Highlander drabbles.

[amand_r]

I posted these to the HL 100 ages ago, but I wanna put them all in memories in a vain attempt to memory all my fic that's on lj. So if you're interested, read 'em, but if you're on HL100, this won't be anything new.



Challenge 14: Dead Letters Home

Duncan:

I'm sure you're weeping and pulling your Highland locks, so I shall be brief.

Get over it. It's great here, and they have old mead, made with the honey from Nebuchadnezzar's fields. It's like the Hanging Gardens and Woodstock and the Met, but Freddie Mercury is here.

So remember this: remember what you told me on the bridge last week? About love and how the best man will win because it's the plan in the universe? You were right, and I see that now. Don’t ever stop fighting. Ever.

There is a Divine Plan, and it is beautiful.

Methos


Challenge 2: Love (or something like it)

Richie sat in between Tessa and Duncan and tried to look neither of them in the eye. It was embarrassing enough that he'd been caught, but to have them both look at him with "the look" was just too much to bear.

"I know it was stupid, but I just, just—" he started to say, but then Tessa started to cough, which was her way of trying not to laugh. And then she did laugh. Greatly, loudly, before burying her face in her hands and shaking.

Mac just looked confused. "And you did *what* with the apple pie?"


Challenge 16: Missing Scenes

Methos sneezed and a volley of dust flew upwards and into his eyes. Something unidentifiable yet covered in dust bunny hair rolled under the stove. This was absolutely ludicrous. He was covered in dirt. His hands felt dry and cracked, and he really wanted a beer. Methos gave Duncan MacLeod the Death glare.

Duncan leaned against the counter, smiling innocently. "Hey, don't yell at me. It's your fault. I hope you learned your lesson."

"Yeah, yeah," Methos muttered and stood, then dumped a handful of bottlecaps into the Scot's hands. "That's all of them."

"Good. Now move the fridge back."


Challenge 17: Quote Me (slash)

"It doesn't mean anything. It's just sex." Methos licked his earlobe gingerly.

"So you're saying that we just have to do this," Duncan said into his lover's neck, "once and then we can get it out of our systems?"

Methos pulled off his shirt. "Right, just once, and then we should get back to—oof!" He fell backwards onto Mac's bed. "Normal," he finished. "Blame it on the Quickening."

Duncan grinned, and tossed his jeans into a corner before attacking Methos's pants. "Fine then." he held up the peeled jeans with a smile. "One night only -- everything must go."


Challenge 3: Swords

Joe stared at the box on the shelf under the bar. Empty again. " Hey Mike, when did we open this last box?" Mike shrugged. Joe shook his head. I know we don't use that many in a month, let alone a week…"

From across the bar came a shrill male cry of "Hey! that really hurts!"

Joe rolled his eyes and started towards Richie and Methos, who were wrestling with something very small. They looked up guiltily with mutters of "Hi Joe!"

"Give 'em back."

And then they dumped three handfuls of plastic cocktail swords into his outstretched palms.


Challenge 4: Colours

Brown is probably the most misunderstood color in the universe, but for Methos it is the alpha and omega. It is the color of dirt and other wastes, which why most people probably hate it, but it is also the color of this soil here in his hand as he stands on the cliff on Santorini.

Most of the things in the world have a brown stage. He did, when he was working on the rivers of the Nile, and his hair did later when it bleached in the sun on the banks of the Mediterranean. Everything that built this world of men is brown in some way or another, sturdy, reliable, and unbankrupt.

Let them have their verdant greens and ocean blues, their sage yellows and lush oranges. Let them have their red, the color so ingrained in him to be afraid of for what runs in his veins. Everything for him that has ever been important has been brown.

He holds an old cloth in his hands, and uses it to rub the dirt from his hands, thinking of a woman five thousand years ago who held him to her breast and sang him a lullaby. Her eyes are the color of fertile soil, for she is his homeland.

Comments

[arsenicjade.livejournal.com]

That last one is lush. I'd read some of these before, is that possible? Because if not I'm having some serious deja vu.

Good talking to you, sweetie, sorry I couldn't stay on longer.

[amand-r.livejournal.com]

You could have. I'm trying, like I said, to get everything in memories, and this one was too far back to dig out, if I even posted it at all.