Fic: Downpour (Gwen, Owen, possibly Gwen/Owen)
Title: Downpour
Characters: Gwen, Owen, possibly Gwen/Owen
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 666 (or 337, depending on how you look at it).
Author's Notes: I'm just futzing around. Crue looked at it, but he didn't beta, so don't throttle him.
Summary: The linear is circular is linear is circular is a branch or a fire in a thing in a when on a wall.
Rain. That's all it is, actually. Jack tried to give everything meaning, but he was wrong, most days. A shadow doubling for a monster. A breeze that pretends to be the promise of so much more.
The coffee is cold. The vibrations draw your eye to it. Owen's feet on the hardwood make everything quiver a little.
You should go home to your man, forthright and true.
"That'll wear off in a while," Owen reassures you, catching your eye. "You have to stop thinking about it."
You don't want to see the marks on the surface of your skin, angry purple where it cut you. You don't want to think about the back and the forth of images in time. You can't imagine if everything felt like an hourglass spinning helplessly. Rotations are sickening.
You turn in your chair, listening to the metal groan in the axles.
"I should go home soon," you murmur. There's a big streak of something across the sky, or it could just be across the glass. An arc of blurriness obscures part of the buildings outside, makes them distorted.
But there's a comfort to all this, to not spilling secrets, so you sit there and wait. You ignore Owen's hands when they rest on your shoulders. You ignore the press of chilled lips against your temple. Time is just a zipline back and forth, has been since the accident.
Bodies aren't meant to be caught in the ebb and flow of non linear time, and your mind is an elastic band that has been chewed, little pinprick tooth marks that become visible and get bigger the wider it stretches. The coffee is still cold when you put your fingers in it.
You can't go home, not really. You can't explain the marks on your arm.
"I can't think for more than ten seconds," you say, "and then it flips backwards."
Owen's face is a sideshadow in the glass. "Then don't try to hold on."
You close your eyes. "It burns. In my mind."
Owen's face is a sideshadow in the glass. "Then don't try to hold on."
"I can't think for more than ten seconds," you say, "and then it flips backwards."
You can't explain the marks on your arm.
You can't go home, not really. The coffee is still cold when you put your fingers in it.
Bodies aren't meant to be caught in the ebb and flow of non linear time. Your mind is an elastic band that has been chewed, little pinprick tooth marks that become visible and get bigger the wider it stretches. Time is just a zipline back and forth, has been since the accident.
You ignore the press of chilled lips against your temple. You ignore Owen's hands when they rest on your shoulders. But there's a comfort to all this, to not spilling secrets, so you sit there and wait.
An arc of blurriness obscures part of the buildings outside, makes them distorted. There's a big streak of something across the sky, or it could just be across the glass.
"I should go home soon," you murmur. You turn in your chair, listening to the metal groan in the axles. Rotations are sickening.
You can't imagine if everything felt like an hourglass spinning helplessly.
You don't want to think about the back and the forth of images in time. You don't want to see the marks on the surface of your skin, angry purple where it cut you.
"That'll wear off in a while," Owen reassures you, catching your eye.
"You have to stop thinking about it."
You should go home to your man, forthright and true.
Owen's feet on the hardwood make everything quiver a little. The vibrations draw your eye to it.
The coffee is cold.
A breeze that pretends to be the promise of so much more. A shadow doubling for a monster. Jack tried to give everything meaning, but he was wrong, most days.
That's all it is, actually.
Rain.
THE END
Characters: Gwen, Owen, possibly Gwen/Owen
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 666 (or 337, depending on how you look at it).
Author's Notes: I'm just futzing around. Crue looked at it, but he didn't beta, so don't throttle him.
Summary: The linear is circular is linear is circular is a branch or a fire in a thing in a when on a wall.
Rain. That's all it is, actually. Jack tried to give everything meaning, but he was wrong, most days. A shadow doubling for a monster. A breeze that pretends to be the promise of so much more.
The coffee is cold. The vibrations draw your eye to it. Owen's feet on the hardwood make everything quiver a little.
You should go home to your man, forthright and true.
"That'll wear off in a while," Owen reassures you, catching your eye. "You have to stop thinking about it."
You don't want to see the marks on the surface of your skin, angry purple where it cut you. You don't want to think about the back and the forth of images in time. You can't imagine if everything felt like an hourglass spinning helplessly. Rotations are sickening.
You turn in your chair, listening to the metal groan in the axles.
"I should go home soon," you murmur. There's a big streak of something across the sky, or it could just be across the glass. An arc of blurriness obscures part of the buildings outside, makes them distorted.
But there's a comfort to all this, to not spilling secrets, so you sit there and wait. You ignore Owen's hands when they rest on your shoulders. You ignore the press of chilled lips against your temple. Time is just a zipline back and forth, has been since the accident.
Bodies aren't meant to be caught in the ebb and flow of non linear time, and your mind is an elastic band that has been chewed, little pinprick tooth marks that become visible and get bigger the wider it stretches. The coffee is still cold when you put your fingers in it.
You can't go home, not really. You can't explain the marks on your arm.
"I can't think for more than ten seconds," you say, "and then it flips backwards."
Owen's face is a sideshadow in the glass. "Then don't try to hold on."
You close your eyes. "It burns. In my mind."
Owen's face is a sideshadow in the glass. "Then don't try to hold on."
"I can't think for more than ten seconds," you say, "and then it flips backwards."
You can't explain the marks on your arm.
You can't go home, not really. The coffee is still cold when you put your fingers in it.
Bodies aren't meant to be caught in the ebb and flow of non linear time. Your mind is an elastic band that has been chewed, little pinprick tooth marks that become visible and get bigger the wider it stretches. Time is just a zipline back and forth, has been since the accident.
You ignore the press of chilled lips against your temple. You ignore Owen's hands when they rest on your shoulders. But there's a comfort to all this, to not spilling secrets, so you sit there and wait.
An arc of blurriness obscures part of the buildings outside, makes them distorted. There's a big streak of something across the sky, or it could just be across the glass.
"I should go home soon," you murmur. You turn in your chair, listening to the metal groan in the axles. Rotations are sickening.
You can't imagine if everything felt like an hourglass spinning helplessly.
You don't want to think about the back and the forth of images in time. You don't want to see the marks on the surface of your skin, angry purple where it cut you.
"That'll wear off in a while," Owen reassures you, catching your eye.
"You have to stop thinking about it."
You should go home to your man, forthright and true.
Owen's feet on the hardwood make everything quiver a little. The vibrations draw your eye to it.
The coffee is cold.
A breeze that pretends to be the promise of so much more. A shadow doubling for a monster. Jack tried to give everything meaning, but he was wrong, most days.
That's all it is, actually.
Rain.
THE END