Double Drabble: Offended
Apr. 27th, 2024 06:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
badly_knittedTitle: Offended
Author:
badly_knittedCharacters: Owen, Ianto, OC.
Rating: PG
Written For: Challenge 810: Trouble at
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torchwood100.Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Owen offends his patient.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
A/N: Double drabble.
“The trouble with aliens,” Owen said, snapping on a fresh pair of latex gloves, “Is they’re so bloody alien. You sure this one’s the right way up?”
The alien on the autopsy table shifted, opening one baleful yellow eye. “Oi! Who’re you callin’ a bloody alien?” The eye scrutinised him slowly, from head to toe and back again. “You’re no oil paintin’ yerself, with those beady little eyes, the lump in the middle of your face, and those horrible wiggly pink bits.”
Owen’s face was a picture. “Wiggly…”
“She means your fingers, Owen,” Ianto helpfully supplied, smirking down at the medic from the observation platform. “The Kraggari don’t have fingers as such.”
Indeed, Owen’s patient had four sets of pincers instead, one of which it was waving menacingly in Owen’s direction.
“Are you just gonna stare at me all day? Cap’n Jack said you’re a medical professional, that you’d fix me leg up good as new so I can get back to me crew, but all you’re doin’ is gapin’ at me like a demented mudworm!”
“He’s not used to having his patients talk back,” Ianto explained. “It upsets his equilibrium.”
“Bit fragile is he? Guess I can make allowances.”
The End
The alien on the autopsy table shifted, opening one baleful yellow eye. “Oi! Who’re you callin’ a bloody alien?” The eye scrutinised him slowly, from head to toe and back again. “You’re no oil paintin’ yerself, with those beady little eyes, the lump in the middle of your face, and those horrible wiggly pink bits.”
Owen’s face was a picture. “Wiggly…”
“She means your fingers, Owen,” Ianto helpfully supplied, smirking down at the medic from the observation platform. “The Kraggari don’t have fingers as such.”
Indeed, Owen’s patient had four sets of pincers instead, one of which it was waving menacingly in Owen’s direction.
“Are you just gonna stare at me all day? Cap’n Jack said you’re a medical professional, that you’d fix me leg up good as new so I can get back to me crew, but all you’re doin’ is gapin’ at me like a demented mudworm!”
“He’s not used to having his patients talk back,” Ianto explained. “It upsets his equilibrium.”
“Bit fragile is he? Guess I can make allowances.”
The End
