FIC Fragment: Mystery Meat
This was Version 1.0 of my attempt at a HL/SGA crossover story for hlh_shortcuts. However, the story was tending to be more of a SGA story with some HL tossed in rather than HL with some SGA tossed in. And it was making attempts to turn into a longer story than I had time for. So I stuck it in the WIP folder on the hard drive with the hopes that maybe one day it would grow up and become a completed fic.
In the meantime, figured I may as well share the beginning of it here and see what folks think. It has no name so I'm calling it "Mystery Meat" for the time being. Yeah, yeah, I know, I come up with some interesting WIP titles sometimes that have nothing to do with the story. ;)
Brief bit of info about the story fragment:
Summary: Uh, boy, I dunno, let's see. Post SGA Tao of Rodney. Veers into SGA AU-land as Rodney ascended in Tao and has apparently descended on Earth in 1996 in Joe and Methos' vicinity.
Characters: Rodney McKay. Methos. Joe Dawson. Probably more to come eventually.
Crossover: HL/SGA
Genre: Crossover. Humor. Amnesia.
Rating: PG-13 for nudity and language.
Words: 1,432
“He’s naked!”
“Gee, Joe, I hadn’t noticed,” replied Methos smartly as he dropped the unconscious man on the couch in Joe’s office.
“He immortal?”
“No.”
“It’s not like you to pick up strays, Methos. That’s more MacLeod’s gig.”
“Kind of hard to ignore the loud clap of thunder, bright flash of light and then a naked guy suddenly appearing on the ground right in front of you.”
“You’re making that up,” accused Joe.
“Swear on my mother’s grave I’m not, Joe.” Methos gave the Watcher his best guileless Adam Pierson look.
“Knock it off. You don’t even know who your mother was. Where’d he come from? Really?”
“I told you. Really.”
Joe gave Methos a sharp look but before he could say more the mystery man moaned and his eyelids fluttered as if he might be coming around.
Joe bent in close while Methos stood back, observing. When the man began muttering in some other language, Methos’ interest took a sharp climb and he leaned in as well.
“Latin?” asked Joe.
“Don’t think so,” said Methos, brow furrowed. The language sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. He had a feeling, though, it was one he hadn’t heard in a long time.
Both Joe and Methos straightened and took an abrupt step back when the man’s eyes suddenly flew open and he shot up to a sitting position.
His blue gaze darted frantically about the room. “What? Where? What?” His gaze finally came to a rest on Methos and Joe. “Where am I?” he demanded. Then he looked down and was obviously unhappy at his state of undress. “Oh my God! I’m naked! How did I get naked? Where are my clothes?”
When Joe and Methos just stood there, a huge sigh gusted from the man and the frantic air surrounding him rapidly dissipated into defiant attitude. Fingers snapping, he commanded, “Clothes. Now.”
Methos and Joe exchanged a look, Joe beginning to grin, Methos’ eyes dancing in amusement.
“He seems okay,” commented Methos casually.
Joe, leaning on his cane, shrugged. “I don’t know. Little high-strung, don’t you think?”
The man looked nothing if not affronted. “What? Are you imbeciles? Where are my clothes? And don’t make me repeat myself.” He then proceeded to mutter “idiots” and other uncomplimentary words under his breath.
Methos strolled over, plucked the blanket from the back of the couch and dropped it in the man’s lap.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”
“Do you ever say anything without exclamations?” asked Methos with seemingly genuine interest.
The man grumbled as he proceeded to get tangled up in the blanket in his attempts to wrap it around himself. When he made to stand, he ended up tripping over the blanket and was headed for a collision with the floor. Methos had no choice but to grab him and finesse the blanket around him. Once the man was all tucked in, he stepped back.
The man proceeded to glare at him. “I could have done that myself.”
“Of course you could,” Methos responded.
Instead of the snappy comeback he was starting to expect from this stranger, the man paused at Methos’ words and cocked his head to one side as if hearing something. But whatever it was apparently became lost to him and then he started looking frantic again, but attempted to try cover by looking around the room. “Where am I?” he asked? “Am I on Earth?”
