Author's Note: hey ya'll, this started out as a bit of a character study on Owen Shaw and things just seemed to click. Well, for me. I don't know if what I see when I try to dig through his character will be what you guys see, but he truly intrigues me. And not just because Luke Evans plays such a yummy bad guy, haha!

Also, the story is completed and only three chapters.

Thanks to all of you who've helped me with this! You know who you are!

Disclaimer: I don't own Owen Shaw or any other canon I mention, only this story.

Chapter 1

It's a Little Past Suppertime

Owen Shaw leaned heavily against the back of his stool. Overhead, the lone light that had turned on as he pulled his "borrowed" car inside flickered and buzzed softly. It cast the cold empty space in an eerie light that reflected dimly off the tools of his old trade lying scattered about, as well as his close-cropped dark hair. A broken flip car sat over the lift, a fabrication table with a half-cut piece of diamond plate lay covered in dust on its perfectly level top. Yellow air hoses hung rolled up neatly on a peg on the wall, their ends dangling down.

An assortment of other machines and tools like a portable compressor, parts washer, and a tubing bender sat in their own spaces. To his right, a row of toolboxes nearly as tall as him lined the wall 'til they reached the door that led to the back room.

When he leased the space and paid three years in advance, he never would have envisioned what was coming. He thought himself untouchable. Now, however, he knew that he wasn't. Not realizing it, Owen reached up touching the scar covering his left cheek. Deckard had always said no matter how good you are there's always someone better.

Everything in the garage was neat and orderly; everything was in its place, just like the stacked tires sitting along the opposite wall beside a tire machine. He didn't have to look to know their cords were showing and the tread was shot.

Funny thing was he never noticed it before. He preferred stuff in its place. He had never really noticed being alone either, but he did tonight. He didn't depend on anyone and, when you don't depend on anyone, you don't need anyone. For the first time, maybe ever, the emptiness felt different as he sat staring unseeingly at the glowing computer monitor on the workbench before him, his brow heavy.

After they landed Ciphers' plane, Deckard had asked Owen what he was going to do. Owen had had no idea. He had ended up in his Paris shop because there were things here he needed, like the cash he'd yet to get from the safe in the back room. Deckard had let him know their mother wanted to see him. He would get to that eventually.

After a moment, his eyes focused on the computer screen again and the long-kept snapshot of the girl to be found there. Powder-blue eyes stared back at him out of a young heart-shaped face, ringed in a halo of wheat-colored curls. A slight frown tugged at the corners of his lips as he looked at the secretive smile on hers. He had no idea why he still had her picture after all these years.

He was not a sentimental man.

The ghost of her voice whispered through his head, along with the image of her tear-streaked face, "My ma was right, Owen Shaw. You only wanted one thing."

Emily Watson. Fifteen and beautiful. Even now, looking at her, he felt a vague pang deep down in his gut, but it wasn't real. She had been his, but not in the sense that he loved her. He had seen that then, even before his brother told him it wasn't love. That knowledge had in no way stopped him from trying to get her back, however.

Another set of blue eyes replaced his brothers' face and the fading image of Emily. They were much darker than Emily's and belonged to the dark-haired doctor who had helped with his rehabilitation after he had woken from his coma and was transferred from the hospital in London.

She had never actually smiled at him, nor had he ever managed to learn her name.

Both of those things were forgotten two seconds later when the image of the Doctor changed to one of a chart left open on a counter in the medical office of a CIA detention facility. The term Antisocial Personality Disorder was scribbled across the top of a crisp white page with a question mark after it. There were a few other notes, but he hadn't had time to read more than that one before the nameless women had started his therapy.

Shifting in his seat, Owen folded his arms over his chest, ignoring the way the scarred part of his torso pulled tightly.

He had never thought about himself in those terms.

He had always sort of disconnected from reality when it came to emotion, and that allowed him to see beyond and into the bigger picture. Clarity could be found even in the most chaotic of situations if you were calm. As a soldier, that had made him capable of making decisions others couldn't and that had saved his life and the lives of his men more than once. In the next stage of his life, he had thought it served him well right up until it hadn't.

He saw now, nearly two decades later, that he only viewed Emily as his possession—he had never felt an ounce of loyalty to her either. And she wasn't the only one.

Owen was not given to reminiscing or personal reflection. The past was just that. He preferred to live his life facing forward, but for some reason, he let the memory take him.

Maybe it was because he'd nearly died. Maybe it was because he had never expected to see freedom again, especially to help rescue Dominic Toretto's son (let's face it, he hadn't done that exactly out of the goodness of his heart either) or maybe it was because those scribbled words held a curious ring of truth.

Emily Watson had been fifteen years old the first time Owen saw her and beautiful. She had also very much had a boyfriend. Owen was seventeen at the time, and even then, had an agenda which didn't involve giving a shit about the guy.

Cocky little fucker that he was (or so his big brother would say) the first thing Owen noticed about her was her noticing him. She blushed and looked away. Owen continued to stare till she looked at him again, then held her gaze till she turned even redder and her eyes dropped a second time. Her secretive glances had continued as the night, and the party they were at, wore on. Eventually, she pulled away from her boyfriend and sought him out.

