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burntcopperSome of the many snippets I have hanging around. maybe I'll finish some before hell freezes over...
The Kon/Tim Discworld crossover
"Right. Connor Kent." Angua says, flicking her eye over the new recruit, and sniffing him for good measure. Not obviously, as it tends to disturb people. The scent's - hmm. Not quite normal human, and a little like Carrot. Only really smelled something like that on one person. The chiselled jaw, curly black hair, physique and blue eyes help. "From near Sto Lat. Related to Clark Kent at the Times?"
"Uh, yeah. My uncle."
"In that case, I had better tell you the Watch's policy on dealing with the press : Don't tell them anything not sanctioned by Captain Carrot, Mr. Vimes, me, or Corporal Littlebottom. When in doubt, your automatic line should be 'no comment'. Especially if it's family asking. Got it?"
-----
"I just joined the Watch a few days ago. Er. Is that needle and thread specialist or -"
"Blue Cat Club division." Tim grins. Mr Harris has risen to quite an important man in the Guild in recent years, helping fill a much-required niche. Guild business for a certain type of customer has gone up quite a bit with the expansion of the Blue Cat Club division.
"Right. So what is it you do when you're not working? Me, I have this terrible habit of stalking penguins."
"Penguins." Somehow Tim manages to get into one word several sentences, which include 'not in these climates' and goes all the way up to 'please don't tell me you mean opera-goers'. With a raised eyebrow included.
"Yep." Kon replies. "Tricky buggers, have yet to see one around Ankh-Morpork. But I'm persistent."
SGA Harlequin
Dr Rodney McKay glared at the scenery as it passed. Why some people professed to like the wide open spaces of the West, he'd never know. It contained far too little civilisation for his tastes. Unfortunately, it was between Boston, where he'd been working on scientific breakthroughs and being forced to teach occasionally, and San Francisco, where his research was going to be based for the next two years. And of course, the train didn't go the route he needed. His travelling companions had an annoying habit of extolling the virtues of living out in the wastes - apparently the freedom to be one's own master and make your own way in the world quite made up for the lack of money, baths, doctors, resources, communication and the freedom to starve when you turned out to be a bad farmer. He'll take San Francisco, thankyou very much.
"I'm back and forth on these coaches, selling my wares." The greasy little salesman sitting next to him says. "Seen it all. Bandits, flash floods, Indians..."
Rodney straightens at that, stilling his pen as he works out equations. "Indians? You mean Indians attack the coaches? I thought this area was tamed."
"Well, they can call it tamed, but it ain't as bad as it was a few years ago. But every once in a while, yup." The salesman nods. "Driver's got a gun for a reason. Sometimes it's just goods they're after, sometimes it's your scalp, and sometimes they'll even take an interest in the womenfolk." The lady across from them with rather bad taste in hats gasps, and he tilts his hat cheekily. "Didn't mean no disrespect, ma'am, but these things do happen."
"Hmph." Mckay decides to dismiss the likelihood as scaremongering and goes back to his equations in a forcible attempt to stop thinking about it. Besides, the chances of it are obviously quite low or so many coaches wouldn't take the trip.
---
An hour or so after that delightful conversation, during which they've discussed the sights of the plains, which appear to be mostly birds, buffalo and the occasional cattle driver, the woman with the bad hat utters "Oh my goodness. Are those -"
The salesmen cranes his head to see what she's looking at, which turns out to be dust trails. "Could well be Indians, ma'am. Could a few wild ponies, or could be some men out for a ride." He reaches up to thump on the wall of the coach. "Driver! Got some business to your left!"
That appears to be the signal for the driver to crack his whip and urge the horses on. It doesn't appear to affect the distance between the coach and the dust trails, however - if anything, they're getting closer, approaching from the angle that they are.
Soon enough they're not just dust trails, they're visible as figures on horseback, and the salesman is clambering up to grab shotguns from the racks above them. He thrusts one at Rodney. "Time to see what you're made of and defend yourself."
Rodney holds up his hands to ward off the gun. "Me? Are you joking? I haven't the slightest idea how to fire one. I'd probably do more damage to myself. Give it to her, she probably won't shoot her own foot off." He says, pointing at the woman opposite, who's looking a bit frightened, on the verge of working herself up into a state. Rodney snorts. He can't stand high-strung women, which doesn't make him at all popular at gatherings at the universities. Still, less time with twittering idiots is always good, and the thought of marrying one makes his blood run cold.
The Takeaways of Torchwood
"Jubilee Pizza. Oh, hi, Ianto... usual order?" Tom brings up the regulars list. "With two extra pepperoni. Got it. Did you want garlic bread? Sounds like a long night if you're ordering this much. Okay, no garlic bread, just the two extra pepperoni." He puts the phone down. "Ianto called, order from Torchwood."
