Who: Owen Harper and Open What: Drinking to avoid thinking When: Saturday evening Where: Lou's Warnings: TBA Status: Open/On-going
If there was one thing Owen Harper was good at, truly good at, it was being self-destructive. He'd gotten better towards the end of his time with Torchwood, towards his end, but it hadn't taken much to wipe that progress aside for the moment. Of course, given the circumstances, he didn't really think anybody would blame him all that much. Probably not, anyway. Not that he really cared at the moment.
An entire week of his life, gone. No memories, nothing. It'd been for all the world like one second everything had been fine and then the next, it'd been a week later. Most people were fairly okay with it, if somewhat thrown for a loop, but most people weren't him. Few of them hadn't just died.
Few of them hadn't had to die for a second time.
And he could bet with almost absolute certainty that none of them had been through anything even close to what he'd been through. Which, while it was good because nobody deserved to be, it was also a terrible thing for his sake because there were precious few people who would understand what he'd been through -- at least, that he actually knew. Ianto and Jack, really. Not so much Martha, who didn't know him yet. There were others from home, yes, but they didn't know him and he didn't know them.
Shaking his head, Owen finished off his second beer of the night. At least by getting drunk at Lou's, he'd ensured he would make it home -- he had absolute faith that Maria would either get him into a cab, call Ianto, or drag him home herself.
She was probably a better friend than he deserved.