If his older brother had been around in the beginning to give the advice he always offered whether Owen wanted it or not, he would have reminded Owen that the second thing he should have noticed was the guy whose arm she was on. Deckard would have considered that the most important.

But Deckard wasn't around. His brother was already fighting in some godforsaken stretch of desert by this point. Owen knew it wouldn't have mattered even if he had been there. Emily was beautiful, he wanted her and he had a way of getting what he wanted.

He had been playing pool with a couple of his mates when he caught her looking the last time. When he looked away and made another shot, she started toward him.

He deliberately ignored her, knowing she would come to him. He stood his pool que up, leaned his chin against it and watched his friend Drew make the next shot.

A couple seconds later, she arrived at his side. She had her hands tucked in her back pockets and her bottom lip between her teeth. After a moment, she nervously said, "Hi. I'm Emily."

Owen could still hear the shy, innocent qualities in her voice.

The boyfriend was easy enough to take care of. Owen had had a nasty reputation for being a mean bastard, even then. All it had taken was one look and the guy had just disappeared from the party. When the kid did resurface, it was to try and get Emily back a few days later. She told Owen, who tracked the wanker down and knocked the shit out of him, making sure he understood Emily was his.

He never asked Emily out, she was just there. She seemed more than happy to oblige him. He had slept with her before two days were over. She hadn't wanted to, not really, but she had anyway. Owen pressured her to the point where she caved in because of his anger at her refusal. He took her virginity and she wouldn't leave his side.

Three months later, he was tired of her. He made it obvious but she kept coming around anyway. In the end, he had gotten rid of her by making sure she caught him in bed with her best friend.

It took three days for Owen to decide he wanted her back. This time, Deckard was around. He told Owen, "you're a thick, bastard, you know that. You don't really want the chit, you just want to play games with her."

It didn't matter that Deckard was already in the military or that he was twenty two.

Owen had accused his brother of wanting Emily for himself. Deckard had actually been struck speechless. He had scoffed at the idea and Owen had taken a swing at him. That swing had nothing to do with Emily and everything to do with his brother making him feel stupid for suggesting it. Deckard had knocked him on his ass with still more to say. "You got a lot to learn, little brother. People aren't like parts on a car. You don't care about the girl, if you're swapping her out three months later."

The memories, if that's what you could even call what he'd just experienced, faded and Owen found himself back in the warehouse and the flickering light. He could still remember the rage he felt at his brother more acutely than any of the rest of it. He had never thought about Emily's tears till tonight.

Sometime after he'd lost himself in thought, the heavy mist filling the night air had turned to rain and he sat there just listening to it gently falling against the tin roof. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel. Guilt maybe? Some men would, after the way he had treated her. Not even the idea of taking her virginity and then playing games with her made him feel bad. Deckard would have had a whole lot to say about that particular piece of the story too, had he known.

His older brother had always gone on and on about a man needing a code but had also had strong viewpoints on how they should treat women. The reference his older brother always used for that point was how horrible their father had been to their mother. Terrance Shaw was rough-hewn veteran whose experience had left him hard and unfeeling. He had slapped their mother around more times than Owen could count or remember.

Owen left those memories behind as well. He shifted forward on the stool, grabbed the computer mouse and watched as the picture of Emily Watson filled the screen. He contemplated her face a moment longer before yet another remembrance filled his head. This one he really wasn't certain he wanted to think about.

Letty. Letty Toretto. Even now, that last name left a foul taste in his mouth.

He might not have had any sentiment attached to Emily but he had meant what he said when he told Letty, he liked her.

"I like you, Letty. I dare say I even feel a certain warmth toward you."

But he had come to understand liking someone didn't mean the same thing for him it did for others. It didn't mean they weren't expendable.

With Letty, something else had happened too. It was a rare occurrence for him, that strange sort of protectiveness he felt toward her; he had felt possessiveness before, wherein he was protective of what he was his, but this was different. He hadn't even felt it with his mother.

Letty's betrayal had angered him, even hurt him on some levels. Shaking the thought off, anger swirling in his gut, all he was certain of was Letty Toretto was just a blank slate in a hospital bed when he found her.

Maybe he had never really liked her after all and had used whatever sort of manipulation he could to get what he wanted. It was second nature.

But he had thought he liked her and that was the reason he had been careful with his words. He had never really told women, or men for that matter, what they wanted to hear. In his experience everyone had a price tag.

And he preferred the uncomplicated, cleaner approach. He kept them around till he didn't need or want them anymore.

Something about Letty was just different and he knew if he wanted her those tactics or manipulations wouldn't work. She wouldn't care about what he could give her.

In the end, it hadn't mattered how truthful he had tried to be—she had rejected him when she walked away from him after he told her. And as the events of a few days later had shown, he had still been willing to sacrifice her. There was a very good chance he would have done the same even if she hadn't.

Thanks for reading!