Fic: Doctor's Orders - Avengers/Highlander, Methos, Hawkeye,
Title: Doctor's Orders
Author: strangevisitor7
Fandom: Avengers Movie 'verse and Highlander
Beta: Much thanks to ithildyn
Prompt: Written for avengers-land crossover challenge
Rating: G, Gen
Characters: Methos and Hawkeye with a guest cameo from Tony Stark
Summary: Coda to the movie. Methos, who has been an doctor off and on through the centuries, is the SHIELD appointed medical liaison to the Avengers.
Note: While this ficlet stands alone, it is technically part of the Echoes of the Sea and Aces Immortal universe created by Ithildyn and often hijacked by me.
Doctor's Orders
The elevator doors opened on the ruin of the top floor of Stark Tower. Methos stepped out and surveyed the damage. Not as bad as he was led to believe from Tony’s whining, but it would be awhile before it was a livable space again. His eyes settled on the figure behind the bar.
“You missed your post apocalyptic battle physical,” he said as he picked his way across the debris strewn floor.
”I was busy, Doc,” Hawkeye said. He gestured toward Methos with the tumbler of scotch in his hand before downing half of it.
Methos settled against the bar. “I can see that, but as your SHIELD appointed physician, I must remind you that I don’t approve of drinking alone.”
Hawkeye smiled as he procured a second glass from behind the bar. Filling the tumbler, he slid it in front of the Immortal. “I’m not one to argue with my doctor.
Methos took a sip and sighed appreciatively. “Does Stark know you’ve dipped into the good stuff?”
Hawkeye shrugged. “Not like he’s gonna miss it in this mess. Besides, he can afford it.”
“True.”
They finished their drinks in silence. As Hawkeye prepared to pour another, Methos stopped him.
“We can finish this later. Now you need to come downstairs to the temporary medical bay we’ve set up and let me take a look at you.”
Hawkeye stepped back and spread his arms wide. “I’m fine, Doc. A few bumps and bruises, but that’s to be expected when fighting an alien army bent on the destruction of New York.”
“And a fine job you did not getting killed, but Director Fury is expecting my report. So be a good little hero and come along.”
Hawkeye snorted. “Since when do you follow the director’s orders or write reports?”
“Ok, you got me.” Methos had never been a good soldier, but he had signed on as SHIELD’s chief medical liaison for the Avenger initiative, so he had to at least keep up the appearance of following Fury’s orders. Plus, he was genuinely worried about Barton after everything he’d been through under Loki’s influence. Clint could definitely benefit from a long discussion on a psychiatrist’s couch, and Methos wouldn’t mind putting his rusty Freudian skills to work. Still, Hawkeye was a big boy and not likely to participate quietly in Fury-commanded psychobabble sessions.
Methos offered his glass up for a refill. There were other ways to evaluate post battle fitness besides the obvious.
“Glad you see it my way, Doc.” Hawkeye refilled both glasses to the rim.
“You do know that they’ve invented these modern things called guns, don’t you?” Methos teased, eyeing the dearth of arrows in Hawkeye’s quiver.
“Says the man who carries a sword around in case he needs to perform a spur-of-the-moment beheading.”
Methos ignored the jab. His Ivanhoe was for special occasions only, and the beheadings were rarely spur-of-the-moment. “I learned to shoot a bow before your great grandfather one hundred times removed was even born, and I was more then happy to pick up my first pistol.”
“Not very good with the bow then, were you?”
Methos leaned forward with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Do I detect a challenge, my anachronistic friend?”
Hawkeye matched Methos’ stance. “Are you offering one, old man?”
“I suppose I …”
Their conversation was interrupted as the elevator dinged. The doors opened and Tony, still in ruined Ironman armor sans helmet, stepped out. “There you are. Been looking for you everywhere. It’s shawarma time!” With one hand holding the elevator open, he gestured with the other for them to join him.
Hawkeye looked at Methos. “What the hell is shawarma?”
“Lamb, spices, pita, eating with your hands. Never been a fan,” Methos explained. “None for me, Tony. I’ve eaten enough shawarma to last a life time.”
“Ok by me since I wasn’t really inviting you. Because, you know, you didn’t actually battle the aliens and save the world.” Tony pointed to Clint and then himself. “We did, and now I’m starving. So Legolas, you coming? Everyone’s waiting.”
“Uhm, I guess so.” Hawkeye started toward the elevator then stopped. Reaching back he grabbed his abandoned drink and quickly downed the remaining scotch. “No sense wasting it.” He set the empty glass back on the bar in front of Methos.
“That would be a shame,” the Immortal agreed.
He leaned in close to whisper. “By the way I accept your challenge, old man. Date and time to be determined.”
Methos nodded his acceptance. “I look forward to kicking your ass, Legolas.”
Clint sighed. “Not you too.” He shook his head as he walked across the room and joined Tony in the elevator.
Chuckling, Methos poured himself another drink.
“Hey, is that my good scotch?” Tony barked as the elevator doors shut in his face.
