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tigriswolfTitle: If we wanted to tell you everything, we would leave more footprints in the snow or kiss you harder
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Richard Siken
Warnings: AU
Pairings: Methos/Richie
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 530
Point of view: third
Prompt: Highlander, Richie, "Young Offender" by the Pet Shop Boys
How graceful your movements
How bitter your scorn
I've been a teenager
since before you were born
And younger than some
I've only begun
"Hey, kid, how ya been?" He holds out a hand. "I'm Matt Adams."
"Matt Adams," the kid says, shaking his hand. "I'm Ryan Grays."
.
A hundred years. He feels so old, sometimes. Joe's long dead. Mac's been missing almost as long.
He's had to fight for his life three times.
.
"What've you been up to?" Matt asks, slouching next to him at the bar. It's nowhere near as good as Joe's place.
Ryan shrugs. "Nothin' much. Nearly had a student a few years back."
"Really?" Matt nods to the bartender and the guy brings over whatever's on tap. Ryan hadn't noticed; he's trying to get drunk tonight. He'll drink anything.
"Didn't end well," Ryan says, draining another glass.
.
He misses Mac. He misses Tess. He misses Joe. Sometimes, he wishes he'd never woken up that first time.
Other days, he knows he'll go down fighting because the black of death is scarier than eternity looming.
.
"It'll get easier," Matt says, one arm flung over Ryan's shoulder. "Each year, it gets easier."
They're both acting drunk, but Ryan's never felt more sober.
He looks up into Matt's eyes, that guy who once claimed to be Methos when Richie tried laying down the sword over a lifetime ago.
"It does?" he asks, because that sounds like a lie.
Matt smiles, and of course it is.
.
Mac left years before Joe's funeral, just vanished in the night, leaving Richie like the trash Mac had assured him he wasn't anymore. Adam had been gone by then, of course. But then, Richie never had expected him to stick around.
Joe tried finding Mac, but he'd gone to ground. Richie thought about following, but Joe's health was failing. Richie couldn't just leave him.
And when Joe died, Richie had nothing. So he walked out and changed everything and became someone new.
.
"C'mon, kid," Matt says, leading him out of the bar.
Ryan is so tired. He wonders if Matt's going to kill him, and when he asks in a mutter, Matt laughs.
"What good would an infant's head do me?" he chuckles, stopping and looking down into Ryan's eyes.
Shrugging, Ryan says, "Some people take 'em." Mac had warned him. One of the guys he killed had gone after him because of how young he was.
Matt smiles. "I am not 'some people,' Ryan."
.
Wherever he went, he looked for Mac. He tried seeking out Mac's friends, but couldn't find any of them, either.
By the time he's a hundred (and nineteen), Ryan just wants to sleep.
.
"Come with me," Matt offers in the morning, stretched out beside Ryan, one hand playing with Ryan's hair. "I know secrets the world has forgotten."
"I want something new," Ryan says, rolling over so that he's straddling Matt. "Can you give me that?"
Matt nods, grinning, and Ryan leans down to kiss him.
.
(Mac walks back into his life as the second century turns. Mac seems to expect Richie Ryan, that street-rat he used to be, always looking for Mac's help.
But that boy died. That boy died, and in his place now stands a warrior trained by Death himself.
Mac is horrified, of course, but Methos smiles.)
Title: Tag, you're dead
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: Methos rambling
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 310
Point of view: third
Prompt: Highlander, any, the only way to survive The Game even moderately sane is to play it like any other game
Right after the thought of eternity, the thing most infants didn't really understand was The Game. Anyone who wasn't a psychopath usually never contemplated killing to live - but to be immortal, it was the only way.
(Lie. But it's far too late to take it back.)
The Game is no more than hide-and-seek with a dash of chess. Stalk-and-pounce. Tag, you're dead. Hunting for survival, no more, no less. The greatest teachers could teach their students that. The worst had a high turnover rate.
Methos had no teacher.
(Truth. There is always a first.)
Every immortal is a killer. Not always a murderer – self defense, after all, is not murder. One or the other – I live, you die. You live, I die. Look out for Number 1. In the end, nobody else matters.
In the end, there can be only one.
(Lie. Truth. Does it matter? Either way, that's how it ends.)
Methos explained The Game to Byron as this: Think of it as any other game. There is a winner and a loser, and the winner must be you. To think of it as life and death, as kill or be killed… an eternity of that, isn't an eternity you'd want, unless you were mad. He paused to look at Byron and they both laughed.
