one or two under their belt, that much she was certain of. That was how people learned.

She and Owen were no different, and he probably knew it too. He had to, she reasoned with herself. What happened between them was… unavoidable, Claire decided at some point. If it wasn't that, there'd be something else. She'd pierce her eyebrow, or get blackout drunk at a frat party, or dye her hair pink. Getting married on a whim was hardy the worst-case scenario, all things considered. They were young and naïve, and utterly stupid, for that matter. For two deliriously happy months, they allowed themselves to believe that anything was possible. There was no crime in that, although there was no reward in it either.

And now… Now she was scared. It frightened her how easily his reappearance in her life threw her off-balance after all those years when she thought she'd put that summer behind, scrapped the faded memories of it out of her mind until there was nothing left. Who knew it could be this easy to fall right back into that black hole all over again?

The door to her office swung open, the handle hitting the opposite wall with a loud bang, and Owen strode in, a determined purpose in his stride, followed by frantic Zara who looked like she was about to have a heart attack.

"Wait, you can't… Claire, I'm sorry-" She started just as Owen said:

"We need to talk." There was no denying that he absolutely meant it.

"It's okay," Claire promised Zara, composing herself – because it wasn't like she didn't see this coming, and after a moment of hesitation, her assistant backed out into the hallway and shut the door quietly behind her, still confused and maybe a little panicked over not be able to bodily stop a 6'2" wall of pure muscle. Frankly, Owen didn't look like anything short of a canon ball, his face uncompromising and his gaze hard and heavy on her, near impossible to hold. She didn't look away though, simply folding her arms on her desk before her. "What can I do for you, Mr. Grady?"

He grimaced. "Cut the crap, Claire. You can't just tell me…. what you told me, and walk away, and-" He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, and it was almost like he'd jogged here all the way from the paddock, high on adrenaline.

"You're right," she interjected firmly and gave him a steady, even look, hoping he wouldn't notice how badly she was trembling all over. "I shouldn't have told you. It slipped."

"Slipped," Owen echoed, disbelieving. "What happened?" His voice dropped, growing thicker, his gaze more intense on her, almost piercing. After his theatrical entrance, he didn't dare step toward her, regarding her like she might be dangerous, choosing to hang back by the door instead, which almost required having to raise their voices to be heard.

"Nothing happened," she shrugged, struggling to keep her cool and ignore a wild blood rush in her ears. "You can't just barge into my office as you please, by the way."

It was either her flat tone, or her phenomenal ability to change the subject that left him gaping at her for a few long moments, completely dumbfounded, his jaw practically hanging open.

"Are you for real right now?" Owen asked at last as if he wasn't even sure he was hearing her right.

Claire bristled at the blunt accusation in his voice. She pushed up from her chair, hating to have to look up at him, even though in her own space it almost gave her an illusion of power. Her hands gripped the edge of her desk in what she hoped looked like anger and not a much needed support.

"What do you want from me, Owen?" She demanded, sick of this game of theirs, or dancing around their unresolved issues and other shit she couldn't want to leave behind for good.

"Owen. Not Mr. Grady. That's a first." His short bark of a laugh was sharp and humorless.

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Claire rolled her eyes.

"I want you to tell me the truth!" He snapped, crossing the distance between them in two quick strides, so furious he was practically shaking, which, surprisingly, only fueled her own frustration. "I want you to stop this bullshit and tell me-"

"I told you the truth!" She yelled, her sudden outburst shocking enough to drain the fight out of him, or at least enough of it to get him to unclench his fists.

"What happened to…" Owen swallowed, giving her an almost cautious once-over, as if somehow expecting to find a bump all those years later. "What happened to the baby?"

Claire pursed her lips into a thin line, torn between telling him to go to hell and maybe calling the security – not because she felt threatened in any way, but because she could, or maybe reminding him that he had no business to know anything about her, period. At this point, they were barely old acquaintances, and as far as she was concerned, she didn't owe him anything.

"Nothing happened," she responded in a cold, detached voice when he was staring to look like he might explode if she didn't say something. She straightened up, squaring her shoulders and tipping her chin up, somewhat glad to have the desk between them, the distance that allowed her to breathe. "Miscarriages are apparently a common occurrence in the first trimester. I wish I didn't have to learn it the hard way, but I've made my peace with it a long time ago. Is that it?"