Joe gave a loud snort. Methos backed away to stand at Joe’s side once again, as if prepared to drag Joe out of the possibly deranged psycho’s reach if necessary.
“Are you on Earth?” Methos slowly repeated.
“That’s what I said!” the man retorted, once again full of exclamation marks and sounding annoyed, or impatient. It was hard to tell which was which.
“Okay, I’ll play,” Joe said good-naturedly while throwing a look at Methos that said all too clearly ‘don’t upset the delusional man.’ “Yes, you’re on Earth.”
That seemed to calm the stranger down somewhat, but only for a moment. “What year?” he snapped.
“1996,” offered Joe.
“No,” the man muttered as he began pacing. “No, that doesn’t seem right.” Then, louder, “Are you sure it’s 1996?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.” Joe gave Methos another look that said ‘What do we do with this bozo?’ and Methos finally rejoined the conversation.
“Maybe a trip to hospital might be called for.”
The man waved a hand dismissively. “Voodoo medicine. There’s nothing wrong with me . . . except . . . OH MY GOD! I can’t remember my name!” He collapsed back onto the couch as if this were too much for him.
A glass was pushed in his face. The man took it, sniffing at it suspiciously. “What is this?”
“Whiskey,” Joe said.
“Do I look like I need whiskey?” The man seemed insulted.
“Yes!” both Joe and Methos said at once.
The man sniffed at it again. “There’s no lemon in this, is there?”
“What the hell - just drink it!” Joe ordered in a no-nonsense tone. “Lemon,” he muttered as he made his way back to Methos’ side. “Who puts lemon in single malt Scotch?”
By the time Joe turned back around, the man had gulped down the whiskey and was coughing as it burned a raw trail down his throat. Methos had pulled over the two chairs that normally set in front of Joe’s desk and Joe dropped into one while Methos settled in the other. Joe didn’t miss the hand Methos had in his coat pocket. If he knew the old man, that hand was probably wrapped around a gun.
“All right,” Joe said, forcing patience, “let’s start at the beginning. “My name’s Joe Dawson. We’re in the office at my bar. This here,” he nodded in Methos’ direction, “is Adam Pierson. Adam found you outside, unconscious and naked as a jaybird. Now, your turn.”
Joe’s tone seemed to have calmed the man down somewhat. If anything, the stranger was looking rather small and vulnerable at the moment.
“I-I don’t know.” He raised beseeching eyes to them. “Who am I?” he asked.
Methos slouched on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, hot cup of coffee cradled between his hands. His gaze was fixed on an object on the other side of the room. In his bed specifically.
He glare lost its focus, blinked and he found himself looking away from the object of his discontent, only to look back with the foolish notion that maybe it was all in his imagination.
But no, strange naked man from last night was still in his bed, sleeping on his stomach, drooling on his pillow.
He still wasn’t quite certain how it was that he ended up on the couch and the stranger in his bed. There had been a lot of loud grumbling and complaints involved though. He was sure of that much.
And Joe, the bastard. How had he talked Methos into taking the stranger home with him? If Methos hadn’t let Joe get to him, by all rights, he should have just dropped the guy off at the local hospital and been done with him. He didn’t need this sort of complication in his life. It usually just fostered more complications.
On the other hand, the guy dropping in like he had the night before had livened up a rather ho-hum month so far. Although he’d never admit this to anyone, Methos missed MacLeod and the trouble the younger man tended to drag Methos into. Even that whole de Valicourt fiasco had been . . . fun. Too bad MacLeod had insisted on going back to Paris to check for himself that Methos hadn’t sunk the barge during his brief foray at ownership of the tub.
Methos’ thoughts and gaze returned to the slumbering man. He was fairly certain the man hadn’t just appeared out of thin air. If anything, he’d swear just before the flash of light had momentarily blinded him that the man had been falling from above. Only there had been no above. Just open sky. It was a puzzle. Methos liked puzzles, particularly ones that perplexed him as he’d seen a lot in his life and he didn’t often find himself at a loss.
