A Dark Day In Paradise Part Two ...

Author’s notes: This is the sequel to A Dark Day In Paradise, and in the age-old tradition of writers I have decided to be completely unimaginative and simply name this A Dark Day In Paradise Part Two ... or Part Deux if you prefer! To understand this part of the story, it really helps to’ve read the first part!

Rated NC-17 ... still, due to implied m/m f/f relationships and bad language.

This story is a Highlander/Stargate SG-1/Sharpe Cross-Over and no copyright infringement is intended, I am making no profit from this ... still! *L*

Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, please direct all such mail to Adriane (that’s me ... the mortal one) at wylt@hotmail.com.

A Dark Day In Paradise (Part Two) © 1998

America, 1998

Daniel stared into the face of Richard Sharpe, scared out of his mind and dimly aware of a damp patch on his front. Adriane’s blood, although her heart no longer pumped blood through her veins, and indeed the wounds seemed to have stopped bleeding, there had been enough spilled to saturate his sweater.
“She’s dead,” Daniel said, dully, shrinking back from the man and his sword. “You killed her.”
“Where is the damn thing?” Sharpe muttered, searching the darkness for a glint of metal.
“You killed her.” Jackson repeated, dazed by the sudden turn of events, so much for a relaxing night out. Sharpe turned to stare at him coldly.
“Not me.” Crouching beside him, Richard took measure of the other man. “What’s yer name?”
“Jackson, Daniel Jackson.”
“Well Jackson, I’d love to stay and chat but I have to find her bloody sword and then get ‘er outta here.” Sharpe’s tone was flat, gentle, like that of one calming a frightened child.
“I don’t know anything about a sword.”
“She weren’t carryin’ a package or nothing?” The Immortal asked sharply. At Daniel’s negative reply he moved towards the young scientist and his gruesome burden. “Maybe it’s still in her coat.” He muttered under his breath, his hands reaching for Adriane’s body. Daniel frowned, his hands convulsively clutching her limp limbs against himself protectively.
“I don’t think so.” Peering into the shadows, Sharpe saw the reason for the authoritative tone of voice. Adriane was wearing only a dusky crimson coloured leather jacket that fell, fitted, to her hips.
“Jesus Ari, no.”
Sharpe’s shoulders sank dejectedly as he crouched before her body, there was no room in her jacket to hide a sword. It could mean only one thing as far as he was concerned. It was a little more difficult for an Immortal to commit suicide, in the more permanent sense of the word, but there were ways. And this was one of them - to roam the streets weaponless, and hope you came across one with no compunction against fighting the unarmed. His hand trembling slightly, he reached to gently push the hair from her face.
“Why didn’t yer call me, lass?” He whispered to her still features. Behind them there was the bang of doors opening, and the sound of voices raised in drunken laughter. “We have to get her outta here.” He repeated.
“She’s dead, Sharpe. We have to call the police, there must be people we have to notify.” He started as Richard’s hand gripped his shoulder painfully.
“Have you completely lost your wits?!” He stopped, regarding Daniel keenly, his gaze penetrating. “She didn’t tell yer, did she?” His voice was soft with wonder. “You have absolutely no idea what she is.”
Jackson frowned, clearly not understanding, and clearly not liking where this evening was heading. Would he have taken the trouble to attempt to soothe another’s restless soul, he mused distracted, knowing what he did now?
“What she is? I only met her tonight.” Daniel told him, his tone sullen.
He paused, glancing down as he felt Adriane’s arm twitch against his leg, then shook his head in disgust. It’s just your imagination, he told himself. Thinking quickly, he realised there was more going on here than met the eye - and he was in over his head. One day his curiosity would get him killed, he brooded darkly.
“We have to leave, now. You can walk to the car or I can drag yer, your choice Jackson.” Sharpe’s hand tugged at him, pulling him a few centimetres across the cold concrete, he - too - had noticed Adriane’s arm move, but he alone recognised it for what it was. He’d thought to leave Jackson behind, their world was not for ordinary mortals to see, but he realised that he would need this man’s help in looking after Adriane, guarding Adriane until he could assemble her friends. Nodding, Daniel gathered her tighter into his arms and shakily hauled himself to his feet, surprised to find she was lighter than he’d expected. Seeing no option other than to follow this Sharpe, he crossed the compound to a large black jeep. Richard indicated that he place Adriane’s body on the back seat, oblivious to the blood smearing across his upholstery. Gingerly sliding her onto the seat, he carefully arranged her limbs, silently laughing at himself in derision. She was dead, what would she care if she wasn’t comfortable?
Climbing into the passenger side, he strapped himself in and trusted himself to Sharpe.

