Merlin/TW: Once and Future (PG-13) 1/2
Title: Once and Future
Author: Mad Maudlin
Fandom: Merlin/Torchwood (with one tiny reference to Sanctuary in there)
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Jack/Ianto, Merlin/Jack
Rating: PG-13
Length: 11,300
Spoilers: General for series 1 of Merlin; for Torchwood, "Cyberwoman," "Something Borrowed" and "Exit Wounds"; for Dr. Who, "The Parting of the Ways," "Utopia" and "Journey's End."
Summary: Four times Merlin Emrys met Jack Harkness (and one time he met Jack Harkness)
A/N: Thanks to misscake for the beta!
Once and Future
by Mad Maudlin
27 A.D.
"Fill the grave."
486 A.D.
Merlin walked below the stout stone wall, trying to recapture the wonder at being further from Ealdor than he'd ever been. It was a better way to pass the time than thinking of all the ways he could kill Arthur and then hide the body. The journey to Camelot's western neighbors was not going well, no, but that was hardly Merlin's fault-well, not all of it. Vortigern had asked about the castle, it wasn't Merlin's problem if he didn't like the answer (and it was a bit rich for Arthur to be so worked up about someone else having a pair of dragons in his cellar-maybe he was jealous that he only had the one?) And what happened in Gwent was all Arthur's own fault, when the prat couldn't keep his hands to himself
Now they were camping at an abandoned fort on the Taff; it was an indefensible position, too easy for pirates from Hiberia or Brittany to make their way up the river, but this was where King Glywys had arranged to meet them with some percentage of his twenty-one sons. Merlin didn't know why they didn't just meet at Glywys's castle, unless he'd heard about what happened in Gwent and didn't want his sole daughter to be despoiled. In any case, the conditions were damp and chilly and had turned Arthur's mood even fouler, his tongue even sharper, and Merlin quickly figured out he needed to get out of the tent or run the risk of regicide.
He walked a little further away from the crumbling fort-the Romans built this, Arthur had said with something like awe, but the Romans had been gone for a hundred years and the walls were looking a bit worse for wear. Beyond it were trees and gentle hills, perfect for some aimless wandering. Merlin couldn't figure out what had gotten into Arthur lately, but it was getting harder and harder to bear. Maybe he just resented being sent around to other king's courts as a diplomatic envoy? He'd been fighting more often with his father, no longer content to follow Uther's orders but unable to disobey them, either; maybe the king had the same idea as Merlin, to separate himself from Arthur before they tore each other apart. But on the whole trip Arthur had been moody and distant, flinging himself at any girls and no small number of boys willing to share his bed, picking fights with any man and a few women who seemed willing to give him one. And sometimes he looked at Merlin with the strangest face, like he was doing sums in his head, only Merlin couldn't tell whether the answer meant sorcerer or something else...or what he even wanted it to mean...
Hello?
Merlin froze, and looked around very carefully. He was still within sight of the fort, though the screen of young trees meant no one at the fort could see him. It wasn't full dark yet, but the low clouds kept the wood in a shadowless murk, and except for some gamboling squirrels he couldn't see anything moving.
But the voice had come into his mind from below, deep below. Oh, gods, not another dragon, Merlin thought, but he also crouched low (as if that would help) and whispered, "Hello?"
Hello? You can hear me?
"Yeah," Merlin said. "Where are you?"
Down...very far down. The voice didn't feel like a dragon; there wasn't the same sense of size or strength to it, just age, and a tremendous weariness. Wow. You're the first person I've been able to contact like this since...hoo, since old Didius was around. And he thought I was a ghost.
"Are you?" Merlin asked. "A ghost, I mean."
The voice in his mind seemed to laugh bitterly. Have to die to become ghost, and I haven't managed that yet.
"Are you a dragon?" Merlin asked, to be sure.
Only between the sheets, or so I'm told. Merlin spluttered, and he thought the voice managed a laugh. Jeez, don't tell me you're a nun or something.
"I'm not!" Merlin said. "I'm a boy! I mean a man!" He didn't think he was particularly sheltered, either-between anatomy class with Gaius and mopping up after drunken knights, he'd had a lot of illusions shattered during his time in Camelot. But you just didn't say things like that!
Okay, boy-man, the voice said. Can you tell me what year it is?
"Erm...the twenty-fifth year of King Uther Pendragon?" Merlin hazarded.
Uth-seriously? The voice sounded surprised. What's that in anno Domini?
"I dunno, I'm not a Christian," Merlin said, but then remembered that Glywys was-rather tackily, if Arthur could be believed-and he'd dated all his correspondence the Roman way while arranging for this summit. "It's 1239 ad-urby-condita."
So that's...huh. Only the fifth century. The voice suddenly sounded painfully tired and lonely.
"So what's a Christian ghost dragon doing under a hill in Glywysing?" Merlin asked, trying to sound not at all bothered by this turn of events. (He was probably less bothered than he should be, but that just went to show he'd gotten used to a certain constant, low-level background weirdness in his life.)
The voice took the change of subject gracefully. I'm not a Christian or a dragon or a ghost, he repeated. I'm just...not from around these parts. Yet.
"Yet?"
Do you believe in time travel?
Merlin blinked, and settled himself more comfortably on the ground. "What's that mean?"
Like...traveling in time, the voice said. It seemed surprised to have to explain the idea. Like if you could go back to last week, or next year, or...or, say, the twenty-first century.
"Why would I want to do that?" Merlin asked.
Lots of reasons, the voice said. You could change things. Stop things from changing. Learn things you need to know. Find people you thought you'd lost.
Merlin thought of his absent dad, and Arthur's dead mother, and Will, and Tom, and Morgana's parents, and a long list of dead knights and murdered sorcerers. "I guess it might be useful," Merlin said. "Does that mean you're a sorcerer?"
Not exactly, the voice said. But I'm in the wrong century, and the only way back to the right one is to wait.
"You can wait for centuries?" Merlin asked.
'That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die,' the voice said solemnly. Then it laughed at him, as if it could see through the earth the face Merlin made. Kidding. That's just from an old story.
"Most stories used to be true," Merlin said; Gaius had told him that.
Well, I sincerely hope that story isn't, let's put it like that. The voice paused for a bit, seeming to consider Merlin from wherever it was-if it even had a body. What's your name, anyway?
"Merlin," he answered.
You're joking, the voice said, which was not a response Merlin was accustomed to hearing. Don't tell me you're the Merlin.
"Well...I mean, I don't know any others," Merlin said. "Well, except for Merlin the swineherd, but he died when I was a baby and my Mum always said she didn't name me after him, she just liked the name..." He realized he was babbling. "What's yours, then?"
Captain Jack Harkness, came the crisp answer, steady and certain, as if the name itself wanted to be known.
"Captain of what?"
Depends on the century, he answered. Royal Air Force, Torchwood Institute, Time Agency, the 401st Boeshane irregulars...
Merlin shook his head. "You're not making any sense."
I told you, I'm not from your century, Jack said. Hang around for five thousand years more and you might start to figure things out.
That was such a stupidly large number that Merlin rejected it out of hand. "How do I know you're even who you say you are?" he asked. "And what's so special about my name?"
As for the first question, you don't, Jack said. In fact, I'm kind of surprised you didn't run away screaming when you heard me. That's how most people usually react. Either that, or try to worship me, and that's just awkward.
Merlin shrugged. "I'm kind of used to strange things happening around me."
I know how that is, Jack said with gusto. As for your second question...let's just say most stories used to be true. Even when I was a boy, we knew all the stories about King Arthur and Merlin.
Something about the way Jack said it made Merlin's heart flutter, like he was standing on the edge of a deep lake being churned by wind, with unfathomable depths beneath him. But it was also a bit too much like the dragon's talk of destiny for him, and so he pushed the feeling down again. "At this rate, he'll be lucky if he makes it to be king," Merlin said instead.
Really? What's the matter, sword got stuck in the stone?
"What are you talking about?" Merlin asked, baffled.