So, okay, maybe it hadn’t been all Joe convincing him to bring the stranger home. Maybe the mystery of it all was tugging at Methos in ways that potentially spelled ‘reckless’ but he’d learned a long time ago one needed to mix a little of the reckless into one’s life to stay alive.
In the meantime, figured I may as well share the beginning of it here and see what folks think. It has no name so I'm calling it "Mystery Meat" for the time being. Yeah, yeah, I know, I come up with some interesting WIP titles sometimes that have nothing to do with the story. ;)
Brief bit of info about the story fragment:
Summary: Uh, boy, I dunno, let's see. Post SGA Tao of Rodney. Veers into SGA AU-land as Rodney ascended in Tao and has apparently descended on Earth in 1996 in Joe and Methos' vicinity.
Characters: Rodney McKay. Methos. Joe Dawson. Probably more to come eventually.
Crossover: HL/SGA
Genre: Crossover. Humor. Amnesia.
Rating: PG-13 for nudity and language.
Words: 1,432
“He’s naked!”
“Gee, Joe, I hadn’t noticed,” replied Methos smartly as he dropped the unconscious man on the couch in Joe’s office.
“He immortal?”
“No.”
“It’s not like you to pick up strays, Methos. That’s more MacLeod’s gig.”
“Kind of hard to ignore the loud clap of thunder, bright flash of light and then a naked guy suddenly appearing on the ground right in front of you.”
“You’re making that up,” accused Joe.
“Swear on my mother’s grave I’m not, Joe.” Methos gave the Watcher his best guileless Adam Pierson look.
“Knock it off. You don’t even know who your mother was. Where’d he come from? Really?”
“I told you. Really.”
Joe gave Methos a sharp look but before he could say more the mystery man moaned and his eyelids fluttered as if he might be coming around.
Joe bent in close while Methos stood back, observing. When the man began muttering in some other language, Methos’ interest took a sharp climb and he leaned in as well.
“Latin?” asked Joe.
“Don’t think so,” said Methos, brow furrowed. The language sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. He had a feeling, though, it was one he hadn’t heard in a long time.
Both Joe and Methos straightened and took an abrupt step back when the man’s eyes suddenly flew open and he shot up to a sitting position.
His blue gaze darted frantically about the room. “What? Where? What?” His gaze finally came to a rest on Methos and Joe. “Where am I?” he demanded. Then he looked down and was obviously unhappy at his state of undress. “Oh my God! I’m naked! How did I get naked? Where are my clothes?”
When Joe and Methos just stood there, a huge sigh gusted from the man and the frantic air surrounding him rapidly dissipated into defiant attitude. Fingers snapping, he commanded, “Clothes. Now.”
Methos and Joe exchanged a look, Joe beginning to grin, Methos’ eyes dancing in amusement.
“He seems okay,” commented Methos casually.
Joe, leaning on his cane, shrugged. “I don’t know. Little high-strung, don’t you think?”
The man looked nothing if not affronted. “What? Are you imbeciles? Where are my clothes? And don’t make me repeat myself.” He then proceeded to mutter “idiots” and other uncomplimentary words under his breath.
Methos strolled over, plucked the blanket from the back of the couch and dropped it in the man’s lap.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”
“Do you ever say anything without exclamations?” asked Methos with seemingly genuine interest.
The man grumbled as he proceeded to get tangled up in the blanket in his attempts to wrap it around himself. When he made to stand, he ended up tripping over the blanket and was headed for a collision with the floor. Methos had no choice but to grab him and finesse the blanket around him. Once the man was all tucked in, he stepped back.
The man proceeded to glare at him. “I could have done that myself.”
“Of course you could,” Methos responded.
Instead of the snappy comeback he was starting to expect from this stranger, the man paused at Methos’ words and cocked his head to one side as if hearing something. But whatever it was apparently became lost to him and then he started looking frantic again, but attempted to try cover by looking around the room. “Where am I?” he asked? “Am I on Earth?”
Joe gave a loud snort. Methos backed away to stand at Joe’s side once again, as if prepared to drag Joe out of the possibly deranged psycho’s reach if necessary.
“Are you on Earth?” Methos slowly repeated.
