(no subject)
I was a bad girl this evening; instead of NanoWriMo, I wrote this:
(And I am totally blaming Dragonwrangler -- Again)
“I remember you,” the black haired boy said abruptly, looking across the the table at Jack. “You were at the hospital when Ryou-kun was so sick with pneumonia.” Jack leaned back a little, and studied the younger Kaiba brother intently, while the members of Torchwood wondered. If the boy remembered Jack's presence from -- what, five years ago?-- some of the implications were a bit disturbing; they might need to re-assess the current retcon formula. Retcon had its drawbacks: used too frequently or in too strong dosage it could cause paranoid psychosis; or it could be the boy fell into that minuscule percentage of the population which was resistant to the amnesia drug.
“Yes,” Jack finally replied, with a quick side glance at the pale haired youth who claimed to be Jack's nephew. “I was; and I've wanted for a long time to thank you properly, master Mokuba, for your kindness in conversing and reassuring a stranger during your own time of emotional stress.” Ryou gave them both a questioning look and Jack addressed him next. “It was obvious from our brief conversation that this young man was worried sick about you, bach; what he told me let me come back to Cardiff later that day easier in my mind about the state of your health and continued well-being. Between him and yon brooding dragon master,” this with a nod at the brunette, who scowled and gave a sort of 'hmph' noise, “I was assured that you would have three most important elements for a full and speedy recovery - good doctors, caring friends, and family.” He caught and held Kaiba's gaze, blue to blue, and said again, with absolute sincerity, “Thank you.”
The younger man responded with a curt nod of acknowledgment, then went back to ignoring the hustle bustle of the pub around them. Ryou turned pink with embarrassment. “Uncle,” he protested. Jack chuckled and reached around to ruffle the silver-white hair of his long absent relative.
“Okay, now, that's the thing,” Mickey commented. “I don't see it, you and him. I mean, look at you two.” Gwen, Ianto and Andy all obliged; Ryou looked like he wanted to slip under the bench to escape the unwanted attention. “The hair, the eyes... you know?”
Jack's expression held a trace of wistfulness. “Estelle,” he said, seemingly apropos of nothing. “She had brown eyes, you know. Genetically speaking, brown tends to be dominant over blue. They've all had Estelle's eyes: Ger Daffydd, Gwynn, Ryou, Amane....” he trailed off, then brought himself back to the here and now by tugging playfully on a stray lock of Ryou's hair. “The hair I'll grant you, Micky Mutt. I hate to say it, but I think the hair must be Leticia's doing.”
“TouZouku-Ou.”
Heads around the table swiveled to stare at the unexpected contributor to the conversation, who smirked. Jack looked gobsmacked.
“The Egyptian?” he responded dubiously.
”Who?”
“Thief King Bakura,” Ryou explained without really doing so. “Seto-kun, are you serious? That was three thousand years ago; what is the likelihood of my actually being a descendant and carrying the 'white-hair gene or whatever--”
“Not very,” Jack interrupted, having recovered his composure in record time, “but barely within the realm of possibility. And when you consider the long history of overseas trade within the North African and Mediterranean area especially with the Beaker people coming up through Spain, France and into Britain even before the Romans...”
“A more likely scenario than descendants of the Tomb Robber somehow making their way across the Asian continent to Japan during the intervening centuries,” Seto pointed out.
“Stranger things have happened,” Jack argued affably, “but I'll concede. Are you all right with that, cariad?” he asked, turning to the white-haired scion of the ages.
“Actually, I... I think so. I know you didn't get a very good impression of him, Uncle Jami- Jack, but we did get along quite well, once he stopped trying to kill most of my friends.”
“Ummm, anyone else thinking this is the freakiest table conversation--?”
“Sorry, Andy - this is Torchwood,” Gwen sympathized. “Not even close to 'freakiest', by a long shot.”
My NaNo count is pathetic.
(And I am totally blaming Dragonwrangler -- Again)
“I remember you,” the black haired boy said abruptly, looking across the the table at Jack. “You were at the hospital when Ryou-kun was so sick with pneumonia.” Jack leaned back a little, and studied the younger Kaiba brother intently, while the members of Torchwood wondered. If the boy remembered Jack's presence from -- what, five years ago?-- some of the implications were a bit disturbing; they might need to re-assess the current retcon formula. Retcon had its drawbacks: used too frequently or in too strong dosage it could cause paranoid psychosis; or it could be the boy fell into that minuscule percentage of the population which was resistant to the amnesia drug.
“Yes,” Jack finally replied, with a quick side glance at the pale haired youth who claimed to be Jack's nephew. “I was; and I've wanted for a long time to thank you properly, master Mokuba, for your kindness in conversing and reassuring a stranger during your own time of emotional stress.” Ryou gave them both a questioning look and Jack addressed him next. “It was obvious from our brief conversation that this young man was worried sick about you, bach; what he told me let me come back to Cardiff later that day easier in my mind about the state of your health and continued well-being. Between him and yon brooding dragon master,” this with a nod at the brunette, who scowled and gave a sort of 'hmph' noise, “I was assured that you would have three most important elements for a full and speedy recovery - good doctors, caring friends, and family.” He caught and held Kaiba's gaze, blue to blue, and said again, with absolute sincerity, “Thank you.”
The younger man responded with a curt nod of acknowledgment, then went back to ignoring the hustle bustle of the pub around them. Ryou turned pink with embarrassment. “Uncle,” he protested. Jack chuckled and reached around to ruffle the silver-white hair of his long absent relative.
“Okay, now, that's the thing,” Mickey commented. “I don't see it, you and him. I mean, look at you two.” Gwen, Ianto and Andy all obliged; Ryou looked like he wanted to slip under the bench to escape the unwanted attention. “The hair, the eyes... you know?”
Jack's expression held a trace of wistfulness. “Estelle,” he said, seemingly apropos of nothing. “She had brown eyes, you know. Genetically speaking, brown tends to be dominant over blue. They've all had Estelle's eyes: Ger Daffydd, Gwynn, Ryou, Amane....” he trailed off, then brought himself back to the here and now by tugging playfully on a stray lock of Ryou's hair. “The hair I'll grant you, Micky Mutt. I hate to say it, but I think the hair must be Leticia's doing.”
“TouZouku-Ou.”
Heads around the table swiveled to stare at the unexpected contributor to the conversation, who smirked. Jack looked gobsmacked.
“The Egyptian?” he responded dubiously.
”Who?”
“Thief King Bakura,” Ryou explained without really doing so. “Seto-kun, are you serious? That was three thousand years ago; what is the likelihood of my actually being a descendant and carrying the 'white-hair gene or whatever--”
“Not very,” Jack interrupted, having recovered his composure in record time, “but barely within the realm of possibility. And when you consider the long history of overseas trade within the North African and Mediterranean area especially with the Beaker people coming up through Spain, France and into Britain even before the Romans...”
“A more likely scenario than descendants of the Tomb Robber somehow making their way across the Asian continent to Japan during the intervening centuries,” Seto pointed out.
“Stranger things have happened,” Jack argued affably, “but I'll concede. Are you all right with that, cariad?” he asked, turning to the white-haired scion of the ages.
“Actually, I... I think so. I know you didn't get a very good impression of him, Uncle Jami- Jack, but we did get along quite well, once he stopped trying to kill most of my friends.”
“Ummm, anyone else thinking this is the freakiest table conversation--?”
“Sorry, Andy - this is Torchwood,” Gwen sympathized. “Not even close to 'freakiest', by a long shot.”
My NaNo count is pathetic.