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The Hub was never quiet, not even on a good day. The constant hum of machinery, the drip of water from some unseen pipe, and the occasional squawk of Myfanwy circling overhead ensured that silence was a rare commodity. But today, the usual cacophony was punctuated by something new: a wet, miserable sniff that echoed through the cavernous space like a foghorn.
Ianto Jones was sick.
Not just a little under the weather, mind you. This wasn’t a polite cough or a discreet sneeze that could be brushed off with a “No, really, I’m fine.” This was a full-blown, red-nosed, tissue-strewn disaster of a cold, and Ianto was making sure everyone knew it.
“Gwen,” he snapped from behind the coffee machine, his voice nasal and thick with congestion. “If you’re going to leave your bloody takeaway containers on the counter, at least have the decency to throw them out yourself. I’m not your maid.”
Gwen, mid-bite of a sandwich she’d scavenged from the fridge, froze. “I—sorry, Ianto. I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t,” he interrupted, slamming a mug down with more force than necessary. The clatter made Tosh flinch at her workstation. “And Tosh, could you please stop tapping your pen? It’s like a jackhammer in my skull.”
Tosh blinked, her pen hovering mid-air. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”
Ianto didn’t respond, just turned back to the coffee machine, muttering something unintelligible under his breath that sounded suspiciously like Welsh profanity. A wad of tissues was clutched in one hand, and he blew his nose with a noise that could’ve woken the dead—or at least summoned a Weevil from the vaults.
Owen, sprawled in his chair with his feet up on the autopsy table, smirked. “Oi, Tea Boy, you sound like a walrus with a sinus infection. Maybe you should take the day off before you infect us all with whatever plague you’ve picked up.”
Ianto shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel. “Maybe you should take your feet off the table before I disinfect it with you still on it.”
Owen snorted but didn’t move. “Touchy, aren’t we? What’s next, you gonna cry because your nose is runny?”
“I’ll cry when you stop being a prat, which means I’ll be waiting a long time,” Ianto retorted, then promptly dissolved into a coughing fit that sounded like he was trying to expel a lung.
Jack Harkness, perched on the railing overlooking the Hub, had been watching this unfold with a mixture of amusement and concern. He’d seen Ianto in all sorts of states—calm under pressure, furious at alien invaders, even heartbroken—but this was a new level of misery. The man was a walking biohazard, and his usual dry wit had sharpened into something downright vicious.
“Alright, team,” Jack called, clapping his hands as he descended the stairs. “Let’s not poke the bear—or the Welshman with a cold—any more than we have to. Ianto, why don’t you sit down for a bit?”
Ianto turned on him, eyes narrowed. “Oh, brilliant. Now you’re treating me like an invalid. I’m perfectly capable of doing my job, Jack, even if the rest of you can’t manage yours without leaving a trail of chaos behind.”
Jack raised his hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, I’m just saying you look like you could use a break. You’re pale, you’re sweaty, and you sound like you’re auditioning for a horror movie.”
“I’m fine,” Ianto insisted, though the effect was ruined when he had to pause to sneeze violently into his elbow. The sound reverberated off the walls, and Myfanwy let out an indignant screech from above.
“Bless you,” Gwen said automatically.
“Don’t,” Ianto snapped. “I don’t need your pity.”
Gwen exchanged a look with Tosh, who mouthed, *What’s his problem?* Gwen just shrugged helplessly.
Jack, however, wasn’t deterred. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Ianto, come on. You’re miserable. Let me take care of you for once.”
Ianto’s scowl deepened, but there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes—exhaustion, maybe, or gratitude he wasn’t ready to admit. “I don’t need coddling,” he muttered, but his resolve was clearly waning as another coughing fit wracked his frame.
Jack didn’t push further, just watched as Ianto shuffled over to the sofa in the corner of the Hub, collapsing onto it with a groan. The tissues in his hand were a crumpled mess, and he tossed them onto the coffee table with a disgusted noise.
“See?” Owen called from across the room. “Even Captain America over there knows you’re a wreck. Stay there and stop breathing your germs on us.”
“Owen,” Jack warned, his tone sharp. “Enough.”
