O Brother...
Title: O Brother...
Author: Sara Ellison
Fandom: Torchwood/Buffy
Pairing: Hartcest (? You'll see...)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Nothing, I'm making this shit up as I go. If you know Buffy, it'll make more sense, but it's not spoilery if you don't.
Disclaimer: Lies, all lies!
Warnings: Incest. Twincest. Forthewincest. (Not actually any Wincest.)
Summary: John would have done anything for his brother, until Cecily came between them.
Author's notes: Crossposted from here. I'd decided these two were brothers before James Marsters said they'd totally bang each other...so, the incest is all his fault, really.
"I didn't realise that you wrote poetry." John handed the piece of paper back to his brother. It was messy, nearly illegible with crossings-out and corrections. Richard took it, red-faced. He fingered the sheet nervously. "I didn't realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry," John amended. There were times for tact; this wasn't one of them.
Richard scowled. "Don't be a twat," he muttered. "You're just saying that 'cause you're my brother."
"No," John said, "I'm saying this 'cause I'm your brother, and I love you--quit while you're behind. That has got to be the worst piece of pretentious rubbish I've ever read. Trust me, Dick, she's not worth this kind of humiliation." He really did have his brother's best interests at heart. If Dick read that piece of garbage to anyone else, he'd never be taken seriously again.
Richard crumpled the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. "We can use Cecily to get to old Mrs. Pratt," he protested. "This mission is important. A chameleon arch is dangerous enough in the wrong hands; with someone as senile as her, the whole timeline is at risk. God only knows how Anne Pratt got her hands on it in the first place."
"You're avoiding the issue," John pointed out. "We don't need Cecily. You want her. Don't use Time Agency business to make excuses for your dick, Dick."
"Stop calling me Dick," Richard protested. "And, fine, yeah, I like her, so sue me. Mrs. Pratt thought we were her son, anyway, and apparently William Pratt had a thing for Cecily. If we're going to play along, let her think we're him--"
"Works great, that," John interrupted, "the whole twins-pretending-to-be-one-person ruse, until she happens to see both of us at once. It's too risky, too complicated, involves far too many people, and is absolutely unnecessary. All we have to do is steal the bloody fobwatch and slip her some retcon. She'll forget she ever thought her dear dead son had come back to her."
Richard got that look on his face, the one that meant he was going to dig his heels in and not budge until he got his way. "Retcon is meant to be a last resort, not standard procedure," he pointed out, obnoxiously correct. "If she finds out I'm not William and it all goes south, then we can retcon her. Until then, let's try it my way, yeah?"
John threw up his hands in exasperation. Dick was being deliberately obtuse, he was sure of it. "It's like talking to a bloody brick wall," he scoffed. "Okay, Willy. You go woo Cecily with your bloody awful poetry, be a good son until it's time to disappear again, leave that old woman heartbroken--or retcon her after all, which you know you'll have to do eventually, so why go through this charade?"
Richard just cocked his head to the side and stared at John until he started to feel uncomfortable. "Why do you turn every name into a slang word for penis?" his brother asked.
"Because I can." It was a sign of affection, of course, didn't he realise that? John shrugged. "Look. I can't argue with you when you're thinking with your pecker. Go, be William the Bloody Prat if you want. Signal me when you've got the fobwatch, or, more likely, when you get in over your head and need to be rescued." He waved his wristband in his brother's face. "I'm going back to headquarters. That's where and when you'll find me."
His twin was still wearing that stubborn-mule expression. "Fine," he said. "See you in three thousand years."
Something twisted in the vicinity of John's heart. For all his bluster, he didn't want to leave angry. Time Agency work was dangerous; there was no telling if or when they'd see each other again. "Hey," he said, more gently than he'd spoken before. "Good luck with Cecily, yeah?" He reached out, meaning to clap Richard on the shoulder, but his hand landed softly and he just gave his shoulder a squeeze.
"Yeah," Richard said, softer as well, "thanks, mate." He leaned in to kiss John goodbye, as he had a thousand times before, whenever they parted. If the kiss lingered a little longer this time, soft press of lips half-open, it was only because John wanted to reassure his brother that he truly did wish him well. It was not, certainly, out of any sense of foreboding that this would be the last kiss, any more than he'd ever felt before when bidding his other half farewell.
When John teleported back to Agency headquarters, the director called him to his office. John's sense of unease grew steadily with each step. The door slid open at his approach; on the director's desk sat the fobwatch, wrapped carefully in a leather wriststrap.
John couldn't breathe. The director gestured for him to sit, but he couldn't move. "Your brother sent back the target," the director said, "and his vortex manipulator. He's deserted the Agency."
"No," John blurted, finding his voice. "He was coming back, he said he'd see me here again, there's some mistake. I'll go back for him, I'll get him, just let me bring him back, it's all a misunderstanding, you'll see--"
"John." The director's voice was firm, but not unkind. "It's too late. That timeline is locked, now. He knew what he was doing."
Something within John splintered, hairline cracks spiderwebbing out from his centre. "But he told me he'd come back," he murmured faintly, dazedly.
"Perhaps something happened to change his mind," the director suggested quietly. "I'm sorry for your loss, John."
His loss. What loss? His brother was still alive and well, three millennia ago, on the other side of a barrier John couldn't cross. The director was saying something about a new partner to replace Richard, Jack something or other. John didn't care. He felt vaguely like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. He laughed, humourlessly, and walked out of the director's office, leaving behind everything his brother had meant to him.
