fic: Walking on Thin Ice 2/5 PG-13 Torchwood/Highlander xover *wip*
Title: Walking on Thin Ice
Author: Aeron Lanart
Rating: PG-13 (some colourful language, bit of angst, and mention of a m/m/m relationship)
Warnings/Spoilers: Warnings; see rating. Spoilers; Season 1 Torchwood up to Out of Time
Summary: There are Issues that need to be dealt with...
Disclaimer: Aunty Beeb owns Torchwood, Panzer/Davis Productions own this concept of immortality, and Methos.
Siannon O'Niall however is mine.
No copyright infringement intended, no profit made
Written for my occhallenge table, which is here. Prompt: Winter.
Part 2
~*~
Siannon paid a quick visit back to her car after she left Ianto. There were practicalities to deal with before she even thought of speaking to Jack, including such mundane things as making sure she had somewhere to sleep that night and moving her car.
She checked herself into a hotel that was convenient to the Torchwood Hub without much trouble as many places were having a post-Christmas hiatus, and declined assistance to carry her luggage up to her room with a smile. Dumping her bag on the bed she dug around inside it to find her accomplice in dealing with Jack; a bottle of Knappogue Castle 1951 Irish whiskey. She knew he appreciated a good whisky and he might possibly have had a bottle of this himself at one point. She’d been lucky enough to pick up a decent amount in 1987 when it was first bottled and she still had a few left. It seemed appropriate to broach one for what might end up being the equivalent of a wake.
Bottle in hand she made her way through the damp twilight of the Cardiff streets to the Torchwood tourist office. Jack would know she was approaching if he bothered to check the CCTV but her appearance in the Hub would be no surprise; he’d given her the key himself, after all. Quietly, she let herself in.
The Hub was eerily silent when she finally stepped through the cog door for all there was the constant drip of water and the hum of machinery. She could also hear Myfanwy snuffling and shifting in her nest but it still felt curiously lifeless without the rest of the team; almost as if the Hub were a living thing and it was resting. Jack’s office was a bright pool of light in the surrounding dimness; she tightened her grip on the bottle of whiskey, unsure of her welcome as she mounted the steps to the main level her footsteps echoing weirdly in the emptiness. As she neared the office she could make out Jack behind his desk; he seemed to be carefully looking at nothing and especially not her as he cradled what appeared to be an empty glass.
Siannon leaned on the doorframe for a moment, watching Jack as he ignored her. She didn’t break the silence until he raised his head, acknowledging her silently with pain-filled eyes. She hefted the bottle of whiskey.
“I have a refill for that.” She indicated the empty glass. Jack nodded and she stepped forward, cracking the seal on the bottle before pouring a generous measure of the amber liquid into his glass. The bottle was set down on the desk and she fetched a glass for herself, recapping the bottle once she’d filled it.
Jack remained silent.
Siannon raised her glass, inhaling deeply, letting the complex aroma of the whiskey permeate her senses, evoking memories of other people, other places. She raised her glass for a toast.
“To the friends who have left us behind,” she said quietly. At first she wasn’t sure how Jack would react but he slowly raised his own glass in echo of her.
“To the friends who have left us behind,” he repeated an underlying note of roughness in his voice; whether it was from tears or death or screaming his throat raw in futility, Siannon had no idea and she wasn’t going to ask. He would either tell her or he wouldn’t, and in his own time. They both took a mouthful of the whiskey. Siannon let it roll gently over her tongue and down her throat, trying not to lose herself in the flood of memories that the explosion of flavours produced. Jack’s first sip was tentative, his second less so and he produced a curious, if slightly shaky, smile as he glanced at the contents of his glass.
“Not quite what you were expecting?” She prompted. Jack shook his head.
“It’s different. Good though.” He took a larger mouthful.
“Only the best to help send a friend on their way, even if it is a little late.” His eyes widened slightly at that, but they drank in companionable silence for a while. After they’d finished their first glass Jack seemed to realise that Siannon was still standing, though she had half-perched on the edge of his desk.
