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The Sword Of Time

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Never before had his sofa looked so inviting. "I've been waiting for this," Owen muttered to himself as he tossed his keys, jacket and bag onto the coffee table. Twisting on one heel, he flopped over the arm of the sofa, sprawling across the cushions. He squirmed into them, the feeling luxurious after three days on his feet with no rest.

Once upon a time, being handed permission not to come in for two days –emergencies excepting– would have seen him down the pub, drinking, finding someone (or someones) to screw. Often on this very sofa.

Lately, though, that had started to feel… empty. He still went down the pub, occasionally, but the floozies he'd have been all over less than a year ago held no interest.

Right now, he had no plans beyond sleep and another season boxset of M*A*S*H.

It was moments like this where he missed what he'd had with Katie, although he'd never admit it. A small part of him even considered looking for that again, but… no, that was a thought for another time, when he wasn't exhausted.

Sighing, he reached for the remote and clicked on the TV, letting it lull him to sleep.