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Who: John Sheppard & various (& maybe you!)
What: Various Stages On The Grief Arc: An illustration of John Sheppard being a disaster
When: Mid to Late November & Early December maybe
Where: Olympia & Dranbu
Warning(s): Some arm injury gore in one thread!

1. OLYMPIA -- Mid November
John is pretty sure he looks a mess to anyone who knows him, but that's precisely why he's avoiding most people who know him.

He's called out of work to give himself a recovery buffer and is taking a walk with Seren, who is completely oblivious to his problems. Seren is still a puppy, and her excitement for everything in their surroundings and for him to play with her is a good distraction -- even if he wishes she understand the word 'chill' on occasion.

The little German Shepherd is starting to grow up quickly, though. She's smart, smart enough John suspects to know exactly when she's just ignoring John's instructions. Old enough to know better, young enough not to care. Off the leash, she's skipping ahead of him with her nose to the ground -- sniffing for traces of other dogs who might have come this way. At this time of day there aren't too many, mostly people, and although she mostly just runs up and down finding things then bringing them to John (or John to them) occasionally she gets curious and bounces toward another human. Either because they smell interesting or have something with them that smells interesting.

Seren shoots toward the new person and bounces curiously while John jogs to catch up, jacket loose and unzipped over his plaid shirt and jeans.

"Hey!" he prompts sharply, and the puppy stops and looks over at him. "We talked about this, manners!"

Apparently bouncing at people is not a good display of puppy manners.

2. DRANBU -- Late November/Early December (specify before or after people change back!)
After having pretty much been holed up in Olympia drowning his sorrows for most of the month, once he finally makes it out to Josa Forest (initially to help Ianto, but then staying to sate his curiosity about what's going on) John realises he does... feel better. He probably should have come out sooner to give himself something to do, instead of just skulking around avoiding everything, but hindsight is 20/20 and all that. At the time he hadn't felt like he wanted to do anything.

Once he's there, though, actually exploring Josa Forest again after his initial trip out with Phoenix helps take his mind off things. The tree villages are interesting, and John picks through them as much to satisfy his own curiosity as to give him a reason to be --

To be away from things that he's absolutely not avoiding but also, is avoiding.

The markets of Dranbu, he notices, are very animal-focused. So after a long moment picking through things he catches the attention of someone and hesitantly asked:

"Do you have anything for dogs...?"

They point him further a long and John lofts an eyebrow curiously, turning and padding in the direction he's been pointed -- bumping into someone near a different stand along the way and setting his good hand on them apologetically to steady them. The marketplace is busy and also, not designed with space in mind. He supposes that's what comes of not normally having this many visitors.

"Sorry," he says with a wince, and bends to try and pick up whatever it is he made them drop. "Here, let me --"

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"Well," John reasons, "we can try explaining and if that doesn't work -- I can stun him."

Simple, right? His gun has a stun setting! Shifting, still restless and fidgety, John abandons his piece of bread to tug at his short-sleeve t-shirt. It's mercifully nowhere long enough to be near his arm injury, but right at that moment it's making John feel warm and a little itchy. Or at least, he does feel both of those things. It may not really be the t-shirt making him feel them, though.

Ianto can't help but let out a huff of laughter at the thought of it. The idea of John wrestling Jack to the ground and stunning him so that they might drag him out of the forest by force is -- comical at best, though probably not the best idea, considering the state of the other man's arm at the moment. He has to concede that it probably would help him relieve some of that tension, however.

He glances aside at the other man again, as he dunks his chunk of bread into his soup and chews on it thoughtfully. He seems -- restless, to say the least. Not uncomfortable in the way he might have been before, but certainly not comfortable in the way that Ianto would like for him to be.

"Are you all right?" he asks again, gently. "Listen, I can... The soup will keep, if you'd rather we just... Get this over with." The sooner they clean up that wound, the sooner it can be bandaged and splinted in place, after all. Or is there something else he can do? He feels wrong, guilty, to be sitting there eating while John fidgets beside him. And truth be told it's making him more than a little antsy too.

Is he all right?

