Highlander - Point of View
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Title: Point of View
Genre: HL, Duncan/Methos (brief mention of past Duncan/Anne)
Rating: PG-13 for mild language
Length: ~ 940 words
Synopsis: Duncan thinks about life and loss. [Alternate synopsis was: Broody Duncan broods about life as an Immortal.]
Author’s Notes: For the cliche_bingo entry “when I’m 64: futurefic”
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, people with a lot of money do. I’m just borrowing them and making no profit from this.
~~~~~~~~~~
Duncan stared out the window at the street below, watching people come and go without a care, without the knowledge of a millennia old fight to the death going on around them, of people older than they dared to dream walking beside them. He thought of the gift that was his Immortality, and how easily it was taken for granted, tossed aside needlessly for a rush of power that would leave one Immortal reeling and the other dead at his feet.
He thought of a time when he gazed out a window just like this, watched Anne dart across the street, up the steps, and into his arms. He thought of how she knew his secret, took it to her grave long decades ago, leaving her legacy of trust and healing to her daughter Mary. He thought of how Mary knew without saying a word, accepted without asking questions. How she was willing to look mortality in the eye herself but, just like her mother, fight tooth and nail to prolong it just a bit for countless others.
It made no sense to him how someone who toiled and struggled day in and day out, who made this world a better place for all those who dwelled in it, could only do so for such a short time while others fought and stole and killed and were granted everlasting life for their efforts.
He thought of the selfishness that was inherent in all Immortals. They had this wondrous ability, lived through so many great and horrific things, could teach and build and help bolster the lives of the mortals they walked amongst. Instead, they hid and fought and took each others’ lives needlessly, their only contribution to the greater realm of humanity being their manipulation to meet their own needs, to edge closer to taking out yet another of their own for that brief rush of power, the chance that they could be the mythic “one” to survive it all.
He felt the drive within him even as he rebelled against it. He knew there were new Immortals being brought into the fold nearly constantly, which begged the question why? Why fight? Why risk dying? Why believe in a millennia-old saga that had so far proven to be nothing more than a myth?
He thought of who had been Chosen thus far, of how the Fates seemed to pick and choose at a whim with no rhyme or reason as to the soul and inherent goodness of a person. Why was a person like Kalas granted the gift? Why him over someone like Anne who worked to try to aide and cure anyone and everyone regardless of their past wrongs?
It was not to say all Immortals were evil. He had found some in his travels who made it their purpose in life to right the others’ wrongs, who worked within the bounds of their secret, who fought only to survive and did not seek out the power granted with success, instead felt remorse for what they needed to do, sought for a way to erase the darkness drawn upon their soul with every life that was lost.
His thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of arms wrapping around him. He breathed in the smell of soap and shampoo, smiled when he recognized it as his own. He turned slightly to acknowledge his companion, ignoring the dampness seeping into his clothes, a sash of wetness running across his chest from shoulder to waist.
“You’re thinking too much again,” Methos scolded, unrepentantly rubbing his wet chin into Duncan’s cloth covered shoulder.
Duncan took in the short spikes of hair standing in every direction, the little droplets of water dripping down his face, one resting on the very tip of his nose. “There’s a lot to think about,” he answered, turning back to gaze out the window once more.
With a sigh, Methos pushed off of him, nearly knocking him into the glass as he walked away. “You know, I think Amanda still likes black. You should call her up, pretend to be Emo together. You could slice your wrists, watch them heal, and angst about it some more,” he commented dryly.
Duncan rolled his eyes, turning to find, as expected, the world’s oldest Immortal dressed in nothing but a towel, leaning now against the bar, pouring a decent bit of whiskey into an etched crystal cup. “Fuck you,” he replied, knowing it wouldn’t be taken personally.
Methos huffed a breath and took a swig of the amber liquid, sighing far more contentedly after he swallowed. Gesturing with his glass, he pointed out, “That was the goal for tonight, but I forgot you’re secretly a teenaged girl and I’d be breaking several laws by interrupting your brooding for a good shag.”
Duncan sauntered over and took the glass from his hand. He swallowed the remainder, feeling it burn its way down his throat. Good year. A dealer would pay good money for what had just been sitting in a back closet for far too long. “I am a teenager, at least in comparison to you,” he laughed.
Methos tugged at the ponytail his hair was finally long enough to be pulled back into once again. “And, quite possibly, secretly a girl,” he blinked earnestly.
“Fuck you,” Duncan repeated, leaning in for a kiss.
“Promises, promises,” Methos grinned, obliging him.
As Duncan got lost in the lust and love and talent only centuries of practice could provide, he could not help but to amend his earlier thoughts to realize that, sometimes, there were definite benefits to living this long. This was definitely one of them.
~~~~~~~~~~
Feedback is always welcomed.
