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crack_van2011-03-02 11:04 am
fractured-sun.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2011-03-02 11:04 am
Entry tags:
Dirt Road Blues, by Mackiedockie (R)
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fractured_sun and I will be driving the highlander van this month. It's been awhile since highlander was last taken out for a spin and so many great stories have been written I'm spoilt for choice. I hope to get a mix of different fics this month, hopefully they'll be something for everybody. Right to kick off this month:
Fandom: highlander
Pairings/ Characters: Joe, Methos, Duncan - Duncan/Methos
Words: 18k
Author on LJ:mackiedockie
Why this fic must be read: This fic is a wonderful example of the 'Joe and Methos show' at it's best with banter, watchers, dead bodies, ninjas and iphones.
Methos counted two shots from Joe’s cannon before pock marks started stitching down the opened emergency door and bullets began whanging all over the loading dock. Joe dropped his cane to steady his aim, loosing two more quick rounds before he twitched and thumped back against the door, sliding down. Methos slid to a stop on his belly next to him on the lintel, and grabbed his collar and arm to pull him in out of the line of fire.
“Dammit!” Joe protested, shifting his gun from his right to his left and nearly blowing a hole in his own left prosthesis. He popped off two more shots before he lost the angle. “They were cheating!”
“Who?” Methos asked economically, checking Joe for obvious holes.
“Four. Maybe more. Young. Mac beheaded one. I shot one trying to take him during the Quickening. Two more, far side of the dumpster. I can keep ‘em pinned down here while you go around and flank the twerps.”
“How many shots does a six-shooter hold?” Methos asked Joe rhetorically, as he dragged him a few extra feet down the corridor for good measure.
“Crap.” Joe dropped the empty gun. “I knew that.”
Satisfied that Joe was murderously angry, but not mortally wounded, Methos checked his own weapon and handed it to Joe. Drawing his sword, he stepped to the door and ducked for a quick look. He couldn’t see anything moving. The shots had stopped. “I think you caught a ricochet. Your common sense is certainly blown to smithereens. Keep your head down, will you?”
“Yes, mother,” Joe snarled, definitely smarting somewhere. “Mac’s still out there.”
“And you’re staying in here,” Methos insisted, sealing the deal by stepping quickly out the door, closing it with a slam behind him before leaping off the loading dock. The sound of Joe’s .45 whacking the door behind him made him wince nearly as much as the expectation of a hail of bullets.
But there were no more shots. Methos felt a bone-deep buzz as familiar as his own pulse flare, and he watched patiently as MacLeod pulled himself erect and stared down at a headless body. “You never call. You never write.”
“Miss me?” MacLeod asked shakily, clearly still processing the aftermath of an unexpected challenge.
“We should hold an election for Village Fool,” Methos said, lowering his sword. “As the two main candidates, you and Joe are disqualified from voting. Idiot nearly got himself another Mauve Spleen.”
“Don’t you mean Purple Heart?,” MacLeod questioned, as he surveyed the bullet spalls in the concrete wall around the door.
“The Watcher version isn’t so flashy. And it’s more of a dusty fuchsia, now that I think about it. They don’t like to encourage showboating. Just like there’s one other thing they don’t encourage,” Methos added, keeping his voice low.
“Interference,” MacLeod supplied bleakly. “Do you think they saw?”
“Joe likes to keep the surveillance lean, but he gets nervous when you go Walkabout.” Methos tasted the air, feeling no more strange Immortals, and sighting no Watchers in the shadows. Frowning, he studied a blood trail that dragged away down the alley. “Too much blood. No healing.”
“Joe saved my life.” MacLeod sounded a bit peeved at the thought. “The one I beheaded was very young. Confused. Surprised. So was I,” he confessed with a hint of shame. “I wasn’t ready to meet the second threat.” Pointing at the trail, MacLeod added, “This one was mortal. Popped out from behind the dumpster when the Quickening hit, and came after me. Just one more second, and you would have had my Quickening in turn.”