It's a weirdly loaded question, truth be told, the answer to which is overall no. Ianto's question is more specific, though, and John tries to focus past the whirl of pain and soreness and slightly-too-warm clamminess and twitchy awareness of every little sound -- tries to focus on an actual answer.

"Yeah," he offers mildly, "think it's just that stuff you gave me finally working."

He blinks a few times as if to force focus, winces.

"Is it warm in here, or is it just me?"

John suspects it might just be him, since he didn't feel that warm earlier, but he can't be sure unless he asks.

Ianto glances up to look around the room, contemplating the question. Is it warm in the room? Not particularly, he concludes. He's drinking soup, which is of course warm, and he's yet to take off some of the layers he had put on to go outside. But no, it is winter, and there is no fire or anything else he can see besides the natural insulation of the tree to keep the warmth of the room. A room that is not particularly hot, in any sense of the word.

He shakes his head in response, moving to take another sip of his soup before setting it down beside him.

"Not really," he replies. "A little stuffy, perhaps, but tolerable."

Out of reflex, without really thinking about the gesture until he can't take it back, he reaches out towards the other man to test his temperature with his hand -- is he feverish, perhaps?

John moves as if to dodge the touch, but it's too slow and too late anyway. He's warm to the touch, although not burning hot, and a little clammy.

"It's fine," John says in preemptive protest, "probably just a side-effect of the stuff. At least my arm isn't hurting as much."

Nothing in life is free. He picks off a small amount of the bread to try and eat again, because he figures if he eats some more then maybe Ianto will feel less inclined to keep fussing over him so much. It's worth a try, anyway.

John tries his best to avoid his touch but Ianto presses the back of his hand to John's forehead regardless. Pleased that he isn't too warm -- not that he supposes an infection would work quite that fast but then one never knows, in a place like this.

Removing his hand, Ianto sits back with a frown to watch as the other man picks at his bread again. He supposes it's good that his arm is feeling better. Ianto would prefer to have the whole matter done with, personally, but he supposes they can handle this on John's time. It is his arm, after all.

"So long as you're feeling better," Ianto fusses gently. "Please do warn me if you start feeling heart palpitations or something, though. I think we've both had enough surprises for one day as it is."

Heart palpitations or something. John offers a wincing smile at that, picking at another bit of his bread.

"Yeah. I'll let you know."

He glances down at his arm, then hesitates as he looks between it and the food.

"If this is putting you off let me know."

You know, his gross arm. That would be... fair.

"We can bind it first so you don't have to look at it -- unless you won't want to eat at all after touching it."

Which is... probably also fair. There's nothing particularly appetising about exposed flesh.

Ianto flicks the other man something of a smile -- it's meant to be reassuring, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"It's not -- it's not that," he says, awkwardly. "It's just. Isn't it -- I mean, better to take care of it first? The longer it's left untended, the more risk there is of infection?"

That's what he's assuming, anyway. John's the medic though, not him. He would know better than Ianto himself. Still -- if the choice is left up to him...

"I can wait to finish this," he offers, gesturing at the soup. "I'd rather make sure that we did this properly -- while we still knew you wouldn't be able to feel it, yeah?" Who knows how much longer those drugs will last, or whether the other man will want to take more when they wear off. Better make the most of them while they're in effect.

John wrinkles his nose at that, gives a non-committal shrug.

"That's what disinfectant is for."

You know, stopping the infection. Still, he gently pushes aside his soup and bread and ignores a faint wave of nausea as he re-arranges himself carefully to be a little closer to Ianto.

"But, if you want to get on it go ahead. My arm isn't exactly going anywhere."

Also, he's not really eating anyway.

Ianto nods, shifting for a moment to set the food aside and take up the bowl and cloth again. Hesitating for a moment with the cloth in hand before he offers, "I know that the drugs are taking most of the edge off of it but let me know if -- you know. Any of this bothers you and I can adjust. Or we can stop, yeah? Here..."

He swallows, a little thickly, before tentatively reaching out and making his first attempt to clean the wound again. It had definitely caused the other man discomfort earlier, and he can hardly blame him for it. But the sooner they get it cleaned out, the sooner they can get that disinfectant on it, bandage it up, brace it, and then he'll never have to see under the other man's skin (literally) again, if he has anything to say about the matter.

