Notes/Warnings/Spoilers: Takes place in 2nd series, sometime after Dead Man Walking. Written for those who wanted an Owen fic from that period. Thanks again to beta_goddess for pushing to get it just right.
Summary: Jack likes to watch, too.
Things are back to what passes for normal in the asylum known as Torchwood. The same volatile mixture of affection, respect, lust and resentment. It keeps things interesting during the lulls between special rift deliveries.
One thing has changed, and it bothers Owen more than he’d like to admit. Jack won’t look at him. It’s as though the sight of a living corpse is painful to a bloke who’s turned getting killed into a spectator sport.
Not that Jack’s ever really fixed him with the lingering gaze he saves for the ones he’s already shagging or those in line for the privilege.
Except once, now that he thinks about it.
Owen’s early weeks at Torchwood weren’t easy for him or anybody else. By the second month, he’d racked up a slew of reprimands for showing up late, hung-over and, in one memorable case, with a piece of silk lingerie tucked into the waistband of his jeans.
The third time around, Jack pulled Owen into his office, clearly about to start in again, and Owen had no desire to hear any of it, especially with his still-throbbing head and no decent coffee to be found anywhere in the Hub.
“I ain’t a volunteer, mate. You’re the one who dragged me into this mess, and you knew what you were getting then. If you don’t like it, feel free to sod off and let me go back to my life.”
Instead of mentioning the still-too-soon topic of Katie and the fact that Owen didn’t have much of a life to go back to, Jack launched into the Torchwood version of a sex-education lecture.
“What we do here is important and it needs to be kept secret. If you’re going to go off getting pissed and taking home something pretty every time you feel sorry for yourself, you’ll risk the organisation, which means risking the future of the human race. I can’t let you do that.”
“You’re hardly one to be preaching the monastic life, from what I hear, Captain.” Tosh had told him all about Jack’s “special” relationship with the married biologists who preceded him as Torchwood’s medical department, before taking up residence in side-by-side drawers in the morgue a few weeks before Katie’s death.
“That’s different,” Jack objected, looking pissed. Owen has always had a gift for annoying his superiors.
“What’s the matter, boss? Can’t take a bit of competition?”
Jack appeared to be resisting an impulse that involved returning the punch Owen had given him that day at the graveyard.
“I’m not asking you to take holy orders. Just keep it a little closer to home.”
He still doesn’t know for sure if was a coincidence that Suzie asked him out for a drink that night and if grabbing his crotch in the cab on the way home had been her own idea or following orders. Right then he should have known she was a bit off, but that night and the morning after and for the next several months, he honestly didn’t care.
It was as close as he’d come to feeling alive since Katie got sick. Being with Suzie was like riding a roller-coaster and fucking her helped him remember that sex could be something other than sad and desperate. Working for Torchwood became more than a reason not to stay home and drink. He even started showing up almost on time and working late, sometimes very late, as he and Suzie explored the possibilities of sex in the archives, the cells, the morgue and perhaps inevitably, one very late, very giddy night, in Jack’s office.
Screwing in the boss’ chair wasn’t exactly subtle , but Suzie didn’t seem to have any objections. She never told him exactly how she came to be there, but he was starting to get the idea that no one joined Torchwood by answering an ad in the paper.
If they both harboured a bit of hidden or not-so-hidden anger at the man in the coat, this was as good a way to work it out as any. Bare-arse naked, with Suzie in his lap wriggling against him until he was able to slide into her. Skin against skin. Nudging her dark curls to one side so he could taste the silky skin of her neck and make her squirm even more. Not quite comfortable, but fun, and who would ever know? When Jack went off on his so-called Weevil hunts he didn’t return until after dawn, leaving the staff to wink at each other behind his back.
Fuck you, Jack, he thought, less than gallantly, as he thrust upwards, letting Suzie ride up and down on his cock, and hearing her deep, throaty moans. She was so hot and tight, so beautiful. He tried not to pretend to love her, but he sure as bloody hell loved this, holding her tits from behind, kissing her shoulder, fucking her so hard that the small room filled with the sounds of Jack’s old chair scraping the floor with each thrust, skin slapping together just a shade less than violently, and Suzie’s extremely colourful vocabulary. Owen was sure he was going to come any second.
Maybe Jack had reached the limit on his hunting licence. Owen felt his and Suzie’s hearts beating in counterpoint while his brain desperately tried to come up with something the least bit intelligent to salvage the situation. Nothing occurred to him, and he didn’t think a referral from a place that didn’t officially exist would help on his next job search, assuming Jack was likely to give him one.
“Don’t mind me. Just keep going.”
This place was way more fucked up than he’d ever imagined, he thought, and it must be getting to him. Or maybe it just meant he’d found the place he really belonged. Either way, he managed to do exactly what Jack said, quickly whispering into Suzie’s ear, “This all right with you, luv?” and feeling her give a little squeeze that set off a responding twitch in his cock.
If he hadn’t already been close to the brink of a major cataclysm, the sight of Captain Jack Harkness opening his coat, unsnapping the braces and undoing his trousers would have gotten him there anyway. Owen watched, entranced, as the 40’s-style clothing slipped to the floor, revealing that Weevil hunting didn’t require any pants and exactly how well endowed the boss really was. If Jack had any qualms about starting his own party in front of the help, it wasn’t visible in the smooth hand action and nearly full erection.
Even now, when he’s one bullet and a glove away from ever having an erection again, Owen can feel the effect of Jack standing there watching, jerking himself off as Owen fucked Suzie, and the way Jack had looked at him, their eyes locked, as Owen stared back over Suzie’s shoulder. The memory makes time stand still, even though it could only have lasted a few minutes, maybe seconds.
He’d kept going until he couldn’t keep his eyes open, could barely breathe, heard Suzie’s panting, cursing, screaming and his own slightly tortured groans of release and opened his eyes just in time to see Jack’s face contort in what looked like painful, silent ecstasy.
“Fuck,” he says, gasping slightly at the memory, which culminates with Jack opening his eyes and smiling appreciatively with a drawn out exclamation of “Nice,” before picking up his clothing and leaving them the incongruous privacy to get dressed.
The memory leaves him shaken and sad. Suzie’s gone, he’s dead and Jack will never look at him that way again.