The wrong kind of Doctor [fic]
Title: The wrong kind of Doctor
Author: shadowbyrd
Rating(s): PG-13
Pairing(s): Gen or Jack/Owen, depending on your goggles
Warning(s): Allusions to KKBB
Word count: 566
Summary: Owen's good, but there are some things even he can't fix.
“Jack?” Owen calls, washing his hands.
“What?”
“You’re next.”
Jack smirks, cocking his head.
“Oh give it a break for a minute, would you? C’mon, I saw your arm. It’ll want cleaning at least.”
Jack passes his files to his other hand to glance over his arm, sleeve still bloodstained - he hasn’t even changed his shirt yet - and shrugs. “It’s fine.”
Owen frowns. “You got shot. How is that fine?” He makes a grab for it and Jack pulls away, swinging the bad arm stiffly out of Owen’s reach. Jack winces, hand immediately moving to cradle his arm. Owen stays where he is, but tries again.
“Come on. If the bullet’s still in there, which would make sense, given you haven’t bled all over the floor -”
“Don’t have the time,” Jack quips, pausing to wipe bloody fingertips on his shirt before returning to flipping back through the files.
Owen’s impatient now and makes another grab for the arm, one Jack can’t dodge, and he feels Jack flinch, feels the hot blood trailing down his arm. Jack places his good hand in the middle of Owen’s chest and pushes at the same moment he yanks his arm free, actually crying out from the pain.
Owen hits the tiled wall hard, rough edges poking and scraping his back through his shirt. He stares at Jack who stares back, looking vaguely repentant. All he says is, “It’ll be gone tomorrow. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“That’s why I’m on the team isn’t it?” Owen pushes off the wall and advances slowly. “And how are you going to get rid of a bullet hole in the arm by tomorrow? For God’s sake stop being such a baby and get on the table -”
“It’s not that,” says Jack and the unmistakable hint of desperation in his voice catches Owen. Jack hesitates, fingering the fabric apart to look at the mess of skin and muscle the bullet tore up. “You can’t take care of what’s wrong with me,” he says finally.
“Why not?” It suddenly feels like there’s far more distance than four feet between them and Owen doesn’t like it at all.
Jack looks up at him and smiles, that looks in his eyes that Owen hates, showing what vulnerability he has, all the cracks and shards that have already snapped off and it’s personal to the point of indecency, makes Owen want to look away. He won’t, though. “You’re not the right kind of Doctor.”
There’s a deeper meaning hiding behind those words, but Owen can’t for the life of him fathom it. “I was trained in emergency medicine, you know,” he snaps instead and he catches a flash of disappointment before Jack closes up again and turns away as though he’s suddenly lost all interest in Owen, the conversation and the bullet hole in his arm.
Fuck him, thinks Owen, grabbing his coat. Let Ianto drive him to the hospital when he starts to bleed out.
And yet the next day Jack is back to his usual self, ready and raring to go. It’s unsettling, even more so when Owen realises he’s wearing the same shirt, with the bloodstained sleeve, yet the skin underneath is as good as new, no a hint of a scar. Suddenly Owen’s starting to get why everyone seems so keen to figure out the mystery that is Captain Jack Harkness.