He shoulders slumped as if under a blow.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He asked hoarsely – pleading, not demanding.

"Because I didn't want to," Claire said sharply.

She might have as well slapped him for how Owen stepped back involuntarily, flinching at the brutal honesty she didn't have it in her to dance around anymore, all the pain and fear of the weeks following their split up finally pouring out of her now that the source of them was finally standing right in front of her. And while a part of her did want to soften the truth, she could no longer hold back from smug satisfaction of not having to carry this burden on her own.

"At first I didn't know how to find you, and then I decided not to do it. You chose to leave, Owen," she went when he didn't say anything. "If that baby lived, god help me, I'd love it with all my heart, but you chose to walk away, so don't look at me like you ever had any say in the matter. By the time I found out I was pregnant, it was mine and only mine."

His nostrils flared again like she was waving a red clothe in front of his face. "I told you-"

"Yes, the debts. You told me 16 years too late, thank you very much. All because of some sexist crap," she interjected, both furious and hurt. God, even after all this time... "Back then, I'd have done anything to be with you, I'd walk to the end of the world for you." Claire swallowed, willing her voice not to break. "But not that, not silently accepting your making decisions for me like you owned me. Well, congratulations. Now you have no goddam right to pass the judgement. You've lost it when you threw the for better, or for worse, for richer, or for poorer out the window."

It was a miracle she was still standing, the air between them so electrified Claire thought she'd see sparks flying any second now.

"You told me to fuck off," he spat angrily.

Claire snickered. "I waited for you to call. For months, I waited for you to do something. Anything. It wasn't me who decided to ship off to another continent, Owen." She let it sink before continuing, "Whatever happened next is none of your business. You left. End of story."

He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowed, gaze locked with hers. Not angry anymore, but confused and pained. Regretful. Well, he could join the fucking club, for all she cared. This was her life that he stomped into with the grace of an elephant, her carefully constructed world that he had no right to swoop into and tear apart in his wake.

"What happened to you, Claire?" Owen asked quietly as if he couldn't recognize the person standing before him.

"I grew up." She gave him a calm, measured look, fiercely protecting the storm raging inside her, daring him to disagree.

And god help her, he opened his mouth to do just that. But then someone rapped their knuckles if a little cautiously on the door, and the next moment it opened a crack and Zara poked her head in, looking more than a little uncomfortable to interrupt. Her eyes darted quizzically to Owen before settling on Claire.

"I'm sorry," she started, then cleared her throat. "Mr. Masrani—"

"It's okay, I'll take it from…" Simon stepped around her and into Claire's office. "Oh, I didn't know you had a-" He paused, surprised to find Owen inside, his eyebrows quirked ever so slightly in a silent puzzlement, but then he nodded to Zara, signaling to her that it was fine, and strolled over to Owen. "Mr. Grady." He offered his hand to Owen, and the latter shook it automatically. "I didn't mean to interrupt…"

"It's fine," Claire promised him quickly."Mr. Grady here was just leaving."

Or so she was hoping.

"Ah, no," Simon raised his hand. "Actually, it's very fortunate." If he found Owen's presence in her office unusual or the murderous vibe in the air disconcerting, he had enough tact not to show it. He turned to Claire. "I'm going to the States for a while, my presence is required at the headquarters. And Mr. Hoskins is coming with me." He paused. "I don't want to overwhelm you, Claire, but would it be okay with you to keep an eye on Mr. Grady's Velociraptor project?" His eyes darted toward Owen for a second before fixing inquisitively on Claire.

She opened her mouth to protest – she didn't know what the project was about, she was swarmed with the other work, her whole schedule was so packed she barely had time to breathe, and she could not, under no circumstances, be within a two-mile radius from Owen.

"Of course," she nodded formally, pointedly ignoring Owen who audibly sucked in a sharp breath, undoubtedly as excited about this prospect as she was. "No problem at all, Sir."

Not that saying no was an option.

There was a very thin line between ambition and obsession, and at times, Claire couldn't see it clearly herself, certainly not when her work was concerned. Truth be told, she wasn't even sure she wanted to get to the top, uncertain of what she'd do when she was there, but challenging herself to see how far she could reach was another thing entirely.

