Rating: R for language
Category: episode addition, character development, pre-slash
Date: 29-31 January 2004
What Has Gone Before: n/a
Summary: Methos' thoughts after the events of “Methos.”
Warnings: Spoilers for “Methos.”
Website: ShatterStorm Productions – Doggie Duo's Fanfic
Link to: http://bdkk.shatterstorm.net/hlfic.html
Archive: ShatterStorm Productions only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…
Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters and places are the property of Davis/Panzer, Rysher Entertainment, and Gaumont Productions. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended. Previously unrecognised characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. . This site is in no way affiliated with "Highlander” or any representatives of the actors of the series.
The song “A Question of Honour” was performed by Sarah Brightman. No infringement intended here.
Author's Notes: Listening to random mp3s while processing dental insurance claims can result in the muses getting…creative. Didn't quite turn out the way I'd originally thought it would, and it could probably use some expansion, but this is where it's at right now…
This is based on the “One Night” picture made by Jubie.
"A Question of Honour"
by A. Magiluna Stormwriter
What the bloody hell were you thinking, you stupid sodding idiot with fuck-all for brains?
That question, in a myriad of languages and variations, ran unchecked through my mind as I started sightlessly out over the river. The barge lay largely unfocussed to my right, but I couldn't bear to really look at it.
That way lies madness, Old Man.
This time it wasn't my voice running through my mind. It was his. Funny, that. He hadn't had the time to even pick up the appellation, and yet I could hear him saying it clearly; see his eyes twinkle dangerously with amusement; feel his lips shaping the words against my ear.
Shaking my head roughly against that train of thought, I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets. It truly was madness to go in that direction. It was bad enough I'd offered the brat my head, my Quickening. In a way, I could justify that. I hadn't totally lied when I'd said Kalas couldn't take us combined like that.
But now? Standing out here in the dead of night, impending rain threatening to soak me to the bone. And for what? To stare moony-eyed like a lovesick child, just out of range of detection? To watch over the man as he slept, unaware of my scrutiny, my bone-deep need to protect him, keep him in the Game?
I'd already put everything into storage, in preparation for my quick departure. I even had the one-way ticket to Bora-Bora, safeguarded in a pocket next to my sword. I could fade into the woodwork for a while. Let Adam Pierson take a personal sabbatical for a year or so. Maybe have him die accidentally in the process.
But no. instead I while away the wee hours of the freezing Paris night standing vigil over a man whose moral code preceded him…and made him the ideal candidate for the Prize.
You're getting soft in your old age. Your survival skills aren't as sharp as they used to be.
Growling softly at my inner critic, I let my eyes wander to the barge. The big Scot had to be bloody daft to prefer living in all this rain and gloom. And yet what did it say for me to be here? Instead of somewhere far warmer?
I knew better than to think it was just professional interest in an Immortal champion. I'd been interested in the great Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod since I'd first met Joe Dawson, learned about his assignment. Oh I'd known of the Highland kinsmen before that. But I'd never gotten close enough to one of them before. And then Kalas killed Don Salzer and brought the Highlander after him…after me.
After you, was he?
All right, after Adam Pierson, chief researcher on all things Methos. But it still led him to me, didn't it? Right into my home, my sanctuary, my life.
But not your bed.
That thought only brought thoughts to mind that shouldn't see the light of day. I didn't get involved with other Immortals. It was too damned risky.
And what of Byron? Among others...
Bloody inner critic knew me far too bloody well. And that momentary lapse in control truly let out ideas that had formed in the deeper recesses of my psyche. Rather than expend the energy to stop it, I let them run their course.
Images of the peacefully sleeping Highlander filled my mind. My mind filled in details that I wouldn't – couldn't know otherwise. Long, disheveled hair framed the sleep-smoothed skin of his face. Traveling down the contours of his spine, it was easy to see the minor twitches in the muscles of his long back, until they were lost under the rumpled black silk boxers encasing the firm round globes of his ass. The creamy satin sheets spread out around him, crumpled and bunched to touch what they could of his tanned, muscular body. The body I wanted to memorize with eyes, fingers, lips, tongue, teeth… Rip off those boxers, bury my tongue between the cheeks of his ass, prepare that luscious body for my cock. Possess him in every conceivable way; make him mine for the rest of eternity, and damn my bloody rule about getting involved with Immortals.
What's stopping you, Old Man? Surely you can't be afraid of a simple Highland child?
Ignoring that bloody voice, I tore my eyes from the barge and bit back the disappointed sigh at my actions. Yes, it was definitely time for Adam Pierson to take that sabbatical, die, whatever. As long as it gave me the strength to bury these ridiculous fantasies of the Highland Champion in the deepest recesses of my mind, I didn't care how long it took. I wouldn't do this. I couldn't afford to.
With another deep sigh of regret, I took one last lingering look at the barge, then walked away into the growing fog of the frigid Paris night.
Live. Grow stronger. Fight another day.