Number One With A Silver Bullet [4/?]
Title: Number One With A Silver Bullet
Rating: teen [language and sexual situations]
Characters: PC Andy, Jack, Ianto, Owen, Tosh, Gwen, George, Mitchell, Nina
Spoilers: TW s2/BH s1, inclusive
Advisories: crossover with Being Human
Disclaimer: somebody please stop me, no, seriously...
Summary: Torchwood Three is finally back up to full strength, although its new hires bring... unconventional skillsets.
**********
"Seriously, that joke stopped being funny eighty years ago," Mitchell insisted, setting the wineglass back down on the coffee table. He saw George giving it a look, as if there'd have been any sense in worrying about spills amidst all the shed fur and scratches. They weren't company, to be confined to the neat room in the front where the dogs weren't allowed to tread; they were family, Torchwood family, sprawled at their ease on the hairy old furniture in the room with the telly.
They'd both been coppers, these two former agents, and Andy was again, looking after this little village at the feet of the Beacons with the calm eye of a man who knew that there was nothing it could throw at him that was stranger than his own friends. Gwen Cooper had in turn begged off from the mad whirl of Torchwood to pursue the hope of a so-called normal life, although now that her Euan was a bit bigger she was back on for some lighter duties, like archiving and the ubiquitous paperwork. And the monthly werewolf-minding session. "Wf," Euan gurgled, leaving off tormenting one of Andy's absurdly patient dogs to toddle over to the sofa.
"That's right, it's your Uncle Oof," Andy said, hauling the boy up into his lap. "Rather jump on me now than Jonesy, eh?"
"He's getting so big," Nina said in a voice that Mitchell thought sounded as if she were having to make herself participate. Gwen glanced up at her, lips curling into an awkward smile, as George went for his own drink to all but finish the glass, setting it defiantly back down on a coaster after.
"Time to go out to the barn then?" Mitchell suggested, putting his hands on his knees ready to launch himself up from the chair.
Reluctant nods from the sofa. "I feel as if I'm sitting on my tail," George said. "Which I mean in the sense of a phantom limb sort of thing, not as a metaphor for idleness or anything that normal."
George hadn't even had a tail when Mitchell had first known him, too deep in denial of the animal within to surrender himself to a completely lupine form. It was hard to tell if this was progress, exactly, or by what scale one would even measure that, but at least the werewolf seemed marginally less miserable about his circumstances lately. Amazing what regular sex and good mates could do for a bloke's outlook on life.
The property Torchwood had found for its departing employee featured a small barn that the previous owners had fitted out with several sturdy box-stalls for their working horses. George stood covering himself with his hands in the middle of one, looking, truthfully, a bit of a prat with the collar loose round his neck, but it seemed to be a point of pride for him to put it on while he still had thumbs to fasten the buckle, so Mitchell hadn't pressed the issue after those first trials. Little enough the poor sod could do to cling to shreds of anything resembling dignity --
George was a screamer, as these things went. Mitchell occasionally wondered if it should bother him that he was beginning to collect a proper data set for it. Subject one, vocalises at high decibel level during initial stages of transformation until physiological shutdown. Subject two, some whimpering but observable attempts at stoic approach to distress. Subject three, believes subjects one and two are being unbelievably wet about it and they should try having cramps sometime. Subject four -- No, he really didn't want to think about subject four. Not that he even wanted to think about subject one, now raising himself up to shake out short dark fur with a long and violent wriggle before he came up to join his mate in nuzzling at Mitchell's hands as their host loped out of his own stall.
If you didn't know, one would think Andy just an improbably huge dog, easily as large as a very large man and regarding the world through keenly intelligent dark-grey eyes. Beside him the other werewolves looked almost like ordinary mutts, the one only remarkably big for a bitch rather than freakish. Gwen set the curly-coated pup in her arms down and he wobbled over to the adults, polite touches to George and Nina's noses before Andy scooped the cub up by the scruff and trotted out of the barn at the head of his pack. "I know it's unspeakably tragic, but that's still the cutest thing I've ever seen," Mitchell remarked.
"Not as if Euan's ever known anything else," the werewolf pup's mother replied, sinking down onto a bench. Mitchell sat down beside and gave Gwen's back a friendly rub. "I don't know how much he understands yet, you heard how he's started trying to say 'wolf' to Andy."
"Maybe he's associating him with the dogs," Mitchell offered. Gwen sniffled wanly and laid her head on the vampire's shoulder with a sigh.
Andy always offered Gwen the use of the guest bedroom and she always ended up falling asleep on the sofa instead, waiting with Mitchell for the morning. When the moon had hidden its fullest face away below the horizon once more the vampire took up the readied stack of folded blankets and the handheld tuned to play hotter and colder; he followed the blinking dot and soon enough came upon the sleeping pack all draped over each other in a vulnerable pink heap at the bottom of the garden, George's head pillowed on Andy's human-furry chest and Nina curled up behind. Mitchell gently gathered up the naked toddler to wrap him snug against the chill morning air and settled beside the pile to wait for slowly wakening brains to reacclimate to the thought of a life lived on two feet instead of four.
