Work Text:
**Air** (Pre-'Through a Glass Darkly' minutes)
"I'm cold, MacLeod. Can you give me one good reason why we're standing up here in a freak spring snowstorm? Don't you know I hate cold?" Methos looked out into the snow-obscured Parisian sky and folded his arms across his chest. He stuck his gloved hands in his armpits. The winds at the top of the Eiffel Tower were aswirl with snow showers.
"Because it's beautiful," came the thoughtful reply.
Methos glanced at the other man. The rest of his face flushed to the color of his cold-reddened nose. MacLeod was not looking at the Parisian snow-scape.
"Oh." The ancient immortal didn't quite know what to say. "Um." Instead he stared at the Scot's hair as the errant winds teased it from it's tie.
MacLeod turned sideways to lean on the railing. He smiled. It wasn't often he could shut Methos up so easily. A gust of air caught the ends of the old immortal's coat and for just a moment the Scot had a vision of the man morphing into some great dark bird. A hawk. An eagle...
After a while Methos spoke again. "It's a good thing we have a head for heights."
"Hm?" Could he have read his thoughts, MacLeod wondered. "Yes. Lucky, I guess."
"You and Amanda gave the Watchers heart palpitations for a month after the 'Tower Tango.' They play the video at parties."
"The..." MacLeod started to chuckle. "They have it on video? I should have expected it, I guess." Another wind came and swept his mirth toward Methos. They laughed companionably for a moment.
"They ended up paying a small fortune to keep it off one of these reality shows. And then, you barged into Headquarters. You have quite a clandestine fan club among the Watchers."
Now it was the Highlander's turn to blush. He turned into the wind to cool himself.
Methos wanted to grab him, haul him closer. I could warm my hands up nicely just touching his face, The old immortal considered doing just that. Then he shook his head to banish such a dangerous line of thinking. He turned to stare out into the swirling snow. It looked like it was getting thicker.
"So, really, why did you bring me up here, Mac?"
The Highlander drew a breath. "Truth?"
Methos nodded. Always. From you, anyway. He almost smiled when he remembered MacLeod's reaction to being called 'boy scout.'
"I missed our anniversary. "
"Anniver...?"
"A year ago, Methos. A little over, now." Three hundred and ninety-one days to be exact. "We met for the first time."
"Oh."
*Twice in an hour. Speechless again. I'm on a roll. MacLeod smiled. "I just wanted you to know. Know how much your friendship has meant."
*And thank you for saving me from Kristin, and then from myself. For leaving the woman you loved for me.* He knew he didn't have to say the words. Methos would understand--everything.
"And well, this is one of my favorite places. We've never been here. Together." He took two steps toward his companion. Put his right hand on the man's shoulder.
Methos eyes widened. The man was so warm. So inviting, enticing. *Oh, Duncan, please don't do this. Please don't. Please.*
"Please..."
"Please what, Methos?"
He was blocking the force of the wind. And Methos could smell his shampoo, his cologne. God. The man smelled like Christmas. And MacLeod's face was right there. All he had to do was turn and... And it would be a disaster.
Methos stepped back and out of MacLeod's space.
"It was a nice gesture. And I... Thanks for remembering." He tried to smile.
"Come on, the wind's picking up. Let's get down from here, MacLeod. It's cold, I'm wet, and I'm not as young as I used to be. I'll buy you a drink. Or coffee?"
"Make it hot chocolate, and you have a deal."
The ancient immortal grinned. "Hot chocolate I can do. Best in the world. My own recipe."
"Deal. Come back to the barge. With me."
Methos nodded, and smiled. "After you, MacLeod"
______________________________
I dare not ask a kiss;
I dare not beg a smile;
Lest having that, or this,
I might grow proud the while.
No, no, the utmost share
Of my desire, shall be
Only to kiss that air,
That lately kissed thee.
'To Electra' by Robert Herrick
**********************************************************
**Fire** (After the Watcher War)
Where will I go now, he though. I don't belong... Anywhere... Not anymore.
*You can always go back*
Shut up!
*He'll take you back. You know he will. He wants you*
No. It's over. Over and done.
*Not until you take his head--or he takes yours*
Damn, you. Do you always have to be fucking right?
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He was packing to leave for the States. Getting the 'Nobile' ready for the long summer without him. Cleaning her up.
Tucking her in, was how he liked to think of it. He was vacuuming under the couch when he found it. An ankh. A little gold ankh. He knew who it belonged to.
For God's sake, he had practically lived on the couch after Gina and Robert's wedding.
He couldn't help smiling at the memory of the man in a tux. The first time he's ever seen him so...
He clasped the pendant tightly in his hand and stomped over to the nearest porthole. Opened it, and tossed.
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He never realized he'd miss a bit of metal as much as he did. An inch and a quarter by a quarter inch. Tiny, really, by most standards.
He knew where it was. Where it had to be. Knew exactly the moment he had lost it. Lost it. Yeah. A lot of things had been lost that night.
On the Highlander's barge. Packing.
He'd gone there right after Galati's murder.