With the usual disturbing suddenness and intake of breath there was light and life once more, and Adriane was struggling to regain control of her lungs, coughing up the remainder of blood. The alarming sensation of another Immortal swept through her, and she sat up abruptly. Falling back weakly against the seat she choked back a cry of pain. Several of the wounds were still healing, it had been too long since her last Quickening.
Hearing a disturbance in the back, Daniel glanced behind him, in time to see Adriane sit up - alive and breathing. Screaming in shock, seeing a dead person move he clutched at Sharpe. Slamming on the brakes instinctively, Richard swore as he heard a thump from the back. His sudden movement had caused Adriane to slide from her makeshift bed and dumped her onto the floor behind the front seats. Her wounds, reopened, began to bleed once more - healing too slow and painfully. Climbing from the cab, with an angry backwards glance at Daniel, he yanked open the door to the back and gently helped Adriane back up on to the seat. Reaching over he pulled a large blanket from the parcel shelf and carefully spread it over her, frowning as his hand brushed at her heated brow. She smiled in thanks, whispering his name in surprise, before sinking back into a healing sleep. Returning back to the drivers seat, he turned to Jackson impatiently, his concern for Adriane forefront on his mind.
“I’ll explain when we get to her place, okay?” He told him tersely, as Daniel continued to stare at Adriane’s sleeping form in horror, giving no indication that he’d heard.

Sharpe kicked open the door to Adriane’s apartment and carried her unerringly to her bedroom, demonstrating previous visits to her home. Behind them Daniel carefully closed the door and walked, his movements jerking and uneven, to her side, his eyes wide and unseeing. Richard looked up at him as he rocked back onto his heels, crouched by the bed.
“I think you could use a drink.” He smiled, wryly amused by the young scholar’s reaction. Jackson blinked, focusing for the first time and studied Sharpe carefully. The other man looked roughly the same age as himself, maybe a few years older. He watched reserved as Richard swaggered over to the shelves in the lounge displaying various bottles of alcohol and several glasses, and poured them both large doubles of whiskey. Following him, Daniel accepted one, muttering words of thanks as he drank it like a dying man grasping at life. He could not understand what was happening here, dead people sitting up and breathing. He knew she’d died, he’d felt her heart stop beating, heard her last breath, watched the light leave her eyes as he’d cradled her in his arms. Sharpe watched silently, aware of the inner turmoil the younger man was experiencing, but making no move to help him. Jackson fell into an armchair, lying his head back wearily. Sharpe was an enigma, he decided, as was the woman lying asleep in the next room. He exuded a sense of coldness and ruthlessness, the same impression he’d sensed about Adriane when they’d first met in the bar, he recognised now.
“She was dead.” His voice dull, it was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.” Richard sipped at his drink as he settled himself into the opposite chair.
“The only person I’ve ever heard of rising from the dead is Jesus.”
“Jesus and us.” Sharpe answered, smiling.
“So what you’re saying is that she’s the new Saviour, risen from the dead?” Daniel snapped, his tone sarcastic.
Richard grinned, “She’d be more like the Anti-Christ.” He shook his head, his face a mask. “What I’m saying is that she, we, are Immortal.” Daniel laughed, hysteria rising unchecked into a choking sob until sobering, he realised that Sharpe was serious.
“You’re not joking are you?”
“Do I look like I am?” Jackson slumped back in his chair, his face serious as he struggled with the concept. His first thought was that Sharpe was insane, his next that he was - for believing that he could believe. She had died and come back to life!
“How?”
Sharpe shrugged. “No-one knows. We die for the first time, and after that we don’t age, we can’t die ... at least not permanently.”
Daniel stared at him in horror. “Just how old are you Richard Sharpe?”
“A little over two hundred, a young ’un really compared to her.” In spite of himself Daniel glanced at the wall separating the two rooms, and hid Adriane from his sight.
“And she’s how old?” He asked hesitantly, not really certain that he wanted to know the answer.
“She will be just under two thousand, one hundred at her next birthday.” Adriane’s voice rang out as she entered the room, removing one of the glasses from the shelves to pour herself a drink. She changed in the brief time that they’d left her, dressed now in black - a black round-necked sweater and black jeans, her feet bare.
Sharpe rose and, with a tenderness that surprised even himself, pulled her close, planting a kiss on the top of her head. For a fleeting moment, Adriane allowed herself to give into the comfort he was offering, but then stiffened and moved back slightly. Raising her small face to his with a smile of thanks, she accepted the brief kiss he dropped on her lips, savouring the taste of him after so long. Daniel sat, heat rising in his face as he tried not to watch the display of affection across the room, feeling uncomfortable as unwelcome memories of Sha’uri surfaced once more.
“I’m sorry about Jack.” Sharpe offered, quietly.
Adriane sighed. “Thanks.” She rubbed her hand up and down his arm absently, and then moved away to stand in front of the fireplace. “I should have expected it really.”
Sharpe stared at her for a few moments, the decision he had made earlier to find Methos and Stone would mean he would have to leave her, and he had had no chance to ask the scholar to stay with her - was uncertain that the other man would even agree now. Indecision warred with concern.
“What are you doing here Sharpe, and why the hell did you bring him into this?” She gestured angrily at Daniel, sitting hunched miserably over his drink.
“I came because I was worried about you, Ari.” Ignoring her snort of derision he continued. “I heard about Jack and thought you might need a friend.” He shrugged. “And this one saw you die.”
“But he didn’t see me revive, Dick! You shouldn’t have involved him!” She cried, frustrated. “And what did you really come here for? Discover that my bed was empty and decide that you should be the one to warm it again?” Sharpe’s face closed, his eyes narrowing coldly, and she sighed, rubbing at her face tiredly. “I’m sorry.” She apologised, her voice small. “That was uncalled for.”
Sharpe pushed himself up and away from the shelves he was leaning against, snagging his jacket from the back of the chair as he passed, and slipped it on.
“I have to go.” He said, distantly.
“Richard.” She reached for him, then dropped her hands to her side. He moved to her side, brushing back the hair from her face.
“It’s alright, lass. I won’t say the thought didn’t cross my mind.” He grinned cheekily at her. “I’ll be back in a few days, don’t do anything too stupid.”
She laughed. “You always were a rogue, Richard Sharpe.”
“Aye, you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She watched quietly as he left the room and as the front door could be heard to shut behind him, closed her eyes for a fleeting moment of infinite weariness.
Daniel sat, feeling out of his depth and so alone, the impression that he was intruding on something incredibly private was overwhelming - and for an instant he could almost believe that they were what they claimed to be - there was a bond, an understanding between them that he could never hope to comprehend. And then Sharpe was gone, and he was left alone with a woman who, not an hour ago, had died in his arms.

