beccaelizabeth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beccaelizabeth) wrote2008-03-04 12:00 am
beccaelizabeth) wrote2008-03-04 12:00 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Torchwood: Conversation with non-dead people 1/1 Owen
Torchwood fic
Title: Conversation with non-dead people
Character: Owen. Talking to someone I made up. Yes, you have been warned.
Rating: general, universal, without offensive content
Spoilers/Warnings: Won't make much sense without knowing through TW 2-08. Also, unbetaed. Also also, I thought it was a drabble, and it could quite possibly improve if cut down to one.
Summary:
"You know, I've been saying, lately, that most people are insufficiently goth. That, at least, is not your problem."
Owen looked up at the perky little gothette leaning on the bar beside him, all whiteface, black vinyl and zips, then down at his own getup. Black leather jacket, black jeans, black gloves... and of course the more permanent pallor.
"Yeah... most people need makeup to manage this look." He smirked bitterly, picked up his glass... put it down again and pushed it away, as he'd done at least a dozen times that evening. Sighed. "Too goth for my own good."
"'I don't drink... wine.'" She quoted, in bad vamp voice.
Owen wasn't in the mood. "Not if I don't want to end my evening throwing up, no. And I've got enough problems."
There was a listening sort of silence from next to him. He turned to find he had her full attention, head tilted and eyes dark.
He shook his head. "You want to find someone else to play with, love. Whatever you've got in mind... I'm in no mood." He turned and span the drink around in place. "Plus I could drop dead any second. Kind of puts a crimp in most plans."
"I can relate," she said, quietly.
"Shyeah. Because powder and bad poetry really get at the meaning of mortality. Or are you cutting yourself? Playing with knives to... to feel it..." He rubbed his palm, rubbed the ridges the stitches made, or at least where he knew they should be.
She stood up. He expected her to stalk off, but instead she just got hold of the ring on her coat zip. Surprised, he watched as she undid it, shrugged it open, and turned until the lights caught her straight on. Underneath she was wearing only mesh over a black bikini top. But it wasn't Owen's libido reporting in first, and not even for the recent reasons. Doctor Harper was examining the scars.
"Heart surgery?"
"Heart transplant," she replied.
He nodded. Turned to face her properly. "So."
"So..." She hopped up on a bar stool, propped herself up watching not him but the dance floor. Her coat hung open, and the long scar was picked out in contrast colors every time the lights changed.
For long moments Owen couldn't look away.
"So, I've shown you mine..." And now she's back to playful, eyebrow quirked.
Owen grins and huffs a laugh. "Oh, no. I'm not showing. Trust me, you don't want that. Unless your plans involved upchucking too. It's, ah... well, it's not up to 'scar'."
She winced in sympathy, then grinned. "So you're out here. My kind of guy. Carpe Noctem."
"Well, you know. Live fast, die young..." That one got rather stuck in his throat, somehow. He lifted his drink to cover it out of pure habit... then dropped it down again and shoved it, with some violence, along the bar.
She leaned forwards to dodge the splash, mostly managing, biting her lip to keep the grin away. A slightly bitter grin, more of a smirk perhaps. Owen thought about resenting it, but found it too familiar on his own face.
He laughed, then shook his head.
"Insufficiently goth," she repeated, mostly to herself.
"So, you'd prescribe, what, a few skull rings and some hanging out in graveyards? Think about death just a little bit more? Trust me, there's not enough hours in the day."
"Oh but it's not about death. It's death in life. Death at the dance." She gestured at the dance floor. Her hand glittered, rings all over, and there was indeed a certain skull and bone motif. It stood out the more waving at a sea of pink and sequins and, for some unknown reason, a set of girls in matching feathered cowboy hats. "They stand out there and drink and laugh and grind together and do everything they can to shut out the dark. Laugh at us, who see it. And okay, fair enough. I can, at times, be quite amusing. But. What's the beat without the silence?"
