To Days Gone By
Disclaimers: We own no rights to Angel or Highlander or any of the characters and situations from those shows. We just like to play with their lives sometimes. The title comes from the song "Drink With Me" from Les Miserables.
Author's notes: It's an Angel/Highlander crossover! This fits in our ever-expanding "Journal of the Observer" universe. The character of T'zara is in Cynamin's story "Journal Begins: Lady T'zara." This story also takes place immediately before "Coming Home," also by Cynamin. Someday I'll make a timeline of this universe… Anyway, you don't need to read any of those – this story stands alone.
Galway, Ireland, 1753
He watched the boy stumble out of the tavern highlighted by smoky candle flame, a wench on each arm, and wobble off towards the stables around back. Shaking his head he headed into the tavern himself. He could use a good stiff drink after a long day on the road. A long day of a long trip. A VERY long trip.
The inside of the place was warm and inviting. A man sat in the corner fiddling a gig while a couple of dancers reeled about the floor, more than a little drunk. It was crowded on such a cold, drizzly night. No one wanted to be outdoors. The skinny Welshman had had enough of the outdoors to last him a lifetime or two.
Slipping through the crowded tables, he took a seat close to the fireplace to dry off and get warm. When a serving woman in a daringly low-cut dress came over he ordered an Irish Malt Whiskey, knowing that if he asked for a *Scottish* Malt Whiskey -which, in his opinion was much better- he would likely be run out of town. He smiled at her in a friendly-type manner as she moved away. When she returned with his drink she smiled dazzlingly back at him, her green eyes sparkling. "You've come far 'aven't ye?" she asked in a sweet lilting brogue. "Where ye be from?"
The Welshman chuckled. "You name it," he replied in his own Welsh accent. "I've been as far as yer dreams and back agin."
"An' what would ye know 'bout mah dreams?" she replied.
"More'n you think, sweet lady," he said in his most charming manner.
She snorted lightly. "'Ow am I t'know ye arn't just a talker? Can ye hold yer likker?"
He nearly laughed outright at her comment. If she only KNEW! Instead, he winked at her and took the whole mug down in a single draught. Finishing he licked the last drops from his lips and held it out to her. "Another if you donna mind. I'm good to go all night." He met her eyes to let her know his true meaning.
The wench looked thoughtful for a moment then graced him with her smile again. "Really? Well then, I jus' may 'ave te test ye before ye go."
Just then she was called away by a group of rowdy young locals nearby. She had just returned with his second mug when the young man he had seen earlier staggered back in the door, alone this time. The woman shook her head. "Ye'd think he'd a'learned te hold 'is drinking after as much as he's had the last few months alone. Some boys ne'er do learn."
"Who is he?" the dark-haired Welshman asked, glancing over his shoulder at the door.
"His name's Liam, and that's all ye need know," she replied. "He's a troublemaker. Always in here a'nights getting completely sloshed."
The Welshman with the beaked nose sighed. He knew that feeling only too well. "Ah," was all he said on the subject. "That'll be good to know. Tell me, lovely," he smiled at her again. "What be *your* name?"
The woman smiled. "Bella."
"Lovely," he sighed as if tasted it. "Bella. Beautiful."
Now Bella was blushing. "That's enough out of ye now. I must'a be gittin' back ta servin'."
The not-quite-Welshman sighed. "All right, m'lovely. As long as I get to see you again."
"Perhaps," Bella nodded her russet head as she moved away again.
He has just finished off his third mug of whiskey when someone slammed into the chair beside him. Jumping backwards, the dark-haired not-quite-Welshman almost reached for his dagger before he realized it was the man...Liam.
"Bella!" the boy bellowed. "Service!" Then he glanced over at the man next to him. "And who might ye be at my table?" he asked, slurring the words terribly. The thick brogue didn't help any.
"Adam," the not-really-a-Welshman replied.
"Adam? Ye must be pretty old then!" Liam chuckled at his own joke.
Adam sighed. *If you only knew, lad.* He replied "What are you havin?"
The Irishman smiled. "Depends on when the ladies get finished for the night."
The large-nosed man couldn't argue with that logic. "Have a whisky on me. I could use a drinkin' partner."
Liam nodded agreeably and yelled across the room again. "Bella! Whiskey for me and my friend!"
Adam smiled. Maybe he could manage to actually get drunk tonight. It had been a long time since he'd been able to get to the stage where he actually passed out. Got harder every day. He took down the fourth mug in record time.
It was the crowing of the rooster that awoke them, covered in sticky places where the liquer had spilled, and completely hungover. At least, Liam was. The ladies were long gone.
Sitting up, Liam groaned as his head pounded in protest. His father would have told him it served him right, but he didn't care. The drinking had been good, the companionship even better, and in no time at all the hangover would be gone and he could get good and drunk again.
Speaking of companionship, Liam remembered that there had been a drinking partner as well last night. Looking around - slowly, so as not to disturb his aching head - he wondered if he had left when the ladies had.
Adam hadn't. He was sitting up, wide awake, watching him. And smiling slightly. "Mornin'." He felt good. Of course, he hadn't been able to get truly hungover in years. It just didn't happen anymore. "How be ye this fine day?" He breathed in the fresh air with a deep whiff. "Good stuff they brew around here. You got any more?"
Liam stared at him like he was crazy.
Adam chuckled slightly when Liam didn't reply. "I guess you're more than a bit hung over, aren't you?" he said. "That's what you get drinking all night. You hiding from someone?"
"Maybe I be, maybe I'm not," Liam replied, in no mood to explain himself to this near stranger.
