Crossover request 2 (HL/FK)
Drabble for Beej (HLxFK) Prompt: Methos/LaCroix
A word of warning: none of these are as polished as I would like. The end product for most of my fics is much more...homed or something, but that takes me forever, which is why you barely see me post any. But I'm imposing a deadline for these, and as you can see in the last 24 hours I've only posted 2. I do love writing these, so I'll keep on doing it. I don't know how I thought I could do 8 of these in 24 hours. This one alone is 4 pages long.
106 AD
The last time Methos had been in Rome, a nice plate of dormice with olive oil and mint had cost a sestersius and a smile. If that smile was wide enough and the wench was a sucker for it, he could get a mug of beer too. No such luck this time. The inn had been overtaken with plebes who looked half Gaul, and the "wench" was actually a six-foot male slave with really poor dental hygiene. He mournfully offered Methos a plate of warm eels in fig and a mug of very badly watered down wine. The eels had been sitting in a pan all day. It was downright disheartening, really, since he wasn't planning on staying in the city, and he had wanted a little bit of comforting comfort food, as opposed to lukewarm slop, or the scented edible flowers the Egyptians put all over everything they made these days.
He ate the eels anyway.
He wasn't looking forward to what he was about to do, and he hadn't the foggiest how he'd ended up receiving the invite to the Senator's house, but he did know, by bribing several well placed slaves, that he was going to be asked to be a part of the embassy in India. The last time he'd been in India, dormice had been even cheaper than a sestertii and he'd owned several girls who would have fed him wine from their very hands. That he could go there with the shield of Rome made his life infinitely easier on several fronts.
It was his traveling companion that he worried for more than himself. Lucius was rather aloof about everything, and Methos still wasn't sure just how they ended up together, but night three weeks ago saw them traveling down the same road. Conversation had led them to grudgingly agree that indeed all roads led to Rome, and that they might better off together, if at least for the conversation.
Then Methos had had all the blood drained from his body, and their contract had changed a bit. He wasn't sure who was more surprised when all was said and done.
He was trying to amuse himself with Roman nostalgia, but Trajan's "New World Order" was cutting into his fun. Everything was more expansive, and everyone was deathly afraid of something, perhaps the emperor's guards and night watchmen that roamed the streets. Maybe he could beg an escort from the Senator. Or, he thought as he watched two girls beckon from a doorway, he could just skip it altogether and-
"Oh choices, choices."
***
His head was spinning when he left the Senator's villa. Spinning so much that he had to steady himself several times on walls and in one case, a streetwalker's bosom.
At least he had his cloak to cover up his…the last time he'd checked, his cloak didn't have red silk lining. And it had definitely been long enough to cover up is sword. Even now, after a few attempts to focus on his clothing, he noticed that a good half-foot of his weapon poked out from the hem of the cloak. And down the street was a nice little patrol of five guardsmen who were a. not drunk, b. not alone, and c. not in violation of the law.
"Ooooo," was all he managed to get out.
He hadn't been planning on taking heads, and he certainly hadn't been planning on explaining why he wore a sword inside the gates. That he would suddenly have to think of something that didn't involve military service was enough to cause a headache. Or that could be the wine. Watered down it was, but also laced with something else. Belladonna, perhaps?
"The fighting thirteenth, I'm with the fighting thirteenth," he mumbled for a second. They'd never buy that, especially since his knowledge of the thirteenth legion extended as far as drunkenly slurring the name. On the other hand, maybe drunkenly slurring it would be adequate proof that he was from the fighting thirteenth.
"Thirteenth," he said aloud again, and several men skirted clear of him. It could have been for many reasons, such as how mean and menacing he looked, or that he was weaving, or that he was about to be picked up by the watchmen, or that he looked like he might vomit. Their growing circle around him and his glaringly red cloak didn't do him any favors.
"Ey you," said a voice, and someone beside him dropped even farther away. Oh yes, he was about to have it out with five of the city's finest. Probably weren't even citizens. For the first time, he wished he had citizen clothes. Hell, he helped design those clothes way back-none of this was going to help him now.
The tallest of the guardsman stepped forward and grabbed his cloak. "What you doin' out here with that?" he said in a voice that told Methos he'd been drinking a poorer version of what Methos himself had been imbibing. The man reached for Methos's sword, his hand missing the hilt.
He had said something like 'Tuam matrem feci', but it came out more like "tumattafekkit," which was good, because no one in this street had a sense of humor.
Apparently, the slurred language of the drunkard was easily understood by everyone who was proficient in it himself, because the guardsman's companions laughed, and Methos smiled. He was so going to regret everything about this evening, probably long before the time the caravan had reached Jerusalem.
