(no subject)
Okay, that's it. Some of these stories have been lounging around on my desktop for over a year. This has got to stop.
Mission: finish one currently-in-progress story or chapter per day for this entire week. One. Per day. In any order. Single drabbles don't count. Lawl, we'll see how long I can keep this up.
This story: was technically finished around January, but I never posted it because I didn't like the ending. In fact, it was finished before I watched the series. Not a cheat, though, because I went through it today and changed some things. Is it in character? You decide.
Fandom: Highlander (The Series)
Rating: G, angst, introspection
Summary: MacLeod is in no mood for witty banter. Unfortunately, Methos doesn't care.
Warnings: Mentions of bloody death (this is Highlander, after all).
Title:
Snap
Dawn had grayed the cloudless winter sky when Duncan MacLeod finally came in sight of his barge. The latest challenge had lasted all night, leaving him stiff, sore, and spattered with the blood of an all-too-talented foe, and the season's dry chill had already leached away the heat of the combat. He was so cold he crackled, and so weary that he scarcely cared.
A new presence struck as he set foot on the ramp, and he nearly staggered back with the force of it; but its sheer weight told him who was waiting in the cabin, and he sighed in frustration as he stumbled down the stairs.
Methos, already alert to the prodigal's arrival, was sprawled lazily on Duncan's couch, muffling a yawn with his thin bony wrist.
"What are you doing in my home?" asked Duncan ungraciously. He wanted quiet, food, hot water, sleep, and solitude, and he wanted them now; instead he got the knowing stare and deceptive cynicism of the oldest preppie in the world. Sometimes life really wasn't fair.
"Oh, nothing," said Methos, waving a careless hand. "Out on an errand for Joe, popped in for a beer, nobody was home, fell asleep on the couch. You?"
"I live here."
"A technicality, apparently. You know, I'll bet me and Joe combined have spent more time here than you over the past week."
Sensing a tacit probe into his recent activities, Duncan changed the subject. "Since when have you ever run errands for Joe?"
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Because when the angels doled out initiative you were nodding off behind the door?"
"Funny, MacLeod."
Duncan shucked off his ruined coat and raked a hand through his sweaty hair. He didn't feel like being funny. He still had to clean his sword, and it was going to take forever to get the blood smell out of his memory. His muscles burned with fatigue, and the enemy's Quickening seemed to linger in half-seen flares behind his eyelids.
Methos, somehow appearing even more boneless than usual, was now leaning back with his hands laced at the back of his head. The attitude radiated a perfect indifference that would have been absolutely convincing if he hadn't spent the night on Duncan's couch.
"Karnak?" he said, his light tone tone conveying the same level of interest as his pose.
Of course Joe had told him who the challenger was. Duncan shrugged, letting the fact that he was alive speak for itself. Maybe if he forgot the sword and just dozed off, Methos would go away.
"Joe could have caught a cold," drawled Methos. "You didn't have to ditch him to go off wandering or whatever it was you did."
"Well, he didn't have to follow me, either." The slender, light-faced challenger had attacked Duncan from all sides at once, agile as a dancer, his seven hundred years of talent falling like a broken, headless toy as the lightning hammered them both into the ground. Sometimes a man had to be alone, even if that included escaping from legless old friends in the shadows whose only fault was that they took their jobs too seriously.
"Says he's had too many nights like that lately."
"Man loves his work."
"Takes one to know one."
"And it takes one of the world's slackers to have no bloody idea." Duncan rubbed his brow, staring at the carving on the hilt of his katana and trying to work up the will to take the sword apart and clean it properly.
Methos eyed him speculatively. The Highlander's face was shadowed, his shoulders hunched and tight. Joe was right to be worried; Duncan had taken three heads in five days, and Methos had seen Incan mummies with more life in their eyes.
Ignoring his uninvited guest, Duncan removed the hilt from his sword and dusted off the worst of the blood. His skin crawled with residual energy, twitching in protest as he tried to keep his hand steady over the tang. The metal was thirsty for oil, shimmering malevolently in the gloom, and he found himself staring at it, caught in its glamour like a bird huddled before a cat.
Methos snickered.
"If you're here to amuse yourself you can go elsewhere," grumbled Duncan.
"You think I find this amusing?" Methos raised his brows. "Classic, yes. Ironic? Sure, even droll. But amusing..?" He held the word for a perfectly calculated beat, and then grinned. "Oh yeah. Definitely amusing."
For a moment Duncan actually considered rising to the bait. When he didn't, looking back down at the sword instead, Methos blew out a breath in visible disappointment.
"Well?" he said. "Aren't you going to ask me why?"
Duncan set aside his brush and carefully oiled a bit of fine paper.
"Ignore me at your peril, MacLeod," prodded Methos. "You really have no idea what I'm here to tell you. Lives could hang upon the information I bring."
His eyes slitted, almost closed, Duncan worked the paper along the blade.
"And here we have Duncan MacLeod, world champion of the all-brooding all-the-time division, capable of maintaining that dour facade in the face of doom itself. What is with you?" The lanky Immortal waved his long hands in frustration. "I know you can't be sick of all the killing," he added tauntingly. "That would simply be absurd."
