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Entry tags:
Highlander - Efficiency
Title: Efficiency
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Length: ~2,200 words
Warnings: A bit of gore.
Synopsis: Sometimes the simplest ways are the best.
Author's Notes: Written for the "surgery" square at![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hc_bingo. It's been a while since I've written in this fandom, and I've forgotten how much fun it is to write for Methos. Blame ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
threnodyjones? I usually do.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also at AO3.
MacLeod was shot. Of course he was shot. Why the hell wouldn't he be shot?
Methos sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He wasn't going to get involved. It's what he told himself, what he promised himself, when he followed Duncan on his latest little do-gooding mission. Now he was left with a not-dead-yet friend, a hysterical woman, and a man who may well make life hell on Earth for the remaining Immortals in this world.
First things first. The man, Kelvin Horner, was pulling out a decent sized butcher knife and headed towards Duncan's unmoving body. Awesome. Wonderful. Apparently he had not just read Ms. Cries-a-lot's thesis, but believed in it as well. What Methos was about to do would not truly help discourage that belief, but would at least increase the likelihood of saving his friend's life, so at least there was a trade off in that.
Horner had not been the only one with a pistol hidden away on his person during this little meeting, only the first to draw. Methos drew his own and fired haphazardly, aiming for roughly his shoulder but not caring if he hit a heart or a head instead.
Horner went down, the woman screamed, and Methos had just about enough. "Do shut up," he grumbled as he pushed past her. If he happened to snag the data drive from her lax hands as he passed, all the better.
She surprised him by complying, at least in part. The screaming was gone, only to be replaced by a sniveling, "I didn't think anyone would get hurt. I just... saw things. I saw things and added them up and then wrote about them and then there was money and threats and guns and he killed that guy, didn't he? He killed the guy that warned me this whole thing was a bad idea!"
Methos sighed, again, and drew on stores of patience built up over thousands of years. "Remember the part where I told you to shut up?" he tossed over his shoulder at her. She made a face and continued to sniff but actually ceased to speak for the time being, so he counted it as a success.
He knelt down beside MacLeod's body and assessed the damage. The sweater was a lost cause, and it would appear MacLeod himself was as well, at least for now. His body was attempting to heal, but the bullet had hit his heart and he had a long way to go before he'd be up and around again. Foreign objects always slowed the whole revival process what with the need for removal and such, so Methos had one of two choices at this point: help that process along, or go buy a coffee from the shop up the block and let nature take its course.
They were not in the best of neighborhoods though, and he was reluctant to leave his friend's body behind. Aside from the chance of robbery, and the chance Horner would revive enough to finish the job, there was a fair chance that two gunshots in quick succession would make someone alert the police even here, and it was such a pain to reclaim each other from the coroner's office, not to mention possibly make new identities if their current ones were discovered.
He pocketed his gun and patted down his pockets to try to find something to aid him with his current task. Neither a Roman short sword or dirk would be the best, though he could use them if nothing else was available. Horner's butcher knife appeared to be the best bet though, so he grabbed that and set to work.
He widened the hole through the sweater and the simple white shirt underneath it, and tried to sort out the best angle to go at it. He readied the knife, only to be interrupted by a half hysterical cry of, "What are you doing?"
"Think of it as surgery," he tried, shifting his grip slightly as he debated a better approach.
"You can save him?" she asked, suddenly hopeful. That hope turned to horror when he made the first slice, blunt and brutal. "What the hell kind of surgery is that?" she demanded.
The smell of blood filled his senses, the metallic tang strong enough to taste and the viscous liquid slick beneath his fingertips. He pushed the various tissues to the side and used the tip of the knife to flip the molten bit of metal outward and upward. "The efficient kind," he replied, sitting back to watch the process begin.
He could feel the surge of Quickening energy, raw and elemental and both clinging and calling at the same time. He pushed himself back further, forced himself to lower the knife he held, forced himself to forget he carried far better weapons and they were ever so close and ready to be used, ready to take what even they knew would be so easily given. He could do it, take the head of a man already shot, already dead, defenseless and vulnerable. In times past, he would have barely batted an eye at the thought. He had lived by instinct alone, morals and righteousness be damned.
