Chained to Fate (Highlander/BSG - A)
Title: Chained to Fate
Author: zeplum
Fandom: Highlander/BSG - set during S1
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Methos/Kara
Notes: Written for the BSG Crossover Challenge. I took this as a prompt: Methos chases an Immortal to BSG and comes up against Lee and Kara - who like to discourage beheadings in their territory.
And got this. Er, yeah. Hope this works for whoever requested it!
He still has dreams of Kobol.
He can still smell the smoke, the blood. He can hear the cries.
He can still see Athena, shining and pure and beautiful, throwing herself from the Gates of Hera. In sorrow, possibly. But Methos knows it was in despair -- not of their leaving, but of their betrayal.
*
MacLeod and Joe are dead, of this he is sure. Methos has no idea if he's the last living Immortal, but he's still the oldest.
Points to him, then. The Old Man, surviving to the last.
And for Methos, who has seen wars and genocide innumerable times, wonders if this just might be the last.
But he shoulders his duffle all the same, hides on a refugee ship with all the rest, and waits.
*
If he was so inclined, Methos would thank the Cylons for weeding out the herd a bit. The Immortals he's fought as of late are nowhere near the caliber of his old opponents. Taking a head ceased to bring him any sort of visceral joy eons ago, but now there's not even a spark of fun in the contest.
He wishes MacLeod were here. Even Richie, or Amanda -- she'd be making a killing on the black market right about now, the minx.
But he wins, survives, because that's what he does. Kronos and Duncan both mocked him with that phrase, but now it's all he's got.
*
The annihilation of the Twelve Colonies brings a whole new crop of baby Immortals to the game, but without any knowledge of who they are, of their birthright, of how to stay alive, Methos watches as they start to slip away.
There's a niggling voice in the back of his mind -- MacLeod -- telling him that he can take one of the foundlings in. Who better to learn from, the voice teases. General, scholar, poet -- he'd be the best teacher they could've ever had.
But Methos can teach them nothing now but how to die.
*
It was bound to happen eventually.
Someone finds a head.
Methos is surprised (and amused) that it didn't happen earlier.
Panic screams over the wireless -- people have become numb to Cylon attacks, to rumblings of civil unrest, but a head? That's more than they can take.
Adama sends his two prize pupils to investigate. As Methos watches, they don't look particularly enthused about the prospect.
Smart kids.
*
He's brought in for questioning because someone saw him in the vicinity of the head during the approximate time of death. This means that he was on the same deck as the unfortunate soul and his ability to blend into the background isn't what it used to be.
Then again, all the backgrounds on this ship are brown, a shade that makes him look sallow. Blending is sometimes not an option; after all, Methos still has his standards. Here, at the end of the world.
The boy is wound tighter than a spring. Handsome, self-righteous, a bit lost. MacLeod would've liked him.
The woman is all finely honed anger and fierceness. She's quick, and tough, and knows more than she lets on. Amanda would've liked her, if they could get past the competition and into the partnering.
But Kara Thrace is no match for Adama's son -- Methos is several thousand years old, he can read sexual tension when it's right in front of his face.
They question him, good-cop bad-cop, and Methos sits back in his chair, answers their questions and smirks. Finally, they are satisfied -- he's had a lot of practice at this over the years -- and they let him leave.
Thrace rolls her eyes when his gaze lingers on her just a little too long.
"Sorry. You just reminded me of someone I knew."
And she does.
From the Opera House on Kobol, the last night he heard Athena laugh.
*
Time passes, and Methos changes ships and blends in -- better this time, the walls are painted gun metal grey and that suits Methos just fine.
He finds her one night -- or she finds him, he doesn't know and doesn't care -- in the haze of a bar on Cloud Nine.
She doesn't talk a lot, but he gathers that Capt. Tremendous did something asinine. It doesn't surprise Methos when her eyes flash briefly, but it's only for a moment and then she's back. Passion is powerful, it can build things as well as destroy them, but Methos doesn't need to explain this. She already knows.
He and Kara -- it's Kara now, and he relishes the sound of her name issuing from his mouth, the hard bite of the 'k', the sweetness at the end and he'd like to kiss her that way, write prayers on her skin with his mouth -- tumble into her room, drunk and their balance off. Kara puts her weight on him, hands on his shoulders, and he falls back against the wall where she quickly follows.
