A Dark Day In Paradise Part One ...

This came about during a period of my life that appears on the horizon with startling and frightening regularity. So before anyone complains about the dark overtones of this story, let’s get one thing straight. This is my life, this is how I feel at this precise moment in time. Give me a month and I’ll be back to my usual cheery self, but for the moment what you read is what you get. Okay?

Author’s notes: Adriane Grant (the Immortal - ‘real’ name: Ariadne) is a regular character in my fan-fic, as is Stone McGregor. You don’t necessarily have to read previous fan-fic works that include them, although it may help. Alternatively, check the Chronicles:
http://www.geocities.com/Hollywood/Studio/3641/imma-z.htm
This is a Highlander/Stargate SG-1/Sharpe Cross-Over. Knowledge of the other shows would help. Set in present day, and after the Stargate SG-1 episode Secrets - this, therefore, contains some spoilers for that - and previous - episodes.
Many thanks to Slida for her help with Daniel, and all her input into my crazy fantasy world. Ta babes!! And to Jen, who's site (The Sharpe Smut Page) and her Chosen Men series inspired me to write this.

Standard disclaimers apply, I’m not making any profit from this I promise. All hail (Max - sorry private joke) TPTB.

Rating: NC-17 for bad language.

All feedback please address to Adriane at wylt@hotmail.com

A Dark Day in Paradise © 1998

America, 1998

Adriane Grant glanced around the rapidly filling bar in consternation. She’d hoped for a quiet night to drown her sorrows, not some teenage filled ... she searched for the right word, unable to articulate - even to herself - the sense of boredom she felt whenever she attempted to participate in an evening of garish lights, overly-loud music and pubescent under-age children bumping and grinding whilst under the influence of alcohol they weren’t old enough to drink. Shaking her head, she reached once more for the alcohol. Her arse was going numb, she noted absently. I’m pissed, she thought with a great deal of satisfaction. Methos had dropped off the face of the earth as only the Old Man knew how, Stone was somewhere with MacLeod no doubt, she thought bitterly. And poor old Ari is alone, wallowing in self-pity. Sighing she sipped her drink once more, feeling positively ancient and hating herself for giving into that melancholic well of self-pity. How does Methos live with it? .. how does Stone? Dropping her head into her hands she closed her eyes, struggling to block out the noise from the bar and the claustrophobic sense of the walls closing in on her. It was becoming increasingly difficult to find a reason to get out of bed in the morning, she was tired. No, not tired, she thought, weary. Reaching for the bottle of whiskey she’d bought she poured herself a large measure, swearing loudly under her breath as someone jostled her from behind as they attempted to squeeze past, causing her to spill some of the gleaming golden liquid. Looking up she raised an eyebrow at her ‘assailant’. A tall man, long dark blonde hair and glasses, his mouth was open as he stared at her in ... shock?

Daniel entered the bar nervously, acutely aware that he felt out of place and out of sorts. Damn Jack for coercing him into this, he didn’t need a friendly shoulder to cry on, or a “night on the town” to cheer him up. Skirting away from thoughts of his lost wife and the step-son he’d left with his father-in-law on Abydos, he sighed struggling against the grief once more. Tugging at his sleeves he pushed his way through the increasing crowds of teenagers, blinking rapidly at the overwhelming cigarette smoke that choked his lungs. Heading for the bar he wondered momentarily how he was supposed to find Jack in this multitude, but then shrugged deciding to just let the Colonel find him. Reaching the end of the bar, he propped himself up as he leaned over trying to attract the bartenders attention, pushing back his long hair in irritation as it flopped over his eyes. The big black man, the nearest tending the bar, glanced at him, then turned back to the customer he was serving, a woman with a wealth of black hair, her back turned to him, and set a bottle of whiskey down beside her. Sighing, ignored, he moved down to where the man stood, accidentally colliding with the woman he had noticed from across the bar, causing her to spill her drink. Beginning to stammer an apology he stopped before the words left his mouth, her muttered words reaching him even over the excessive music. She was swearing, fluently, in a language dead for millennia, and he felt his face drain of all colour.

