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A slightly more solid version of the Death-as-Methos'-dad idea. For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tigriswolf
Title: Prometheus Unbound
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Highlander, Supernatural
Continuity: Post-series for Highlander, just before 5x21 for SPN
Characters/Pairings: Methos, Death, mention of Lucifer, the Horsemen (both sets)
Summary: A very irrate Death meets his son to vent
Wordcount: 811
Disclaimer: None of them are mine
tigriswolf Title: Prometheus Unbound
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Highlander, Supernatural
Continuity: Post-series for Highlander, just before 5x21 for SPN
Characters/Pairings: Methos, Death, mention of Lucifer, the Horsemen (both sets)
Summary: A very irrate Death meets his son to vent
Wordcount: 811
Disclaimer: None of them are mine
Prometheus Unbound
The door slammed shut behind Death, and Methos stood up from their table in concern. Never before had his father allowed a door to slam. Death was not fond of noise.
"Father?" He reached out, feathered a careful touch to his father's shoulder. "What's wrong?"
"Order," Death answered, brusque and cold. And trembling, just slightly, beneath his son's hand. Methos frowned, letting his hand trail gently across a thin arm as it fell, and turned to gesture quickly and discretely for a waitress, motioning for quiet. For calm. His father looked to need calm, right now.
"Father?" he asked softly, sitting opposite the supernatural being warily. His father was not someone to cross at the best of times, though that hadn't ever been a concern for him. Now, it looked like it might.
"A minute," Death snapped, rigid and ... furious. That tremble. Rage. Methos felt an eyebrow creep upward into his hairline.
"Whatever you want," he drawled. Daring enough, with Death, but about the only person who hadn't taken a pot-shot at him in his time was his father. No matter the mood. And sure enough, Death shot him a glare that might have tested his immortality a touch, but looked away with a huff a moment later.
"I am not ... composed," the Horseman growled quietly. "Leave me be, boy. A moment."
Methos smiled, relieved. "As you wish," he murmured lightly, still watching his father carefully. Letting him settle as the waitress drifted by and took their (well, his) order, and drifted off again with a small wink in his direction. Methos smiled back at her, and reached out to touch the back of his father's hand softly.
And in touching, encountered cold metal where none had been before.
"Yes," Death hissed, smiling grimly as he raised the hand to the light, turned it so the ring glinted, its white stone glaring balefully. Methos stared, not quite understanding, but feeling a creeping horror nonetheless. "Yes, Methos."
"What," the immortal said, slowly, "is that?" His father's smile grew closer to a skull's rictus in response.
"Slavery," Death answered shortly, still grinning blackly. "A Titan's chain. My brother's child has at last grown bold enough."
"Or stupid enough," Methos managed, aghast. "Doesn't he know what he's bound? A world without death ..."
"But it isn't without," Death growled. "No. He has not banished me, nor bound me from the world. He has decided to use me, instead. To direct me. To have me kill." His voice descended into a guttural snarl, a chill falling around him, the whisper of a distant storm. Methos flinched, not in fear but in ancient instinct, and his father forced calm back into his voice. Forced calm over himself.
"Kill?" Methos asked, carefully. "He ... has asked you to ride?"
He remembered how to ride. He remembered it well, the dark and gleaming joy of it, the devastation behind them, the terror running ahead of them. He remembered a world in which the Horsemen rode. And he and his brothers had been but pale echoes of his father. Horsemen, yes, but not Horsemen. Enough for the world as it had been, enough to bring his father's legend forward once again, cement it in human minds, but not the original. Not the last. Not the way his father would ride, come ...
"The Apocalypse?" he asked softly, suddenly, but there was only one answer. He knew that. The world could not survive it, should his father decide to ride. "Now?"
Death looked at him, then. For a long time, the father looked at the son, one Horseman to another, one slave to another. And then ... then Death smiled, and it was not the fixed grin of a skull, but a living, human smirk. A smirk that had shown first on a human face, on the face of a man who carried the name of Death, and Methos smiled to see it echoed, smiled to see that his father had maybe learned a thing or two in his time.
An immortal is nothing, who does not learn.
"So he thinks," Death murmured darkly, smiling his son's smile. "My brother's son. But the world is not as he left it, aeons ago. And Death was never his to bind." He shook his head, cold and laughing as the fall of stars. "I would not put much weight on what Lucifer thinks," he said softly. "Not anymore."