Owen rolled his eyes but shut up, turning back to his computer with a muttered, “Bloody drama queen.”
The Hub settled into an uneasy rhythm after that. Tosh returned to her scans of a mysterious energy spike in Splott, Gwen sorted through incident reports, and Owen pretended to work while secretly playing some sort of game on his screen. Ianto, meanwhile, stayed on the sofa, his head tipped back and his eyes closed, though he occasionally muttered complaints about the temperature, the noise, or the general incompetence of the human race.
Jack kept an eye on him from his office, pretending to review files but mostly watching Ianto through the glass. The man was stubborn as hell—Jack had always admired that—but right now, it was working against him. He needed rest, not a war with his own immune system and the team.
After about an hour, Jack decided enough was enough. He grabbed a blanket from the stash they kept for late nights and a mug of tea—properly brewed, not the instant rubbish Owen favored—and headed down to the sofa.
Ianto cracked one eye open as Jack approached. “What now?” he croaked.
“Peace offering,” Jack said, holding up the tea. “And a blanket, because you’re shivering.”
“I’m not—” Ianto started, but a shudder ran through him, cutting off his protest. He sighed, defeated. “Fine. But if you say ‘I told you so,’ I’ll pour that tea on you.”
Jack grinned. “Deal.” He set the mug on the table and draped the blanket over Ianto, who didn’t resist but did grumble something about being “smothered.” Jack ignored it, sitting down beside him and patting his own shoulder. “Come on. You look like you’re about to keel over. Lean on me.”
Ianto glared at him, but the fight was draining out of him fast. “I’m not a child, Jack.”
“Never said you were. But even the mighty Ianto Jones can use a shoulder every now and then.”
There was a long pause, during which Ianto seemed to weigh his options. Finally, with a huff that turned into another cough, he shifted closer and let his head drop onto Jack’s shoulder. His hair was damp with sweat, and his breathing was ragged, but he relaxed almost instantly against Jack’s warmth.
“See?” Jack murmured, keeping his voice low. “Not so bad.”
“Shut up,” Ianto mumbled, but there was no venom in it. His eyes fluttered shut, and within minutes, his breathing evened out—not quite steady, thanks to the congestion, but close enough to sleep.
Jack stayed still, careful not to jostle him. He could feel the heat radiating off Ianto, the faint tremor of a fever, and it stirred something protective in him. Ianto was always the one holding things together—coffee, files, the team itself—but right now, he was vulnerable, and Jack wasn’t about to let him down.
The rest of the team noticed, of course. Gwen caught Jack’s eye and gave him a small, approving nod. Tosh smiled softly before turning back to her screens. Even Owen, for all his snark, didn’t comment, though Jack suspected he’d have plenty to say later.
Time passed—maybe an hour, maybe two. The Hub’s usual chaos simmered down, and Jack let himself relax, one arm resting lightly around Ianto’s shoulders. He could hear the faint wheeze in Ianto’s breath, the occasional sniffle, and it made him ache in a way he didn’t often let himself feel. Immortality had its perks, but watching the people he cared about suffer, even from something as mundane as a cold, was a reminder of how fragile they were.
Ianto stirred eventually, shifting against Jack’s shoulder with a groan. “How long was I out?” he rasped, blinking blearily.
“Long enough,” Jack said. “Feel any better?”
Ianto considered it, then grimaced. “Marginally. My head still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool.”
“Progress,” Jack said cheerfully. “Want some more tea? Or I could break out the good stuff—medicinal whiskey.”
Ianto snorted, which turned into a cough. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Getting me drunk while I’m sick.”
“Only if it’d make you smile,” Jack teased, and to his surprise, Ianto’s lips twitched upward—just a little, but it was something.
“Don’t push your luck,” Ianto warned, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he settled back against Jack, closing his eyes again. “And don’t think this means I’m forgiving Gwen for the takeaway containers.”
Jack chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The Hub carried on around them, a strange little family bound by danger and dysfunction. Ianto’s cold would pass, his temper would cool, and they’d all be back to saving the world—or at least Cardiff—soon enough. But for now, Jack was content to sit there, offering what comfort he could, while Ianto rested against him, sniffling and stubborn to the end.