Never mind. Some stories are clearly blatant falsehoods, Jack said. What is the trouble with Arthur?
"Why should I tell you?" Merlin asked. "You're just a...not-dead future ghost voice in the ground. You could be an enemy of Camelot for all I know."
Trust me when I say I couldn't care less about Camelot, Jack said. The only city that matters to me is the fort on the Taff.
It was funny, because until that point Merlin could've sworn they were both speaking perfectly intelligible Cumbrian, and not with the funny accents of this part of Albion, either. Which was not to say Jack's accent wasn't funny-he sort of sounded like a Mercian with a headcold-but he was easier to understand than Vortigern or his men or the messengers from Glywys. But for some reason, when he spoke about the fort (and it was a natty little fort, abandoned for three generations and left to crumble) there was more than just affection in his voice, there was a sort of double echo, so it sounded like he was also saying Cardiff.
Merlin shook his head, like the eerie feeling was water he could knock out of his ears. "If you don't care about Camelot, then what do you care about Arthur?" he asked, pleased that he'd turned Jack's argument around on itself.
I care about you, Jack said. More specifically, I care about having anybody to talk to, and since you're the first person in a very long time who's talked to me, I want to keep you around. I'd listen to you read a phone book as long as you talked to me.
"What's a phone book?"
Never mind.
Merlin thought about this. On one hand, it was ludicrous to spill out his heart to a disembodied voice he'd barely met; look at how well things with the Great Dragon had worked out. On the other hand, it would be weeks before they returned to Camelot, and back in the camp were loads of knights and squires and servants and Arthur, but nobody with whom Merlin could be completely and totally honest. "You don't mind talking, then?" he asked.
Merlin, right now I'm neither dead or alive, Jack said quietly. I can't breathe, I can't move, but there is a very cruel force in the universe that keeps me conscious anyway. If there was any way for you to find me without turning over half the meadow, I'd ask you to dig me up, but short of that I would very much like you to talk to me so I don't go completely batshit looney while I wait.
Well, when he put it like that...Merlin looked around, but aside from the faint firelight coming from inside the crumbled fort there was no sign of anyone around to overhear anything they shouldn't. He scooted over to the protruding roots of an old knotty oak tree and made himself comfortable. "Okay. So. Um, first of all, I feel like I should point out that this isn't a meadow."
Hey, I've been down here a long time.
"Just saying."
And then Merlin started to talk, and the more he talked the more he said, until he was spilling everything-about Arthur, about Uther, about himself. About the magic and the need to keep it secret, and the death of Gwen's father, and the manipulations of the dragon. About the ever-growing wedge between Arthur and Uther, and between Arthur and Merlin, because Arthur was a worthless, self-important prat who couldn't see past his own ego and he was being reckless and terrifying lately and Merlin didn't know what he saw in all the girls, much less the boys, because Arthur wasn't some Roman, he was Arthur, and Merlin wanted so desperately to just ask but of course Arthur wouldn't answer-see above re "prat"-and it wasn't like Merlin had any kind of moral high ground here to complain about keeping secrets.
Jack, as promised, listened to everything, and didn't interrupt except to ask the occasional clarifying question or, towards the end, to giggle. "Don't laugh, it's not funny," Merlin said, pulling his knees to his chest.
Actually, it's incredibly funny, Jack said. How long have you had this crush on him?
"I don't!" Merlin said. "And you seriously can't say things like that."
I can say whatever I want, since only you can hear me, Jack pointed out. And you so do.
"I don't...I don't." Merlin said. "And it's not true. And even if it was true, I couldn't...I mean...you're talking about the vice of the Romans!"
And here I thought the twentieth century was uptight, Jack sighed, an amazing trick for someone who claimed to be unable to breathe. Look, Merlin, whether you want to jump his body or not it's obvious you love Arthur to death. I'm underground and I can see it. So, since you love him and want him to be happy-which you do-then it's totally okay for you to go to him, as a friend, and ask what's eating him.
"He won't tell me," Merlin said, almost surprising himself with his own depth of bitterness. "I'm just a servant."
So who else is he gonna talk to? Me? Jack asked.
Merlin snorted at the thought of Arthur meeting the disembodied voice in the ground that spoke such wonderful nonsense. "Maybe you're right," he said.
Of course I am. I'm like six hundred years older than you.
"And how long of that have you been stuck in the ground?"
Jack chose to ignore this. The really important thing is, when are you going to tell Arthur about the magic?
"I can't," Merlin blurted.
Well, you can't keep it a secret forever, and it's not the kind of surprise you want to spring on somebody in mid-crisis, Jack pointed out. Plus, it's obviously bothering you.
"He'd hate me," Merlin insisted. "He was raised to hate magic, and Uther kills all the sorcerers he finds in Camelot."
But you're not in Camelot now, Jack pointed out. And it sounds like Arthur's doing such a good job imitating his father in all other ways...
Merlin knew this-had thought of it himself-but it was too much to dare hope, not when the risk was so great. "I've been keeping it from him for ages, though," he said. "How's he ever going to trust me again?"
Jack was silent for a while, and when he spoke again it was quiet and sad. I had...I have this friend, he said. And in the beginning, he kept some things from me, too.
"Bad things?" Merlin asked.
Seriously bad things.
"Was he a sorcerer?"
No, actually, he was keeping a homicidal robot in the cellar.
Merlin scowled at the tuft of grass he was beginning to think of as Jack's face. "You say these things like I understand what they mean."
Executive summary: monster bad, Jack said impatiently. My point is, he did a terrible thing, and at first I was so angry with him I couldn't see straight. All I could think of was how he'd betrayed us-betrayed me-and put a huge number of people in danger for stupid, selfish reasons. But afterwards, I realized he wasn't being stupid or selfish at all-he was still wrong, but it was because of love and hope and loyalty, and you can't fault a person for that. It took a little while to forgive each other, and things haven't been perfect, but...
Jack didn't finish the sentence. Merlin had noticed the pronouns, but he found it hard to get upset about it when Jack was speaking with such obvious emotion...though no more than Merlin had shown when he talked about Arthur. Great gods, he was really fucked, wasn't he? "This friend of yours," Merlin asked. "Is he the one you're waiting for?"
One of them, yeah, Jack said.
"And you're going to just hang out underground for five thousand years until then?" Merlin asked, slightly incredulous.
I suspect one day you will find that question ironic, Jack declared. And it's only two thousand years. Fifteen hundred, twenty-three years to go, actually.
"That's awful," Merlin said, and for a few moments his own problems felt very, very small.
It's penance for something, Jack said heavily. Don't feel too sorry for me.
Merlin didn't really know how to feel about any of this, about hard advice or small problems or a six-hundred-year-old disembodied voice from the future who didn't mind talking to him for a while. He looked around at the shadowy trees and cringed when he realized how late it had gotten. "Jack, I have to-I mean, people are going to notice I'm gone soon."
Just judging by his voice, Jack didn't seem too upset by the news. I understand. Duty calls. I'd carry on the conversation when you get back to the fort, but I never got great marks in Telepathy during Time Agency training.
"I...will pretend I know what that means," Merlin declared. "And...maybe I'll come back? I mean, we don't leave for Dumnonia for a couple of days."
I'd like that. Jack actually seems surprised at the offer. And hey, if things with Arthur get any better, maybe I can give you some tips for the next step.
"What next step?" Merlin asked.
You know, the whole 'vice of the Romans' you're so worried about, Jack said gleefully. Obviously, I can't just let the two of you go at it with no foreknowledge. You probably don't even know you have to lubricate--
"Leaving now!" Merlin declared, and walked back to the fort with his fingers in his ears, loudly humming the most virtuous songs that he knew.
XxXxX
The next evening, though, he was back at the hill again.
1898 A.D.
Jack had wide experience in exotic alcohols, distillations from the distant stars that drilled into your skull, hijacked your senses, made you truly euphoric and then left you sobbing in agony hours later until certain completely untrustworthy partners found you, rolled you into the recovery position, and stole your wallet.
