Don't Cry For Me Title: Don't Cry For Me
Author: Amy Fortuna
Rating: R
Warnings: This story contains MAIN CHARACTER DEATH. Please do not read it if you can't stand the idea of one of the boyz biting it permanently.
Archive: Yes.
Feedback: Of course, yes.
Summary: A hundred years in the future, Methos fights one of Duncan's battles.
Notes: Oh, I love death stories. Oddly enough, the Methos!Muse seems to like them too ;-)


Duncan, Duncan, Duncan. Who would have guessed that I'd completely lose my heart to you, do silly things that I'd not thought of for centuries because of you, and find myself here under an enemy's blade instead of you?

Who would have thought that when we first met, more than a century ago now, we'd have such a rough beginning and such a lovely time smoothing it out? I have to say I've flat-out enjoyed the last hundred years more than I'd liked the couple thousand before that.

Goodness, this guy is good. I didn't catch his name, but I'm pretty sure he's not too old, he's got the fire of a typical kid, and the sword skills of someone who trained on it as a child -- maybe he's from the seventeen-hundred somethings, a little younger than you.

He came after you. Managed to pull a gun out and shoot you, right in the heart, where it'll take ages to heal. Immortal healing, unfortunately, doesn't speed up with time and technology. Oh, yes, this guy's smart -- he stuck a knife through your ribs as you lay dead, insuring you won't come back until it's pulled out. Typical headhunter behavior. Then he went for your head -- but didn't calculate on me coming home right at that moment.

I distracted him, from all the way across the river, and managed to keep him I just need to take his head and I can go pull that knife out.

Sorry it's taking so long, honey, this one's tough. No new tricks, but a lot of spirit.

I duck a blow and slide away, drawing him further away from you. I hiss a cold taunt, saved from my days as Death embodied, at him as he follows me, face set in a dark mask of hate.

We stumble onto the midnight Paris streets, and for a moment I wonder if I should draw him toward lighted areas, slip away in the crowds and race back to you.

I decide not. If he should catch on to me and make it back before I do -- well, goodbye Duncan. And I just can't take that. I shouldn't have interfered tonight -- all the self-preservation instincts that I'd honed over five thousand years were screaming to get the hell out of there and leave you to die, but I couldn't stand the thought of you gone.

Our life is a good one. We balance each other well, live together without coming to blows more than once every few months, argue just like a married couple, about the same silly things too. And we have the best sex since the concept was invented.

No, Mac, losing you would be inconvenient right about now. I'd have to come up with a new self and a new name, something I haven't had to do for nearly a century. I'd have to leave Paris, and I like Paris, in spite of the humidity. Good libraries and wonderful museums, classic qualities of Places You Can Find The Methos.

That, or somewhere with warm sun, soft sand, and lots of water. Remember our Hawaii vacation, some twenty years ago? How we kissed in the sea during the afternoon and made sweet morning love with the curtains open, to the music of the dawn waves?

I can't allow this bastard to destroy our little paradise. So I'll take him out for you, no matter what it takes.

He strikes down, nearly smashing into my shoulder.

Oh! That was a close one! I shouldn't be dwelling on just how good our lovemaking is at this juncture, should I?

He circles around me, and I try to slip away again, but find nowhere to go. I strike out, not sure where I'm trying to land the blow. And suddenly our swords are tangling and he pulls, hard, catching my blade on the small spikes on the upper part of his.

I lose my sword.

Oh my god, I lost my sword.

Oh no.

It goes skittering away over the dirt of this alley behind him, and I can't get to it without going directly through him.

Duncan, where the hell are you when I need you?

Knife, oh god, lying on the floor of the barge with a knife through your ribs. Oh, Duncan, is this it?

He forces me to my knees and I can't believe this is actually happening.

"Two in a night," the guy says, staring at me. "Don't worry, your lover will be joining you soon enough."

I merely gaze back at him, eyes wide. After all I hoped for...beheaded in a Paris back alley by a kid Immortal headhunter. Five thousand, one hundred years for this.

I shake my head. "I hope my Quickening *incinerates* you," I spit out at him, meeting his eyes with the look Death used to have just before striking.

"Say your prayers," the kid says, and swings.

I never see the sword strike through my neck. The universe spins in a dizzying flash of lights and I see you in my mind, standing tall against a world of past experiences.

"Don't cry for me, Highlander," is my last thought as everything goes black. Truth is, I loved you too damn much.