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Kronos comes to slowly, for all a slow revival with another Immortal Presence nearby is never a good idea. His mouth is as dry as the desert, no, much dryer, his chest still hurts with the dull residual ache of being carved up, sparks of his Quickening still firing somewhere behind his sternum to repair the damage, his throat hurts from screaming in pain as he died, an afterthought to everything else, and oh, he is still naked and chained up, ankles and wrists rubbed raw, limbs drawn into an X position. He might be covered with his own congealing blood as well, judging by the cold and tacky feeling on most of his body - and Kronos knows being covered in blood very well.
Methos - no, Death, he is fully Death when he gets like this, brilliant and ruthless and terrible, no matter that he still wears the unassuming trappings of the modern world, a fucking oversize plain grey t-shirt, now thoroughly bloodstained, he was Death when he gruesomely murdered Kronos and he is Death still - watches him in the half-light.
'Brother?' asks Death with concern.
'Why?' Kronos manages despite a decidely uncooperative tongue. He thinks he even got the language right, but he cannot be sure, and anyway it doesn't matter with Methos speaking possibly more languages than he does.
'The ritual called for the heart and lifeblood of a wicked man, unwillingly taken, to save the world. Luckily I had you.'
'You used me to save the world?'
'We saved the world. You were brilliant. Just because you were the unwilling sacrifice the ritual called for doesn't mean you don't deserve credit. It wouldn't have worked without you. And I like the world. I enjoy living in it. You like the world, as much as it annoys you sometimes. Will you forgive me?'
And there it is, a very loaded question that Kronos considers very carefully as the healing spark of the Quickening still works overtime within his chest, a strange feeling that makes him wonder how he might perceive being in love for some reason.
'That depends...' he finally says, slowly and quietly with a mouth still not fully used to being alive, 'on how you make it up to me.'
Death looks thoughtful, calculating even, the curiosity in those eyes burning full force. Kronos shivers, because that never bodes well, unless you of course define well in a very specific way, which Kronos happens to do.
'What would you have me do, Brother?' Soft voice, deceptive, polite innocence hiding a mind more perverse than Kronos's own so well that even Kronos, having known Methos for millennia and also seen his absolute worst, is nearly fooled.
And the thing is, as dangerous and unpredictable submitting to Death is, Kronos loves the thrill of it, the feeling of being surprised by something he hadn't thought of and pushed to his limits and then far beyond them to an excruciating pleasure. He hides a shiver as he speaks, not wanting to show more weakness than absolutely neccessary, but thinks Methos sees through that flimsy pretence anyway.
'Think of something. You're the strategist, aren't you? Thinking of things is your thing.'
Methos does, of course. And of course it's wonderful and the very best kind of horrible. Kronos is never wrong about those things. And Methos is never wrong about what Kronos will eventually like. It should be worrying. It isn't.