fic: Never Can Say Goodbye 1/1 PG-13 Highlander/Star Trek: Voyager/Torchwood crossover (kind of)
Title: Never Can Say Goodbye
Fandom: Highlander/Star Trek: Voyager and a smidge of Torchwood for good measure
Author: A Lanart
Characters: Siannon O'Niall, Methos (and mention of various others)
Pairings: vague Methos/Jack, vague Paris/Kim (previous P/K/T/f)
Rating: PG-13 for 1 swear.
Warnings: Not fluff but not sure it classes as angst either.
Summary: Some things are very hard to do; saying goodbye is one of them.
Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise is mine, even the Title is from the song of the same name.
A/N: Written for my occhallenge table. Prompt: Short. This takes place about 440 years in the future, long after the rest of the Star Trek: Voyager stories in the O'Niall Chronicles. Oh and you're getting this as I think my Big Bang is dead (it never was really alive to be honest).
~*~
It was quiet in the bar, but not silent; the noise of the space station was a steady thrum around her, even here where she was half-hidden in comforting darkness. A different sort of thrum danced along her nerves; she ignored it, there was no-one on Taranis station who would be after her head although if she was honest with herself part of her would relish the challenge. Siannon sank further into her darkened corner; whoever it was would either leave her alone, or they wouldn’t, but there was no way she was going to invite their presence.
Without speaking, the other immortal slid into the chair opposite her and placed an empty glass on the table. A long-fingered hand reached for the bottle of whiskey in front of her and poured a generous measure into the empty glass, and then topped up her own.
They sipped in companionable silence for a while, remembering other places, other people. He was the first to break it, but that didn’t surprise her.
“You ran,” he said. A statement, no more; nothing else, no explanations, no murmurings of sympathy. Not that she expected any, not from him. If it had been Richie, the initial words would have been different; fiercer possibly, and full of both empathy and accusation. But this wasn’t Richie; it was Methos, her oldest living friend and sometimes more than friend.
“I gave them their freedom,” she replied, disagreeing.
“You ran,” he insisted. She sighed, and took a generous mouthful of her drink.
“Maybe I did, but what was I supposed to do?”
“Stay?”
“And watch them share something I can never be a part of, no matter how much I wish otherwise?” She heard her voice rising, and broke off to take a deep breath and calm herself a little before continuing. “Maybe if B’Elanna was still alive I might have tried but as it is, I just couldn’t. We lost our stability when we lost her; Tom and Harry are better off without me now.” She resolutely stared at the table, avoiding eye contact.
“They might be, but I don’t think you are,” Methos said gently.
She eventually raised her head and met his eyes; he was barely visible in the gloom, the dim light making his face all angles and shadows. She probably looked much the same but she didn’t call for the lights to be raised; there was a time and a place for everything and right now she needed the shelter of the darkness.
“I couldn’t stay.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, but every word sounded loud in her ears. “My daughter looks more like my elder sister; soon she’ll look like my mother. They burn so brightly, Methos, and too damn fast. Even in this day and age, their life is just too fucking short and I can’t do anything about it!”
Methos said nothing, but wordlessly stretched out a hand to squeeze her fingers where they lay on the table, loosening them from the fist into which she had curled them. He didn’t need to say anything; she remembered Alexa and his own desperation to do something, *anything* to try and give the woman he loved just a little more time than the few months she had. He’d failed, as any immortal who loved a mortal was doomed to fail; it still didn’t stop them from falling in love, and probably never would. She thought the day that she did, would be the day that she was truly ready to die.
“Was this goodbye?” He asked. She shook her head.
“No. I’ll do that when *they’re* ready to say goodbye; I never will be.”
“None of us ever are. I hope *you* don’t have to say goodbye for a long time yet.”
“You and me both, Methos. You and me both.” Their glasses clinked together as they drank a toast to life and hope. It was a futile hope, maybe, but it was all she had right now apart from the friends who lived and loved and lost, just like she did, over and over again. It was times like this that she truly envied Methos and Jack; they would never have to say goodbye. Ever.
