And the fic goes on
Title: Entropy
Author: silvercobwebs
Claim: Highlander Season 5
Prompt: #47 - Writer's Choice - 'TV'
Rating/Warnings: PG, Duncan, Methos
Word count: 610
Disclaimer: Not mine. All hail Davis-Panzer et al.
They had dragged out an old portable TV from a storage closet MacLeod had forgotten about. It was black and white with a tiny nine-inch screen, but television was still a relatively new concept to both of them anyway, so no-one had complained. OK, so that was a blatant lie. Methos had complained quite vociferously, but Mac had given him That Look, so he'd wisely decided to hold his tongue for the sake of friendship. Well, for the sake of friendship and a steady stream of free alcohol.
They had set up a little viewing area for the big event. Mac had moved the sofas around, creating a miniature theatre, brought some popcorn out ready for popping, and had a case of beer on standby. Methos had offered handy pointers throughout which mostly consisted of phrases such as 'Left a bit.' 'No, my left' and of course the ever-helpful 'Well it was fine when you started. Why did you move it in the first place?'
Mac had scraped a thick layer of dust from the top of the television with a finger, looked at it as if it were about to mutate into The Blob's smaller, less hygienic cousin, and proceeded to give it a thorough clean, knowing full well that his careful ministrations were being silently mocked by a pair of laughing hazel eyes. He didn't mind.
They said the show would be on only a few hours after recording. It was a local station - there wasn't a big budget for editing, and they had a limited schedule, so once he and Methos returned from the studio they would have everything ready for the little viewing party. It was a silly idea, Mac knew, but it sounded fun, and it was a chance to relax with a friend. It should have been a good night.
Then she arrived.
***
Cassandra was sleeping when the quiz had finally aired. He watched in the dark, a modest shot of Glenfiddich by his side, remaining untouched.
The opening credits rolled and he was introduced to a charming young man, intelligent, witty, and with an astoundingly varied grasp of general knowledge. Mac had been in the audience, smiling and clapping along with the rest of them, and shaking his head at that ridiculously easy question.
Tom Jones? God, Methos, where the hell were you in the 50's anyway? Half way up a Tibetan mountain with no radio? What defines 'popular music' for you anyway - Greensleeves?
The host had smiled sweetly at that one wrong answer, and the two of them continued to banter, not a care in the world. It all been so easy for them, hadn't it?
Was he like that back then, when he had killed those people? Did he smile and laugh with them before casually plunging a sword into their chests, or was it strictly all business? Mac squeezed his eyes shut and tried to imagine it, tried to imagine the carnage, the bloodlust, the sheer unadulterated terror. But he couldn't. Stars danced before his eyes, his nails pressed deep into his palms and yet he still couldn't see it. All he ever saw was a friend - Methos talking with him, drinking his beer, sprawled on his couch like he owned the place. A friend who he'd entrusted with his own life on more than one occasion. And that was what worried him the most.
Not only are you naive, now you are weaponless. How do you live this long?
MacLeod blinked open tired eyes, leaned over, held a finger against the off switch and watched the smiling faces reduce to a small white dot.
Tomorrow he would dump it.
[end]
Author: silvercobwebs
Claim: Highlander Season 5
Prompt: #47 - Writer's Choice - 'TV'
Rating/Warnings: PG, Duncan, Methos
Word count: 610
Disclaimer: Not mine. All hail Davis-Panzer et al.
They had dragged out an old portable TV from a storage closet MacLeod had forgotten about. It was black and white with a tiny nine-inch screen, but television was still a relatively new concept to both of them anyway, so no-one had complained. OK, so that was a blatant lie. Methos had complained quite vociferously, but Mac had given him That Look, so he'd wisely decided to hold his tongue for the sake of friendship. Well, for the sake of friendship and a steady stream of free alcohol.
They had set up a little viewing area for the big event. Mac had moved the sofas around, creating a miniature theatre, brought some popcorn out ready for popping, and had a case of beer on standby. Methos had offered handy pointers throughout which mostly consisted of phrases such as 'Left a bit.' 'No, my left' and of course the ever-helpful 'Well it was fine when you started. Why did you move it in the first place?'
Mac had scraped a thick layer of dust from the top of the television with a finger, looked at it as if it were about to mutate into The Blob's smaller, less hygienic cousin, and proceeded to give it a thorough clean, knowing full well that his careful ministrations were being silently mocked by a pair of laughing hazel eyes. He didn't mind.
They said the show would be on only a few hours after recording. It was a local station - there wasn't a big budget for editing, and they had a limited schedule, so once he and Methos returned from the studio they would have everything ready for the little viewing party. It was a silly idea, Mac knew, but it sounded fun, and it was a chance to relax with a friend. It should have been a good night.
Then she arrived.
***
Cassandra was sleeping when the quiz had finally aired. He watched in the dark, a modest shot of Glenfiddich by his side, remaining untouched.
The opening credits rolled and he was introduced to a charming young man, intelligent, witty, and with an astoundingly varied grasp of general knowledge. Mac had been in the audience, smiling and clapping along with the rest of them, and shaking his head at that ridiculously easy question.
Tom Jones? God, Methos, where the hell were you in the 50's anyway? Half way up a Tibetan mountain with no radio? What defines 'popular music' for you anyway - Greensleeves?
The host had smiled sweetly at that one wrong answer, and the two of them continued to banter, not a care in the world. It all been so easy for them, hadn't it?
Was he like that back then, when he had killed those people? Did he smile and laugh with them before casually plunging a sword into their chests, or was it strictly all business? Mac squeezed his eyes shut and tried to imagine it, tried to imagine the carnage, the bloodlust, the sheer unadulterated terror. But he couldn't. Stars danced before his eyes, his nails pressed deep into his palms and yet he still couldn't see it. All he ever saw was a friend - Methos talking with him, drinking his beer, sprawled on his couch like he owned the place. A friend who he'd entrusted with his own life on more than one occasion. And that was what worried him the most.
Not only are you naive, now you are weaponless. How do you live this long?
MacLeod blinked open tired eyes, leaned over, held a finger against the off switch and watched the smiling faces reduce to a small white dot.
Tomorrow he would dump it.
[end]