Rating: PG-13 (for implications)

Word count: ~ 800

Warnings: Crack.

Summary: Torchwood Weyr prepares for Threadfall. Short, borderline crack, and a Torchwood/Dragonriders of Pern fusion-fic.

A/N: Okay, okay, I wrote a Pern/Torchwood fusion fic, because you're all rotten influences and make my plot bunnies go rabid. This isn't going to be a series; I'm simply exercising (exorcising?) the idea so I can get back to The Man in the Tower. (I apologize for the names used below—there are no excuses.)

(Additionally, I love Anne McCaffrey's writing, but her views on sexuality have always bugged the hell out of me; therefore, I'm ignoring most of her ideas about which dragons Impress on which sexes/sexual orientations, and calling it a free-for-all.)

Threadfall at Torchwood Weyr

"Threadfall? Right over Torchwood Weyr? The world is ending." O'wen narrows his eyes at J'ack. "Nothing is ever that convenient."

The Weyrleader frowns at him. "O'wen—"

"O'wen, if you're going to complain, you can stay in the Healer Hall and treat Weyrbrats with sniffles instead of leading your wing," Ianto, the second Weyrleader (the senior queen's rider, as no one finds it politically correct to use the term 'Weyrwoman' around him) says without looking up from his reports. "Myfanwyth and I would be perfectly happy to ground Sasith for this Fall and let Martha take the wing up."

O'wen scowls at the gold rider, but subsides, muttering (almost) inaudibly about jumped-up Harpers-turned-Weyrleader who think they're special just because they can talk to all the dragons.

Ianto, as always, ignores him masterfully.

Tosh, the Mastersmith, taps a finger on the map spread over the table, a blatant attempt to steer the discussion back on track. "You'll want to concentrate the flights on this area," she says, adjusting her spectacles. "According to my calculations—"

"Done," Ianto cuts in. "I've told the dragons to be especially careful there, as the Threadfall will be heavy. They'll take care of it."

J'ack smiles at him, clearly besotted. "I don't know what we'd do without you, Ianto."

"Wither away and die horribly," Ianto murmurs, turning to the next page, but he takes a moment to return the smile with a soft one of his own.

O'wen carefully refrains from gagging at the sweetness. He's long since learned that Ianto rarely makes empty threats, and that Martha and her brown are more than capable of replacing him and bronze Sasith as wingleader.

"Are we really going to have the Weyrlings on the ground during the Fall?" Gwen asks worriedly. O'wen starts to say something scathing, but a sharp look from Ianto reminds him that Gwen is new to the Weyr, and she and her young gold, Jedith, have just moved up from the Weyrling ranks themselves.

Suzie, the only female bronze rider, snorts loudly, obviously not having caught the second Weyrleader's warning glance. "Weyrlings always take care of the Thread that gets past the wings," she says, a touch scornfully. "That's what they're there for. Being a dragonrider is something you learn from watching and practicing; they'll never amount to anything if you coddle them, gold rider."

"Suzie," Ianto warns. It's enough, and Suzie subsides with a mutter to her Kuneth. Satisfied, Ianto turns his gaze to the junior queen rider. "Gwen, that's how things are done in the Weyrs. I know you're used to a Hold, but every Weyrling here will have to face the Thread at some point. Better on the ground, without the danger to their dragon to distract them, than in the air for the first time."

"And their flamethrowers are as effective as I can make them," Tosh chimes in, looking pleased at being able to contribute. "They're as safe as they can be, as dragonriders."

Gwen still doesn't seem happy, but she nods reluctantly. J'ack smiles like she's showing overwhelming enthusiasm and stands up, slapping his palms down on the table. "Good, then we're ready. Suzie, O'wen, take your flights up at the first sign of Thread, and make sure the wings know where they need to be. Tosh, you're in charge of the ground crews. Gwen, you'll be leading the queens' wing in a low sweep, and Ianto—"

Ianto stands, too, and gives his weyrmate a quick kiss. "I know, J'ack, I'm coordinating. Be safe, you and Regeth both." He stacks the papers neatly, and then heads for the door, tossing back a nearly coy, "Want to help me get my flight leathers on?"

J'ack hurries to follow him, a half-hearted, "Meeting dismissed," fluttering in his wake.