Right now he was drinking whiskey. He loved whiskey.
"I'm gonna find him," he told the nearest humanoid shape, which walked away from him. "Jus' gotta be patient. I'm gonna find him, and the firs' thing I'm gonna do, I'm gonna kill him. And then I'm gonna punch him."
"Gotta dry out, first, mate," someone jeered, and in attempted to turn around and face his detractor Jack fell off his chair. There was a gentle ripple of laughter before the rest of the pub's residents got on with their own drinks.
Jack struggled to find his feet again, but the floor kept slipping away from him, and he let his head come to rest against the leg of his table. He would find the Doctor; he just had to be patient. He had all the time in the world now...
"Hey, friend, that's enough."
He opened one eye and managed to focus on a slim, masculine hand that was currently touching his shoulder. It was sticking out of a plain white shirt cuff, which was sticking out of a dark brown jacket sleeve, and anything further than that was currently apocryphal because Jack couldn't make his eyes focus enough and there was a lamp directly behind this guy's head. "Doctor?" he asked, hesitantly.
A chuckle. "I'm afraid my skills as a physician are a little out of practice," he said. "My name is Emrys, Captain Harkness, and I think you had better get off the floor now."
Emrys turned out to be tall and approximately the diameter of a broomstick, but he helped Jack to his feet with an ease that was as surprising as it was unfair. Jack found himself clinging to a total stranger's shoulder, torn between thinking hey, where are you taking me? and wow, you smell pretty good.
"I'm taking you somewhere to sleep this off," Emrys announced, as if he had read Jack's mind. "I've already settled your tab, so no worries there. You just have to stay on your feet long enough to get where we're going. Think you can do that, Jack?"
He could, but he didn't have to like it. "How d'you know my name?" he protested as Emrys herded him towards the door.
"Let's say we have a mutual friend who's told me a lot about you over the years," Emrys answered. Then added, "Though he never mentioned the face."
"'S a good face," Jack said. "I'm the Face of Boe."
"Sure you are."
"Rear of the Year, too."
Emrys lead him down the damp and chilly streets, past the gas lights that glimmered in the fine fog. Gas lights...he and Judith were supposed to see a thousand lights in New York City. Jack threw up in his mouth a little, and Emrys didn't seem to mind stopping to let him spit it out in a gutter.
Somewhere to sleep turned out to be a flophouse not far from the pub, identical to the hundreds of anonymous places Jack had collapsed in over the past few years, albeit on the cleaner end of the spectrum. Emrys deposited Jack on the narrow bed, where he waited for the room to stop moving while his savior puttered a bit. "Who's the friend?" he finally managed to ask.
"Mmm?"
"Our friend," Jack said. "Who is he? Who told you about me?"
A glass of dark liquid appeared in Jack's line of sight. "I've been informed that it's quite dangerous to allow information to cross a timeline," he said, which was of course no answer at all. "Drink up."
Jack got a grip on the glass with both hands but didn't drink. "What is it?"
Emrys shrugged. "Either it'll help your head or you'll make a really entertaining face, and either way I don't think you actually want to know what's in it."
"Fair enough." Jack had drunk more threatening-looking things for less, so he took a few deep breaths and tossed it back like his beloved whiskey. And by the time he was done gagging, his head really did feel clearer, so he couldn't be too angry at Emrys on the balance. Especially since he'd gone to the trouble of holding the basin for him.
"Now," Emrys said, shrugging off his coat to show that yes, he was totally a broomstick. "Care to explain what brought this on?"
"Our mutual friend didn't tell you that?" Jack asked, feeling grumpy. He peeled off his own jacket and waistcoat because they smelled like whiskey and bile.
"He told me I could probably find you here and now, falling out of one Cardiff pub or another-a habit you might want to break, by the way, because there were some suspicious-looking young women watching you tonight." Emrys poured water from the washstand into two fresh glasses and gave one to Jack, then seated himself in the room's one rickety chair. "So, go on, tell me about it."
"Why should I?" Jack asked. "I mean, thanks for helping me out and all, but I don't know you from Adam and I still don't entirely trust our mysterious mutual friend."
Emrys just smiled enigmatically; the expressed seemed to be pasted onto his face. Which was long and thin, in proportion to the rest of him, and not bad looking-high cheekbones, great eyes, some unfortunate ears that lent him both character and youthfulness. Those eyes were old and shuttered, though, which made it hard for Jack to guess the man's age. Something about him seemed familiar, like a word on the tip of his tongue-not really the face, probably, but the accent, which didn't sound quite like anything Jack had heard in any corner of Wales before. Back at the Time Agency-god, that seemed like so long ago-he'd heard of people getting premonitions, memories from somewhere further down their own knotted-up timelines, but he's never scored high enough in Telepathy to think it would ever happen to him. Besides, this wasn't even a memory, just an impression, and Jack was still drunk enough for his impressions to be a little bit addled.
After a short silence, Emrys held out a hand. "Let's start this over from the top, then. Hello, my name is Myrddin Emrys."
Jack shook, and managed not to laugh. "Wow, your parents must've hated you. Captain Jack Harkness."
"As it happened, I had a lovely childhood, thank you," Emrys said. "Nice to truly meet you, Captain. Or may I call you Jack?"
"Why not?" he said. "You seem to know so much else about me."
"Surprisingly little, actually," Emrys said. "I don't even know how old you are."
Jack chuckled. "Never ask a time traveler his age unless you brought a calculator and a slide rule." Emrys just raised one eyebrow at him. "That means it's a complicated question. If I had to guess, I'd say...hmm...sixty?"
He'd hoped the number would provoke a rise out of his benefactor, but Emrys just nodded. "And what brings you to Cardiff, exactly?"
"Looking for someone," Jack said, and finally dared to sip his water. "Waiting for him, actually. He's sort of a traveler, but he comes here from time to time on business."
"And would he also be a Doctor?"
Jack smiled. "Sharp, sir, very sharp."
"I've had plenty of practice over the years," Emrys said, and once again Jack wondered about his age-with those old eyes and those goofy ears, he could be twenty-five or forty. "So you think you'll find your Doctor in the bottom of a whiskey bottle the next time he's in Cardiff?"
"He could be a while," Jack said, turning the glass round and round in his hands. "Gotta pass the time somehow. And it's not like it's going to kill me."
"You seem awfully sure of that."
He grinned, knowing how horrible it must look on him, because then his face would match his insides. "Well, I've been trying to kill myself for about four or five years now, and it just doesn't seem to take."
Emrys set his water glass aside and leaned forward; that bland smile had finally slipped, but once again he didn't seem so much shocked as concerned. "So you can't be killed?" he asked.
"Nope." Jack tried another swallow of the water; it settled his stomach further. "At least, I've been shot, stabbed, kicked in the head by a mule, drowned, poisoned, and gone a month and a half without food or water." Which had been hell, but the kind that he sometimes needed. "Seems I'm the indestructible man."
And Emrys nodded, as if this made some kind of sense to him. Jack really wanted to know who this mutual friend was and what he'd been told. "How'd you find out?" Emrys asked. "It can't have been pleasant."
Jack shook his head. "I got shot in a fight. Turned out my documents weren't forged well enough to get me through Ellis Island, and my wife..." His throat tightened and he looked away. "I mouthed off to the wrong guy and I ended up shot. And then I woke up."
Emrys's eyes widened. "I didn't know you were ever married."
"I don't want to talk about it," Jack told him, thinking of Judith's red hands and horrified eyes.
"It might be more constructive than drowning it in whiskey," Emrys said. "Cheaper, too."
"I don't want to talk about it with you," Jack clarified, and set his own water aside before he crushed the glass in his fist.
Emrys nodded, and for a moment his eyes were a million miles away. "I can understand that. I know what it's like to lose someone, to lose your purpose. I know how it feels to hold the hurt close because it's better than forgetting."
