June Comment_fic Roundup!
I like to hang out at comment_fic. Because it’s fun.
3 fics here:
Blood Money (Buffy - Giles)
Happy Sleep, Happy Death (Highlander - Methos)
Condiment War (Hetalia/Highlander - Methos & Prussia)
Title: Blood Money
Fandom: Buffy
Rating: PG
Word count: 176
Summary: Giles reflects on blood, vodka, and magic.
Prompt: He’s not that into blood-infused vodka
Giles looked at the brightly colored bottles behind the bar (did the children really drink those things) and sipped his scotch in silent rebellion. Purples, neon blues, even - oh dear lord - chocolate tequila. He took another sip, larger this time.
He’d thrown away more than his principles, he realized, back in those dark days of his youth when time was nothing more than a whirlwind of magic and blood and rituals. He’d squandered a prime business opportunity.
In fairness, it was Ethan who’d come up with the idea. The rituals they favored often required ingestion of human or demon blood. Which they all agreed was disgusting. Ethan had suggested combining the blood with another favorite pastime: drinking. Thus began the era of blood infused vodka.
Giles never cared for the stuff himself (though it was preferable to blood without the vodka, surely). But, looking around at the outrageous products on display, he couldn’t help but think that, had he walked a different path, he could quite possibly be a business tycoon today instead of a Watcher.
Title: Happy Sleep, Happy Death
Fandom: Highlander
Rating: G
Characters: Methos
Word count: 1, 145
Summary: While chasing down a manuscript that may or may not be his, Methos comes face to face with an old portrait that sparks memories. One he started while under the tutelage of Leonardo da Vinci.
Prompt: Methos, Leonardo’s student
His rules of survival were simple.
‘Never let the mask slip’ was both one of the hardest and easiest to follow. Easy, because it was automatic by now, but then surprises always had the annoying habit of popping up in the least expected of places.
He was in Switzerland, chasing after a rare manuscript purported to be hidden away in some private collection. If it turned out to be one of his, well, he’d deal with it then, but right now Adam Pierson was granted access (by virtue of a friend of a friend of his old mentor at the Academy) to this obscure text previously thought to exist only in rumor (he could relate to that), to conduct research in his own, equally obscure, area of expertise.
Upon arrival he was introduced to Mr. Julian Fohn, a man of average height and slicked back dark hair, graying around the temples. He was everything one would expect from a Swiss private collector, down to the three piece suit, cufflinks, and expensive watch. Methos was led to the secure vault, past the security guards (poorly repressed grin of academia-nerd joy firmly in place - nothing suspicious to see here, no need to look too closely), and into the viewing room.
It was somewhat of a joke in the fine art world that all art of value eventually ended up in Switzerland.
The portrait was the first thing he saw.
---
He loved Italy, or more accurately, the endless procession of balmy Italian summer days.
Inside however, the workshop was stiflingly hot. But the paintbrush in his hand was more important than mere discomfort and he had a lifetime of lifetimes to perfect his ability to ignore such distractions.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder. Another on the brush, covering his own hand.
“No.” It was the master himself. “You must layer the paint more, build it up so that it speaks for itself. The brushstrokes should not do all the work.” He tugged at the brush and Methos immediately relinquished it. He’d come here to learn, after all. To create.
After successive failures, he eventually decided to try another medium. Perhaps he’d be more successful with vellum.
---
“Mr. Pierson? The volume is this way.”
So caught up was he in the memories that he nearly replied in Swiss-German, an automatic response to his host’s accent. The past was the past, he scolded himself firmly. Head in the game.
“Yes, of course.” He nodded to the masterpiece that had captured his attention. “Beautiful piece.”
“It’s a Da Vinci,” was the proud response. “The only surviving work of his done on vellum.”
Inside, Methos smirked. The collector was only half right.
He turned his back on the piece, a child (a woman back then, he reminded himself), hair pulled back and sitting with quiet dignity.
---
She was the illegitimate daughter of Italian nobility. In person, she was nothing overly special. Pretty, yes; pleasant, yes. It was when he drew her that she became alive to him.
“This is good. Her proportions in particular. Perfect.”
