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Highlander fic: Horseshoes and Hand Grenades
Title: Horseshoes and Hand Grenades
Fandom: Highlander
Rating: PG, gen
Word Count: 1300
Summary: "One Minute to Midnight" missing scene(s), taking place somewhere between the intro sequence and the first scene in the wine cellar with Joe, Duncan and Methos. Obviously there are some missing days in there. These are a few of them.
Crossposted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/204811
The first time he surfaced, the world kept spinning away from him -- all fuzzy round edges that he couldn't grab hold of. There was pain, but it was far away, blurred and blunt like everything else.
"It's all right," someone said, and strong fingers rough with sword calluses latched onto his wrist. "It's all right, Joe. Go back to sleep."
He couldn't put a name to that voice with its soft Scottish lilt, but it was familiar, and he knew with bone-deep certainty that if the voice said things were okay, then it must be true. He stopped trying to hold onto the crazily spinning world and sank under again.
******
The next time, at least the next time he could remember, there was a bare light bulb glaring in his eyes. He squinted, tried to raise a hand to shield his face from the light, and was a little surprised when it worked. Through his fingers he saw a cracked plaster ceiling, the dusty tops of wine racks.
"What the hell." His voice sounded raspy and faint even to his own ears. "I'm not dead."
"Could be a temporary problem if you keep trying to get up," said Methos's voice from somewhere nearby. Which meant that now he was even more confused about where he was.
"Your bedside manner is terrible," MacLeod said, and Joe realized, feeling the vibrating of MacLeod's chest against him, that Duncan was actually propping him up for some reason. Or possibly holding him down. Up and down, left and right were all a bit vague at the moment.
Methos's voice moved off a bit. He sounded busy. There was a sound of paper being torn, something plastic being snapped open. "Thank you for the critique, Florence Nightingale."
The image of MacLeod in a frilly cap and apron immediately popped into Joe's head and he started giggling and couldn't seem to stop.
MacLeod said, "Didn't we talk about cutting back the --" And then it was all gone again.
******
He was crying, and it took him a minute to realize why. His legs. That land mine and his god-damned legs. "I need --" he managed to say, but he wasn't sure what he needed. His service weapon. His fucking life back.
Someone tucked a blanket over his shoulders. He huddled into it, because he was shivering, he was freezing, and nobody ever told him 'Nam would be this cold.
"Hey." Fingers snapped in front of his face. "Joe. Calm down. This isn't Vietnam. It's Paris. 1996."
That was the hell of having Methos in the Watchers, Joe thought, using irritation to claw his way slowly back to himself: Methos had read Joe's file. Usually he knew more about Immortals, about any Immortal, than they knew about him. But Methos knew everything -- everything that was in his file, anyway. Methos knew a hell of a lot more about him than he knew about Methos. He didn't like it.
"You've been out for a while," Methos went on, sounding absurdly cheerful. He was somewhere else in the room now; Joe was pretty sure he'd lost time again. "Want a drink of water?"
"I need a drink," Joe muttered. He wiped a hand across his face, felt the sticky tracks of tears he barely remembered shedding. "Not water."
A moment later, long fingers shoved a cup into his hand. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up a little bit on musty-smelling pillows. Methos was sitting on the edge of the bed, studying a dusty bottle. Joe sampled the contents of the cup, and choked.
"What is this shit?"
"Er ..." Methos held the bottle up to the light. "Chateau Margaux 1952. Not their best year ..."
"Scotch would be better." Joe coughed -- his throat was dry as brick tile -- and took another slug of the wine. "Hell, I wouldn't turn up my nose at a shot of Jim Beam."
"You're hiding in a wine cellar," Methos said. "Deal with it."
"Mac's right. Your bedside manner stinks."
"I'm impressed you remember that, given that you were high as a kite at the time."
Joe still felt fuzzy and cotton-mouthed, but at least he could think, albeit slowly. "Morphine?"
"Well, technically heroin."
"You bastard! You gave me heroin?"
"What? It's an opiate. Faster-acting than morphine and much easier to buy without a prescription."
"If you've turned me into a drug addict, so help me --"
Methos snorted. "I'm already tapering you off. Don't worry, I do have some experience with the administration of narcotics."
Joe eyed him, the Watcher in him unable to resist a lead, but Methos showed no sign of elaborating. And he was already starting to drift again. The last thing he consciously registered was the cup slipping from his fingers and Methos catching it.
******
There was a spider spinning a web above the bed. Joe decided to name it James. The ones to the left got to be Mac and Methos, just out of pure ornery.
******
He told MacLeod that if they didn't get him a TV in here, he was going to kill someone. Possibly himself. He'd already caught himself talking to Methos the spider more than once. What he really wanted, what he needed was to be out there doing something, and he was pretty sure Mac knew it, but all he could do was lie here while the world he'd helped to build fell quietly to pieces around him.