“Watch where the fuck you’re going!” She snapped, her face becoming a cold mask that hid all emotion. When he didn’t answer but continued to stare, she shook her head in drunken anger, bristling. “What?!”
“You .. you speak Sumerian?” His voice was resonant, deep and studying him coolly she noticed the bookish air about him. Swearing once more, in English this time, she mentally berated herself.
“I speak many tongues.” She grinned, ferally, baring her teeth and watched in amusement as he took a step back. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“I ... no. I just ... it’s ..” He swallowed hard, struggling to connect his mouth to his brain. “There’s not many now that speak that language. It was a shock ... to hear you.” The man trailed off as he glanced behind him, the person vacating a barstool, quickly taking their place. Holding out a hand he nervously cleared his throat. “I’m ... uh, Daniel Jackson.”
He shivered under her cold stare, wondering what the hell he was doing. The woman in front of him unnerved him. Her eyes were large in her small, elfin face and guarded. She wore a sweater several sizes too big, and was sat hunched over the bar, appearing petite in stature but in this light he couldn’t be sure. He guessed her to be the legal age of this country, twenty-one. But her accent marked her as English. He stared at her, noting once more the thick, wild black hair that fell past her shoulders as he waited, quietly, his hand still outstretched for her to say something, do something, anything. She looked slightly younger than the twenty-one he had estimated but her manner and her presence in the bar indicated that she was older than she looked. The silence became almost more than he could bear, when suddenly she appeared to make a decision, placing her smaller hand in his with a firm grip.
“Adriane Grant.” Her mask disappeared, replaced by a genuine crooked smile. And the aura of ... menace disappeared so suddenly he wondered if he’s imagined it. “Whiskey?” She waved at the bartender, indicating her desire for another glass.
Daniel sighed in relief, nodding as he accepted the drink. He watched her over the rim of his glasses as he sipped at the golden liquid, grimacing as he felt it burn a path down to his gullet. The barkeep glanced at him, frowning and then leaned forward.
“Daniel Jackson?” The scholar nodded, accepting the small piece of folded paper the other man handed to him. The note was from Jack, telling him to sit tight - he’d been called to a meeting with management. Sighing, he absently shredded the paper to pieces before his curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned forward to make himself heard over the noise of the music.
“Are you a student of ancient languages then? How did you learn Sumerian?”
Adriane poured herself another, topping up Daniel’s glass as she signalled to the bartender once more for a second bottle. Her mood was bleak, and she intended to forget, if only for a few hours, the never-ending living hell that she was consigned to.
“What do you do, Daniel Jackson?” Ignoring his question, she instead asked one of her own.
“I’m an archaeologist; ancient languages and texts.” He trailed off, a little concerned as she knocked back an extremely large double and poured herself another. “Don’t you think you should, uh,” he shook his head slightly. “Take it easy there?” She turned to stare at him for a moment before laughing humourlessly.
“No, as a matter of fact I don’t. Besides what are you complaining about? I’m the one who’s buying!” Her soft voice was sarcastic and cutting, and he flushed involuntary at her words.
“Is something bothering you, Miss Grant?” His eyes dipped to her left hand, noting the absence of a wedding ring as he sipped at his drink, savouring the taste now that his body was used to the burning sensation.
“Addie, or Adriane if you must. But not ‘Miss Grant’.” She mimicked. “And trust me Jackson, you don’t wanna go there, so just butt out.” She knocked back another shot, frowning as Daniel’s hand grabbed her wrist, stopping her from pouring herself another. Turning slowly to glare at him she yanked herself free, rubbing sourly at the bruises that had formed there. “I said, I’m paying. What is your problem?” She turned away, hiding her healing wrist from his sight. Discretely pulling her sleeve down some, she rummaged through her pockets for her fags and lighter.
“Nothing. If you want to drink yourself to death, then you go ahead.” He shrugged, settling back on the uncomfortable cushion of his barstool. Adriane laughed drunkenly, as though he’d made some huge joke.
“Drink myself to death, ha!” She muttered under her breath as she shakily lit a cigarette. They sat, in uncomfortable silence, Adriane pouring herself another and another.
“I’m not a student.” Adriane suddenly spoke, a peace offering to a stranger who, for some reason, had cared enough to ask. Daniel jumped, surprised at the broken silence. “I have a friend, he taught me ... a long time ago.” She ended slowly, her eyes growing distant as she looked back into the past. She shook herself, like a dog ridding itself of excess water after a swim, pulling herself together. “He’s the student.” She laughed sourly, an image of Methos - or rather of Adam - the eternal grad-student forming in her mind. It occurred to her then, that these two might not be so unlike one another and she wondered briefly what this archaeologist would make of a two thousand year old woman, she snorted.
Or a five thousand year old man for that matter.
But she’d never know, and neither would he. “Sometimes I think he’s been a student for a long as I’ve known him.” She stopped, pondering her own words through a fog of alcohol. “Do you know what? I think he has, hhhhmmmm.” Her brow creased as she considered this revelation.
“How long have you known him?” Daniel studied her, not understanding her black mood but reluctant to leave someone so obviously in need.
“Adam?” Adriane glanced at the man sitting opposite her, startled. He nodded, not knowing the name but assuming she meant her friend. “A long time.” She paused, sighing wearily. “Longer than you’d think.”
“And what is it you do ... Adriane?” He asked after a moments pause. She leaned back, unconsciously running one hand through the lustrous length of her hair to massage the tip of her spine before sliding it round to rest briefly at the base of her neck, just above her collarbone. Her head fell back as she gave in to the weight and her eyes closed. Her long lashes curled against the swell of her cheeks, and he thought she seemed at peace, childlike, the creases that marred her forehead fading away, the pain and sorrow her eyes held covered for an instant. When she re-opened them Daniel was startled to discover, as the lights of the dance floor flared temporarily, that her eyes were as golden in colour as the whiskey she was so bent on killing herself with.
“Do?” She leaned forward to stare owlishly at his face. “Nothing.” She laughed, for no apparent reason that he could see. “I’m travelling the world, seeing the sights.” Again, she added in the silence of her mind. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” She slipped off her barstool without waiting for his answer, her legs buckling under her weight for a brief moment before she weaved her way through the crowds and disappeared. As he sipped his drink he shook his head, surprised. Something about her reminded him of his lost wife, he realised painfully. Not physically of course, Adriane was of a lighter build than his Sha’uri and he’d guessed correctly about her petite stature. At his six foot she would reach his shoulder, just. Her skin was pale, almost bloodless compared to Sha’uri’s sun darkened complexion. Perhaps it was the impression of inner strength that they both exuded, the sense that they would survive no matter what. He looked up, his train of thought broken at Adriane’s approach. Climbing back onto her stool, she indicated once more to the ‘tender for a third bottle of whiskey. The big black man behind the bar, swore softly under his breath as he served her. He’d seen men twice her size collapse unconscious with less than she’d consumed that night. Smiling in reluctant admiration, he nonetheless warned her that he would not serve her with any more, ignoring her claims of sobriety. Watching, Daniel suddenly wondered if perhaps she was an alcoholic. It would, afterall, explain her tremendous capacity for alcohol. Closing his eyes against the memory of his own addiction, to the Goa’uld Sarcophagus, he could do nothing but watch as she slowly polished off that bottle as well. Knowing he could not bridge the silence and offer his empathy, and experience in this matter - the airforce would have his head if they found out, he instead offered to take her home. She stared at him, unsure whether or not to laugh in his face.
“I don’t think so.” She shook her head, managing to keep her face straight. Slipping from her stool, she stood clutching the edge of the bar as she waited for the brief spell of dizziness to pass before shrugging on her coat. Reaching into an inner pocket, she pulled out a small wad of notes, and threw them onto the bar, her eye catching that of the bartender who nodded in acknowledgement. Holding out her hand once more, she smiled in wry amusement.
“Goodbye Daniel Jackson, it’s been a pleasure.”
Returning her smile as he lingered, her hand still grasped by his larger one.
“Adriane.” He bowed his head briefly in parting, watching with narrowed eyes as she pushed her way through the throng. Rising to his feet, he waited a few moments, and then followed her from the bar.

