Fic: Left a Hole
Title: Left a Hole
Author: Erin Giles
Rating: R (language)
Disclaimer: Torchwood is the intellectual property of the BBC.
Characters/Pairings: Ianto, Owen, Gwen, Tosh (Jack/Ianto implied)
Words: 1800
Summary: Jack’s gone and Torchwood are stumbling through the doors of A&E in his absence. Owen's POV.
‘Can we get some help here?’
It’s odd to be seeing this from the other side of the fence, so to speak. I spent my years as an intern waiting for something dramatic to happen like a group of government agents bursting through the doors of A&E, one of them wounded because of a dramatic Hollywood fight that had happened. Most of the time it was just drunks that had got into bar fights. I didn’t see an actual bullet wound until I joined Torchwood.
‘Stab wound to anterior lower left abdomen.’
This wasn’t even anything to do with Torchwood, not really. That’s us all over though, isn’t it? Can’t even go on a night out without getting ourselves into trouble. I’d like to say it’s Jack’s fault but he’s gone and buggered off somewhere. Suppose we could still blame him, considering he was the reason we were all drinking. Drowning our sorrows. Although, I was the only one willing to admit it for what it was.
‘Consumed at least 8 units of alcohol, which is speeding up the bleeding.’
Gwen called it team bonding. Ianto had only come because he’d been bullied by Gwen, but anyone could see the poor bugger was pining for Jack and Tosh had only come out to be the designated driver considering she currently wasn’t drinking because of the antibiotics she was on. Bloody lucky that turned out to be.
‘Incident occurred less than fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Are you a doctor?’
Bloody geniuses that work at St. Helen’s.
‘Yeah, but I’m bugger all use to you because I’ve had as much to drink as him, if not more, and you need to get him into surgery before he bleeds out.’ There’s a glare but I couldn’t give a fuck right now. They should be concentrated on the heavy lump hung between Gwen and I like a rag doll. A gurney appears then and it takes all four of us to wrestle him onto it because he’s dead weight now, passed out from blood loss and the pain no doubt. I’m not going to call him a wuss, he doesn’t deserve it this time. Idiot maybe, but not a wuss.
It hadn’t even been an alley when that kid had attacked Ianto. And he was just a kid, acne still on his face and an attitude to boot. Right out in the open it had been. I’d say he was cocky, but he looked just as shocked as Ianto when the knife went in. Ianto hadn’t even done anything wrong.
‘Gwen.’ I reach out a hand to hold her back. They’re not going to let her through anymore than they are me and the two of us are left behind looking like casualties of war as they wheel Ianto away. Gwen goes to find Tosh while I look down at my bloody hands like Lady Macbeth.
There’s a man who looks like he walked into a fist in the bathroom. He gives me a scared sort of appraisal as I turn on a tap with my elbow and start to wash the blood off my hands. The pink foam swirls down the plughole as the water reaches scolding. My shirt is ruined and for a brief moment I think about telling Ianto he owes me a new one. I’ll save that thought for when Ianto’s out of surgery, out of ITU, in a regular ward, or even better, sat on his sofa expecting me to wait on him hand and foot.
Fuck. What do we tell Jack if he comes back and Ianto doesn’t- Stop it. He’ll be fine. He’s nothing if not stubborn. Ianto’s survived almost as much crazy shit as all of us combined. And this, this isn’t even crazy shit. This is unfortunate circumstance. I mean, the amount of stuff that we, as Torchwood, encounter on a daily basis wouldn’t even bat an eyelid at this.
My hands are shaking. Probably just sobering up. It was cold out tonight as well.
~
Tosh coughs, trying to turn her head away from me and into her hand rather than my shoulder that her head has been resting on for the last half hour. She’s still got Ianto’s coat on that he gave to her when we stepped out the pub. He had the burn of several pints with a couple of chasers keeping him warm, so ever the gentleman he’d wrapped up a snivelling Tosh in it.
Ever the gentleman, he’d stepped in when that spotty faced teen had started harassing his girlfriend. Wish I’d called him a few more names so he’d had a fight with me instead.
‘Tosh, why don’t you go home and get some sleep. They’re not going to let us in to see him tonight.’
‘What about you? They’re not going to let you in looking like that.’
She has a point. I still look like the walking dead, covered in Ianto’s dried blood. Gwen’s on the phone to Rhys, wearing a track into the waiting room floor and I want to send her home too just because she’s bloody annoying me with her pacing. It’s not going to help Ianto.
When she gets off the phone to her long suffering boyfriend I’ll make her take Tosh home, make her fetch me some clothes from my flat to give her something to do. Gwen has to feel useful otherwise she flaps about making problems just so she can solve them. Sorting out Tosh and getting me clothes will keep her occupied for a couple of hours at least. Time enough for Ianto to sort himself out.