“Shall we take this somewhere more comfortable?” He asked, indicating the door of his office and the tatty looking couch by the autopsy bay.
“I thought you’d never ask.” She replied, smiling to remove any sting from her words. She grabbed the bottle off the desk, leading the way out to the main area and towards the couch, refilling both glasses once they had settled themselves comfortably.
The Silence stretched between them as they drank; Siannon was gathering her thoughts and she assumed Jack was hoping she’d stay silent. She turned her face away from him to hide her smile; there was as much chance of her being silent a there was of Jack never flirting with anything in his life again, and he should have realised that. Casting a quick look at his face, she relented somewhat and began to tell him the story of how she’d appropriated the Knappogue ’51, albeit with minor embellishments, ensuring she kept both their glasses filled and not giving him the chance to protest. From there she segued into one whiskey related tale after another, each one more ridiculous than the last and some of them even true; she had one immortal friend in particular to thank for those ones, Fitz had always seemed to have that sort of effect on things. She wondered, not for the first time, where her irreverent friend had disappeared to after nearly losing his head over 10 years ago and resolved to ask Methos sometime; he would know if anyone did. Her thoughts began to take a different path as she drained her glass, unable to remember *quite* how many she’d had by this point. She refilled it, and Jack’s, pleased to see the lines of tension in his face somewhat eased.
“You know where the word whiskey comes from?”
“Never thought about it.”
“It’s Gaelic: uisce beatha.” The words rolled off her tongue, her accent stronger as she spoke the language she had been born to. She paused, cradling the feel of the words in her mouth; sounds that spoke of home, of a time when her life had seemed so uncomplicated. She met Jack’s eyes; he had the oddest expression on his face for a moment as if she’d startled him into revealing something. Before she could decide whether she’d imagined it or not, it was gone.
“Uisce Beatha,” he repeated, the perfect pronunciation sounding strange when coupled with his accent. “What’s that in English?”
“Water of Life.” She took a breath, and gazed into her glass; she could feel Jack’s eyes on her, demanding more with his silent stare. She raised her head to look at him. “It’s a drink to remember life, Jack, not to forget it and we have so much life to remember. I’ve always felt that those of us who are blessed - or cursed - with immortality have a responsibility to remember those who don’t. Not everyone agrees with me of course, but I can’t say that I care about what they think; I do what I feel is right. There are so many people, so many places that are forgotten by history; while I hold their memories close they live on with me. Even if someone takes my head, they’ll be passed along with my quickening so in effect, they live forever. Immortality without pain, not a bad thing, hmm?” Jack shook his head.
“You have a trained memory, though.”
“And you don’t?” She challenged.
“Not in the same way, and you know it. Besides you’ve had more practice.”
“And you’ve got plenty of time ahead of you *to* practice. Don’t try and tell me that you haven’t experienced the way a sound or a scent can make your memories of people almost real enough to touch.” She watched his face, could tell by his expression that he had. “Encourage that, revel in it and before you know it your memories of them will be so much clearer and they’ll never die.” The expression on Jack’s face grew more thoughtful, and when he spoke it was in a near whisper.
“What about the things you don’t want to remember?”
“You do what you’re doing already; you learn to live with them. There’s nothing else you *can* do unfortunately but eventually they’ll fade into the background. I wish there was some grandiose immortal secret to impart, but there isn’t, I’m afraid.”
“You can’t blame me for hoping though, can you?”
“Not at all. Don’t forget Jack, in immortal terms you’re still young. Like it or not you’re going to get used to it and until then at least you’ve got friends who understand.” She fell silent again, and took another drink. Jack was staring at the floor, lost in thought. She felt as much as heard him take a deep breath before letting it out, then another, as if he had been going to say something but thought better of it. Eventually his words came out in a rush.
“Did Ianto send you?” He met her eyes, a complex jumble of emotions behind the troubled blue gaze. Siannon didn’t look away.