(Oh, Byron, my child. One day, you will be avenged.)
Methos' students always survive their first challenge, whether they issue it or not. If they are very good, there is no final challenge, not until Methos draws his sword against them.
One day, at the end of The Game, all of his children will come home to him.
(The ultimate truth: in the end, the last shall be the first.)
Hide-and-seek with a dash of chess. Stalk-and-pounce. Tag, you're dead. Hunting for survival, no more, no less.
Draw your sword and let's dance.
Title: petals and jewels
Fandom: fairy tales (Diamonds and Toads)
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: spoilers for the fairy tale
Pairings: mentions of het
Rating: PG
Point of view: third
Wordcount: 135
Prompt: Any, Any, They all think you're so lucky but you never tell them the gemstones and roses hurt when they fall from your lips.
When she talks in her sleep, she wakes with diamonds on her chest and thorns digging into her breast, petals caressing where she bleeds.
When she cries for her father, rubies and emeralds fill her fingers instead of tears.
When she prays to the fairies for deliverance, amethyst is cold on her tongue and roses taste like ash.
Her sister is cursed. Everyone knows it. Just as everyone knows she is blessed, she who speaks in gems and flowers. She is rich, she will never want for anything again, men will beg for her hand and her bed. Her bed, where the petals and jewels lay.
When she whispers, a single sapphire falls for every word, and she catches tulips in her palms.
Oh, but how she wishes she had never gone to that well.
Title: the man who is indifferent to everything
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: Methos is not mine; title from Johann K. Lavater
Warnings: mentions of torture/experimentation; character death
Pairings: none
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 510
Point of view: third
Prompt: Author's choice, any, "I have only one word of advice: run."
Over the course of thousands of years, it is not unreasonable for even the oldest to be captured and held against his will.
Methos is a survivor. That means he survives. Not unscarred (mentally, physically) and not easily - but he survives. He lives, he grows stronger, he escapes.
Every time, he escapes.
In the modern day, in this delightful child of a nation the United States, even medical experiments are given a small amount of comfort.
He survives every test. He dies, of course, a few times, but he always awakens, strapped to that table, and someone makes a note. They want to make a supersoldier. Oh, children always want to make a supersoldier.
None of them seem to wonder what will happen when their supersoldier turns on them. And if any part of Methos is used – oh, yes, the supersoldier will turn on them.
The scientists have yet to learn anything of value. That's why Methos allowed himself to be caught – anyone else would have given it all away. No one else has survived what Methos has. Cassandra thought herself so strong, so tortured, and Methos was even going easy on her. They are the only ones left older than three thousand years.
Live.
Methos watches the guards. He has been the model prisoner for almost a year. He's wept for them. He's begged. He's promised things he could actually deliver, but of course they don't believe.
He's given food, shelter, clothes. Even a thick blanket. They study him. They hurt him. He bleeds and breaks and heals. He screams and pleads and whimpers.
Grow stronger.
They call him Subject 1. He tells them his name is Adam – a small joke. None of them, even the best and brightest, really knows what is allowing them to keep it caged.
But a year to the day, and he's tired. The entire facility has been mapped out in his head for over eleven months. Every guard and scientist has been measured, all found wanting. No one here is worth keeping alive.
So they take him from his cell to the lab and he plays his part, and then he makes his move.
Fight another day.
When only the head of the project is left alive, cowering on the floor, sobbing as he stares up at his death covered in the blood of his fellows – Methos pauses. "You asked how old I was," Methos says. "You asked if I had any advice for the children carving up my insides."
"Please," Dr. Wilkes gasps. "Please, please, please."
Methos smiles. "I am old, and my advice would've been to run, if I felt like giving it." He laughs, and the good doctor screams, and Methos stands alone.
Methos always stands alone.
The facility burns to the ground, all corpses left inside. All their data has been ferreted out and destroyed.
Methos takes the identity of an Australian on holiday in the States, cuts the trip short, and goes home, where he stands in the Outback for a week, face toward the sun.
Title: if you're gonna play the game, boy, you gotta learn to play it
Fandom: White Collar/RED/Inception
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Kenny Rogers
Warnings: AU for White Collar; mentions of violence
Pairings: almost Peter/Neal, mentions of Arthur/Eames, Peter/Elizabeth
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 660
Point of view: third
Prompt: Any, any, his/her lover tries to forget that he/she is a killer but ultimately can't
Note: in this ‘verse
After meeting the brother and dad, Peter has trouble reconciling them with Neal. Arthur is so sharp, and Frank so obviously dangerous... Neal doesn't fit with them.