Rating: teen [language and sexual situations]
Characters: PC Andy, Jack, Ianto, Owen, Tosh, Gwen, George, Mitchell, Nina
Spoilers: TW s2/BH s1, inclusive
Advisories: crossover with Being Human
Disclaimer: somebody please stop me, no, seriously...
Summary: Torchwood Three is finally back up to full strength, although its new hires bring... unconventional skillsets.
**********
"Seriously, that joke stopped being funny eighty years ago," Mitchell insisted, setting the wineglass back down on the coffee table. He saw George giving it a look, as if there'd have been any sense in worrying about spills amidst all the shed fur and scratches. They weren't company, to be confined to the neat room in the front where the dogs weren't allowed to tread; they were family, Torchwood family, sprawled at their ease on the hairy old furniture in the room with the telly.
They'd both been coppers, these two former agents, and Andy was again, looking after this little village at the feet of the Beacons with the calm eye of a man who knew that there was nothing it could throw at him that was stranger than his own friends. Gwen Cooper had in turn begged off from the mad whirl of Torchwood to pursue the hope of a so-called normal life, although now that her Euan was a bit bigger she was back on for some lighter duties, like archiving and the ubiquitous paperwork. And the monthly werewolf-minding session. "Wf," Euan gurgled, leaving off tormenting one of Andy's absurdly patient dogs to toddle over to the sofa.
"That's right, it's your Uncle Oof," Andy said, hauling the boy up into his lap. "Rather jump on me now than Jonesy, eh?"
"He's getting so big," Nina said in a voice that Mitchell thought sounded as if she were having to make herself participate. Gwen glanced up at her, lips curling into an awkward smile, as George went for his own drink to all but finish the glass, setting it defiantly back down on a coaster after.
"Time to go out to the barn then?" Mitchell suggested, putting his hands on his knees ready to launch himself up from the chair.
Reluctant nods from the sofa. "I feel as if I'm sitting on my tail," George said. "Which I mean in the sense of a phantom limb sort of thing, not as a metaphor for idleness or anything that normal."
George hadn't even had a tail when Mitchell had first known him, too deep in denial of the animal within to surrender himself to a completely lupine form. It was hard to tell if this was progress, exactly, or by what scale one would even measure that, but at least the werewolf seemed marginally less miserable about his circumstances lately. Amazing what regular sex and good mates could do for a bloke's outlook on life.
The property Torchwood had found for its departing employee featured a small barn that the previous owners had fitted out with several sturdy box-stalls for their working horses. George stood covering himself with his hands in the middle of one, looking, truthfully, a bit of a prat with the collar loose round his neck, but it seemed to be a point of pride for him to put it on while he still had thumbs to fasten the buckle, so Mitchell hadn't pressed the issue after those first trials. Little enough the poor sod could do to cling to shreds of anything resembling dignity --
George was a screamer, as these things went. Mitchell occasionally wondered if it should bother him that he was beginning to collect a proper data set for it. Subject one, vocalises at high decibel level during initial stages of transformation until physiological shutdown. Subject two, some whimpering but observable attempts at stoic approach to distress. Subject three, believes subjects one and two are being unbelievably wet about it and they should try having cramps sometime. Subject four -- No, he really didn't want to think about subject four. Not that he even wanted to think about subject one, now raising himself up to shake out short dark fur with a long and violent wriggle before he came up to join his mate in nuzzling at Mitchell's hands as their host loped out of his own stall.
If you didn't know, one would think Andy just an improbably huge dog, easily as large as a very large man and regarding the world through keenly intelligent dark-grey eyes. Beside him the other werewolves looked almost like ordinary mutts, the one only remarkably big for a bitch rather than freakish. Gwen set the curly-coated pup in her arms down and he wobbled over to the adults, polite touches to George and Nina's noses before Andy scooped the cub up by the scruff and trotted out of the barn at the head of his pack. "I know it's unspeakably tragic, but that's still the cutest thing I've ever seen," Mitchell remarked.
"Not as if Euan's ever known anything else," the werewolf pup's mother replied, sinking down onto a bench. Mitchell sat down beside and gave Gwen's back a friendly rub. "I don't know how much he understands yet, you heard how he's started trying to say 'wolf' to Andy."
"Maybe he's associating him with the dogs," Mitchell offered. Gwen sniffled wanly and laid her head on the vampire's shoulder with a sigh.
Andy always offered Gwen the use of the guest bedroom and she always ended up falling asleep on the sofa instead, waiting with Mitchell for the morning. When the moon had hidden its fullest face away below the horizon once more the vampire took up the readied stack of folded blankets and the handheld tuned to play hotter and colder; he followed the blinking dot and soon enough came upon the sleeping pack all draped over each other in a vulnerable pink heap at the bottom of the garden, George's head pillowed on Andy's human-furry chest and Nina curled up behind. Mitchell gently gathered up the naked toddler to wrap him snug against the chill morning air and settled beside the pile to wait for slowly wakening brains to reacclimate to the thought of a life lived on two feet instead of four.