Execution.
Whatever. Depended what side you were on.
"I'm 5000 years old. I don't know who I am anymore." Methos nodded as he repeated his last words to Joe before they'd gone their separate ways. And it was true. There had only been one constant in his life over the past year. MacLeod. Not the Watchers. Not any other immortal.
Methos realized the sweater he was wearing was one he'd borrowed while he was doing their laundry. He'd been in the process of yanking it off over his head when the Scot had come roaring down the stairs.
At first he thought he'd been drinking. Gods knew, he was spoiling for a fight. And Methos--well, Methos was ready for him. Had been since the dark quickening. Had expected something like this before.
Except, MacLeod grabbed him will he was still caught in the sweater and threw him against the bulkhead.
Methos come up off the floor and tackled him low and brought the bigger man down. It was mean, and it was nasty. But for all his years of studying martial arts the Scot never had a chance. Methos had actually invented some of the moves he was using.
He had to work at it, but Methos finally got the bigger man pinned. Then bashed his head onto the floor until he was unconscious.
Then Methos got the hell out of Paris.
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Methos reached for the pendant again. Frowned. Shit. He'd had it so long. Worn it since... It was almost as much a part of him as a tattoo. He unconsciously rubbed the Watcher tattoo on his left wrist.
It hurt. No, not the tattoo. It hurt that MacLeod wouldn't, couldn't understand? The man was full of fire. Passion. Anger. Hurt. Pain... He gave everything to everyone else, and kept nothing for himself.
"God," he said aloud. "What the fuck did he expect. That we'd let him die for someone we didn't even know?"
Methos looked around the little room. He wanted to go home.
*Home?*
Methos sighed. "I can't go. Not until he forgives me."
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He answered the chirping of the phone. "Pierson."
"Joe! Marvelous to hear from you."
"You're kidding. Methos preaching peace? Well, that is something."
"No. No, Joe. I don't think that would be a good..."
"Hold on, I have to sign for a package."
"No, Joe. I'm staying out of Paris."
"Oh. Seacouver? How... Yeah. Incredible coincidence. Yeah. Couple of days."
As Methos set the phone aside he looked again at the contents of the envelope.
The one word note, 'Come?' And a tiny gold ankh.
______________________________
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
Excerpt from 'To M' by George Gordon, Lord Byron
***********************************************************
**Earth** ('The Messenger' minutes)
"Peace on Earth? Good will to...immortals?" Methos--the real Methos--walked into the Highlander's dojo. No immortal presence. Good. He waved at the instructor and students as he passed. Took the lift up. He hadn't expected the Scot to be in at mid afternoon anyway
Things looked the same in the loft. He checked out the Highlander's refrigerator. He poked around the healthy crap. That was the same too.
He'd had a long trip. A case of food poisoning *liar! you're nervous about seeing Duncan again!* And an almost overwhelming desire to hide. But a beer...well, a beer sounded like a good idea about now.
He grabbed a bottle, and looked around again. Couch. Bed. Hm. Not too hard to choose.
He set the beer on the bedside table, noticed the remote for the stereo. "Good man, MacLeod." He started the CD. Not too bad, he thought as he listened for a moment.
Then fell bonelessly onto his back across the bed. The duvet puffed around him like a cocoon. Hm. This was new. One of those neat feather comforters. He's seen them on the Shopping Channel.
What was it about MacLeod's furniture that made it so irresistible? He had great couches. And his beds were divine. Supportive, yet sensually, deceptively soft. He rolled onto his stomach and grabbed one of the pillows. MacLeod. He laid his head down for just a minute.
God. He sat up as he heard the lift machinery start up. MacLeod. MacLeod was here.
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Damn Richie to hell!
All Methos had thought about was being back with MacLeod. Fuck. The Scot had asked him to come back. And this guy pretending to be 'Methos,' had been a perfectly reasonable excuse to accept.
And even better, Joe had asked him to come too.
So what does he find out first thing? Rich has had a run in with the delusional immortal and is spouting the 'give peace a chance' slogan. So now here he was sitting at Joe's bar. Confessing that he was the real Methos.
This was not how he'd planned to spend his time with MacLeod.
Methos smiled. And fumed. He liked the kid. When he wasn't being a pain. And just now. Well.
"This has gotta be some kind of joke. Joe, help me out here. I mean, 5000 years of wisdom? Him?"
*Thanks, Rich. Great. Kathmandu. I came halfway around the Earth to be treated like this.* He looked over at Dawson. Then at Duncan.
"...what you see is what you get. This is the real Methos."
*Great Mac. Love you too.* Methos just smiled and shrugged. So, what were they going to do now? Why, argue of course. MacLeod was in full-out Father Duncan mode. And Joe wasn't too far behind.
And Rich? Well, Rich did what every kid did. Gave them the old 'you just don't understand.' And left.
And MacLeod just couldn't let it go. As usual. "I gotta get going. I've got someone to find."
Joe couldn't stay out of it either. "I'm gonna go check on this other Methos, maybe I'll turn something up."