"You don't know what I'm feeling," Jack snapped back. It wasn't like he'd never lost before-oh, god, he'd lost so much. But he'd finally given up, with Judith; he'd spent nearly twenty years crisscrossing the world, searching for the Doctor or a Time Agent or someone with the foreknowledge and means to help him repair his vortex manipulator. And then he'd met Judith, and realized there was another option, that he could set all that aside and just enjoy the life left to him. He had gone so far into the past he was finally shut of his own, and here was his second (or more like fifth, he counted) chance to be the kind of man his father would've been proud of. The kind of man the Doctor could respect. The man he'd always wanted to be, but never quite known how to become, like someone had told him about his destination but failed to draw him a map.
He supposed he'd known, in the back of his mind, that something wasn't quite right-than no number of fifty-first century skin treatments, no proportions of good genes, could have kept his face that smooth and his hair that dark for quite so long. But Judith had been gorgeous, and smart, and surprisingly sexually confident, and funny, and a hundred other things, and she had loved him with no questions asked. Kissing her felt like forgiveness, and when they made love he thought he could forget he'd every let anybody down.
Until he woke up from bleeding out in her arms.
"Jack," Emrys said, brutally soft and considerate. "I once lost someone I cared about more deeply than anyone in the world. When he fell, I went so mad with grief that I ran as far and as fast as I could, until I'd outrun everyone who'd ever known me. I lived in the woods and wore bearskins, literally, because I thought I deserved it. I'd lost my purpose, and I didn't know how I could possibly go on."
"Obviously you did, since you're here," Jack said.
Emrys smiled. "I did. A misunderstanding involving some local shepherds made me realize that I did want to live, after all. Reminded me that I had something worth waiting for, if I was alive and sane enough to recognize it when it came around."
That sounded a little too close to home for comfort, even though he'd said sane and not sober. "And did you?" Jack asked, waiting for the moral of the story.
"Dunno," Emrys said, looking distant, and for the moment easily as old as Jack. "I haven't found him yet."
This wasn't the answer Jack expected, and for some reason it intrigued him. "What happens when you do?"
That drew a small smirk, but a fond one. "We'll either kiss or beat each other up. Maybe both. It depends."
"I like those kinds of relationships," Jack said. "Keeps things interesting." He also liked the way Emrys' face softened when he really smiled, as opposed to just looking amused by the universe. It sent him sliding back down the young end of the spectrum.
And then the smile faded, and he was old again, timeless. "And when you find your Doctor, Jack?" he asked. "What do you mean to do to him?"
He wanted an answer. He wanted payback. He wanted to be fixed. He had been hoarding up anger and grief ever since the day on Ellis Island-every look of horror in Judith's eyes, every awkward conversation, from the day he awoke to the day she said I can't, Jack, I can't-- and he was going to throw that at the Doctor's feet, beat on his chest and demand satisfaction. He wanted to know what he was now, if he was more or less than human. He wanted to hear the Doctor say I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry and mean it. Because the Doctor always meant it.
Jack wanted his second chance back, damn it.
"I don't know," he said, when it was clear that Emrys was waiting for an answer. "I...really don't know."
"Then why do you wait?"
"Why do you?"
Emrys shrugged. "Because he'll need me. Maybe not the same way I need him, but...I failed once, and this is my penance. To wait and to watch."
Jack's eyes narrowed as he considered Emrys anew: his hair was cut and combed in an unremarkable style, his brown suit was clean and well-fit but worn with use, his shoes were lightly scuffed. He blended in to this place and time, at least as much as Jack did, but there was a hard edge to his accent that didn't belong here, didn't belong anywhere, and those eyes...they reminded him of the Doctor, suddenly, in a way that drew him in at the same time it made him shiver.
"Who is our mutual friend?" he asked. "Can you tell me that much?"
"He's...a man you don't know yet," Emrys said. "And he's expressly forbid me from telling you even that much, but I've never between particularly good at following instructions."
It could still be the Doctor, though. Jack leaned forward a little. "This is going to sound a little crazy, but do you mind if I feel your heartbeat?"
Emrys raised that eyebrow again. "Why, don't you think I have one?"
"Humor me," Jack pled. Emrys unbuttoned his cuff with his long, graceful fingers and extended his hand yet again; Jack pressed his finger into the base of his wrist and counted off the beats, but it was no faster than human, just one heart pumping solidly away. Jack reluctantly let go, and Emrys seemed equally reluctant to be released; he left his hand hanging just a split-second too long, and didn't do up his cuff again. "Sorry. Just...testing a theory."
"Perfectly all right," Emrys said. "Something about me tends to bother people-not entirely sure what it is."
"Well, you're awfully quick to believe me when I say I can't die," Jack said. "Most people would at least think I was exaggerating, if not crazy."
"Would you believe I'm magnanimous and open-minded to a fault?" Emrys asked. Jack just raised an eyebrow at him. "What about simple? I've been told I do simple very well."
"I don't need to know your secret," Jack said. "I'm just saying."
"Ah, but you told me yours," Emrys said. "Would you like some more water?"
Before Jack could point out that he hadn't finished drinking the original glass-and probably should, if he wanted his head to stay attached come morning-Emrys' eyes flashed an unnatural, brilliant yellow-gold. The glass nestled into the blankets, and the pitcher of water from the washstand, both flew to his hands as if on wires, and he topped off Jack's glass with a small flourish.
"Nice trick," Jack said. "If you can turn it into wine, too, I'll really be impressed."
"Sorry-wrong religion." He passed back the glass the normal way, with one of those warm, young smiles. "Besides, I don't think you need any more alcohol than you've already had."
Jack accepted it and noticed their fingers brushed together during the exchange. "Always respect the hair of the dog that bit you. What religion would be the correct one, if I may ask?"
"An old one," was all he answered.
He rolled his eyes; Emrys had causally dropped hints about relationships with men but he was coy about religion? "What, are you the Wandering Jew or something?"
Emrys actually laughed at that, and almost spilled his own water glass. "Oh, gods, no. I've met him, though. Nice fellow. Doesn't get out much."
Jack was now pretty sure Emrys was just messing with him, but he found he didn't mind; he liked the other man's laugh, and it had been too long since anyone had been able to properly bullshit with him. Emrys had a quirky sort of beauty, and Jack was well versed in many different ways to forget. "So you've temporarily rescued me from alcoholic coma and the indignities of one of Cardiff's less savory neighborhoods," he said blandly. "However am I going to repay you, sir?"
"Just think of it as a favor for our mutual friend," Emrys said, but he was doing the eyebrow thing again, so he at least had an idea of where Jack was taking this. Good.
Jack moved his water glass to the rickety bedside table and leaned forward, putting himself just within Emrys' personal space. "But usually, when I leave a pub with my arm around somebody, I make it worth their while," he said slowly, lowly.
It was as subtle as Jack could make himself, with plenty of wiggle room. He could see the exact moment when Emrys decided to play along. "Don't sell yourself short," he said, leaning in as well, and smiling his young smile. "We've been having such a lovely conversation."
"So talking is what gets you going, is it?" Jack asked.
"One of many things," Emrys answered. Their faces were already inches apart; it took little or no effort to lean in and catch his lips, which were soft and dry and opened readily for him. Jack fisted his hands in the worn material of Emrys's waistcoat, and Emrys looped his arms around Jack's neck and climbed onto the bed-a ridiculously narrow bed, especially for two grown men, but never let it be said that Jack didn't enjoy a challenge.
Emrys nuzzled Jack's face as he worked on divesting him of his waistcoat and shirt. "You know," he said, "a friend once told me about some things that I've always wanted to try."
"Same friend who told you about me?" Jack asked, plucking at Emrys' braces-god, why did this century favor such complicated clothes?
"Mmm," Emrys said, which wasn't actually an answer. "I never actually believed they were possible, but then again, I don't get much chance to collect experimental data."
They broke apart just long enough to attack their own clothes, and then Jack was faced with miles of fair skin and boney shoulders-apparently Emrys was opposed to eating, like, ever. "Well, then in the spirit of scientific inquiry we'd better do some repeat trials," he said, and Emrys laughed again, turning it into a kiss.