“Not exactly,” she said as she put her glass on the floor and reached for Jack’s hand. “He’s worried about you, yes, but he called me because *he* needed a friend.” She squeezed Jack’s fingers to stop him from interrupting. “Oh I know he could have spoken to you or Tosh, but sometimes you need someone who will understand a situation while still being outside of it.” She smiled. “I think I’m uniquely qualified for that, don’t you? I’ve no ties beyond those of friendship with any of you and that makes me a pretty safe person to talk to.”
“But...”
“We *talked*, Jack. You should try it sometime.” She ran her free hand through her hair to calm herself. Getting exasperated with Jack now would undo everything she’d managed achieve and wouldn’t solve anything. That was not why she’d invaded the hub with expensive whiskey; she took a deep breath. “And while we talked I realised something else; you need a friend too, possibly more than you need anything else right now, except Methos.”
“Did you...” Jack trailed off without finishing the question, ducking his head to avoid Siannon’s gaze but not before she’d caught the flash of guilty hope in his eyes.
“No, he’s still in Paris. I’m afraid you’ve got to make do with me. I might not be Methos but I’m better than no-one.”
“A hell of a lot better. And I do appreciate it.” He curled his fingers round hers and held her hand as if it was made of spun glass.
“I’m glad about that. You never would have got the ’51 out of Methos for a start, he’s never appreciated Irish whiskey; too fond of his beer.” The both chuckled at that though Siannon thought she could detect a note of desperation behind Jack’s. She leaned over to grab her glass and the bottle and topped up their drinks so they could drink to the man who was being so desperately missed. They sat in comfortable silence once more, until Jack broke it, speaking softly.
“You know John felt like his life was over; his wife dead, his son an old man who didn’t remember him. Everything he had worked toward, that had given his life meaning, gone in the blink of an eye. I couldn’t even explain properly why I understood how he felt. He was in so much pain Siannon, he begged me not to condemn him to live; how could I deny him the release that I can never have?” Jack scrunched his eyes shut, but not before an errant tear had escaped down his face. “I could have stopped him, retconned him, given him a new life but if I’d done that he wouldn’t even have had the memories of his wife and son. He didn’t want to live alone and in the end all I felt I could do was ensure he didn’t die alone. Was that so wrong of me?” Siannon felt unshed tears pricking at her own eyelids and she grasped his hand.
“I’m not sure if I would have done the same, but does that make it wrong? Not my place to decide; I’m not entitled to judge other people.” Jack gave her a fleeting smile.
“That sounds very much like something Methos said to me once.”
“Then accept it for what it is; the truth. Every immortal I know, including me, has done things that an ordinary person would never consider; both good and bad. Our entire way of life, what with the game and the Watchers and the like is more like a story than real life. I know you’re not part of that world even though you are immortal, but you’re certainly not ordinary. Anything but. In fact I’d go as far as saying you’re an extraordinary person, Jack Harkness.”
“Takes one to know one,” Jack retorted with something approaching his usual demeanour and the hint of a twinkle in his eye. Siannon breathed an internal sigh of relief; now she could relax and truly do justice to the Knappogue ’51, however much of it was left. She refilled their glasses, raising hers in another toast.
“To extraordinary people, wherever or whenever we find them!”
“Extraordinary People,” echoed Jack as they clinked their glasses together with a smile, and drank deeply. It was almost the last thing Siannon remembered clearly, her recollection of the rest of the night became somewhat hazy after that; a side effect of all the whiskey. She did remember teaching Jack a number of drinking songs in English, Gaelic and Welsh and being surprised at how good a voice he had. That led to her threatening to steal him for the next Eisteddfod held in Cardiff which made him laugh. She remembered thinking it was a beautiful sound and telling him to laugh more often; he told her if she visited more frequently he would make sure he did. Somehow she also allowed herself to be persuaded to tell him stories of some of Methos’ more colourful exploits, making them both dissolve into fits of giggles. Everything else had become too fuzzy to remember clearly but she couldn’t forget how young and vulnerable Jack had looked after he’d eventually fallen asleep. At that point she had tucked a blanket around him, kissed him softly goodnight, and left.