‘Ianto Jones?’
‘Yes, hello, yes.’ I don’t think Gwen even said goodbye to Rhys before she hung up on him.
‘You came in with Ianto Jones?’
‘Yeah,’ Gwen says, flapping her arms in Tosh’s direction and mine too. I think she’s still mostly drunk considering her concerted effort earlier on in the evening to keep up with Ianto and me.
‘The surgery went well; we managed to repair the tear in his diaphragm and stop the bleeding. We need to keep an eye on him regarding infection from the foreign object. He’s in recovery at the moment, it’ll take a few hours for the anaesthesia to wear off which would give you some time to clean up.’ That was a subtle hint at me, then.
‘So he’ll be okay?’ Gwen, needing false platitudes that the Doctor will skirt round.
‘We’ll need to keep a close eye on him in the next twenty-four hours, but he should hopefully make a full recovery.’ Gwen looks like she’s going to hug the Doctor for a moment, and then she actually does. Poor bugger looks awkward, just sort of stands there while Gwen hugs him. I’m busy thanking Ianto for making it easier for me to send the girls home. I’ll get some scrubs from somewhere.
~
It’s seven am when Ianto starts showing some sign of life again. He’s still close to blending in with the sheets he’s lying on but he inhales a bit deeper, his breath hitches and his brow furrows in some amount of discomfort.
Discomfort is a doctorism, designed only to make relatives feel better.
He’s on morphine but I bet he’s still in bloody agony. He swallows, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth and my eyes flick to the ice chips one of the nurses left behind. I’ve already eaten half of them to try and stop the hangover kicking in any further than it already has. Little bit jealous of Ianto and his morphine right now.
‘Jack?’
It’s almost pathetic that Jack’s the first person he asks for. They’re just fucking, and I feel sorry for the fact that Ianto can’t see that. Or what would make it even more awful would be that Ianto knows he’s just a fuck and yet still he’s completely head over heels for Jack. Who bloody isn’t, though, if I’m honest with myself. I can sympathize, though, like Ianto I’ve loved and lost in the worst imaginable way. I went out and fucked every man and woman in Cardiff, Ianto got into bed with the man who he swore one day to watch suffer and die; we’re neither of us sane.
‘He’ll be back in a bit, Ianto,’ I say, leaning forward to grasp his forearm. He looks at me through slatted eyes as if he’s trying to connect all the dots of a puzzle to make a picture without anything to draw with.
‘Hell of a hangover,’ I say, trying to smile, but Ianto’s frowning more, his arm moves beneath mine, fingers reaching for his stomach as it all slowly trickles back.
‘Left a hole,’ he whispers and it takes me a moment to realise he’s not talking about the knife, not really. He looks up at the ceiling, blinking a couple of times, eyes watering. Shit. I wish one of the girls had stayed behind now, ‘cause I don’t know what to do. Me and Ianto are shit at emotions. Last time we tried to talk about something important he shot me.
‘You’ll have a story to tell him when he gets back.’
He looks at me then, glassy eyes and all, a look that dares me to continue the conversation. It makes my hangover feel ten times worse.
‘Look, Ianto. He’s a bastard for walking out on you, for walking out on all of us, but he’ll come back. He’s done it before. He’ll come back with some explanation that will make us all forgive him, and we will, ‘cause we’re suckers, but in the meantime we’ll be fine.’
Ianto looks back up at the ceiling and struggles to keep his eyes open. I was right about my earlier thought - bloody stubborn is the word.
‘Ianto-‘
‘I didn’t want to die.’
‘What?’
‘When I was lying on the pavement with you holding my insides in I didn’t want to die. I really didn’t want to die.’
I don’t really know what to say to that. ‘Did you before?’ I don’t know what the hell I mean by that, before what exactly? Before Lisa, before Canary Wharf, before the Brecon’s, before Jack left? Thankfully Ianto makes up the rest of the question for me.
‘I did, at one point.’ There’s a lot left unsaid in the pause and it makes me realise that Jack had given Ianto far more than sex and a second chance. ‘I thought I would when he went again, but-‘ Exhaustion and pain hits him like a bulldozer at that point and I don’t think he can stop the tears if he had all the will in the world.
‘That’s not going to help the hangover.’ My hand’s back on his arm and I’ve probably been spending too much time around Gwen to be getting all these caring gestures. He cries himself to sleep, which at any other time I would think is pathetic, but he almost died this morning so I’ll forgive him. I’ll punch Jack when he gets back, but I’ll forgive him too.