"Ah. Hiding from yourself then?" Adam knew how that felt. He'd done it for years.
Liam wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, so he shook the hay from his hair and rose unsteadily to his feet, head pounding all the while.
Adam tried not to laugh any more at his new friend's expense. The boy was obviously not living the happiest of lives at the moment. And hadn't been for a while he'd wager. And he couldn't remember the last time he's lost a bet. Instead of pushing, he got up himself and gave Liam a shoulder to steady himself on. "Let's get you somethin' to drink. Water I'm a' thinking. Unless you'd like to show the lovely ladies inside how much you had last night by layin' it all out before 'em." He led the boy around back to the water trough in back by the stable and joined him in a fresh drink and a cold splash in the face.
Liam was still feeling terrible, but a bit more likely able to walk straight. His head was still pounding, and he really would have liked to just curl up and die, but he'd survived yesterday morning and many a morning before that, so he'd survive this one too. Still...he leaned against the water trough, waiting until he wasn't feeling quite so green.
"You got anywhere to be?" Adam asked after a moment.
Liam shrugged. "Home, I guess." Not that he was in any hurry....
"You guess?"
"It'll be a while afore they send anyone out a lookin' fer me." He said it like it didn't matter...but it did. Seemed his family either wanted him to be the perfect son or ignore that he was there. Right now the 'ignore him' choice sounded just fine. Really.
"Then how 'bout a walk to get the blood flowing, and the heads te stop pounding?" Adam offered? For some reason he was feeling charitable toward the kid. Maybe he could offer some advice that might make his life a little better. Or just an open ear.
Liam looked a little dubious, and unsteady on his feet, but nodded. "Sure, why not? But someplace quiet."
Adam grinned. "Of course. And where yer da won't find us too quickly." He let Liam set the pace, and pick the direction as they left the vicinity of the tavern and headed out into the Galway countryside.
All in all, it was starting out to be a lovely day. The sky was clear, the weather warm...but Liam didn't pay much attention to his surroundings. He did notice that the sun was very bright that day - painfully so. But the alternative was returning home. He much preferred the sunlight-amplified headache to a fight with his father.
Adam was also enjoying the fresh air and the sparkling green surroundings as the sun caught the last few drops of morning dew. Ireland really was lovely. He should spend more time here someday. It really was beautiful country. Of course, most places he'd been *were* beautiful in their own rights, but none as lushly verdant as this. He was so busy waxing poetic in his own mind on the subject of nature, that Adam was almost startled to hear the man moving slowly along side him ask, "So wha' brought ye t' Ireland?"
The not-quite-Welshman looked over at his newly acquired friend, noting that he looked a little less green now. At least not quite as green as the grass they stood on. He smiled. "The drink, the women, and the land." It was a simple enough reason. No need for giving more detail then that.
"Just that?" Liam asked, sounding slightly confused. "They don't have those where you come from?"
It was a pointed question towards Adam's origins, but he ignored it. His slight shrug in response just baffled Liam more. Why would anyone want to come *here?* He couldn't understand why anyone would just come to this boring town when there was nothing more that he wanted right now than to get out of it. He was tempted, now that he was feeling a bit more alive, to just keep walking. Who knew where he might end up? But a tiny thread of reality inserted himself, and he knew that he would end
Instead of taking the bait about where he came from, Adam continued walking. Why *was* he here? For all the things he had said yes....but they had those things everywhere he'd ever been, and that was a lot more ground than most people ever covered. "It's nice here," he finally said. "It's nice tah go somewhere where no one knows who you are, or how much money you have, or if you can hold liquer, bluff at gamblin'. You arrive in a new place and you get tah be someone completely different if you want. There's a peace in bein' a mystery. An' it's kinda fun," he smiled. "Does that answer your question?"
Liam nodded slightly to himself. "It does," he replied shortly, lost in thought. Be someone else for once...a place where no one knows who you are... It was a nice thought. It just made him think of how stuck in this place he was, though. "How do you do it? Just pack up one day and leave?"
Adam chuckled. "I wish it were that easy."
When the man with the distinct nose didn't say anything further, Liam decided to push the topic. "So how did you?"
Adam sighed. *Here we go. Time for evasion.* "Well I--look out!" He yelled, leaping aside frantically and drawing his sword. He swung as a second man dropped out of the trees.
Liam did what he was told just in time to see a man in shabby clothes land at his feet. Drawing a dagger he blocked the man's first thrust with the end of a staff. But his head was slowing him up and he knew it. The second thrust caught him in the stomach and he fell backwards, the air knocked out of him for a moment.
Adam saw the boy go down and knocked the man he was fighting away long enough the gut the thug with the staff. *We've got to get out of here or he's done for,* he thought, protecting the boy with his body. "You all right?" he asked aloud.
The surprise of being attacked and the fall seemed to have cured Liam of the last of his hangover, and he nodded as he waited to catch his breath. The man Adam had been fighting used his momentary distraction to come at him from behind, but Liam saw him. He scrambled into a crouch and propelled himself just far enough to grasp the man around the knees. He went down just as effectively as anyone in the tavern ever had.
Unlike those he faced in tavern brawls, though, this man rolled and quickly got back up. Liam had to scramble to relative safety once again. He reached for his dagger, only to find that he's lost it when the thug had knocked him down.
Breathing heavily, Adam stood back to back with Liam, watching the circle of thugs that had formed around them. *Common road brigands. No, uncommon brigands. They're too well trained.* His answer came in the form of another thug. But this one was better dressed: all in rich browns with a deep red cape. Adam could feel him in a way he knew Liam couldn't. This man was *not* normal. Adam didn't know him, but he knew he was trouble. "You can fight me, but leave the boy alone. He's not one of us."
