Title: Blood Red Roses
Characters: Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones (Mentioned: Lisa Hallet, Owen Harper)
Pairings: Jack/Ianto (Past Ianto/Lisa)
Rating/Warnings: PG-13: some violent imagery, scenes of injury
Spoilers: None
Summary: Jack and Ianto have never really been ones for tradition; so, whilst other couples indulge in the giving of roses, it seems fitting that a different kind of red - blood red - dominates their Valentine's Day.

A/N: This was written for the Jack/Ianto Last Author Standing Community: Round One - Challenge Two. The challenge was to write a fiction, between 100 and 1000 words, using the prompt: "Valentine's Day".

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Blood Red Roses

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Water spewed from the nozzle in a fiery torrent, filling the room with a grey mist.

Jack angled the stream so that it ran over white flesh, catching at the flecks of dry, scabbed redness and carrying them down into the plughole. His fingers splayed outwards, keeping the figure upright on the edge of the bath; the gentle flinching told him that this was painful, but the mouth remained stoically zipped shut.

"You know," he shifted to the other side, his hand hovering beside the crimson-stained bandage protectively. "This really wasn't what I had in mind when I thought about getting you alone in the shower. Especially on Valentine's Day."

Ianto trembled as the water on his left side began to cool, deprived of the heat that was raining dangerously close to the dressing

"Don't think you're the only one who's…" he hissed suddenly as the hot water caught on the bandage, heat seeping through into his split skin. Jack quickly shifted his angle.

"Sorry."

"Don't be," a shiver shot up his spine, his fingers curling tightly around the rim of the bath. "I hate it anyway."

"What? Showers?"

"No. Valentine's Day," distaste flooded Ianto's features. "It's the single most unromantic time of the year. Absolute buzz kill. Whoever invented it should be shot."

Jack stifled a laugh.

"Ianto Jones, I do believe you're being blunt."

"I'm injured. I'm allowed to be," a tiny smile graced his lips as Jack shot him a grin, the look lingering momentarily before the older man set back to work.

"Anyway," Ianto continued. "I never could get my head 'round all that romance stuff. Lisa always used to say: what's the point of being romantic if you're being forced into it? She wanted me to show her in my own way, rather than forcing myself to be something I'm not because some guy at a card factory decided I had to."

A sad smile danced on Jack's lips as he rubbed his hand gently on Ianto's back, carefully, tenderly extricating the last remnants of blood from his white skin.

"Yeah, well, you didn't let her down there," his hand roved in reassuring circles as Ianto closed his eyes. "She'd have been proud."

"Maybe," Ianto's head suddenly dropped, his hand scraping across his eyes tiredly. "Sorry. Those painkillers Owen gave me must have been stronger than I thought. D'you mind telling me to shut up if I start babbling again?"

Jack switched off the shower, slotting it into its holder before wrapping a towel tightly around Ianto's shoulders.

"I can't make that promise. I quite like you like this," he ignored Ianto's glare, moving his hands swiftly over the soft fabric to dry the skin beneath before the cold could break through.

"Right then," he pulled the towel away with a flourish, dropping it to the floor before shoving a pair of hastily folded pyjamas into Ianto's hands. "Bed. Now."

Ianto rolled his eyes, wincing as he hauled himself into a standing position.

"How can I resist such a subtle seduction?"

Jack watched as Ianto slowly made his way forward, his fingers curling protectively around the edge of the bandage as he stumbled slightly. Jack repressed the urge to help; he knew that Ianto would want to do it by himself, to prove that he wasn't some damsel in distress, to prove that he was capable…

And to prove to Jack that he was okay.

It still hurt, though, watching him as he struggled with the pyjamas, pulling them over his head and wincing every time the movement tugged at his lacerated flesh. The knowledge that he was alive this time, thanks to good timing and some quick thinking by Owen, but next time…

"Next time," he shot a firm look in Ianto's direction as the younger man crawled beneath the bed sheets. "You leave it to me."

Ianto's eyes flashed, something dangerous rearing out of the blue sea of his irises.

"It was going to kill you."

"I'll come back. You won't."

"I can't just let you die."

"It doesn't matter if I die."

"It matters to me!"

Ianto jerked suddenly, hand covering his wound as his face contorted. Jack was there in a flash, kicking his boots to the side before crawling onto the bed beside him.

"You okay?"

"M'fine," Ianto relaxed slightly, his hand still brushing lightly against the bandage. "Owen said it'd twinge for a few days."

Jack smiled in a relief, reaching out to tenderly finger the edge of the dressing.

"You should get some sleep."

Ianto nodded, his fingers closing around Jack's as the older man tried to pull away.

"Stay?" he looked up through heavy eyelids, a tiny shred of humour stirring amongst the myriad of other emotions. "And I promise I'm only saying that because I'm drugged to my eyeballs."

So Jack stayed. How could he not? And later, as he carded his fingers tenderly through Ianto's hair, it struck him how strange, yet fitting, today had been.

Ianto: injured, on Valentine's Day, saving him from an alien intent on tearing out his heart. The mingling of their blood on the grubby floor, crimson on crimson – a macabre twist on the exchange of roses.

But, also, the fire in Ianto's eyes as he realised what the creature was going to do; the way he had shucked his gun to the side, gripping at alien flesh with his bare hands.

And the words he swore he'd heard as Ianto tugged back the savage claws from his chest.

Not yours. Mine.

A tiny smile tugged at Jack's lips as the sleeping figure shifted on his now healed chest.

"You know?" he brushed a lock of hair behind Ianto's ear. "You're more romantic than you think you are."

He was probably right, too. But Jack didn't say that. Not now. There would be other Valentine's Days; other chances to acknowledge those ever-surfacing, terrifyingly familiar feelings.

Jack had to believe that.

It was the only way he could survive.

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Fin

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I actually don't know how, but this fiction actually won this round of the competition. I have to thank everyone who voted, as well as everyone who is taking part. I had so much fun reading everyone's through - they were magnificent entries, all of them, and some of them entered the realms of exquisite. I really don't feel I deserved to win over them.

Thank you to everyone for reading.