Author: Sara Ellison
Fandom: Torchwood/Buffy
Pairing: Hartcest (? You'll see...)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Nothing, I'm making this shit up as I go. If you know Buffy, it'll make more sense, but it's not spoilery if you don't.
Disclaimer: Lies, all lies!
Warnings: Incest. Twincest. Forthewincest. (Not actually any Wincest.)
Summary: John would have done anything for his brother, until Cecily came between them.
Author's notes: Crossposted from here. I'd decided these two were brothers before James Marsters said they'd totally bang each other...so, the incest is all his fault, really.
"I didn't realise that you wrote poetry." John handed the piece of paper back to his brother. It was messy, nearly illegible with crossings-out and corrections. Richard took it, red-faced. He fingered the sheet nervously. "I didn't realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry," John amended. There were times for tact; this wasn't one of them.
Richard scowled. "Don't be a twat," he muttered. "You're just saying that 'cause you're my brother."
"No," John said, "I'm saying this 'cause I'm your brother, and I love you--quit while you're behind. That has got to be the worst piece of pretentious rubbish I've ever read. Trust me, Dick, she's not worth this kind of humiliation." He really did have his brother's best interests at heart. If Dick read that piece of garbage to anyone else, he'd never be taken seriously again.
Richard crumpled the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. "We can use Cecily to get to old Mrs. Pratt," he protested. "This mission is important. A chameleon arch is dangerous enough in the wrong hands; with someone as senile as her, the whole timeline is at risk. God only knows how Anne Pratt got her hands on it in the first place."
"You're avoiding the issue," John pointed out. "We don't need Cecily. You want her. Don't use Time Agency business to make excuses for your dick, Dick."
"Stop calling me Dick," Richard protested. "And, fine, yeah, I like her, so sue me. Mrs. Pratt thought we were her son, anyway, and apparently William Pratt had a thing for Cecily. If we're going to play along, let her think we're him--"
"Works great, that," John interrupted, "the whole twins-pretending-to-be-one-person ruse, until she happens to see both of us at once. It's too risky, too complicated, involves far too many people, and is absolutely unnecessary. All we have to do is steal the bloody fobwatch and slip her some retcon. She'll forget she ever thought her dear dead son had come back to her."
Richard got that look on his face, the one that meant he was going to dig his heels in and not budge until he got his way. "Retcon is meant to be a last resort, not standard procedure," he pointed out, obnoxiously correct. "If she finds out I'm not William and it all goes south, then we can retcon her. Until then, let's try it my way, yeah?"
John threw up his hands in exasperation. Dick was being deliberately obtuse, he was sure of it. "It's like talking to a bloody brick wall," he scoffed. "Okay, Willy. You go woo Cecily with your bloody awful poetry, be a good son until it's time to disappear again, leave that old woman heartbroken--or retcon her after all, which you know you'll have to do eventually, so why go through this charade?"
Richard just cocked his head to the side and stared at John until he started to feel uncomfortable. "Why do you turn every name into a slang word for penis?" his brother asked.
"Because I can." It was a sign of affection, of course, didn't he realise that? John shrugged. "Look. I can't argue with you when you're thinking with your pecker. Go, be William the Bloody Prat if you want. Signal me when you've got the fobwatch, or, more likely, when you get in over your head and need to be rescued." He waved his wristband in his brother's face. "I'm going back to headquarters. That's where and when you'll find me."
His twin was still wearing that stubborn-mule expression. "Fine," he said. "See you in three thousand years."
Something twisted in the vicinity of John's heart. For all his bluster, he didn't want to leave angry. Time Agency work was dangerous; there was no telling if or when they'd see each other again. "Hey," he said, more gently than he'd spoken before. "Good luck with Cecily, yeah?" He reached out, meaning to clap Richard on the shoulder, but his hand landed softly and he just gave his shoulder a squeeze.
"Yeah," Richard said, softer as well, "thanks, mate." He leaned in to kiss John goodbye, as he had a thousand times before, whenever they parted. If the kiss lingered a little longer this time, soft press of lips half-open, it was only because John wanted to reassure his brother that he truly did wish him well. It was not, certainly, out of any sense of foreboding that this would be the last kiss, any more than he'd ever felt before when bidding his other half farewell.
When John teleported back to Agency headquarters, the director called him to his office. John's sense of unease grew steadily with each step. The door slid open at his approach; on the director's desk sat the fobwatch, wrapped carefully in a leather wriststrap.
John couldn't breathe. The director gestured for him to sit, but he couldn't move. "Your brother sent back the target," the director said, "and his vortex manipulator. He's deserted the Agency."
"No," John blurted, finding his voice. "He was coming back, he said he'd see me here again, there's some mistake. I'll go back for him, I'll get him, just let me bring him back, it's all a misunderstanding, you'll see--"
"John." The director's voice was firm, but not unkind. "It's too late. That timeline is locked, now. He knew what he was doing."
Something within John splintered, hairline cracks spiderwebbing out from his centre. "But he told me he'd come back," he murmured faintly, dazedly.
"Perhaps something happened to change his mind," the director suggested quietly. "I'm sorry for your loss, John."
His loss. What loss? His brother was still alive and well, three millennia ago, on the other side of a barrier John couldn't cross. The director was saying something about a new partner to replace Richard, Jack something or other. John didn't care. He felt vaguely like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. He laughed, humourlessly, and walked out of the director's office, leaving behind everything his brother had meant to him.