Fear and Fearlessness - Torchwood
Title: Fear and Fearlessness
Fandom: Torchwood, and a little Dark Tower
Characters/pairings: Owen, Owen/Tosh
Warnings: Spoilers for 'Exit Wounds', but if you haven't come across them yet, then you're a little slow on the uptake, don'tcha think?
Disclaimers: Torchwood belongs to BBC Broadcasting, and the Dark Tower series is property of Stephen King.
Summary: Essentially a stream-of-consciousness piece about the end of Exit Wounds, from Owen's POV.
A/N: This was very nearly a full-length piece - but I decided in the end that it would be either this or Place Beyond The Sun, and I had a feeling Constantine would work better out of the two. So Owen only gets a one-shot. xD
Oh, and watching this scene over and over again for refs has got me all watery-eyed and wobbly, and the fic is unbeta'd for now, so any mistakes are of course entirely my own fault. It would be great if you could point them out for me, kthnxbai.
-----
Owen Harper is scared shitless. That's the long and short of it.
The walls are closing in around him, filled with dials and displays and lights all flashing red, high, wrong. Tosh's voice in his earpiece is breathless, and he can tell she is forcing the calm there. Is she scared, too? He almost hopes so. At least then he won't be alone, trapped like an animal, with a sharp keening in his ears and a voice in his head. If his heart was still beating, he is absolutely sure it would be in his throat. As it is, he can only stand there, helpless, useless, waiting for a second death.
Owen Harper is scared shitless. And he wants out.
He roars like a trapped animal, beating on the walls as though he could somehow force his way out of the prison he found himself in. It couldn't end! Not now! Not like this!
Keep your head! The voice in his mind is curt and sharp, and Owen catches none of his own horror in it. But it scares him. It scares him more than anything that he doesn't know what this person, this voice, is - whether it's alien tech, something Captain John implanted in him, the tortured voice of his own psyche... What? He was a doctor, he was allowed to use words like 'psyche' in serious self-assessment!
I am none of those things, the voice assures him. I am...
Owen cuts it off with another incoherent scream, pounding on a flashing dial. Somehow, he is sure, there must be a way to block this voice out. A way to pull himself together and face his death... re-death... undeath... whatever it was with some dignity. Some self-assurance. Then again, those had never been things he had been renowned for.
Listen to me, Torch Wood, I...
Again, he yells aloud to drive it away, shouting and swearing, calling for Jack, Ianto, anyone to help him out of this, slamming his clenched fists again and again on the unresponsive metal walls. Claustrophobia, fear, confusion, all of his emotions melt together into one great mass which fills his whole world. The dials are flashing more urgently now - he wants them to stop. He wants it all to stop. All the waiting, the fear, the pain that wasn't quite pain... he just wants an end to it.
But not that end. Jesus Christ, not that end!
“Oh, why should I do that?” he yells, at Tosh and at the world and at the voice nagging in his head, on the cusp of hearing, telling him things he never wanted to hear.
But mostly at Tosh. Always at Tosh. And he feels a sudden wave of guilt smash into him like a typhoon, and he thinks wildly this is wrong. This is wrong. This isn't how it should be.
But he can't stop himself, in full flow; rage and fear and claustrophobia, that tangled knot of emotion rising in his gut again. He wants to let it out. He wants to smash the world. Smash everything in it.
“Why should I do that? Where's the fun in that?” he screams, no longer even knowing what 'that' is. “I'm going to rage my way into oblivion!” And oblivion, he thinks blindly, as the panic rises in his throat, forcing its way down into ripping, thumping fists and flailing legs, oblivion will be sorry it ever took him.
“Please stop...” she says in his ear, her voice hoarse and whispering.
Stop, says the voice in his head, and this voice is clear, commanding.
But he doesn't want to listen to that voice. He doesn't want to listen to either of those voices. Too much pain. Too much memory.
Can't you let me face this alone? he wants to yell, but somehow the words become incoherent roars between his brain and his mouth.
“Why?” he manages to grind out, all the anger and the hurt and the fear shoving themselves out violently into that one simple word. “Give me one good bloody reason why I shouldn't...” And then he runs out of words, just for a split second, and the breath he takes is rasping and harsh. So many things he wants to ask. So many whys and whats and whos.
“...One good reason why I shouldn't keep screaming!” he finishes an instant later, eyes dry and burning as he tears at the wall again, hopeless, panicking, like some kind of machine.
