Torchwood: Fanfic: Army of one

[m_findlow]

Title: Army of one
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Owen
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 689 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for Juliet316's prompt "Any, any, an army of one man, but the right man for the job" at fic_promptly
Summary: Not all battles are fought with guns

They're all staring at him like he's completely mental. In fairness, they've probably built themselves a pretty strong case. To say he's not been on top of his game these last few days is the understatement of the century. But wouldn't you be pissed off and a little bit out of sorts if you'd just died and come back as a walking, talking corpse? Anyone would be entitled to lose their shit a bit.

Life's pretty fucked right now. It's about the only thing that is getting fucked from now on, he realises. Dead men don't breathe, they don't eat pizza, they don't drink coffee or booze and they most certainly don't have the blood flow required for just about everything else he enjoys. There's no more chemical reactions going on in his brain, yet here he is talking to them, moving, feeling emotions.

Emotions shouldn't even exist in his current state, and the way things have been going, they're the one thing he could probably do without. Without emotions he wouldn't be wandering around in a state of shock, wouldn't be devastated that his lot in life was over already, annoyed that he isn't able to continue as a member of the team, in the only job that had ever made him feel like his life was worth something, shame that all he was good for now was making the coffee, and further shame that he couldn't even manage to get that right. There was boredom at having to face a possible eternity of hanging around unable to do anything, sadness that he couldn't partake in any of the things he used to enjoy, and frustration that he was powerless to do anything about it. Even running didn't help. He could run a million miles and never tire because his body wasn't being starved of oxygen for the amount of exertion, and no endorphins generated by his body to tell his brain he should be enjoying it.

Add to that the fact that his body isn't invincible, even in this zombie style death he's going through, and that every injury from now on will be permanent. The way things are going, he won't have to worry about forever; he'll be damaged beyond repair in no time, especially if he helps it along.

What the hell is the point of him now? Jack's lost all respect for him, Gwen's just plain weirded out, Ianto has stolen his spot on the team, and Tosh is annoying the crap out of him with her endless attempts at sympathy.

But now they're all sitting here, trying to figure out how to get past Henry Parker's heat sensitive security systems and platoon of mindless goons with no solution. Except for the man standing right in front of them.

He feels like shaking them. Isn't it obvious that the only person for the job is him? Perhaps it's not the fact that he's physically suitable, but more a concern that he's not mentally suitable.

Right, Owen Harper. You're either going to get your shit together and prove to the team you can do this, and get your spot on the team back, or you're going to ride off into the sunset and spend the rest of your days figuring out how the hell to kill a dead man.

He stared at Jack, never letting go of his gaze. I can do this. Eventually Jack nods at Ianto, and Ianto hands him back his gun. Considering he can barely feel anything, it still feels remarkably good to have that cold weight in his hand again. He's going to need it, because even though the team will be there, keeping an eye on him, this is one mission he's going to have to face alone. It's the test he's set himself, because this is him now, for ever and a day. No one else can know what it is to be undead, not even Jack. Jack embraces life because it's all he's going to have from now until the end of time, but Owen has only death, and that's a battle each man must face alone.