(I just) died in your arms tonight;
Gen. Ianto, Owen;
It's like Katie all over again...
Owen threw his gloves aside in disgust; the only expression he could maintain that would ever successfully hide the fear he felt creeping its way through his body. Ianto looked up at him with wide eyes, guarded but trusting, and Owen wanted to shake him, to yell at him and ask him why the hell this was happening to him. To him. (all over again).
“I’m sorry.” Owen muttered instead, his gaze sliding swiftly away from Ianto’s but not before he saw the darkness of shattered hope dull the blue of the other man’s eyes. Owen wanted to curse every damn deity he knew, he wanted to kick and scream and rail at the helplessness of it all, but he did nothing. He said nothing. He just stood there, waiting with a patience he did not feel, for Ianto to get up and go. He needed him gone, away, just… he needed a moment.
Cold fingers carefully encircled his wrist and Owen’s head snapped up in shock at the contact.
“Please,” Ianto whispered; his face pale as death. Owen had to look away.
“Don’t… don’t say anything.” Ianto pleaded, his tone imploring. Who was he to deny him this request? “Please, Owen. Just… not yet? Let me…” he swallowed back his words before he could choke upon them. Owen suddenly found himself twisting his wrist to better take hold of Ianto’s hand. He squeezed once- tightly- before releasing the hold and stepping back.
“As the medic, I’m under obligation,” Owen said softly, meeting Ianto’s eyes. “I can give you no more than a week.” He added in a voice not above the breathlessness of a whisper. Ianto blinked his eyes frantically and Owen turned his face away. He couldn’t. He just, he couldn’t.
“Thank you.” Ianto said, slipping himself off of the examination table. He hestitated a moment longer, words clearly on the tip of his tongue, but like all else unsaid between them he swallowed them back, wincing at their bitter taste before he moved, stepping past him and bounding up the stairs to the main level of the hub with an energy Owen knew he did not have.
When he was gone Owen slammed his fist into the first available surface he could find. Thank you. The words slapped at him. How fucken useless he was and still Ianto had the nerve to thank him. He hadn’t done anything. He couldn’t do anything. He punched again at the wall before him, over and over- knuckles bloodying but he could not feel the pain. Inoperable, that’s what this was; terminal, incurable, life-ending and untreatable. Words that all essentially meant the same thing: there was nothing he could do. There was no way to help him, to save him, to even ease the pain he was going though. Not in any way that was going to matter. Ianto Jones was going to die and there was nothing he- nor anyone else in this god-forsaken world- could do to stop it.
[ end. ]
[ written as part of Caspe-Wri-Mo ]