Blinking hurriedly at the sudden darkness, Daniel peered about the carpark. Lit by only one street lamp almost the entire compound was shrouded in shadow and he could see no sign of Adriane. Pausing by the side of a car, he looked up, startled. Several muffled thumps sounded, followed by a gasp cutting through the night. Darting forward, he stopped as Adriane stumbled into the light to stand before him. Staring, silent, only to hasten to her side as her legs collapsed from under her. Coughing, she felt a small trickle of blood fall from her lips and she fell into his arms. The bullets had torn into her with deadly accuracy, both she and her would-be assassins knew that.
Daniel half dragged-half carried her further into the shadows and away from the bar’s only entrance and exit. Pulling open her leather jacket he choked back a cry of horror. Three bullets had hit her, one in the thigh - ripping through the limb - the second in her abdomen - tearing into her stomach - and the third in her chest. Applying pressure to the wound in her breast he sobbed, unable to stop, or even slow the flow of blood spilling onto the floor, expecting at any moment for more shots to ring out, and a bullet to find him. Adriane helplessly allowed his ministrations, dimly aware that she had passed beyond the point of pain, dimly aware of her breath rattling in her lungs getting slower ... and slower, and equally aware of the sudden inner warning that no mortal could ever understand. There was an Immortal out hunting. Clutching with a strength born of desperation at Daniel’s lapels she struggled against death’s hold.
“Daniel, promise me.” She pulled her dying body round to face him, battling for breath. “Promise me that you won’t let them take me. They mustn’t take me whilst I’m dead ... please Daniel.” Her words became softer as her vision darkened. “Plea-” She took one last breath, and exhaled quietly ... to breathe no more.

From the shadows a tall, lithe, man with bright green eyes that sparkled with an almost feral intelligence emerged. Striding towards him, unconcerned, his face cruel and spirited with a palpable aura of menace about him. Daniel shrank back at his approach, unconsciously clutching Adriane’s body to him. His eyes widened, only now noticing the glint of light off what appeared to be a roughly forged sword clasped easily in one hand.
“Give ‘er to me.” His voice was low, dangerous and also undeniably English. Daniel swallowed hard, remembering his promise and shook his head.
“No.” Ignoring him, the other man appeared to be searching for something amongst the shadows. “What ... what are you looking for?” He stammered.
“Her Poitiers, you seen it? Them bastards didn’t get it did they?”
‘Poitiers?”
He turned to eye Daniel curiously. “Adriane’s sword.”
“You ...” Jackson licked cracked and suddenly dry lips, wondering what he’d gotten himself into now. “You know Adriane?” He managed to finish.
“Aye.” The other laughed gutturally. “‘Er and me, we’re old friends.” He paused, before continuing, “Me name’s Sharpe, Richard Sharpe.”

To be continued ...