Ficlet: Too Much Blood
Mar. 20th, 2026 06:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
badly_knittedTitle: Too Much Blood
Author:
badly_knittedCharacters: Jack, Ianto, Owen.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 670
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Ianto is injured and bleeding, and Jack is worried.
Written For: The prompt ‘any, any, blood’, at
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
threesentenceficathon.Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
The sight of blood doesn’t bother Jack, not when it’s his own, because he knows whatever happens to him, whether he’s shot, stabbed, run over, blown up, impaled, decapitated, disembowelled, or anything else, he’ll heal, even if he dies. In fact, especially if he dies, because he isn’t unkillable, but he is immortal, in the sense that death doesn’t stick. It wears off, usually after only a few minutes, and there he is, back to how he was before he was killed.
His own blood, once it’s outside his body, is just a nuisance, a sticky, wet, congealing mess he’ll have to clean up. Assuming someone else, namely Ianto, doesn’t do the job for him while he’s in the shower, washing away the evidence of his latest misadventure, and putting on clean clothes that aren’t stained, torn, or otherwise damaged. He goes through quite a lot of clothes that way. It’s one of the reasons he sticks to the same shirts and trousers most of the time; they’re easily replaced.
But this time it isn’t Jack’s blood all over his hands, all over him, and the sight of it chills him to the bone because there seems to be so much of it. Too much, all over everything, and Ianto isn’t moving, although Owen swears the injury isn’t as bad as it looks.
According to Torchwood Three’s medic, “Teaboy’s just passed out from the pain. Thought he was made of sterner stuff than that, but it turns out he’s just a wimp. Can’t even handle a little scratch like this. Stop standing there like an idiot, he’ll be fine. Get out from under my feet and go do something useful. ‘Avin’ to detour around you all the time isn’t making my job any easier.”
“No. I’m not leaving Ianto.” Jack is still the boss; he doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to do, no matter how much his presence might be annoying Owen. He’s not letting go of Ianto’s hand. Owen will just have to work around him. It hits Jack then that he’s not ready to lose his lover. Not now, not when they’re finally starting to build something resembling a real relationship…
He’s not sure he ever will be ready, because how can anyone prepare themselves for the loss of someone they care so much about, no matter how inevitable that loss might be? Ianto is human, mortal, so fragile and vulnerable, and every day could be his last on this earth, because Torchwood is such a dangerous place to work.
If he thought he could get away with it, Jack would fire Ianto and tell him to get a nice, safe job in an office, just so he’d have a better chance of living past thirty. But Ianto would never go for it; Torchwood is in his blood, the same blood that’s dripping everywhere, because Jack wasn’t able to protect him from the danger that lurks around every corner, waiting to pounce.
It wasn’t even a Weevil this time; at least that would have been something they could have anticipated and dealt with. It had seemed nothing more than a random bit of space junk until a concealed blade had sprung out of it, stabbing Ianto in the side before either of them could move. Everything since that moment has been a blur of blood, panic, and desperation.
“It’s just a flesh wound. Didn’t hit anything vital,” Owen says now, having examined and irrigated the wound. “No evidence of any poison or other toxins. Just needs a few stitches and some antibiotics, and he’ll be good to go. Don’t know why you’re makin’ such a fuss; he’s probably cut himself worse shaving.”
The relief makes Jack’s knees feel weak, and he would have sat down if there’d been anything to sit on, but instead he stays standing, waiting for Ianto to regain consciousness as Owen starts stitching the cut. This time, they were lucky, but how long will it be before their luck runs out?
The End
His own blood, once it’s outside his body, is just a nuisance, a sticky, wet, congealing mess he’ll have to clean up. Assuming someone else, namely Ianto, doesn’t do the job for him while he’s in the shower, washing away the evidence of his latest misadventure, and putting on clean clothes that aren’t stained, torn, or otherwise damaged. He goes through quite a lot of clothes that way. It’s one of the reasons he sticks to the same shirts and trousers most of the time; they’re easily replaced.
But this time it isn’t Jack’s blood all over his hands, all over him, and the sight of it chills him to the bone because there seems to be so much of it. Too much, all over everything, and Ianto isn’t moving, although Owen swears the injury isn’t as bad as it looks.
According to Torchwood Three’s medic, “Teaboy’s just passed out from the pain. Thought he was made of sterner stuff than that, but it turns out he’s just a wimp. Can’t even handle a little scratch like this. Stop standing there like an idiot, he’ll be fine. Get out from under my feet and go do something useful. ‘Avin’ to detour around you all the time isn’t making my job any easier.”
“No. I’m not leaving Ianto.” Jack is still the boss; he doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to do, no matter how much his presence might be annoying Owen. He’s not letting go of Ianto’s hand. Owen will just have to work around him. It hits Jack then that he’s not ready to lose his lover. Not now, not when they’re finally starting to build something resembling a real relationship…
He’s not sure he ever will be ready, because how can anyone prepare themselves for the loss of someone they care so much about, no matter how inevitable that loss might be? Ianto is human, mortal, so fragile and vulnerable, and every day could be his last on this earth, because Torchwood is such a dangerous place to work.
If he thought he could get away with it, Jack would fire Ianto and tell him to get a nice, safe job in an office, just so he’d have a better chance of living past thirty. But Ianto would never go for it; Torchwood is in his blood, the same blood that’s dripping everywhere, because Jack wasn’t able to protect him from the danger that lurks around every corner, waiting to pounce.
It wasn’t even a Weevil this time; at least that would have been something they could have anticipated and dealt with. It had seemed nothing more than a random bit of space junk until a concealed blade had sprung out of it, stabbing Ianto in the side before either of them could move. Everything since that moment has been a blur of blood, panic, and desperation.
“It’s just a flesh wound. Didn’t hit anything vital,” Owen says now, having examined and irrigated the wound. “No evidence of any poison or other toxins. Just needs a few stitches and some antibiotics, and he’ll be good to go. Don’t know why you’re makin’ such a fuss; he’s probably cut himself worse shaving.”
The relief makes Jack’s knees feel weak, and he would have sat down if there’d been anything to sit on, but instead he stays standing, waiting for Ianto to regain consciousness as Owen starts stitching the cut. This time, they were lucky, but how long will it be before their luck runs out?
The End
(no subject)
Date: 2026-03-21 12:26 am (UTC)