Author: Aeron Lanart
Rating: PG-13 (some colourful language, bit of angst, and mention of a m/m/m relationship)
Warnings/Spoilers: Warnings; see rating. Spoilers; Season 1 Torchwood up to Out of Time
Summary: There are Issues that need to be dealt with...
Disclaimer: Aunty Beeb owns Torchwood, Panzer/Davis Productions own this concept of immortality, and Methos.
Siannon O'Niall however is mine.
No copyright infringement intended, no profit made
Written for my occhallenge table, which is here. Prompt: Winter.
Part 2
~*~
Siannon paid a quick visit back to her car after she left Ianto. There were practicalities to deal with before she even thought of speaking to Jack, including such mundane things as making sure she had somewhere to sleep that night and moving her car.
She checked herself into a hotel that was convenient to the Torchwood Hub without much trouble as many places were having a post-Christmas hiatus, and declined assistance to carry her luggage up to her room with a smile. Dumping her bag on the bed she dug around inside it to find her accomplice in dealing with Jack; a bottle of Knappogue Castle 1951 Irish whiskey. She knew he appreciated a good whisky and he might possibly have had a bottle of this himself at one point. She’d been lucky enough to pick up a decent amount in 1987 when it was first bottled and she still had a few left. It seemed appropriate to broach one for what might end up being the equivalent of a wake.
Bottle in hand she made her way through the damp twilight of the Cardiff streets to the Torchwood tourist office. Jack would know she was approaching if he bothered to check the CCTV but her appearance in the Hub would be no surprise; he’d given her the key himself, after all. Quietly, she let herself in.
The Hub was eerily silent when she finally stepped through the cog door for all there was the constant drip of water and the hum of machinery. She could also hear Myfanwy snuffling and shifting in her nest but it still felt curiously lifeless without the rest of the team; almost as if the Hub were a living thing and it was resting. Jack’s office was a bright pool of light in the surrounding dimness; she tightened her grip on the bottle of whiskey, unsure of her welcome as she mounted the steps to the main level her footsteps echoing weirdly in the emptiness. As she neared the office she could make out Jack behind his desk; he seemed to be carefully looking at nothing and especially not her as he cradled what appeared to be an empty glass.
Siannon leaned on the doorframe for a moment, watching Jack as he ignored her. She didn’t break the silence until he raised his head, acknowledging her silently with pain-filled eyes. She hefted the bottle of whiskey.
“I have a refill for that.” She indicated the empty glass. Jack nodded and she stepped forward, cracking the seal on the bottle before pouring a generous measure of the amber liquid into his glass. The bottle was set down on the desk and she fetched a glass for herself, recapping the bottle once she’d filled it.
Jack remained silent.
Siannon raised her glass, inhaling deeply, letting the complex aroma of the whiskey permeate her senses, evoking memories of other people, other places. She raised her glass for a toast.
“To the friends who have left us behind,” she said quietly. At first she wasn’t sure how Jack would react but he slowly raised his own glass in echo of her.
“To the friends who have left us behind,” he repeated an underlying note of roughness in his voice; whether it was from tears or death or screaming his throat raw in futility, Siannon had no idea and she wasn’t going to ask. He would either tell her or he wouldn’t, and in his own time. They both took a mouthful of the whiskey. Siannon let it roll gently over her tongue and down her throat, trying not to lose herself in the flood of memories that the explosion of flavours produced. Jack’s first sip was tentative, his second less so and he produced a curious, if slightly shaky, smile as he glanced at the contents of his glass.
“Not quite what you were expecting?” She prompted. Jack shook his head.
“It’s different. Good though.” He took a larger mouthful.
“Only the best to help send a friend on their way, even if it is a little late.” His eyes widened slightly at that, but they drank in companionable silence for a while. After they’d finished their first glass Jack seemed to realise that Siannon was still standing, though she had half-perched on the edge of his desk.