She doesn't kiss hard or nice, and its nothing like being beaten into submission, but there's a dominance there and Methos goes with it anyway. He gets the feeling he'll get his turn soon. Kara leans into him again, breasts pressing against his chest, one thigh working its way between his. She kisses him again, draws it out and sucks on his bottom lip. Just a tease, and then she's licking inside his mouth, flicking her tongue at the corner as his jaw drops on a gasp, an exhalation of prayer.
Methos, successfully intrigued, exits the penalty box with ages of pent up restraint under his belt -- which, to his great amusement, is being worked free by clever fingers at this very moment. But her efforts cease when he gets a hand around the back of her neck, fingers treading through her hair and cradling her head. It's a perfect fit and Kara's eyes drift closed, a pleased smile, lots of teeth, gracing her face.
He kisses that smile away, wraps his other arm around her waist and draws her closer, their bodies working for a common goal. She grinds down onto his thigh, little movements in time with a beat only she can hear. He can feel her heat through the fabric and it makes him ache, but when she palms his erection he lets out a halting laugh against her neck.
"Playtime, my dear, is over."
She laughs, low and heavy, and begins by wheedling her hands under his sweater, sliding them up and baring him from the waist up. Kara steps back, an appraising eye, and he smiles smugly, encouraging her fun. "Skinny."
"Wiry," he fires back.
Kara only shrugs, steps back to him, hands at the waist of his trousers for an anchor. "Whatever you say," her mouth securing over his.
Next comes her jacket, pushed off her shoulders with care. Methos kisses the skin there, cream with a few freckles, and it makes her laugh. He looses track of what comes off when after that; Kara's hands and his busy with buttons and zippers and laces, but he does remember tracing the curve of her breast, the line of her hip.
He always did like being with soldiers best. They are efficient and mindful, and appreciate the fleeting, and their bodies are written with the story of their lives. Kara's is no different. There's a scar on her hip, old and thick, and her eyes squeeze shut when he runs his finger along it. Methos doesn't bother asking her what it's from; she'd never tell him, or anyone else for that matter. But when Kara takes him inside, he runs his fingers over it again and again until she relaxes and he starts to move, a slow rhythm that she matches, meeting his thrusts with her hips.
Kara lets him drive for a while, then with a wicked gleam and no warning -- which he admonishes her for, because sex is no account for the loss of good manners -- she flips them over and establishes herself again, taking his cock in hand and making a big show of lowering herself on to him. Slowly.
He growls and grips her hips -- fingers sure to leave bruises that she will no doubt show off -- and she just smirks and clenches her muscles around him.
"Kara!" part plea and all frustration.
And she rocks her hips and speaks his name, "Adam," Neutral, but with a touch of indulgence. And he slams into her at that, because even if that's not his real name, it's all he has left.
Leaning up, he braces himself for a position he hasn't done in years, one he learned on Kobol oh so long ago. And Kara hangs on, follows him through it, and kisses the side of his mouth when he finally gets it right. Deep inside her and every tiny movement is hitting her clit just right; he marvels at the fine sheen of sweat that's covering her body, how she smells clean and debauched all at once.
And that she tastes like the future, and the past, and nothing like the present.
He comes inside her, euphoria washing over him in waves. And he wants to laugh, but his throat is altogether too tight, but Kara's laughing enough for both of them when they fall away, satiated. Little giggles and this he never would've expected from her. Turning over, he runs fingers lightly over her belly, and gives her the questioning eye.
She can't explain, or won't -- it's starting to be a familiar theme with Kara Thrace -- so she just draws him down again, a guiding hand at the base of his skull, and lets her tongue sweep against his. A lazy, simple kiss and then she lets him go.
"You have no idea how special you are, Kara Thrace." Because he's known it since he first laid eyes on her. Not a pre-Immortal, not a goddess, but something extraordinary.
She freezes for a moment, but then merely rolls her eyes, swats him with a pillow and turns over.
"Go to sleep, Adam."
Methos spoons in behind her and dreams of white temples, and death, and a woman laughing. And he is alone.
-end-
(Title from Live, "I Alone". A title I've been wanting to use for YEARS.)
