Fic: Milkmaids and Manservants
Milkmaids and Manservants
Highlander, Avengers, X2:X-Men United Crossover
Pairings: Loki/Methos
Warnings/Kinks: Genderbending. Judicious interpretation of milkmaid!myth Loki. BAMF!Methos.
Response to this prompt on Bite Sized Bits of Fic.
Methos is the oldest living, sentient* creature on the planet. He has married for politics, and for love, and for convenience sake. He has done it out of pity and remorse in more cultures and rituals that may not be referred to as marriage but valued just the same. He has never divorced, and outlived all his spouses, because while Methos -Adam, Benjamin, Cale, Roderick, Jeffery, Metopholus- is a liar and sneak and a killer he is also loyal, sometimes detrimentally so**.
He mourned every last partner, from the meekest slave girl to the most ruthless of brothers.
When gods walk the earth everyone notices. What Methos notices isn't the spear topped with Methusela's* kin, or the leather and armor from another age, but eyes the green of a dale in spring and the curve of a cheek that once fit so nicely into his palm. Thanks to the wonders of inter-agency cooperation, it only takes a handful of signatures and calls before Sargent Lyman is on his way to determine is these aliens are truly such and not something more earth-native; blips in the human gene pool. That is the official story that gets his foot in the door. It is a naked blade, a few quiet bullets, and the unquestioning obedience of Stryker's soldiers that gets him the rest of the way.
Because Methos is loyal, and he has to know. Because he burned, and when he woke he mourned. For years.
A blood-splattered key-card opens the door, and as the prisoner looks up the mischievous smirk melts off his face. The god takes a step backward behind the glass, and breathes a name as Methos's gun quietly takes out the guards. "Remus...?"
Green, green eyes harden and pinch shut. Hands come up and dig into his hair. "No. No. This is a trick. A trick. Just another game. You're dead. Died. I saw you burn. They killed you."
Methos steps up to the glass wall, weapons easy in his hold as his soldiers -not Strykers, not really, not after a few alterations to the drug and training provided solely by the Sargent- spread out and by time. "They did. But that's the thing about me. I have a hard time staying dead."
He isn't listening. Methos has seen this before. Methos has been this before.
"Lucinda." The muttering stopped, kissable mouth open and inviting, eyes wide open. Oh, how he wanted to hold him and never let go. Methos continued in a dead language, a dialect of latin that any church official would have winced at. "Was your promise to me a lie? Were those years a joke to you?"
"No!" Loki -Lucinda- shouted, lurching forward. His body was shaking. Tears. "No, Remus. Those were the best years of my life, I never wanted it to end... our little farm. Our goats. But then they burned you for my failings and..."
Methos has never once divorced. He placed a hand on the glass, and withdrew a small ring from a leather cord around his neck.
Loki choked.
"Tell me who hurt you, who's making you do this, and I will make their blood fall from the sky."
There were many immortals who would answer the call of Methos, be it for the experience or for the Challenge.
Loki ran forward, slipped through the glass like water through a sieve, and what fell into Methos' arms with shorter and soft and a mass of dark hair. Lucinda. The wife he knew when Nero ruled Rome. Who had given him two sons, and was so concerned about being barren when she finally grew fat with child he hadn't the heart to tell her he knew they weren't his.
Lucinda's face was still tucked into his neck when Yuriko was used as a battering ram to open the door and a behemoth of a blonde stepped through. Lucinda whined, her grip that of a titan. Methos thumbed his radio as the god of Thunder stalked forward, speaking of tricks and tramps and traitors.
"Wagner."
The smell of sulphur filled the air and a three fingered hand landed on his shoulder.
Death had always liked a challenge.
---
*There were two trees older than Methos, but only just.
**A few times he's had to kill the ones he loves, because when it comes down to him or them he always chooses himself.
Highlander, Avengers, X2:X-Men United Crossover
Pairings: Loki/Methos
Warnings/Kinks: Genderbending. Judicious interpretation of milkmaid!myth Loki. BAMF!Methos.
Response to this prompt on Bite Sized Bits of Fic.
Methos is the oldest living, sentient* creature on the planet. He has married for politics, and for love, and for convenience sake. He has done it out of pity and remorse in more cultures and rituals that may not be referred to as marriage but valued just the same. He has never divorced, and outlived all his spouses, because while Methos -Adam, Benjamin, Cale, Roderick, Jeffery, Metopholus- is a liar and sneak and a killer he is also loyal, sometimes detrimentally so**.
He mourned every last partner, from the meekest slave girl to the most ruthless of brothers.
When gods walk the earth everyone notices. What Methos notices isn't the spear topped with Methusela's* kin, or the leather and armor from another age, but eyes the green of a dale in spring and the curve of a cheek that once fit so nicely into his palm. Thanks to the wonders of inter-agency cooperation, it only takes a handful of signatures and calls before Sargent Lyman is on his way to determine is these aliens are truly such and not something more earth-native; blips in the human gene pool. That is the official story that gets his foot in the door. It is a naked blade, a few quiet bullets, and the unquestioning obedience of Stryker's soldiers that gets him the rest of the way.
Because Methos is loyal, and he has to know. Because he burned, and when he woke he mourned. For years.
A blood-splattered key-card opens the door, and as the prisoner looks up the mischievous smirk melts off his face. The god takes a step backward behind the glass, and breathes a name as Methos's gun quietly takes out the guards. "Remus...?"
Green, green eyes harden and pinch shut. Hands come up and dig into his hair. "No. No. This is a trick. A trick. Just another game. You're dead. Died. I saw you burn. They killed you."
Methos steps up to the glass wall, weapons easy in his hold as his soldiers -not Strykers, not really, not after a few alterations to the drug and training provided solely by the Sargent- spread out and by time. "They did. But that's the thing about me. I have a hard time staying dead."
He isn't listening. Methos has seen this before. Methos has been this before.
"Lucinda." The muttering stopped, kissable mouth open and inviting, eyes wide open. Oh, how he wanted to hold him and never let go. Methos continued in a dead language, a dialect of latin that any church official would have winced at. "Was your promise to me a lie? Were those years a joke to you?"
"No!" Loki -Lucinda- shouted, lurching forward. His body was shaking. Tears. "No, Remus. Those were the best years of my life, I never wanted it to end... our little farm. Our goats. But then they burned you for my failings and..."
Methos has never once divorced. He placed a hand on the glass, and withdrew a small ring from a leather cord around his neck.
Loki choked.
"Tell me who hurt you, who's making you do this, and I will make their blood fall from the sky."
There were many immortals who would answer the call of Methos, be it for the experience or for the Challenge.
Loki ran forward, slipped through the glass like water through a sieve, and what fell into Methos' arms with shorter and soft and a mass of dark hair. Lucinda. The wife he knew when Nero ruled Rome. Who had given him two sons, and was so concerned about being barren when she finally grew fat with child he hadn't the heart to tell her he knew they weren't his.
Lucinda's face was still tucked into his neck when Yuriko was used as a battering ram to open the door and a behemoth of a blonde stepped through. Lucinda whined, her grip that of a titan. Methos thumbed his radio as the god of Thunder stalked forward, speaking of tricks and tramps and traitors.
"Wagner."
The smell of sulphur filled the air and a three fingered hand landed on his shoulder.
Death had always liked a challenge.
---
*There were two trees older than Methos, but only just.
**A few times he's had to kill the ones he loves, because when it comes down to him or them he always chooses himself.