Elizabeth just looks at him, when he mentions it, and says, "Do you really not see it?"
He shrugs and she sighs. "Don't worry about it, Peter," she murmurs, sitting down in his lap. "Is it really that important?"
Peter lets himself be distracted for the moment, but he constantly goes back to it in his mind, worrying over it. Neal is a white collar criminal. They don't use violence. Neal's a conman, a forger, and a thief. He doesn't hurt people (not physically, anyway).
But the way Neal uses a gun… why would he learn that? He doesn't even like guns. ("Arthur's the gunman," Neal laughs, at the shooting range with Peter, a month after Frank Moses visits. Neal grins, reloading, and hits the bull's-eye as he says, "I've always liked knives.")
Peter doesn't want to believe that Neal has killed people. Peter himself has only done it three times, and even though they were bad men, he regrets each of them. He's read the information the FBI has on Frank Moses, and an operative named Arthur Lafferty, the only Arthur in all the agencies he can find who might be the Arthur that is Neal's brother. Arthur Lafferty died, though, eight years ago.
Frank Moses was the best the CIA had. Arthur Lafferty was almost as good. And if Neal is their son, their brother…
"Quit obsessing about this, Peter," El tells him. "Neal's started to notice."
But Peter can't. He almost asks a dozen times, and as the weeks pass, Neal starts withdrawing. He's as good a CI as ever, and he's perfectly charming, but he declines invitations to dinner, he turns down a visit to the Met, and he gives messages to Jones or Diana instead of telling Peter himself.
And then his sentence is up and the anklet comes off. The very next day, while he's visiting Elizabeth at work (Peter wants to believe he's not saying goodbye), a man busts in waving a gun and demanding all their cash and valuables. The tox screen comes back positive for half a dozen things, but what Peter focuses on (after he calms down enough, and has held El for long enough) is the knife through the man's palm, and the shoulder, and the cleanly broken leg.
Neal's not sorry at all. Peter's thankful, and he would've shot anyone waving a gun like that around El. But Neal didn't hesitate. And where the hell was he keeping two knives?
His father and brother are both killers. His brother's lover is a killer.
Peter finally can't help it anymore. He goes to Neal's loft and he can't look Neal in the eye as he asks, "Have you ever killed someone, Neal?"
Neal reaches out and gently raises Peter's chin until their eyes meet. "Do you want me to lie?"
Peter shakes his head. Neal nods and lets his hand fall. "Yes, Peter," he says.
"Did… did they deserve it?" Peter asks softly, and oh, how he wishes they did, whoever they were.
"I thought so," Neal says. "Whether they agreed, well… that doesn't really matter, does it?"
"Neal," Peter groans, and he brings a hand up to grip Neal's wrist. "Did – have you – murder?"
Neal smiles his beautiful, conman smile. "I'll fill in the blanks there," he says, sounding carefree. "Yes, Peter. There is no evidence, and never will be. And I'll be leaving soon enough, anyway."
"You'll what?" Peter demands, his grip tightening.
Neal pats his hand and gently detaches his wrist. "I've been here too long," he says. "I love New York." A nearly unnoticeable pause, and then, "I love you. But I can't stay here anymore." He steps back. "Go home, Peter. Hold your wife. Don't worry about me."
The door closes in Peter's face.
The next morning, Neal is gone.
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Richard Siken
Warnings: AU
Pairings: Methos/Richie
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 530
Point of view: third
Prompt: Highlander, Richie, "Young Offender" by the Pet Shop Boys
How graceful your movements
How bitter your scorn
I've been a teenager
since before you were born
And younger than some
I've only begun
"Hey, kid, how ya been?" He holds out a hand. "I'm Matt Adams."
"Matt Adams," the kid says, shaking his hand. "I'm Ryan Grays."
.
A hundred years. He feels so old, sometimes. Joe's long dead. Mac's been missing almost as long.
He's had to fight for his life three times.
.
"What've you been up to?" Matt asks, slouching next to him at the bar. It's nowhere near as good as Joe's place.
Ryan shrugs. "Nothin' much. Nearly had a student a few years back."