Link to Part Two
Author: Mad Maudlin
Fandom: Merlin/Torchwood (with one tiny reference to Sanctuary in there)
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Jack/Ianto, Merlin/Jack
Rating: PG-13
Length: 11,300
Spoilers: General for series 1 of Merlin; for Torchwood, "Cyberwoman," "Something Borrowed" and "Exit Wounds"; for Dr. Who, "The Parting of the Ways," "Utopia" and "Journey's End."
Summary: Four times Merlin Emrys met Jack Harkness (and one time he met Jack Harkness)
A/N: Thanks to misscake for the beta!
Once and Future
by Mad Maudlin
27 A.D.
"Fill the grave."
486 A.D.
Merlin walked below the stout stone wall, trying to recapture the wonder at being further from Ealdor than he'd ever been. It was a better way to pass the time than thinking of all the ways he could kill Arthur and then hide the body. The journey to Camelot's western neighbors was not going well, no, but that was hardly Merlin's fault-well, not all of it. Vortigern had asked about the castle, it wasn't Merlin's problem if he didn't like the answer (and it was a bit rich for Arthur to be so worked up about someone else having a pair of dragons in his cellar-maybe he was jealous that he only had the one?) And what happened in Gwent was all Arthur's own fault, when the prat couldn't keep his hands to himself
Now they were camping at an abandoned fort on the Taff; it was an indefensible position, too easy for pirates from Hiberia or Brittany to make their way up the river, but this was where King Glywys had arranged to meet them with some percentage of his twenty-one sons. Merlin didn't know why they didn't just meet at Glywys's castle, unless he'd heard about what happened in Gwent and didn't want his sole daughter to be despoiled. In any case, the conditions were damp and chilly and had turned Arthur's mood even fouler, his tongue even sharper, and Merlin quickly figured out he needed to get out of the tent or run the risk of regicide.
He walked a little further away from the crumbling fort-the Romans built this, Arthur had said with something like awe, but the Romans had been gone for a hundred years and the walls were looking a bit worse for wear. Beyond it were trees and gentle hills, perfect for some aimless wandering. Merlin couldn't figure out what had gotten into Arthur lately, but it was getting harder and harder to bear. Maybe he just resented being sent around to other king's courts as a diplomatic envoy? He'd been fighting more often with his father, no longer content to follow Uther's orders but unable to disobey them, either; maybe the king had the same idea as Merlin, to separate himself from Arthur before they tore each other apart. But on the whole trip Arthur had been moody and distant, flinging himself at any girls and no small number of boys willing to share his bed, picking fights with any man and a few women who seemed willing to give him one. And sometimes he looked at Merlin with the strangest face, like he was doing sums in his head, only Merlin couldn't tell whether the answer meant sorcerer or something else...or what he even wanted it to mean...
Hello?
Merlin froze, and looked around very carefully. He was still within sight of the fort, though the screen of young trees meant no one at the fort could see him. It wasn't full dark yet, but the low clouds kept the wood in a shadowless murk, and except for some gamboling squirrels he couldn't see anything moving.
But the voice had come into his mind from below, deep below. Oh, gods, not another dragon, Merlin thought, but he also crouched low (as if that would help) and whispered, "Hello?"
Hello? You can hear me?
"Yeah," Merlin said. "Where are you?"
Down...very far down. The voice didn't feel like a dragon; there wasn't the same sense of size or strength to it, just age, and a tremendous weariness. Wow. You're the first person I've been able to contact like this since...hoo, since old Didius was around. And he thought I was a ghost.
"Are you?" Merlin asked. "A ghost, I mean."
The voice in his mind seemed to laugh bitterly. Have to die to become ghost, and I haven't managed that yet.
"Are you a dragon?" Merlin asked, to be sure.
Only between the sheets, or so I'm told. Merlin spluttered, and he thought the voice managed a laugh. Jeez, don't tell me you're a nun or something.
"I'm not!" Merlin said. "I'm a boy! I mean a man!" He didn't think he was particularly sheltered, either-between anatomy class with Gaius and mopping up after drunken knights, he'd had a lot of illusions shattered during his time in Camelot. But you just didn't say things like that!
Okay, boy-man, the voice said. Can you tell me what year it is?
"Erm...the twenty-fifth year of King Uther Pendragon?" Merlin hazarded.
Uth-seriously? The voice sounded surprised. What's that in anno Domini?
"I dunno, I'm not a Christian," Merlin said, but then remembered that Glywys was-rather tackily, if Arthur could be believed-and he'd dated all his correspondence the Roman way while arranging for this summit. "It's 1239 ad-urby-condita."
So that's...huh. Only the fifth century. The voice suddenly sounded painfully tired and lonely.
"So what's a Christian ghost dragon doing under a hill in Glywysing?" Merlin asked, trying to sound not at all bothered by this turn of events. (He was probably less bothered than he should be, but that just went to show he'd gotten used to a certain constant, low-level background weirdness in his life.)
The voice took the change of subject gracefully. I'm not a Christian or a dragon or a ghost, he repeated. I'm just...not from around these parts. Yet.
"Yet?"
Do you believe in time travel?
Merlin blinked, and settled himself more comfortably on the ground. "What's that mean?"
Like...traveling in time, the voice said. It seemed surprised to have to explain the idea. Like if you could go back to last week, or next year, or...or, say, the twenty-first century.
"Why would I want to do that?" Merlin asked.
Lots of reasons, the voice said. You could change things. Stop things from changing. Learn things you need to know. Find people you thought you'd lost.
Merlin thought of his absent dad, and Arthur's dead mother, and Will, and Tom, and Morgana's parents, and a long list of dead knights and murdered sorcerers. "I guess it might be useful," Merlin said. "Does that mean you're a sorcerer?"
Not exactly, the voice said. But I'm in the wrong century, and the only way back to the right one is to wait.
"You can wait for centuries?" Merlin asked.
'That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die,' the voice said solemnly. Then it laughed at him, as if it could see through the earth the face Merlin made. Kidding. That's just from an old story.
"Most stories used to be true," Merlin said; Gaius had told him that.
Well, I sincerely hope that story isn't, let's put it like that. The voice paused for a bit, seeming to consider Merlin from wherever it was-if it even had a body. What's your name, anyway?
"Merlin," he answered.
You're joking, the voice said, which was not a response Merlin was accustomed to hearing. Don't tell me you're the Merlin.
"Well...I mean, I don't know any others," Merlin said. "Well, except for Merlin the swineherd, but he died when I was a baby and my Mum always said she didn't name me after him, she just liked the name..." He realized he was babbling. "What's yours, then?"
Captain Jack Harkness, came the crisp answer, steady and certain, as if the name itself wanted to be known.
"Captain of what?"
Depends on the century, he answered. Royal Air Force, Torchwood Institute, Time Agency, the 401st Boeshane irregulars...
Merlin shook his head. "You're not making any sense."
I told you, I'm not from your century, Jack said. Hang around for five thousand years more and you might start to figure things out.
That was such a stupidly large number that Merlin rejected it out of hand. "How do I know you're even who you say you are?" he asked. "And what's so special about my name?"
As for the first question, you don't, Jack said. In fact, I'm kind of surprised you didn't run away screaming when you heard me. That's how most people usually react. Either that, or try to worship me, and that's just awkward.
Merlin shrugged. "I'm kind of used to strange things happening around me."
I know how that is, Jack said with gusto. As for your second question...let's just say most stories used to be true. Even when I was a boy, we knew all the stories about King Arthur and Merlin.
Something about the way Jack said it made Merlin's heart flutter, like he was standing on the edge of a deep lake being churned by wind, with unfathomable depths beneath him. But it was also a bit too much like the dragon's talk of destiny for him, and so he pushed the feeling down again. "At this rate, he'll be lucky if he makes it to be king," Merlin said instead.
Really? What's the matter, sword got stuck in the stone?
"What are you talking about?" Merlin asked, baffled.