And then something stops him, holds him, for a heartbeat. He swallows, throat dry, and steps back from the wall as her voice rips into his heart like a fishhook.
Tinny and mechanical, from the other end of forever, he can hear her say, through gasping sobs, “...Because you're breaking my heart...”
He stands there, alone and not alone, in the middle of the room that is about to become his tomb. The presence in his head has drawn back. Out of politeness? Sense? Fear? He doesn't know, and he doesn't care. What matters is that the knot of emotion has untied itself, torn into ribbons, and spelt out a name on the cold metal dials and walls, and that name is Tosh.
He's sorry.
He says he's sorry.
Staggering back against the control panel, as the alarms whirr and the dials flicker, he is overcome by that tidal wave of guilt again. And he is so, so sorry.
Sorry for everything.
Sorry for himself.
Sorry for her.
Sorry for all the missed chances. All the lost opportunities. Every month, day, second that went by when she was right in front of him, and he didn't see it.
He tries his best to ignore it, and it isn't hard, but something like sympathy is streaming from that presence in his head.
And suddenly, with those emotions spread out around him, writing her name everywhere he looks, he is calm. After all, he gets the chance to say goodbye. And he has the rest of his life to tell her these things.
But that isn't long. Not long at all.
He looks up at the display, without surprise, as it flashes and whirrs.
It's starting, says the voice in his head, dispassionately.
“It's starting,” he repeats aloud, and is shocked by how clear his voice is. He isn't afraid any more. He isn't even angry. Only sad, deeply and profoundly sad, that this is the last time they will talk.
Ka is a wheel, says the voice, and although Owen doesn't understand it, he's quite happy to find that it's a comfort.
“It's all right,” he tells her, startlingly, wonderingly, and as he says it, he knows it is true. “Really, Tosh. It's all right.”
But he can hear her crying, sobbing for breath, and he and the other presence register it at the same time; she's dying.
“Oh, God...” He whispers it into the growing light, and he isn't afraid of death, or anything beyond it. He's only afraid of the fear in her voice.
Now! shouts the voice in his head, and he feels a pressure on his mind, as though something is forcing its way forwards. He doesn't fight it. What would be the point?
He lets himself be turned, and as Tosh says his name, one last time, he follows the gunslinger into the future.
Fandom: Torchwood, and a little Dark Tower
Characters/pairings: Owen, Owen/Tosh
Warnings: Spoilers for 'Exit Wounds', but if you haven't come across them yet, then you're a little slow on the uptake, don'tcha think?
Disclaimers: Torchwood belongs to BBC Broadcasting, and the Dark Tower series is property of Stephen King.
Summary: Essentially a stream-of-consciousness piece about the end of Exit Wounds, from Owen's POV.
A/N: This was very nearly a full-length piece - but I decided in the end that it would be either this or Place Beyond The Sun, and I had a feeling Constantine would work better out of the two. So Owen only gets a one-shot. xD
Oh, and watching this scene over and over again for refs has got me all watery-eyed and wobbly, and the fic is unbeta'd for now, so any mistakes are of course entirely my own fault. It would be great if you could point them out for me, kthnxbai.
-----
Owen Harper is scared shitless. That's the long and short of it.
The walls are closing in around him, filled with dials and displays and lights all flashing red, high, wrong. Tosh's voice in his earpiece is breathless, and he can tell she is forcing the calm there. Is she scared, too? He almost hopes so. At least then he won't be alone, trapped like an animal, with a sharp keening in his ears and a voice in his head. If his heart was still beating, he is absolutely sure it would be in his throat. As it is, he can only stand there, helpless, useless, waiting for a second death.
Owen Harper is scared shitless. And he wants out.
He roars like a trapped animal, beating on the walls as though he could somehow force his way out of the prison he found himself in. It couldn't end! Not now! Not like this!
Keep your head! The voice in his mind is curt and sharp, and Owen catches none of his own horror in it. But it scares him. It scares him more than anything that he doesn't know what this person, this voice, is - whether it's alien tech, something Captain John implanted in him, the tortured voice of his own psyche... What? He was a doctor, he was allowed to use words like 'psyche' in serious self-assessment!
I am none of those things, the voice assures him. I am...
Owen cuts it off with another incoherent scream, pounding on a flashing dial. Somehow, he is sure, there must be a way to block this voice out. A way to pull himself together and face his death... re-death... undeath... whatever it was with some dignity. Some self-assurance. Then again, those had never been things he had been renowned for.