But MacLeod was a friend. An over-loyal do-gooder of a friend, but a friend nonetheless. Aside from the fact that Joe would never forgive him and he would be forced to pay for his own whiskey and beer for the first time in ages, he would rather miss the grownup Boy Scout and all the various adventures they seemed to find themselves washed away with.
"He's one of them, isn't he?" the woman's voice sounded, tearing him from his thoughts. At least she served as a distraction; it was easier to be annoyed at her than debate the pros and cons of obtaining the sort of power MacLeod held beneath that ponytailed exterior. He idly handed her the knife, which she dropped quickly enough once she realized what it was and the state it was in. The action had served its purpose though, putting the potential temptation out of his hands, at least temporarily.
She was babbling now, on and on about her thesis and evidence and how she could see the wound closing, the tissue knotting before her very eyes. That was all well and good, but Methos still had other things on his mind, most notably the response time of the local police and just now difficult it would be to drag Duncan's sorry ass to someplace a bit less public than a dark and deserted alleyway to finish the healing process and be on their way.
His attention was drawn away from both her and the still-healing MacLeod to that of a slowly rising Horner. At least his surprise resurrection had shut her up well and truly, though it did put a bit of a damper on the whole getting the hell out of there without further incident.
"It worked!" Horner exclaimed. He leaned against the brick wall, bloodied and pale and unfortunately alive. He looked to his empty hands though, and then to where MacLeod's head was still soundly attached to his body. "I don't get it. If I didn't take his head, how did I gain his immortality?"
Methos stood and sighed for a third time, a habit he really needed to learn to break. Apparently a lesson was in order, and it had been ever so long since he had been a teacher. "Yes, you are Immortal. Yes, he is Immortal. No, you did not gain his Immortality, I simply awakened your own latent 'talents' when I shot you," he explained, taking a step closer with every word.
"But if I don't have his Immortality, what kind do I have?" Horner asked, truly and utterly confused.
Methos had no sympathy for him as people that stupid really had no place in the world. Instead, he drew his sword, smiled grimly, and said, "The temporary type."
The Quickening was short but satisfyingly sweet. It had the added bonus of both blocking out the renewed natterings of the girl, and providing a little extra energy to the situation as a whole, possibly speeding up MacLeod's recovery process by several minutes. Its detriment, of course, was the added noise to bring the cops that much sooner so, while still panting and ringing with the feeling of life, the universe, and everything in it, he pulled a finally rousing MacLeod to his feet and urged him to get out of there.
"Wh-what about me?" the girl asked, hands clutched close to her chest, eyes darting between the spatters of blood, the dripping knife, and the decapitated body.
"The way I see it, you have one of two options," Methos mused. Duncan gave him a look, but he was used to ignoring those. "You can either stand around and get arrested for the brutal murder of Mr. Horner there, a man that would be known to be after your research if the police did even the tiniest bit of investigating, or you can go home, wash up, and await a potential job offer from a very nice man with a very interesting tattoo."
"But..." she trailed off, not sure what to make of either him or his words.
"Let's make this easy for you," Duncan said, finally standing on his own again. He looked to Methos, who looked right back at him, and then both of them told her at the exact same time, "Run!"
Later, after they returned to the apartment and had a toast to the dearly departed sweater, and then another to the stupidity of mankind though that might have just been Methos having that second round, Duncan mused on the life of secrecy that they must live and Methos mused on how long he could keep the data drive before Joe came looking for it. He distracted Duncan by having him call Dawson to make sure the woman was taken care of, and helped himself to a third shot.
He debated how many copies he should make before he handed it over as it doubtlessly held intel on the recent whereabouts of several Immortals, and wondered how many Joe would assume he'd make and was calculating the odds of tucking away one or three here in MacLeod's little safe haven and was even glancing around looking for the best hiding place when Duncan surprised him by placing what he thought was a third and Methos knew was a fourth pour of the good stuff in front of him.
"What's this for?" he asked. His fingers were already around the glass though, on the off chance it should be taken back.
Duncan quirked his lips and said, "Saving my life." He dragged a chair over to lounge next to him and added, "And saving Megan's life as well. Joe said they have her and she's rather interested in an archiving role with the Watchers. He thinks they can comply."
Ah, the girl. Methos wondered if Duncan would be quite as thankful if he knew this Megan of his had successfully been framed for murder and had very few options left save for hiding amongst Joe and his ilk. Then again, he wondered if she would realize why she had been so drawn to investigating the life of Immortals before or after she held a sword in her hands and felt the Quickening sing in her veins.
"You're welcome," he said instead, and tossed back the shot.
"Joe also said he'd be over for the file in the morning," Duncan added calmly, eyebrows raised in a chastising manner. He watched, expecting a reaction that Methos was only so happy to deny him.
Instead, Methos shrugged and motioned for another shot, giving MacLeod his best "well, I tried" grin and contemplated the timeline being cut down to roughly eight hours instead of the twenty-four he had originally anticipated. Modern technology being what it was, it was not that much of a problem, really, so he was not overly concerned.
They spent the night telling tales of survivals and resurrections and the sheer number of times people thought they had discovered their secret, only to end up getting drawn into the shadows with them instead. All in all it was a decent day and, when Methos glanced over at the stained remnants of a once pristine bit of patterned yarn overflowing from the trash bin, he figured there were so many other ways it could have ended.
When he awoke, alive and well in the morning, he sipped his coffee and listened to the news report about a new and gruesome murder with no known suspects or witnesses to be found. He traded Joe the original file for a tiny bit of misshaped metal tinged rusty with flecks of red. He pocketed the latter and listened to Duncan prattle on about some new puppy that needed to be saved or some such thing and nodded in all the right places and wondered what the future had in store for them this time.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Length: ~2,200 words
Warnings: A bit of gore.
Synopsis: Sometimes the simplest ways are the best.
Author's Notes: Written for the "surgery" square at
hc_bingo. It's been a while since I've written in this fandom, and I've forgotten how much fun it is to write for Methos. Blame threnodyjones? I usually do.Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also at AO3.
MacLeod was shot. Of course he was shot. Why the hell wouldn't he be shot?
Methos sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He wasn't going to get involved. It's what he told himself, what he promised himself, when he followed Duncan on his latest little do-gooding mission. Now he was left with a not-dead-yet friend, a hysterical woman, and a man who may well make life hell on Earth for the remaining Immortals in this world.
First things first. The man, Kelvin Horner, was pulling out a decent sized butcher knife and headed towards Duncan's unmoving body. Awesome. Wonderful. Apparently he had not just read Ms. Cries-a-lot's thesis, but believed in it as well. What Methos was about to do would not truly help discourage that belief, but would at least increase the likelihood of saving his friend's life, so at least there was a trade off in that.
Horner had not been the only one with a pistol hidden away on his person during this little meeting, only the first to draw. Methos drew his own and fired haphazardly, aiming for roughly his shoulder but not caring if he hit a heart or a head instead.
Horner went down, the woman screamed, and Methos had just about enough. "Do shut up," he grumbled as he pushed past her. If he happened to snag the data drive from her lax hands as he passed, all the better.
She surprised him by complying, at least in part. The screaming was gone, only to be replaced by a sniveling, "I didn't think anyone would get hurt. I just... saw things. I saw things and added them up and then wrote about them and then there was money and threats and guns and he killed that guy, didn't he? He killed the guy that warned me this whole thing was a bad idea!"
Methos sighed, again, and drew on stores of patience built up over thousands of years. "Remember the part where I told you to shut up?" he tossed over his shoulder at her. She made a face and continued to sniff but actually ceased to speak for the time being, so he counted it as a success.