At some point, years ago, she promised to herself that she would become utterly invaluable to Masrani Global. Simon's right hand, or sometimes both, if needed. Since then, she could count the number of times she'd said no to his requests on one hand. Projects outside of her scope of duties, sleepless nights developing business strategies, weekends spent poring over the technical aspects of his ideas, taking over someone's work when he had no one else to turn to – she'd done it all. He'd tell her to jump, she'd ask how high.

That was how it worked. Frankly, Claire didn't want to take his place, she was sure of that. But she still wanted to know if she could, and that required complete dedication. Which was why if he wanted her to oversee Owen Grady's work, she would suck it up, put a smile on her face, and soldier on like it was no big deal.

Because it was the only thing Claire knew how to do best.

Simon's shoulders relaxed, the crease between his eyebrows smoothing out instantly. He thanked her profusely and shook Owen's hand again before leaving them be 'to figure out the details between themselves' – a suggestion that nearly left her in a laughing fit. For all she knew, by the time Hoskins came back, they'd probably tear each other's throats out.

Owen clenched his teeth tight, turning to her again. And it was only then that she noticed a heavy silence that settled around them all of a sudden, so loud she could feel the air move in the vents above her head without hearing it.

"You have got to be shitting me," Owen muttered under his breath not without disgust.

Claire turned to him, her chin raised, and leveled him with a flat look, indicating that, first, the conversation was over and, second, she didn't care about his opinion. "I expect your progress reports on my desk by tonight, Mr. Grady." She said in a voice that allowed no objection. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

At that, he turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him and making her entire office rattle, the echo of the bang ringing in her ears.

Weak in the knees, she collapsed into her chain, feeling like a deflated balloon.

When was the last time she even thought about that night? A decade at least. Claire made a point to never obsess over it again, her stomach churning whenever she'd allow a sliver of memory to creep into her mind. The pain and blood, and a belated realization of what was happening, her fear and panic, and a desperate hope that it was not over yet, that she could save the tiny wink of life inside her with the power of her will – all mixed into a dangerous combination, running in her system.

Claire was horrified when she found out she was pregnant. Alone and clueless and only 18 years old, she was two weeks into her first semester in college, finally welcoming a distraction from the days leading to it that she spent crying. She thought it was food poisoning or a stomach bug at first, the thing that caused her to throw up for a few days. Something that everyone else happily managed to avoid. She didn't count in that factor at the time, blaming her nausea on cheap food or whatever. It wasn't until it didn't stop after nearly a week that her roommate asked Claire if she was pregnant.

She couldn't have been, Claire told herself. They were young and hormonal, but they were not stupid, and she was meticulous with this kind of stuff. And yet, when she bought a home pregnancy test in the nearby pharmacy, it showed two stripes. Positive. Locked in the bathroom of the tiny apartment she was sharing with a girl from Law School, she stared at it for about half an hour, going from fear to elation to thrill to anticipation until she settled on content. She didn't plan this, and god, didn't want it either, in the grand scheme of things.

Claire clutched her flat belly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

But it didn't matter now. This was her baby, however surprising and unplanned it was, and she loved it already. In retrospect, she knew she was being stupid. Hell, she didn't even know her way around campus yet. How was she planning to pull off motherhood? But the ever-logical and pragmatic Claire Dearing found herself madly in love with a tiny grey spec on a sonogram she had that very same week.

Until one afternoon several weeks later, the cramps started. Claire disregarded them. Having done some basic reading on the subject already, she knew it wasn't a big deal – her body was adjusting to its new condition. And then, after a few hours, they got worse. By the time she made it back to her apartment, she was bleeding. By then, she already knew what was happening. Hand pressed to her mouth so she wouldn't scream, she dropped her bag in the hallway and stumbled into the bathroom where her roommate found her a while later, sitting on the floor in the shower, crying from pain and exhaustion and loss.

Claire knew that there was a chance it was inevitable. Oddly enough, sometimes a mother and a baby were simply incompatible – a notion she found utterly ridiculous because how could it even be possible? There was science behind it though, proven facts that she couldn't help but respect. And yet, a part of her didn't know how not to blame herself for losing that tiny spec of life that was supposed to be safe and happy with her. Maybe if she'd gone to the hospital sooner, if she'd felt that something was wrong before it was too late because surely she was supposed to know it, right? She was supposed to feel everything.