Never mind. Some stories are clearly blatant falsehoods, Jack said. What is the trouble with Arthur?
"Why should I tell you?" Merlin asked. "You're just a...not-dead future ghost voice in the ground. You could be an enemy of Camelot for all I know."
Trust me when I say I couldn't care less about Camelot, Jack said. The only city that matters to me is the fort on the Taff.
It was funny, because until that point Merlin could've sworn they were both speaking perfectly intelligible Cumbrian, and not with the funny accents of this part of Albion, either. Which was not to say Jack's accent wasn't funny-he sort of sounded like a Mercian with a headcold-but he was easier to understand than Vortigern or his men or the messengers from Glywys. But for some reason, when he spoke about the fort (and it was a natty little fort, abandoned for three generations and left to crumble) there was more than just affection in his voice, there was a sort of double echo, so it sounded like he was also saying Cardiff.
Merlin shook his head, like the eerie feeling was water he could knock out of his ears. "If you don't care about Camelot, then what do you care about Arthur?" he asked, pleased that he'd turned Jack's argument around on itself.
I care about you, Jack said. More specifically, I care about having anybody to talk to, and since you're the first person in a very long time who's talked to me, I want to keep you around. I'd listen to you read a phone book as long as you talked to me.
"What's a phone book?"
Never mind.
Merlin thought about this. On one hand, it was ludicrous to spill out his heart to a disembodied voice he'd barely met; look at how well things with the Great Dragon had worked out. On the other hand, it would be weeks before they returned to Camelot, and back in the camp were loads of knights and squires and servants and Arthur, but nobody with whom Merlin could be completely and totally honest. "You don't mind talking, then?" he asked.
Merlin, right now I'm neither dead or alive, Jack said quietly. I can't breathe, I can't move, but there is a very cruel force in the universe that keeps me conscious anyway. If there was any way for you to find me without turning over half the meadow, I'd ask you to dig me up, but short of that I would very much like you to talk to me so I don't go completely batshit looney while I wait.
Well, when he put it like that...Merlin looked around, but aside from the faint firelight coming from inside the crumbled fort there was no sign of anyone around to overhear anything they shouldn't. He scooted over to the protruding roots of an old knotty oak tree and made himself comfortable. "Okay. So. Um, first of all, I feel like I should point out that this isn't a meadow."
Hey, I've been down here a long time.
"Just saying."
And then Merlin started to talk, and the more he talked the more he said, until he was spilling everything-about Arthur, about Uther, about himself. About the magic and the need to keep it secret, and the death of Gwen's father, and the manipulations of the dragon. About the ever-growing wedge between Arthur and Uther, and between Arthur and Merlin, because Arthur was a worthless, self-important prat who couldn't see past his own ego and he was being reckless and terrifying lately and Merlin didn't know what he saw in all the girls, much less the boys, because Arthur wasn't some Roman, he was Arthur, and Merlin wanted so desperately to just ask but of course Arthur wouldn't answer-see above re "prat"-and it wasn't like Merlin had any kind of moral high ground here to complain about keeping secrets.
Jack, as promised, listened to everything, and didn't interrupt except to ask the occasional clarifying question or, towards the end, to giggle. "Don't laugh, it's not funny," Merlin said, pulling his knees to his chest.
Actually, it's incredibly funny, Jack said. How long have you had this crush on him?
"I don't!" Merlin said. "And you seriously can't say things like that."
I can say whatever I want, since only you can hear me, Jack pointed out. And you so do.
"I don't...I don't." Merlin said. "And it's not true. And even if it was true, I couldn't...I mean...you're talking about the vice of the Romans!"
And here I thought the twentieth century was uptight, Jack sighed, an amazing trick for someone who claimed to be unable to breathe. Look, Merlin, whether you want to jump his body or not it's obvious you love Arthur to death. I'm underground and I can see it. So, since you love him and want him to be happy-which you do-then it's totally okay for you to go to him, as a friend, and ask what's eating him.
"He won't tell me," Merlin said, almost surprising himself with his own depth of bitterness. "I'm just a servant."
So who else is he gonna talk to? Me? Jack asked.
Merlin snorted at the thought of Arthur meeting the disembodied voice in the ground that spoke such wonderful nonsense. "Maybe you're right," he said.
Of course I am. I'm like six hundred years older than you.
"And how long of that have you been stuck in the ground?"
Jack chose to ignore this. The really important thing is, when are you going to tell Arthur about the magic?
"I can't," Merlin blurted.
Well, you can't keep it a secret forever, and it's not the kind of surprise you want to spring on somebody in mid-crisis, Jack pointed out. Plus, it's obviously bothering you.
"He'd hate me," Merlin insisted. "He was raised to hate magic, and Uther kills all the sorcerers he finds in Camelot."
But you're not in Camelot now, Jack pointed out. And it sounds like Arthur's doing such a good job imitating his father in all other ways...
Merlin knew this-had thought of it himself-but it was too much to dare hope, not when the risk was so great. "I've been keeping it from him for ages, though," he said. "How's he ever going to trust me again?"
Jack was silent for a while, and when he spoke again it was quiet and sad. I had...I have this friend, he said. And in the beginning, he kept some things from me, too.
"Bad things?" Merlin asked.
Seriously bad things.
"Was he a sorcerer?"
No, actually, he was keeping a homicidal robot in the cellar.
Merlin scowled at the tuft of grass he was beginning to think of as Jack's face. "You say these things like I understand what they mean."
Executive summary: monster bad, Jack said impatiently. My point is, he did a terrible thing, and at first I was so angry with him I couldn't see straight. All I could think of was how he'd betrayed us-betrayed me-and put a huge number of people in danger for stupid, selfish reasons. But afterwards, I realized he wasn't being stupid or selfish at all-he was still wrong, but it was because of love and hope and loyalty, and you can't fault a person for that. It took a little while to forgive each other, and things haven't been perfect, but...
Jack didn't finish the sentence. Merlin had noticed the pronouns, but he found it hard to get upset about it when Jack was speaking with such obvious emotion...though no more than Merlin had shown when he talked about Arthur. Great gods, he was really fucked, wasn't he? "This friend of yours," Merlin asked. "Is he the one you're waiting for?"
One of them, yeah, Jack said.
"And you're going to just hang out underground for five thousand years until then?" Merlin asked, slightly incredulous.
I suspect one day you will find that question ironic, Jack declared. And it's only two thousand years. Fifteen hundred, twenty-three years to go, actually.
"That's awful," Merlin said, and for a few moments his own problems felt very, very small.
It's penance for something, Jack said heavily. Don't feel too sorry for me.
Merlin didn't really know how to feel about any of this, about hard advice or small problems or a six-hundred-year-old disembodied voice from the future who didn't mind talking to him for a while. He looked around at the shadowy trees and cringed when he realized how late it had gotten. "Jack, I have to-I mean, people are going to notice I'm gone soon."
Just judging by his voice, Jack didn't seem too upset by the news. I understand. Duty calls. I'd carry on the conversation when you get back to the fort, but I never got great marks in Telepathy during Time Agency training.
"I...will pretend I know what that means," Merlin declared. "And...maybe I'll come back? I mean, we don't leave for Dumnonia for a couple of days."
I'd like that. Jack actually seems surprised at the offer. And hey, if things with Arthur get any better, maybe I can give you some tips for the next step.
"What next step?" Merlin asked.
You know, the whole 'vice of the Romans' you're so worried about, Jack said gleefully. Obviously, I can't just let the two of you go at it with no foreknowledge. You probably don't even know you have to lubricate--
"Leaving now!" Merlin declared, and walked back to the fort with his fingers in his ears, loudly humming the most virtuous songs that he knew.
XxXxX
The next evening, though, he was back at the hill again.
1898 A.D.
Jack had wide experience in exotic alcohols, distillations from the distant stars that drilled into your skull, hijacked your senses, made you truly euphoric and then left you sobbing in agony hours later until certain completely untrustworthy partners found you, rolled you into the recovery position, and stole your wallet.
Right now he was drinking whiskey. He loved whiskey.