"You know what we do with people who br-"
"I thought I told you that your weapons were forbidden in the city," a voice behind him said sternly. Methos could feel his brows knitting. Lucius had never said that. In fact-
Oh.
Lucius tugged his arm again. "You know you're never allowed out without an escort," he breathed, and if there could have been any more anger in his voice, Methos didn't know how anything he breathed on wouldn't ignite.
"This one belong to you?" the guardsman asked. His breath smelled as bad as Methos's eel dinner earlier. And there were either six of him, of just one big man with like…six heads. Lucius pulled harder on his toga and he almost fell over. The man with the six heads stared hard at them both.
"This citizen is with me," Lucius said slowly, almost droningly. "You will let us pass."
The guard's face slackened for a second. "Let you pass…"
"Commodum habitus es," Methos muttered, and Lucius pulled his toga s hard that he fell into the man. "We'll be going now."
The guard sheathed his sword and took a few steps back, waving his hands to the others to let the two of them through. Methos tripped on a stone in the pavement.
Lucius sighed. "I'm sure the all know how close they came to danger, my friend," he said, steering Methos past a stall of horse manure and towards their inn.
"COMMODIUM HABITUS ES!" Methos shouted back that the fuddled guards just before Lucius yanked him so hard around the corner
Methos smiled when he heard the grudging, "Yes, I'm sure that showed them all."
***
"Vae," Methos muttered as he stumbled into the room. "I hope you've done what you need to outside, because it's raining now, and the street is flooded." He untied his sandal and tossed it at the wall with a splat for effect. "And someone, SOMEONE!" he shouted, pinwheeling his arms wildly as Lucius bemusedly tossed his own cloak over the end of the bed. "Drugged my wine and tried to steal my cloak!"
"I would say that he did, since you're wearing someone else's." Lucius shook his head. "I dare say that it's better than the one you originally had."
"DRUGGED-"
Lucius sniffed. "I don't smell anything other than some very poorly made pate and about three congii of wine." He found one of the ties to Methos's tunic and pulled. "Could it be that one of the new envoys has a drinking problem?"
Methos shrugged him off, and tried to find the armhole to his tunic. "No worries. They'll probably make me a senator. Goddammit, when did these togas get so complicated? Two hundred years ago-"
"Ah yes, please regale me with more tales of the fictional Rome that was, Methos," Lucius pulled the tunic over his head. "How is it that you have amassed no fortune over this time?" Methos looked at his face, one corner of his mouth curled up, and he wondered if he'd be feeding him tonight. Not that he minded, but it always made his head spin, and since his head was already spinning, he wondered if his center of gravity might completely turn around in a full circle.
His eyes tried to roll all the way around in response to the thought, and he fell off the bed. "You try to carry-oh hell, there was a dice game…"
Lucius chuckled. Methos figured that as long as he played the loveable ancient loser with some good luck, he'd be able to have a traveling companion who could take out any immortal for him.
"Yeah, I'm a lousy gambler," he mumbled aloud, "but I'm cute." Lucius unrolled the scroll that tumbled from a pocket in his toga and examined it. "India."
Methos finally managed to stand and then make his way to the water pitcher. Lucius deposited the scroll on the table next to the bed. "Where is this place?"
Methos grunted and fought with his tunic again. One arm was already out, but that just made for less room inside the shirt itself. "Urayur. Funny place. Funny name. Lots of spices. Methos sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the tunic over his head and tossing it off into the corner. "India is no place for you," he said to Lucius. "Unless you like the curried blood."
"Hmm," Lucius said, rolling over and staring at the ceiling. "Is it hot in India?"
"Insufferably. Even at night. And monsoons. Rains that drown everyone."
Lucius snuffed the light with his fingers. "Much like tonight," he mused quietly, only moving slightly when Methos flopped down next to him and laid an arm across his chest. "You're wet."
"Mmmm," Methos murmured. Say what you wanted, but vampires could, under certain circumstances, generate a great deal of warmth. "In India, they have fifty different kinds of tea."
Lucius ran a finger down his cheek. "Do they? I hardly think that will do me any good."
Methos sighed and buried his face in Lucius's neck. This was the best kind of travel companion. "Some of them are aphrodisiacs."
"Ah, and there's the rub."
"Speaking of-"
END
Tuam matrem feci = I did your mom.
Commodum habitus es = You just got owned.
Vae = damn
Other things I learned while writing this:
1. Rome sent an embassy to India for the first time in 107 AD.
2. The average male Roman ate 2 lbs of bread a day.
There are two Rome references. Spot them, and win a sequel to anything I've written (max of 2000 words. Exempt: all unfinished works).
