[Obviously, there has been no sleeping on Owen's part, and he had only been in bed for a few hours before Jason had called. Instead of sleep, he'd filled the first forty-five minutes with a frantic trip to the nearest twenty-four hour drugstore, where he'd tried hard not to arouse suspicion as he crammed supplies into a basket and hustled them to the till (he'd even had the foresight to use an American accent and pay in cash), then grabbed a taxi back to the hotel.
After that, the time had been filled with pacing. He'd turned the television on and off four times before pitching the remote at the wall in a fit of fruitless pique (the back had come off and the batteries had spilled out onto the floor, but it hadn't broken). He unmade and remade both beds with military precision. He scanned the news for any traces of what had happened to Jason and his Cepan. Mostly, he stewed in his own angst and guilt about not being able to help.
It was, in short, probably the worst five hours of his life since the night his mother had told him that his father and brother were dead, and that they had to run. At least that night he'd been able to do something-- his mother had been there for him to take care of, and they'd been on the move. Now he's alone, and caged in this... Stupid hotel room.
He's hyper-sensitive and keenly attuned to the environment, so he when he hears footfalls outside for the first time in three hours, he sits bolt upright and rushes to the door, yanking it open. He's exhausted, and stressed, and, truth be told, on the wrong side of panic, so when he sees Jason standing in the doorway, looking heartbroken and defeated and bloody, his stomach develops phasing powers of its own and seems to drop right through his body. It only lasts a moment, however, before practicality takes over.]
Inside, quick, before anyone sees you.
[He tugs him inside and shuts the door quickly, assessing his injuries.]
no subject
After that, the time had been filled with pacing. He'd turned the television on and off four times before pitching the remote at the wall in a fit of fruitless pique (the back had come off and the batteries had spilled out onto the floor, but it hadn't broken). He unmade and remade both beds with military precision. He scanned the news for any traces of what had happened to Jason and his Cepan. Mostly, he stewed in his own angst and guilt about not being able to help.
It was, in short, probably the worst five hours of his life since the night his mother had told him that his father and brother were dead, and that they had to run. At least that night he'd been able to do something-- his mother had been there for him to take care of, and they'd been on the move. Now he's alone, and caged in this... Stupid hotel room.
He's hyper-sensitive and keenly attuned to the environment, so he when he hears footfalls outside for the first time in three hours, he sits bolt upright and rushes to the door, yanking it open. He's exhausted, and stressed, and, truth be told, on the wrong side of panic, so when he sees Jason standing in the doorway, looking heartbroken and defeated and bloody, his stomach develops phasing powers of its own and seems to drop right through his body. It only lasts a moment, however, before practicality takes over.]
Inside, quick, before anyone sees you.
[He tugs him inside and shuts the door quickly, assessing his injuries.]
Where are you hurt?