"Usual order?" Anne asks.
"Usual plus two pepperoni. Looks like they're in for a long night."
Dafydd walks in. "What've you got for me, then?"
Tom puts the boxes on the table. "Torchwood order. Say hello to Ianto for us."
"And don't accept an offer of a drink again!" Anne yells from the back, busy scattering peppers on some strange concoction that involves pineapple and ground beef. "You know what happened last time!"
Dafydd shudders. "Don't worry, I have no desire to drink that much again."
Tom raises an eyebrow. "You're a bloody student, Dafydd."
"My liver is a mere novice compared to the Torchwood lot. Couldn't remember a thing the next morning, and you don't want to know about the hangover." Dafydd replies, stuffing the pizzas in the bag and tucking the order slip into the bag pocket. He grins. "Maybe I can get some of Ianto's coffee."
Tom glares at him. "Don't rub it in."
----
1930s timeslip
Jack's lounging on the sofa reading when he opens the door to the flat, the strains of Irving Berlin coming from the wireless in the corner. Jack looks up as he goes to put his purchases away in the kitchen and fix a new pot of coffee. Jack's been banned from touching the machine under any circumstances since his first disastrous attempt. "Find anything interesting, Ianto?"
"The baker appears to be experimenting with some new types of loaf, sir." Ianto replies. "I've also been persuaded to join a club that goes by the name of the Junior Ganymede."
Jack grins. "Now that definitely sounds interesting. Wasn't Ganymede Zeus' plaything? You've been holding out on me, Ianto. How do I join?"
"They're very selective about their membership, sir."
"Never met a club I couldn't gain access to."
"You'd find this one a little difficult. You're not a gentleman's personal gentleman, as you're quite aware."
Jack sighs. "Damn, foiled again. Are they all as efficient as you?"
"Perhaps not all of them."
----
On the bay, three members of Torchwood and a couple of policemen are left staring. "What... what just happened?" One of the coppers asks. "I mean, one minute your boss was holding a gun on that weirdo who was holding your bloke hostage, next thing they're just not there."
"Not even the courtesy to have a nice big flash of light or anything." The other one notes. "Could've at least made a noise."
Torchwood Black Ops
Jack comes out of the office a few minutes later. "Has Ianto made that coffee yet?" he asks, leaning against the door of his office.
Owen shrugs. "Went to bamboozle the tourists upstairs."
"Well, let's see another master performance, then. Tosh, can you pull up the cctv?"
Tosh frowns. "There's a group of them. I can't currently see their faces, but -"
Gwen cocks her head from where she's come up behind them. "Ianto's being very quiet."
"Ianto, anything interesting?" Jack asks. Ianto doesn't answer.
"Jack, it's not like he can answer you if he's got tourists." Tosh scolds, turning up the volume.
Then one of the people turns, tilting their head and looking directly into the camera. "Getting a good show?"
Tosh flinches back, hands going to her mouth. "Oh dear god no."
Owen blanches slightly. "Fuck. Not them. Fucking anybody but them."
Jack stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. "Fuck indeed."
"That'sa lot of fucking." Gwen comments and looks at the rest of the team. "All right, who are they?"
"The people currently sullying upstairs are Torchwood's special ops team." Jack informs her. "Field agents, do all kinds of interesting little jobs. They were moved to the jurisdiction of Torchwood Two after the Battle of Canary Wharf."
"Call 'em the Untouchables." Owen adds.
"Like Elliot Ness?" Gwen asks, intrigued. "Fighting the fight against the nastiest scum. Why don't you like them?"
"Well, they are fighting scum, that's true." Owen says. "Didn't get their name that way, though."
"Nobody wants them within reach of a ten-foot barge pole." Tosh says. "They're practically animals."
Jack's hand goes to his earpiece. "Ianto, get out of there now. We're coming to back you up -"
"I'm a little caught up, Jack." Ianto answers. On the screen, the Untouchables are seemingly lounging about, though that's clearly a lie.
One of the girls hoiks herself up on the desk and reaches out to trail a finger down Ianto's face. Her voice comes over the comms. "So this is the famous Mr. Jones. We used to get all kinds of interesting information from you. Where to go, who or what our next job was, blueprints of how to get in, all sorts of interesting little tidbits."
"Glad to be of service." Ianto says politely.
She tilts her head to look at the camera. "Harkness, you've been holding out on us. He's very pretty."
