Torchwood: Owen/Gwen, Sight
Title: Believe Me, I'm Lying
Fandom: Torchwood
Author: amidalashari
Theme: Five Senses: Sight
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. Spoilers up to episode 1:11 - Combat.
It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness; even afterwards, she can barely make out more than a vague shape in front of her. There should be light coming from the hallway, but the door is sealed tight -
(The faint click as it slides shut behind them, and she stumbles, biting back a cry as her head hits the wall, blinking rapidly.)
She isn't aware she's been holding her breath until she feels Owen release his, warm and familiar on her jaw. Her pulse echoes, traitorous, in her ears, and she breathes out slowly, trying not to care that she can feel the way it hits his cheek.
Her hand is on his chest, and she can feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of his shirt. Her fingers curl into it; his breath catches, and she regrets the movement immediately when he presses forward, one leg wedged in between hers, and she has to concentrate to keep from closing her eyes.
(Not that it would matter; she doesn't have to see him to know the look in his eyes right now.)
"Owen," she breathes rather than says. She wants to push him away, shove him back against the wall; her palm presses, more firmly, against his chest, and he seems to take it as an invitation, one hand resting low on her hip. "Owen. We should leave."
"Door's locked," he whispers, lips brushing against her throat, and she ignores her reaction, the all too familiar tightening in her chest.
"How do you know?"
She can almost feel him roll his eyes at that. He leans backwards, tries the door with one hand, and she can hear the muted click as it refuses to open.
"See?" he says, and it's a ridiculous question, under the circumstances. "Locked."
She breathes out, hard; impossibly, it presses her closer against him. The room is small, but she knows, she's sure, that there must be room for Owen to step back; he moves forward instead, his hands gripping her waist, and she can feel her throat constrict.
"Owen," she says, and she wants to say more; what are you doing? and stop and we can't (and I don't want this, even if that's a lie, because it's all a lie, really), but nothing comes out, and his fingers edge up inside her shirt.
"Gwen," and his voice is rough, thick with something she tells herself she'd forgotten, and she can feel her body reacting instinctively. She leans her head back, gently (wincing at the pain, still; she's going to have a bump), and his fingers slide over her stomach.
She's long past stop when his fingers move down, flicking open the top button of her jeans, and she can feel the blood rushing in her head -
(Darkened drawers and the rough bark against her back as Owen shoves her against a tree, the steering wheel of the SUV digging into her hip as she straddles him, and it doesn't make a difference when she closes her eyes.)
She opens them, suddenly, when the room is suddenly flooded with light, blinking as her vision readjusts; Jack, standing in the doorway, and Owen suddenly steps back as if the past few minutes were a particularly vivid -
(Nightmare.)
"Are you guys all right?"
She wants to say yes, smile brightly and look him in the eyes; Owen is still blocking most of her view, and she bites her lip as she buttons her jeans.
"Fine," Owen says, and she could be imagining the slight hesitation in his voice. "Thought we'd hide out, got locked in instead."
"Well, it's all clear out here," Jack says, and he almost sounds as if he believes their unspoken denials. "Whatever that thing was, it got away. Tosh is working out a way to track it."
"That's good," Gwen manages; she wishes she didn't sound quite so shaken. She glances up at Jack, briefly, and he looks away; she steps out of the room, and he closes the door behind her.
Fandom: Torchwood
Author: amidalashari
Theme: Five Senses: Sight
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. Spoilers up to episode 1:11 - Combat.
It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness; even afterwards, she can barely make out more than a vague shape in front of her. There should be light coming from the hallway, but the door is sealed tight -
(The faint click as it slides shut behind them, and she stumbles, biting back a cry as her head hits the wall, blinking rapidly.)
She isn't aware she's been holding her breath until she feels Owen release his, warm and familiar on her jaw. Her pulse echoes, traitorous, in her ears, and she breathes out slowly, trying not to care that she can feel the way it hits his cheek.
Her hand is on his chest, and she can feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of his shirt. Her fingers curl into it; his breath catches, and she regrets the movement immediately when he presses forward, one leg wedged in between hers, and she has to concentrate to keep from closing her eyes.
(Not that it would matter; she doesn't have to see him to know the look in his eyes right now.)
"Owen," she breathes rather than says. She wants to push him away, shove him back against the wall; her palm presses, more firmly, against his chest, and he seems to take it as an invitation, one hand resting low on her hip. "Owen. We should leave."
"Door's locked," he whispers, lips brushing against her throat, and she ignores her reaction, the all too familiar tightening in her chest.
"How do you know?"
She can almost feel him roll his eyes at that. He leans backwards, tries the door with one hand, and she can hear the muted click as it refuses to open.
"See?" he says, and it's a ridiculous question, under the circumstances. "Locked."
She breathes out, hard; impossibly, it presses her closer against him. The room is small, but she knows, she's sure, that there must be room for Owen to step back; he moves forward instead, his hands gripping her waist, and she can feel her throat constrict.
"Owen," she says, and she wants to say more; what are you doing? and stop and we can't (and I don't want this, even if that's a lie, because it's all a lie, really), but nothing comes out, and his fingers edge up inside her shirt.
"Gwen," and his voice is rough, thick with something she tells herself she'd forgotten, and she can feel her body reacting instinctively. She leans her head back, gently (wincing at the pain, still; she's going to have a bump), and his fingers slide over her stomach.
She's long past stop when his fingers move down, flicking open the top button of her jeans, and she can feel the blood rushing in her head -
(Darkened drawers and the rough bark against her back as Owen shoves her against a tree, the steering wheel of the SUV digging into her hip as she straddles him, and it doesn't make a difference when she closes her eyes.)
She opens them, suddenly, when the room is suddenly flooded with light, blinking as her vision readjusts; Jack, standing in the doorway, and Owen suddenly steps back as if the past few minutes were a particularly vivid -
(Nightmare.)
"Are you guys all right?"
She wants to say yes, smile brightly and look him in the eyes; Owen is still blocking most of her view, and she bites her lip as she buttons her jeans.
"Fine," Owen says, and she could be imagining the slight hesitation in his voice. "Thought we'd hide out, got locked in instead."
"Well, it's all clear out here," Jack says, and he almost sounds as if he believes their unspoken denials. "Whatever that thing was, it got away. Tosh is working out a way to track it."
"That's good," Gwen manages; she wishes she didn't sound quite so shaken. She glances up at Jack, briefly, and he looks away; she steps out of the room, and he closes the door behind her.