Author: zeplum
Fandom: Highlander/BSG - set during S1
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Methos/Kara
Notes: Written for the BSG Crossover Challenge. I took this as a prompt: Methos chases an Immortal to BSG and comes up against Lee and Kara - who like to discourage beheadings in their territory.
And got this. Er, yeah. Hope this works for whoever requested it!
He still has dreams of Kobol.
He can still smell the smoke, the blood. He can hear the cries.
He can still see Athena, shining and pure and beautiful, throwing herself from the Gates of Hera. In sorrow, possibly. But Methos knows it was in despair -- not of their leaving, but of their betrayal.
*
MacLeod and Joe are dead, of this he is sure. Methos has no idea if he's the last living Immortal, but he's still the oldest.
Points to him, then. The Old Man, surviving to the last.
And for Methos, who has seen wars and genocide innumerable times, wonders if this just might be the last.
But he shoulders his duffle all the same, hides on a refugee ship with all the rest, and waits.
*
If he was so inclined, Methos would thank the Cylons for weeding out the herd a bit. The Immortals he's fought as of late are nowhere near the caliber of his old opponents. Taking a head ceased to bring him any sort of visceral joy eons ago, but now there's not even a spark of fun in the contest.
He wishes MacLeod were here. Even Richie, or Amanda -- she'd be making a killing on the black market right about now, the minx.
But he wins, survives, because that's what he does. Kronos and Duncan both mocked him with that phrase, but now it's all he's got.
*
The annihilation of the Twelve Colonies brings a whole new crop of baby Immortals to the game, but without any knowledge of who they are, of their birthright, of how to stay alive, Methos watches as they start to slip away.
There's a niggling voice in the back of his mind -- MacLeod -- telling him that he can take one of the foundlings in. Who better to learn from, the voice teases. General, scholar, poet -- he'd be the best teacher they could've ever had.
But Methos can teach them nothing now but how to die.
*
It was bound to happen eventually.
Someone finds a head.
Methos is surprised (and amused) that it didn't happen earlier.
Panic screams over the wireless -- people have become numb to Cylon attacks, to rumblings of civil unrest, but a head? That's more than they can take.
Adama sends his two prize pupils to investigate. As Methos watches, they don't look particularly enthused about the prospect.
Smart kids.
*
He's brought in for questioning because someone saw him in the vicinity of the head during the approximate time of death. This means that he was on the same deck as the unfortunate soul and his ability to blend into the background isn't what it used to be.
Then again, all the backgrounds on this ship are brown, a shade that makes him look sallow. Blending is sometimes not an option; after all, Methos still has his standards. Here, at the end of the world.
The boy is wound tighter than a spring. Handsome, self-righteous, a bit lost. MacLeod would've liked him.
The woman is all finely honed anger and fierceness. She's quick, and tough, and knows more than she lets on. Amanda would've liked her, if they could get past the competition and into the partnering.
But Kara Thrace is no match for Adama's son -- Methos is several thousand years old, he can read sexual tension when it's right in front of his face.
They question him, good-cop bad-cop, and Methos sits back in his chair, answers their questions and smirks. Finally, they are satisfied -- he's had a lot of practice at this over the years -- and they let him leave.
Thrace rolls her eyes when his gaze lingers on her just a little too long.
"Sorry. You just reminded me of someone I knew."
And she does.
From the Opera House on Kobol, the last night he heard Athena laugh.
*
Time passes, and Methos changes ships and blends in -- better this time, the walls are painted gun metal grey and that suits Methos just fine.
He finds her one night -- or she finds him, he doesn't know and doesn't care -- in the haze of a bar on Cloud Nine.
She doesn't talk a lot, but he gathers that Capt. Tremendous did something asinine. It doesn't surprise Methos when her eyes flash briefly, but it's only for a moment and then she's back. Passion is powerful, it can build things as well as destroy them, but Methos doesn't need to explain this. She already knows.
He and Kara -- it's Kara now, and he relishes the sound of her name issuing from his mouth, the hard bite of the 'k', the sweetness at the end and he'd like to kiss her that way, write prayers on her skin with his mouth -- tumble into her room, drunk and their balance off. Kara puts her weight on him, hands on his shoulders, and he falls back against the wall where she quickly follows.
