There is something insulting about dating someone who can't die, and I know that I chose it, but sitting there in that office being told that I have a year at best left to my life puts a lot in perspective; I am truly not immortal. I watched the doctor's lips move as he asked me if there was anyone he could call to be with me. I shook my head. Jack would have come instantly if called, but I didn't think I could face him. Cancer. Stage four. No signs that gave me any idea. Now I was dying.
I sat alone for a long while. Hospitals have enough heart to not force a dying man out of their rooms, so I was left with whatever time I needed to think. I thought about my past at Torchwood. Four years had passed in a flash. After joining Torchwood three, things just sort of fell into place. If four years passed that quickly, how was one year going to be?
I dialed Jack's number into my phone and let it ring on speaker. I counted four rings before he picked up with a simple "Hey." He didn't know about my appointments, tests, or diagnosis.
"Hey," I replied. I felt my voice already choking up, and I could tell he noticed due to the silence that followed.
"What's wrong?" I could feel his body stiffen through the phone. The average Torchwood "what's wrong?" is traditionally followed by a description of an alien attack or the like. Dying of a 100% earthly disease? It was just insulting.
I didn't respond in time. I hadn't spoken to the doctor or anyone else until that 'hey' and I felt my face get redder. I opened my mouth, but no answer left my lips.
"Where are you?"
"St. David's." I choked out.
"The hospital or the church?"
"Hospital."
"I'll be there in ten minutes, okay?"
I nodded, forgetting that he wouldn't be able to see a nod through a phone. A pause held, him not yet hanging up and me not speaking. "Room 307," I finally said, hitting the end call button less than a second later.
A nurse opened the door and walked in. He was coming to check on me and see if I needed anything, maybe even just to kick me out. I sat motionless. He walked in front of me and placed a hand on my shoulder. They don't often touch you unless you are dying.
"Mr. Jones, is there anything I can get you?" He asked politely. There must have been a sign now hung on the door; "dying man in here." I was certain they were all out there brooding on how get me to move without hurting me. They had already begun sending people to check up on me.
"Water," I said plainly. My mouth was dry and I felt ill. I was ill, but I felt a different sort of ill. "Please," I followed it seconds later.
"Of course, sir."
He left for what felt like an hour and returned. After what felt like nearly another hour, Jack knocked on the door. I stared at it, wishing some sort of telekinesis would make itself known to me and give me some sort of heroic final year.
He pushed the door open and looked at me. "Shit," he said. He closed the door behind him and walked over to the hospital bed on which I was sat. I must have been a sight; knees still hung over the side, pale as the sterile, paper-thin sheets that were beneath me out of shock and fear. I had seen a lot of horrible things this universe has to offer, but suddenly death scared me.
I lifted my head and looked him dead in the eyes. "Hey." The numb creeping up and down my body lingered a moment longer on my tongue after I spoke the word.
His face was unreadable as I imagine mine was. He searched through my eyes as if he was reading the pages of my life's book. I wished he could read the day's chapter alone so that I wouldn't have to tell him. The only chapter he seemed to read was the one about fear. He searched me for nearly a minute before giving a response. "Hey."
I felt tears forming in my eyes and I turned away from him. I didn't know how to approach him about it. Tears started to fall silently, but he saw them.
"Hey, shhh," he whispered pulling my head to his chest. His left arm rested on my back, and his right hand held my head to him. He was supporting me, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of my head. He held me like that for a short while. "Can you tell me what's going on?"
There have been a lot of moments in my life in which I have wanted to die before I got old. In my late teens, I stopped thinking about it as much. In my early twenties, I was less ready-to-die and more okay with it. Now I sat, twenty-six, and fearing it. When people say life changes, they are not incorrect. I pulled from him and patted the papery sheets beside me. Jack sat slowly. "I have got a year at best, though the last few months will likely be spent in here."
I listened for a response, finding my eyes a safe-haven in toes of my shoes. He remained silent, though I heard him adjust his breathing. It was likely only silent for a few seconds, but it felt as though the whole year passed. "Did you know that less than one percent of the cases of breast cancer diagnosed each year occur in men?" I finally said. "I learned that today." I reached a hand up to wipe the moisture from my face.
"Ianto," Jack whispered. "What about treatment? I can help if it has to do with money."
"Too late, I'm afraid."
I looked up at him finally. His eyes were red and he looked at the floor as I'd been. Our relationship was filled with so much silence. Neither of us bothered to mind it, we just spent a lot of time in silence. Whether it was a situation like this, a dreary night at my apartment or the hub, or even just while taking one another in, we found a sort of solace in quiet. I always had, and Jack had grown to. When you spend so much time without sound, however, you grow to learn the differences between a comfortable and uncomfortable silence. His demeanor changed rather quickly. He became less frantic and calmer.
Jack picked up my hand. I looked at his face, not my hand. He looked at my hand. He traced my fingers with his index finger. "I was going to marry you," he said. My breath hitched hard. "One day, after a long time of brooding on it, maybe over a glass of scotch in my office as we do sometimes after a hard day, I was going to decide the night. I would've taken you to a nice dinner. We'd have sat in a booth against the wall in a corner where few, yet enough people could see us. I'd have asked you then. Between courses, of course." He scoffed a laugh. "Not that the night would have mattered. I'd have married you any night. I just wanted it to be special for you, you know. If I cared the night, I wouldn't have already bought a ring."
"You bought a ring." It was a statement, not a question. My tears had begun to stop. I just listened. It was unlike him. His shove-off of commitment did not match this.
"Of course, I did. I always carried it with me so that when I felt it was the right night- "he trailed off.
"I'm not sure that's keen to make me feel better."
"Yeah," he said. "I just thought you should know."
Silence.
"I don't know if it will make it feel any better, but I intend to make this the best damn year of your life." Jack paused. He had seen so many people he cared about die. I knew that the news scared him just as much as it did me. "Look to the positives." A textbook line.
"I'm glad you'll never see me old."
"It wouldn't have changed things. You being old – I'd still – "He stopped.
"Why are you so afraid of the word love?"
"I'm not afraid of love. I'm afraid of loss. If I love and lose, it hurts more than if I don't."
"Will not saying the word make it hurt you any less?"
"No."
"Then Jesus Christ, Jack. I've got a year left. If you love me, you tell me!" I didn't yell it so much as mean it. While the conversation may have took an un-optimistic turn, he at least had my mind off my worrying temporarily.
I looked down at my hand. My skin still pale against the sheets. "I do. I do love you, Ianto." He'd put the ring on my finger. Silence rang out for a while. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it special for you, Ianto."
"You don't want a dying man."
"I want Ianto Jones; for one year, one hundred years, or a day."
THIS IS GONNA BE A SAD ONE Y'ALL. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK.