POV: Darryl Creighton

I never knew a tinnitus to be so inescapable. Well, that's a lie. I'd never known any self-inflicted tinnitus to be so inescapable, overbearing, obstreperous. A ditch in a road with no bottom, a black whole, a demonic abyss. Now that was better. A wild lion, tail caught in a monstrous trap, roaring to be set free. A feeble chick, a resting bird, humming poorly from a precarious perch. A dancing beam of sunlight, lightning encased within the fleeting claps of thunder. Recurring.

I must have been losing my mind.

So far gone from so simple a scenario, one ticking down for months. Something I'd known to be in anticipation far long ago, flitting between my own reality and how it may become, dusting faintly across some time vortex of my own creation. And yet, here I was, petrified. Everything I could have done, should have done, ringing in my ears. A reminder that I was weak.

It seemed so very different from the terror of being surrounded; strange, foreign, and somehow worse. The one thing I'd always dreaded the most, outdone, snuck upon in the darkest of night by the clandestine creepings of something new, alien. But, there'd always been a great severity betwwen then and now--I'd always, somewhere, somehow, longed for the other. Perhaps not all too openly, but it had been there, as opposed to now.

Then I'd been the heart of enumerous screaching comitatuses, but of adulation. After all, what mind doesn't seize even the most fleeting opportunities for narcissism? Not in excess, of course, never too much. But who could truly loathe to be canonized by so many? Even if the ringing was constant and the company was many, it was a high. Who could ever need opium when I had all of this at my doorstep?

No need to fret over your troubles for someone else will surely offer to do it for you. No pestering, beckoning to diet over an outward appearance for there are so many adamant to defend you. It was the greatest life of leisure, the most poisonous yet pleasureable food to consume. A drug, frollicking before my own eyes. Teasing, taunting, flitting beyond my grasp as I plunged for more.

Deadly, but oh so enticing, pleasing.

But now? A stygian within a day. The world screaming between my ears, insufferable, inescapable... tiring. Or, perhaps, was that guilt? Creeping up from behind, a tidal wave before I'd even fully gathered my bearings.

I needed to get away. Not run, per se, from a world that's so very inescapable. Just... take a break, of sorts. Catch a marathon of movies for a day, discs that have been collecting dust during filming. Call a friend... Err, if I even still have any. Invite over the sister I've been missing.

Yeah, that's what I'd do, I'd call over Lizzy. Movies and oreos should never be enjoyed alone, and at any rate, they'd be the perfect lure if she was made at me. Relaxing with that last thought, though only comparatively and shivering at the memory of the last time I'd experienced my sister's fury, I shrugged on the maroon hoodie I'd buried somewhere in the backseat of my car. Slipping on some tinted sunglasses as well and pulling up the hood, thankful for the beginning patter of rain, I finally left my car, hoping no one would recognize me today.

I'd long since lost track of how long I'd been parked at the edges of the waiting lot for my neighborhood's food mart. I don't even think I'd initally intended to actually go inside. I just had an insane craving for oreos and milk--but I couldn't just go and get them. No, for one thing, I'd be recognized instantly and pounced on. How far would I get then? Which was why I'd been so grateful of the rain that allowed me to wear my hood without question.

But I never just wanted oreos and milk. Who just goes out and buys junk food for no good reason? No, there was a reason. Which was why I had to think of inviting my sister over for movies--so I could pretend it was that.

I mused over these thoughts fleetingly as I treaded up the slight slope of the parking lot before shoving them once more to the back of my head. Through the breaks in the clouds, I could see that it was still considerably bright out, still somewhat early, but it by no means called for my sunglasses. Already, I was at the receiving end of a fair few scattered, odd stares, and it made me nearly laugh. Whoever first came up with the so-called disguise of sunglasses and a hoodie must've been severely mad.

But, hey, who am I to talk? I'm still using it.

By the time I reached the automated doors to the brick building, however, the rain had picked up significantly. PUddles were splashing at my feet and the hoodie I'd been so happy to grab stuck uncomfortably along my neck and to the rest of my body, leaving me itching for its removal. My sunglasses, too, were suffering from the weather, slicked from the unavoidable droplets and constantly sliding down my nose to expose my eyes.