“I have a passing interest in anatomy,” he responded with no little amusement.
Leonardo smiled. “More than just in passing, if this is any indication.”
He resisted the urge to shock his mentor with the truth that his knowledge of the human form came from countless identities as a doctor, a nurse, a medic. He’d seen Leonardo’s sketches of the body, and was tempted to offer his thoughts, on the dissection works in particular. But in the end, self-preservation won out.
Instead he inclined his head, merely a student delighted at praise from a great master. He didn’t have to fake it. Sometimes the mortals burned so bright it almost hurt.
“How would you feel about expanding your studies into the realm of science?”
“I would be honored.”
---
Methos was led down a side corridor to an adjacent room. There were vaults lining the other three walls, and Fohn immediately went to one, took a key from his pocket, and opened it.
The door swung aside with a click, and he pulled out a heavy sliding tray containing a large metal box. After donning a pair of white cotton gloves from his jacket pocket, the elder gentleman lifted a massive tome from its depths and slowly carried it to the large reading table prepped in the center of the room.
“Here you are, Mr. Pierson. I hope this is what you’re looking for.”
The grin hadn’t left his face and at that it split wide open and Adam Pierson was beaming. “Brilliant! This will be a huge help.” He was the epitome of excited post-graduate student.
“Clean gloves are in the drawer to your right. I’ll be upstairs if you require additional assistance. Let the guards know and they’ll fetch me.” With that, Fohn turned on his (expensively clad) heel and left the room.
“Thanks again,” Methos called after him, but the suit-clad figure was already halfway down the corridor.
Once he was sure he was alone, he abandoned the book (thankfully not one of his) and backtracked until he was once again gazing at the portrait.
---
The cynical part of him insisted that his life was nothing but endless repetitions of the same old story. Sometimes being very old and very wise was only good for making useless observations, he thought sarcastically.
But true to form, late one night he felt the presence of another Immortal while returning to his lodgings. He and Leonardo had spent the entire evening and night debating impossible flying machines and bridges spanning such distance that no sane man would ever agree to build them, and his mind was still whirling from the experience. All that ended with the buzz. In a practiced movement, he took off running in the other direction, until the only sensation in his head was the thud of his heartbeat in his ears.
He was gone by morning.
The portrait that started it all was left behind, still unfinished.
---
“It’s been a long time.” He greeted his long lost princess like an old friend. She didn’t move or speak, of course. He was old but not crazy. But somehow he felt acknowledged. “I’m glad he finished you.”
After leaving the house, he went in search of a bar and lifted his glass in honor of one of the most brilliant men the world had ever been gifted with.
---
Note -The portrait I based this on is La Bella Principessa and is a contested work of Leonardo da Vinci. I have absolutely no knowledge of proper art history, but if anyone does, please feel free to point out anything that doesn’t look right.
Title: Condiment War
Fandom: Highlander/Hetalia (my first fandom and my newest fandom! Together in harmony!)
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,000
Summary: Methos and Prussia drink beer and plan an invasion. With condiments.
Prompt: Highlander/any, Methos, any; Keeping secrets
“No, no, no. You’re going to get us killed!” Prussia shifted the rolled up paper napkin (the soldiers of their IV and V Corps) back to their original position. He was the human embodiment of the great nation of Prussia, famed the world over for its military prowess, and there was no way he was losing this battle.
“Think with your head for once,” was the dismissive response from Pierson. “An encirclement can’t work if we don’t cut off their reserves.” He pointed to the enemy ketchup bottle from where he was leaned back and sprawled across his chair.
Cursing under his breath and taking a large swallow of his beer, Prussia wiped his mouth with his hand and huffed. “That leaves our attacking force short. The whole trap will fail.”
Pierson gave a non-committal noise and leaned forward to study the table intently, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth. By this stage in the campaign, Prussia recognized his strategy face, as opposed to his I’m-ignoring-you-because-you’re-stupid expression. With a satisfied hum, hazel eyes snapped out of it and long fingers reached decisively for a clump of sugar packets arranged in a loose arc around the north end of their target, plucking out a handful from the pile.
