Owen's not particularly busy; he's been going over weevil data most of the day-- a project that falls by the wayside often, but that he's too stubborn to give up on-- but his eyes are starting to cross. The readings are the same, their physiologies are the same as he remembers from Cardiff, and he's on the verge of popping into the hospital if only so he doesn't have to look at the walls of the Station anymore.

He almost doesn't answer when his mobile rings, but Faye's number on the ID piques his curiosity enough that he does. And what she has to say piques it enough that he turns up at the diner she's mentioned about 45 minutes later, looking for her familiar figure, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, though it's likely too warm to be wearing it the first place.