Disoriented Cosmos {A Torchwood Story} [COMPLETED]

14. Coping Mechanisms

I begrudgingly take Owen to a nightclub (great, loud music and too many people, my favourite), in which he orders beers then orders a second for himself after he drinks his in about ten seconds. After he drinks the fifth one in five silent and tense minutes, I signal to the bartender to go serve somebody and turn to Owen.
"Do you need to talk, man? You're drinking way too hard to be okay right now."

"I'm fine," he snaps irritably, to which I lift my hands in surrender, and he scans the club. For what? Free drinks? My wonders soon become frustrating answers as he just up and leaves me to go dance with this woman who's been giving him the eyes from the dance floor. They begin to dance very closely to each other, basically doing this move I've heard called grinding which looks very odd, and start making out. I blink: crikey that was fast; is it just me, or are humans literally obsessed with sex? God, you escape one hellhole just to be crowded into another louder one.

I put up with it for a while, then when it seems the two are about to leave to do something I don't wanna think about, I dash up to him and ask for the keys I lent him. He peers at me, bleary-eyed and pissed off.

"Whaddya need my keys for? We're going to mine."
"It's actually mine," I correct curtly, irritated by his rash and insensitive behaviour although it's obviously some sort of distraction for him, and he scowls at me.
"All right, just fuck off already will you?! God." And with that he's off with the chick, off to have sex with a stranger in my apartment in my room that I'm not allowed to sleep in because he's the guest.
It's all I can take to not punch his lights out, and instead I ride home in the taxi with him and the woman giggling and snogging and doing way more than is legally allowed in the backseat of a cab.

I tip the driver in massive apology and go in before them, opening the front door and leaving it ajar so they can stumble in drunk and get busy in my own room. I at least hope one of them has a condom somewhere in their pockets, because I don't have any for obvious reasons - I don't go around having sex with strangers.

As the door slams shut, I look at it and try to imagine what's going round Owen's head.
When I think of anyone going to a funeral for their beloved dead fiance, I don't think that the same night they're going to have sex with a stranger. Sure, there are coping mechanisms, the five stages of grief, yadda yadda, but I feel like what Owen's currently doing - very loudly - isn't exactly the best way to cope.

This man needs therapy, for sure.

~∆~

Hours later, I'm half asleep on the sofa, cuddled up in charity shop blankets trying to blot out the rampant sex noises, when the woman comes out with her hair completely messed up, barefoot with her clothes rumpled and done up wrong. I don't say anything, just roll over so I don't have to look at her while she leaves; but when Owen comes into the room in just his underwear with his own hair messy, I jump up and start the bollocking.

"What the fuck was that all about? You were only just burying your fiance today!"
He snarls at me. "What's up with you, Evy? Jesus, my entire life falls apart, and-"
"Don't call me Evy, I don't like it! And I thought if you loved someone you don't sleep with anybody else, but excuse me for not understanding basic human culture!" I yell at him from the sofa.

"Why don't you like me, Evy?"
"Don't call me Evy," I say defensively, but he ignores my remark and moves to stand in front of me, arms crossed. He seems to want to fight - verbally and physically.
"No, seriously - why?"

I take a deep breath to calm myself, and look up to his eyes directly. "We were both taken in by Torchwood because we were broken, me perhaps the most out of all of us. I've been abused, exploited, assaulted - hell, I don't even remember half of my life. But I'm trying to heal. I'm learning to be whole again. But you... you have your whole life in your mind, you can see and feel and experience things I can only dream of. Yet you seem to already be throwing it away, and I don't accept it. I refuse to be a part of it. That's why I don't particularly warm to you right now: you are wallowing in your own self pity and it's not good for you!"

He just stares at me, jaw dropped in angry confusion, slightly thick eyebrows so low they're almost attached to his deep dark soulful eyes. The thing about his eyes, I can tell, don't ask me how... is that they're trying not to have a soul.

Maybe that's why he got drunk then had sex with a stranger after his fiancee's funeral. Without her, without his job, his support, his happiness, he doesn't want a soul anymore.

I'm suddenly tired of arguing with him, physically, verbally, and mentally.
"Do what you want, Owen. Just clean my sheets once you're done with them."
I lie down on the sofa and turn so I face the cushions and not him. I hear him swear at me and crash into my room, then a creak in the bed and more cursing.

My new flatmate, everybody. I simply can't wait for this journey ahead of us. Not.