May 22nd, 2020
|09:40 pm - RP Disclaimer|
I created this journal for role-playing purposes only. I'm not Ianto Jones (because he isn't real, but psst, don't tell anyone), nor am I Gareth David-Lloyd. Ianto Jones belongs to the BBC, GDL belongs to himself. I make no money with this RPG, nor do I gain any other benefit from this. I mean no harm and I don't mean to insult the actor, the BBC or the reader. My writing is a work of fiction.
August 1st, 2009
|04:00 pm - A very rude awakening|
Who: Ianto Jones
What: sleeping - well, sort of
Where: his bedroom
When: around 2.30 AM
It was dark when Ianto woke up, the darkness of night painting the walls of his bedroom a dark grey. Confused and still half-asleep he wondered what had awoken him. Perhaps, he reckoned drowsily, it had been a nightmare. They didn't plague him as often any more as they once had, but they were still occupying his sleep more often than not. He was just about to nod off again when a sudden stab of pain travelled from the back of his neck up to his head, pounding viciously along his skull until the ache settled firmly between his eyes.
Groaning at the sudden fierce agony, Ianto slapped an arm over his eyes and muttered a pained 'bloody hell' under his breath. A migraine. Brilliant. The last time he had had one of those was after the Brecon Beacons and then Owen's pain meds had taken the edge off the pain almost immediately. But now, confined to his own bed and not to the med bay at the Hub, Ianto had nothing but his own inventiveness and a strip of weak paracetamol to rely on.
Before he could even contemplate stumbling out of bed to make it to the bathroom, a wave of nausea rolled over him like a steamroller and he groaned again, louder this time. Whatever the hell it was that had suddenly befallen him, it certainly wasn't a normal headache.
Curling up like a babe in the womb, Ianto clumsily pulled the duvet over his head. He pressed his hands against his eyes and breathed loudly - in-out, in-out - while brightness flashed in front of his eyes like a rapid succession of lightning in a thunderstorm and that alone was enough to make cold sweat run down his face.
Jack. He needed Jack. It was the only coherent thought that managed to fight its way through the haze of misery.
Swiping the duvet off again, Ianto blindly grabbed for his mobile phone on the bedside table. His hand trembled, so much so that he nearly dropped it again, but at last he got a proper grip on it. Dialling proved to be quite the ordeal, as the light of the screen made his head feel like it was getting pierced from every which way with a whole array of knives and swords. He whimpered under his breath, small and weak, eyes watering while his thumb sought out the set of numbers. He was at the last digit when everything went black for a just a single moment. Ianto detachedly wondered if he had fainted, then nearly snorted: of course he hadn't, or he wouldn't wonder about that, right? Gingerly, as to not set off another bout of teeth-grinding pain, he opened first one eye, then the other. His head felt normal, if slightly fuzzy, like he had drunk a nightcap before bed, and the sensation in his stomach had calmed to a vague hint of queasiness. Ianto frowned, confused, and dropped his phone on the nightstand again, his eyes wide and worried as they stared at the single moon ray that decorated the ceiling.
He wouldn't sleep again that night.