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Title: Going under
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Owen
Author: m_findlow
Rating: M (language)
Length: 836 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for m_findlow's prompt "Any, any, flooded with emotions" at fic_promptly
Summary: Owen is struggling to cope with his new reality.

Owen had to get out of the apartment right now. He couldn't take any more of Tosh prattling on about stuff he didn't care about, either now or when things had been normal. He knew damn well why she was here. It wasn't about sympathy, or needing to share a pizza and a beer with someone. No, this had Jack's fingerprints all over it. Go and check on Owen. Make sure he's not about to do anything stupid. Bloody Jack. Why couldn't he just mind his own fucking business just once? If he had, they wouldn't be in this mess right now. Owen would be dead, and then it wouldn't be his problem anymore. He'd never thought being dead would be better than being alive. Not that he could call this being alive. He wasn't. That was the whole point. A walking talking zombie and it sucked to high hell.

His feet pounded down the four flights of stairs to the street. He couldn't stand to take the lift. He needed to keep moving lest he suddenly find himself unable to move. He didn't care what Martha thought; who really knew what the hell he'd become and how long it might last. Once he was out on the street he charged up the narrow alley, and before long he was jogging, and then running. Not just running, but running as hard as he could.

And no matter how hard he ran, he couldn't feel it. He wanted his heart to be drumming in his chest, his lungs burning for air and his calves screaming out in pain. Instead it was like he was having an out of body experience, moving without moving. The wind whipped past him, but it didn't cling to his sweat-soaked forehead as it usually would. There wasn't a drop of sweat anywhere. He didn't even feel hot. That made him angry, and when he'd finished being angry at the fact his running wasn't providing the physical distraction he needed, he turned his anger back onto the team. Jack, whose selfishness had landed him here; Martha, who was trying to be nice about nicking his job out from under him; Ianto, who'd earned himself a promotion from lowliest member of the team, escalated straight into Owen's field operative role; Gwen, who was ignoring him because she'd run out of platitudes; and Tosh, who wanted to pretend nothing at all was wrong, and wanted to be his best friend now because he lacked a life just like her.

Everything around him felt numb and useless, so why then did his insides still burn red hot with feelings and emotions? Now that he had nothing else, it felt like they were flooding him, filling up the empty shell that was now Owen Harper - just a vessel for anger and loathing and outrage. The feelings threatened to overwhelm him, like a tidal wave he couldn't outrun no matter how much he pushed his legs harder and harder.

The streets gave way to the maze of walkways around the bay, and then the black water loomed large in front of him, and still he kept going. The wooden quay underneath him protested at how hard his feet hit the boards, faster and faster until there was nothing left beneath them, throwing himself off the end and into the icy waters. He knew they were icy only by experience. Like everything else, it provided no sensation whatsoever. He was floating, cocooned in a blanket of darkness, and for just a moment all those emotions dropped away, like he was leaving them behind on the water's surface, whilst he slipped down into the deep. It was nice, just to have that blank descent into nothing. Maybe this was the end after all. Finally he could die properly and put an end to it, just letting the water take him down where he belonged.

It didn't last though. He thought about Tosh - how he'd yelled at her and been so nasty when she'd come over to try and mend fences. She didn't have to do that. He'd been enough of an arsehole to her before he'd died, and still she hung around, giving him more than he deserved. What would she think, him having stormed out on her, only to kill himself in the bay, assuming that was even possible. She'd blame herself for what happened. None of this was her fault, though. He couldn't do that to her. That quiet solitude from his feelings dissipated and returned like a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach. It was going to pull him down if he didn't fight it, so he began paddling back up towards the surface, glittering in the sunlight. From down here it was so beautiful looking up. Perhaps that was the point. Until he'd hit the bottom, he couldn't see how good things had been. This was his lot now, and he was going to have to come back up for air and face it.

July 2025

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