For months afterwards, she hated Owen more than she ever thought she could – for not being there for her when she needed him more than ever, her own decision to not try to find him seemingly forgotten. And later, when there were no tears left, she stored this memory away and shut it out as best she could.

It was an awful way to grow up, her life flipped upside down again in just a matter of hours. And yet, there was nothing she could do but move on.

Claire snapped her head up at the sound of the opening door, thinking that it was Owen who came back for a second round of their screaming match, but it was only Zara, peeking inside in a little reluctantly. There was no way she missed the yelling before Simon showed up, and now Claire couldn't help but wonder just how much she'd actually heard.

"Yes?" She asked with a plastic smile, hoping Zara couldn't see her quivering lips.

There was a flicker of emotion on Zara's face, curiosity mixed with a slight worry and a sprinkling of puzzlement on top of it. She stepped into Claire's office and cleared her throat, a folder in her hand.

"Mark sent this," she said, waving the folder in the air. HR, if Claire remembered correctly. Amidst dealing with this blast from the past, she completely forgot about the quarterly staff evaluation. "For approval." Claire nodded. "I, um… didn't know you've met."

"Met?" Claire echoed, confused.

"Owen Grady." Now Zara was nearly bursting with questions. "I didn't think you knew each other."

Claire stiffened at the sound of his name. "We don't. What does it matter?"

Zara grimaced a little. "He's the guy I was trying to set you up with."

Perfect, Claire thought, choosing not to comment. That was just perfect.

xoox

His heart hammering, Owen sped away from the resort, his hands gripping the steering wheel of the park issued jeep so tight he feared he'd either break the goddamn thing, or grow into it, his brain on fire. There was nothing he wanted more than to put his fist through something, like a cement wall, if only to lessen the pain inside him that threatened to splinter his heart into pieces until there was nothing left.

A baby.

His Claire was pregnant when he left.

Because I didn't want to.

Furious, he smacked his hand on the steering wheel, nearly sending the car into the ditch along one of side roads. It happened so long ago it felt more like another lifetime now than the past he was actually a part of, and yet it stung more than he expected it could. More than he was willing to admit. More than anything ever before.

Shit! He'd missed her so bad. In the weeks and months following their breakup, he couldn't close his eyes without seeing her face. He'd wake up in the middle of the night, certain that he could feel the weight of her body pressed to his as she slept soundly only to realize it was only a dream. It was like he lived in a fog, trapped between the fantasy of what could have been and the harsh reality of his life that consisted of tedious drills, people in uniforms that blended one into another until they were nothing but a faceless gray mass. It both helped him and tore him apart, until his longing reduced to a dull throb, his very essence crossed with scars.

Owen hit the brakes abruptly at the fork in the road, his chest heaving.

The brutal truth was that he honestly had no idea what he'd do if he knew. At the time, he felt like he had no choice – it was either the NAVY, or he'd have to sell his very soul to the devil to get out of the mess he'd found himself in, courtesy of his dad and his substance abuse. On top of everything else, he was a proud little shit who'd much rather die than ask for help or admit that he didn't have to go through any of this alone. As was everyone else at the age of 20, Owen was certain. Except not everyone paid the highest price for their mistakes.

Deep inside he knew that the army was the right choice, but there wasn't a day, a minute in his life when he didn't regret losing Claire. Even when the sharp edges of his pain smoothed with time, there never was a moment when he didn't wish he could go back and work it out somehow. However Claire wanted to, really.

She didn't know it, but he called her, or tried to, his finger usually pressing disconnect before the call could go through. He wrote her, too, when the phones were unavailable, and never sent a single one of the letters, the whole stack still stored as far away from the prying eyes as possible. Would it really changed anything, Owen couldn't help but wonder. Back then, the possibility of a no felt far worse than a wary hope for a maybe.

"Shit," he repeated under his breath, and instead of turning right to the paddock, he headed left to the bungalow. Barry was right, he could use a day off. Hell, he could use a 6-month long timeout just to start thinking straight.

Inside, the bungalow was stifling hot, even with the windows wide open, humid air spilling in and finding refuge in the corners until there was no escape from it. And yet it felt good to be holes up in his own tiny corner, away from the rest of the world.

Owen texted to Barry saying that something had come up, which wasn't entirely a lie, grateful for once for the easy start of this goddamn job that he didn't know how he was going to power through anymore, and then turned his phone off before a rain of questions poured down on him. They could manage without him for a few hours.

