A/N: And the third strike for today. Now if I update the Dexter ficlets... Anyway. Thank you for the comments an ideas you keep feeding me. Sorry for the long wait. I have some more chapters stored away but I needed this itty bitty thing first, for them to make sense.
Fair warning: From here on in, you probably won't get past the slash(y vibes). If that squicks you out, consider this your fair warning, please. All others, please proceed.
Season three, ep. Methos:
Methos is a myth. He tells Joe that with all the conviction of a man who knows
. Methos is a myth. A story. If he ever existed, he’s certainly dead now. Duncan has seen men, good men, and women go mad with the grief of age. He has seen them beg for an end, any end, just to stop the merciless flow of time and life and death around them.
He has seen time break the strongest people he has ever known. Some of them were a thousand years old, some only a few centuries. Eventually, it is said, they all take the easy way out.
To live to be thousands of years old…. Mac just doesn’t believe it. He doesn’t. So Methos is a myth and hunting him is a fool’s errand. And yet, yetyetyet, yet he walks up to Adam Pierson’s door and feels a quickening rush down his spine that shakes him to the bone.
He draws his sword and carefully, slowly, lets himself into the apartment. The way things are going right now, the watcher is probably dead already and whoever is inside the apartment has taken all there was worth knowing.
But then, as he closes the door silently behind him, another quickening hits, brushing across his skin like hot desert wind. He knows that quickening, knows it like he knows the sun above his head. Buffy. Summer, as Amanda calls her, as Darius names her.
Buffy who is still a riddle after over a century, Buffy who never gives straight answers and disappears faster than sound. Buffy with her mysterious husband, her mad sword skills, her incredible stories and deep eyes.
She’s supposed to be in Spain meeting her ever elusive husband, as far as he knows.
He walks down the few steps into the main area of the apartment and then whirls, startled, as he hears a familiar giggle. Instantly, he blushes.
Buffy is there alright, tangled in sheets and strong tanned arms belonging to a dark haired man whose face is buried in her neck. She grins at Duncan over the man’s shoulder and then smacks his back with an open palm saying, “Honey, we have company.”
A dark head turns and darker eyes sparkle brightly in his direction for a second before the man returns to his task. “He can join us.”
Again, Buffy smacks him and with a long suffering sigh, the man finally leaves off her neck and rolls to the side. The blonde draws the sheets around her and sits ignoring the rumbled complaint of, “I want a divorce, bloody wench.”
Divorce? Does that mean this is –
Before he gets to finish the thought Buffy says, “Honey, this is Duncan MacLeod. Mac, meet my husband, Adam Pierson.”
Adam Pierson. Watcher. Methos’s watcher. Supposedly a mortal. Except he has a quickening and … Duncan’s brain finally comes back and he whispers, staring dumbly, “Methos.”
The man on the bed grins roguishly and strikes a pose while Buffy laughs out loud beside him.
Methos is a myth. Methos isn’t real. No-one can live to be as old as Methos. No-one it’s just not…
He stands there, staring stupidly, understanding suddenly why Buffy never ever dropped her husband’s name at all. Married to the oldest living immortal. Sweet God, the lass just never stops surprising him. He opens his mouth to say something – anything, when Methos moves.
The man rolls to the edge of the bed, sitting, completely unashamed of his nudity and bends to a cooler box by the bedside table, pulling out two cans. He holds one up and looks at the Highlander curiously, “Beer?”