"Really?" Matt nods to the bartender and the guy brings over whatever's on tap. Ryan hadn't noticed; he's trying to get drunk tonight. He'll drink anything.
"Didn't end well," Ryan says, draining another glass.
.
He misses Mac. He misses Tess. He misses Joe. Sometimes, he wishes he'd never woken up that first time.
Other days, he knows he'll go down fighting because the black of death is scarier than eternity looming.
.
"It'll get easier," Matt says, one arm flung over Ryan's shoulder. "Each year, it gets easier."
They're both acting drunk, but Ryan's never felt more sober.
He looks up into Matt's eyes, that guy who once claimed to be Methos when Richie tried laying down the sword over a lifetime ago.
"It does?" he asks, because that sounds like a lie.
Matt smiles, and of course it is.
.
Mac left years before Joe's funeral, just vanished in the night, leaving Richie like the trash Mac had assured him he wasn't anymore. Adam had been gone by then, of course. But then, Richie never had expected him to stick around.
Joe tried finding Mac, but he'd gone to ground. Richie thought about following, but Joe's health was failing. Richie couldn't just leave him.
And when Joe died, Richie had nothing. So he walked out and changed everything and became someone new.
.
"C'mon, kid," Matt says, leading him out of the bar.
Ryan is so tired. He wonders if Matt's going to kill him, and when he asks in a mutter, Matt laughs.
"What good would an infant's head do me?" he chuckles, stopping and looking down into Ryan's eyes.
Shrugging, Ryan says, "Some people take 'em." Mac had warned him. One of the guys he killed had gone after him because of how young he was.
Matt smiles. "I am not 'some people,' Ryan."
.
Wherever he went, he looked for Mac. He tried seeking out Mac's friends, but couldn't find any of them, either.
By the time he's a hundred (and nineteen), Ryan just wants to sleep.
.
"Come with me," Matt offers in the morning, stretched out beside Ryan, one hand playing with Ryan's hair. "I know secrets the world has forgotten."
"I want something new," Ryan says, rolling over so that he's straddling Matt. "Can you give me that?"
Matt nods, grinning, and Ryan leans down to kiss him.
.
(Mac walks back into his life as the second century turns. Mac seems to expect Richie Ryan, that street-rat he used to be, always looking for Mac's help.
But that boy died. That boy died, and in his place now stands a warrior trained by Death himself.
Mac is horrified, of course, but Methos smiles.)
Title: Tag, you're dead
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: Methos rambling
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 310
Point of view: third
Prompt: Highlander, any, the only way to survive The Game even moderately sane is to play it like any other game
Right after the thought of eternity, the thing most infants didn't really understand was The Game. Anyone who wasn't a psychopath usually never contemplated killing to live - but to be immortal, it was the only way.
(Lie. But it's far too late to take it back.)
The Game is no more than hide-and-seek with a dash of chess. Stalk-and-pounce. Tag, you're dead. Hunting for survival, no more, no less. The greatest teachers could teach their students that. The worst had a high turnover rate.
Methos had no teacher.
(Truth. There is always a first.)
Every immortal is a killer. Not always a murderer – self defense, after all, is not murder. One or the other – I live, you die. You live, I die. Look out for Number 1. In the end, nobody else matters.
In the end, there can be only one.
(Lie. Truth. Does it matter? Either way, that's how it ends.)
Methos explained The Game to Byron as this: Think of it as any other game. There is a winner and a loser, and the winner must be you. To think of it as life and death, as kill or be killed… an eternity of that, isn't an eternity you'd want, unless you were mad. He paused to look at Byron and they both laughed.
(Oh, Byron, my child. One day, you will be avenged.)
Methos' students always survive their first challenge, whether they issue it or not. If they are very good, there is no final challenge, not until Methos draws his sword against them.
One day, at the end of The Game, all of his children will come home to him.
(The ultimate truth: in the end, the last shall be the first.)
Hide-and-seek with a dash of chess. Stalk-and-pounce. Tag, you're dead. Hunting for survival, no more, no less.
Draw your sword and let's dance.
Title: petals and jewels
Fandom: fairy tales (Diamonds and Toads)
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: spoilers for the fairy tale
Pairings: mentions of het
Rating: PG
Point of view: third
Wordcount: 135
Prompt: Any, Any, They all think you're so lucky but you never tell them the gemstones and roses hurt when they fall from your lips.
