[Torchwood/Arrow] (PG)
Author's Note: Written for 
fic_promptly's Arrow/Torchwood, Malcolm Merlyn (Jack Harkness), new clothes to fit a new alias
Ages of defending the earth and barely getting any thanks for it. Much as he reveled in the thrill of the good fight, it wore him down: he had gotten used to his work going unrecognized, but that could last for only so long. A few more hundred years like this, of crisscrossing the face of the earth for a Torchwood that no longer existed, and he knew he would snap, even someone as resilient as he.
And no cure for his state as a self-described "complicated space-time event" seemed ready to present itself. Not even the Doctor, the one who had gotten him into this state, had any answers to his questions.
Enough was enough, and he left that life behind: he had enough money accumulated in several Swiss accounts to invest in several companies, building up his identity as the scion of an old money family by the name of Merlyn, a nod to the King Arthur mythos that had originated in Wales. After a generation, he reinvented himself as the son of that scion, keeping the business in the family, building off his "father's" contacts. He had done that numerous times, covering his tracks to former lovers surprised to see him looking so good after so many years, but now this claim would serve a more serious purpose.
But before he could do that, he had to clear up one last thing, one last trace of the man who called himself Jack Harkness, a name that had never belonged to him.
And so, one night, he headed out into the Pacific, knots upon knots off shore, putting Starling City behind him, with not even a crewman along to witness what he had to do.
In the darkest hour just before daybreak, he opened the box one last time, to add more weight to the container and to have one last look at the uniform he had worn for the better part of the last three thousand years. Several blue and grey Oxford shorts, several pairs of black and grey and brown twill trousers and a couple pairs of braces. The grey blue greatcoat neatly folded on top of the lot. His hand went to his wrist, and he snapped open the strap of his vortex manipulator, then dropped it into the box. "Goodbye, Jack Harkness," he said, dropping the lid shut and locking the box. Wrapping a length of chain around the box, he dragged it up to the deck and toward the bulwarks on the port side. Kneeing it up, he tipped it over the side with a splash. The box bubbled, then sank between the surface.
Malcolm Merlyn stepped away from the side of the boat and back into the wheelhouse. The three piece suits he had started to wear would fit his shoulders more easily now that his old self had passed at last...
fic_promptly's Arrow/Torchwood, Malcolm Merlyn (Jack Harkness), new clothes to fit a new alias
Ages of defending the earth and barely getting any thanks for it. Much as he reveled in the thrill of the good fight, it wore him down: he had gotten used to his work going unrecognized, but that could last for only so long. A few more hundred years like this, of crisscrossing the face of the earth for a Torchwood that no longer existed, and he knew he would snap, even someone as resilient as he.
And no cure for his state as a self-described "complicated space-time event" seemed ready to present itself. Not even the Doctor, the one who had gotten him into this state, had any answers to his questions.
Enough was enough, and he left that life behind: he had enough money accumulated in several Swiss accounts to invest in several companies, building up his identity as the scion of an old money family by the name of Merlyn, a nod to the King Arthur mythos that had originated in Wales. After a generation, he reinvented himself as the son of that scion, keeping the business in the family, building off his "father's" contacts. He had done that numerous times, covering his tracks to former lovers surprised to see him looking so good after so many years, but now this claim would serve a more serious purpose.
But before he could do that, he had to clear up one last thing, one last trace of the man who called himself Jack Harkness, a name that had never belonged to him.
And so, one night, he headed out into the Pacific, knots upon knots off shore, putting Starling City behind him, with not even a crewman along to witness what he had to do.
In the darkest hour just before daybreak, he opened the box one last time, to add more weight to the container and to have one last look at the uniform he had worn for the better part of the last three thousand years. Several blue and grey Oxford shorts, several pairs of black and grey and brown twill trousers and a couple pairs of braces. The grey blue greatcoat neatly folded on top of the lot. His hand went to his wrist, and he snapped open the strap of his vortex manipulator, then dropped it into the box. "Goodbye, Jack Harkness," he said, dropping the lid shut and locking the box. Wrapping a length of chain around the box, he dragged it up to the deck and toward the bulwarks on the port side. Kneeing it up, he tipped it over the side with a splash. The box bubbled, then sank between the surface.
Malcolm Merlyn stepped away from the side of the boat and back into the wheelhouse. The three piece suits he had started to wear would fit his shoulders more easily now that his old self had passed at last...