A word of warning: none of these are as polished as I would like. The end product for most of my fics is much more...homed or something, but that takes me forever, which is why you barely see me post any. But I'm imposing a deadline for these, and as you can see in the last 24 hours I've only posted 2. I do love writing these, so I'll keep on doing it. I don't know how I thought I could do 8 of these in 24 hours. This one alone is 4 pages long.
106 AD
The last time Methos had been in Rome, a nice plate of dormice with olive oil and mint had cost a sestersius and a smile. If that smile was wide enough and the wench was a sucker for it, he could get a mug of beer too. No such luck this time. The inn had been overtaken with plebes who looked half Gaul, and the "wench" was actually a six-foot male slave with really poor dental hygiene. He mournfully offered Methos a plate of warm eels in fig and a mug of very badly watered down wine. The eels had been sitting in a pan all day. It was downright disheartening, really, since he wasn't planning on staying in the city, and he had wanted a little bit of comforting comfort food, as opposed to lukewarm slop, or the scented edible flowers the Egyptians put all over everything they made these days.
He ate the eels anyway.
He wasn't looking forward to what he was about to do, and he hadn't the foggiest how he'd ended up receiving the invite to the Senator's house, but he did know, by bribing several well placed slaves, that he was going to be asked to be a part of the embassy in India. The last time he'd been in India, dormice had been even cheaper than a sestertii and he'd owned several girls who would have fed him wine from their very hands. That he could go there with the shield of Rome made his life infinitely easier on several fronts.
It was his traveling companion that he worried for more than himself. Lucius was rather aloof about everything, and Methos still wasn't sure just how they ended up together, but night three weeks ago saw them traveling down the same road. Conversation had led them to grudgingly agree that indeed all roads led to Rome, and that they might better off together, if at least for the conversation.
Then Methos had had all the blood drained from his body, and their contract had changed a bit. He wasn't sure who was more surprised when all was said and done.
He was trying to amuse himself with Roman nostalgia, but Trajan's "New World Order" was cutting into his fun. Everything was more expansive, and everyone was deathly afraid of something, perhaps the emperor's guards and night watchmen that roamed the streets. Maybe he could beg an escort from the Senator. Or, he thought as he watched two girls beckon from a doorway, he could just skip it altogether and-
"Oh choices, choices."
***
His head was spinning when he left the Senator's villa. Spinning so much that he had to steady himself several times on walls and in one case, a streetwalker's bosom.
At least he had his cloak to cover up his…the last time he'd checked, his cloak didn't have red silk lining. And it had definitely been long enough to cover up is sword. Even now, after a few attempts to focus on his clothing, he noticed that a good half-foot of his weapon poked out from the hem of the cloak. And down the street was a nice little patrol of five guardsmen who were a. not drunk, b. not alone, and c. not in violation of the law.
"Ooooo," was all he managed to get out.
He hadn't been planning on taking heads, and he certainly hadn't been planning on explaining why he wore a sword inside the gates. That he would suddenly have to think of something that didn't involve military service was enough to cause a headache. Or that could be the wine. Watered down it was, but also laced with something else. Belladonna, perhaps?
"The fighting thirteenth, I'm with the fighting thirteenth," he mumbled for a second. They'd never buy that, especially since his knowledge of the thirteenth legion extended as far as drunkenly slurring the name. On the other hand, maybe drunkenly slurring it would be adequate proof that he was from the fighting thirteenth.
"Thirteenth," he said aloud again, and several men skirted clear of him. It could have been for many reasons, such as how mean and menacing he looked, or that he was weaving, or that he was about to be picked up by the watchmen, or that he looked like he might vomit. Their growing circle around him and his glaringly red cloak didn't do him any favors.
"Ey you," said a voice, and someone beside him dropped even farther away. Oh yes, he was about to have it out with five of the city's finest. Probably weren't even citizens. For the first time, he wished he had citizen clothes. Hell, he helped design those clothes way back-none of this was going to help him now.
The tallest of the guardsman stepped forward and grabbed his cloak. "What you doin' out here with that?" he said in a voice that told Methos he'd been drinking a poorer version of what Methos himself had been imbibing. The man reached for Methos's sword, his hand missing the hilt.
He had said something like 'Tuam matrem feci', but it came out more like "tumattafekkit," which was good, because no one in this street had a sense of humor.
Apparently, the slurred language of the drunkard was easily understood by everyone who was proficient in it himself, because the guardsman's companions laughed, and Methos smiled. He was so going to regret everything about this evening, probably long before the time the caravan had reached Jerusalem.
