"W", and "Moments of Random Domesticity" (1/1)
Saw W, last night.
Well, got drunk, got baked, then got even drunker, and saw it with a bunch of friends, some of them in iffier states than me (we are the reason the rum's gone. And the hash. And the pot.
And the fries, in completely unrelated news).
I blame being bombed out of my mind for my skewed sort of sympathy for the man . . . as depicted by Oliver Stone and Josh Brolin. I didn't walk away hating him more--and I certainly hate him less, now. If at all.
Hate is a strong word, anyway.
Good movie, though the ending was a little . . . unsatisfying. Sort of like the Bush presidency, wakka-wakka-wakka!
Thandie Newton as Condoleeza Rice? Fucking brilliant and creepy. It was like she channeled the woman. Scott Glen, Toby Jones--Ellen Burstyn, Stacy Keach. Really good casting, all around.
I highly recommend it, and give it four out of five stars. Though maybe it could borrow one of Return of the King's four hundred endings :)
Moments of Random Domesticity
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: BtVS/Highlander
Pairing: Methos/Xander (mention of Xander/Nick)
Rating: R
Word Count: 500
Notes: Part of the Immortal!verse, set the morning after Dao of Methos. Spoilers for S2 of Highlander, and S7 of BtVS.
Summary: Written for the slashthedrabble prompt# 182, “denial”. I hear it's not just a river in Egypt.
Breakfast, on the morning after Xander's taken his first Quickening, has a distinctly occidental bent.
Methos takes a bite of chole bhature--spicy, crispy, and good, considering Xander's cooking skills normally don't rate 'reheating takeaway properly'--and doesn't so much as raise an eyebrow. Whatever urgings are doing their level best to rip apart Xander's mind and heart, if giving in on something as small as breakfast appeases his newest personal demon. . . .
“Is it . . . okay?” Xander's quiet voice from his elbow, and the homey sound of hot tea being poured.
“It's wonderful.” Methos catches Xander's wrist and pries the teapot out of his hand. Sits it on the table and tugs downward till Xander sits next to him. Damp hair curls and cues on forehead and temples. He looks simultaneously young, and brittle. “How are you?”
A dark brown eye in a sea of irritated red meets his gaze before skittering away--to the hand held loosely in Methos's. “I'm okay.”
“You might try that once more--with feeling.” That's meant to be mildly sardonic, but it wins Methos a surprised smile. (It occurs to him, with an anticipatory thrill, that there are still so many things he doesn't know about Xander, and for the first time in a long time, he starts to feel as if he might have a chance at finding those things out.)
“I'll suddenly remember something, like the first time I--she left Bombay, and how scared she was. And there was a steamer ship, and everything was so strange and big. But Durjaya was there, so that was okay. It was. . . .” Xander closes his eye: smooth, perfect skin in stark contrast to a sunken lid surrounded by a web of faint, fine scars. “Nick and I have been--were sleeping together.”
Methos is . . . not pleased, but also not surprised. Not angry. But he wonders what Tamas's Quickening has been making of those memories. Nothing good if the pained, absent grimace on Xander's face is anything to go by.
He squeezes Xander's hand. “Thank you for your honesty, but you don't have to explain--”
“I kinda do, actually.” Xander determinedly meets his gaze again. “He made me feel like I was just an ordinary mortal guy again . . . denial at its best, right?” Xander raises and lowers both hands, like scales and sighs. “I wish now that it wasn't something I need so badly . . . normality. . . .”
At this moment, Methos feels very, very old and indescribably sad. “'Normality' isn't something I can promise you, Xander.”
“Maybe my idea of what normality means has changed.”
The sadness recedes, ever so slightly. “What, exactly, do you want?” He's asked this question before, and has never received more than blank looks and sullen silences.
“Love, a home, the world . . . my long-haul guy . . . moments of random domesticity.” Xander glances at their linked hands again before whisking the teapot back to the stove.
Methos watches him putter for a moment, then tucks into breakfast again. With renewed gusto.