My disguise--pathetic though it was--may as well have been ruined. Who in their right mind would wear articles in such a condition? And so, sighing my defeat as I stepped into the brightly lit aisles of the store, I slid the glasses off and stuck them folded into the pocket of my drenched sweatshirt. After fighting a few moments with the hoodie, I managed to wrangle that off as well, leaving me still soaked but more comfortable at least, and awkwardly carrying my discarded clothing.

I was just here for one thing, how long could it take? I'd just go and get a thing of oreos and be out of here, easy as that. Before anyone could recognize me. I already had milk at home, two gallons at least, and if I didn't have any decent movies then I was sure Lizzy would bring something. Hell, she brought her favorite movies when I didn't want her to.

So I squeaked along the tiled floor that was already wet from people before me, ignoring the attention my squelching shoes were gathering and simply hurrying along as best I could. Lizzy preferred the sort with chocolate filling, so I was sure to grab one of those and not the others, cautiously bypassing the array of new flavors and scrunching my nose in disgust at the mint filled.

People were milling around me, but none seemed to notice--or care--just who I was at that point, and it made me feel elated. Just to see myself go out in public like this for once. Such a drastic shift in mood from mere moments ago.

Turning away from the neatly stocked shelf, sweatshirt leading down one arm and oreos firmly held in that same hand, I found myself moving along with a long missed smile on my face. And then I met Winslow Oscar Watson.

"Hey!" I found myself cut short as someone slid excitedly in front of me, my grin slipping, and they peered up through stringy blonde hair. "I'm Winslow."

I nodded my response, letting the boy know I'd heard him before turning back to my task at hand. Getting to the check out.

"Winslow Oscar Watson," he continued, blissfully ignorant, "but my friends call me WOW sometimes. You can call me WOW. W-O-W, you get it? It's my initials. And you're Darryl, right? Darryl Creighton?"

Again, I nodded my consent as I craned my neck to see which of the approaching lines was the shortest, then curving my pathway to one stationed by an elderly woman with white hair framing her face.

"Darryl Creighton from Torchwood? With John Barrowman?"

This time I stopped walking altogether and turned to him. He didn't look that old, maybe seventeen or so. What he was doing following me around in a store when he should be out with friends or studying for school or who knows what was beyond me. It was also beginning to irk me.

"Yeah, actually, I am. But, I really have to be somewhere right now--" I cut myself off, looking over my shoulder at the check out lane still awaiting me.

"Oh, yeah, I get it." his face fell, "I'll just go then..."

I wince as he turned his back, guilt wrenching my insides, "Winslow! Wait!"

"Yeah?" He turned back, curious.

"I really do have to be somewhere, but what did you want first?"

"Nothing," he muttered, "nothing really."

Grimacing at my nocency filled insides, I sifted through my hoodie with one open hand, watching him to be sure he stayed. "Well, what if," I snagged my tinted shades by the corner and levied them out of the damp pocket, "I were to give you my favorite pair of sunglasses?"

"No, no. You shouldn't do that. You don't have to do that." He was staring at me now, as though in shock. And why not? I was, after all, trying to buy his happiness back.

"I know," I stated, "I want to." And I had to fight all too fiercely not to look over my shoulder at that line, to see if someone had stolen my spot.

"Well... Alright, thanks," he smiled and disappeared somewhere with my sunglasses. I didn't even bother mourning their loss.

When I finally seized the chance to turn around and continue on to the register I'd chosen as my destination, however, I found that the particular station I'd previously decided on was now closed. Silently, I cursed Winslow Oscar Watson and changed my route to search for a new check out lane. Before I'd spotted one I like however, the pounding of feed alerted me to a myriad of oncoming people, and I dared myself to turn around to see what for.

After that, the door was hardly close enough, dropping the oreos as gently as I could possibly manage on a shelf I passed on my way out. Instead of waiting for the horribly slow sliding doors that seemed to take ages to register a presence, I shoved through the push-opens into the muggy outside air and pouring rain, wishing I'd parked closer.

It looked like I'd be needing new plans for that night.

