Ficlet: Five Times Methos Walked In On Something He'd Rather Not Have [PG | HL | Methos, Joe | Gen]
And this is the first of my 5 things ficlets - this one is written for severely_lupine. I suspect she was hoping for something more amusing and happy inducing, but Methos would not cooperate.
Five Times Methos Walked In On Something He'd Rather Not Have.
I.
On April the 4th, 1793, Methos met Alice.
It had been three against one, and she was already a bloodied and broken corpse on the straw when he entered the stables to collect his horse.
“Just turn around and go, mate,” one of them had said, but Methos hesitated, just for a moment, and it was enough. The flash of the pistol seared his eyes, and he fell to knees as he bled out. Pain coursed through his gut as he fell sideways, and a pair of badly made boots swam into view and gave him a kick.
“He's on his way to his maker, for sure,” the foot pad said, before tugging at his collar and snipping the cord to his purse. “Has a few bob on him...”
He died, and when he awoke, it was to the low insistent sobs of the woman. She was crouched on the straw beside him, the blood still bright and wet on her hands and clothing. “I'm not dead, I'm not dead, I'm not dead” she said, dazed by the revelation.
It had taken him two years to train Alice, and she lasted another ten after that.
Her remains are buried in an unmarked grave in Surrey.
II.
Vernon was a New York dockworker with a terrible sense of direction. He was small man, but wiry, and had a sly sense of humour. Methos found him lying in an alley off Bleeker Street, dying on the eve of his twenty eighth birthday. He awoke to Immortality, brimming with hope for the future, and Methos had felt the almost forgotten sensation of excitement as he gave him his first sword.
Vernon was dead within the week.
He had taken a wrong turn.
III
He found Edward in a foxhole in France, three days before the Great War ended. Edward is still alive. The world may never forgive him.
IV
Oh Byron, Byron, Byron. Where do the regrets start and end? The first time Methos stumbled across him - literally - was on the cusp of the carnivale in Venice. He still remembered the feathered mask, the curved lips below it, and the whispered promises at the close of the night.
Byron's life still burned brightly in his mind, and he wished...he wished...
Well, he wished.
V
Joe Dawson died on a cold November night, in a field just outside of Paris. It was a professional hit; two taps, one to the heart and one to the head. Methos found him gagging on his own blood, his hands fisting the wet grass beneath him.
A rapier, he thought rapidly, and a spike on the end of his cane. The training would be tough, and his odds were low. Holy ground would be needed.
He tried to blink away the tears, as he helped Joe to his feet.
He wanted to be somewhere else.
FINIS
Five Times Methos Walked In On Something He'd Rather Not Have.
I.
On April the 4th, 1793, Methos met Alice.
It had been three against one, and she was already a bloodied and broken corpse on the straw when he entered the stables to collect his horse.
“Just turn around and go, mate,” one of them had said, but Methos hesitated, just for a moment, and it was enough. The flash of the pistol seared his eyes, and he fell to knees as he bled out. Pain coursed through his gut as he fell sideways, and a pair of badly made boots swam into view and gave him a kick.
“He's on his way to his maker, for sure,” the foot pad said, before tugging at his collar and snipping the cord to his purse. “Has a few bob on him...”
He died, and when he awoke, it was to the low insistent sobs of the woman. She was crouched on the straw beside him, the blood still bright and wet on her hands and clothing. “I'm not dead, I'm not dead, I'm not dead” she said, dazed by the revelation.
It had taken him two years to train Alice, and she lasted another ten after that.
Her remains are buried in an unmarked grave in Surrey.
II.
Vernon was a New York dockworker with a terrible sense of direction. He was small man, but wiry, and had a sly sense of humour. Methos found him lying in an alley off Bleeker Street, dying on the eve of his twenty eighth birthday. He awoke to Immortality, brimming with hope for the future, and Methos had felt the almost forgotten sensation of excitement as he gave him his first sword.
Vernon was dead within the week.
He had taken a wrong turn.
III
He found Edward in a foxhole in France, three days before the Great War ended. Edward is still alive. The world may never forgive him.
IV
Oh Byron, Byron, Byron. Where do the regrets start and end? The first time Methos stumbled across him - literally - was on the cusp of the carnivale in Venice. He still remembered the feathered mask, the curved lips below it, and the whispered promises at the close of the night.
Byron's life still burned brightly in his mind, and he wished...he wished...
Well, he wished.
V
Joe Dawson died on a cold November night, in a field just outside of Paris. It was a professional hit; two taps, one to the heart and one to the head. Methos found him gagging on his own blood, his hands fisting the wet grass beneath him.
A rapier, he thought rapidly, and a spike on the end of his cane. The training would be tough, and his odds were low. Holy ground would be needed.
He tried to blink away the tears, as he helped Joe to his feet.
He wanted to be somewhere else.
FINIS