Illness

We arrived at the hub after a near silent drive. Jack hopped out of the front. I watched the world swirl. His movements were swift despite the violent spin of the earth. He yanked the door open and reached in. His arms were flexed beneath my weight, and I saw blood on his coat sleeves and could only imagine through my sleepy daze the cost of that dry-cleaning bill.

Jack carried me to the lift. It immediately descended. The trip down likely lasted fifteen seconds; however, it felt like an hour. I watched each individual grain of concrete on the walls slowly ascend pass me on its own. Myfanwy flew by, as she usually did due to the lift's sound. Her wings beat slowly in my vision, and I could trace the pattern of the scaly skin on her stomach. After the extensive journey, the lift hit the ground. Its contact sent sharp pains up and down my body, specifically where Jack's hands and arms supported me. The pressure began to make me ache.

Owen met us at the bottom, already beginning to examine the depth of the wound as he and Jack ran to the bottom of the med bay. I felt cold beneath me. I felt the cold hard metal, followed by the cold of several metallic injections into my veins. I felt the cold of a metallic tool enter my burning wound and pull the burning bullet from my flesh. Owen prepped another injection; a saline bag, I could imagine. I felt incapable of remaining mentally present. Everything around me contradicted one another. The cold of the steel contradicted the burning of my flesh, the frantic face of Owen contradicted the soothing words of Toshiko, and the quiet of the room contradicted the loud, loud sound which radiated from side to side within the relatively small compartment of my head in which my brain was actively screaming.

The world passed this way for quite some while, as I lay there, consciously unmoving. Jack stayed on the balcony of the med bay, his bloodied coat hanging from him in a melancholy manner. Owen started to wrap a large line of gauze around my hips before sticking a final needle beside the wound.

"You got lucky, Ianto," he sighed. I watched him wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. The two of us often struggled to find any sort of commonality; however, he clearly didn't dislike me enough to have turned against treating me; Hippocratic oath, I suppose.

"How so?" I asked, still unmoving.

"You don't have to stay so goddamn still. You're not made of glass, tea boy. You just have to take it easy." He pulled his gloves from his hands. "You lost a lot of blood, but not enough to kill you." I couldn't help but to produce a wry smile in retort. He didn't see it. Jack did.

"Can he walk?" Jack asked, shifting his weight, but still leaning against the railing above us.

"Probably shouldn't for a couple days." Owen turned to look at me. "Why don't you try and get some rest? I know this isn't the most comfortable of places to sleep, but I imagine there are worse."

"Owen, can I have a moment?" Jack asked. He said it almost as though he intended to be secretive about the subject matter. I, of course, knew full well that he intended to tell Owen about my cancer.

The two headed out of the room. I was left alone in silence. There was a soft hum coming from the computer beside me. My head lulled smoothly against the table. I heard Jack's office door close, as it made a click every time. I laid my hand on my chest; the root of my problems and the lead to the situation in which I presently was.

I'd gone to the doctor because of a small lump I had found on the right side of my chest. It had been there for a long time; long enough that I'd hardly thought anything of it. However, it started to hurt more recently. That's when the doctors began to run tests. I stared at the series of injections on Owen's med table. I wondered how many of them it would take to bring this crashing hell of an existence to an end once and for all.

When Jack and Owen returned, they had grave expressions. Owen went to speak. I didn't feel very receptive to another set of condolences for myself, despite the fact that I wasn't dead yet. Perhaps he would make some attempt at mending our non-existent relationship so as to not watch me die with any feeling of guilt. I just nodded at him and quietly said "it's okay, really."

I allowed him to examine the spot on my chest and even to take a few blood samples to have analyzed by a Torchwood system built for the purpose of finding medical solutions. It would take some time, but I allowed him to try. At least that would provide him some sort of feeling of reconciliation.

"Jack, he ought to stay here tonight if that's alright. His wound will be alright, but he ought to stay off that leg for a bit. I am not sure transport would be the best idea."

"I wasn't intending to leave him alone tonight anyway," Jack responded. They spoke about me as if I weren't right there, lying on the table in front of them.

The computer hummed on, the thick melancholy air continued to hang solidly, and Jack continued to inform people in discrete manners, so as to not make me have to do so. I appreciated it, though it made me feel a bit helpless; true as it might have been. I laid there for what felt like hours. I heard each of them leave; except Jack, of course. The hub was empty aside from the two of us, the weevils, and the pterodactyl.

I heard his footsteps near the med bay. I didn't turn at all. The day's events had been a mixture of too painful to bear, and incredible embarrassment. I kept my eyes closed for just a minute longer, going so far as to hold my breath.

"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly.

"The shots dulled the pain," I responded plainly. "It feels embarrassing to have had this all happen."

He descended the steps and walked to the side of the table. "Please don't feel embarrassment." He put his hand in mine. "You're stronger than any of us here."

I snorted. Even he knew that wasn't true. He was immortal. He was literally the epitome of strength because of that. "Owen said I ought to rest. You should as well. Would you mind getting me a blanket?"

"You don't expect me to let you sleep on a metal table, do you?" he asked coyly.

"I don't expect you to have me bloody up your sheets with my gunshot wound, Jack." He had heard me, but he still leant down, put an arm underneath my knees and the other beneath my shoulder blades.

He carried me across the hub and to his bed. The transfer was odd, as his bed was beneath the floor of his office, but I appreciated the warmth of the sheets. I knew full well that there were more sleeping quarters in the hub than just this one; however, this was the only place Jack ever slept. His arms laid me softly on the bed, and he was quick to fix the pillow beneath my neck.

"Thank you," I whispered. There was no one around to hear me say anything, but the air of the room led me to whisper anyways.

"Please don't thank me. I'm sorry you ended up in this situation in the first place." He was still leant over me, his hands resting on the blanket he had pulled over me. "You should get some sleep, Ianto." He went to stand up straight.

I reached my arm out and grabbed him by the collar. He froze. My mind was whirling from both the day's events and the massive amounts of painkillers. I pulled him down to me and let my lips against his. His face was stubbled, and I felt every inch of it. Every time I kissed him, I felt like I was being kissed for the first time. He indulged himself in me for a moment before pulling back.

He looked at me with care in his eyes, pushing the strands of hair away from my forehead. "You really ought to get some sleep, Ianto," he repeated. I felt his warm breath on my face.

"Are you honestly going to deny a dying man a kiss, Jack?" I asked. My head swirled more and more. If there was one thing on which I could honestly focus, it was that I wanted Jack.

He smiled at me. "Ianto, you were shot today."

"So were you. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," he responded quizzically.

"And so am I," I whispered.

Jack maneuvered himself around the bed and climbed in on the opposite side. He straddled my waist so as to not put any pressure on my hips. He reached down and kissed me softly. I could taste his breath and could smell him, from his shampoo to the laundry detergent in which his shirts were washed. He broke away for just a second. "Are you sure you are feeling alright?"

"Yes," I whispered. I didn't have to ask how he was feeling this time.

He smiled that smile and brought it down to my neck. He worked his way down the side of my neck, across the bottom of my neck, and up my throat, hesitating slightly and resting on my collar bone. Usually, he acted quickly and lustfully, but in that moment, I could tell that he knew what I needed. His kisses mad me feel safe and warm.

He held me the whole night, kissing me and telling me that he would take care of me.