|Eliminate the Negative
Warnings: This is me, so this is slash. Methos/Kronos. If you're homophobic or illegal, you're gonna regret going any further.
This is a missing scene from "Not 2 Be". I thank whatever gods possessed the writers to give us a last glimpse of my favorite incarnation of Methos--the one with the leather pants and major attitude.
"We are friends. Goodbye, old friend."
The words echo through the still air of the clearing as I watch Methos take his head. His expression is cold, completely without emotion, his movements graceful and efficient as he abruptly ends the life of the foolish boy who kneels before him.
My gut twists and my pusle races as he readies himself for the quickening. Long legs braced defiantly against the ground, he casts his blade aside and reaches for the heavens like some demon god demanding his rightful allegiance.
I stand firm as the wind swirls around us, unable to look away as Methos absorbs yet another Immortal soul. Head thrown back, eyes closed against the blinding light, his slender body jerks repeatedly in response to the forceful invasion of energy. Energy which will only add to the immense reservoir of power already dwelling in his five thousand year old spirit.
His hoarse cries rip through the air around us as the quickening finally dies, and he drops to his knees, chest heaving, arms hanging weakly by his sides. A survivor, once again. Still the oldest of us all.
The silence has an eerie feel to it now, in the aftermath of such violence. All I can hear is his tortured breathing. The world narrows to the two of us as I cross to kneel behind him.
I put my arms around him, lending him my strength until he can regain his own. He leans back against my chest, trembling, his hair damp through my shirt, and I tighten my hold on him. We've been here before, he and I. Many times. Many more times than you'd want to know. And as I bend to kiss his throat, moving my tongue along the soft skin over his pulse, I revel in the sure knowledge that no one will defeat us, ever.
Eyes still closed, he stirs restlessly, low noises deep in his chest. I know what he needs. As they say in this century, been there and done that.
His belly jerks beneath my hands as I open his pants quickly, shunning the rituals of foreplay. His cock is heavy and hot, and pulses against my fingers. I know his flesh as well as my own and the rhythm comes easily to me. The hard part is holding him still. The only signs around us that remain of the quickening are the broken tree limbs, scattered debris, and acrid stench of electricity in the air. Well, that and the kid's headless body.
But inside Methos, the forces rage still. His inconceivable experience at taking in the souls of others does nothing to make the process easier to bear. I brace myself against his back, meeting his strength with my own, my arm around his chest holding him tighter. The force with which he thrusts into my hand, the iron grip of his fingers closing over my own, the sheer power of him makes me hard, and I want to fuck him into the ground. But, in this time and place, his urgency overrides my own. I bend to take the skin of his throat into my mouth, sucking hard. With a broken moan and a rigid tensing of muscles, he comes in long, hard spasms, his body shuddering, his seed covering our hands.
I hold him as his heart slows, as his trembling eases, knowing that once again, I am victorious also. The inept youngling has been eliminated and the bond with my Brother has strengthened. So it has been, and so shall it always be.