Until We Burn | Dr Who

Chapter Ninety-Three: Something Borrowed

Again, spoilers for Torchwood season 2. Skip to next chapter if you want (can't think of any serious plot developments you'll miss)

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The process before the post-mortem is strange. I tie my hair back and secure it under a cap, then wash my hands thoroughly and secure my ring on the chain of my necklace. The moment I return to the infirmary, Owen offers out a lab coat for me to put on. He looks up to the turquoise bonnet that covers my hair, smirking. "You're prepared."

I notice the absence of his and counter, "You're not."

"Trust me, I've done enough of these to know what's needed or not. Come on, Inara, let your hair down, why don't you?"

"Honestly, Dr Harper. If I were your superior, you'd be in a lot of trouble."

"Oh, I'm counting on it." My glare pierces into him. He only takes it as more fuel for his flirtation, chuckling to himself as he pulls over the trolley of surgical tools. He continues with an air of arrogance I know so well, "See, I did a little research after meeting you. In all those names of former Heads of Institute, yours didn't crop up. Why is that?"

I head over to the trolley and pull on a pair of clear plastic gloves, tossing him a pair. "Like I said, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

He puts his on without breaking eye contact, releasing the glove with a snap against his wrist. His eyebrows raise once in a challenge. "Try me."

"You really wouldn't."

"I'm open to anything."

"Not this," I try, biting back a grin.

"Come on, Nara."

"Fine," I huff with fake indignance, putting a stop to his nagging. "I became Head of Torchwood Institute in a parallel universe. You were on my team of senior medical staff. We had a thing. And it's Inara."

The corners of his lips twitch upwards again. "Guess things don't change," he comments.

"Guess they don't."

He starts to unzip the white body bag on the table between us. "See, I thought it might be something like that. I may not remember all my exes, but I certainly know how to spot them." Looking back up, he winks and adds, "You've all got the same look: murderous... but still totally into me."

"I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you there."

"Um, Owen?"

We both look up. Standing at the top of the walkway stairs is Tosh, now in a dark purple dress, a beaded necklace hanging to her navel. She no longer hides behind her glasses but has her fringe low over her eyes to make up for it. Owen's attention slips from the conversation when he sees her. "Woohoo. Look at you."

A timid smile brightens her features. "Do you like it?"

"Drop-dead gorgeous, Tosh — and I think I speak with some authority."

Her face falls but she quickly regains her light-hearted demeanour. "I don't really get a chance to dress up much. What are you wearing?"

Returning to the task at hand, he polishes of a pair of forceps with intent precision as he says, "The truth is, Tosh, weddings have never really been me, either. Love 'em and leave 'em. That was me. I'm sure Miss Luscinia can attest to that."

Meeting her gaze, I roll my eyes and gesture for her to try again with a tilt of my head in his direction. "Owen, you should come. Could be fun."

"Have you ever seen a dead man dance?"