So much for the old Watcher Oath, eh, Dawson, Methos thought sarcastically.
He looked around. What the?
"Maybe I'll go and buy some socks...."
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As they all sensed it would from the beginning, it ended badly. As it usually did when someone was delusional. And in this case that was a definite.
Well. At least it was over.
Methos gazed wistfully at the Highlander. Then he got up off the couch and started getting his things together. MacLeod didn't even look up. The old immortal sighed heavily.
"I'm sorry, MacLeod. I wish there could have been a different ending. But the fact is that humans, whether mortal or immortal, aren't made for peace." Not while they're alive, anyway. Culbraith and the 'other.' Whether they'd been deluded or delusional, now they both slept peacefully. In their little plots of earth.
"I know."
After a while the Highlander looked up. "Rich left. And you're...you're going too..."
Sadness. Great dark eyes glinted with unshed tears. Head tilted. Hands
clasped in his lap. He just looked up at Methos.
And Methos winced. "Yes, MacLeod. But not too far. I'm staying at Rich's
place. Until..."
"Until?"
Methos shrugged. Put on his coat and picked up his bag.
______________________________
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to get better.
Excerpt from 'Birches' by Robert Frost
***********************************************************
**Water** (pre-'The Valkyrie' minutes)
"You don't hate the water. I know you don't. Not really."
"Yes, yes I do."
"But you went on the 'Love Boat.'"
"That was different. Totally."
"Oh? Water's water, Methos."
"And you are too literal, MacLeod. You cannot compare a luxury cruise ship--that boasted a swimming pool I might add--to a rowboat. Nor the warm South Pacific to the freezing North Atlantic."
MacLeod had to admit he had him on those points.
"So, size makes a difference?" The Scot smiled at his own joke then laughed at Methos' groan.
"Well, anyway, I appreciate you coming with me." And he did. He hated closing up the place alone. The last couple of years Rich had come with him. But Rich was gone.
The oldest living man snorted. "Well, I've heard about this cabin of yours for years, you know. I guess I thought I'd better just jump at the chance to see it."
"Once a Watcher, always...?"
"Something like that. Yes. Even those of us who were just researchers."
The Scot shook his head. The man had hidden within the Watcher organization for a decade. Mild mannered grad student, Adam Pierson. The Methos.
MacLeod looked at the man in the front of the canoe. As much as he had protested, Methos handled the paddle expertly. More of his 'been there, done that' experience?
He smiled to himself. He had deliberately given Methos the front spot. Just so he could watch him. Catch him off guard. Get a glimpse of the 'real' Methos. Or just watch 'Adam,' the latest incarnation of the ancient immortal. He grinned to himself. MacLeod, the 'watcher.'
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He knew MacLeod was watching him. Of course he did.
He wondered what he was looking for. What he saw. He looked back at the Highlander.
"What, Mac?"
"Oh, nothing. Just looking at the clouds. Storm's coming."
"What?!"
"Storm."
Methos looked away. "A storm? You bloody idiot Scot. Just what we need. Stuck in the middle of a lake." Alone. Cold. Wet. They'd have to cuddle--huddle--together for warmth.
"I guess it's too late to turn back?"
There was an ominous roll of thunder. "Too late."
Both men bent their backs to their oars to get the canoe safely to MacLeod's island.
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He was more than a bit surprised. He'd heard the cabin described as rustic, and had imagined something that was a cross between a hut and a shack. But this was stone and rustic wood. Slate roof. He should have known. The Highlander never did things by halves. Looked like he wouldn't be spending the time cold and wet after all.
They hurried to get supplies inside, and the canoe safely stored. The Scot stood back and let Methos take a look as he opened windows to air the place out. Thunder rumbled closer. He could smell the rain.
"Quite pleasant, MacLeod." Methos moved to stand near him.
"Thanks. Been working on it a while."
They both looked at the sky. The cabin was quiet except for the measured breathing of the two immortals, and the nearing rumbles of thunder.
"So, you knew about the storm?"
"Not exactly. They sometimes pop up like this in late summer, early fall."
"So, it seems rather pointless to come here if it's going to rain..."
"It'll be over by the morning. Trust me. You'll see."
"Sure, Mac." I trust you with my life, Duncan.
"Well, come on. I promised dinner. Want a beer?"
"You have to ask?"
They both laughed companionably.
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"Methos?"
"MacLeod."
"How's the couch?"
"Fine."
"The fire? I can..."
"It's fine, MacLeod. I'm not helpless."
"I know." A pause, then. "Are you sure you don't want...to share... There's plenty of room."
"No. I'm fine. Really. I've done this before." *A lot.* Methos could hear the creaking of the bedstead and the shifting of the mattress as MacLeod moved about restlessly.
The old man stared up at the ceiling.
It was going to be a very long weekend.
______________________________
"To be thirsty and to drink water is the perfection of sensuality rarely
achieved. Sometimes you drink water; other times you are thirsty."
Attributed to José Bergamín, Spanish writer
End
Originally posted 10-6-01
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.