Double Drabble: Medical (Mis)Treatment
Title: Medical (Mis)Treatment
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Owen.
Rating: PG-13
Written For: Challenge 806: Sting at tw100.
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Owen demonstrates his lack of bedside manner again.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
A/N: Double drabble.
Lying on the cold, hard metal of the treatment table, trying not to think about how many corpses, human and alien, Owen had chopped up on it, Ianto groaned pitifully. He could think of a million places he’d rather be, a million things he’d rather be doing, but this was a regular Torchwood workday, which meant what he wanted was seldom what he got. Unless he wanted a cup of coffee, or a quickie with Jack down in the archives.
“Right,” said Owen, somewhere nearby. “Hold still. This might sting a bit.”
Sting. Right. Ianto gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, holding as still as possible, preparing himself for the searing agony to come. Just once, he wished Torchwood’s medic would be honest about the amount of pain his patients could expect. It was always at least ten times worse than Owen claimed it would be. When the pain started, although he tried not to react, Ianto couldn’t quite manage to keep quiet.
“Fucking Hell, Owen! D’you always treat open wounds with concentrated bloody acid?”
“It’s just disinfectant. You’re such a wimp! Although… Maybe I was supposed to dilute this first. Ah well, at least the wound’s clean now.”
The End
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Owen.
Rating: PG-13
Written For: Challenge 806: Sting at tw100.
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Owen demonstrates his lack of bedside manner again.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
A/N: Double drabble.
Lying on the cold, hard metal of the treatment table, trying not to think about how many corpses, human and alien, Owen had chopped up on it, Ianto groaned pitifully. He could think of a million places he’d rather be, a million things he’d rather be doing, but this was a regular Torchwood workday, which meant what he wanted was seldom what he got. Unless he wanted a cup of coffee, or a quickie with Jack down in the archives.
“Right,” said Owen, somewhere nearby. “Hold still. This might sting a bit.”
Sting. Right. Ianto gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, holding as still as possible, preparing himself for the searing agony to come. Just once, he wished Torchwood’s medic would be honest about the amount of pain his patients could expect. It was always at least ten times worse than Owen claimed it would be. When the pain started, although he tried not to react, Ianto couldn’t quite manage to keep quiet.
“Fucking Hell, Owen! D’you always treat open wounds with concentrated bloody acid?”
“It’s just disinfectant. You’re such a wimp! Although… Maybe I was supposed to dilute this first. Ah well, at least the wound’s clean now.”
The End