When she talks in her sleep, she wakes with diamonds on her chest and thorns digging into her breast, petals caressing where she bleeds.
When she cries for her father, rubies and emeralds fill her fingers instead of tears.
When she prays to the fairies for deliverance, amethyst is cold on her tongue and roses taste like ash.
Her sister is cursed. Everyone knows it. Just as everyone knows she is blessed, she who speaks in gems and flowers. She is rich, she will never want for anything again, men will beg for her hand and her bed. Her bed, where the petals and jewels lay.
When she whispers, a single sapphire falls for every word, and she catches tulips in her palms.
Oh, but how she wishes she had never gone to that well.
Title: the man who is indifferent to everything
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: Methos is not mine; title from Johann K. Lavater
Warnings: mentions of torture/experimentation; character death
Pairings: none
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 510
Point of view: third
Prompt: Author's choice, any, "I have only one word of advice: run."
Over the course of thousands of years, it is not unreasonable for even the oldest to be captured and held against his will.
Methos is a survivor. That means he survives. Not unscarred (mentally, physically) and not easily - but he survives. He lives, he grows stronger, he escapes.
Every time, he escapes.
In the modern day, in this delightful child of a nation the United States, even medical experiments are given a small amount of comfort.
He survives every test. He dies, of course, a few times, but he always awakens, strapped to that table, and someone makes a note. They want to make a supersoldier. Oh, children always want to make a supersoldier.
None of them seem to wonder what will happen when their supersoldier turns on them. And if any part of Methos is used – oh, yes, the supersoldier will turn on them.
The scientists have yet to learn anything of value. That's why Methos allowed himself to be caught – anyone else would have given it all away. No one else has survived what Methos has. Cassandra thought herself so strong, so tortured, and Methos was even going easy on her. They are the only ones left older than three thousand years.
Live.
Methos watches the guards. He has been the model prisoner for almost a year. He's wept for them. He's begged. He's promised things he could actually deliver, but of course they don't believe.
He's given food, shelter, clothes. Even a thick blanket. They study him. They hurt him. He bleeds and breaks and heals. He screams and pleads and whimpers.
Grow stronger.
They call him Subject 1. He tells them his name is Adam – a small joke. None of them, even the best and brightest, really knows what is allowing them to keep it caged.
But a year to the day, and he's tired. The entire facility has been mapped out in his head for over eleven months. Every guard and scientist has been measured, all found wanting. No one here is worth keeping alive.
So they take him from his cell to the lab and he plays his part, and then he makes his move.
Fight another day.
When only the head of the project is left alive, cowering on the floor, sobbing as he stares up at his death covered in the blood of his fellows – Methos pauses. "You asked how old I was," Methos says. "You asked if I had any advice for the children carving up my insides."
"Please," Dr. Wilkes gasps. "Please, please, please."
Methos smiles. "I am old, and my advice would've been to run, if I felt like giving it." He laughs, and the good doctor screams, and Methos stands alone.
Methos always stands alone.
The facility burns to the ground, all corpses left inside. All their data has been ferreted out and destroyed.
Methos takes the identity of an Australian on holiday in the States, cuts the trip short, and goes home, where he stands in the Outback for a week, face toward the sun.
Title: if you're gonna play the game, boy, you gotta learn to play it
Fandom: White Collar/RED/Inception
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Kenny Rogers
Warnings: AU for White Collar; mentions of violence
Pairings: almost Peter/Neal, mentions of Arthur/Eames, Peter/Elizabeth
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 660
Point of view: third
Prompt: Any, any, his/her lover tries to forget that he/she is a killer but ultimately can't
Note: in this ‘verse
After meeting the brother and dad, Peter has trouble reconciling them with Neal. Arthur is so sharp, and Frank so obviously dangerous... Neal doesn't fit with them.
Elizabeth just looks at him, when he mentions it, and says, "Do you really not see it?"
He shrugs and she sighs. "Don't worry about it, Peter," she murmurs, sitting down in his lap. "Is it really that important?"
Peter lets himself be distracted for the moment, but he constantly goes back to it in his mind, worrying over it. Neal is a white collar criminal. They don't use violence. Neal's a conman, a forger, and a thief. He doesn't hurt people (not physically, anyway).
But the way Neal uses a gun… why would he learn that? He doesn't even like guns. ("Arthur's the gunman," Neal laughs, at the shooting range with Peter, a month after Frank Moses visits. Neal grins, reloading, and hits the bull's-eye as he says, "I've always liked knives.")