The man looked at him curiously for a moment, then smiled cruelly. "I'll leave the boy alone, but I think my men would get bored." As he said that the thugs turned their attention to Liam, leaving Adam and the caped man alone.
Liam knew without a doubt that this was *not* good. He wasn't doing too well one on one; now he was out numbered. His companion and the leader of the men who'd attacked them were busy staring each other down - Liam couldn't hear what they were saying - and he knew that he'd have to try and get out of this mess on his own. Unarmed.
Somehow, he didn't think there was a great likelihood of that happening.
Adam smiled ferally at his opponent. "Now how sportsman-like is it to send thugs after an innocent boy?" He shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that." He took one slow step back, then spun and ran the nearest thug through right below the ribcage. He danced away and killed another two before he had to face the dangerous stranger again. Now Liam's fight was only one against four, instead of against seven. *You're odds are a little better boy. I hope you can hold them off a bit longer,* he thought as the other man attempted to circle him. Adam smiled at the man again, obviously infuriating him. *He's fairly young. This shouldn't be too much of a challenge.* "Well, come and get me. I haven't got all day."
If Liam's father could see him now, he'd know that all that time spent in the tavern was at least good for something. While this fight was not exactly a tavern brawl - too much space, not enough heavy furniture - he was somewhat prepared to take on the four thugs that now approached him. Definitely better than his odds from a moment ago, and Liam was more than glad for his companion's help.
Now *there* was someone who could fight. Liam had seen the ease with which Adam had dispatched the other three thugs. It almost made him confident that he could indeed take out the last 4. At least he'd manage to survive this day.
So would Adam, certainly. After all, no one could defeat someone who fought like *that.*
If Adam could have heard his new friend's thoughts, he would have wished for that kind of confidence. This new fellow was not as easily dispatched as Adam had hoped. They were both bleeding now from dozens of grazing cuts, and Adam knew that if this fellow didn't make a mistake soon, the large-nosed Welshman was going to find himself getting quickly winded. As he danced, constantly shifting feet and direction, he saw a possible opening. There. And there again! Yes, the young brigand had a weakly guarded point. He waited, it opened up again, and he lunged.
Agony poured through Adam's side as he felt the other man's blade penetrate his left lung. But his own blade struck too, sliding right up and into the other man's heart. Using the last of his strength, he yanked the sword free again, and holding it high as he stumbled forward, he decapitated the dying man that lay before him.
Liam was too busy trying to stay alive to notice what had happened at first. He'd managed to knock out one of his opponents with a well thrown punch to the side of his head - or maybe it was the rock he landed on that actually knocked him out - but the other three were still standing. They were all tired, but Liam was breathing heavily, his whole body felt bruised, and worse, his headache was coming back.
Suddenly the three brigands stopped in their tracks and looked over Liam's shoulder. Taking a foolish risk, the young Irishman did the same. He turned just in time to see the two swordsmen collapse to the ground, one beheaded, and Adam gasping and coughing up blood. *I'm dead,* was his first thought after a silent gasp. The next thing he noticed was that the other brigands were running off into the woods, leaderless.
Shocked at his amazing luck in surviving at all, Liam sprinted to where Adam had fallen. Both men were dead.
He stumbled to his knees. Liam was shocked, exhausted, and emotionally numb. He'd just met this man...this man who could have been a friend. And now he was dead in some strange forest battle with no purpose he could begin to understand. He backed away from Adam's body, his hands stained with his blood. Gripped by a fear he didn't understand, he stumbled to his feet and away from the battle scene.
Later he would think that he had left before the thugs could come back and finish him off as well. That was, however, after several drinks to drown out the fact that he's left Adam in the woods. There would be several more drinks left to go.
Gasp! Adam shuddered with a convulsive breath as his heart began to beat once more. He placed one hand over the tear in his clothes. *All healed. Not a scratch.* Heaving a deep sigh of relief, he rolled over and pushed himself up into a sitting position. He looked at the headless corpse next to him. *Nice to get a quickening that didn't wake the dead for once,* he thought to himself. The air sparked with the fading remnants of energy given off by a quickening.
No longer concerned with the permanently dead immortal beside him, Adam stood and reclaimed his sword, wiping it with the coat tails of his adversary before sheathing it. He gave a mocking salute to the body. "Thanks for the exercise, friend. Have a good rest." Glancing around to make sure there was no one else to detain him, he moved off in the opposite direction from the town he'd just left. He would go south for a while. Maybe Greece.
Around him, the trees whispered a spell of silence. And a word.
Methos.
Present Day: Los Angeles, California
Part One
"Aspirin!" the pretty brunette managed to gasp out from where she crouched on the floor.
"You saw aspirin?" her British companion asked in confusion.
She glared back at him as she climbed back to her feet. "Wesley-"
"Oh, right! So sorry."
The older brit left to fulfill her request, leaving the girl and the third occupant of the room alone for the moment. She began writing quickly on a pad of paper on the desk next to her.
"What is it? What did you see, Cordelia?" he asked in an urgent but anxious voice.
Wesley returned with two aspirin and a glass of water just as she finished writing. She swallowed them quickly, gesturing wildly with her other hand for a moment before she spoke. "Two guys...guys with swords. In an alley. One of them killed the other...chopped off his head." She made a face of disgust.
"What did they look like?"