"Gloves," John prompts quickly, leaning slightly back away from Ianto. The painkillers might be dulling things but once Ianto starts touching him he's pretty sure it'll hurt again, or at least be more uncomfortable. Touching him to gauge his temperature is one thing, cleaning an exposed, raw bite is something else entirely.

Ianto's expression tightens slightly as John pulls away before he can so much as touch him, but he supposes that John's right. The gloves will help to keep him from feeling how much it is that he's actually hurting the other man. He just regrets that it will keep him from feeling the rest of the other man as well.

"Gloves," Ianto repeats softly, before setting down what he has in his hands and reaching for them where he's stuck them in his pockets. Presenting the gloves to the other man as if to get his approval before he reaches for the cloth and bowl again.

This time, he's not going to take no for an answer. This time, he doesn't give John a warning that he's going to be touching him. Reaching for his wrist, he braces his arm in one hand as with the other, he presses the cloth gently to the wound. Does this hurt? He'll find out soon enough.

Gloves, yes -- but Ianto isn't putting them on and John goes to jerk away as Ianto grabs his wrist and that hurts more than the cloth, the motion of pulling against restraint.

He grits his teeth and seethes, and he knows Ianto can feel the seething but he doesn't care.

"They're not meant to be for decoration," he grits out, and he can definitely feel the discomfort of his arm being touched but his anger is far stronger than his pain for the moment.

Oh, Ianto can tell that John is mad alright. But he holds fast to the other man's wrist, waiting until he's finished struggling against his grip before he glances up at the other man, clenching his teeth against his pain and anger each in turn.

"I know what they're meant to be for," he replies, meeting the other man's eye for a long moment before glancing back at what he's doing. "You're hurting yourself by tugging it around like that."

It's a statement of observation, of course, because he can feel it. Even as drugged up as John may be, it's still not enough to numb the pain away. Definitely fractured, Ianto supposes, a little queasily.

Oh, is he? John sneers in reply to that, because he supposes Ianto is trying to be funny to deflect what he's done but it isn't working.

"Fuck you," he says, and although he's still simmering it's as much tired as anything. "I know what my limits are, Ianto. I also know yours are a lot lower, but if you want to make yourself faint be my guest and I'll just finish fixing this myself."

John's simmering anger and Ianto's frustration mingle together in his head until he can no longer tell heads nor tail of either of them and he lets go of the other man's wrist at last with the heave of a sigh.

"God damn it, John," Ianto replies, not without some feeling. "They're made of leather, not latex. I'm only going to end up hurting you more, fumbling around with them on. I'm not so delicate you need to keep me in tissue wrapping. You said it felt better."

"It does," John protests. "This is better. Unless you topically numb my whole arm you won't stop me feeling it entirely, and that's really not a good idea with this kind of damage because then I won't be able to feel anything bad happening. It's my arm, Ianto, don't you think there's a chance I want it fixed?"

Without an arm all the things John loves are a lot harder to do, if not impossible. It's not something he'd gamble on lightly.

"What the hell do you think I'm trying to do, then?" Ianto replies, annoyed because they're only talking themselves in circles. "It's not like I've never been injured before. It's not like I've never broken my arm before, for that matter. If it feels better, I shouldn't have to wear the gloves -- I don't want to have to wear gloves to touch you, I --"

I never asked for this.

He cuts himself off, glancing away. Frustrated and embarrassed that he's letting himself get so carried away like this, letting his temper get the better of him. He's tired, irritable, and John's anger and discomfort linger like wisps of smoke on the edge of his consciousness even though he's let the other man go.

"I hate this," he says softly, at last. Not only the issue of dealing with how to touch the other man without invading his privacy, but the rest of it as well. All of it.

No kidding.

John feels his anger simmer down a little and just lofts an eyebrow at Ianto, as if to say so what? It sucks, he knows, there's no magic wand either of them can wave to make it stop sucking so much.