"I'm in no humor for your insinuations," snapped Duncan, his temper fraying. "Just go set Joe's mind at rest and then head back to wherever you came from."
"Give me a reason. Ooh, look, your sword's all in pieces. You're going to actually have to think."
Duncan slammed the paper down on the table. "Haven't I been doing nothing but thinking, old man?"
"No. You've been ruminating, which is entirely different." Methos slumped back and rubbed his brows. "God, it's too early for this," he muttered. "All right, I'll go. I'll get out of here. Is that really what you want?"
"Yes!"
"Fine."
But he still didn't move. Duncan, mentally cursing the universe and everything in it -- especially ancient, aggravating meddlers who wouldn't listen to reason -- went back to work on his sword, pretending that the intruder was no longer there.
Finally Methos stretched to twice his normal height, bones popping all the way down his spine, shuffled his feet along the carpet, and rolled easily to his feet. "You need better furniture, MacLeod," he drawled, and leaned forward to flick a finger at the Highlander's shoulder.
There was a loud snap, and Duncan jerked back as a bright spark bridged the space between them. He stared at Methos in consternation.
Static. Nothing but static, that electric spark, drawn up from the carpet to leap into a moment's life and then disappear.
For a moment, the oldest Immortal stood still, looking at his hand.
"That's all we are," he said. "You want to know why you keep surviving? It's not because you're stronger or quicker or more ruthless or anything like that. Every time you face another fighter you could just give it up, drop the sword and let it all go. But you don't. That's why you're still alive, and it's as good a reason as any."
It's not good enough. The words came automatically to Duncan's lips. He bit them back, but the other's face twitched into a cynical half-smile anyway, his seriousness falling away as if it had never been.
"Static is terrible in this weather."
"Get out," said Duncan wearily.
"On my way." Methos leaned over, drawing a sealed heat-preserving bag from beside the couch. Plopping it on the table, he grinned at Duncan's belated flinch. "You can finish that yourself, then. Probably still hot, which is more than I can say for your reflexes at the moment. I know, I know. Don't worry, you won't be seeing me again until I get a lot more sleep. Seriously, that couch is awful. Joe can help you pick out a new one, if he ever forgives you for ditching him out in the cold."
The door slammed behind him and Duncan collapsed back in his chair, knuckling his aching eyes.
The hilt of his sword was cool when he touched it again, fitting the pieces back together without thought. His fingers were steady now, and the sunlight glanced between them, reflecting the blade's hungry light back at his face.
It really was too early for this.
His mouth twitched, half irritated, half resigned, and he leaned back into the light and reached for the take-out bag.
_____
Mission: finish one currently-in-progress story or chapter per day for this entire week. One. Per day. In any order. Single drabbles don't count. Lawl, we'll see how long I can keep this up.
This story: was technically finished around January, but I never posted it because I didn't like the ending. In fact, it was finished before I watched the series. Not a cheat, though, because I went through it today and changed some things. Is it in character? You decide.
Fandom: Highlander (The Series)
Rating: G, angst, introspection
Summary: MacLeod is in no mood for witty banter. Unfortunately, Methos doesn't care.
Warnings: Mentions of bloody death (this is Highlander, after all).
Title:
Snap
Dawn had grayed the cloudless winter sky when Duncan MacLeod finally came in sight of his barge. The latest challenge had lasted all night, leaving him stiff, sore, and spattered with the blood of an all-too-talented foe, and the season's dry chill had already leached away the heat of the combat. He was so cold he crackled, and so weary that he scarcely cared.
A new presence struck as he set foot on the ramp, and he nearly staggered back with the force of it; but its sheer weight told him who was waiting in the cabin, and he sighed in frustration as he stumbled down the stairs.
Methos, already alert to the prodigal's arrival, was sprawled lazily on Duncan's couch, muffling a yawn with his thin bony wrist.
"What are you doing in my home?" asked Duncan ungraciously. He wanted quiet, food, hot water, sleep, and solitude, and he wanted them now; instead he got the knowing stare and deceptive cynicism of the oldest preppie in the world. Sometimes life really wasn't fair.
"Oh, nothing," said Methos, waving a careless hand. "Out on an errand for Joe, popped in for a beer, nobody was home, fell asleep on the couch. You?"
"I live here."
"A technicality, apparently. You know, I'll bet me and Joe combined have spent more time here than you over the past week."
Sensing a tacit probe into his recent activities, Duncan changed the subject. "Since when have you ever run errands for Joe?"
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Because when the angels doled out initiative you were nodding off behind the door?"
"Funny, MacLeod."
Duncan shucked off his ruined coat and raked a hand through his sweaty hair. He didn't feel like being funny. He still had to clean his sword, and it was going to take forever to get the blood smell out of his memory. His muscles burned with fatigue, and the enemy's Quickening seemed to linger in half-seen flares behind his eyelids.
Methos, somehow appearing even more boneless than usual, was now leaning back with his hands laced at the back of his head. The attitude radiated a perfect indifference that would have been absolutely convincing if he hadn't spent the night on Duncan's couch.
"Karnak?" he said, his light tone tone conveying the same level of interest as his pose.
