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osprey_archerI went through my files of unposted and unfinished fanfic this weekend. Most of it remains in the bowels of my computer for a reason - Owen Harper as a rent-boy matador, what was I thinking? - but I found this fic, and I'm not sure why I never let it into the wild.
Title: Pietà
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
osprey_archer
Pairing: none really. Mentions of Owen/Gwen, Gwen/Rhys.
Rating: PG
Summary: After Suzie's second death, Owen takes Gwen home to Rhys.
The night after the second time they kill Suzie, Owen takes Gwen, unconscious, back to her flat. In his skinny arms he carries her up the stairs, trembling with the weight as he bashes on the door with his shoulder. She’s thin. He’s weak. He’s going to drop –
The door opens. Owen squints against the flood of light. “Gwen!” the boyfriend cries, picking her up out of Owen’s arms. “Oh, God, Gwen…” He doesn’t have any problem carrying her. “Gwen, Gwen, Gwen,” he murmurs into her hair. “Gwen, are you all right?” She doesn’t speak, and the boyfriend looks at Owen with the whites of his wide eyes showing. “Is she all right? Will she be all right? What happened?”
“Oh, yes. It was…” Owen grasps for some plausible injury. “An electrical shock, that’s all – ”
The boyfriend is already carrying her to the couch. Her hand falls to the shag rug as he settles her on his lap.
“– she’ll be fine,” Owen mumbles, watching the boyfriend stroke Gwen’s hair.
“Oh, Gwen,” the boyfriend murmurs, lifting her fallen hand to his lips. Gwen leans into his shoulder. Owen feels ill.
“I’ll be going.”
Rhys remembers him. He settles Gwen gently on the pillows and rushes to the door. “No, come in, come in. Thank you for bringing her home. Would you like some tea?”
“No, I—”
“Coffee? Or we have whiskey.”
“No, thank you, but—”
“Will she be all right?’
“Yes,” says Owen.
If Gwen told him where she worked, Owen thinks, he’d probably have a nervous breakdown - no wonder she needs someone else to talk to.
“Oh, thank God,” says the boyfriend, and rushes back over to Gwen. “I’m Rhys, by the way, has she mentioned me?” His hands drift down her neck, across her collarbone: checking for wounds. “Come in, shut the door. Make yourself at home. She will be all right?”
“Yes!” God, his bedside manner is awful. “She’ll be fine,” he says, more gently.
“Oh, thank God. Oh, Gwen,” says Rhys, and she half-opens her eyes and closes them and presses her face to the pillows.
“Gwen,” says Rhys, kneeling. He’s got a tough kind of face, this Rhys does (Owen wanted that kind of face when he was younger), but he looks tender now, looking at Gwen.
She turns her face away from him. Rhys withdraws his hand, stretching his fingers as if they ache. "Gwen," he murmurs. "Talk to me?"
Owen shifts, foot to foot. He can’t look at Rhys. “Perhaps I should go?”
“No, no, I’m sorry,” says Rhys. “Stay, just in case - I mean; she will be all right? Thank you for bringing her here. Let me…” he rushes into the kitchen and starts knocking about with the kettle. “Will she wake soon? Should I make her tea too?”
“No, she won’t wake for a while.”
Rhys knocks over the kettle, water gushing on the linoleum. “But – you said it’s just a shock – ”
“She’ll be fine. I…gave her sleeping pills.”
“Ah.” Rhys refills the kettle, kneels to mop the water, pops up the set the kettle boiling and slips on the slick floor. He leans on the counter. “So nothing permanent? She’s had just an awful few months, ever since she got this new job. You must be one of her coworkers? Jack, perhaps?”
“No.” He inspects his dirty trainers. “I’m Owen,” he says, feeling sticky, as if his name were dirty - hoping Rhys doesn't connect the dots.
“Owen…” says Rhys, squinting. “The one who does computer work?”