He knelt down beside MacLeod's body and assessed the damage. The sweater was a lost cause, and it would appear MacLeod himself was as well, at least for now. His body was attempting to heal, but the bullet had hit his heart and he had a long way to go before he'd be up and around again. Foreign objects always slowed the whole revival process what with the need for removal and such, so Methos had one of two choices at this point: help that process along, or go buy a coffee from the shop up the block and let nature take its course.
They were not in the best of neighborhoods though, and he was reluctant to leave his friend's body behind. Aside from the chance of robbery, and the chance Horner would revive enough to finish the job, there was a fair chance that two gunshots in quick succession would make someone alert the police even here, and it was such a pain to reclaim each other from the coroner's office, not to mention possibly make new identities if their current ones were discovered.
He pocketed his gun and patted down his pockets to try to find something to aid him with his current task. Neither a Roman short sword or dirk would be the best, though he could use them if nothing else was available. Horner's butcher knife appeared to be the best bet though, so he grabbed that and set to work.
He widened the hole through the sweater and the simple white shirt underneath it, and tried to sort out the best angle to go at it. He readied the knife, only to be interrupted by a half hysterical cry of, "What are you doing?"
"Think of it as surgery," he tried, shifting his grip slightly as he debated a better approach.
"You can save him?" she asked, suddenly hopeful. That hope turned to horror when he made the first slice, blunt and brutal. "What the hell kind of surgery is that?" she demanded.
The smell of blood filled his senses, the metallic tang strong enough to taste and the viscous liquid slick beneath his fingertips. He pushed the various tissues to the side and used the tip of the knife to flip the molten bit of metal outward and upward. "The efficient kind," he replied, sitting back to watch the process begin.
He could feel the surge of Quickening energy, raw and elemental and both clinging and calling at the same time. He pushed himself back further, forced himself to lower the knife he held, forced himself to forget he carried far better weapons and they were ever so close and ready to be used, ready to take what even they knew would be so easily given. He could do it, take the head of a man already shot, already dead, defenseless and vulnerable. In times past, he would have barely batted an eye at the thought. He had lived by instinct alone, morals and righteousness be damned.
But MacLeod was a friend. An over-loyal do-gooder of a friend, but a friend nonetheless. Aside from the fact that Joe would never forgive him and he would be forced to pay for his own whiskey and beer for the first time in ages, he would rather miss the grownup Boy Scout and all the various adventures they seemed to find themselves washed away with.
"He's one of them, isn't he?" the woman's voice sounded, tearing him from his thoughts. At least she served as a distraction; it was easier to be annoyed at her than debate the pros and cons of obtaining the sort of power MacLeod held beneath that ponytailed exterior. He idly handed her the knife, which she dropped quickly enough once she realized what it was and the state it was in. The action had served its purpose though, putting the potential temptation out of his hands, at least temporarily.
She was babbling now, on and on about her thesis and evidence and how she could see the wound closing, the tissue knotting before her very eyes. That was all well and good, but Methos still had other things on his mind, most notably the response time of the local police and just now difficult it would be to drag Duncan's sorry ass to someplace a bit less public than a dark and deserted alleyway to finish the healing process and be on their way.
His attention was drawn away from both her and the still-healing MacLeod to that of a slowly rising Horner. At least his surprise resurrection had shut her up well and truly, though it did put a bit of a damper on the whole getting the hell out of there without further incident.
"It worked!" Horner exclaimed. He leaned against the brick wall, bloodied and pale and unfortunately alive. He looked to his empty hands though, and then to where MacLeod's head was still soundly attached to his body. "I don't get it. If I didn't take his head, how did I gain his immortality?"
Methos stood and sighed for a third time, a habit he really needed to learn to break. Apparently a lesson was in order, and it had been ever so long since he had been a teacher. "Yes, you are Immortal. Yes, he is Immortal. No, you did not gain his Immortality, I simply awakened your own latent 'talents' when I shot you," he explained, taking a step closer with every word.