“Shall we take this somewhere more comfortable?” He asked, indicating the door of his office and the tatty looking couch by the autopsy bay.
“I thought you’d never ask.” She replied, smiling to remove any sting from her words. She grabbed the bottle off the desk, leading the way out to the main area and towards the couch, refilling both glasses once they had settled themselves comfortably.
The Silence stretched between them as they drank; Siannon was gathering her thoughts and she assumed Jack was hoping she’d stay silent. She turned her face away from him to hide her smile; there was as much chance of her being silent a there was of Jack never flirting with anything in his life again, and he should have realised that. Casting a quick look at his face, she relented somewhat and began to tell him the story of how she’d appropriated the Knappogue ’51, albeit with minor embellishments, ensuring she kept both their glasses filled and not giving him the chance to protest. From there she segued into one whiskey related tale after another, each one more ridiculous than the last and some of them even true; she had one immortal friend in particular to thank for those ones, Fitz had always seemed to have that sort of effect on things. She wondered, not for the first time, where her irreverent friend had disappeared to after nearly losing his head over 10 years ago and resolved to ask Methos sometime; he would know if anyone did. Her thoughts began to take a different path as she drained her glass, unable to remember *quite* how many she’d had by this point. She refilled it, and Jack’s, pleased to see the lines of tension in his face somewhat eased.
“You know where the word whiskey comes from?”
“Never thought about it.”
“It’s Gaelic: uisce beatha.” The words rolled off her tongue, her accent stronger as she spoke the language she had been born to. She paused, cradling the feel of the words in her mouth; sounds that spoke of home, of a time when her life had seemed so uncomplicated. She met Jack’s eyes; he had the oddest expression on his face for a moment as if she’d startled him into revealing something. Before she could decide whether she’d imagined it or not, it was gone.
“Uisce Beatha,” he repeated, the perfect pronunciation sounding strange when coupled with his accent. “What’s that in English?”
“Water of Life.” She took a breath, and gazed into her glass; she could feel Jack’s eyes on her, demanding more with his silent stare. She raised her head to look at him. “It’s a drink to remember life, Jack, not to forget it and we have so much life to remember. I’ve always felt that those of us who are blessed - or cursed - with immortality have a responsibility to remember those who don’t. Not everyone agrees with me of course, but I can’t say that I care about what they think; I do what I feel is right. There are so many people, so many places that are forgotten by history; while I hold their memories close they live on with me. Even if someone takes my head, they’ll be passed along with my quickening so in effect, they live forever. Immortality without pain, not a bad thing, hmm?” Jack shook his head.
“You have a trained memory, though.”
“And you don’t?” She challenged.
“Not in the same way, and you know it. Besides you’ve had more practice.”
“And you’ve got plenty of time ahead of you *to* practice. Don’t try and tell me that you haven’t experienced the way a sound or a scent can make your memories of people almost real enough to touch.” She watched his face, could tell by his expression that he had. “Encourage that, revel in it and before you know it your memories of them will be so much clearer and they’ll never die.” The expression on Jack’s face grew more thoughtful, and when he spoke it was in a near whisper.
“What about the things you don’t want to remember?”
“You do what you’re doing already; you learn to live with them. There’s nothing else you *can* do unfortunately but eventually they’ll fade into the background. I wish there was some grandiose immortal secret to impart, but there isn’t, I’m afraid.”
“You can’t blame me for hoping though, can you?”
“Not at all. Don’t forget Jack, in immortal terms you’re still young. Like it or not you’re going to get used to it and until then at least you’ve got friends who understand.” She fell silent again, and took another drink. Jack was staring at the floor, lost in thought. She felt as much as heard him take a deep breath before letting it out, then another, as if he had been going to say something but thought better of it. Eventually his words came out in a rush.
“Did Ianto send you?” He met her eyes, a complex jumble of emotions behind the troubled blue gaze. Siannon didn’t look away.