"We're under a bookstore. I could bring something for you to read. What do you like? Zane Grey, maybe? Hemingway?"
"They got any Clancy?"
MacLeod gave him a quick grin and squeezed his uninjured shoulder. He wasn't sure if it was just the lingering echoes of the heroin (heroin, god damn, Methos) but Joe got the feeling that he'd scared MacLeod shitless, that Mac had really thought he'd died for awhile there, even though everyone had been steering carefully around that topic. Whatever his sins, he must've racked up some good karma somewhere to be blessed with a friend so tenaciously devoted. Two such friends, actually, and he'd be more appreciative of that fact if they'd let him out of this damn wine cellar.
"I can't promise anything, but I'll do my best."
Unfortunately Methos overheard, and brought him a pile of crossword books. In French.
"Okay, you guys are just fucking with me now."
"I have to do something to occupy my time while I'm supposed to be hunting down and dragging MacLeod off to justice. It takes work to be this incompetent. Hey." Methos smacked Joe's hand away from his bandages. "Stop messing with that."
"I was trying to figure out if you guys had been practicing home surgery on me, or if you actually took me to a hospital."
Methos's Cheshire-cat smile flickered. "No need for hospitals when some people in this room are actually surgeons."
Joe stared at him. "You're a doctor? Seriously?"
"Certainly. It's something I've done off and on for over, oh, two thousand years. I even have a degree. Heidelberg."
"A two-thousand-year-old medical degree. Great. I feel better already."
"Don't be absurd, Joe. Heidelberg as such didn't even exist as a town until the 5th century." Methos smiled again, and paused for effect. "It was 1453, I believe. Of course, methods have changed somewhat since then."
"To put it mildly," Joe muttered. "God. Do I need to check under my bandages for leeches?"
"Don't worry, we haven't used leeches since the seventies at least."
Joe rolled up one of the crossword books and threw it at his head.
Methos ducked gracefully and then picked up the book off the floor, dusting it off and flattening it out. "But seriously," he said, his attention focused on the book, "you were lucky, Joe. You don't know how close -- well. Anyway. You were incredibly lucky."
"I know," Joe said. More lucky than he'd ever willingly admit. He knew why he was still alive. And okay, it had something to do with Jakob's crappy aim and the prevailing winds and God knew what else, but it also had to do with two stubborn Immortals who, in their own respective and equally indomitable ways, refused to let him go. "And don't think I'll forget it."
Title is from the saying "Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades." And maybe near-death experiences as well.
This entry is also posted at http://friendshipper.dreamwidth.org/345849.html with
comments.
Fandom: Highlander
Rating: PG, gen
Word Count: 1300
Summary: "One Minute to Midnight" missing scene(s), taking place somewhere between the intro sequence and the first scene in the wine cellar with Joe, Duncan and Methos. Obviously there are some missing days in there. These are a few of them.
Crossposted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/204811
The first time he surfaced, the world kept spinning away from him -- all fuzzy round edges that he couldn't grab hold of. There was pain, but it was far away, blurred and blunt like everything else.
"It's all right," someone said, and strong fingers rough with sword calluses latched onto his wrist. "It's all right, Joe. Go back to sleep."
He couldn't put a name to that voice with its soft Scottish lilt, but it was familiar, and he knew with bone-deep certainty that if the voice said things were okay, then it must be true. He stopped trying to hold onto the crazily spinning world and sank under again.
The next time, at least the next time he could remember, there was a bare light bulb glaring in his eyes. He squinted, tried to raise a hand to shield his face from the light, and was a little surprised when it worked. Through his fingers he saw a cracked plaster ceiling, the dusty tops of wine racks.
"What the hell." His voice sounded raspy and faint even to his own ears. "I'm not dead."
"Could be a temporary problem if you keep trying to get up," said Methos's voice from somewhere nearby. Which meant that now he was even more confused about where he was.
"Your bedside manner is terrible," MacLeod said, and Joe realized, feeling the vibrating of MacLeod's chest against him, that Duncan was actually propping him up for some reason. Or possibly holding him down. Up and down, left and right were all a bit vague at the moment.
Methos's voice moved off a bit. He sounded busy. There was a sound of paper being torn, something plastic being snapped open. "Thank you for the critique, Florence Nightingale."
The image of MacLeod in a frilly cap and apron immediately popped into Joe's head and he started giggling and couldn't seem to stop.
MacLeod said, "Didn't we talk about cutting back the --" And then it was all gone again.
He was crying, and it took him a minute to realize why. His legs. That land mine and his god-damned legs. "I need --" he managed to say, but he wasn't sure what he needed. His service weapon. His fucking life back.
Someone tucked a blanket over his shoulders. He huddled into it, because he was shivering, he was freezing, and nobody ever told him 'Nam would be this cold.
"Hey." Fingers snapped in front of his face. "Joe. Calm down. This isn't Vietnam. It's Paris. 1996."
