Hey, everyone! Okay, so this is my first Torchwood fanfic. I posted it on the LJ community Torchwoodcoffee not too long ago, but hadn't decided if I was officially abandoning posting on FFN or not. I figured I'd give it a shot. I've begun another Torchwood fic, a BTVS crossover series this time that will have three stories. Two will be one-shots, the other will be a multi-chapter fic. Please let me know if you think I should post it on here. I'm already crossposting it to Twisting The Hellmouth and Torchwoodcoffee. If anything, I may post links to the series in my profile if I don't think I get enough interest on here.
Disclaimer: I own them in my dreams. Does that count?
Two Days
One-Shot
Ianto groaned, pressing his head further back into the pillow as the throbbing in his temples refused to relent. He coughed hard, his throat protesting against the abuse that had been recurring for the last two days.
Two days of a sore throat. Two days of coughing. Two days of a pounding headache. Two days of not being able to breathe through his nose. Two days of lying in a bed, freezing one moment, overheating the next.
He hated it.
It had been years since he'd really been sick. Torchwood One had always kept their employees full of every vitamin and medication they could to prevent even the common cold. Ten pills a day before anyone had even gotten to their workstations. It had been two years of being perfectly healthy, something he'd never gotten to be as a kid, doctors' appointments and antibiotics filling his first eighteen years.
He'd forgotten what it was like to be sick.
His nose twitched and he threw an arm out, nearly knocking the tissue box off the night table as he reached for the cardboard box. Two tissue boxes that day alone and halfway through a third. He'd had to ask Jack to get him another when the Puffs with Vicks had begun to irritate his nose. Tissues with Vicks had sounded like a good idea when he gotten sick of smearing the glop onto his nose, but it had gotten bad quick once the cool feeling at the bottom of his nose refused to relent.
He dropped back against the pillow, releasing the tissue into the bin with practiced ease.
The edge of the bed dipped, the sudden movement causing his stomach to jolt. He turned onto his side, half hanging off the bed as the bin was positioned beneath him. He gagged, the only thing coming up being the chicken broth Jack had all but forced on him at lunch.
He could barely feel the hand on his back, rubbing circles in a way that was just so purely Jack.
He could feel the hand cup his sweaty forehead and the pain in his head flare at the new pressure against his already sensitive head.
He could hear the worried mumble that I'm calling Owen.
And he was sure Jack heard his last groan.
The End
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