"I'm gonna find him," he told the nearest humanoid shape, which walked away from him. "Jus' gotta be patient. I'm gonna find him, and the firs' thing I'm gonna do, I'm gonna kill him. And then I'm gonna punch him."
"Gotta dry out, first, mate," someone jeered, and in attempted to turn around and face his detractor Jack fell off his chair. There was a gentle ripple of laughter before the rest of the pub's residents got on with their own drinks.
Jack struggled to find his feet again, but the floor kept slipping away from him, and he let his head come to rest against the leg of his table. He would find the Doctor; he just had to be patient. He had all the time in the world now...
"Hey, friend, that's enough."
He opened one eye and managed to focus on a slim, masculine hand that was currently touching his shoulder. It was sticking out of a plain white shirt cuff, which was sticking out of a dark brown jacket sleeve, and anything further than that was currently apocryphal because Jack couldn't make his eyes focus enough and there was a lamp directly behind this guy's head. "Doctor?" he asked, hesitantly.
A chuckle. "I'm afraid my skills as a physician are a little out of practice," he said. "My name is Emrys, Captain Harkness, and I think you had better get off the floor now."
Emrys turned out to be tall and approximately the diameter of a broomstick, but he helped Jack to his feet with an ease that was as surprising as it was unfair. Jack found himself clinging to a total stranger's shoulder, torn between thinking hey, where are you taking me? and wow, you smell pretty good.
"I'm taking you somewhere to sleep this off," Emrys announced, as if he had read Jack's mind. "I've already settled your tab, so no worries there. You just have to stay on your feet long enough to get where we're going. Think you can do that, Jack?"
He could, but he didn't have to like it. "How d'you know my name?" he protested as Emrys herded him towards the door.
"Let's say we have a mutual friend who's told me a lot about you over the years," Emrys answered. Then added, "Though he never mentioned the face."
"'S a good face," Jack said. "I'm the Face of Boe."
"Sure you are."
"Rear of the Year, too."
Emrys lead him down the damp and chilly streets, past the gas lights that glimmered in the fine fog. Gas lights...he and Judith were supposed to see a thousand lights in New York City. Jack threw up in his mouth a little, and Emrys didn't seem to mind stopping to let him spit it out in a gutter.
Somewhere to sleep turned out to be a flophouse not far from the pub, identical to the hundreds of anonymous places Jack had collapsed in over the past few years, albeit on the cleaner end of the spectrum. Emrys deposited Jack on the narrow bed, where he waited for the room to stop moving while his savior puttered a bit. "Who's the friend?" he finally managed to ask.
"Mmm?"
"Our friend," Jack said. "Who is he? Who told you about me?"
A glass of dark liquid appeared in Jack's line of sight. "I've been informed that it's quite dangerous to allow information to cross a timeline," he said, which was of course no answer at all. "Drink up."
Jack got a grip on the glass with both hands but didn't drink. "What is it?"
Emrys shrugged. "Either it'll help your head or you'll make a really entertaining face, and either way I don't think you actually want to know what's in it."
"Fair enough." Jack had drunk more threatening-looking things for less, so he took a few deep breaths and tossed it back like his beloved whiskey. And by the time he was done gagging, his head really did feel clearer, so he couldn't be too angry at Emrys on the balance. Especially since he'd gone to the trouble of holding the basin for him.
"Now," Emrys said, shrugging off his coat to show that yes, he was totally a broomstick. "Care to explain what brought this on?"
"Our mutual friend didn't tell you that?" Jack asked, feeling grumpy. He peeled off his own jacket and waistcoat because they smelled like whiskey and bile.
"He told me I could probably find you here and now, falling out of one Cardiff pub or another-a habit you might want to break, by the way, because there were some suspicious-looking young women watching you tonight." Emrys poured water from the washstand into two fresh glasses and gave one to Jack, then seated himself in the room's one rickety chair. "So, go on, tell me about it."
"Why should I?" Jack asked. "I mean, thanks for helping me out and all, but I don't know you from Adam and I still don't entirely trust our mysterious mutual friend."
Emrys just smiled enigmatically; the expressed seemed to be pasted onto his face. Which was long and thin, in proportion to the rest of him, and not bad looking-high cheekbones, great eyes, some unfortunate ears that lent him both character and youthfulness. Those eyes were old and shuttered, though, which made it hard for Jack to guess the man's age. Something about him seemed familiar, like a word on the tip of his tongue-not really the face, probably, but the accent, which didn't sound quite like anything Jack had heard in any corner of Wales before. Back at the Time Agency-god, that seemed like so long ago-he'd heard of people getting premonitions, memories from somewhere further down their own knotted-up timelines, but he's never scored high enough in Telepathy to think it would ever happen to him. Besides, this wasn't even a memory, just an impression, and Jack was still drunk enough for his impressions to be a little bit addled.
After a short silence, Emrys held out a hand. "Let's start this over from the top, then. Hello, my name is Myrddin Emrys."
Jack shook, and managed not to laugh. "Wow, your parents must've hated you. Captain Jack Harkness."
"As it happened, I had a lovely childhood, thank you," Emrys said. "Nice to truly meet you, Captain. Or may I call you Jack?"
"Why not?" he said. "You seem to know so much else about me."
"Surprisingly little, actually," Emrys said. "I don't even know how old you are."
Jack chuckled. "Never ask a time traveler his age unless you brought a calculator and a slide rule." Emrys just raised one eyebrow at him. "That means it's a complicated question. If I had to guess, I'd say...hmm...sixty?"
He'd hoped the number would provoke a rise out of his benefactor, but Emrys just nodded. "And what brings you to Cardiff, exactly?"
"Looking for someone," Jack said, and finally dared to sip his water. "Waiting for him, actually. He's sort of a traveler, but he comes here from time to time on business."
"And would he also be a Doctor?"
Jack smiled. "Sharp, sir, very sharp."
"I've had plenty of practice over the years," Emrys said, and once again Jack wondered about his age-with those old eyes and those goofy ears, he could be twenty-five or forty. "So you think you'll find your Doctor in the bottom of a whiskey bottle the next time he's in Cardiff?"
"He could be a while," Jack said, turning the glass round and round in his hands. "Gotta pass the time somehow. And it's not like it's going to kill me."
"You seem awfully sure of that."
He grinned, knowing how horrible it must look on him, because then his face would match his insides. "Well, I've been trying to kill myself for about four or five years now, and it just doesn't seem to take."
Emrys set his water glass aside and leaned forward; that bland smile had finally slipped, but once again he didn't seem so much shocked as concerned. "So you can't be killed?" he asked.
"Nope." Jack tried another swallow of the water; it settled his stomach further. "At least, I've been shot, stabbed, kicked in the head by a mule, drowned, poisoned, and gone a month and a half without food or water." Which had been hell, but the kind that he sometimes needed. "Seems I'm the indestructible man."
And Emrys nodded, as if this made some kind of sense to him. Jack really wanted to know who this mutual friend was and what he'd been told. "How'd you find out?" Emrys asked. "It can't have been pleasant."
Jack shook his head. "I got shot in a fight. Turned out my documents weren't forged well enough to get me through Ellis Island, and my wife..." His throat tightened and he looked away. "I mouthed off to the wrong guy and I ended up shot. And then I woke up."
Emrys's eyes widened. "I didn't know you were ever married."
"I don't want to talk about it," Jack told him, thinking of Judith's red hands and horrified eyes.
"It might be more constructive than drowning it in whiskey," Emrys said. "Cheaper, too."
"I don't want to talk about it with you," Jack clarified, and set his own water aside before he crushed the glass in his fist.
Emrys nodded, and for a moment his eyes were a million miles away. "I can understand that. I know what it's like to lose someone, to lose your purpose. I know how it feels to hold the hurt close because it's better than forgetting."
