one-shot: because.

2008-03-05T01:10:44Z

Title: Because.
Fandom: Torchwood.
Characters: Owen Harper, his mother.
Prompt: 'Stronger' for deviant_muses, Feb. '08.
Word Count: 968.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Note: Minor, minor quote spoilers for 'Adam'.

Owen lifted his head to acknowledge the remaining slices of birthday cake in front of him. He had been furiously attempting to blink back tears, attempting to be stronger than the lousy, free loading mistake his father had made him out to be.

You're a sad excuse for a son. I don't even know why the hell we keep you around. Bet it's nice for your mum to get a good look at something that's not her bleedin' husband every now and again, huh?! Oh, are you going to cry now? That's right BIRTHDAY boy- cry your pathetic little heart out.

He could hear his mother's screeching at the telly inside of the sitting room. His father had left for the evening, presumably to the local pub, leaving her in an annoyingly shaken stupor. Owen, on the other hand, for the first time in his ten years of existence, was going to leave his candles to burn to their core.

"God damn it, Owen-" came her voice, then came her, perched in the doorway like a vulture. Owen winced and ignored her standing there. "Could you just blow out the bloody candles? The cake's all gone, and at this rate you're just goin' to burn down the whole fuckin' flat. So make a bleedin’ wish, and be done with it!" Owen could smell the alcohol from the twenty-foot distance. His nose wrinkled and he shook his head.

"I don't have a wish, mother," he finally said. He loathed days like these: the days when they fought, the days when she resorted to alcohol, and the days when she pretended to care.

"Look you little sh-Owen," her voice fluctuated into that of a loving mother's, soft and innocent. Owen knew it all too well. It was the tone she broke out as a mere distraction from her words. Focus on the change, and you won't notice the nasties she was bound to unleash. Owen watched her as she moved to the opposite end of the table. Her thin fingers gripped the back of the chair.

"You can't honestly tell me you don't have a wish, Owen..." She strained her neck forward, still trying to maintain her voice at a loud whisper.

"Oh- will you just stop!?" he shrieked suddenly. His eyes grew at the sound of his own voice. His mother's frosted smile lifted into a sadistic and twisted grin.

"Stop!? Stop what?"

"Stop saying my name. Stop pretending you really care about what I wish for. And QUIT FUCKING SMILING."

Her lip quivered in retort. It had taken Owen a few minutes to realize he was on his own feet, both his fists clenched at his sides. He watched his mother, she watched him. The silence was abruptly growing, and he had no desire to take part in it any longer. Instead, he plucked out the candle stubs and tossed them in the sink. They hit a wet bowl with a small thzt.

"There. I wish I could leave this place and never come back," he stormed past his mother's shoulder, receiving only a loud "Where do you think you're going?"

"Somewhere you aren't!" Owen slammed his bedroom door. In the nearby kitchen, he heard his mother utter something he would never forget:

"I love you, because you're my son. But that doesn't mean I have to like you, little shit..."

- - -

Owen pushed open the front door of the flat, moving a heavy something out of the way and against the wall. This evening, he had stayed late at the school library. At sixteen, there wasn't much else to go. That was, unless you had some sort of friends. (That of which Owen seemingly lacked.) Instead, he had taken the time to sort out a few books from the shelf. Books concerning the medical field.

When he walked inside and closed the door, he glanced down at a large duffle bag.

"There," came his mother's voice. Owen looked up, squinting at her silhouette in the dark.

"...What's this for?" he asked her shadow, reaching down to grab the strap of the bag.

"'s all your shit. Now go. Seize the day, be a real man- and get the hell out of my house."

He couldn't decide where to look now, which sight was more dignifying. "Wow," he started flatly, pulling the bag onto his shoulder. His mother whimpered from the darkness, and from the state of things, he would bet that she was crying. "That is the nicest thing you have done for me in years, Mother"

"Good-bye, Owen."

"Yeah. Right. I'll be off at Roger's, then. If you actually care to find m-"

"I still love you," she said bitterly, folding her arms across her thin chest. Owen scoffed. "Because you're still my son…" The familiar scent of alcohol tainted the air between the two of them.

"It doesn't work like that, Mum. Besides, you never really "liked" me, remember? Ya know, I actually thought you'd forgotten what I'd said that day. You were so bloody pissed, I could've sworn it was like talking to the stove. But, it doesn't matter, right? You've done my job for me. Saved me quite a bit of time. So, like I said, this is me. Leaving."

She took a small step forward. Owen could have given in. He could have turned his head and told her that he was lying through his teeth, things could be better now with a hug and some tea. But that, in itself, would have been a load of bollocks. After all, he was stronger now. There were no tears. He had wasted them all years ago. Without another word, he pulled open the door, and started down the walkway to Roger's.

He felt the need for a celebration coming on.

too cool for school.

one-shot: because.