That was the hell of having Methos in the Watchers, Joe thought, using irritation to claw his way slowly back to himself: Methos had read Joe's file. Usually he knew more about Immortals, about any Immortal, than they knew about him. But Methos knew everything -- everything that was in his file, anyway. Methos knew a hell of a lot more about him than he knew about Methos. He didn't like it.
"You've been out for a while," Methos went on, sounding absurdly cheerful. He was somewhere else in the room now; Joe was pretty sure he'd lost time again. "Want a drink of water?"
"I need a drink," Joe muttered. He wiped a hand across his face, felt the sticky tracks of tears he barely remembered shedding. "Not water."
A moment later, long fingers shoved a cup into his hand. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up a little bit on musty-smelling pillows. Methos was sitting on the edge of the bed, studying a dusty bottle. Joe sampled the contents of the cup, and choked.
"What is this shit?"
"Er ..." Methos held the bottle up to the light. "Chateau Margaux 1952. Not their best year ..."
"Scotch would be better." Joe coughed -- his throat was dry as brick tile -- and took another slug of the wine. "Hell, I wouldn't turn up my nose at a shot of Jim Beam."
"You're hiding in a wine cellar," Methos said. "Deal with it."
"Mac's right. Your bedside manner stinks."
"I'm impressed you remember that, given that you were high as a kite at the time."
Joe still felt fuzzy and cotton-mouthed, but at least he could think, albeit slowly. "Morphine?"
"Well, technically heroin."
"You bastard! You gave me heroin?"
"What? It's an opiate. Faster-acting than morphine and much easier to buy without a prescription."
"If you've turned me into a drug addict, so help me --"
Methos snorted. "I'm already tapering you off. Don't worry, I do have some experience with the administration of narcotics."
Joe eyed him, the Watcher in him unable to resist a lead, but Methos showed no sign of elaborating. And he was already starting to drift again. The last thing he consciously registered was the cup slipping from his fingers and Methos catching it.
There was a spider spinning a web above the bed. Joe decided to name it James. The ones to the left got to be Mac and Methos, just out of pure ornery.
He told MacLeod that if they didn't get him a TV in here, he was going to kill someone. Possibly himself. He'd already caught himself talking to Methos the spider more than once. What he really wanted, what he needed was to be out there doing something, and he was pretty sure Mac knew it, but all he could do was lie here while the world he'd helped to build fell quietly to pieces around him.
"We're under a bookstore. I could bring something for you to read. What do you like? Zane Grey, maybe? Hemingway?"
"They got any Clancy?"
MacLeod gave him a quick grin and squeezed his uninjured shoulder. He wasn't sure if it was just the lingering echoes of the heroin (heroin, god damn, Methos) but Joe got the feeling that he'd scared MacLeod shitless, that Mac had really thought he'd died for awhile there, even though everyone had been steering carefully around that topic. Whatever his sins, he must've racked up some good karma somewhere to be blessed with a friend so tenaciously devoted. Two such friends, actually, and he'd be more appreciative of that fact if they'd let him out of this damn wine cellar.
"I can't promise anything, but I'll do my best."
Unfortunately Methos overheard, and brought him a pile of crossword books. In French.
"Okay, you guys are just fucking with me now."
"I have to do something to occupy my time while I'm supposed to be hunting down and dragging MacLeod off to justice. It takes work to be this incompetent. Hey." Methos smacked Joe's hand away from his bandages. "Stop messing with that."
"I was trying to figure out if you guys had been practicing home surgery on me, or if you actually took me to a hospital."
Methos's Cheshire-cat smile flickered. "No need for hospitals when some people in this room are actually surgeons."
Joe stared at him. "You're a doctor? Seriously?"
"Certainly. It's something I've done off and on for over, oh, two thousand years. I even have a degree. Heidelberg."
"A two-thousand-year-old medical degree. Great. I feel better already."
"Don't be absurd, Joe. Heidelberg as such didn't even exist as a town until the 5th century." Methos smiled again, and paused for effect. "It was 1453, I believe. Of course, methods have changed somewhat since then."
"To put it mildly," Joe muttered. "God. Do I need to check under my bandages for leeches?"
"Don't worry, we haven't used leeches since the seventies at least."
Joe rolled up one of the crossword books and threw it at his head.
Methos ducked gracefully and then picked up the book off the floor, dusting it off and flattening it out. "But seriously," he said, his attention focused on the book, "you were lucky, Joe. You don't know how close -- well. Anyway. You were incredibly lucky."
"I know," Joe said. More lucky than he'd ever willingly admit. He knew why he was still alive. And okay, it had something to do with Jakob's crappy aim and the prevailing winds and God knew what else, but it also had to do with two stubborn Immortals who, in their own respective and equally indomitable ways, refused to let him go. "And don't think I'll forget it."
Title is from the saying "Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades." And maybe near-death experiences as well.
This entry is also posted at http://friendshipper.dreamwidth.org/345849.html with
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