Wasted Chance

Summary: Owen has picked up on a new habit Jack doesn't tolerate within his team. This is a dark!Owen fic.

Post Diane.

Chapter 1

Lately, it wasn't enough to just simply get laid to ease the tension and loneliness that came with working at Torchwood. Especially with the blade that Diane had left deeply inserted in his gut when she had left, a blade that would twist and turn at every thought and memory of her. Since her departure from his life, he had built a barrier around himself - a fort big enough to even make the Great Wall of China look like a simple wooden picket fence.

He'd didn't care that the rest of team had noticed that he was moodier, quieter, much more reserved and distant and that he would come in almost every day for work two hours late sometimes still not quite hung-over yet. He didn't care or even dare to notice what that look behind their eyes said. He didn't care that they cared. All he wanted was to escape. Find an outlet out, because everything inside of Torchwood, everything, every screen, every cup of coffee, every plant and corpse reminded him of what he lost and what he couldn't have. Every bone in his aching body told him to leave, get out, nothing would be lost because there was nothing to lose; and he knew deep down that everyone else in the team were just as miserable as him. How could they not be?

He swiveled on the barstool to face the crowd, leaning an elbow on the bar while he held a glass of whiskey in the other. Everything in this pub was like new. The owners of this trash house did a good thing renovating the place. He took in a deep breath, feeling the energy of the early night. He hadn't stepped into this pub in months due to a little incident with another bloke that got him, to say the least, permanently kicked-out.

He vaguely remembers Jack that night at the Police Station as he laid in one of the cells semiconscious. He remembers noticing his ancient army coat first, then recognizing his deep voice and feeling sick to his gut at finally recognizing him as Jack turned to look down at him while he fought to keep his eyes open. That look alone that Jack had shot at him was almost enough to spay him, almost.

They never spoke of it and he was more then grateful at that.

But as he looked around the semi-new environment he felt renew with adrenaline, his eyes darted from skirt to skirt as they pranced around the place. He bit his lip as he notice a godly pair of legs and fallowed them up where he was met with a blessed face and piercing eyes staring back at him. He could feel a twitch from between his legs.

Quickly he downed his drink and smoothly made his way towards her. God she was much more gorgeous up close. He asked her for a dance, skipping the introduction, and her much smaller hand slipped into his offering.

The music was just perfect, and the environment calm. His arm was snaked around her waist and her head rested on his shoulder. At their proximity he could smell her and his muscles eased and relaxed to her movement. He felt at peace. That ice cold interior melt. He could have lived this dance forever. He didn't ever want to stop, he didn't ever want her to leave – but she did and that blade in his gut painfully twisted in his gut, again.

And he recoiled away.

"What's wrong?" She said looking up at him.

He looked back at her, anger edging his features. He didn't blame her. "Want to head back to my place?"


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