Number One With A Silver Bullet [7/?]
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.
**********
Even at waning gibbous work was, well, work, as normal as it ever got when your job description was classified under the Official Secrets Act and apparently included some ironclad language about needing to be properly certified in the use of firearms regardless of whether or not Jack even had the slightest intention of sending you into the field. George suspected this said some worrying things about how likely it was the field would come to him, at some point.
Today's was another session of practising how to compensate for his cyclically changing eyesight. George squinted down the range at the targets, trying to set aside the lingering burn of pectorals that had spent a long evening putting in a shift at running him up and down the countryside on all fours, and squeezed off a shot that went a bit less wide than the previous round. "You're still tensing up," Jack said with an appraising frown, stepping forward to correct George's stance. "You need to stay loose enough to react in the moment, no matter what's going on around..."
And the inevitable hand sliding up to his -- George yipped and only just managed not to drop the gun. There was a snigger from the gallery. "Can you honestly tell me that when they were teaching you to stick bayonets into things it would have involved this sort of distractions?" he turned and demanded of Mitchell's smirk.
"Rather a hand on my arse than a ferret down my trousers, as they say," the vampire replied unrepentantly, as Jack did, actually, back off to give George some personal space.
"The likelihood that I am ever going to have to work out how to aim a gun whilst being groped is --"
"Surprisingly high, actually," Ianto said, melancholy frown suggesting a sincerity that George didn't really want to probe too closely. "I'd put it at slightly better than the ferret? The chance of which is also not nil, unfortunately."
There was probably a file somewhere in the archives on that, recreational uses for ferret-shaped aliens, or maybe an advisory guide to the alien ferretoids on how not to be used recreationally by some bored coal-miners in a Yorkshire pub. "It's not as if it can't be done," Mitchell insisted, and at a look of challenge he came round from behind the barrier to usurp George's position beside Jack, easy drop into a predator's relaxed awareness to snap off a shot to the paper outline's head. George saw the wince in tandem with his own, report still too loud for preternaturally sensitive ears even through protection.
But it still didn't stop the vampire from pegging the target with more neat shots straight through the jugular, even with Jack's hands stealing to his hips, his shoulders, his chest, spark of charged arousal lighting in two pairs of eyes as he emptied the clip until somehow it came as only a distant surprise when Mitchell turned and latched onto Jack's neck --
He... he'd never seen Mitchell... feed, before. Not properly. Not this naked coupling of singleminded hungers, gasping and grinding against each other unashamedly, nothing to hold back without any true stakes in the game. George was still wondering if he ought to look away from what seemed to have become a rather private moment between them when blue eyes rolled back and knees gave way, vampire following victim to the floor in a slow-motion slump that ended in the frightful parody of a romantic swoon on the floor of the range. Ianto was regarding the crimson puddle trailing from beneath them with a he's cleaning that up this time, honestly sort of resigned annoyance.
Presently Mitchell drew back from the body, sitting up with a wobbly bloodsmeared grin that suggested it had been very, very good for him too. George stepped in to steady him, feeling obscurely that he ought to be making himself more useful around here somehow. With a sudden gasp of air Jack lurched up. "Whoa, that is always a... We really have to study your biochemistry, Mitchell, I'm thinking you've got something with more kick than anticoagulants in your saliva."
George did suppose that with a talent like that it was only to be expected that Jack would occasionally lose sight of other people's limitations. "Not today, I don't think," he said as the vampire sagged against his arm.
"Nnn-hnh." An absurdly exaggerated nod that left George having to all but hold him up. "Wann' go home."
"I don't think you're good to drive," Ianto remarked dispassionately.
Mitchell was in fact barely good to walk, really. George got him up to his feet and staggering more or less in the direction of the main work-area, blissfully loopy as a mortal man who'd been cut off down the pub. Some measure of how routine all of this madness had come to seem that Nina barely gave the bloodied pair a glance as they came past her autopsy room, split-second assessment that if no one was having hysterics it most probably wasn't her medical lookout. Mitchell collapsed onto the ugly old sofa and curled up into a torpid ball under the tatty old blanket George went to tuck round him. "Ta."
He supposed it hardly mattered whether they got some mess around, to this sofa or that blanket, but still there was something faintly disturbing about the smear left on pale skin as the vampire brushed one hand across his nose. "Thank you for... sparing me that, this long." Mitchell grunted, incoherent sound that might as well have come across from the other side of sleep. But as George straightened to turn back to his workstation a hand snaked out and caught at his, tactile plea not to be abandoned to face what dreams might come. Trying not to look too hard at rusty streaks on silver rings as he let Mitchell's fingers twine through his, George sighed and settled himself on the floor beside the sofa.