Owen has no breath to answer. No dots to connect, then; she hasn’t mentioned him. His voice is breathless, without resonance. “No, I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor. Just a shock, you say?” Rhys rushes back to Gwen. He pets her hair again, pats her shoulder, runs his hand over her shoulders as if trying to make sure she’s real.
Owen pokes at the kettle.
He jumps when Rhys appears at his side. “It takes a while to boil, I’m afraid. We have some biscuits if you’re hungry? Hobnobs or ginger? Thank you for taking care of Gwen, Ian.”
“Owen,” Owen snaps. He softens his voice: “It's just a job.”
“And a fine job you do. She comes home—when she comes home—she looks like she’s been through the mill, that one. Like she’s taking up lion-taming.” He searches Owen’s face as if he thinks Owen can explain everything that’s changed about Gwen in the last few months.
The water, thank God, boils. Rhys dumps instant coffee into cups, far too much, Ianto would have kittens – gulps his down and goes to sit with Gwen on the couch, her head in his lap. Owen stands by the windows, watching the cars below.
“Oh, Gwen,” sighs Rhys. Owen, unwilling, looks over.
Owen’s never felt guilty before about sleeping with Gwen—she’s the one with the boyfriend, it’s her job to bother with the guilt.
But. Rhys holds Gwen, her head in his lap; just like Owen held Gwen like that on the dock that afternoon. Fuck, he’d been angry. All that time that Gwen was with Suzie slowly dying, he hated Suzie and hated Gwen for listening to Suzie, and he’d held Gwen and watched Suzie and Jack and Tosh.
Rhys bends over Gwen, rubbing his cheek surreptitiously against her hand. “Does she like her job?” asks Rhys, head bent.
Owen looks out the window again: streetlights shining on the puddles. “What?”
“Her job,” says Rhys. “Does she like it? She's always there.”
What’s he supposed to say to that? Yes, she loves it more than she loves you. No, she hates it, but is there all the time because it’s better than being with you. Rhys, I’m fucking your girlfriend. “I don’t know,” says Owen. His throat is dry. “Gwen and I aren’t very close.”
Rhys looks at him. “Your job," he asks, "is it worth it?"
Owen slops coffee on his hand. "Dammit," he snaps, stomach burning as if punched. Rhys half rises, holding Gwen. Damn him and his sympathy! “I need to go back,” says Owen, to explain why he's moving toward the door. "Medical emergency."
“Of course.” Rhys reluctantly starts to remove Gwen from his lap, but Owen lifts a hand: he can let himself out. Rhys settles; Gwen smiles; Owen leaves. “Ian! Thank you for bringing Gwen home safe!” Rhys calls.
“Owen,” Owen mutters, and shuts the door behind him.
Title: Pietà
Author:
osprey_archerPairing: none really. Mentions of Owen/Gwen, Gwen/Rhys.
Rating: PG
Summary: After Suzie's second death, Owen takes Gwen home to Rhys.
The night after the second time they kill Suzie, Owen takes Gwen, unconscious, back to her flat. In his skinny arms he carries her up the stairs, trembling with the weight as he bashes on the door with his shoulder. She’s thin. He’s weak. He’s going to drop –
The door opens. Owen squints against the flood of light. “Gwen!” the boyfriend cries, picking her up out of Owen’s arms. “Oh, God, Gwen…” He doesn’t have any problem carrying her. “Gwen, Gwen, Gwen,” he murmurs into her hair. “Gwen, are you all right?” She doesn’t speak, and the boyfriend looks at Owen with the whites of his wide eyes showing. “Is she all right? Will she be all right? What happened?”
“Oh, yes. It was…” Owen grasps for some plausible injury. “An electrical shock, that’s all – ”
The boyfriend is already carrying her to the couch. Her hand falls to the shag rug as he settles her on his lap.
“– she’ll be fine,” Owen mumbles, watching the boyfriend stroke Gwen’s hair.
“Oh, Gwen,” the boyfriend murmurs, lifting her fallen hand to his lips. Gwen leans into his shoulder. Owen feels ill.
“I’ll be going.”
Rhys remembers him. He settles Gwen gently on the pillows and rushes to the door. “No, come in, come in. Thank you for bringing her home. Would you like some tea?”
“No, I—”
“Coffee? Or we have whiskey.”
“No, thank you, but—”
“Will she be all right?’
“Yes,” says Owen.
If Gwen told him where she worked, Owen thinks, he’d probably have a nervous breakdown - no wonder she needs someone else to talk to.
“Oh, thank God,” says the boyfriend, and rushes back over to Gwen. “I’m Rhys, by the way, has she mentioned me?” His hands drift down her neck, across her collarbone: checking for wounds. “Come in, shut the door. Make yourself at home. She will be all right?”
“Yes!” God, his bedside manner is awful. “She’ll be fine,” he says, more gently.
“Oh, thank God. Oh, Gwen,” says Rhys, and she half-opens her eyes and closes them and presses her face to the pillows.
“Gwen,” says Rhys, kneeling. He’s got a tough kind of face, this Rhys does (Owen wanted that kind of face when he was younger), but he looks tender now, looking at Gwen.
She turns her face away from him. Rhys withdraws his hand, stretching his fingers as if they ache. "Gwen," he murmurs. "Talk to me?"
Owen shifts, foot to foot. He can’t look at Rhys. “Perhaps I should go?”
“No, no, I’m sorry,” says Rhys. “Stay, just in case - I mean; she will be all right? Thank you for bringing her here. Let me…” he rushes into the kitchen and starts knocking about with the kettle. “Will she wake soon? Should I make her tea too?”
“No, she won’t wake for a while.”
Rhys knocks over the kettle, water gushing on the linoleum. “But – you said it’s just a shock – ”
“She’ll be fine. I…gave her sleeping pills.”
“Ah.” Rhys refills the kettle, kneels to mop the water, pops up the set the kettle boiling and slips on the slick floor. He leans on the counter. “So nothing permanent? She’s had just an awful few months, ever since she got this new job. You must be one of her coworkers? Jack, perhaps?”
“No.” He inspects his dirty trainers. “I’m Owen,” he says, feeling sticky, as if his name were dirty - hoping Rhys doesn't connect the dots.
“Owen…” says Rhys, squinting. “The one who does computer work?”
Owen has no breath to answer. No dots to connect, then; she hasn’t mentioned him. His voice is breathless, without resonance. “No, I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor. Just a shock, you say?” Rhys rushes back to Gwen. He pets her hair again, pats her shoulder, runs his hand over her shoulders as if trying to make sure she’s real.
Owen pokes at the kettle.
He jumps when Rhys appears at his side. “It takes a while to boil, I’m afraid. We have some biscuits if you’re hungry? Hobnobs or ginger? Thank you for taking care of Gwen, Ian.”
“Owen,” Owen snaps. He softens his voice: “It's just a job.”
“And a fine job you do. She comes home—when she comes home—she looks like she’s been through the mill, that one. Like she’s taking up lion-taming.” He searches Owen’s face as if he thinks Owen can explain everything that’s changed about Gwen in the last few months.
The water, thank God, boils. Rhys dumps instant coffee into cups, far too much, Ianto would have kittens – gulps his down and goes to sit with Gwen on the couch, her head in his lap. Owen stands by the windows, watching the cars below.
“Oh, Gwen,” sighs Rhys. Owen, unwilling, looks over.
Owen’s never felt guilty before about sleeping with Gwen—she’s the one with the boyfriend, it’s her job to bother with the guilt.
But. Rhys holds Gwen, her head in his lap; just like Owen held Gwen like that on the dock that afternoon. Fuck, he’d been angry. All that time that Gwen was with Suzie slowly dying, he hated Suzie and hated Gwen for listening to Suzie, and he’d held Gwen and watched Suzie and Jack and Tosh.
