Torchwood: Divergence
Book Three: Rheoleiddiad

Chapter 7

Jack Harkness was worried. When he'd gone upstairs at Mrs. Cooper's to fetch his ailing lover, he'd found the twenty-six-year-old in his jacket and boots, but just having come out of another seizure and actually spiking the high fever he'd suggested as an excuse for their departure. So, to expedite matters, he'd simply bundled the trembling Welshman into his coat and carried him to the SUV. Efforts on the drive home to get Ianto to talk about what had caused the dream, had only succeeded in making the young Changeling feel queasy and have another minor seizure. Hence the American had opted for a nice snuggle under the covers once they'd made it to their room, hoping Ianto could rest and give his shocky emotions time to settle. But they hadn't been bunked in for long, when the Shadow reborn Archivist had shakily crawled out of bed with one hand pressed to his lower right side, and closed himself in the loo to vomit. He hadn't said a word when he'd returned to the mattress after a cursory pass with toothpaste and a brush, merely huddled with his back pressed to the older immortal's chest and closed his eyes.

Since then, however, the obviously unwell Guardian had started radiating more and more heat. That usually meant he was trying to heal from something, so Jack was worried. Because of that, he was unconsciously listening for the sound of the cog-wheel door, waiting for Martha to return. When at last he heard the familiar ratchetting rotation and claxon, he leaned close to kiss his companion on the side of the face.

"I'll be back in just a couple of minutes, buddy," Harkness murmured, gently smoothing the younger man's sweat damp hair. "I'm gonna go talk to Martha for a minute."

The fevered Welshman blinked blearily at him, gave a slight nod and curled up a little tighter under the covers, his skin now burning to the touch. Deeply concerned, his partner rose to pull on his clothes and hurry out into the Hub.

"Martha?!"

"She's coming with Gwen in a little while," Turlough called from near his workstation. "Problem?"

"Whatever set Ianto off earlier is more than just all the emotional upset from things with Gwen lately," the Captain explained. "He was queasy on the drive here, got sick not long after we arrived, and he's burning up. He's physically hurt somehow, or been poisoned, or exposed to an illness, or I don't know what. But he's not doing good right now."

"Crap," the redhead frowned, heading for the medical bay. "He said he was fine, just a nick."

"Wait… what?" Jack insisted, his confusion easy to read.

"When we went to check out that Rift spike this morning, we found that the unidentified life form was actually a species from the same region or planet as the Blowfish and just as sweet tempered," Turlough explained, grabbing the Bekaran and making for the office. "Little bastard tried to lose us in the new construction site in west Grangetown, managed an ambush with something sharp. Knife, piece of scrap metal, glass, fin spike, hard to say. He caught Ianto low in the right side, which won the squishy little degenerate the most spectacular backhand I've ever seen, as well as two bullets in the head while he was flying toward the far wall from the blow. There was blood on the hand Ianto'd put to his side, but he swore it was superficial, just called UNIT for a clean-up so we could get back here and head to Gwen's. If he's spiked a fever now though, I'm not certain it was so minor after all."

The two men went through the office and into the bedroom beyond, the Captain flipping on the lights as they entered… only to find that the bed was empty. The sound of retching from the other side of the ensuite's closed door told them where their Archivist was and made them exchange worried looks. Harkness went to knock, cringing at the misery in his lover's voice when he answered.

"Out in a minute…" the twenty-six-year-old managed between bouts of gagging. "Sorry…"

"You sound like you're about to pass out," Jack countered. "Let me come in."

There was no articulate reply, just a strangled moan and more retching. So, the older immortal gestured for their teammate to wait and simply slipped inside the smaller room. He moved to the enclosed space that held the toilet, crouched close to where his partner knelt before the porcelain bowl panting for breath. The Changeling's complexion was pasty, his face and upper chest sheened with sweat, left hand pressed hard against his right side near his ribs, the arm on that side tucked close to his body and all he was bringing up was bile and an odd smelling watery orange substance. The young Welshman grimaced in apparent pain as he spat out a little more of the nasty material, then was beset by a round of dry heaving. When it passed, his Captain steadied him for a quick mouth rinse with water, hit the flush handle on the commode and urged him to sit down on the tile for a moment so he could wet a cloth in cold water.

"You didn't tell me you changed clothes this morning because you'd been stabbed," Harkness murmured as he knelt to bathe the younger man's face, neck, chest, and hands with the towel. "Turlough wants to take a closer look. Think you're okay to come back out to the bed?"