Cordelia thought for a moment. "It was dark...you know, night and all...and they were wearing long coats. Which you ask me is the most ridiculous thing to be wearing in the summer." She looked at her companion, who was already putting on a long coat of his own. "Forget I said that," she mumbled.
"Were they demons?" Wesley asked, sounding oddly excited at the prospect.
"No," Cordelia replied, rolling her eyes slightly. "Just people with swords cutting each others' heads off."
"That's terribly mundane compared to everything else Angel has been called for," Wesley commented, confused.
"It's weird enough for me," Cordelia muttered.
"She's right." Angel took the address Cordelia had written, grabbed a sword of his own, and hurried out the door.
It had been hours, and still Angel could find no trace of the surviving man with the sword. The one who had chopped off the other's head. This was *not* typical human behavior. At least, not in modern day Los Angeles. Not when a gun with a silencer worked much faster, and left less of a mess.
He had followed Cordelia's instructions and found the alley where the fight had occurred. It had been roped off by police, and Angel hadn't been in the mood to run into Kate. Especially not while wearing a sword of his own. She didn't trust him further than she could throw him. In other words, not at all.
Still, the vampire had the feeling he should know where this fellow had gone.
Something familiar about beheadings tugged in the back of his mind, but he couldn't place it. *So many years as Angelus, I'm sure I witnessed a few beheadings.* Going on instinct he headed toward downtown. It wasn't the nicest part of town. But there were plenty of places to hide, and it was likely whomever he was searching for would be hiding there.
Stalking the shadows like the creature of darkness he was, Angel was extremely alert. Every vampiric sense was open for a sign of the very human murderer he knew was around here somewhere. A part of Angel wondered briefly why he had been sent after this man. That same part wondered what he would do if...no, when he found him. He would not kill him, and as things stood he could hardly hand him over to the police. Or maybe he could deliver him like Batman would, all tied up like a present on the police station's front step....
The area he was in was getting worse by the second, and it was becoming hard to smell anything about the typical smells of the alley. It was confusing his senses...even the smallest sounds echoed strangely... But there was a heartbeat here. Someone alive. And faintly, the scent of fresh blood. ... Behind him...?
The clash of metal on metal came to him suddenly from an alley he had passed barely a minute before. Spinning on one foot, the vampire nearly flew back the way he had come. He didn't bother to stop as he came around the corner and took in the scene in front of him.
Two men in trench coats with long swords going at it for all they were worth. The one with his back to Angel was winning, and in the dark, Angel's senses could pick up the scent of dried blood on his coat. Again the vampire felt that there was something familiar about the scene, but he pushed the thought away to deal with later. Running full tilt towards them he grabbed the one closest to him and yanked him away from the other man. Stunned, the taller stranger turned and fled. Angel hauled the shorter, thinner man up against the wall and pinned him their with every ounce of his vampire strength. "What do you think you're doing?" he snarled at the man. "The police want you for murder."
The man squirmed and his face came into the light from a distant street lamp. Angel froze. He knew this man...but...that was impossible! The memory came to him clearly of the events that befell him before the night of his turning. A hungover young Irishman befriended by an odd stranger. A sword fight, both men dead. "Adam?"
The distinct-nosed man stared at him fearfully, and Angel realized that the smell of blood had made his game face come out unprompted. He forced his face back to normal. The man stopped squirming to look at him for a moment, squinted, then blinked again. "How do you know I am this Adam you seek?" he asked in what seemed a Welsh accent, though not exactly.
Everything about this man screamed that he *was* Adam. Angel smiled and let him go. "It's me. Liam. From Galway, 1753. From the pub." He felt very strange *introducing* himself like this. For one thing, he hadn't even used his given name since then. Not since his younger sister had let him into his family home, thinking he was an angel, returned from the dead. She hadn't known *what* she was letting in...
But now was not a moment to think about that. Now was a moment to figure out what he'd gotten himself into now. He wasn't the only one returned from the dead. He stepped back slightly to look at Adam, who was straightening his coat and returning his appraising look. This wasn't possible...
But who was Angel to say what wasn't possible?
"What are you?" they both asked at the same time.
Methos chuckled. He was certain that the boy in front of him -he was still a boy by Methos' standards, even at 250+ years old- was stunned to see the man he knew as Adam standing in front of him, breathing, centuries later. But then, he was just as stunned to see the boy he had last scene in a fight in the woods in Galway, Ireland standing in an LA alley, sans accent, and distinctly *not* breathing. He was also missing the color of someone who saw the sun often. He grinned. "I think we've got some things to talk about. But just to settle your fears, I'm human. I'm not a ghost, ghoul, demon, or figment. And I could use a drink. Is there a good pub about?"
Angel was decidedly flustered by this turn of events. At least now he understood why he had been sent here. This wasn't a simple situation afterall. Almost without thinking about it he found himself leading his long-dead-sort-of-friend to what had once been Doyle's favorite bar. "We can talk there," he said, somewhat wondering if he was ever going to get the answers he wanted.
He led Adam down a few blocks to the bar and they went inside. It had always been Doyle's favorite because it was owned by an Irishman who'd come over only about ten years before. Mike McGillavry was one of a family who's business was brewing going back over three hundred years. So it was the real Irish stuff....not the cheap American rip-offs. As they entered and took seats as the bar he removed his coat. "It's been 100 years since I really had a drink. So don't be too insulted if I don't have much."
The other man chuckled and looked as if the thought amused him. But then, considering how reeling drunk Angel had been when they met, he couldn't blame the fellow.
Neither said anything as they gave their drink orders. Probably they were trying to figure out where to start. Neither had really known much about the other about 250 years ago. Now they knew even less. They just knew they had one thing in common - a very long life-span. Immortal both, human and other, they waited for each other to speak first.
Adam finally spoke, relieving Angel of the burden. "So, Liam..."
"It's Angel now," he interrupted gently.
Adam smiled and nodded. "Angel. Sounds like a name a woman might have pinned on you. But I'm thinking that's not it from the look on your face. Names are interesting things. Take me for example. I've gone by Adam many times. I still do currently. But it's not my real name." He picked up the frothy beer he was given and took a strong swig. "I've been alive a lot longer than you. After a while names begin to mean less and less." He looked at Angel and stuck out his hand. "Angel from 1700's Galway, I'm Methos, the oldest man on earth."
Angel just looked at him for a moment. He shook his hand quickly. "That's an odd way to introduce yourself," he said once they released hands.
"Not when it's the literal truth," Methos replied.
Angel just nodded at that.
"And you, Angel?" Methos prompted after a moment of silence.
Angel took a sip of his drink before he began. "I'm...a vampire." The words felt very strange in his mouth...and suddenly Angel realized he'd never actually told anyone before. Everyone who knew had either known before he met them or found out on their own.
"With a soul," Methos added. When Angel looked shocked, the Immortal continued. "You'd have to have one. Vampires have always been known for their lack of compassion. They suck blood, revel in the hunt and kill as much as feeding, and don't care much for society. You're here, in a respectable bar where you're friends with the owner, having polite conversation with me when it's nearly dawn. And you tried to save the man I was fighting."
"How do you know so much about vampires?" Angel asked. "I'm used to being either a myth or a nightmare."
Methos chuckled. "I'm over 5,000 years old. I've had time to learn the truth of most myths and legends. For many of those who've heard of Immortals, I *am* a myth and a legend."
Angel took that in without comment. In his experience myths and legends were more often true than not. Then something stood out in what the Immortal had said. "5000?" Angel asked in shock.
The Immortal grinned. "I was born in Sumer. I can't even remember the first time I died."
"The *first* time?" Angel was having trouble taking all this in. It was almost weirder than vampires and demons!
"Immortals can only be killed permanently by beheading. You stab me, I'll die, heal, and come back. Not too unlike the way vampires can only die by staking. Though we can die by fire too, like you. There isn't really a head or neck when you're done with that." He finished off his first beer and started another.
"But why kill each other at all?" Angel was intrigued.
"Because there can be only one," Methos said, smiling at his own use of the over-used phrase. "Each time we kill another, we gain that Immortal's knowledge, fighting skill, and power. That makes us harder to kill. Whichever Immortal is the last will be the most powerful thing on earth. If we didn't all fight, only those who are greedy and power hungry would have that power. That can't happen."
Angel gave that some thought. "I see," he said, though he only did to a point. This still didn't explain why Cordelia's vision had sent him out here tonight. It obviously was not to stop Adam...Methos. There had to be something else going on that the Immortal was a part of. "So...the Immortal you were fighting..."
Methos shrugged. "Just some young upstart. Like the one who attacked us in Galway, but with even less experience. He doesn't deserve to die, but he attacked *me.* And he wouldn't listen to reason. I would have let him go if I could have talked some sense into him. Otherwise I would have had to take his head."
Angel looked down at his drink, still untouched on the bar in front of him. What a way of life! Having to kill for no reason other than to live, but all that time having a soul to feel guilt, to regret, to remember. He picked up the mug and took a gulp. He was glad he'd only ordered a beer. The thought was enough to make him wish he were drunk enough that this might all be a dream.
"I see you understand," Methos sighed. "It's not an easy life. You lose a lot of friends, all your family, usually the woman you love."
Angel looked at him sharply at that. Perhaps they had more in common than he'd originally thought. "Yeah, it does," he agreed softly. He stood up suddenly then, not wishing to dwell on that thought.
Methos looked at him slightly startled. "Where are you going?"
"You said it yourself; it's almost dawn," Angel said as he grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. "I need to get back to my place." He paused for a moment. "We could continue this conversation there, if you like."
Methos nodded. "I just got in to LA. I've got nothing better to do."
Angel led Methos down into the sewers and across town, arriving at his apartment just after dawn. "Make yourself at home," he said as they entered. "You're welcome to anything in the kitchen, just let me change.
A night of chasing you down through the dirty end of town leaves much to be desired in the way of cleanliness."
The older man smiled. "Thanks. Go ahead, I'll be here."
Angel didn't doubt that he would be. He quickly stripped, showered, and changed into clean jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. When he came back out he found Methos in the recliner, a bottle of Coke in hand.
The Immortal grinned. "You weren't kidding about the lack of good liquor in this place."
Angel smiled. "Do you ever drink anything else?"
The grin faded. "Not much in the last couple of thousand years." Methos settled further back in the chair and took a long drink of Coke. It obviously didn't have the effect he wanted. "It takes an awful lot to get me more than a little tipsy. One of the advantages to being immortal: no worries about your liver, heart, or anything else breaking down. In fact, they work overtime. Always regenerating." He sighed pensively.
Angel pulled a soda out of the fridge and sat on the couch, quietly. It was so quiet that he almost jumped when the other man spoke again.
"Li-Angel. Have you ever lost the most precious thing in your life?" Methos didn't look up, but Angel heard the catch in his voice.
Angel felt his own throat constrict at the thought. He knew exactly what Methos was talking about, but couldn't say it. Besides, he'd only just met this man...or met him again. Still, Angel felt Methos might be one person who could understand him. He stood abruptly.