A six-pack of beer that Owen had in the fridge wasn't going to cut it, that much was clear. Instead, he reached for a bottle of Jack Daniel's he had saved for a 'special occasion'. Well, finding out that his then wife was pregnant when he left her in the dust counted as one, as far as he was concerned. He unscrewed the cap and, foregoing the glass, took several big gulps like it was nothing but water, not feeling the bitter taste or the fiery burn of alcohol scalding his throat and sloshing in his stomach, uncertain who he was mad at right now – Claire or himself.

Wasn't sure he had any right to be mad at Claire to begin with. It did, after all, happen a very long time ago, as she pointed out. It scared him still though, all things considered, the what-ifs and maybes crowding his mind. Another hungry gulp of whiskey made him wince. He needed all of this to go away for now, push it out of his head for as long as he could until he was ready to face the fact that he'd failed the only person who'd meant the word to him on just about every level. Did his excuse make it better? Not even fucking close…

When the sun started to set, he collapsed heavily on the bed after draining the last drops of alcohol from the bottle, his head buzzing with that pleasant hum that promised a deep sleep and a very nasty morning, but that was a problem for later.

And when he finally slipped into black oblivion, he dreamt of Claire.

He dreamt of that day that was hot like only summer days in Midwest could be when they found themselves stark in the middle of a rainstorm that came hard and fast and out of nowhere, his bike zipping across muddy puddles, the water spraying from under the tires while Claire clung to him as tight as she could, scared of loosening her grip. He skidded to an abrupt halt under the awning near his house and they made a run for the front door as the wind kept throwing angry fistfuls of rain at them.

They burst inside, soaked-through and laughing, the water dripping from their clothes on the hardwood floor. He figured they'd dry up before Claire made a dash for her own house, hoping the weather would improve soon. Both of them shivering in wet clothes, Owen found a set of clean towels and directed her toward the privacy of the bathroom, pausing only briefly to cup her cheek with his palm, unable to hold back from kissing her like she was his air after he just spend an eternity underwater.

"I'll be right back," Claire promised, laughing a little, stealing another quick kiss before disappearing behind the white door.

While she was gone, Owen gathered the discarded magazines into a more-or-less neat pile on the coffee table, suddenly self-conscious of the mess despite the fact that she'd been around enough not to be bothered by it. Not that he was going to start a full on clean-up right now. Instead, he picked up a couple of empty beer bottles from the floor near the couch and threw them into the trash, feeing somewhat better about his housekeeping skills by the second. Then he pulled off his own wet shirt, relieved to stop shivering at last and wondering if a little belatedly if he had anything clean to wear, what with his less than impressive laundry schedule.

"You know, this isn't exactly how I thought…"

Wrapped in a bath towel and drying her hair with another one, Claire stepped into the living room and stopped short. He was still standing by the couch, his shirt in his hand and his wet hair sticking out at odd angles. His gaze traveled up and down her body, his Adam's Apple bobbing in his throat when he swallowed hard, his breath hitching visibly.

She stared back. Toned and tanned, he looked like he was cut out a block of granite, stray drops of rainwater clinging to his skin – that was what she told him she was thinking about. Later. Much later.

Claire lowered her hands and draped the small towel over the back of the nearest chair. She walked over to Owen, stopping right in front of him as if pulled to him by the blue of his eyes, her fingers twitching imperceptibly, itching to push that stray curl back from his forehead.

"Claire…." he started in a low, hoarse voice.

And then she tugged at the knot keeping the bath towel in place and allowed it to fall to the floor.

"You sure-" Owen started in a barely audible whisper. He silenced him with a hand on his jaw and a kiss. Stretching up on her tiptoes, Claire weaver her hands around his neck, catching him off guard momentarily, but the next moment Owen's arms locked around her, his palms roaming around her back and shoulders. Her skin felt cool against his so much warmer one, her fingers gripping the hair on the back of his head, tugging him down.

He'd lie to himself if he didn't admit that this was what he'd been thinking every goddamn minute of his life ever since he ran into her on the side of the road a few weeks ago. Those impossibly long red hair and majestic green eyes had him trapped from the first moment he laid his eyes on her, the memory of her laughter keeping him up at night. In reality though, it was so much better. She tasted sweet and warm, and her hair smelled of rain as he nuzzled into the waterfall of her red curls while Claire's fingers tugged at the belt of his jeans, her breath short and hot on his skin.

