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[ ACTIVE / SEMI-OPEN ]

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 --"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Yes. Of course the answer is yes, though Ianto doesn’t reply aloud. Instead motioning his assent and gesturing towards the other man to indicate he is intending to continue. Giving him the opportunity to refuse — that no, in fact, he’s had enough of Ianto’s help, his arm be damned — before he reaches forward to continue his work.

And this time, no. He cannot feel the other man’s discomfort or pain. He won’t be able to tell how nauseous he is or whether he will need a break before he passes out or not. He’s going to have to rely on John to communicate all that to him. Or not, he supposes, which will only prove his point.

He begins with the cloth. Washing the wound as best he can while keeping his arm as steady as he can. Though in the end he does need to get out the tweezers for some things. Picking bits of dirt, fiber, and god knows what else out of the open wound. The act alone makes him feel a bit queasy. But he refuses to admit it aloud. If he had to do this with no gloves, no protection from this ridiculous power that the Natha decided to give him, he would. For John.

It's easier for John this way, too. Easier for John to feel comfortable with guiding Ianto when he isn't conscious that the man might be able to read his every little feeling. John Sheppard is a man with a hundred invisible lines in the sand, some easier to feel out than others, and as much as he may trust Ianto right now things are still too delicate.

So he talks Ianto calmly through cleaning his wound, reassuring him that it's good that it starts bleeding more -- that it needs to flush itself clean and bleeding will do that as much as the water will. He talks him through applying a dressing properly, with feeling his arm to see if he can tell if it's a fracture or a true break.

John feels a wave of pain and nausea as Ianto does this, and closes his eyes for a second against it but tells Ianto to carry on -- he can handle it but he just needs a minute.

He does handle it, but he drinks an entire glass of cold water afterwards and spends a few seconds breathing slowly.

They splint it as best they can, and John picks at the rest of his bread before retreating to lay down on the bed. He feels overheated, and sore, and exhausted and still a little dizzy.

"Did they say how long this stuff lasts?" he mumbles. Then, realising Ianto may be unable to read minds: "the painkillers."

Will he wake up in pain? If so, he wants to be ready for that.

Ianto feels exhausted himself. Even though he had not been injured himself, even though he could not feel John’s emotions through the gloves, he could tell when the other man was hurting. Going through the motions of making him bleed, of feeling along his arm to understand the nature of the break, dressing and bracing the wound and the arm both. It had been a lot. Not that Ianto isn’t glad that he could be there to help the other man, but his hands are shaking at the end of it all, and he certainly doesn’t feel like finishing his broth himself.

Glancing up at John where he had lay down from where he had been cleaning up, Ianto considers the question. How long does the drug last? How long has it been? Ianto glances down at his wristwatch, doing some quick mental math before he replies.

“You’ve got 3 hours before you should really take much more,” he says, quietly making his way over to where John is lying before tentatively taking a seat on the edge of his bed. Frowning down at him for a moment longer before gently setting a hand on his shoulder to ask, “Do you think you’ll be able to get some rest in the meantime?”

"I can try," John allows, because he can't exactly promise if he'll manage it or not. He's tired, sure, but he's also uncomfortable. His arm means he can pretty much only sleep on his back, where John normally sleeps on his side. He sighs and sits up again, pushing up with his good arm then leaning to begin an attempt to undo the laces of his boots one-handed.

"You should get some rest too," he continues, "can't nursemaid me if you're exhausted."

Since he suspects Ianto is more likely to do it for John's sake than for his own.

He watches John struggling with his boot laces, wondering if he would appreciate the help or whether he's had just about as much help as he can stand at this point.

"Yeah, maybe," he agrees tiredly. Rubbing a hand over his face and glancing across at the other bed. The bed that John would probably appreciate if he moved over to instead. Had that been a hint, for that matter. He looks back to the other man's struggles before making up his mind and slipping off the edge of the bed to crouch before him. Gently brushing John's hand out of the way so he can tackle the laces himself.

"Here. Let's get you settled first."

He makes a vague sound of protest, but John leans back anyway and lets Ianto take over -- watching him undo his laces with a sigh. He doesn't much like it, but it's quicker and he's tired.

"Just so you know," he grumbles. "This is not a kink. I'm not into being nursed, I'm a bad patient."

Spoken like a man with extensive experience being nursed. He's not actually the worst possible patient, but John gets restless easily. He doesn't like staying still and doing nothing.

Ianto quirks an eyebrow at John's words, refraining from pointing out that he doesn't need telling that the other man's a bad patient. He's pretty much worked that out all on his own at this point.

"Well," he replies. "I suppose that I'll just volunteer myself to be mauled next time. Then we can find out what sort of patient I am instead, shall we?"

He throws a glance up at the other man with his words before tugging off John's first boot and reaching for the second.

"You're a bad patient too," John points out, although admittedly maybe not as bad. John isn't sure. He'd like to think he can be reasonable but he supposes it depends on the situation. He can definitely be unreasonable too given the chance.

He flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling in an unfocused, foggy sort of way.

"I guess we deserve each other."

It stings, the way he says it, and Ianto supposes he's grateful that John isn't looking at him, so that he doesn't see the blow it lands on his face. Lowering his eyes to his hands as they work on John's second boot, quiet as he finishes loosening the laces and pulls it off. Setting it aside with the other before pushing himself to stand and cross the room to the second bed.

I guess we deserve each other.

Do they deserve this, he wonders. Deserve to keep hurting each other. He had been happy, before. Or as close as he has been in a long time. The thought of it now makes him want to cry.

Sinking down on the edge of his bed, he moves to remove his own boots instead.

"Yes, well. Thanks for that vote of confidence," he replies, tossing his boots haphazardly to the side. It's easier to pretend like it doesn't matter than to admit that it does. "Are you going to lie down in that bed properly or should I be looking to hire someone to carry you out of here tomorrow instead?"

"You wouldn't carry me yourself?" Is John's reply, implying that no he doesn't feel like moving to get into the bed properly. Not yet, anyway. "I'd carry you," he points out. He would, although the arm is likely to be a problem in that regard at the moment. He could strap Ianto to him again, or something. He'd figure it out. It's all small print anyway.

Ianto raises an eyebrow at John's question, sitting up to glance at his prone form where it lies sprawled across the other bed.

"Of course I would," he replies. "Or at least I'd do my best to try. It's a long walk through that forest. At least it was for me, at any rate. You've been giving me the impression you've had just about all the help from me that you can stand, though." What with this vein of conversation he's been meandering down.

All the help he can stand?

John makes a face at the ceiling, squirms to try and work a little further up the bed.

"That's not true," he grumbles. It's not that he doesn't want Ianto's help. It's not that. John just... He doesn't want to hurt him. He doesn't want to hurt himself. He just... he needs a little space, that's all, and Ianto -- Ianto isn't great at giving space.

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