"It's not exactly a fun time for me either," he points out.

No. No, it wouldn't be. Because as much as Ianto never asked for it, John's pretty much had it all thrust upon him. And he's stood by Ianto through all of it, nonetheless. Even now, even here. Even after this shit with bloody Jack Harkness, John had fought a damned wolf and fractured his arm -- for him?

Ianto's temper deflates a little himself at the thought of it. All that John has been through, not only things that he's caused but things he couldn't stop. The fighting. The dragon. Briefly, Ianto squeezes his eyes shut before he turns back to the other man to look at him again.

"I don't mean to keep making things worse," he says, at last. "If... If you want me to wear the gloves, then I will."

Right.

He takes a breath and lets it out slowly, moving his good arm so he can gently rub Ianto's back through the soft fabric of his clothing.

"It would really help if you'd just trust me about these things instead of tricking me into letting you read me."

Then John withdraws his hand, and his tone changes to something firmer -- more no-nonsense. Something closer to giving instruction instead of asking.

"That trust needs to work both ways, alright? You are helping me fix my arm and that means I need to trust you to do it, and not listening to me is not helping me trust you. If this ends up infected or set wrong I'll just be in more pain later so we need to do this right the first time. Now right now I'm nauseous, a little dizzy, my focus keeps slipping and I'm really very tired but I'm pretty invested in not having to have my arm re-broken in a few weeks. So I need you to tell me -- if you touch me and you can feel my nausea and dizziness and whatever pain that stuff hasn't dulled, will you still be able to focus or not?"

If Ianto really thinks he can, fine. John isn't convinced but he can also stop him if he thinks Ianto is just going to pass out or throw up.

Reading him hadn't exactly been Ianto's intention. Not the whole of it, anyway. Though Ianto doesn't put up the fight to say as much. It helps, to have the press of John's hand against his back, even for that brief stretch of time. Hell, it even helps to have the other man speak to him so directly, for that matter. Even if he hates that he's pushed him into it.

Ianto takes a deep breath, really, truly considering John's question, given all of the facts. Would he be able to do it, given all of that? If he absolutely had to, yes. He probably could. But there's no reason that he should. Not when it's John's health on the line. Not when his own concentration would be far better if he couldn't feel the other man's pain and nausea on top of his own nervous exhaustion as well.

Pressing his lips together into a fine line, Ianto shakes his head at last.

"It would be better if I did this properly," he agrees softly. "If... I gave you the best of myself that I could." Which means wearing the gloves.

Ianto's eyes fall to his lap. To the gloves in question, and he wrings them between his hands for a moment, before slipping them on.

"I'm sorry," he says, after a beat. "I didn't mean to... I do trust you." How many times has he put his life into John's hands at this point, after all. It's just that he's not so certain he trusts John with his own care, sometimes. Given his track record.

"Do you?" John prompts, because it didn't feel like an act of trust -- grabbing for his hand like that. It felt like a calculated act, one done expecting to catch him out.

He doesn't doubt that Ianto is sorry, and he doesn't doubt that he regrets doing it now he's been caught and chastised, but he isn't convinced he didn't mean to and he isn't convinced he wouldn't do it again given the right circumstances.

Ianto isn't stupid. He'd known exactly what he was doing, and he'd done it for a reason.

Ianto narrows his eyes at the other man’s continued provoking, his expression pinching slightly at the thought of another argument. Back and forth, over and over. He feels as though there’s no defending himself.

“Yes, John,” he replies, his words perhaps sharper than he intends but he cannot help feeling a little defensive in turn. “As a matter of fact, I do. I trust you as a man. I trust you as a friend. And I trust you as... Whatever we still have between us.”

He presses his lips together tightly before forcing himself to continue, “But do I question the truth you give me when it comes to yourself? Do I question your judgment about your own limits? Then maybe yes, I do a bit.” He had watched him die once before, after all.

At least he's honest, John supposes, but he doesn't have to like it. He slides his eyes away for a moment and swallows down a wave of irritation, pulls himself together by force.

"Well, are you gonna clean up my arm or not?"

He assumes yes, so they may as well get on with it.

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