“Look,” Pierson began. "III Corp is up against their weakest point. We spread them out wider,” he scattered the borrowed packets, extending the arc until it reached the salt and pepper shakers, “and then…”
They both reached for the napkin at once, hands colliding in midair. “Split IV and V Corp.” Prussia finished with a wide smirk.
A mercenary grin was his only answer.
“I could get to like you Pierson.” Withdrawing his hands, Prussia gestured at the mock battle. “You can even do the honors.”
He’d been coming to Joe’s bar for weeks, taking an extended break from things back home in Germany. Earlier in the day, Joe had introduced him to Adam Pierson, linguist, and he still wasn’t sure how they’d gone from bonding over a mutual love of beer to staging an invasion. It’d been ages since he planned a battle, and even though this wasn’t real, it was the most fun he’d had in a while.
Half of the napkin was placed near the ketchup bottle, leaving the remaining half to support the sugar packets. “And voila!” Pierson exclaimed with a flourish, following up with a long sip of his own beer.
Eyes narrowing in suspicion, Prussia cocked his head in thought. Back in the days when he led armies into battle, he would have traded entire divisions for a mind like Pierson’s. “You’re damn good at this, for a linguistics nerd.”
Pierson gave an abashed smile. “A lot of the documents saved for posterity are old military correspondence. Guess I picked up a few additional talents in the translation process. Oh, also receipts. I can discuss archaic trading practices at length, if you’d prefer.” His brow furrowed in mock contemplation. “There were a suspicious amount of goats changing hands.”
Prussia laughed. “If you start listing livestock and shit, I’m out of here.”
“A general never leaves in the midst of battle.”
“I’ll drink to that.” The sentiment was punctuated by the clink of glass bottles.
Lowering his bottle, Pierson returned the searching stare. “You’ve got quite a head for military strategy yourself, for an unemployed runaway backpacker.”
Prussia ignored the unflattering description. It was pretty much what he told Joe that first day he wandered into the bar, so there wasn’t much room for protest (it wasn’t like he could have introduced himself as a nation wandering around in human form). But he made a note to eventually get back at Pierson for the insult, anyway. He didn’t mind waiting - he’d been around for centuries and had no problems playing a long game. “My brother says I spend too much time playing video games in the basement.” Prussia shrugged. “Shows what he knows. Kid should learn to respect his elders.”
It didn’t look like Pierson was convinced by the lame explanation (but really, it was no worse than his own bullshit. Translating military correspondence? Please, if that was true then all bureaucrats would be tactical geniuses which clearly wasn’t the case), but his lips did quirk slightly at the elders remark. Which was strange; the man couldn’t have been more than mid-thirties.
The subject was pushed aside when Joe emerged from the storeroom and ambled over to their makeshift command center. His eyes skimmed the table in amusement. “So, who are we invading?”
“We haven’t gotten that f-” Pierson started.
“Paris,” Prussia announced simultaneously, leaning back in his chair and bringing the beer back to his lips.
Both Joe and Pierson stared at him like he’d said something strange.
He swallowed the beer. “What?” he asked.
“Not that I’m objecting,” Pierson replied, “but why exactly are we attacking Paris? Isn’t that a bit ambitious for a first campaign? Probably best to start small. Also, they have crepes.”
Prussia hadn’t thought of that. Crepes were delicious. But sometimes sacrifices must be made. “Friend of mine is pissing me off. I like to invade his capital when he’s being an ass.”
“You might want to run that by Mac. He’s pretty attached to that barge of his.” Warning given, Joe headed back over to the bar to pour himself a drink.
“He can’t be too attached,” chimed in Pierson with a wolfish grin. “He gave it to me that one time.”
“That was blackmail!” the voice echoed from the floor behind the bar, where MacLeod was busy making repairs. “I was under duress.”
“Revisionist history!” Pierson volleyed back. Sotto voce, he leaned in towards Prussia and confided, “MacLeod’s just bitter because I got it fair and square.” He finished off the statement by downing the last of his beer and waving the empty in Prussia’s direction. “Go get us another, runaway.”
Prussia gave him the finger instead. Then he got the beer.