Owen scooped her up in his arms, nearly falling when his shins hit the edge of the couch, somewhat aware in the back his mind that it was hardly the best spot for someone's first time, and he could probably make it better. But then she kissed him again, his face cupped in her palms before her hands slid down to skim over his chest and his own fingers abandoned her hair and shifted down to run over her shoulders, her soft breasts, swallowing her soft moans with his mouth.

"Owen, I don't have…" Claire began when he wiggled out of his wet jeans, which was a no easy feat, and he murmured a string of reassurances in response, a condom making an almost magical appearance in his hand.

"Sorry," he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth when she stilled beneath him as she pushed into her. Without a word, she nuzzled into his cheek, her fingers digging into his shoulders and her hips nudging him into a slow rock, to which he was more than happy to oblige.

Later, they lay tangled together, squeezed between scratchy cushions, Claire half sprawled over Owen's chest as he looped her hair between his fingers. He pulled a comforter over their heated bodies to shield them from the fresh, cool air filtering through the thin curtains, and she stretched deliciously, pressing closer to him, nearly purring when he trailed his hand up her spine.

"You okay?" Owen asked quietly, lips brushing to the top of her head, breathing her in, wishing he could envelop her wholly with his body and never let go.

Claire giggled, kissing the hollow between his neck and his shoulder. "I hear practice makes it even better," she murmured against his skin.

He laughed. "God, you're something else, Claire."

"Something good, I hope?" An eyebrow arched quizzically, she glanced up at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Owen lifted her chin, drowning in the sea-green of her eyes, his gaze flickering to the half-bow of her lips parted in a smile. Soft and pale even after long weeks in the sun, with a sprinkling of freckles glowing on her cheeks, she fit perfectly against his own body, tasting and feeling like his all of his wildest dreams rolled into one.

He pressed a long kiss to her smiling mouth.

They drifted off to the sound of rain hammering against the roof and windowpanes, and woke up later to a loud pounding on the front door—

No, that wasn't right. Owen distinctly remembered waking up to Claire brushing slow kisses to his neck, her breath hot on his skin and her hands moving over his chest. The rain had ebbed by then, but didn't stop, its low hum nothing turning into white noise now. He shifted, arms flexing around her…

And that was when someone knocked on the door.

No, that was wrong again. What happened was that they spent another hour on that couch, taking it slow this time, before he walked her home, making sure to kiss her goodbye in the driveway so her father wouldn't see them from the living room window.

But someone was at the door now.

Owen groaned and squeezed his eyes tight, willing the sound to go away. Willing the whole world to go straight to hell, for all he cared. His head was pounding, every breath threatening to crack his skull open, and his mouth tasted like someone died in it, and all he really wanted to do was go back to sleep before he actually killed himself just to stop this torture.

And yet, the knocking persisted, and then there was a creak of unoiled hinges of his front door that slashed through his very being with white hot pain, followed by Barry's voice.

"Owen!"

Owen grumbled and pressed his face into his pillow, doing his best to ignore the way each footstep outside his bedroom reverberated right through him, making him want to throw up, or die, or both, in any order.

"Owen?" Closer. "Come one, man, wake up."

"S'my day-" Owen pried his eyes open, "—my night off," he mumbled under his breath.

"Not anymore," Barry said firmly. "We need you. It's Echo…" he hesitated. "And with Hoskins gone, it's just you, man."

That got Owen's attention alright. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he attempted to scramble out of bed, but succeeded mostly in rolling on his back. The house was dark, save for the light in the living room that Barry turned on, his frame filling the doorway to the bedroom and blocking out the bright glare of the living room lamp. Still, it was too much, and Owen moaned, or attempted to, fearing his brain would explode in the process.

"What happened?" He croaked, cringing at the sound of his own voice.

Barry shook his head. "Don't know. The vets took her to the lab." He grabbed Owen's hand and hauled him up on his feet. "C'mon. We gotta go there." He picked up an empty bottle of whiskey from the bedside table, whistling quietly under his breath before placing it back down. "Fun night, huh?"

Owen only grimaced in response.

To be continued...

A/N: You know what to do now - feedback is much appreciated!