"You don't know what I'm feeling," Jack snapped back. It wasn't like he'd never lost before-oh, god, he'd lost so much. But he'd finally given up, with Judith; he'd spent nearly twenty years crisscrossing the world, searching for the Doctor or a Time Agent or someone with the foreknowledge and means to help him repair his vortex manipulator. And then he'd met Judith, and realized there was another option, that he could set all that aside and just enjoy the life left to him. He had gone so far into the past he was finally shut of his own, and here was his second (or more like fifth, he counted) chance to be the kind of man his father would've been proud of. The kind of man the Doctor could respect. The man he'd always wanted to be, but never quite known how to become, like someone had told him about his destination but failed to draw him a map.
He supposed he'd known, in the back of his mind, that something wasn't quite right-than no number of fifty-first century skin treatments, no proportions of good genes, could have kept his face that smooth and his hair that dark for quite so long. But Judith had been gorgeous, and smart, and surprisingly sexually confident, and funny, and a hundred other things, and she had loved him with no questions asked. Kissing her felt like forgiveness, and when they made love he thought he could forget he'd every let anybody down.
Until he woke up from bleeding out in her arms.
"Jack," Emrys said, brutally soft and considerate. "I once lost someone I cared about more deeply than anyone in the world. When he fell, I went so mad with grief that I ran as far and as fast as I could, until I'd outrun everyone who'd ever known me. I lived in the woods and wore bearskins, literally, because I thought I deserved it. I'd lost my purpose, and I didn't know how I could possibly go on."
"Obviously you did, since you're here," Jack said.
Emrys smiled. "I did. A misunderstanding involving some local shepherds made me realize that I did want to live, after all. Reminded me that I had something worth waiting for, if I was alive and sane enough to recognize it when it came around."
That sounded a little too close to home for comfort, even though he'd said sane and not sober. "And did you?" Jack asked, waiting for the moral of the story.
"Dunno," Emrys said, looking distant, and for the moment easily as old as Jack. "I haven't found him yet."
This wasn't the answer Jack expected, and for some reason it intrigued him. "What happens when you do?"
That drew a small smirk, but a fond one. "We'll either kiss or beat each other up. Maybe both. It depends."
"I like those kinds of relationships," Jack said. "Keeps things interesting." He also liked the way Emrys' face softened when he really smiled, as opposed to just looking amused by the universe. It sent him sliding back down the young end of the spectrum.
And then the smile faded, and he was old again, timeless. "And when you find your Doctor, Jack?" he asked. "What do you mean to do to him?"
He wanted an answer. He wanted payback. He wanted to be fixed. He had been hoarding up anger and grief ever since the day on Ellis Island-every look of horror in Judith's eyes, every awkward conversation, from the day he awoke to the day she said I can't, Jack, I can't-- and he was going to throw that at the Doctor's feet, beat on his chest and demand satisfaction. He wanted to know what he was now, if he was more or less than human. He wanted to hear the Doctor say I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry and mean it. Because the Doctor always meant it.
Jack wanted his second chance back, damn it.
"I don't know," he said, when it was clear that Emrys was waiting for an answer. "I...really don't know."
"Then why do you wait?"
"Why do you?"
Emrys shrugged. "Because he'll need me. Maybe not the same way I need him, but...I failed once, and this is my penance. To wait and to watch."
Jack's eyes narrowed as he considered Emrys anew: his hair was cut and combed in an unremarkable style, his brown suit was clean and well-fit but worn with use, his shoes were lightly scuffed. He blended in to this place and time, at least as much as Jack did, but there was a hard edge to his accent that didn't belong here, didn't belong anywhere, and those eyes...they reminded him of the Doctor, suddenly, in a way that drew him in at the same time it made him shiver.
"Who is our mutual friend?" he asked. "Can you tell me that much?"
"He's...a man you don't know yet," Emrys said. "And he's expressly forbid me from telling you even that much, but I've never between particularly good at following instructions."
It could still be the Doctor, though. Jack leaned forward a little. "This is going to sound a little crazy, but do you mind if I feel your heartbeat?"
Emrys raised that eyebrow again. "Why, don't you think I have one?"
"Humor me," Jack pled. Emrys unbuttoned his cuff with his long, graceful fingers and extended his hand yet again; Jack pressed his finger into the base of his wrist and counted off the beats, but it was no faster than human, just one heart pumping solidly away. Jack reluctantly let go, and Emrys seemed equally reluctant to be released; he left his hand hanging just a split-second too long, and didn't do up his cuff again. "Sorry. Just...testing a theory."
"Perfectly all right," Emrys said. "Something about me tends to bother people-not entirely sure what it is."
"Well, you're awfully quick to believe me when I say I can't die," Jack said. "Most people would at least think I was exaggerating, if not crazy."
"Would you believe I'm magnanimous and open-minded to a fault?" Emrys asked. Jack just raised an eyebrow at him. "What about simple? I've been told I do simple very well."
"I don't need to know your secret," Jack said. "I'm just saying."
"Ah, but you told me yours," Emrys said. "Would you like some more water?"
Before Jack could point out that he hadn't finished drinking the original glass-and probably should, if he wanted his head to stay attached come morning-Emrys' eyes flashed an unnatural, brilliant yellow-gold. The glass nestled into the blankets, and the pitcher of water from the washstand, both flew to his hands as if on wires, and he topped off Jack's glass with a small flourish.
"Nice trick," Jack said. "If you can turn it into wine, too, I'll really be impressed."
"Sorry-wrong religion." He passed back the glass the normal way, with one of those warm, young smiles. "Besides, I don't think you need any more alcohol than you've already had."
Jack accepted it and noticed their fingers brushed together during the exchange. "Always respect the hair of the dog that bit you. What religion would be the correct one, if I may ask?"
"An old one," was all he answered.
He rolled his eyes; Emrys had causally dropped hints about relationships with men but he was coy about religion? "What, are you the Wandering Jew or something?"
Emrys actually laughed at that, and almost spilled his own water glass. "Oh, gods, no. I've met him, though. Nice fellow. Doesn't get out much."
Jack was now pretty sure Emrys was just messing with him, but he found he didn't mind; he liked the other man's laugh, and it had been too long since anyone had been able to properly bullshit with him. Emrys had a quirky sort of beauty, and Jack was well versed in many different ways to forget. "So you've temporarily rescued me from alcoholic coma and the indignities of one of Cardiff's less savory neighborhoods," he said blandly. "However am I going to repay you, sir?"
"Just think of it as a favor for our mutual friend," Emrys said, but he was doing the eyebrow thing again, so he at least had an idea of where Jack was taking this. Good.
Jack moved his water glass to the rickety bedside table and leaned forward, putting himself just within Emrys' personal space. "But usually, when I leave a pub with my arm around somebody, I make it worth their while," he said slowly, lowly.
It was as subtle as Jack could make himself, with plenty of wiggle room. He could see the exact moment when Emrys decided to play along. "Don't sell yourself short," he said, leaning in as well, and smiling his young smile. "We've been having such a lovely conversation."
"So talking is what gets you going, is it?" Jack asked.
"One of many things," Emrys answered. Their faces were already inches apart; it took little or no effort to lean in and catch his lips, which were soft and dry and opened readily for him. Jack fisted his hands in the worn material of Emrys's waistcoat, and Emrys looped his arms around Jack's neck and climbed onto the bed-a ridiculously narrow bed, especially for two grown men, but never let it be said that Jack didn't enjoy a challenge.
Emrys nuzzled Jack's face as he worked on divesting him of his waistcoat and shirt. "You know," he said, "a friend once told me about some things that I've always wanted to try."
"Same friend who told you about me?" Jack asked, plucking at Emrys' braces-god, why did this century favor such complicated clothes?
"Mmm," Emrys said, which wasn't actually an answer. "I never actually believed they were possible, but then again, I don't get much chance to collect experimental data."
They broke apart just long enough to attack their own clothes, and then Jack was faced with miles of fair skin and boney shoulders-apparently Emrys was opposed to eating, like, ever. "Well, then in the spirit of scientific inquiry we'd better do some repeat trials," he said, and Emrys laughed again, turning it into a kiss.
Link to Part Two