Fandom: Doctor Who/ Highlander
Summary: Continuation of Eleven Doctors, this is what happened those times Methos met the Doctor
The first time he met him was in Sparta, an old man, grey hair and frilly jacket, quietly hoping they'd let him fly again.
He was trying to get out before he got drafted to fight the Persians, and the doctor was trying to prevent Sontaran interference in the conflict.
They met in the shadow of an olive tree, seeking some relief on a sweltering Greek summer day. It hadn't been long after the horsemen, speaking in immortal terms, and the heat was bringing back flashbacks of the deserts, of countless massacres and he couldn't decide whether he loved or loathed them.
He had snarled when the Doctor bumped into him, shades of Death bleeding through, and this old man had looked at him, really looked and Methos had seen eternity in his eyes. Then there was a brief flash of sadness turned quiet dignity, before he moved on and Methos had been strangely humbled.
Later there had been shouting and explosions and craziness, and it had been much later before Methos had figured out what was going on, but every time the heat brought unwanted memories he remembered the Doctors eyes and Death never made a reappearance.
The second time he met him was in Alexandria, leather and ears and angry and hurting deeply.
It was in a tavern, he was explaining the benefits of beer to the locals, and the Doctor was trying to get really, really drunk.
He had spent a few decades among the Celts and had discovered an appreciation for the drink, mostly because bad beer wasn't half as bad as bad wine, and nobody was really stupid enough to drink the water.
He had looked at the strangely clad man, and the man looked back, and he recognized those eyes, so similar and at the same time so much different, older holding so much more pain. So he had sat down next to him and in a quiet voice told him a story, about the desert and heat and memories and the eyes of a stranger.
He wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but he thought that when the Doctor left he looked at least a bit better.
The third time he met him was in Rome, old and young, grumpy but hopeful, oh so hopeful.
He was an escaped slave running from the fires, he had no intention of ever burning to death again, the Doctor was looking for his wayward granddaughter.
Methos had managed to get himself caught as a slave in Britain in Claudius' reign, while he had been a brewer in one of the small local towns. It wasn't the first time he had been a slave and he used it as the opportunity to get back to civilization the cheap way, but when Nero's madness reached its peak, he saw the writing on the wall and ran as fast as he could.
He had bumped into the Doctor in the early stages of that flight, but while he recognized him, he wasn't recognized in turn and was only asked about the granddaughter, so he had said nothing, and moved on.
The fourth time he met him was in Constantinople, ridiculous in white but with so much fire.
The Western Roman Empire had fallen apart at the seams not long ago, but the East was still proud and strong, with all the amenities of Roman life he quite appreciated.
He was a scribe in one of the libraries, a quiet job, one of many similar ones he would have throughout the ages. At least it was quiet until the Doctor had burst in, greeted him by a name he no longer used, gone through the scrolls looking for some esoteric information and had sped out again.
He left bewildered workers in his wake and later in the peace of an eating house, Methos had chuckled at the hurricane Doctor, the strange man that always kept changing but still was so easily recognized.
The fifth time he met him was in Paris, short and energetic, full of laughter.
He had heard about Darius, the great general turned holy man and had decided to see for himself, not to mention the fact that he had to leave his previous place of residence after that affair concerning three chickens, a sheep, a ball of twine, a broken sword and five drunk soldiers.
When he finally entered Darius' church, he saw the priest talking to a strange little man, who he soon recognized as the stranger he had met before. Safe on holy ground, that conversation with the Doctor had cleared up quite a few things, and he and Darius had waved him goodbye the next morning, the traveller off again on one of his adventures.
The sixth time he met him was in Moscow, skinny, fire and ice and vengeful and broken.
He was a merchant this time, getting rich on furs and amber. The Doctor was there looking at another trader who was not just trading in human commodities, but also sold slaves to off-planet dealers as a byline. As he was one of Methos strongest competitors it seemed natural to help the Doctor out.
They eventually caught the trader but in the process burned down one of Methos' warehouses and managed to get him very publicly killed.
When he left the city like a thief in the night, as much portable wealth as he could squirrel away hidden in his saddlebags, he silently wished he had gone with his first impulse and had hidden under table until the Doctor went away.
The seventh time he met him was in Edinburgh, curly hair, with bleak despair in his eyes.
It was not long after Culloden and Scotland was quiet and depressing, not far away a younger Highlander was happily killing Englishmen, but he was here as a priest, looking for half a dozen journals he had lost three centuries ago.
The Doctor seemed to be running away from something, though it looked to Methos that he knew it was not something he could avoid forever. Nevertheless they spent a few pleasant evenings discussing politics and history.
After Methos had found his journals and they had said their goodbyes, it seemed that the Doctor might not be happier, but he looked at least a little more determined.
The eight time he met him was in London, umbrella and hat, plots within plots, as manipulative as he himself had ever been.
Victoria was on the throne, the Empire was at its peak, and he had been recruited into the Torchwood Institute for his skill with languages.
They didn't know he was immortal and as soon as he would get the chance he would fake his death in one of the obscure corners of the Empire. Anything to get away from these lunatics, but in the mean time he was stuck translating for them.
He met the Doctor in a pub after a long day at the office, the Doctor was looking for some alien tech, he was trying to get really, really drunk. Nonetheless, against his better judgement, he smuggled the things the Doctor needed out of the Torchwood archives. No one ever found out and he died a year later in an avalanche in the Himalayas, looking for a Yeti.
The ninth time he met him was in Dublin, teeth and curls, only slightly insane, free again, full life ahead of him.
He had ended up there shortly after the Great War, that one had traumatized even him and was working as a teacher in one of the city's dirt-poor schools.
The Doctor had gotten terminally lost and he had only just saved him from a gang of street toughs. They spoke for a while over a beer, the Doctor seemed to hint at a coming war in Ireland, and Methos resolved to get the hell out of there as soon as possible.
This combined with rumours of Kronos in the area, was certainly a good reason to leave, he heard that Cuba was nice this time of year.
The tenth time he met him was in New York, crazy coat, loud and obnoxious and so very much alive.
The second World War had ended almost two decades ago, the US was embroiled in a nasty conflict in Asia, he was so avoiding that one, the first president in a long time had been assasinated and the Doctor almost fitted in in with the college student Methos was pretending to be, long haired, high on marijuana and not doing much studying.
He doesn't remember the sixties well, he really was stoned most of the time, but he can vaguely recall discussing temporal mechanics, and they never made as much sense sober as they did high on whatever it was he had been smoking at the time.
The eleventh time he met him was in Paris again, young and old, more peaceful now, grinning and calling for him, for Methos, in the language of his first life, an ever changing constant.