Disclaimers: None of these characters are mine. MacLeod, Methos, Joe, and the Highlander universe belong either to Panzer/Davis, Gaumont, or Rysher - I don't know who owns what, I just know it's not me. I mean no harm, I make no money.
Most importantly, the character of David Grossman belongs to Sandra McDonald, used here by permission. I met him in her story "The Victories We Claim," and I found him so compelling a character that I was inspired to write what could be called fanfic of fanfic. Thank you so much, Sandra, for being so generous with my borrowing your character and for your so-helpful betaing all those years ago when these stories were first written.
This was originally published as a trilogy "Yom Kippur," "Communion," and "Kaddish."
This is set shortly after Revelations 6:8, back in Seacouver.
Yom Kippur
by Teresa C
"You expecting someone, MacLeod?" Methos asked, tensing.
MacLeod also felt the presence of an approaching immortal. He shook his head at Methos, who lounged on a barstool farther down the bar. He wasn't concerned about whom the new arrival might be. He only hoped it would force the ever-cautious Methos to leave. MacLeod found the older immortal's presence irritating.
He had told Methos their friendship was over, even before Bordeaux, but after the deaths of the other Horsemen Methos had refused to vanish from MacLeod's life, and MacLeod hadn't quite found the strength to tell him to go, again.
Joe, who knew how to read the signs in his friends, watched them from behind the bar. Methos stood, put money on the bar, and shrugged into his raincoat. He faded through the darkened club toward the rear exit. You're assuming they're coming through the front door, MacLeod mused.
The assumption proved to be correct. The front door admitted a rain-soaked immortal of average height with dark hair and eyes, wearing grey woolens. He paused just inside the door, removed his wet cap and coat, and scanned the crowd in Joe's. The Thursday night crowd was subdued and not very thick; it was early yet. There were some empty tables and only MacLeod at the bar.
MacLeod watched the man trying to identify the other immortal in the room. After careful study of the people sitting at tables, the man made eye contact with MacLeod. MacLeod lifted his glass slightly, and gave him an ironic smile.
Joe had moved his glass-drying operation to MacLeod's end of the bar. "Know this guy?" he inquired.
"No. You?"
"Nope. Not by sight, anyway."
The newcomer met MacLeod's gaze with a look which might have been disappointment, replaced swiftly with a genial expression. He approached MacLeod slowly, though with no outward suspicion or hostility. He might have been being cautious. MacLeod turned his bar stool so he faced the man. Let the other make the first move. He was the intruder here. The man paused a few feet from MacLeod, holding his cap in both hands. He ducked his head slightly.
"David Grossman," he offered.
"Duncan MacLeod," MacLeod returned, and after a moment's thought, held out his hand. Grossman gave a relieved smile and took it. Duncan gestured to the stool next to him, and the newcomer looked expectantly at Joe.
"What can I get you?" To MacLeod's ear, Joe sounded neutral, not friendly. He wondered if the name Grossman meant something to the Watcher.
"Anything you've got that's hot," the man replied, piling his wet outerwear on the stool next to his own.
"That'd be coffee," Joe replied, "How do you take it?"
"Two sugars, please."
MacLeod studied the smaller man, assessing. He looked as if his first death had occurred in his early forties, and he had a very unassuming manner and body language, but his movements suggested fitness and conditioning. His dark hair curled and glistened with rain, and seemed oddly shaped, somehow. When he turned his head to survey the bar area, MacLeod saw that he wore a yarmulke.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Grossman?" A hostile question in a non-committal tone. How would the other immortal choose to take it?
Grossman gave a knowing smile to the mug of coffee Joe slid in front of him.
"I'm looking for a man," he replied. No evasions. He looked directly at MacLeod, but included Joe in his regard. "I thought you might be him, but you're not. Maybe you can help me."
MacLeod schooled his features carefully to hide his sudden inner tension. Joe, however, paused in his glass drying, and lifted expressive eyebrows. Grossman turned to Joe, but still watched MacLeod.
"His name should be Adam. It might be Adam Pierson. I was told I might sometimes find him here. Do you know him?" This last was addressed to the mortal, the bartender, the one who might have information and less reason to withhold it.
Joe didn't even give MacLeod a glance. MacLeod knew that keeping secrets was so much a part of Joe that it would take more than this to catch him off-guard.
"What do you want him for?" Joe asked, appearing to think hard. Grossman looked down and lifted the coffee to drink. Then he smiled and addressed his answer half to MacLeod.
"My business with him is personal. We are old friends." He looked expectantly from one man to the other.
MacLeod stayed silent.
I want him to live, he had shouted to Cassandra. Then he hadn't seen her again, and Methos he couldn't seem to shake.
"Sorry, I'm afraid I can't help you," Joe said. The man studied both their faces for a moment, then nodded. He reached into his pocket and produced a business card.
"I'm only in town for one night. Perhaps if you should meet him you could give him this for me." Still smiling, he pressed the card toward Joe. Joe hesitated, then took the card. "Thank you," Grossman said.
Joe turned away and busied himself at the other end of the bar, where two new customers had seated themselves. The place was slowly filling.
"Where are you from?" MacLeod inquired, neutral.
"Queens," the other replied. "New York," he added.
"And why are you looking for Adam Pierson?" Perhaps he would be less reluctant to admit his business now that they were talking immortal to immortal.
"Like I said, we're old friends. I knew him in New York after the War."
"Which one?"
"World War II," Grossman grinned. He seemed about to say something else, then changed his mind.
MacLeod considered. The man didn't have any of the antagonistic mannerisms he associated with head-hunting immortals. Still, he wasn't sure he had the right to arrange any meeting between two immortals when he wasn't certain of their intentions. And which of them was he protecting? Methos, he reminded himself, was not the mild-mannered researcher he had presented himself as. The fury MacLeod felt at the man he had thought of as a friend had long since settled into his stomach like a cold rock. The rock was there now.
"He might not be using Adam Pierson, now, but I hope he still uses Adam. I gave him the name," Grossman said.
"Why?"
"I had to call him something. He wouldn't give me any name."
"He still uses Adam Pierson," Joe reported, unexpectedly back with them, "He's on his way."
"You called him!" Grossman cried.
"Yeah. He made me describe you, but he agreed that you're a friend. He should be here any minute." Joe must have the number of Methos's cellular, MacLeod reflected. The older immortal hadn't been gone long enough to be at home yet.
Joe had never shared MacLeod's judgement of Methos's past. That puzzled him. MacLeod had somehow expected Joe to be the most sensitive of the two of them to the massacre of thousands of mortals. Strange that he should feel a twinge of jealousy that he had not been trusted with a cellular number. Why should he? Dammit, they were not friends.
"Wonderful!" Grossman cried, "Thank you, my friend. I think I will move to a table before they are all taken." He gathered his things and coffee, nodded to MacLeod, and settled in at a table.
"What did he say?" MacLeod asked Joe.
Joe shrugged. "He's a friend and he's on his way."
"Not like him to be so trusting."
MacLeod missed Joe's amused agreement as his senses were abruptly flooded by the awareness of an approaching immortal. Grossman looked expectantly at the front door, but MacLeod turned toward the rear, resting one elbow on the bar.
Methos appeared from the rear door, paused, scanned, and spotted Grossman. His eyes widened and a delighted grin spread across his face. David, he mouthed, and moved swiftly toward the man's table. Grossman stood to meet him, and the two embraced like friends who hadn't seen each other in half a century.
MacLeod returned to his drink, reasonably satisfied that the evening would see no mayhem. Joe returned to his other customers.
But before too long, to MacLeod's annoyance, Methos was back at the bar, seating his friend next to MacLeod, and taking the stool on the far side of Grossman. He introduced Grossman warmly to MacLeod and then to Joe. MacLeod found he couldn't snub Methos in front of the outsider. When the handshakes were finished, Grossman commented, "Your friends are very protective of you, Adam."
"Yeah, well, that's what they're paid for," Methos joked. "Draft beer please, Joe. And ..." he looked at Grossman.
"The same."
MacLeod watched the two men with curiosity. He had not seen Methos this open and friendly since the demise of the Horsemen. Actually, he hadn't seen Methos this friendly, ever. What would Grossman think, he wondered darkly, if he knew the truth about his friend?