"But if I don't have his Immortality, what kind do I have?" Horner asked, truly and utterly confused.
Methos had no sympathy for him as people that stupid really had no place in the world. Instead, he drew his sword, smiled grimly, and said, "The temporary type."
The Quickening was short but satisfyingly sweet. It had the added bonus of both blocking out the renewed natterings of the girl, and providing a little extra energy to the situation as a whole, possibly speeding up MacLeod's recovery process by several minutes. Its detriment, of course, was the added noise to bring the cops that much sooner so, while still panting and ringing with the feeling of life, the universe, and everything in it, he pulled a finally rousing MacLeod to his feet and urged him to get out of there.
"Wh-what about me?" the girl asked, hands clutched close to her chest, eyes darting between the spatters of blood, the dripping knife, and the decapitated body.
"The way I see it, you have one of two options," Methos mused. Duncan gave him a look, but he was used to ignoring those. "You can either stand around and get arrested for the brutal murder of Mr. Horner there, a man that would be known to be after your research if the police did even the tiniest bit of investigating, or you can go home, wash up, and await a potential job offer from a very nice man with a very interesting tattoo."
"But..." she trailed off, not sure what to make of either him or his words.
"Let's make this easy for you," Duncan said, finally standing on his own again. He looked to Methos, who looked right back at him, and then both of them told her at the exact same time, "Run!"
Later, after they returned to the apartment and had a toast to the dearly departed sweater, and then another to the stupidity of mankind though that might have just been Methos having that second round, Duncan mused on the life of secrecy that they must live and Methos mused on how long he could keep the data drive before Joe came looking for it. He distracted Duncan by having him call Dawson to make sure the woman was taken care of, and helped himself to a third shot.
He debated how many copies he should make before he handed it over as it doubtlessly held intel on the recent whereabouts of several Immortals, and wondered how many Joe would assume he'd make and was calculating the odds of tucking away one or three here in MacLeod's little safe haven and was even glancing around looking for the best hiding place when Duncan surprised him by placing what he thought was a third and Methos knew was a fourth pour of the good stuff in front of him.
"What's this for?" he asked. His fingers were already around the glass though, on the off chance it should be taken back.
Duncan quirked his lips and said, "Saving my life." He dragged a chair over to lounge next to him and added, "And saving Megan's life as well. Joe said they have her and she's rather interested in an archiving role with the Watchers. He thinks they can comply."
Ah, the girl. Methos wondered if Duncan would be quite as thankful if he knew this Megan of his had successfully been framed for murder and had very few options left save for hiding amongst Joe and his ilk. Then again, he wondered if she would realize why she had been so drawn to investigating the life of Immortals before or after she held a sword in her hands and felt the Quickening sing in her veins.
"You're welcome," he said instead, and tossed back the shot.
"Joe also said he'd be over for the file in the morning," Duncan added calmly, eyebrows raised in a chastising manner. He watched, expecting a reaction that Methos was only so happy to deny him.
Instead, Methos shrugged and motioned for another shot, giving MacLeod his best "well, I tried" grin and contemplated the timeline being cut down to roughly eight hours instead of the twenty-four he had originally anticipated. Modern technology being what it was, it was not that much of a problem, really, so he was not overly concerned.
They spent the night telling tales of survivals and resurrections and the sheer number of times people thought they had discovered their secret, only to end up getting drawn into the shadows with them instead. All in all it was a decent day and, when Methos glanced over at the stained remnants of a once pristine bit of patterned yarn overflowing from the trash bin, he figured there were so many other ways it could have ended.
When he awoke, alive and well in the morning, he sipped his coffee and listened to the news report about a new and gruesome murder with no known suspects or witnesses to be found. He traded Joe the original file for a tiny bit of misshaped metal tinged rusty with flecks of red. He pocketed the latter and listened to Duncan prattle on about some new puppy that needed to be saved or some such thing and nodded in all the right places and wondered what the future had in store for them this time.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.