Title: Night Is For The Dead
Spoilers: Anything after Reset.
Summary: Owen’s not having much fun with his un-life.
Word Count: 266
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters. They belong to the BBC.
Night, they say, is for the dead or the soulless; Owen thinks that these days, he probably qualifies on both counts. His heart no longer beats, he doesn’t need to breathe, can’t eat or drink, can’t even feel. He’s a walking corpse, still aware, but not much else. He’s not sure what he’s good for now.
Jack doesn’t like him going out in the field much because if he gets damaged, he won’t heal. That’s another normal activity taken away from him. It wasn’t that he particularly liked fieldwork, and he certainly can’t get the old adrenaline buzz from it that he used to, but now that he doesn’t get to do it often, he misses it. The old adage is true; you never appreciate what you’ve got until it’s gone.
Days drag when the rest of the team are out and about, chasing Weevils or whatever else has fallen through the Rift. There’s only so much work to be done that isn’t mind-numbingly tedious and with no one to annoy, he gets bored quickly.
But nights are the worst. He can’t sleep, and watching TV all night long got old fast. So did playing online computer games. He’d used to think it would be heaven to stay up all night without feeling tired, but in truth, it’s just lonely.
By day, he can distract himself enough that life, such as it is, still feels worthwhile. But when he’s alone at night and he’s run out of things he feels like doing, he can’t help wondering…
Maybe he’d be better off if he could just die.