Methos blinked up at him curiously. "Where are you going?"
Angel did not respond immediately, but grabbed a book off the top of a pile on the table. The worn leather cover could no longer be read, but Angel wasn't interested in the words right now. Instead he pulled out a photograph, worn and wrinkled from excessive use as a bookmark. He held out the picture for Methos to see. "Is this the sort of thing you're talking about?" Angel asked.
Methos blinked at the image the vampire put it front of him. It was a stunningly beautiful blonde, very young, no more than twenty, probably younger in the picture. He looked up at Angel. The boy's eyes were wet. "Exactly what I'm talking about," he replied.
Angel nodded slightly, holding the picture close to look at it once again. He touched the image almost reverently before closing it into the book once again. "Her name's Buffy," he said softly as he put the book aside.
"She's beautiful," the Immortal smiled sadly, thinking of his own *long* lost beloved. "What happened that you aren't with her now?"
Angel sighed and sat back in the couch. "It's... I can't... It's not right for us to be together," he faltered uncomfortably. "It's a long story." Not that time was really a concern either of them had... "What about you? Who was she? Whoever you're missing?"
Methos smiled. "You don't get off that easily. If I talk, so do you," he sighed. "She was the most beautiful thing in history. We were together for almost three-thousand years. And then I lost her."
"Lost?"
"She died at Carthage."
Angel was silent for a moment, having to remind himself, yet again, that this man had been alive since the beginning of civilization.
"I'm sorry," Angel said softly, feeling a little silly for apologizing for a death that happened 2200 years ago. However, he knew without a doubt if Buffy died he would be mourning her for centuries to come. There was that small comfort; at least Buffy was still alive. Small comfort.
Methos nodded. "She was an amazing woman, my T'zara." He took another drink of coke, emptying the bottle. "I don't think I've talked about her to anyone in.....two thousand years. For centuries I could think of little else. I failed her, and it was all I could do to keep from going mad."
Angel said nothing, thinking about Methos' words. Failed her... It was one of Angel's greatest fears. Well, that and killing her, and he'd almost managed the latter. "Failed her?" he asked aloud.
"She should never have been in that battle," the Immortal sighed. "I should have protected her. But instead I was swept up in my own battle fever. When it was over, I couldn't find her. I couldn't sense her. I felt the hum of a quickening during the battle, but I was too caught up to notice. If I had only stayed with her." His voice broke, and it was all Methos could do to keep from crying.
That only made Angel feel worse. It was one of his greatest nightmares...and an image he had seen repeatedly during his tortures in Hell. Buffy's death while he wasn't there to save her terrified him. Still... "You can't always be there," he whispered.
"For three *thousand* years we were together," Methos glared at him, but the anger was at himself. "I trained her, loved her, took care of her. She died. Somewhere, I failed. Sometimes, there's nothing you can do. But that doesn't make it any easier. The wondering. The *guilt.* And no matter what you try...you can bury the pain, or make it go away."
"Three thousand years!" Angel said, surprised once again. "She was like you...Immortal."
Methos nodded.
"Does that make it any easier?" Angel asked, partially to himself and not exactly expecting an answer. "Being...the same?"
"Not at all," the Immortal replied. "I've been married 68 times, and I loved them all....but none as deeply as her. What would *you* do if for three thousand years you had a constant companion, and then suddenly, one day, you had no one?" The question was hypothetical, but it hit a nerve in both men. "There's nothing I wouldn't give to have her back."
There was nothing he could say to that, so Angel remained silent. He couldn't imagine loving 68 women...250 years, and he'd only fallen in love once. He couldn't imagine 3000 years with her, either. He only wanted 5...10...60....a human life span by her side. But he'd already given up one chance at that. He could not remain at her side like he wanted and protect her like he wanted. Better that he was not in her life at all.
"What about you?" Methos spoke again. "I said I'd talk, but only if you did. Why aren't you with this Buffy of yours? And don't give me any of that 'she deserves better' crap. All women deserve better. Problem is men don't *come* in perfect."
Angel gaped for a second, no words coming out. "Well..."
Methos looked at him slightly annoyed. "Don't tell me *you* left her for as dumb a reason as that."
"It's not that simple," Angel defended himself, unable to work up the energy to be properly offended. "I'm a vampire. Cursed, isolated in darkness, drinking blood... She's the Slayer. There's enough darkness in her life without having me there as well. Maybe she can't ever be normal, but she deserves at least something in her life that is. Someone who can go into the sunlight with her, someone who can grow old with her, who can give her children, who can..."
Angel trailed off before it got *too* personal.
Methos scoffed. "Did you ever think maybe you bring light to her world? She will *never be* one of them. She is one of us. The rest of the world will never know what she really is. And she needs someone who understands her. You certainly aren't likely to die before she does, and you can't give her children. Would it be *safe* for her to have children? Who would protect her? Who would protect *them?*"
Angel was stunned at the tirade that was pouring over him like a tidal wave. And Methos wasn't finished.
"I'm an Immortal. Do you know what that means? Thousands of years of moving on every time you're killed. Leaving everyone behind. Killing to live, and never...*NEVER* being able to have children."
The vampire looked up at him, stunned silent.
"You didn't know," Methos continued, the force falling out of his gail as fast as it had hit. He slumped back in the chair. "Not once has an Immortal ever been able to have a child. I can't sire one....and T'zara couldn't carry one. It's never been explained. But at least we had each other. Thousands of years sounds like forever, but it's not. If anything, it accents how short most lives really are. In a blink someone you've met has grown old and died. Wasting time on doubts and arguments...it's a waste of life. Who wants *normal,* which changes every day, when you can have someone who understands you? Who needs *your* understanding and support in return?"