Methos froze at the offhanded revelation. “There was at least one more Immortal, but the signal was very weak, farther away. He must have dragged the mortal away. Probably hoping to kill two birds with one stone.”
“Or was it a pre-Immortal?” MacLeod speculated, clearly still upset.
“What would be the point? A pre-Immortal couldn’t gather the Quickenings. I get the bad feeling Joe saved both of us from two really embarrassing closing Chronicles.” If Joe hadn’t been so quick on the draw, Methos would have been paralyzed with MacLeod’s Quickening, and pathetically easy prey as well. Methos dug an unsympathetic elbow into MacLeod. “We need to get out of the open.”
At Methos’ reminder, MacLeod shook off the remnants of his daze. “Is Joe all right?”
“Mildly punctured, and mad as hell. I’d open the back door with a truce flag in your hand,” Methos recommended as they backed toward the loading dock, each watching the other’s back.
“Me? I’m not the one that ticked him off,” MacLeod protested.
“Don’t be too sure,” Methos observed. “He hates it when you’re careless. Drives him to drink.”
“And there I thought you were his favorite chauffeur.”
Methos paused to quickly search the headless body left behind, pocketing a wallet, passport, and two cell phones. “The Watchers called Joe. They’re here. They saw. Maybe they even invited him to join the party.”
“A setup?” MacLeod’s antipathies toward the Watchers were getting a good workout. “Another Tribunal?”
“I don’t think they’d waste the airfare to bring the Tribunal here,” Methos said with dark conviction. “They’d just videoconference the verdict. But after the last cockup, I don’t think they’d kill him outright. They know you’d be miffed.”
“They could take him so far underground in the organization, he might never find his way back,” MacLeod said uneasily. “Isn’t that what they did with Shapiro? How else do they keep their malcontents under control?”
“Ah, the fine art of hostage-taking. The Watchers are unappreciated masters.”
“Then you think they might kidnap him?” MacLeod pressed.
“Not if we kidnap him first.”
“Joe won’t like that.”
“I won’t tell him, if you don’t.”
“That should go well,” MacLeod sighed.
Read it here
fractured_sun and I will be driving the highlander van this month. It's been awhile since highlander was last taken out for a spin and so many great stories have been written I'm spoilt for choice. I hope to get a mix of different fics this month, hopefully they'll be something for everybody. Right to kick off this month:Fandom: highlander
Pairings/ Characters: Joe, Methos, Duncan - Duncan/Methos
Words: 18k
Author on LJ:
mackiedockie Why this fic must be read: This fic is a wonderful example of the 'Joe and Methos show' at it's best with banter, watchers, dead bodies, ninjas and iphones.
Methos counted two shots from Joe’s cannon before pock marks started stitching down the opened emergency door and bullets began whanging all over the loading dock. Joe dropped his cane to steady his aim, loosing two more quick rounds before he twitched and thumped back against the door, sliding down. Methos slid to a stop on his belly next to him on the lintel, and grabbed his collar and arm to pull him in out of the line of fire.
“Dammit!” Joe protested, shifting his gun from his right to his left and nearly blowing a hole in his own left prosthesis. He popped off two more shots before he lost the angle. “They were cheating!”
“Who?” Methos asked economically, checking Joe for obvious holes.
“Four. Maybe more. Young. Mac beheaded one. I shot one trying to take him during the Quickening. Two more, far side of the dumpster. I can keep ‘em pinned down here while you go around and flank the twerps.”
“How many shots does a six-shooter hold?” Methos asked Joe rhetorically, as he dragged him a few extra feet down the corridor for good measure.
“Crap.” Joe dropped the empty gun. “I knew that.”
Satisfied that Joe was murderously angry, but not mortally wounded, Methos checked his own weapon and handed it to Joe. Drawing his sword, he stepped to the door and ducked for a quick look. He couldn’t see anything moving. The shots had stopped. “I think you caught a ricochet. Your common sense is certainly blown to smithereens. Keep your head down, will you?”