Author: Erin Giles
Rating: R (language)
Disclaimer: Torchwood is the intellectual property of the BBC.
Characters/Pairings: Ianto, Owen, Gwen, Tosh (Jack/Ianto implied)
Words: 1800
Summary: Jack’s gone and Torchwood are stumbling through the doors of A&E in his absence. Owen's POV.
‘Can we get some help here?’
It’s odd to be seeing this from the other side of the fence, so to speak. I spent my years as an intern waiting for something dramatic to happen like a group of government agents bursting through the doors of A&E, one of them wounded because of a dramatic Hollywood fight that had happened. Most of the time it was just drunks that had got into bar fights. I didn’t see an actual bullet wound until I joined Torchwood.
‘Stab wound to anterior lower left abdomen.’
This wasn’t even anything to do with Torchwood, not really. That’s us all over though, isn’t it? Can’t even go on a night out without getting ourselves into trouble. I’d like to say it’s Jack’s fault but he’s gone and buggered off somewhere. Suppose we could still blame him, considering he was the reason we were all drinking. Drowning our sorrows. Although, I was the only one willing to admit it for what it was.
‘Consumed at least 8 units of alcohol, which is speeding up the bleeding.’
Gwen called it team bonding. Ianto had only come because he’d been bullied by Gwen, but anyone could see the poor bugger was pining for Jack and Tosh had only come out to be the designated driver considering she currently wasn’t drinking because of the antibiotics she was on. Bloody lucky that turned out to be.
‘Incident occurred less than fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Are you a doctor?’
Bloody geniuses that work at St. Helen’s.
‘Yeah, but I’m bugger all use to you because I’ve had as much to drink as him, if not more, and you need to get him into surgery before he bleeds out.’ There’s a glare but I couldn’t give a fuck right now. They should be concentrated on the heavy lump hung between Gwen and I like a rag doll. A gurney appears then and it takes all four of us to wrestle him onto it because he’s dead weight now, passed out from blood loss and the pain no doubt. I’m not going to call him a wuss, he doesn’t deserve it this time. Idiot maybe, but not a wuss.
It hadn’t even been an alley when that kid had attacked Ianto. And he was just a kid, acne still on his face and an attitude to boot. Right out in the open it had been. I’d say he was cocky, but he looked just as shocked as Ianto when the knife went in. Ianto hadn’t even done anything wrong.
‘Gwen.’ I reach out a hand to hold her back. They’re not going to let her through anymore than they are me and the two of us are left behind looking like casualties of war as they wheel Ianto away. Gwen goes to find Tosh while I look down at my bloody hands like Lady Macbeth.
There’s a man who looks like he walked into a fist in the bathroom. He gives me a scared sort of appraisal as I turn on a tap with my elbow and start to wash the blood off my hands. The pink foam swirls down the plughole as the water reaches scolding. My shirt is ruined and for a brief moment I think about telling Ianto he owes me a new one. I’ll save that thought for when Ianto’s out of surgery, out of ITU, in a regular ward, or even better, sat on his sofa expecting me to wait on him hand and foot.
Fuck. What do we tell Jack if he comes back and Ianto doesn’t- Stop it. He’ll be fine. He’s nothing if not stubborn. Ianto’s survived almost as much crazy shit as all of us combined. And this, this isn’t even crazy shit. This is unfortunate circumstance. I mean, the amount of stuff that we, as Torchwood, encounter on a daily basis wouldn’t even bat an eyelid at this.
My hands are shaking. Probably just sobering up. It was cold out tonight as well.
~
Tosh coughs, trying to turn her head away from me and into her hand rather than my shoulder that her head has been resting on for the last half hour. She’s still got Ianto’s coat on that he gave to her when we stepped out the pub. He had the burn of several pints with a couple of chasers keeping him warm, so ever the gentleman he’d wrapped up a snivelling Tosh in it.
Ever the gentleman, he’d stepped in when that spotty faced teen had started harassing his girlfriend. Wish I’d called him a few more names so he’d had a fight with me instead.
‘Tosh, why don’t you go home and get some sleep. They’re not going to let us in to see him tonight.’
‘What about you? They’re not going to let you in looking like that.’
She has a point. I still look like the walking dead, covered in Ianto’s dried blood. Gwen’s on the phone to Rhys, wearing a track into the waiting room floor and I want to send her home too just because she’s bloody annoying me with her pacing. It’s not going to help Ianto.
When she gets off the phone to her long suffering boyfriend I’ll make her take Tosh home, make her fetch me some clothes from my flat to give her something to do. Gwen has to feel useful otherwise she flaps about making problems just so she can solve them. Sorting out Tosh and getting me clothes will keep her occupied for a couple of hours at least. Time enough for Ianto to sort himself out.