POV: Claire Safford

It was strange, sitting across from Jason in a restaurant. Strange in a good way, sure, but still horribly strange. It sat uncomfortably in my gut, urging me to keep a watch on him out of the corner of my eye. As if to see if he was up to something--as if I would be able to determine such a thing that way.

Granted, he'd apologized for things before, but never to this point of extravagance. Normally, an apology would include a fresh bouquet of flowers and a two line note when he came over my flat next to play a game. Not taking me out to dinner at some restaurant that, true, didn't require dressing up, but provided a brilliant show of, well, dining. And actually included his paying for me.

But, because of precisely that, this simply didn't sit well with me. It was--little though it was in comparison to some--simply too much for him. And, at any rate, I'd resolved to keep a grudge for at least another day or two. After everything he'd done, he deserved at least that. Restaurant or not, he still made me fail that test!

Blinking out of my self-monologue, I realized that he had raised a glass towards me and was waiting for me to take it while he held an identical flute of liquid in his other hand for himself. Smiling my thanks and dipping my head so that my hair might fall forward and hide the tips of my ears, flaming with the embarassment of having zoned out, I accepted the drink.

He raised the other flute this time, in a silent toast, and I sceptically mirrored his actions with my own glass before tipping it back and allowing the clear liquid I'd believed to be water to slide down my throat. Then I started choking, my eyes slamming shut and my body rocking forward with the force of my coughs. The glass tumbled from my hand to shatter on the tabletop and I clutched my stomach as I felt the violent urge gurgling within its depths.

Gasping an excuse, I stumbled away from my chair and a scene of shocked dining families and couples, to rush blindly to the hanging sign announcing the ladies room. My breath was short and my cheeks pink, my stomach churning mercilessly from the shock of what must have been wine. Grapes. He knew I was allergic to grapes, didn't he?

That didn't really matter to me now, though, as I slammed through the swinging door to the bathrooms, bent over and clutching my stomach. So long as I could get past the corner...

I was hyperventilating, and I wasn't quite sure if there was someone else among the stalls or not. Everything seemed to be fizzing, fuzzy, blurring in and out of view by the time I finally reached a toilet and began spewing out my precious insides.

POV: Darryl Creighton

I don't know why I was so intrigued, really. Maybe it had to do with the fact that the restaurant was at odds before I'd arrived, that everyone within its walls were oggling rudely at someone else who seemed oblivious to it all, eating his soup. So I wanted to find out what was so very interesting.

And, where better to go in such a case than to the center of which it so clearly sprung?

His name was Jason. Jason Marx. And, while he was sipping so very calmly on his steaming cup of soup, his girlfriend was somewhere in a mottled state. He was wondering if this was her revenge for the other day--whatever that was--or if, maybe, was she allergic to grapes? He couldn't quite remember.

And I couldn't quite remember something either: why I was restraining myself from decking this guy. I somehow doubted his girlfriend would mind all that much.

He was rolling his eyes now, drinking deeply from his flute glass and gesturing crudely to soemthing behind me as though we'd been buddies forever. And I, with all the restraint I could manage, simply picked myself up and left, shaking my head.

Outside the building, as I was searching for my car, grateful my trenchcoat had kept me hidden from recognition, I spotted a girl leaning against the peeling paint of the white wall. Her arms were wrapped around herself and she was clearly in a state. And, I found myself wondering for the second time in short succession just why I cared.

That didn't matter at this point though, as I stepped cautiously towards her through the milling people. Reaching the point where I could lean against the wall myself, I stared curiously at the curtain of black hair blocking this pale girl from view.

"Hey," I whispered, "are you alright?"

A/N: Winslow Oscar Watson is real, actually. Well, to an extend. He's a metal figure who can fit in the palm of your hand. But still, a brilliant addition to any group of friends nonetheless. At least, when you're fairly insane and it's time for exams. (This was last year, though.)

And, as far as Torchwood goes, I panicked. I'm probably one of the least creative writers on this site--I couldn't think of a show of my own, and it was the first to come to mind. Which is to say, nothing else will probably really line up with how Torchwood really is as per timing and people who work on it, in case there's anyone here other than me who watches it.

As always, sorry for the wait, and feedback would be lovely.