“Yes, it is, and it’s damn good too.” Methos saluted the empty room and drained his glass.
Author: strangevisitor7
Fandom: Avengers Movie 'verse and Highlander
Beta: Much thanks to ithildyn
Prompt: Written for avengers-land crossover challenge
Rating: G, Gen
Characters: Methos and Hawkeye with a guest cameo from Tony Stark
Summary: Coda to the movie. Methos, who has been an doctor off and on through the centuries, is the SHIELD appointed medical liaison to the Avengers.
Note: While this ficlet stands alone, it is technically part of the Echoes of the Sea and Aces Immortal universe created by Ithildyn and often hijacked by me.
Doctor's Orders
The elevator doors opened on the ruin of the top floor of Stark Tower. Methos stepped out and surveyed the damage. Not as bad as he was led to believe from Tony’s whining, but it would be awhile before it was a livable space again. His eyes settled on the figure behind the bar.
“You missed your post apocalyptic battle physical,” he said as he picked his way across the debris strewn floor.
”I was busy, Doc,” Hawkeye said. He gestured toward Methos with the tumbler of scotch in his hand before downing half of it.
Methos settled against the bar. “I can see that, but as your SHIELD appointed physician, I must remind you that I don’t approve of drinking alone.”
Hawkeye smiled as he procured a second glass from behind the bar. Filling the tumbler, he slid it in front of the Immortal. “I’m not one to argue with my doctor.
Methos took a sip and sighed appreciatively. “Does Stark know you’ve dipped into the good stuff?”
Hawkeye shrugged. “Not like he’s gonna miss it in this mess. Besides, he can afford it.”
“True.”
They finished their drinks in silence. As Hawkeye prepared to pour another, Methos stopped him.
“We can finish this later. Now you need to come downstairs to the temporary medical bay we’ve set up and let me take a look at you.”
Hawkeye stepped back and spread his arms wide. “I’m fine, Doc. A few bumps and bruises, but that’s to be expected when fighting an alien army bent on the destruction of New York.”
“And a fine job you did not getting killed, but Director Fury is expecting my report. So be a good little hero and come along.”
Hawkeye snorted. “Since when do you follow the director’s orders or write reports?”
“Ok, you got me.” Methos had never been a good soldier, but he had signed on as SHIELD’s chief medical liaison for the Avenger initiative, so he had to at least keep up the appearance of following Fury’s orders. Plus, he was genuinely worried about Barton after everything he’d been through under Loki’s influence. Clint could definitely benefit from a long discussion on a psychiatrist’s couch, and Methos wouldn’t mind putting his rusty Freudian skills to work. Still, Hawkeye was a big boy and not likely to participate quietly in Fury-commanded psychobabble sessions.
Methos offered his glass up for a refill. There were other ways to evaluate post battle fitness besides the obvious.
“Glad you see it my way, Doc.” Hawkeye refilled both glasses to the rim.
“You do know that they’ve invented these modern things called guns, don’t you?” Methos teased, eyeing the dearth of arrows in Hawkeye’s quiver.
“Says the man who carries a sword around in case he needs to perform a spur-of-the-moment beheading.”
Methos ignored the jab. His Ivanhoe was for special occasions only, and the beheadings were rarely spur-of-the-moment. “I learned to shoot a bow before your great grandfather one hundred times removed was even born, and I was more then happy to pick up my first pistol.”
“Not very good with the bow then, were you?”
Methos leaned forward with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Do I detect a challenge, my anachronistic friend?”
Hawkeye matched Methos’ stance. “Are you offering one, old man?”
“I suppose I …”
Their conversation was interrupted as the elevator dinged. The doors opened and Tony, still in ruined Ironman armor sans helmet, stepped out. “There you are. Been looking for you everywhere. It’s shawarma time!” With one hand holding the elevator open, he gestured with the other for them to join him.
Hawkeye looked at Methos. “What the hell is shawarma?”
“Lamb, spices, pita, eating with your hands. Never been a fan,” Methos explained. “None for me, Tony. I’ve eaten enough shawarma to last a life time.”
“Ok by me since I wasn’t really inviting you. Because, you know, you didn’t actually battle the aliens and save the world.” Tony pointed to Clint and then himself. “We did, and now I’m starving. So Legolas, you coming? Everyone’s waiting.”
“Uhm, I guess so.” Hawkeye started toward the elevator then stopped. Reaching back he grabbed his abandoned drink and quickly downed the remaining scotch. “No sense wasting it.” He set the empty glass back on the bar in front of Methos.
“That would be a shame,” the Immortal agreed.
He leaned in close to whisper. “By the way I accept your challenge, old man. Date and time to be determined.”
Methos nodded his acceptance. “I look forward to kicking your ass, Legolas.”
Clint sighed. “Not you too.” He shook his head as he walked across the room and joined Tony in the elevator.
Chuckling, Methos poured himself another drink.
“Hey, is that my good scotch?” Tony barked as the elevator doors shut in his face.
“Yes, it is, and it’s damn good too.” Methos saluted the empty room and drained his glass.