‘Ianto Jones?’
‘Yes, hello, yes.’ I don’t think Gwen even said goodbye to Rhys before she hung up on him.
‘You came in with Ianto Jones?’
‘Yeah,’ Gwen says, flapping her arms in Tosh’s direction and mine too. I think she’s still mostly drunk considering her concerted effort earlier on in the evening to keep up with Ianto and me.
‘The surgery went well; we managed to repair the tear in his diaphragm and stop the bleeding. We need to keep an eye on him regarding infection from the foreign object. He’s in recovery at the moment, it’ll take a few hours for the anaesthesia to wear off which would give you some time to clean up.’ That was a subtle hint at me, then.
‘So he’ll be okay?’ Gwen, needing false platitudes that the Doctor will skirt round.
‘We’ll need to keep a close eye on him in the next twenty-four hours, but he should hopefully make a full recovery.’ Gwen looks like she’s going to hug the Doctor for a moment, and then she actually does. Poor bugger looks awkward, just sort of stands there while Gwen hugs him. I’m busy thanking Ianto for making it easier for me to send the girls home. I’ll get some scrubs from somewhere.
~
It’s seven am when Ianto starts showing some sign of life again. He’s still close to blending in with the sheets he’s lying on but he inhales a bit deeper, his breath hitches and his brow furrows in some amount of discomfort.
Discomfort is a doctorism, designed only to make relatives feel better.
He’s on morphine but I bet he’s still in bloody agony. He swallows, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth and my eyes flick to the ice chips one of the nurses left behind. I’ve already eaten half of them to try and stop the hangover kicking in any further than it already has. Little bit jealous of Ianto and his morphine right now.
‘Jack?’
It’s almost pathetic that Jack’s the first person he asks for. They’re just fucking, and I feel sorry for the fact that Ianto can’t see that. Or what would make it even more awful would be that Ianto knows he’s just a fuck and yet still he’s completely head over heels for Jack. Who bloody isn’t, though, if I’m honest with myself. I can sympathize, though, like Ianto I’ve loved and lost in the worst imaginable way. I went out and fucked every man and woman in Cardiff, Ianto got into bed with the man who he swore one day to watch suffer and die; we’re neither of us sane.
‘He’ll be back in a bit, Ianto,’ I say, leaning forward to grasp his forearm. He looks at me through slatted eyes as if he’s trying to connect all the dots of a puzzle to make a picture without anything to draw with.
‘Hell of a hangover,’ I say, trying to smile, but Ianto’s frowning more, his arm moves beneath mine, fingers reaching for his stomach as it all slowly trickles back.
‘Left a hole,’ he whispers and it takes me a moment to realise he’s not talking about the knife, not really. He looks up at the ceiling, blinking a couple of times, eyes watering. Shit. I wish one of the girls had stayed behind now, ‘cause I don’t know what to do. Me and Ianto are shit at emotions. Last time we tried to talk about something important he shot me.
‘You’ll have a story to tell him when he gets back.’
He looks at me then, glassy eyes and all, a look that dares me to continue the conversation. It makes my hangover feel ten times worse.
‘Look, Ianto. He’s a bastard for walking out on you, for walking out on all of us, but he’ll come back. He’s done it before. He’ll come back with some explanation that will make us all forgive him, and we will, ‘cause we’re suckers, but in the meantime we’ll be fine.’
Ianto looks back up at the ceiling and struggles to keep his eyes open. I was right about my earlier thought - bloody stubborn is the word.
‘Ianto-‘
‘I didn’t want to die.’
‘What?’
‘When I was lying on the pavement with you holding my insides in I didn’t want to die. I really didn’t want to die.’
I don’t really know what to say to that. ‘Did you before?’ I don’t know what the hell I mean by that, before what exactly? Before Lisa, before Canary Wharf, before the Brecon’s, before Jack left? Thankfully Ianto makes up the rest of the question for me.
‘I did, at one point.’ There’s a lot left unsaid in the pause and it makes me realise that Jack had given Ianto far more than sex and a second chance. ‘I thought I would when he went again, but-‘ Exhaustion and pain hits him like a bulldozer at that point and I don’t think he can stop the tears if he had all the will in the world.
‘That’s not going to help the hangover.’ My hand’s back on his arm and I’ve probably been spending too much time around Gwen to be getting all these caring gestures. He cries himself to sleep, which at any other time I would think is pathetic, but he almost died this morning so I’ll forgive him. I’ll punch Jack when he gets back, but I’ll forgive him too.