Grossman had produced a fat wallet full of pictures, and seemed to be giving "Adam" a family history lesson. He enumerated each person's name, the circumstances under which they were born, whom they had married, and what career they had pursued. This seemed to go on for a number of generations. Methos paid careful attention, which MacLeod was convinced was artificial. Every now and then he would glance up from the pictures at MacLeod, his hazel eyes laughing. Then he would return to the lesson and respectfully inquire "Now did you say she was one of Eva's girls?" or "Why didn't they have any children?"
Finally, Grossman grew suspicious and closed the wallet.
"Have you so little interest in your family?" he remonstrated.
"Oh, David, they're not my family." Methos leaned back, grinning. "MacLeod, did I tell you David was my rabbi?"
"And here I didn't even know you were Jewish," MacLeod replied. He remembered something Methos had said once. He had joked about being older than God.
"I'll never make a good Jew out of you if you don't pay more attention to family," Grossman sighed. Methos patted the wallet.
"They matter to you, I know, David," Methos said kindly, "but Zofia's kids were grown and gone when I married her. They despised me. They thought I married her for her money. So I just can't care that much about her great-grandchildren."
Methos was grinning, but David looked uneasily at Joe, who had rejoined them. Mike, one of his bartenders, had arrived, and was dealing with most of the growing clientele in the bar.
Methos caught the look. "Joe's in on us," he explained.
"Oh, I see," he said to Joe, who grinned crookedly. Grossman looked surprised, but not concerned. He turned to Methos, "You made Mrs. Rosenfeld very happy." His tone invited a serious discussion, but Methos ducked it.
"But not her kids." He laughed and changed the subject. "Where are you staying, David?"
"Hotel," the other immortal replied, crinkling his eyes at his friend.
"No, no," Methos decided, "Come and stay at my place. I'll take you to your plane in the morning."
"Maybe I should. You don't look entirely well, Adam. How are you?"
"I'm fine!" Methos exclaimed. "David pulled me out of a depression once," he explained to the others. "Made me an honorary Jew in the process." This was far too forthcoming of him, MacLeod reflected. What was he feinting away from?
"God made you a Jew, Adam," David corrected, with quiet earnestness "by virtue of shared suffering." His words hung in the air, waiting for Methos to say something.
"One little tattoo," Methos finally said, negligently. Then he excused himself and melted into the crowd, in the general direction of the bathrooms.
David Grossman seemed unconcerned that he had given the conversation so serious a turn. MacLeod began to suspect him of being more at home with personal conversation than with friendly chatter.
"I never saw a man who needed to talk as badly as he did," Grossman volunteered, "but it was days before he would even tell me to get lost." He looked cheerfully at Joe over his mug. "That was a start."
MacLeod was torn between the knowledge that anything Grossman was likely to tell them was definitely not something Methos would want them to know, and a sudden urgent curiosity. Reminding himself that he owed Methos no special consideration, he allowed the curiosity to win.
"A concentration camp tattoo?" he asked.
Grossman nodded. "Bergen-Belsen."
MacLeod and Joe exchanged wide-eyed glances, but neither pursued the questioning. Grossman added nothing. MacLeod found he could not stop his imagination from revolving around what Nazi doctors might do to someone who could return from the dead.
Methos returned, ending the conversation which wasn't actually happening. Grossman took his turn, leaving Methos alone to his friends' scrutiny. While MacLeod struggled to decide how and if to inquire, Joe showed fewer reservations.
"You were in a death camp during the war?" he asked, not bothering to keep the awe out of his voice, as MacLeod would have done. Methos assented with a nod which also served to finish off his beer. Joe refilled it.
"Then I was in New York, which is where David made a project of me. I was a little out of it. Zofia Rosenfeld was a widow in his congregation. I wonder how he keeps serving the same community? He can't be his own grandson, when everyone knows he has no kids."
MacLeod watched as Joe played along, the two of them speculating how Grossman might do it, comparing notes on how other immortals had gotten away with similar identity sleights-of-hand. Interesting how we are now not talking about Bergen-Belsen, he mused. In fact, we're now not talking about Methos. They dropped the subject when Grossman returned.
"So, David," Methos asked, "how did you know where to find me? I've only just gotten a place here; I'm usually in Paris."
"Lucky for me you were in town, then. I met a woman who told me Adam Pierson might be found here occasionally. This woman, she hates you very much, Adam." If Grossman had worn glasses, his look would have scolded his friend over their rims.
