Owen fic, we need more!
Characters. Owen, Ianto, others.
Gen fic, some swearing but it's Owen's POV so it would be.
Takes place shortly after * new*Owen's first day back at work,exactly before the events of Dead Man Walking. Written because Owen needs more Fic.
Type your cut contents here.
Jarlsburg, Gondolas and Torchwood proceedure
There were voices in the board room, everyone was there. Everyone else already, I corrected myself. I couldn't shrug because of the files I was carrying in case the lack of sensation in my fingers betrayed me again and I dropped the lot like yesterday. Although I had been tested in the last two days to the point where I was worried I'd start to wear out and was sort of OK so far . There was a detached feeling, a sort of learning experience I'd not expected and hadn't bothered to tell Martha about.
A degradation of the finer perceptions in the fingertips was what The Medical Opinion predicted, but the slower balance and nasty creeping feeling that I had to learn some personal distances and personal spaces again, that was the worst kind of surprise. Carrying the files that I'd gathered I entered the boardroom ready to sit down and take part, crashing stuff on to the table. No-one noticed.
Tosh and Ianto were pushing photocopies various ways across the large table and then started on flipping around piles of coloured folders. High gear top process stuff, I'd better read it ASAP. God bless Gwen with the small notebook because old habits die hard I suppose. It's not all excitement and ruined suits and filing post mortem results on a blank form because most of the organs can't be vaguely categorised in even with last week's effforts. The usual thing for a workday, paperwork for making the unmanagable accountable to the weird agencies that are supposedly in charge of us but aren't because we're deniable. Jack breezed in and somehow engaged everyone at once.
"It's gotta be done, the audit the expenses and the receipts for the SUV. Ianto, put the Rift pattern paper record to IT project--" everyone else groaned --"onto high gear as we seem to--" he caught my eye.
"Owen, there's an urgent project on your IMS for you to do right away, Martha to do the follow-up on anything from last week's autopsy filing *if* there's anything, " (Dammit, he saw me about to speak and deny everything the sneaky so and so) "-- have a lost workday to catch up on while it's quiet..." and suddenly everyone is looking anywhere but at me, meaning that's the one thing they are thinking about all together like a bad chorus line in a village play rehearsal scared of the bolshy out of town director but knowing it's tough truth time.
The silence will last until I raise my eyebrow and say something, but this time I'm fucked if I can soften the blow of the death horror with a few well chosen words, after all it was my own multiple and ongoing death we're avoiding talking about. I call dibs on being the embarassing fuck in the room with the best and brightest legit reasons and look innocently around the table. The silence squeezes and grows uncomfortable. Jack finishes putting on his coat and weapon and raises his own eyebrow silently towards me. No help there, I think, then suddenly I realise what he means. And exactly why Ianto is also politely fixing his gaze away into the middle distance.
"Bloody hell, you've declared me dead. You bastard, you beaurocratic fuckwitted craven bastard. What stupid paperwork mess of the century do I have to fill in now, you tosser, as if I haven't had to--"
At this the others talked all at once and Jack did look harassed at the lack of support. Raising a hand to placate the group, he pointed to me and said something about being late to see someone before dashing off through the door. The words tailed off into a murmur of support as the others took their cue from the actions of the boss and walked from the room, carrying the folders and papers with them.
It was only then that I realised I hadn't been given a pile of multicoloured crap disposable information and folders like the others, no matching pile in front of me, just the stuff I'd brought in. That was the actual table I could see infront of me. I sat there with what would have been deep calming breathing getting locked into a frustrated spiral of rage and shame and something I couldn't quite get the knack of.
Holy crap on toast in pirate heaven. Dead and forgotten but still here, the spectre at the feast, the pork chop at the Jewish wedding, I felt teenage for almost a second, then I was interrupted in my quite justifiable self-pitying autoramble.
"Er, I's raining out there so even you might want a coat...I'll drive for the time being." My jacket hit the table and Ianto rattled the SUV keys. I realised we were going to clear my personal effects right there and then, just in case. All for the sake of tidy paperwork. Just too bloody soon, just wrong.
"You'll only need a carrier bag for this, leave all that here for something useful," I gestured at the folded boxes at his side. To my surprise he leaves them there and walks on.
"First time the deceased has given me a proper clue about that," snorted Ianto as we walked downstairs.
"This isn't about you, and what you do, you book-crunching file-breeding undertaker." I can match his pace in more ways than one, you know.
"So you are deceased then, not--" looking at me sideways, "--survivally-challenged?" How can he walk that fast through the office and not bump into stuff without looking. Cog door rolls, coats done up, really cold rain out there.
"Living at a backwards pace? Last past the post and not in the race? An ex-doctor? "
As we leave via the garage door the cold sea air impresses its cold through me as usual, at least that's the same. I look at Ianto as he gets into the drivers seat and shuts the door in a smooth motion borne of cold winters and many early starts. I shut my own door and put on the seat belt out of a lifetime's habit. Frowning, I turn to him and raise a finger in emphasis.
"You recite the cheese-shop cheeses entirely and correctly or you are a terminal looser, archive-nanny," I say.
"Finland, Finland, Finland," sings Ianto as he powers onto the road, and for the first time in about a century I smile and join in as we speed along.
Note: Virtual Australian tablewines for all those who comment.
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