She doesn't kiss hard or nice, and its nothing like being beaten into submission, but there's a dominance there and Methos goes with it anyway. He gets the feeling he'll get his turn soon. Kara leans into him again, breasts pressing against his chest, one thigh working its way between his. She kisses him again, draws it out and sucks on his bottom lip. Just a tease, and then she's licking inside his mouth, flicking her tongue at the corner as his jaw drops on a gasp, an exhalation of prayer.
Methos, successfully intrigued, exits the penalty box with ages of pent up restraint under his belt -- which, to his great amusement, is being worked free by clever fingers at this very moment. But her efforts cease when he gets a hand around the back of her neck, fingers treading through her hair and cradling her head. It's a perfect fit and Kara's eyes drift closed, a pleased smile, lots of teeth, gracing her face.
He kisses that smile away, wraps his other arm around her waist and draws her closer, their bodies working for a common goal. She grinds down onto his thigh, little movements in time with a beat only she can hear. He can feel her heat through the fabric and it makes him ache, but when she palms his erection he lets out a halting laugh against her neck.
"Playtime, my dear, is over."
She laughs, low and heavy, and begins by wheedling her hands under his sweater, sliding them up and baring him from the waist up. Kara steps back, an appraising eye, and he smiles smugly, encouraging her fun. "Skinny."
"Wiry," he fires back.
Kara only shrugs, steps back to him, hands at the waist of his trousers for an anchor. "Whatever you say," her mouth securing over his.
Next comes her jacket, pushed off her shoulders with care. Methos kisses the skin there, cream with a few freckles, and it makes her laugh. He looses track of what comes off when after that; Kara's hands and his busy with buttons and zippers and laces, but he does remember tracing the curve of her breast, the line of her hip.
He always did like being with soldiers best. They are efficient and mindful, and appreciate the fleeting, and their bodies are written with the story of their lives. Kara's is no different. There's a scar on her hip, old and thick, and her eyes squeeze shut when he runs his finger along it. Methos doesn't bother asking her what it's from; she'd never tell him, or anyone else for that matter. But when Kara takes him inside, he runs his fingers over it again and again until she relaxes and he starts to move, a slow rhythm that she matches, meeting his thrusts with her hips.
Kara lets him drive for a while, then with a wicked gleam and no warning -- which he admonishes her for, because sex is no account for the loss of good manners -- she flips them over and establishes herself again, taking his cock in hand and making a big show of lowering herself on to him. Slowly.
He growls and grips her hips -- fingers sure to leave bruises that she will no doubt show off -- and she just smirks and clenches her muscles around him.
"Kara!" part plea and all frustration.
And she rocks her hips and speaks his name, "Adam," Neutral, but with a touch of indulgence. And he slams into her at that, because even if that's not his real name, it's all he has left.
Leaning up, he braces himself for a position he hasn't done in years, one he learned on Kobol oh so long ago. And Kara hangs on, follows him through it, and kisses the side of his mouth when he finally gets it right. Deep inside her and every tiny movement is hitting her clit just right; he marvels at the fine sheen of sweat that's covering her body, how she smells clean and debauched all at once.
And that she tastes like the future, and the past, and nothing like the present.
He comes inside her, euphoria washing over him in waves. And he wants to laugh, but his throat is altogether too tight, but Kara's laughing enough for both of them when they fall away, satiated. Little giggles and this he never would've expected from her. Turning over, he runs fingers lightly over her belly, and gives her the questioning eye.
She can't explain, or won't -- it's starting to be a familiar theme with Kara Thrace -- so she just draws him down again, a guiding hand at the base of his skull, and lets her tongue sweep against his. A lazy, simple kiss and then she lets him go.
"You have no idea how special you are, Kara Thrace." Because he's known it since he first laid eyes on her. Not a pre-Immortal, not a goddess, but something extraordinary.
She freezes for a moment, but then merely rolls her eyes, swats him with a pillow and turns over.
"Go to sleep, Adam."
Methos spoons in behind her and dreams of white temples, and death, and a woman laughing. And he is alone.
-end-
(Title from Live, "I Alone". A title I've been wanting to use for YEARS.)