He may have been a little taken aback by the response he got. All color faded from Methos's face, Joe set a glass down on the bar, too loudly, and even MacLeod tensed as if the threat were to himself.
"Cassandra?" Methos breathed. Grossman glanced swiftly at the other two men before returning his avuncular regard to Methos.
"I'm glad we're talking about the same woman. I wouldn't like to think there were two women who hated you that much. Adam, why does she hate you like that?"
Neither Joe nor MacLeod breathed, and Methos merely regarded the other man with a stunned look. The silence stretched. Clearly Grossman had a high tolerance for uncomfortable silences. Methos looked like he wished he were on another planet.
Don't leave, Methos, MacLeod urged silently. Don't do that to him.
Finally, Methos responded. His tone was light, but MacLeod could hear the careful control.
"Well, she has good reasons, David, but I'd really rather not tell you about it."
Fair enough. MacLeod looked at Grossman.
No deal.
"Why are you afraid to tell me?" asked Grossman.
"Because I can't bear to see you hate me too," Methos gasped out.
Suddenly MacLeod wished he were on another planet, but the one frightened appeal Methos cast at him, glued him to his stool. Joe was equally immobile, ignoring calls from patrons around him as Mike tried to be everywhere at once. Joe made a slight movement of his hand toward his friend, then grasped a cleaning rag.
"How could I hate you, Adam? You are a good man. I know it. It can't have been anything so bad." Grossman was genial, and patted Methos's arm reassuringly.
But Methos had all his defenses up.
"Oh no you don't," he declared. "I know this one. 'You're a good man, it can't have been so bad.' You say that so I'll blurt it out just to prove you wrong. Don't play those games with me David, I know them all."
Grossman blinked, but neither defended himself nor relented.
"Adam, I won't hate you. But I have to know what you did to Cassandra."
"Why?" it was almost a cry.
Don't push him, David, was now MacLeod's silent appeal. Don't do that to him. The rock in his stomach had changed from fury to fear.
"So I can help her."
"Help her!" Methos sounded incredulous. "You want to help Cassandra!"
"Of course. God has sent her to me, like He sent you to me. She has been devoured by hate for a very long time. It's a terrible thing. And such a beautiful woman."
"You ... want to help Cassandra." This time it was a statement, an idea. Methos's eyes went inky black as he looked at his friend like he wanted to see his soul. Then he looked away, at Joe. Through Joe.
Once again, Joe proved more courageous than MacLeod. He tried to intervene, to head off the coming catastrophe.
"David, maybe it would be better if ..."
But, MacLeod realized, there is no interference allowed once challenge has been made and met. Methos cut him off.
"You want to help Cassandra, like you did me."
"It's my job. I have to, if I can."
"Maybe you can, maybe you can." Methos sounded distracted. "Did you ever meet Darius?"
"I never had the pleasure."
"No, no, well ..." he took a breath. His face, which had flushed, paled again. He clutched his empty beer mug with both hands, darted an agonized look at Grossman, and began.
"Well, to begin with, I kept her captive, as my sex slave, for some time."
"You did." Grossman sounded doubtful.
"Yes." Methos studied his mug and pressed on. "I ... raped her, every night, or, well, once a day or so, I guess."
Grossman was still. MacLeod was grateful for the noise which now filled the bar. Conversations definitely did not carry. The Tuesday and Thursday night string band had begun the evening's blanket of noise, and it had become difficult to hear any conversation more than a few feet away.
Methos glanced again at the other man, and continued, now looking at something over Joe's shoulder.
"And that's just the beginning. If you want to help her, you'll need to know the real harm I did to her. I made it so she couldn't love."
No one said anything.
"I made her love me, and then I laughed at her. Then I manipulated her into loving me again, and I betrayed her. I did it three times just to show her how helpless she was. I had all the time in the world, you see."
"Adam, no."
"Oh yes." Methos looked straight at his friend now, but his eyes were seeing another age. "But it took more than that. I let her love other people. Friends, children. Then I ..." he focused abruptly on Grossman as he paused, "killed them in front of her."
As Grossman tried to protest, Methos rushed on. "It worked really well. I conditioned her to fear love. I wouldn't be surprised if she still can't love anyone."
