Fic: Threads in the Pattern (TW/Ent, gen)

Author’s Note: The first seed of this was planted pretty much the minute the Torchwood cast list was announced, but I never thought it would actually grow into anything because it’s been so long since I dabbled in Enterprise. It still surprises me that it did, and the only thing I can think of is that the all the relevant muses wanted to give Mara a Chanukah gift. Gen with minor mentions of canon pairings, and written LONG before “The End of Time” so technically AU now.


dustjacket by Medie


Hoshi. It means “star” in Japanese, and in Jack’s opinion, the name couldn’t be more appropriate. She’s living aboard a starship, surrounded by people from different cultures and learning alien languages in an environment that Toshiko would’ve killed for.

He wonders if Hoshi knows how long her ancestors have known what they were looking for when they looked up at the stars.

Malcolm Reed has his great-great-grandfather’s caustic wit and fragments of his face, if not his name, but his great-great-grandmother’s eyes. Of course, he doesn’t know that part of his heritage, and Jack would like to keep it that way. It was Gwen’s idea to hide the pregnancy from Owen, but Jack who found her a place to stay once she started to show and a family to adopt the baby who wouldn’t ask too many questions. It turned out to be a wise decision: history hasn’t been kind to Owen Harper, and few if any outside of Torchwood would ever understand that he died protecting his country, not a traitor.

Jonathan Archer’s family is American all the way back to Jamestown on one side, but his maternal grandmother was Elisabeth Jones who emigrated from Wales less than a century ago. She didn’t bequeath much to her grandson physically, but Jack can see Ianto’s divided nature–serious and playful all at once–in his great-grandson.

Then there’s Travis Mayweather, a man who shouldn’t even exist in this universe, and wouldn’t if a dying Mickey Smith hadn’t pried his adopted daughter out of Jake’s dead hands and begged Jack to take her somewhere she would be safe, somewhere on the other side of the Rift. And Jack did it because he and Mickey had both loved Rose, and because the four of them had made a pretty good team once upon a time.

Trip, T’Pol and Phlox are all Jack’s own ancestors, though the Denobulan blood is pretty thin by his time: only the unusually bright blue of his eyes and a fondness for multiple partners–above and beyond what’s normal even for his time–give any hint to its presence in his DNA. Not the human and the Vulcan together, though, despite the fact that he knows they had an affair: no, it was their descendants who merged those two particular branches of his family tree. He’s only relieved the relationship ended before he had to step in and personally make sure it stayed that way. That’s also why he didn’t warn the commander about Xyrillian women: wouldn’t do to inadvertantly prevent his own many-times-great-grandmother from being born, now, would it?

Grandfather paradoxes can be so messy.

Archer thinks he hand-picked his crew himself and Jack’s happy to let him keep believing so. All the better if it never occurs to Jon to ask who eased those people into his life in the first place, gently prodded them in the right direction so they would be the crew he’d want for that historic first mission. Jack’s an old hand at playing with history by now, and if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s how to get away with it without anyone–not even the Doctor–noticing.

The Enterprise NX-01’s mission will be one of the most important ones in the history of his planet. Of course he’s going to make sure that the team guiding it is the closest he can come to the best one he ever worked with.

As for him, he’s temporarily given up the rank of Captain that defined him for so long to hide in plain sight as a Starfleet enlistee. Close enough to keep an eye on things, but not so close as to attract any untoward attention. The Doctor may be the last of the Time Lords, but Jack’ll be damned if he trusts the future of humanity to anyone’s hands but his own.

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