“That’s what I said!” the man retorted, once again full of exclamation marks and sounding annoyed, or impatient. It was hard to tell which was which.
“Okay, I’ll play,” Joe said good-naturedly while throwing a look at Methos that said all too clearly ‘don’t upset the delusional man.’ “Yes, you’re on Earth.”
That seemed to calm the stranger down somewhat, but only for a moment. “What year?” he snapped.
“1996,” offered Joe.
“No,” the man muttered as he began pacing. “No, that doesn’t seem right.” Then, louder, “Are you sure it’s 1996?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.” Joe gave Methos another look that said ‘What do we do with this bozo?’ and Methos finally rejoined the conversation.
“Maybe a trip to hospital might be called for.”
The man waved a hand dismissively. “Voodoo medicine. There’s nothing wrong with me . . . except . . . OH MY GOD! I can’t remember my name!” He collapsed back onto the couch as if this were too much for him.
A glass was pushed in his face. The man took it, sniffing at it suspiciously. “What is this?”
“Whiskey,” Joe said.
“Do I look like I need whiskey?” The man seemed insulted.
“Yes!” both Joe and Methos said at once.
The man sniffed at it again. “There’s no lemon in this, is there?”
“What the hell - just drink it!” Joe ordered in a no-nonsense tone. “Lemon,” he muttered as he made his way back to Methos’ side. “Who puts lemon in single malt Scotch?”
By the time Joe turned back around, the man had gulped down the whiskey and was coughing as it burned a raw trail down his throat. Methos had pulled over the two chairs that normally set in front of Joe’s desk and Joe dropped into one while Methos settled in the other. Joe didn’t miss the hand Methos had in his coat pocket. If he knew the old man, that hand was probably wrapped around a gun.
“All right,” Joe said, forcing patience, “let’s start at the beginning. “My name’s Joe Dawson. We’re in the office at my bar. This here,” he nodded in Methos’ direction, “is Adam Pierson. Adam found you outside, unconscious and naked as a jaybird. Now, your turn.”
Joe’s tone seemed to have calmed the man down somewhat. If anything, the stranger was looking rather small and vulnerable at the moment.
“I-I don’t know.” He raised beseeching eyes to them. “Who am I?” he asked.
Methos slouched on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, hot cup of coffee cradled between his hands. His gaze was fixed on an object on the other side of the room. In his bed specifically.
He glare lost its focus, blinked and he found himself looking away from the object of his discontent, only to look back with the foolish notion that maybe it was all in his imagination.
But no, strange naked man from last night was still in his bed, sleeping on his stomach, drooling on his pillow.
He still wasn’t quite certain how it was that he ended up on the couch and the stranger in his bed. There had been a lot of loud grumbling and complaints involved though. He was sure of that much.
And Joe, the bastard. How had he talked Methos into taking the stranger home with him? If Methos hadn’t let Joe get to him, by all rights, he should have just dropped the guy off at the local hospital and been done with him. He didn’t need this sort of complication in his life. It usually just fostered more complications.
On the other hand, the guy dropping in like he had the night before had livened up a rather ho-hum month so far. Although he’d never admit this to anyone, Methos missed MacLeod and the trouble the younger man tended to drag Methos into. Even that whole de Valicourt fiasco had been . . . fun. Too bad MacLeod had insisted on going back to Paris to check for himself that Methos hadn’t sunk the barge during his brief foray at ownership of the tub.
Methos’ thoughts and gaze returned to the slumbering man. He was fairly certain the man hadn’t just appeared out of thin air. If anything, he’d swear just before the flash of light had momentarily blinded him that the man had been falling from above. Only there had been no above. Just open sky. It was a puzzle. Methos liked puzzles, particularly ones that perplexed him as he’d seen a lot in his life and he didn’t often find himself at a loss.
So, okay, maybe it hadn’t been all Joe convincing him to bring the stranger home. Maybe the mystery of it all was tugging at Methos in ways that potentially spelled ‘reckless’ but he’d learned a long time ago one needed to mix a little of the reckless into one’s life to stay alive.