The Kon/Tim Discworld crossover
"Right. Connor Kent." Angua says, flicking her eye over the new recruit, and sniffing him for good measure. Not obviously, as it tends to disturb people. The scent's - hmm. Not quite normal human, and a little like Carrot. Only really smelled something like that on one person. The chiselled jaw, curly black hair, physique and blue eyes help. "From near Sto Lat. Related to Clark Kent at the Times?"
"Uh, yeah. My uncle."
"In that case, I had better tell you the Watch's policy on dealing with the press : Don't tell them anything not sanctioned by Captain Carrot, Mr. Vimes, me, or Corporal Littlebottom. When in doubt, your automatic line should be 'no comment'. Especially if it's family asking. Got it?"
-----
"I just joined the Watch a few days ago. Er. Is that needle and thread specialist or -"
"Blue Cat Club division." Tim grins. Mr Harris has risen to quite an important man in the Guild in recent years, helping fill a much-required niche. Guild business for a certain type of customer has gone up quite a bit with the expansion of the Blue Cat Club division.
"Right. So what is it you do when you're not working? Me, I have this terrible habit of stalking penguins."
"Penguins." Somehow Tim manages to get into one word several sentences, which include 'not in these climates' and goes all the way up to 'please don't tell me you mean opera-goers'. With a raised eyebrow included.
"Yep." Kon replies. "Tricky buggers, have yet to see one around Ankh-Morpork. But I'm persistent."
SGA Harlequin
Dr Rodney McKay glared at the scenery as it passed. Why some people professed to like the wide open spaces of the West, he'd never know. It contained far too little civilisation for his tastes. Unfortunately, it was between Boston, where he'd been working on scientific breakthroughs and being forced to teach occasionally, and San Francisco, where his research was going to be based for the next two years. And of course, the train didn't go the route he needed. His travelling companions had an annoying habit of extolling the virtues of living out in the wastes - apparently the freedom to be one's own master and make your own way in the world quite made up for the lack of money, baths, doctors, resources, communication and the freedom to starve when you turned out to be a bad farmer. He'll take San Francisco, thankyou very much.
"I'm back and forth on these coaches, selling my wares." The greasy little salesman sitting next to him says. "Seen it all. Bandits, flash floods, Indians..."
Rodney straightens at that, stilling his pen as he works out equations. "Indians? You mean Indians attack the coaches? I thought this area was tamed."
"Well, they can call it tamed, but it ain't as bad as it was a few years ago. But every once in a while, yup." The salesman nods. "Driver's got a gun for a reason. Sometimes it's just goods they're after, sometimes it's your scalp, and sometimes they'll even take an interest in the womenfolk." The lady across from them with rather bad taste in hats gasps, and he tilts his hat cheekily. "Didn't mean no disrespect, ma'am, but these things do happen."
"Hmph." Mckay decides to dismiss the likelihood as scaremongering and goes back to his equations in a forcible attempt to stop thinking about it. Besides, the chances of it are obviously quite low or so many coaches wouldn't take the trip.
---
An hour or so after that delightful conversation, during which they've discussed the sights of the plains, which appear to be mostly birds, buffalo and the occasional cattle driver, the woman with the bad hat utters "Oh my goodness. Are those -"
The salesmen cranes his head to see what she's looking at, which turns out to be dust trails. "Could well be Indians, ma'am. Could a few wild ponies, or could be some men out for a ride." He reaches up to thump on the wall of the coach. "Driver! Got some business to your left!"
That appears to be the signal for the driver to crack his whip and urge the horses on. It doesn't appear to affect the distance between the coach and the dust trails, however - if anything, they're getting closer, approaching from the angle that they are.
Soon enough they're not just dust trails, they're visible as figures on horseback, and the salesman is clambering up to grab shotguns from the racks above them. He thrusts one at Rodney. "Time to see what you're made of and defend yourself."
Rodney holds up his hands to ward off the gun. "Me? Are you joking? I haven't the slightest idea how to fire one. I'd probably do more damage to myself. Give it to her, she probably won't shoot her own foot off." He says, pointing at the woman opposite, who's looking a bit frightened, on the verge of working herself up into a state. Rodney snorts. He can't stand high-strung women, which doesn't make him at all popular at gatherings at the universities. Still, less time with twittering idiots is always good, and the thought of marrying one makes his blood run cold.
The Takeaways of Torchwood
"Jubilee Pizza. Oh, hi, Ianto... usual order?" Tom brings up the regulars list. "With two extra pepperoni. Got it. Did you want garlic bread? Sounds like a long night if you're ordering this much. Okay, no garlic bread, just the two extra pepperoni." He puts the phone down. "Ianto called, order from Torchwood."