Of course Joe had told him who the challenger was. Duncan shrugged, letting the fact that he was alive speak for itself. Maybe if he forgot the sword and just dozed off, Methos would go away.
"Joe could have caught a cold," drawled Methos. "You didn't have to ditch him to go off wandering or whatever it was you did."
"Well, he didn't have to follow me, either." The slender, light-faced challenger had attacked Duncan from all sides at once, agile as a dancer, his seven hundred years of talent falling like a broken, headless toy as the lightning hammered them both into the ground. Sometimes a man had to be alone, even if that included escaping from legless old friends in the shadows whose only fault was that they took their jobs too seriously.
"Says he's had too many nights like that lately."
"Man loves his work."
"Takes one to know one."
"And it takes one of the world's slackers to have no bloody idea." Duncan rubbed his brow, staring at the carving on the hilt of his katana and trying to work up the will to take the sword apart and clean it properly.
Methos eyed him speculatively. The Highlander's face was shadowed, his shoulders hunched and tight. Joe was right to be worried; Duncan had taken three heads in five days, and Methos had seen Incan mummies with more life in their eyes.
Ignoring his uninvited guest, Duncan removed the hilt from his sword and dusted off the worst of the blood. His skin crawled with residual energy, twitching in protest as he tried to keep his hand steady over the tang. The metal was thirsty for oil, shimmering malevolently in the gloom, and he found himself staring at it, caught in its glamour like a bird huddled before a cat.
Methos snickered.
"If you're here to amuse yourself you can go elsewhere," grumbled Duncan.
"You think I find this amusing?" Methos raised his brows. "Classic, yes. Ironic? Sure, even droll. But amusing..?" He held the word for a perfectly calculated beat, and then grinned. "Oh yeah. Definitely amusing."
For a moment Duncan actually considered rising to the bait. When he didn't, looking back down at the sword instead, Methos blew out a breath in visible disappointment.
"Well?" he said. "Aren't you going to ask me why?"
Duncan set aside his brush and carefully oiled a bit of fine paper.
"Ignore me at your peril, MacLeod," prodded Methos. "You really have no idea what I'm here to tell you. Lives could hang upon the information I bring."
His eyes slitted, almost closed, Duncan worked the paper along the blade.
"And here we have Duncan MacLeod, world champion of the all-brooding all-the-time division, capable of maintaining that dour facade in the face of doom itself. What is with you?" The lanky Immortal waved his long hands in frustration. "I know you can't be sick of all the killing," he added tauntingly. "That would simply be absurd."
"I'm in no humor for your insinuations," snapped Duncan, his temper fraying. "Just go set Joe's mind at rest and then head back to wherever you came from."
"Give me a reason. Ooh, look, your sword's all in pieces. You're going to actually have to think."
Duncan slammed the paper down on the table. "Haven't I been doing nothing but thinking, old man?"
"No. You've been ruminating, which is entirely different." Methos slumped back and rubbed his brows. "God, it's too early for this," he muttered. "All right, I'll go. I'll get out of here. Is that really what you want?"
"Yes!"
"Fine."
But he still didn't move. Duncan, mentally cursing the universe and everything in it -- especially ancient, aggravating meddlers who wouldn't listen to reason -- went back to work on his sword, pretending that the intruder was no longer there.
Finally Methos stretched to twice his normal height, bones popping all the way down his spine, shuffled his feet along the carpet, and rolled easily to his feet. "You need better furniture, MacLeod," he drawled, and leaned forward to flick a finger at the Highlander's shoulder.
There was a loud snap, and Duncan jerked back as a bright spark bridged the space between them. He stared at Methos in consternation.
Static. Nothing but static, that electric spark, drawn up from the carpet to leap into a moment's life and then disappear.
For a moment, the oldest Immortal stood still, looking at his hand.
"That's all we are," he said. "You want to know why you keep surviving? It's not because you're stronger or quicker or more ruthless or anything like that. Every time you face another fighter you could just give it up, drop the sword and let it all go. But you don't. That's why you're still alive, and it's as good a reason as any."
It's not good enough. The words came automatically to Duncan's lips. He bit them back, but the other's face twitched into a cynical half-smile anyway, his seriousness falling away as if it had never been.
"Static is terrible in this weather."
"Get out," said Duncan wearily.
"On my way." Methos leaned over, drawing a sealed heat-preserving bag from beside the couch. Plopping it on the table, he grinned at Duncan's belated flinch. "You can finish that yourself, then. Probably still hot, which is more than I can say for your reflexes at the moment. I know, I know. Don't worry, you won't be seeing me again until I get a lot more sleep. Seriously, that couch is awful. Joe can help you pick out a new one, if he ever forgives you for ditching him out in the cold."
The door slammed behind him and Duncan collapsed back in his chair, knuckling his aching eyes.
The hilt of his sword was cool when he touched it again, fitting the pieces back together without thought. His fingers were steady now, and the sunlight glanced between them, reflecting the blade's hungry light back at his face.
It really was too early for this.
His mouth twitched, half irritated, half resigned, and he leaned back into the light and reached for the take-out bag.
_____