Silence reigned in the room, the only sound was that of the clocks half hidden amongst the shelves. Daniel cleared his throat, thinking that perhaps he should leave, thinking perhaps he should ask her about her life, thinking ... and then blurted the first thing that came to mind.
“Excuse me?” She turned, brow creased and face closed.
“Who was Jack?” He asked once more. She sighed bitterly, sinking into a chair, cradling her glass with both hands.
“For over three hundred years I made Ireland my home.” Unconsciously her voice took on an Irish brogue, her mask fading. “A while back I took a bullet intended for another man - he saw me die and revive again. He was tall ... blonde ... face of an angel.” She remembered wistfully, smiling sadly. “Within months we were married, and I thought my life was complete.” Daniel’s face softened, remembering his own marriage and wedded bliss. “A year later, masked gunmen broke into our house - just outside of Belfast - and shot me.” He blanched, her monotone betraying no emotion, as though a wall had slammed down. “When I woke, he was lying beside me. My beautiful Jack, with a plastic bullet through his heart.” She stopped, closing her eyes against the memory but the image of him remained. Him that she’d loved. Him lying in a pool of his own blood, his body shattered and broken like a puppet with it’s strings cut. Him who’s voice and smile she would never hear or see again.
“Why?” He whispered, not understanding.
“The news reports called us ‘suspected republican sympathisers’. Called our murders a retaliation by Nationalists.” She sneered.
“Republican?” He asked, only vaguely aware of the situation in Northern Ireland.
“The Irish Republican Army, Daniel. The IRA.” She told him, more tired now that words could say.
“And were you?” He asked, perceptively. She started, then laughed wryly.
“A good question.” She answered, giving nothing away. “And if we were, would it excuse murdering us in our own home?” She waved away his words before he could answer, noticing - finally - her dried blood crusting on his clothes. “It doesn’t matter, Daniel. Don’t concern yourself with it - it’s in the past.” She paused. “Would you like to clean up? Take a shower?” He nodded, sensing she would tell him no more on the subject and she rose to her feet to show him the bathroom, a million questions left unanswered perhaps forever.

Standing under the hot jet, watching dispassionately as the water running into the plughole turned from clear to a strange pinkish hue as her blood washed away. Irrationally, for a moment he wanted to cling to the stain on his body, a reminder of all he’d seen and endured that night. Sighing, he immersed his head, shaking away the drops that fell into his eyes until finally he just stood and stared at the door.
“Just who are you Adriane Grant?” He murmured to himself and the empty room in general.

To be continued ...