Reparation, for the who-contest prompt 'Trace' and for the comment-fic challenge: Apologies
Title: Reparation
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: PG
Characters/pairings: Owen, Jack
Warnings: Temporary character death, swearing.
Wordcount: 475 words
Author's note: Written for the who-contest prompts 'Trace' and '475 words or fewer' and for the prompt 'Torchwood, Jack +/ Any, how to apologise for killing him' on comment-fic.
Summary: The first thing that pops into Owen's mind is, of course, 'Fucking hell,' and after checking Jack's pulse and finding it sluggish-to-gone, the second is, 'But he'll come back.' Then, he sits back on his heels, stares at the fucking dent in the side of Jack's head, and thinks, 'I killed a man.'
[*]Owen's hit a lot of people before, in varying states of intoxication, so he was unusually clear-headed this time. When he'd finally gotten too pissed to bear at Captain Ego's shouting because he'd very righteously mouthed off to some insufferable DCI and had progressed from 'fuck you and your stupid code of conduct' to a lash at his boss's reddened face, the only thing clouding his mind was anger.
But instead of stumbling and taking the hit like a fucking man, Jack hit his temple on Owen's autopsy table and stayed down where he fell.
The first thing that pops into Owen's mind is, of course, 'Fucking hell,' and after checking Jack's pulse and finding it sluggish-to-gone, the second is, 'But he'll come back.' Then, he sits back on his heels, stares at the fucking dent in the side of Jack's head, and thinks, 'I killed a man.'
Owen's shot humans and aliens for Torchwood and he's seen Jack die at least half a dozen times, but that's the job. And he had shot Jack, but he'd been manipulated by a time-traveling freak in a scarf. This time it is purely his fault, and his fingers are gliding across Jack's carefully styled bangs and sliding on already-coagulating blood and he can feel the shape of his slab in Jack's frontal bone.
When Jack gasps back to life Owen grabs him by the shoulders the way he's seen Ianto and Gwen do. Apparently that's right, because when Jack's horrified, haunted look fades he looks into Owen's eyes and says, "Thanks."
Owen lets go of him and doesn't move. He has no idea what his face looks like, but his head is light and a bit spinning, so he's probably breathing abnormally. Shock response, he diagnoses, and reaches out to trace Jack's perfectly curved forehead. After a moment, Jack catches his hand. His eyes are dark, but steady, and he squeezes Owen's fingers in his own.
“I'm sorry,” Owen whispers, and then, because how the hell is a single apology enough for- “I killed you.” His lips are wobbling, he is wobbling, in a way that makes him feel like a child, and when Jack sits up from the cold autopsy floor and embraces him, it wasn't enough, but he needs this.
“No harm done,” Jack quips.
A few minutes later, Jack kisses his forehead. “So you won't do that again, right?”
Owen stands up, Jack's arms slipping away from him, and glances once at the gleaming patch of red, barely an inch wide, on his table. “Just keep that DCI away from me and you've got nothing to worry about,” he grumbles, turning to his desk.
He hears Jack chuckles behind him. “All right, Owen,” he says, and his boots on the concrete steps sound almost cheerful as they go.
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: PG
Characters/pairings: Owen, Jack
Warnings: Temporary character death, swearing.
Wordcount: 475 words
Author's note: Written for the who-contest prompts 'Trace' and '475 words or fewer' and for the prompt 'Torchwood, Jack +/ Any, how to apologise for killing him' on comment-fic.
Summary: The first thing that pops into Owen's mind is, of course, 'Fucking hell,' and after checking Jack's pulse and finding it sluggish-to-gone, the second is, 'But he'll come back.' Then, he sits back on his heels, stares at the fucking dent in the side of Jack's head, and thinks, 'I killed a man.'
[*]Owen's hit a lot of people before, in varying states of intoxication, so he was unusually clear-headed this time. When he'd finally gotten too pissed to bear at Captain Ego's shouting because he'd very righteously mouthed off to some insufferable DCI and had progressed from 'fuck you and your stupid code of conduct' to a lash at his boss's reddened face, the only thing clouding his mind was anger.
But instead of stumbling and taking the hit like a fucking man, Jack hit his temple on Owen's autopsy table and stayed down where he fell.
The first thing that pops into Owen's mind is, of course, 'Fucking hell,' and after checking Jack's pulse and finding it sluggish-to-gone, the second is, 'But he'll come back.' Then, he sits back on his heels, stares at the fucking dent in the side of Jack's head, and thinks, 'I killed a man.'
Owen's shot humans and aliens for Torchwood and he's seen Jack die at least half a dozen times, but that's the job. And he had shot Jack, but he'd been manipulated by a time-traveling freak in a scarf. This time it is purely his fault, and his fingers are gliding across Jack's carefully styled bangs and sliding on already-coagulating blood and he can feel the shape of his slab in Jack's frontal bone.
When Jack gasps back to life Owen grabs him by the shoulders the way he's seen Ianto and Gwen do. Apparently that's right, because when Jack's horrified, haunted look fades he looks into Owen's eyes and says, "Thanks."
Owen lets go of him and doesn't move. He has no idea what his face looks like, but his head is light and a bit spinning, so he's probably breathing abnormally. Shock response, he diagnoses, and reaches out to trace Jack's perfectly curved forehead. After a moment, Jack catches his hand. His eyes are dark, but steady, and he squeezes Owen's fingers in his own.
“I'm sorry,” Owen whispers, and then, because how the hell is a single apology enough for- “I killed you.” His lips are wobbling, he is wobbling, in a way that makes him feel like a child, and when Jack sits up from the cold autopsy floor and embraces him, it wasn't enough, but he needs this.
“No harm done,” Jack quips.
A few minutes later, Jack kisses his forehead. “So you won't do that again, right?”
Owen stands up, Jack's arms slipping away from him, and glances once at the gleaming patch of red, barely an inch wide, on his table. “Just keep that DCI away from me and you've got nothing to worry about,” he grumbles, turning to his desk.
He hears Jack chuckles behind him. “All right, Owen,” he says, and his boots on the concrete steps sound almost cheerful as they go.