“Not exactly,” she said as she put her glass on the floor and reached for Jack’s hand. “He’s worried about you, yes, but he called me because *he* needed a friend.” She squeezed Jack’s fingers to stop him from interrupting. “Oh I know he could have spoken to you or Tosh, but sometimes you need someone who will understand a situation while still being outside of it.” She smiled. “I think I’m uniquely qualified for that, don’t you? I’ve no ties beyond those of friendship with any of you and that makes me a pretty safe person to talk to.”
“But...”
“We *talked*, Jack. You should try it sometime.” She ran her free hand through her hair to calm herself. Getting exasperated with Jack now would undo everything she’d managed achieve and wouldn’t solve anything. That was not why she’d invaded the hub with expensive whiskey; she took a deep breath. “And while we talked I realised something else; you need a friend too, possibly more than you need anything else right now, except Methos.”
“Did you...” Jack trailed off without finishing the question, ducking his head to avoid Siannon’s gaze but not before she’d caught the flash of guilty hope in his eyes.
“No, he’s still in Paris. I’m afraid you’ve got to make do with me. I might not be Methos but I’m better than no-one.”
“A hell of a lot better. And I do appreciate it.” He curled his fingers round hers and held her hand as if it was made of spun glass.
“I’m glad about that. You never would have got the ’51 out of Methos for a start, he’s never appreciated Irish whiskey; too fond of his beer.” The both chuckled at that though Siannon thought she could detect a note of desperation behind Jack’s. She leaned over to grab her glass and the bottle and topped up their drinks so they could drink to the man who was being so desperately missed. They sat in comfortable silence once more, until Jack broke it, speaking softly.
“You know John felt like his life was over; his wife dead, his son an old man who didn’t remember him. Everything he had worked toward, that had given his life meaning, gone in the blink of an eye. I couldn’t even explain properly why I understood how he felt. He was in so much pain Siannon, he begged me not to condemn him to live; how could I deny him the release that I can never have?” Jack scrunched his eyes shut, but not before an errant tear had escaped down his face. “I could have stopped him, retconned him, given him a new life but if I’d done that he wouldn’t even have had the memories of his wife and son. He didn’t want to live alone and in the end all I felt I could do was ensure he didn’t die alone. Was that so wrong of me?” Siannon felt unshed tears pricking at her own eyelids and she grasped his hand.
“I’m not sure if I would have done the same, but does that make it wrong? Not my place to decide; I’m not entitled to judge other people.” Jack gave her a fleeting smile.
“That sounds very much like something Methos said to me once.”
“Then accept it for what it is; the truth. Every immortal I know, including me, has done things that an ordinary person would never consider; both good and bad. Our entire way of life, what with the game and the Watchers and the like is more like a story than real life. I know you’re not part of that world even though you are immortal, but you’re certainly not ordinary. Anything but. In fact I’d go as far as saying you’re an extraordinary person, Jack Harkness.”
“Takes one to know one,” Jack retorted with something approaching his usual demeanour and the hint of a twinkle in his eye. Siannon breathed an internal sigh of relief; now she could relax and truly do justice to the Knappogue ’51, however much of it was left. She refilled their glasses, raising hers in another toast.
“To extraordinary people, wherever or whenever we find them!”
“Extraordinary People,” echoed Jack as they clinked their glasses together with a smile, and drank deeply. It was almost the last thing Siannon remembered clearly, her recollection of the rest of the night became somewhat hazy after that; a side effect of all the whiskey. She did remember teaching Jack a number of drinking songs in English, Gaelic and Welsh and being surprised at how good a voice he had. That led to her threatening to steal him for the next Eisteddfod held in Cardiff which made him laugh. She remembered thinking it was a beautiful sound and telling him to laugh more often; he told her if she visited more frequently he would make sure he did. Somehow she also allowed herself to be persuaded to tell him stories of some of Methos’ more colourful exploits, making them both dissolve into fits of giggles. Everything else had become too fuzzy to remember clearly but she couldn’t forget how young and vulnerable Jack had looked after he’d eventually fallen asleep. At that point she had tucked a blanket around him, kissed him softly goodnight, and left.