“Yes, mother,” Joe snarled, definitely smarting somewhere. “Mac’s still out there.”
“And you’re staying in here,” Methos insisted, sealing the deal by stepping quickly out the door, closing it with a slam behind him before leaping off the loading dock. The sound of Joe’s .45 whacking the door behind him made him wince nearly as much as the expectation of a hail of bullets.
But there were no more shots. Methos felt a bone-deep buzz as familiar as his own pulse flare, and he watched patiently as MacLeod pulled himself erect and stared down at a headless body. “You never call. You never write.”
“Miss me?” MacLeod asked shakily, clearly still processing the aftermath of an unexpected challenge.
“We should hold an election for Village Fool,” Methos said, lowering his sword. “As the two main candidates, you and Joe are disqualified from voting. Idiot nearly got himself another Mauve Spleen.”
“Don’t you mean Purple Heart?,” MacLeod questioned, as he surveyed the bullet spalls in the concrete wall around the door.
“The Watcher version isn’t so flashy. And it’s more of a dusty fuchsia, now that I think about it. They don’t like to encourage showboating. Just like there’s one other thing they don’t encourage,” Methos added, keeping his voice low.
“Interference,” MacLeod supplied bleakly. “Do you think they saw?”
“Joe likes to keep the surveillance lean, but he gets nervous when you go Walkabout.” Methos tasted the air, feeling no more strange Immortals, and sighting no Watchers in the shadows. Frowning, he studied a blood trail that dragged away down the alley. “Too much blood. No healing.”
“Joe saved my life.” MacLeod sounded a bit peeved at the thought. “The one I beheaded was very young. Confused. Surprised. So was I,” he confessed with a hint of shame. “I wasn’t ready to meet the second threat.” Pointing at the trail, MacLeod added, “This one was mortal. Popped out from behind the dumpster when the Quickening hit, and came after me. Just one more second, and you would have had my Quickening in turn.”
Methos froze at the offhanded revelation. “There was at least one more Immortal, but the signal was very weak, farther away. He must have dragged the mortal away. Probably hoping to kill two birds with one stone.”
“Or was it a pre-Immortal?” MacLeod speculated, clearly still upset.
“What would be the point? A pre-Immortal couldn’t gather the Quickenings. I get the bad feeling Joe saved both of us from two really embarrassing closing Chronicles.” If Joe hadn’t been so quick on the draw, Methos would have been paralyzed with MacLeod’s Quickening, and pathetically easy prey as well. Methos dug an unsympathetic elbow into MacLeod. “We need to get out of the open.”
At Methos’ reminder, MacLeod shook off the remnants of his daze. “Is Joe all right?”
“Mildly punctured, and mad as hell. I’d open the back door with a truce flag in your hand,” Methos recommended as they backed toward the loading dock, each watching the other’s back.
“Me? I’m not the one that ticked him off,” MacLeod protested.
“Don’t be too sure,” Methos observed. “He hates it when you’re careless. Drives him to drink.”
“And there I thought you were his favorite chauffeur.”
Methos paused to quickly search the headless body left behind, pocketing a wallet, passport, and two cell phones. “The Watchers called Joe. They’re here. They saw. Maybe they even invited him to join the party.”
“A setup?” MacLeod’s antipathies toward the Watchers were getting a good workout. “Another Tribunal?”
“I don’t think they’d waste the airfare to bring the Tribunal here,” Methos said with dark conviction. “They’d just videoconference the verdict. But after the last cockup, I don’t think they’d kill him outright. They know you’d be miffed.”
“They could take him so far underground in the organization, he might never find his way back,” MacLeod said uneasily. “Isn’t that what they did with Shapiro? How else do they keep their malcontents under control?”
“Ah, the fine art of hostage-taking. The Watchers are unappreciated masters.”
“Then you think they might kidnap him?” MacLeod pressed.
“Not if we kidnap him first.”
“Joe won’t like that.”
“I won’t tell him, if you don’t.”
“That should go well,” MacLeod sighed.
Read it here