Fandom: Highlander/Star Trek: Voyager and a smidge of Torchwood for good measure
Author: A Lanart
Characters: Siannon O'Niall, Methos (and mention of various others)
Pairings: vague Methos/Jack, vague Paris/Kim (previous P/K/T/f)
Rating: PG-13 for 1 swear.
Warnings: Not fluff but not sure it classes as angst either.
Summary: Some things are very hard to do; saying goodbye is one of them.
Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise is mine, even the Title is from the song of the same name.
A/N: Written for my occhallenge table. Prompt: Short. This takes place about 440 years in the future, long after the rest of the Star Trek: Voyager stories in the O'Niall Chronicles. Oh and you're getting this as I think my Big Bang is dead (it never was really alive to be honest).
~*~
It was quiet in the bar, but not silent; the noise of the space station was a steady thrum around her, even here where she was half-hidden in comforting darkness. A different sort of thrum danced along her nerves; she ignored it, there was no-one on Taranis station who would be after her head although if she was honest with herself part of her would relish the challenge. Siannon sank further into her darkened corner; whoever it was would either leave her alone, or they wouldn’t, but there was no way she was going to invite their presence.
Without speaking, the other immortal slid into the chair opposite her and placed an empty glass on the table. A long-fingered hand reached for the bottle of whiskey in front of her and poured a generous measure into the empty glass, and then topped up her own.
They sipped in companionable silence for a while, remembering other places, other people. He was the first to break it, but that didn’t surprise her.
“You ran,” he said. A statement, no more; nothing else, no explanations, no murmurings of sympathy. Not that she expected any, not from him. If it had been Richie, the initial words would have been different; fiercer possibly, and full of both empathy and accusation. But this wasn’t Richie; it was Methos, her oldest living friend and sometimes more than friend.
“I gave them their freedom,” she replied, disagreeing.
“You ran,” he insisted. She sighed, and took a generous mouthful of her drink.
“Maybe I did, but what was I supposed to do?”
“Stay?”
“And watch them share something I can never be a part of, no matter how much I wish otherwise?” She heard her voice rising, and broke off to take a deep breath and calm herself a little before continuing. “Maybe if B’Elanna was still alive I might have tried but as it is, I just couldn’t. We lost our stability when we lost her; Tom and Harry are better off without me now.” She resolutely stared at the table, avoiding eye contact.
“They might be, but I don’t think you are,” Methos said gently.
She eventually raised her head and met his eyes; he was barely visible in the gloom, the dim light making his face all angles and shadows. She probably looked much the same but she didn’t call for the lights to be raised; there was a time and a place for everything and right now she needed the shelter of the darkness.
“I couldn’t stay.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, but every word sounded loud in her ears. “My daughter looks more like my elder sister; soon she’ll look like my mother. They burn so brightly, Methos, and too damn fast. Even in this day and age, their life is just too fucking short and I can’t do anything about it!”
Methos said nothing, but wordlessly stretched out a hand to squeeze her fingers where they lay on the table, loosening them from the fist into which she had curled them. He didn’t need to say anything; she remembered Alexa and his own desperation to do something, *anything* to try and give the woman he loved just a little more time than the few months she had. He’d failed, as any immortal who loved a mortal was doomed to fail; it still didn’t stop them from falling in love, and probably never would. She thought the day that she did, would be the day that she was truly ready to die.
“Was this goodbye?” He asked. She shook her head.
“No. I’ll do that when *they’re* ready to say goodbye; I never will be.”
“None of us ever are. I hope *you* don’t have to say goodbye for a long time yet.”
“You and me both, Methos. You and me both.” Their glasses clinked together as they drank a toast to life and hope. It was a futile hope, maybe, but it was all she had right now apart from the friends who lived and loved and lost, just like she did, over and over again. It was times like this that she truly envied Methos and Jack; they would never have to say goodbye. Ever.