"We needed to get over to Gwen's, and I thought it was just a small slice," Ianto breathed shakily, attempting to rise with limited success. "The wound's gone… but it keeps hurtin' more and more… now the pain's speadin' up into m'chest… keep havin' flashes of total panic…"

"Then it definitely needs to be checked," Jack nodded, helping the young Guardian gain his feet and steadying him as they started for the door, even as he felt alarm flare at how his partner's accent had become incredibly pronounced, indicating just how unwell he was. "Whatever you're coughing up when you're sick seems off too. There's almost a chemical smell to it, like industrial paint thinner or something, and it's bright orange."

"Lovely…" Ianto groaned, beginning to shiver as they exited the bathroom, hand still pressed to his side in obvious pain.

They made it over to the bed, the Captain easing the ailing Welshman down to sit on the edge of the mattress. Turlough approached with the deep-tissue scanner, indicating the twenty-six-year-old should lie back against propped pillows. Then he prised his patient's hand away from the sore spot, shifted down the waistband of his underpants for an unobstructed view and engaged the Bekaran.

"Not good…" he frowned after a moment, moving the device slowly up the Changeling's body. "Looks like what short and fishy marked you with was a wrist spike, and he broke the damn thing off in the wound. It's about three inches long, barbed, in at an upward angle and working its way deeper inside all the time… it actually has the tip starting to push against your right lung. It also appears to be secreting massive quantities of some sort of ichor or fluid, possibly a type of venom. Likely something to stimulate a strong fear response if this species really is similar to Blowfish. Would explain your full-blown panic earlier with the nightmare you had, as well as the vomiting, since it's normally meant to incapacitate and repulse, not kill."

"So, what do we need to do?" Jack prodded worriedly, currently holding both of his lover's hands to keep them out of the way of the scanner.

"It has to come out," Turlough stated, squarely meeting their leader's gaze. "The sooner the better. And I know surgery really stinks for him, but there honestly isn't a choice."

"How soon will Martha be getting in?" the American asked with a frown, feeling his partner's hands tighten sharply on his own.

Their resident Time expert was about to reply, when Ianto suddenly tried to curl up atop the covers with a strangled gasp, then started to cough and wheeze. Turlough got the younger man to straighten out enough for another focused scan and wasn't pleased with the results.

"We can't wait for Martha," he explained quickly. "I'm not ever sure we've got time to get him to the Autopsy Lab. That spike just punched into this lung and it's picking up speed. Good bet it's going for his heart. Weapon of last resort for fish-face."

"Go prep," Harkness ordered without hesitation. "I'll bring him down."

Turlough was out of the room at a full run in an instant, clanging across the decking past the workstations and into the medical bay. Back in the bedroom, the Captain carefully wrapped his partner in the throw from the chair, gathered him into his arms to follow.

"I'm sorry… I didn't tell you…" Ianto gasped haltingly. "It… it seemed so minor… 'M not tryin' to hide things… from you… or… or lie to you… I promise…"

"I know," Jack reassured, heading out through the office and into the Hub. "Don't worry about it, yeah? A lot of the fear and uncertainty you're feeling right now, is probably the fluid from that barb talking. We're good, Ianto, honestly… and I will never send you away no matter what. Try to relax if you can, this extraction is gonna be ugly."

He got the violently shivering Welshman into the Autopsy Lab and onto the barely inclined exam table with the throw over his body from crotch to ankles, reluctantly helped fasten the restraints to keep the twenty-six-year-old as still as possible.

"Oxygen's on, use a full mask with the way he's having to gasp," Turlough advised, rigging a saline drip and pulling over the rolling tray of surgical instruments. "Then get yourself in an apron and gloves. I'll need you to run the suction and irrigation for me when I ask for it, and hold the Bekaran to start so I know where to make the initial incisions. This isn't going to be fine surgery; I'm just going to cut through whatever skin and muscle I have to in order to reach his lung. Ianto, I'm really sorry to put you through this, but the spike has to come out. If you need to scream, by all means do it… I'm afraid I can't offer you any other means of relief."

As soon as Jack pinpointed the foreign object with the scanner, the redhead took up the Number 7 scalpel from the tray.

"Here we go," he warned, sinking the blade into Ianto's flesh near the arch of his sternum and cutting down to the lowest curve of his ribs on the right side, then from the initial point straight down toward his navel, the young Guardian tensing involuntarily and choking back a cry as the incisions were made.

The suction kicked in to keep pace with the rapid welling of blood as Turlough reflected back and clamped a large flap of skin, before he chose a larger blade to sever the exposed muscles. This time his patient did scream, and the terror in his eyes had nothing to do with the current work being done.

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AN: Ianto is really (really) not having a good day…

Thank you to those reading the story. And thank you to those who have followed, favourited, and reviewed. NM