Methos met his eyes, met the darkling glimmer in them, and felt his grin broaden. Felt the old, dark thrill rising inside him. Death was never far from him. Death never had been. And Lucifer had called him to ride. Lucifer had raised him to new life.
Well then. Let Lucifer pay the price.
"Good hunting, then, father," he said, soft and vibrant, raising his coffee cup in salute to the most elemental of his kindred spirits, to the being that had brought him to life. "Good hunting."
And Death darkly smiled.
The door slammed shut behind Death, and Methos stood up from their table in concern. Never before had his father allowed a door to slam. Death was not fond of noise.
"Father?" He reached out, feathered a careful touch to his father's shoulder. "What's wrong?"
"Order," Death answered, brusque and cold. And trembling, just slightly, beneath his son's hand. Methos frowned, letting his hand trail gently across a thin arm as it fell, and turned to gesture quickly and discretely for a waitress, motioning for quiet. For calm. His father looked to need calm, right now.
"Father?" he asked softly, sitting opposite the supernatural being warily. His father was not someone to cross at the best of times, though that hadn't ever been a concern for him. Now, it looked like it might.
"A minute," Death snapped, rigid and ... furious. That tremble. Rage. Methos felt an eyebrow creep upward into his hairline.
"Whatever you want," he drawled. Daring enough, with Death, but about the only person who hadn't taken a pot-shot at him in his time was his father. No matter the mood. And sure enough, Death shot him a glare that might have tested his immortality a touch, but looked away with a huff a moment later.
"I am not ... composed," the Horseman growled quietly. "Leave me be, boy. A moment."
Methos smiled, relieved. "As you wish," he murmured lightly, still watching his father carefully. Letting him settle as the waitress drifted by and took their (well, his) order, and drifted off again with a small wink in his direction. Methos smiled back at her, and reached out to touch the back of his father's hand softly.
And in touching, encountered cold metal where none had been before.
"Yes," Death hissed, smiling grimly as he raised the hand to the light, turned it so the ring glinted, its white stone glaring balefully. Methos stared, not quite understanding, but feeling a creeping horror nonetheless. "Yes, Methos."
"What," the immortal said, slowly, "is that?" His father's smile grew closer to a skull's rictus in response.
"Slavery," Death answered shortly, still grinning blackly. "A Titan's chain. My brother's child has at last grown bold enough."
"Or stupid enough," Methos managed, aghast. "Doesn't he know what he's bound? A world without death ..."
"But it isn't without," Death growled. "No. He has not banished me, nor bound me from the world. He has decided to use me, instead. To direct me. To have me kill." His voice descended into a guttural snarl, a chill falling around him, the whisper of a distant storm. Methos flinched, not in fear but in ancient instinct, and his father forced calm back into his voice. Forced calm over himself.
"Kill?" Methos asked, carefully. "He ... has asked you to ride?"
He remembered how to ride. He remembered it well, the dark and gleaming joy of it, the devastation behind them, the terror running ahead of them. He remembered a world in which the Horsemen rode. And he and his brothers had been but pale echoes of his father. Horsemen, yes, but not Horsemen. Enough for the world as it had been, enough to bring his father's legend forward once again, cement it in human minds, but not the original. Not the last. Not the way his father would ride, come ...
"The Apocalypse?" he asked softly, suddenly, but there was only one answer. He knew that. The world could not survive it, should his father decide to ride. "Now?"
Death looked at him, then. For a long time, the father looked at the son, one Horseman to another, one slave to another. And then ... then Death smiled, and it was not the fixed grin of a skull, but a living, human smirk. A smirk that had shown first on a human face, on the face of a man who carried the name of Death, and Methos smiled to see it echoed, smiled to see that his father had maybe learned a thing or two in his time.
An immortal is nothing, who does not learn.
"So he thinks," Death murmured darkly, smiling his son's smile. "My brother's son. But the world is not as he left it, aeons ago. And Death was never his to bind." He shook his head, cold and laughing as the fall of stars. "I would not put much weight on what Lucifer thinks," he said softly. "Not anymore."
Methos met his eyes, met the darkling glimmer in them, and felt his grin broaden. Felt the old, dark thrill rising inside him. Death was never far from him. Death never had been. And Lucifer had called him to ride. Lucifer had raised him to new life.
Well then. Let Lucifer pay the price.
"Good hunting, then, father," he said, soft and vibrant, raising his coffee cup in salute to the most elemental of his kindred spirits, to the being that had brought him to life. "Good hunting."
And Death darkly smiled.
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