"This place until closing?" Owen shrugged. "Sorry, love, wrong audience. Given the chance I'd be out there with them. Living. Every minute."
"But only every other second."
He looked at her, face well on the way to calling her crazy, but she raised a hand, first to stop him, then to tap against her chest. Regular, rhythmic.
"You notice the beat, pressure, the stretch as you inhale. But what about the spaces in between? The exhale, the interval... They never think about it. But it's always there. And those silences... what's the difference between them and death?"
"Life's got a future. Another beat."
"Exactly. But you can never know the future. Hasn't happened yet. All you can know is you just *had* a heart beat, and then...?" She held up her hands, stopped. Dropped them. "It's death. In every breath, in every heart beat."
"Difference being, on the exhale, you're still alive. Even diastolic... we're still here."
"Even entirely heartless. Trust me, this I know. There's nothing quite like knowing your internal organs are already in their own little grave."
"Oh, yeah. I... can relate." Owen grinned at her, then went distant and let it fade. "So meanwhile, we wait..."
"But not fade away." She nodded. Then she hopped down and stood in front of him. "You want to dance?"
Owen looked at the dance floor and his grin twisted. He gave a sort of one handed shrug. It was the hand with the stitches, of course, and of a sudden all those high heels looked a lot more threatening than they ever had.
"Will it kill you?" She sounded honestly curious.
Owen shook his head. "Just... time, really." He laughed. "I'm well past last orders."
"So." She held out her hand to him.
He looked at it. And up at her.
"While we're here to, drink of life. And know the bittersweet of it." Her vamp voice had got much better. For a moment she held his gaze, eyes dark eternities. Then she grinned. "And you can help me not feel like a raven at a picnic. Honestly, this is so not the night for my fashion statment. I'm looking such a freak. Next to women wearing pink gingham!"
Owen laughed. "Oh, yeah, that's a new low. So I can rescue you by resetting the standard?"
She whapped him one and rolled her eyes.
He got up and grabbed her hand. "Alright then. Dead at the dance."
They both grinned, and the lights flicked on and off with the beat.
Title: Conversation with non-dead people
Character: Owen. Talking to someone I made up. Yes, you have been warned.
Rating: general, universal, without offensive content
Spoilers/Warnings: Won't make much sense without knowing through TW 2-08. Also, unbetaed. Also also, I thought it was a drabble, and it could quite possibly improve if cut down to one.
Summary:
"You know, I've been saying, lately, that most people are insufficiently goth. That, at least, is not your problem."
Owen looked up at the perky little gothette leaning on the bar beside him, all whiteface, black vinyl and zips, then down at his own getup. Black leather jacket, black jeans, black gloves... and of course the more permanent pallor.
"Yeah... most people need makeup to manage this look." He smirked bitterly, picked up his glass... put it down again and pushed it away, as he'd done at least a dozen times that evening. Sighed. "Too goth for my own good."
"'I don't drink... wine.'" She quoted, in bad vamp voice.
Owen wasn't in the mood. "Not if I don't want to end my evening throwing up, no. And I've got enough problems."
There was a listening sort of silence from next to him. He turned to find he had her full attention, head tilted and eyes dark.
He shook his head. "You want to find someone else to play with, love. Whatever you've got in mind... I'm in no mood." He turned and span the drink around in place. "Plus I could drop dead any second. Kind of puts a crimp in most plans."
"I can relate," she said, quietly.
"Shyeah. Because powder and bad poetry really get at the meaning of mortality. Or are you cutting yourself? Playing with knives to... to feel it..." He rubbed his palm, rubbed the ridges the stitches made, or at least where he knew they should be.
She stood up. He expected her to stalk off, but instead she just got hold of the ring on her coat zip. Surprised, he watched as she undid it, shrugged it open, and turned until the lights caught her straight on. Underneath she was wearing only mesh over a black bikini top. But it wasn't Owen's libido reporting in first, and not even for the recent reasons. Doctor Harper was examining the scars.
