Duh.

If the world was ending, of course I'd fuck him.

I'm not saying he'd like it, mind you, but I would.

And the end of the world is about what it would take. Probably.

Time flies when you're having fun.

Which doesn't explain how the past eleven months have zipped by, as they've hardly been fun.

( OOC )

Dear Agony Aunt,

My boss seems to think he's some sort of messiah.

I would laugh this off, but I've seen him die at least twice - including once at my own hand - and he keeps getting up.

Please advise.

Mental note #1: Never mix anything with tequila, ever again.

Mental note #2: Never drink tequila ever again, for that matter.

Bloody hell, what did I do last night? It must have been fairly epic, as I've lost at least four hours. At least, I hope it was epic. I'd hate to worry about this and then find out I was just surfing pornographic websites for the duration.

Shit.

You always remember the first.

A junkie and on god knows what else. She was a mess of bruises, open sores and filth.

The cops brought her to casualty, although I could tell it was only to save themselves paperwork by passing it on to the hospital instead.

No-one seemed all that concerned. It was Saturday night and we were already up to our eyes in drunks and domestics and the usual shit that happens in any big city. Roger had put an IV in her arm in some sort of token effort to keep her going but he'd buggered off to look after the busload of American tourists that had gotten pranged up. I remember they were all squealing about whiplash and lawsuits. Bloody Yanks.

I had other things to take care of, higher priorities, but I was newly qualified and green as grass. So I stayed.

She wouldn't give her name. She was convinced I was going to tell her parents where she was, what had happened. That was the only thing she could focus on - not letting them find out. She couldn't have been more than twenty years old.

I caught hell afterwards but it didn't matter. It still doesn't.

So, did I miss some small print on my offer of employment? Did I agree to get sexually assaulted by the boss on a regular basis?

I'd complain but, Christ, Jack knows what he's doing.

I wonder if Ianto knows? I wonder how he'd take it if he doesn't?

I'd better get a poison sniffer for my coffee - just in case.

( OOC context )

Got up at lunchtime. Opened the present from Tosh. Drank the present from Tosh. Went back to bed.

It's a good thing that Mark Lynch is dead. Really, it is. It saves me the bother of whacking him up with retcon. For a pretentious wanker, he'd made a couple of very astute guesses - too astute. I'm not ready for certain things to go public yet.

I've got another meeting with Dr. Goddard coming up. Christ. There's something about snooty-bitch blondes that brings out the worst in me. But I need her, and she needs me. Between UNIT and the information I got from those maniacs in London... I'm close to a breakthrough. I know I am.

Drunk again. Happy Christmas.

So what the fuck gave Gwen more of the right? Suzie at least showed brains and initiative. So what's a couple of murders and a bit of meglomania? Gwen's still got her head in the sand about Torchwood's body count, despite everything.

At the time, it was no contest. At the time. Now... perhaps I shouldn't have let my fear of Suzie stop me.

Smart woman, Suzie. Gotta wonder what else she had up sleeve. Gotta wonder if I shouldn't take a page from her book. Sooner or later, I'm going to piss jack off enough to get a head full of retcon. I've seen him giving me that look. He gave that look to Rob, back in '05, right before he flipped out and nearly took all of south Wales with him.

Need to think about it.

I was fine, once. I got drunk, fucked five women in three days, trashed my car and almost beat a suspect unconcious but... I was fine.

Keep pushing. Keep going like nothing hurts. You used to be a hard man, once. You can do it again. There's no shortage of mindless shags around here to keep the blood pressure down - hell, I'd give Ianto a go if he'd stop making cow-eyes at Jack for one bloody minute and of course Jack hasn't shown interest since he got his one-man fan club. Not that I care all that much - fucking the boss is just so rife with disastrous potential. For that matter, I should have given Mark Lynch what he was clearly asking for. Talk about simmering, although wankers like that always want to be on top.

I'm surrounded by repressed fuckwits. Gwen and her angsting about Rhys. Tosh and her protective shell of automaton workaholism. Ianto and... well, I made that clear already. Suzie had the hottest blood of any of them - for all the good it did her.

Does this story have a point?

How could she? How could she treat me the way she did and choose the rift over us? Did I disgust her, or something? Drive her away? Did she lie, or was I not that important? What?

How could she?

I thought Gwen and I would go somewhere, really, I did. But she's too fucking scared. Scared of trying something new. Scared of hurting Rhys. Scared of causing a fuss, whatever that means. In hindsight, getting her into bed was a complete aberration.

We were pretty close, I think, before the fear kicked in. When she started whinging about Rhys, I thought maybe I'd at least have a decent fuckbuddy on hand, but that went to hell, too. So she transferred her guilt into anger at me - fine. She wasn't the first angry fuck I'd had. At least I know they're paying attention. But the teary bouts of guilt and the cold shoulder at the office? Fuck that. If I want emo bullshit, I'll pull an overtime shift with Ianto.

I wish Tosh would get off her bloody high horse and figure out how to sythesize the shagging spray, already. Beyond the obvious, we'd make a fortune off the patent. Goodbye budget worries, hello personalized pinball machines and in-house masseuse.

The memo I almost wrote today:

Sometimes, people kill other people. No aliens. No posession. No rift-energy causing bolts of chaos to fall on us from a clear blue sky. Shit happens for mundane reasons. Stop looking for fairies at the bottom of the garden because there bloody aren't any.

And then what happens? Fairies. Honest-to-fucking-god fairies.

If it wasn't for the fact that I get paid about four times what I'd get anywhere else...

Blimey. Nothing like a bit of life threatening stress to bring out the lion in the mouse. She can make all the excuses she likes, but she knows what really happened. At least I was honest about it.

She's probably another danger junkie. Torchwood brings them - alright us - in like moths to a flame. Usually with the same results.

She irritates the shit out of me. So why do I keep thinking about her?

Oh, bloody hell. Not again. No way. I'm not going to go through that again.

Be fair, Owen, she did treat you decent after that godawful moment with Lizzie.

Poor Lizzie.

Shit. I'm fucked, aren't I? And not in the good way...

Crap. My supply of shagging spray just got decimated.

And, oh yeah, Suzie's dead. Stupid bitch cracked up and killed herself. She couldn't take the idea of a head full of retcon, I suppose.

So how come the newbie snogs the alien and it's all "Phwoar" and "That's okay, Gwen. We all make mistakes." I get suckered into the same trap and I'm the office joke. WTF? It's hardly fair.

Granted, I'd much rather watch Gwen snogging that bird than a bloke like me. Nice to see that the oh-so-picky boss isn't above enjoying a bit of girl-on-girl action, either...

Still, being made to look like a prat - okay, I was a prat - in front of the office hardly makes for good day at work.

What's that Mr. Walker? Absolutely I'll join you for a drink.