Title: Bloodstains
Author: Indigo Night
Summary: Ianto finds himself concerned with Jack's dry cleaning at an entirely inappropriate moment.
Feedback: Yes please, yay reviews!
Pairing: Janto, though it's really only implied.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood or the characters I'm just borrowing them for fun.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Vaguely implied slash, mild angst, really bad jokes.
Author's Note: Random thought. Read, Review,
Enjoy!
It happened so fast Jack didn't even actually see it. They'd been in hot pursuit of a rogue extraterrestrial assassin who'd wondered through the Rift and had split up to cut it off. Jack had just dashed around the corner in time to witness a flash of silver and a cry as Ianto fell to the ground. Jack Webley was out and aimed before he even realized it, his shots resounding through the air and covering any final noise their unfriendly guest might have uttered. He never broke his stride, rushing to Ianto's side.
The Welshman lay where he'd fallen, half curled with his hands automatically pressed to his side in an attempt to stem the blood gushing from his wound. Jack dropped to his knees beside him, urgently pushing Ianto's hands away so he could look at the injury. He barked a quick command into his intercom piece for Owen to 'get the hell over here' before focusing his whole attention on slowing the blood flow.
Ianto coughed, wincing and gasping for breath around the pain. "I'm sorry…" he whispered, speaking even more difficult than breathing, "I was… too slow…"
"You can make it up to me later," Jack hushed him briskly.
Ianto shivered, body convulsing as he coughed again. Jack lifted him up to help clear his air way, letting Ianto rest against his chest. "It's not that bad," Jack assured him shakily, completely disregarding the blood that was seeping onto his clothes, "You'll be fine. Soon as Owen gets here he'll patch you right up."
Ianto let his head rest limply against Jack's chest; it was so solid and reassuring, and he could hear Jack's heart thumping away. "It's cold," he murmured dimly, "It wasn't this cold before." He could feel himself beginning to lose his grip on reality, but he did his best to cling to the warmth radiating from Jack's body, the steady drum of Jack's heart.
Jack made an exasperated noise and told Owen to hurry the fuck up.
Ianto's eyelids fluttered, though he fought to keep them open. He felt his blood leaving his body in a steady stream, staining both of them. Jack was scared, he noted dimly, but he himself was feeling securely numb and light. He watched hazily as Jack's formerly blue shirt was slowly darkening to a red-black and abruptly the most ridiculous laugh burst from his lips.
Jack frowned at him quizzically. "What's so funny?" he demanded.
"Your shirt," he answered, between fits of giggles and pained gasping, "Who will dry clean it for you?"
Jack pulled a face. "That isn't funny," he refuted, but a tiny smile ghosted his lips anyway, "Not even remotely. In fact, that's the worst joke I have ever heard. And I've been to Hughmoria, now that was an unfunny place." Jack was rambling and he knew it, but Ianto's heart rate was slowing and Jack couldn't stop.
Ianto couldn't keep his eyes open anymore and he lay still, floating in hazy darkness as Jack's voice washed over him. It gave him something to hold onto as blackness crept around him; he was needed, Jack needed him, without him Jack's clothes would never be clean.
*T*O*R*C*H*W*O*O*D*
Nearly a month later Ianto hung Jack's freshly cleaned blue shirt in his wardrobe. Not a single stain remained.