"You know what we do with people who br-"
"I thought I told you that your weapons were forbidden in the city," a voice behind him said sternly. Methos could feel his brows knitting. Lucius had never said that. In fact-
Oh.
Lucius tugged his arm again. "You know you're never allowed out without an escort," he breathed, and if there could have been any more anger in his voice, Methos didn't know how anything he breathed on wouldn't ignite.
"This one belong to you?" the guardsman asked. His breath smelled as bad as Methos's eel dinner earlier. And there were either six of him, of just one big man with like…six heads. Lucius pulled harder on his toga and he almost fell over. The man with the six heads stared hard at them both.
"This citizen is with me," Lucius said slowly, almost droningly. "You will let us pass."
The guard's face slackened for a second. "Let you pass…"
"Commodum habitus es," Methos muttered, and Lucius pulled his toga s hard that he fell into the man. "We'll be going now."
The guard sheathed his sword and took a few steps back, waving his hands to the others to let the two of them through. Methos tripped on a stone in the pavement.
Lucius sighed. "I'm sure the all know how close they came to danger, my friend," he said, steering Methos past a stall of horse manure and towards their inn.
"COMMODIUM HABITUS ES!" Methos shouted back that the fuddled guards just before Lucius yanked him so hard around the corner
Methos smiled when he heard the grudging, "Yes, I'm sure that showed them all."
***
"Vae," Methos muttered as he stumbled into the room. "I hope you've done what you need to outside, because it's raining now, and the street is flooded." He untied his sandal and tossed it at the wall with a splat for effect. "And someone, SOMEONE!" he shouted, pinwheeling his arms wildly as Lucius bemusedly tossed his own cloak over the end of the bed. "Drugged my wine and tried to steal my cloak!"
"I would say that he did, since you're wearing someone else's." Lucius shook his head. "I dare say that it's better than the one you originally had."
"DRUGGED-"
Lucius sniffed. "I don't smell anything other than some very poorly made pate and about three congii of wine." He found one of the ties to Methos's tunic and pulled. "Could it be that one of the new envoys has a drinking problem?"
Methos shrugged him off, and tried to find the armhole to his tunic. "No worries. They'll probably make me a senator. Goddammit, when did these togas get so complicated? Two hundred years ago-"
"Ah yes, please regale me with more tales of the fictional Rome that was, Methos," Lucius pulled the tunic over his head. "How is it that you have amassed no fortune over this time?" Methos looked at his face, one corner of his mouth curled up, and he wondered if he'd be feeding him tonight. Not that he minded, but it always made his head spin, and since his head was already spinning, he wondered if his center of gravity might completely turn around in a full circle.
His eyes tried to roll all the way around in response to the thought, and he fell off the bed. "You try to carry-oh hell, there was a dice game…"
Lucius chuckled. Methos figured that as long as he played the loveable ancient loser with some good luck, he'd be able to have a traveling companion who could take out any immortal for him.
"Yeah, I'm a lousy gambler," he mumbled aloud, "but I'm cute." Lucius unrolled the scroll that tumbled from a pocket in his toga and examined it. "India."
Methos finally managed to stand and then make his way to the water pitcher. Lucius deposited the scroll on the table next to the bed. "Where is this place?"
Methos grunted and fought with his tunic again. One arm was already out, but that just made for less room inside the shirt itself. "Urayur. Funny place. Funny name. Lots of spices. Methos sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the tunic over his head and tossing it off into the corner. "India is no place for you," he said to Lucius. "Unless you like the curried blood."
"Hmm," Lucius said, rolling over and staring at the ceiling. "Is it hot in India?"
"Insufferably. Even at night. And monsoons. Rains that drown everyone."
Lucius snuffed the light with his fingers. "Much like tonight," he mused quietly, only moving slightly when Methos flopped down next to him and laid an arm across his chest. "You're wet."
"Mmmm," Methos murmured. Say what you wanted, but vampires could, under certain circumstances, generate a great deal of warmth. "In India, they have fifty different kinds of tea."
Lucius ran a finger down his cheek. "Do they? I hardly think that will do me any good."
Methos sighed and buried his face in Lucius's neck. This was the best kind of travel companion. "Some of them are aphrodisiacs."
"Ah, and there's the rub."
"Speaking of-"
END
Tuam matrem feci = I did your mom.
Commodum habitus es = You just got owned.
Vae = damn
Other things I learned while writing this:
1. Rome sent an embassy to India for the first time in 107 AD.
2. The average male Roman ate 2 lbs of bread a day.
There are two Rome references. Spot them, and win a sequel to anything I've written (max of 2000 words. Exempt: all unfinished works).