"Usual order?" Anne asks.
"Usual plus two pepperoni. Looks like they're in for a long night."
Dafydd walks in. "What've you got for me, then?"
Tom puts the boxes on the table. "Torchwood order. Say hello to Ianto for us."
"And don't accept an offer of a drink again!" Anne yells from the back, busy scattering peppers on some strange concoction that involves pineapple and ground beef. "You know what happened last time!"
Dafydd shudders. "Don't worry, I have no desire to drink that much again."
Tom raises an eyebrow. "You're a bloody student, Dafydd."
"My liver is a mere novice compared to the Torchwood lot. Couldn't remember a thing the next morning, and you don't want to know about the hangover." Dafydd replies, stuffing the pizzas in the bag and tucking the order slip into the bag pocket. He grins. "Maybe I can get some of Ianto's coffee."
Tom glares at him. "Don't rub it in."
----
1930s timeslip
Jack's lounging on the sofa reading when he opens the door to the flat, the strains of Irving Berlin coming from the wireless in the corner. Jack looks up as he goes to put his purchases away in the kitchen and fix a new pot of coffee. Jack's been banned from touching the machine under any circumstances since his first disastrous attempt. "Find anything interesting, Ianto?"
"The baker appears to be experimenting with some new types of loaf, sir." Ianto replies. "I've also been persuaded to join a club that goes by the name of the Junior Ganymede."
Jack grins. "Now that definitely sounds interesting. Wasn't Ganymede Zeus' plaything? You've been holding out on me, Ianto. How do I join?"
"They're very selective about their membership, sir."
"Never met a club I couldn't gain access to."
"You'd find this one a little difficult. You're not a gentleman's personal gentleman, as you're quite aware."
Jack sighs. "Damn, foiled again. Are they all as efficient as you?"
"Perhaps not all of them."
----
On the bay, three members of Torchwood and a couple of policemen are left staring. "What... what just happened?" One of the coppers asks. "I mean, one minute your boss was holding a gun on that weirdo who was holding your bloke hostage, next thing they're just not there."
"Not even the courtesy to have a nice big flash of light or anything." The other one notes. "Could've at least made a noise."
Torchwood Black Ops
Jack comes out of the office a few minutes later. "Has Ianto made that coffee yet?" he asks, leaning against the door of his office.
Owen shrugs. "Went to bamboozle the tourists upstairs."
"Well, let's see another master performance, then. Tosh, can you pull up the cctv?"
Tosh frowns. "There's a group of them. I can't currently see their faces, but -"
Gwen cocks her head from where she's come up behind them. "Ianto's being very quiet."
"Ianto, anything interesting?" Jack asks. Ianto doesn't answer.
"Jack, it's not like he can answer you if he's got tourists." Tosh scolds, turning up the volume.
Then one of the people turns, tilting their head and looking directly into the camera. "Getting a good show?"
Tosh flinches back, hands going to her mouth. "Oh dear god no."
Owen blanches slightly. "Fuck. Not them. Fucking anybody but them."
Jack stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. "Fuck indeed."
"That'sa lot of fucking." Gwen comments and looks at the rest of the team. "All right, who are they?"
"The people currently sullying upstairs are Torchwood's special ops team." Jack informs her. "Field agents, do all kinds of interesting little jobs. They were moved to the jurisdiction of Torchwood Two after the Battle of Canary Wharf."
"Call 'em the Untouchables." Owen adds.
"Like Elliot Ness?" Gwen asks, intrigued. "Fighting the fight against the nastiest scum. Why don't you like them?"
"Well, they are fighting scum, that's true." Owen says. "Didn't get their name that way, though."
"Nobody wants them within reach of a ten-foot barge pole." Tosh says. "They're practically animals."
Jack's hand goes to his earpiece. "Ianto, get out of there now. We're coming to back you up -"
"I'm a little caught up, Jack." Ianto answers. On the screen, the Untouchables are seemingly lounging about, though that's clearly a lie.
One of the girls hoiks herself up on the desk and reaches out to trail a finger down Ianto's face. Her voice comes over the comms. "So this is the famous Mr. Jones. We used to get all kinds of interesting information from you. Where to go, who or what our next job was, blueprints of how to get in, all sorts of interesting little tidbits."
"Glad to be of service." Ianto says politely.
She tilts her head to look at the camera. "Harkness, you've been holding out on us. He's very pretty."
no subject
Date: 2007-08-06 07:41 pm (UTC)(This is the part where I ignore the fact that my only ideas for how to do so consist of tactics like, um, dropping ice cubes in the fireplace. Which I don't have. Dropping ice cubes in the oven?)