So the morning passes.
Well, got drunk, got baked, then got even drunker, and saw it with a bunch of friends, some of them in iffier states than me (we are the reason the rum's gone. And the hash. And the pot.
And the fries, in completely unrelated news).
I blame being bombed out of my mind for my skewed sort of sympathy for the man . . . as depicted by Oliver Stone and Josh Brolin. I didn't walk away hating him more--and I certainly hate him less, now. If at all.
Hate is a strong word, anyway.
Good movie, though the ending was a little . . . unsatisfying. Sort of like the Bush presidency, wakka-wakka-wakka!
Thandie Newton as Condoleeza Rice? Fucking brilliant and creepy. It was like she channeled the woman. Scott Glen, Toby Jones--Ellen Burstyn, Stacy Keach. Really good casting, all around.
I highly recommend it, and give it four out of five stars. Though maybe it could borrow one of Return of the King's four hundred endings :)
Moments of Random Domesticity
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: BtVS/Highlander
Pairing: Methos/Xander (mention of Xander/Nick)
Rating: R
Word Count: 500
Notes: Part of the Immortal!verse, set the morning after Dao of Methos. Spoilers for S2 of Highlander, and S7 of BtVS.
Summary: Written for the slashthedrabble prompt# 182, “denial”. I hear it's not just a river in Egypt.
Breakfast, on the morning after Xander's taken his first Quickening, has a distinctly occidental bent.
Methos takes a bite of chole bhature--spicy, crispy, and good, considering Xander's cooking skills normally don't rate 'reheating takeaway properly'--and doesn't so much as raise an eyebrow. Whatever urgings are doing their level best to rip apart Xander's mind and heart, if giving in on something as small as breakfast appeases his newest personal demon. . . .
“Is it . . . okay?” Xander's quiet voice from his elbow, and the homey sound of hot tea being poured.
“It's wonderful.” Methos catches Xander's wrist and pries the teapot out of his hand. Sits it on the table and tugs downward till Xander sits next to him. Damp hair curls and cues on forehead and temples. He looks simultaneously young, and brittle. “How are you?”
A dark brown eye in a sea of irritated red meets his gaze before skittering away--to the hand held loosely in Methos's. “I'm okay.”
“You might try that once more--with feeling.” That's meant to be mildly sardonic, but it wins Methos a surprised smile. (It occurs to him, with an anticipatory thrill, that there are still so many things he doesn't know about Xander, and for the first time in a long time, he starts to feel as if he might have a chance at finding those things out.)
“I'll suddenly remember something, like the first time I--she left Bombay, and how scared she was. And there was a steamer ship, and everything was so strange and big. But Durjaya was there, so that was okay. It was. . . .” Xander closes his eye: smooth, perfect skin in stark contrast to a sunken lid surrounded by a web of faint, fine scars. “Nick and I have been--were sleeping together.”
Methos is . . . not pleased, but also not surprised. Not angry. But he wonders what Tamas's Quickening has been making of those memories. Nothing good if the pained, absent grimace on Xander's face is anything to go by.
He squeezes Xander's hand. “Thank you for your honesty, but you don't have to explain--”
“I kinda do, actually.” Xander determinedly meets his gaze again. “He made me feel like I was just an ordinary mortal guy again . . . denial at its best, right?” Xander raises and lowers both hands, like scales and sighs. “I wish now that it wasn't something I need so badly . . . normality. . . .”
At this moment, Methos feels very, very old and indescribably sad. “'Normality' isn't something I can promise you, Xander.”
“Maybe my idea of what normality means has changed.”
The sadness recedes, ever so slightly. “What, exactly, do you want?” He's asked this question before, and has never received more than blank looks and sullen silences.
“Love, a home, the world . . . my long-haul guy . . . moments of random domesticity.” Xander glances at their linked hands again before whisking the teapot back to the stove.
Methos watches him putter for a moment, then tucks into breakfast again. With renewed gusto.
So the morning passes.