Listen to me, Torch Wood, I...
Again, he yells aloud to drive it away, shouting and swearing, calling for Jack, Ianto, anyone to help him out of this, slamming his clenched fists again and again on the unresponsive metal walls. Claustrophobia, fear, confusion, all of his emotions melt together into one great mass which fills his whole world. The dials are flashing more urgently now - he wants them to stop. He wants it all to stop. All the waiting, the fear, the pain that wasn't quite pain... he just wants an end to it.
But not that end. Jesus Christ, not that end!
“Oh, why should I do that?” he yells, at Tosh and at the world and at the voice nagging in his head, on the cusp of hearing, telling him things he never wanted to hear.
But mostly at Tosh. Always at Tosh. And he feels a sudden wave of guilt smash into him like a typhoon, and he thinks wildly this is wrong. This is wrong. This isn't how it should be.
But he can't stop himself, in full flow; rage and fear and claustrophobia, that tangled knot of emotion rising in his gut again. He wants to let it out. He wants to smash the world. Smash everything in it.
“Why should I do that? Where's the fun in that?” he screams, no longer even knowing what 'that' is. “I'm going to rage my way into oblivion!” And oblivion, he thinks blindly, as the panic rises in his throat, forcing its way down into ripping, thumping fists and flailing legs, oblivion will be sorry it ever took him.
“Please stop...” she says in his ear, her voice hoarse and whispering.
Stop, says the voice in his head, and this voice is clear, commanding.
But he doesn't want to listen to that voice. He doesn't want to listen to either of those voices. Too much pain. Too much memory.
Can't you let me face this alone? he wants to yell, but somehow the words become incoherent roars between his brain and his mouth.
“Why?” he manages to grind out, all the anger and the hurt and the fear shoving themselves out violently into that one simple word. “Give me one good bloody reason why I shouldn't...” And then he runs out of words, just for a split second, and the breath he takes is rasping and harsh. So many things he wants to ask. So many whys and whats and whos.
“...One good reason why I shouldn't keep screaming!” he finishes an instant later, eyes dry and burning as he tears at the wall again, hopeless, panicking, like some kind of machine.
And then something stops him, holds him, for a heartbeat. He swallows, throat dry, and steps back from the wall as her voice rips into his heart like a fishhook.
Tinny and mechanical, from the other end of forever, he can hear her say, through gasping sobs, “...Because you're breaking my heart...”
He stands there, alone and not alone, in the middle of the room that is about to become his tomb. The presence in his head has drawn back. Out of politeness? Sense? Fear? He doesn't know, and he doesn't care. What matters is that the knot of emotion has untied itself, torn into ribbons, and spelt out a name on the cold metal dials and walls, and that name is Tosh.
He's sorry.
He says he's sorry.
Staggering back against the control panel, as the alarms whirr and the dials flicker, he is overcome by that tidal wave of guilt again. And he is so, so sorry.
Sorry for everything.
Sorry for himself.
Sorry for her.
Sorry for all the missed chances. All the lost opportunities. Every month, day, second that went by when she was right in front of him, and he didn't see it.
He tries his best to ignore it, and it isn't hard, but something like sympathy is streaming from that presence in his head.
And suddenly, with those emotions spread out around him, writing her name everywhere he looks, he is calm. After all, he gets the chance to say goodbye. And he has the rest of his life to tell her these things.
But that isn't long. Not long at all.
He looks up at the display, without surprise, as it flashes and whirrs.
It's starting, says the voice in his head, dispassionately.
“It's starting,” he repeats aloud, and is shocked by how clear his voice is. He isn't afraid any more. He isn't even angry. Only sad, deeply and profoundly sad, that this is the last time they will talk.
Ka is a wheel, says the voice, and although Owen doesn't understand it, he's quite happy to find that it's a comfort.
“It's all right,” he tells her, startlingly, wonderingly, and as he says it, he knows it is true. “Really, Tosh. It's all right.”
But he can hear her crying, sobbing for breath, and he and the other presence register it at the same time; she's dying.
“Oh, God...” He whispers it into the growing light, and he isn't afraid of death, or anything beyond it. He's only afraid of the fear in her voice.
Now! shouts the voice in his head, and he feels a pressure on his mind, as though something is forcing its way forwards. He doesn't fight it. What would be the point?
He lets himself be turned, and as Tosh says his name, one last time, he follows the gunslinger into the future.