Title: Point of View
Genre: HL, Duncan/Methos (brief mention of past Duncan/Anne)
Rating: PG-13 for mild language
Length: ~ 940 words
Synopsis: Duncan thinks about life and loss. [Alternate synopsis was: Broody Duncan broods about life as an Immortal.]
Author’s Notes: For the cliche_bingo entry “when I’m 64: futurefic”
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, people with a lot of money do. I’m just borrowing them and making no profit from this.
~~~~~~~~~~
Duncan stared out the window at the street below, watching people come and go without a care, without the knowledge of a millennia old fight to the death going on around them, of people older than they dared to dream walking beside them. He thought of the gift that was his Immortality, and how easily it was taken for granted, tossed aside needlessly for a rush of power that would leave one Immortal reeling and the other dead at his feet.
He thought of a time when he gazed out a window just like this, watched Anne dart across the street, up the steps, and into his arms. He thought of how she knew his secret, took it to her grave long decades ago, leaving her legacy of trust and healing to her daughter Mary. He thought of how Mary knew without saying a word, accepted without asking questions. How she was willing to look mortality in the eye herself but, just like her mother, fight tooth and nail to prolong it just a bit for countless others.
It made no sense to him how someone who toiled and struggled day in and day out, who made this world a better place for all those who dwelled in it, could only do so for such a short time while others fought and stole and killed and were granted everlasting life for their efforts.
He thought of the selfishness that was inherent in all Immortals. They had this wondrous ability, lived through so many great and horrific things, could teach and build and help bolster the lives of the mortals they walked amongst. Instead, they hid and fought and took each others’ lives needlessly, their only contribution to the greater realm of humanity being their manipulation to meet their own needs, to edge closer to taking out yet another of their own for that brief rush of power, the chance that they could be the mythic “one” to survive it all.
He felt the drive within him even as he rebelled against it. He knew there were new Immortals being brought into the fold nearly constantly, which begged the question why? Why fight? Why risk dying? Why believe in a millennia-old saga that had so far proven to be nothing more than a myth?
He thought of who had been Chosen thus far, of how the Fates seemed to pick and choose at a whim with no rhyme or reason as to the soul and inherent goodness of a person. Why was a person like Kalas granted the gift? Why him over someone like Anne who worked to try to aide and cure anyone and everyone regardless of their past wrongs?
It was not to say all Immortals were evil. He had found some in his travels who made it their purpose in life to right the others’ wrongs, who worked within the bounds of their secret, who fought only to survive and did not seek out the power granted with success, instead felt remorse for what they needed to do, sought for a way to erase the darkness drawn upon their soul with every life that was lost.
His thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of arms wrapping around him. He breathed in the smell of soap and shampoo, smiled when he recognized it as his own. He turned slightly to acknowledge his companion, ignoring the dampness seeping into his clothes, a sash of wetness running across his chest from shoulder to waist.
“You’re thinking too much again,” Methos scolded, unrepentantly rubbing his wet chin into Duncan’s cloth covered shoulder.
Duncan took in the short spikes of hair standing in every direction, the little droplets of water dripping down his face, one resting on the very tip of his nose. “There’s a lot to think about,” he answered, turning back to gaze out the window once more.
With a sigh, Methos pushed off of him, nearly knocking him into the glass as he walked away. “You know, I think Amanda still likes black. You should call her up, pretend to be Emo together. You could slice your wrists, watch them heal, and angst about it some more,” he commented dryly.
Duncan rolled his eyes, turning to find, as expected, the world’s oldest Immortal dressed in nothing but a towel, leaning now against the bar, pouring a decent bit of whiskey into an etched crystal cup. “Fuck you,” he replied, knowing it wouldn’t be taken personally.
Methos huffed a breath and took a swig of the amber liquid, sighing far more contentedly after he swallowed. Gesturing with his glass, he pointed out, “That was the goal for tonight, but I forgot you’re secretly a teenaged girl and I’d be breaking several laws by interrupting your brooding for a good shag.”
Duncan sauntered over and took the glass from his hand. He swallowed the remainder, feeling it burn its way down his throat. Good year. A dealer would pay good money for what had just been sitting in a back closet for far too long. “I am a teenager, at least in comparison to you,” he laughed.
Methos tugged at the ponytail his hair was finally long enough to be pulled back into once again. “And, quite possibly, secretly a girl,” he blinked earnestly.
“Fuck you,” Duncan repeated, leaning in for a kiss.
“Promises, promises,” Methos grinned, obliging him.
As Duncan got lost in the lust and love and talent only centuries of practice could provide, he could not help but to amend his earlier thoughts to realize that, sometimes, there were definite benefits to living this long. This was definitely one of them.
~~~~~~~~~~
Feedback is always welcomed.