Rhys bends over Gwen, rubbing his cheek surreptitiously against her hand. “Does she like her job?” asks Rhys, head bent.
Owen looks out the window again: streetlights shining on the puddles. “What?”
“Her job,” says Rhys. “Does she like it? She's always there.”
What’s he supposed to say to that? Yes, she loves it more than she loves you. No, she hates it, but is there all the time because it’s better than being with you. Rhys, I’m fucking your girlfriend. “I don’t know,” says Owen. His throat is dry. “Gwen and I aren’t very close.”
Rhys looks at him. “Your job," he asks, "is it worth it?"
Owen slops coffee on his hand. "Dammit," he snaps, stomach burning as if punched. Rhys half rises, holding Gwen. Damn him and his sympathy! “I need to go back,” says Owen, to explain why he's moving toward the door. "Medical emergency."
“Of course.” Rhys reluctantly starts to remove Gwen from his lap, but Owen lifts a hand: he can let himself out. Rhys settles; Gwen smiles; Owen leaves. “Ian! Thank you for bringing Gwen home safe!” Rhys calls.
“Owen,” Owen mutters, and shuts the door behind him.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 04:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 05:35 am (UTC)It might work better if instead of pretending to be a matador, Owen just has to dress up in matador clothes? Given that I know nothing about bull-fighting, which definitely contributed to the death of the fic
Owen dressed as a matador. Because...Torchwood is infiltrating a masque ball at which aliens are going to wreak havoc?
OH GOD AND THEN I COULD GIVE EVERYONE COSTUMES. Gwen the harem girl!
no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 05:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 08:59 pm (UTC)Also: Tosh as geisha? Possibly stereotypical? But I love geishas as much as matadors, because they both have pretty, pretty costumes. Jack's ringmaster, of course, in a tailcoat...
Also, Jack is totally picking out everyone else's costumes for them. Because he's like that.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 05:50 am (UTC)BUT if Jack is picking costumes, you don't have to worry about Tosh-as-geisha being cliche! :DDDD
RINGMASTER JACK
Oh, now I have to type out this poem for you...
no subject
Date: 2010-09-17 06:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-18 02:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 07:31 am (UTC)I really enjoyed this! Lovely to see a new - to us - fic after a long break!
no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 09:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 03:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 09:23 pm (UTC)And I'm glad you liked it! I thought the story was pretty heavily dependent on canon knowledge for impact - an illustration, I guess, of the fact that writers are often off-base in evaluating their own work.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 04:32 pm (UTC)And I love the tiny speck of guilt Owen has..knowng that Rhys love for Gwen is in no way mirrored by Gwen.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-07-31 03:18 am (UTC)This makes me want to watch more of Torchwood than the third series, even though I suspect that the things I like best about this story are your doing.
no subject
Date: 2017-07-31 09:52 pm (UTC)My general feeling is that Torchwood fic - not just my own, but Torchwood fic in general - is way better than most of the first two seasons of the show. It often has coherent character motivations, clear emotional arcs, worldbuilding that has been given at least five minutes of thought, and sundry other qualities that the show lacks, bless its poor trying-so-hard-to-be-gritty-it-forgot-to-do-anything-else heart.
no subject
Date: 2017-07-31 10:01 pm (UTC)I like Burn Gorman?
It often has coherent character motivations, clear emotional arcs, worldbuilding that has been given at least five minutes of thought, and sundry other qualities that the show lacks, bless its poor trying-so-hard-to-be-gritty-it-forgot-to-do-anything-else heart.
Well, those sound like ideal conditions for generating fic, but not much to recommend a show!
no subject
Date: 2017-07-31 10:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-07-31 11:40 pm (UTC)So how closely do your versions of the characters resemble the show's?
no subject
Date: 2017-08-01 01:05 am (UTC)Gwen does not usually spend all her time unconscious.
And I don't think Owen generally has even the stray shreds of conscience that he displays in this fic, although I must confess it's been years since I've seen Torchwood so I'm a bit fuzzy on it all at this point.