Angel wasn't done yet though. "Who could turn on her without a moments notice?" he said angrily back. "Already she bears a scar that I gave her...and I enjoyed it. And that was with my soul! Without it...I won't let that happen again. And the only way - the *only* way - to insure that is to stay away."
Methos shook his head. "Lovers turn on each other every day. Any time I could have had a dark quickening, or she could have. And one of us would have had no choice but to kill the other, to keep them from possibly destroying the earth. It could still happen. I've seen good people take innocent lives while controlled by darkness. Only one thing can successfully combat darkness and hatred, and that's love. I've known hate. I've *been* hate." He stood and headed toward the elevator. "I need a drink. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Angel simply nodded as his sort-of-friend left the room. It was obvious he didn't understand what Angel was going through. What did he know of the joy of killing? What it felt like to torture someone, then take their life. He was still wondering when a bottle landed in his lap with a soft thud. He looked up. Irish Whiskey.
Methos nodded. "The store down the street was open. I picked up a few." He sat down again. "I can see on your face that you don't believe me."
Angel laughed and told the man what he had just been thinking.
The Immortal's face went cold as stone. "I haven't known the joy of killing have I? Have you ever heard of the Four Horsemen?"
"A myth," Angel replied, then realize what he had just said. In the light of their earlier conversation...he shuddered. "You?"
Methos opened his bottle and took a long pull, taking half of it in one drink. "We were killers, murderers. We tortured and raped the innocent. Stole everything they had, and enjoyed every minute of it. I'm not proud of what I did then, but I can't deny that I loved it when that was me. I was Death, and that cold hate filled me, filled the empty place inside me." He finished the rest of the bottle.
Angel opened his own bottle and took a sip. It burned warmly down his throat, a feeling he hadn't known in over a hundred years. But the flavor was familiar. He took a longer drink and looked up at Methos.
"I don't think..." Angel stopped and tried again. He couldn't understand what it was like to *choose* to kill, to torture. All those memories of deaths at his hand were out of his control. he took another sip. "I would never hurt her...hurt anyone...intentionally. But when...There was nothing I could do to stop it. Maybe we don't understand each other completely, but we both know what it feels like to kill." he looked at Methos once again. "How could you choose such a thing?"
Methos looked embarrassed. "I've asked myself that a million times. Really, I lost control after T'zara was gone. All I felt was grief at first. But hate is often born of grief, and when offered the change to get revenge on the people who killed her, I jumped at the opportunity. But it didn't stop there. It continued. And I couldn't make myself care about what I was doing. I was a monster by day *and* by night." He took a drink. "What I did was inexcusable. I know that. I knew that then...but I didn't feel any guilt. The cruelty filled the hole in my heart. But it didn't help to close it. I ignored my pain as long as I could. I couldn't do it forever." He emptied the second bottle.
Angel couldn't imagine not feeling guilt. Or, actually, he could, and it frightened him. He took another drink. "Pain is pretty hard to ignore," he muttered in agreement.
Methos didn't answer immediately, and the two men sat drinking in silence. The number of empty bottles on the coffee table grew. "We're hopelessly flawed of course," he said at last. "Inflicting pain on our own souls in a sad attempt to make us feel that those we have hurt feel better because of it. How can they? They don't even know we suffer over what we've done to them. We're too afraid to tell them. Fearing that they'll say we deserve it. It's different when they say it than when we do to ourselves. It stops being a private pain...penance, and becomes a public torture. So we keep it bottled up, soaking through our bodies down to the deepest marrow." He paused, and looked up to meet Angel's eyes. "But what if we told them? And they understood our pain, and told us that our penance was enough. It's what we always want to hear, but fear to disclose. The rejection would destroy our lovely delusions. So we sink deeper into them, hiding from reality." He drank again.
It was like Methos was seeing into his thoughts. "I can't tell her," Angel said after another swallow. "She's seen enough...no need to reopen old wounds, right? She never brought it up...I never brought it up...and it's too late now anyway so why am I telling you this!"
Methos sighed. "Because I'm the first person you've met who is just as capable of wallowing in self-pity as you are." Another drink.
"I don't wallow," Angel replied defensively.
Methos just looked at him.
"Okay...so maybe I sort of *dwell.* And I admit I brood a lot. But in all my life...death...whatever...there have only been 2 years I can honestly say were good. 2 years versus 245...and that's not even counting Hell-time, which I don't even know how to count. So don't I have reason to brood? You had 3 thousand years. I had 2."
Methos watched the vampire finish off another bottle of whisky. He had a point about the amount of time he'd been able to spend being different from the Immortal's. "What is life without love, Angel? How much meaning does time have? It's all relative. I'm not going to get into an argument over who has more reason to wallow in denial and liquor. Yes, I had three thousand years with the woman I loved. But do you think that makes it any easier to live without her? Two years is such a brief amount of time. Just a blink in the length of life that you will probably lead. But it still hurts you that you can't be with her. Imagine what it would feel like if you and Buffy *had* had all that time together. Were sure you'd be happy lovers until the end of time? Then had that all ripped away in the span of a day?"
"It was. Ripped away in a day, I mean," Angel said, not paying much attention to the words anymore. "Not...not when I left...That had been coming for a while. And ...I think we always knew, deep down, that it wasn't going to work. But we got a chance, once. One day where I thought...we both thought...that we could just be happy lovers, not until the end of time, but until both of us died mortal deaths." He sat back in the couch and finished off the bottle he was holding. "But it never works. It's never that easy."