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.
**********
Even at waning gibbous work was, well, work, as normal as it ever got when your job description was classified under the Official Secrets Act and apparently included some ironclad language about needing to be properly certified in the use of firearms regardless of whether or not Jack even had the slightest intention of sending you into the field. George suspected this said some worrying things about how likely it was the field would come to him, at some point.
Today's was another session of practising how to compensate for his cyclically changing eyesight. George squinted down the range at the targets, trying to set aside the lingering burn of pectorals that had spent a long evening putting in a shift at running him up and down the countryside on all fours, and squeezed off a shot that went a bit less wide than the previous round. "You're still tensing up," Jack said with an appraising frown, stepping forward to correct George's stance. "You need to stay loose enough to react in the moment, no matter what's going on around..."
And the inevitable hand sliding up to his -- George yipped and only just managed not to drop the gun. There was a snigger from the gallery. "Can you honestly tell me that when they were teaching you to stick bayonets into things it would have involved this sort of distractions?" he turned and demanded of Mitchell's smirk.
"Rather a hand on my arse than a ferret down my trousers, as they say," the vampire replied unrepentantly, as Jack did, actually, back off to give George some personal space.
"The likelihood that I am ever going to have to work out how to aim a gun whilst being groped is --"
"Surprisingly high, actually," Ianto said, melancholy frown suggesting a sincerity that George didn't really want to probe too closely. "I'd put it at slightly better than the ferret? The chance of which is also not nil, unfortunately."
There was probably a file somewhere in the archives on that, recreational uses for ferret-shaped aliens, or maybe an advisory guide to the alien ferretoids on how not to be used recreationally by some bored coal-miners in a Yorkshire pub. "It's not as if it can't be done," Mitchell insisted, and at a look of challenge he came round from behind the barrier to usurp George's position beside Jack, easy drop into a predator's relaxed awareness to snap off a shot to the paper outline's head. George saw the wince in tandem with his own, report still too loud for preternaturally sensitive ears even through protection.
But it still didn't stop the vampire from pegging the target with more neat shots straight through the jugular, even with Jack's hands stealing to his hips, his shoulders, his chest, spark of charged arousal lighting in two pairs of eyes as he emptied the clip until somehow it came as only a distant surprise when Mitchell turned and latched onto Jack's neck --
He... he'd never seen Mitchell... feed, before. Not properly. Not this naked coupling of singleminded hungers, gasping and grinding against each other unashamedly, nothing to hold back without any true stakes in the game. George was still wondering if he ought to look away from what seemed to have become a rather private moment between them when blue eyes rolled back and knees gave way, vampire following victim to the floor in a slow-motion slump that ended in the frightful parody of a romantic swoon on the floor of the range. Ianto was regarding the crimson puddle trailing from beneath them with a he's cleaning that up this time, honestly sort of resigned annoyance.
Presently Mitchell drew back from the body, sitting up with a wobbly bloodsmeared grin that suggested it had been very, very good for him too. George stepped in to steady him, feeling obscurely that he ought to be making himself more useful around here somehow. With a sudden gasp of air Jack lurched up. "Whoa, that is always a... We really have to study your biochemistry, Mitchell, I'm thinking you've got something with more kick than anticoagulants in your saliva."
George did suppose that with a talent like that it was only to be expected that Jack would occasionally lose sight of other people's limitations. "Not today, I don't think," he said as the vampire sagged against his arm.
"Nnn-hnh." An absurdly exaggerated nod that left George having to all but hold him up. "Wann' go home."
"I don't think you're good to drive," Ianto remarked dispassionately.
Mitchell was in fact barely good to walk, really. George got him up to his feet and staggering more or less in the direction of the main work-area, blissfully loopy as a mortal man who'd been cut off down the pub. Some measure of how routine all of this madness had come to seem that Nina barely gave the bloodied pair a glance as they came past her autopsy room, split-second assessment that if no one was having hysterics it most probably wasn't her medical lookout. Mitchell collapsed onto the ugly old sofa and curled up into a torpid ball under the tatty old blanket George went to tuck round him. "Ta."
He supposed it hardly mattered whether they got some mess around, to this sofa or that blanket, but still there was something faintly disturbing about the smear left on pale skin as the vampire brushed one hand across his nose. "Thank you for... sparing me that, this long." Mitchell grunted, incoherent sound that might as well have come across from the other side of sleep. But as George straightened to turn back to his workstation a hand snaked out and caught at his, tactile plea not to be abandoned to face what dreams might come. Trying not to look too hard at rusty streaks on silver rings as he let Mitchell's fingers twine through his, George sighed and settled himself on the floor beside the sofa.