"Heart surgery?"
"Heart transplant," she replied.
He nodded. Turned to face her properly. "So."
"So..." She hopped up on a bar stool, propped herself up watching not him but the dance floor. Her coat hung open, and the long scar was picked out in contrast colors every time the lights changed.
For long moments Owen couldn't look away.
"So, I've shown you mine..." And now she's back to playful, eyebrow quirked.
Owen grins and huffs a laugh. "Oh, no. I'm not showing. Trust me, you don't want that. Unless your plans involved upchucking too. It's, ah... well, it's not up to 'scar'."
She winced in sympathy, then grinned. "So you're out here. My kind of guy. Carpe Noctem."
"Well, you know. Live fast, die young..." That one got rather stuck in his throat, somehow. He lifted his drink to cover it out of pure habit... then dropped it down again and shoved it, with some violence, along the bar.
She leaned forwards to dodge the splash, mostly managing, biting her lip to keep the grin away. A slightly bitter grin, more of a smirk perhaps. Owen thought about resenting it, but found it too familiar on his own face.
He laughed, then shook his head.
"Insufficiently goth," she repeated, mostly to herself.
"So, you'd prescribe, what, a few skull rings and some hanging out in graveyards? Think about death just a little bit more? Trust me, there's not enough hours in the day."
"Oh but it's not about death. It's death in life. Death at the dance." She gestured at the dance floor. Her hand glittered, rings all over, and there was indeed a certain skull and bone motif. It stood out the more waving at a sea of pink and sequins and, for some unknown reason, a set of girls in matching feathered cowboy hats. "They stand out there and drink and laugh and grind together and do everything they can to shut out the dark. Laugh at us, who see it. And okay, fair enough. I can, at times, be quite amusing. But. What's the beat without the silence?"
"This place until closing?" Owen shrugged. "Sorry, love, wrong audience. Given the chance I'd be out there with them. Living. Every minute."
"But only every other second."
He looked at her, face well on the way to calling her crazy, but she raised a hand, first to stop him, then to tap against her chest. Regular, rhythmic.
"You notice the beat, pressure, the stretch as you inhale. But what about the spaces in between? The exhale, the interval... They never think about it. But it's always there. And those silences... what's the difference between them and death?"
"Life's got a future. Another beat."
"Exactly. But you can never know the future. Hasn't happened yet. All you can know is you just *had* a heart beat, and then...?" She held up her hands, stopped. Dropped them. "It's death. In every breath, in every heart beat."
"Difference being, on the exhale, you're still alive. Even diastolic... we're still here."
"Even entirely heartless. Trust me, this I know. There's nothing quite like knowing your internal organs are already in their own little grave."
"Oh, yeah. I... can relate." Owen grinned at her, then went distant and let it fade. "So meanwhile, we wait..."
"But not fade away." She nodded. Then she hopped down and stood in front of him. "You want to dance?"
Owen looked at the dance floor and his grin twisted. He gave a sort of one handed shrug. It was the hand with the stitches, of course, and of a sudden all those high heels looked a lot more threatening than they ever had.
"Will it kill you?" She sounded honestly curious.
Owen shook his head. "Just... time, really." He laughed. "I'm well past last orders."
"So." She held out her hand to him.
He looked at it. And up at her.
"While we're here to, drink of life. And know the bittersweet of it." Her vamp voice had got much better. For a moment she held his gaze, eyes dark eternities. Then she grinned. "And you can help me not feel like a raven at a picnic. Honestly, this is so not the night for my fashion statment. I'm looking such a freak. Next to women wearing pink gingham!"
Owen laughed. "Oh, yeah, that's a new low. So I can rescue you by resetting the standard?"
She whapped him one and rolled her eyes.
He got up and grabbed her hand. "Alright then. Dead at the dance."
They both grinned, and the lights flicked on and off with the beat.