Jack frowned when the cogwheel door alarms went off and Owen shambled into the Hub. It was almost noon, and everyone else had been at work for several hours.

“You’re late.” Blocking Owen’s path, the head of Torchwood Three folded his arms over his chest. “What’s your excuse this time? Or do I need to ask?”

Owen just glared morosely at his boss and made a detour around him, stumbling slightly on the uneven concrete. “Give it a break, Jack. I’m not in the mood.”

“No, you’re just drunk. Again.”

“D’you even know what today is? You’re lucky I came in at all.”

Two years. Two long, painful years since he lost Katie, and Owen missed her as much now as he had when she’d died. Every time he thought that maybe he was putting the past behind him, something would happen to remind him all over again. The anniversary of her death, the anniversary of her birthday, the anniversary of their first date, the anniversary of the day they’d moved in together, the anniversary of their engagement… How could there be so many anniversaries? He didn’t know, but every single one hit him like a punch to the solar plexus, knocking all the air from his lungs, and the only thing that took the edge off the pain was booze.

It was never going to stop hurting, he knew that now. No matter how much time passed, he was never going to stop grieving for his late fiancée, because being without her was too hard. She was the sun in his sky, and now she was gone he was existing in darkness.

At the back of his mind he knew he was being melodramatic, wallowing in his own misery. Most days weren’t this bad, but on significant dates, it was easy to slip into a way of thinking that made him feel nothing good was ever going to happen to him again, that happiness was an illusion, that there was no point to anything anymore, not without Katie by his side.

The booze probably didn’t help as much as he claimed it did. It might numb the pain to a more bearable level, but it also made him maudlin if he drank when he was already feeling thoroughly miserable. He slumped into the chair at his workstation and pillowed his head on folded arms. He didn’t even know why he’d bothered coming to work. Maybe it was true that misery loved company. Not that he cared. Right now, he didn’t care about anything, he just wanted to be left alone to suffer in silence. Like he’d ever get silence around here, at least not in the Hub’s main level.

There were quieter places in Torchwood Three’s secret underground base; the morgue and the archives, to name two, but to get to them he’d have to get up and walk, and that would take way too much energy. Besides, if he unexpectedly dropped dead from the booze or whatever, at least the rest of the team might notice and do something about it, instead of leaving him to rot somewhere, out of sight, out of mind.

Maybe he was already dead. But if that was the case, he thought it would probably hurt less. Dead people felt no pain. Dead people didn’t know anything, because they were dead. He should have died when Katie did, but here he was, still dragging himself wearily through life.

It wasn’t fair, but his mum had always said that, so he didn’t know why he should be surprised. “Life’s not fair,” she’d told him when he was four and upset because he hadn’t been invited to his friend’s birthday party. “It’s never fair. Get used to it.” She’d said the same when he’d complained about not having a birthday party himself.

OoOoOoO

Hardly more than a year later, Owen had even more reason to know that life wasn’t fair. For him, death wasn’t fair either, because now he was as dead as could be, except that he was still walking around and talking. That was all he needed. He was the late Owen Harper, but thanks to Harkness, not even dying had freed him from his existence. The universe must really hate him.

He wasn’t perfect when he was alive, he knew that, but this was still unfair punishment. No eating, no drinking, no sleeping, no shagging, and no healing… He could look forward to his body gradually falling to pieces from wear and tear, which was not a pleasant thought. He couldn’t even feel physical sensation, so he’d never know he’d injured himself until it was too late to do anything about it. Even if he checked himself over several times a day, he couldn’t completely protect himself from accidental damage.

If life had sucked, being undead sucked even worse. He had a job though, he was gainfully employed unlike most of the deceased, so he was earning good money… and had little to spend it on beyond rent and bills. Dead and reasonably well off. Terrific.

He wasn’t late to work anymore, because a lot of the time he didn’t bother going home to rattle around his flat, watching crap telly, and maybe doing his laundry, because clothes still got dirty even though he didn’t sweat. Pollution in the air, in the rain, on the ground… Apparently even dead men had to do chores. But aside from chores, there was nothing much to do at home, and at least he could do research if he stayed at the Hub.

Besides, it meant the rest of the team could go home and leave him monitoring the Rift. They could have a life, and all the pleasures that came with it, even if he couldn’t. It was no consolation to Owen Harper, MD, deceased, but it gave him a purpose, which was about all he could hope for. He hoped his colleagues appreciated his sacrifice, but even if they didn’t, what else was he going to do with his unlife? Work the talk show circuit? Screw that! He was no one’s entertainment; he was a man of medicine, and while he might not be able to cure himself of being dead, he could still perhaps save others. It was better than nothing.


The End