Peter doesn't want to believe that Neal has killed people. Peter himself has only done it three times, and even though they were bad men, he regrets each of them. He's read the information the FBI has on Frank Moses, and an operative named Arthur Lafferty, the only Arthur in all the agencies he can find who might be the Arthur that is Neal's brother. Arthur Lafferty died, though, eight years ago.
Frank Moses was the best the CIA had. Arthur Lafferty was almost as good. And if Neal is their son, their brother…
"Quit obsessing about this, Peter," El tells him. "Neal's started to notice."
But Peter can't. He almost asks a dozen times, and as the weeks pass, Neal starts withdrawing. He's as good a CI as ever, and he's perfectly charming, but he declines invitations to dinner, he turns down a visit to the Met, and he gives messages to Jones or Diana instead of telling Peter himself.
And then his sentence is up and the anklet comes off. The very next day, while he's visiting Elizabeth at work (Peter wants to believe he's not saying goodbye), a man busts in waving a gun and demanding all their cash and valuables. The tox screen comes back positive for half a dozen things, but what Peter focuses on (after he calms down enough, and has held El for long enough) is the knife through the man's palm, and the shoulder, and the cleanly broken leg.
Neal's not sorry at all. Peter's thankful, and he would've shot anyone waving a gun like that around El. But Neal didn't hesitate. And where the hell was he keeping two knives?
His father and brother are both killers. His brother's lover is a killer.
Peter finally can't help it anymore. He goes to Neal's loft and he can't look Neal in the eye as he asks, "Have you ever killed someone, Neal?"
Neal reaches out and gently raises Peter's chin until their eyes meet. "Do you want me to lie?"
Peter shakes his head. Neal nods and lets his hand fall. "Yes, Peter," he says.
"Did… did they deserve it?" Peter asks softly, and oh, how he wishes they did, whoever they were.
"I thought so," Neal says. "Whether they agreed, well… that doesn't really matter, does it?"
"Neal," Peter groans, and he brings a hand up to grip Neal's wrist. "Did – have you – murder?"
Neal smiles his beautiful, conman smile. "I'll fill in the blanks there," he says, sounding carefree. "Yes, Peter. There is no evidence, and never will be. And I'll be leaving soon enough, anyway."
"You'll what?" Peter demands, his grip tightening.
Neal pats his hand and gently detaches his wrist. "I've been here too long," he says. "I love New York." A nearly unnoticeable pause, and then, "I love you. But I can't stay here anymore." He steps back. "Go home, Peter. Hold your wife. Don't worry about me."
The door closes in Peter's face.
The next morning, Neal is gone.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-14 01:58 pm (UTC)Argh Neal... don't be like that on Peter. I still feel at the same though that things couldn't happen any other way, for some reason *sigh* :( <3
(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-14 06:45 pm (UTC)I really am fond of "Tag, you're dead" myself. *snuggles it*
Thank you for reading!
(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-14 09:33 pm (UTC)I JUST started watching WC. I've wondered a few times if Neal couldn't be dangerous like you portray him.
(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-15 10:40 pm (UTC)There are a couple of episodes where I really did see Bryce (from "Chuck") shining through Neal's eyes.
Also, I only ever watched the Methos episodes of HL, so I don't really have that problem. (I really did try watching the whole show, but just couldn't.)
How far are you into WC?
(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-16 03:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-15 12:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-15 10:42 pm (UTC)Are there many of them? I only found a couple and they were an SG1 and a couple X-Men crossovers.
Thanks for reading!
(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-19 01:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-20 01:58 pm (UTC)Thank you for reading!
(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-19 01:23 pm (UTC)There isn't enough Methos/Richie out there and I can't believe I never noticed how perfectly that lyric fits him before.
(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-20 01:58 pm (UTC)Thank you so much!
(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-23 10:42 am (UTC)It always bothered me that she spit up jewels, flowers, and gold. Not only would it be painful, but it just didn't seem like a very pleasant award. Sure, she's rich, but what does that matter when she can't even talk to people over dinner without rubies falling into her food?!
Although, it has to be nicer than the slugs, snakes, flies and bugs her sister was cursed with. *shudders*
Great little drabble, I enjoyed reading it! :)
(no subject)
Date: 2012-04-23 09:23 pm (UTC)Thank you so much!