He looked at Methos again. "I'm not saying you don't have as much reason to brood. I'm...just saying that you're lucky you had what you did."
"I know that," the older man replied. "But at least the love of your life is alive, and you know where she is. Just because you can't have a life like the rest of the world doesn't mean the two of you couldn't be happy with whatever time you still have. You're both young. You still have the chance."
Angel chuckled despite himself. "Young, huh? That's something I haven't been called in a long time."
"Age is relative," Methos pointed out. "Compared to me...you're still young."
Angel didn't let himself get too sidetracked, though. "Even so...we don't really have a chance. We never did."
"You love her," the Immortal said, setting down the empty bottle in his hand. "That gives you all the chance you need. Does she love you?"
"I...I hope she does. She did...but I left," Angel tried to explain. "She found someone new..." *Like I wanted her to,* Angel did not add.
"Are you sure?" Methos prodded. "She's human. Hearts aren't easily changed. It's amazing what rocky times two people can make it through if they just refuse to let things break them apart. Love doesn't always go smoothly."
"No it doesn't," Angel agreed, taking another swallow of whiskey. He blinked then at the empty bottle in his hand and the empty bottles strewn on the table. "There isn't anymore?" he said in confusion.
Methos smiled. "There are more in the fridge. If you're capable of getting it."
"Of course, I can," Angel replied, pushing himself up onto his feet, and immediately pitching forward onto the couch.
He chuckled when he looked up again. "Or maybe I can't," he replied. "You know what...I think I've had too much. I don't suppose you could get it?"
Methos chuckled. "I've had more than you, my friend. But, I think I can manage." He managed, but just barely. Methos stood, pausing a moment before stepped a little too steadily into the kitchen to retrieve the last bottles of whisky. He grinned as he handed one off to Angel, placing the others on the table and taking one for himself.
Angel took another swallow from the bottle he'd been given. "I really shouldn't have anymore," he said.
"Hey, it's not like you can die from it, right?"
Angel chuckled. After four bottles of liquor almost anything was funny. "I am going to be *so* sick tomorrow."
"Brings back memories, doesn't it?" Methos took a drink. "Now all we need are the women."
"Yeah." Angel started to laugh again, but it died in his throat. "This conversation just went full circle, didn't it?"
Methos nodded somberly, if nowhere *near* soberly. He hadn't be really drunk in a long time, but it was more by his Immortal genetics than for lack of trying. T'zara had always hated his drinking, and he hadn't done much while with her. After her death there hadn't seemed to have been much point in staying sober. "It did. I envy you."
Angel stared at him. "Why?" he asked incredulously.
"Because the most precious creature in the world to you is still out there. Safe, and probably happy, and knowing that you are too, even if you aren't together." He took another drink. This was depressing. "Someday, for no apparent reason, she could come through your door, or maybe just call to say hello. I don't have that chance, that hope."
"I'm sorry," Angel faltered. Methos did seem to know how to make his relationship issues seem small. Quite a talent. "Still...and Cordelia would point out now how addicted to brooding I am, and she'd be right... The last time that Buffy came through that door... Well, saying it went badly would be a gross understatement."
"What happened?" the other man asked.
Angel drained the bottle in his hand before answering. Slowly he told Methos everything that had happened: Finding Faith in LA, Buffy coming in when he was comforting the other Slayer, the ensuing arguments, the scene in the Police station, and his going to Sunnydale to apologize and everything that happened there. "After all that I can't imagine her wanting to see me again." He looked up at the sound of chuckling. "What?" he asked, feeling affronted.
Methos stifled his laughter. "I'm sorry, but I've been where you are. It's not exactly a new scenario. The majority of relationships have arguments very similar to yours, whether or *not* the couple is perfectly normal or not. T'zara and I had some humongous fights, usually ending in one of us getting killed or at least stabbed. There's a very fine line between true love and absolute hatred, and feelings for someone makes any little sway in either direction all that much more extreme to the people feeling it. You both lashed out in anger, and forgave each other afterward. Life isn't a soap opera."
"It sure feels like it sometimes," Angel muttered. His mind wandered, though, to Spike of all people. More specifically, something he had said once. /You'll be in love 'till it kills you both. You'll fight and you'll shag and you'll hate each other 'till it makes you quiver but you'll never be friends./ He nodded slightly to himself. "Maybe you're right."
Methos didn't give any smug reply, but instead smiled at him. "Women are the better have of the gene pool, and we'd be fools not to admit that we need them. Our sanity depends on it." He looked at the nearly empty bottle in his hand. "You know, for a drunk, I talk an awful lot."
Angel couldn't help but laugh slightly at that. "I think it's *because* I'm drunk," he pointed out. "I never talk this much; just ask. Especially not about..."
"Buffy?" Methos provided helpfully.
"Yeah. I think about her all the time, but I don't talk about her."
"I'm the same way about T'zara. The difference is no one else around today even remembers her. At least they don't say so if they do. And she was very powerful," Methos smiled nostalgically and raised the bottle to his lips. "She was amazing."
"Buffy was...is...amazing too," Angel reflected as he reclined on the couch. "You should see her fight. She's so *strong.* Everything about her is...more. She thinks and feels so strongly. And she chose to share that with me. Amazing." He took another swallow.
Methos held up the last of his whisky in what was obviously a shaky toast. "To days gone bye, and the women who make them worth remembering."
Two bottles were raised, and neither dropped until they were both emptied to such a worthy cause.
(Continued)