"Adam, Adam!" Grossman cried, "To cut someone off from loving other people is to cut them off from God!"
"Don't forget, killing people does that too," Methos's voice was bitter. "Or, no, I forget, that sends them to God, doesn't it. Never could keep that straight."
MacLeod almost gasped. Methos was ice and steel. He went on. "David, I didn't think in those terms, but if I had, I would have wanted to cut her off from God."
"Why, Adam, why!" Grossman sounded very distressed.
Methos abruptly shrank into himself. "To keep her to myself, of course. So I could own her completely, dominate her, break her ..."
"When was this?"
"A long time ago. She'll tell you. She never broke though. She was magnificent."
"You loved her!" Grossman sounded horrified. Methos laughed a bitter laugh.
"I wouldn't tell her that, if I were you."
"Adam, I cannot believe this," Grossman's tone was resolute.
Methos regarded him with a detached, calculating look. He leaned forward, and spoke fiercely. "David, you have to believe it. If you don't, you won't believe her. She will know you don't, and then you can't help her. Listen to me. She will tell you I was a killer. I killed thousands, tens of thousands, of people. I was good at it. I enjoyed it. I destroyed every member of her tribe, and that was nothing! One of hundreds of tribes. Don't let any fondness for me cloud your judgment. It's all true."
The answer is yes. Oh, yes. The pain behind Methos's words set every nerve MacLeod had to aching. Could David hear that pain? Of course not. He wasn't meant to. Had it been there when Methos had bludgeoned MacLeod with the truth? With almost the same words? He hadn't heard it then.
Bewildered, Grossman appealed to MacLeod and Joe.
"You don't believe this of him, do you?"
Joe looked down, but MacLeod felt that something more definite was called for. He actually looked at Methos, but the world's oldest immortal wore his most inscrutable look. Would telling the man the truth hurt Methos or help him? Did MacLeod want to hurt Methos or help him? He tried to picture Methos with the Horsemen, and torturing Cassandra, but, unbidden, the images of Methos with Alexa, and grieving at her grave, intruded.
He met Grossman's agonized gaze, and nodded.
"But Adam, Adam ..." Grossman turned back to the other man. "You make yourself sound like ... a Hitler!"
Oh no.
Methos had chosen his path, and he didn't shrink from it.
"David, Hitler felt he had a moral reason for what he did. I never bothered with that. Hitler did have a higher body count, though."
At that almost-joke, Grossman began to tremble. He stood and began to fish in his coat pocket.
"Adam, I cannot stay at your place tonight," he declared with vicious calm.
Methos nodded. "Hotel then," he said.
Grossman extracted his wallet. "And I think I have to go there now." He took out some money for Joe, but Methos waved it away.
"I've got it," he said, a question in his tone.
Grossman froze, locking gazes with Methos. "I will let you buy my drink," he said deliberately, "for the sake of the man I thought you were."
"Thank you," Methos responded.
"I will have to know more details from you, eventually."
"Call me," Methos replied. " I'll tell you anything you want."
Grossman nodded slowly, collected his coat and hat, nodded to Joe and MacLeod, and walked out of the bar.
Joe slid an icy bottle of beer into Methos's hands. It was faster than filling his mug, MacLeod guessed. Methos gripped the bottle and started to raise it to drink, but collapsed forward onto the bar before he got any further.
MacLeod breathed. He wondered how long it had been since he had breathed normally. He looked at Joe. Joe shook his head. They both regarded the vulnerable-looking neck and upper back of the only surviving Horseman of the Apocalypse. MacLeod hoped he wasn't crying. It made him uncomfortable that the man was willing to weep. He had told MacLeod once that he was born before men were forbidden to cry, and had never really seen any shame in it.
Well, tears or no, MacLeod wasn't going to fail to speak, this time.
"Adam." He caught himself almost using the older name.
"What?" The other man's voice was muffled and terse.
"That was a damn fine thing you just did."
Methos sat up, dragging his palms across his face. He gave MacLeod a grateful look, but didn't risk saying anything. He fished out a twenty, put it on the bar, met Joe's moist eyes for a brief second, took the bottle of beer and his coat, and fled out the rear door, like all his demons were chasing him. The rock in MacLeod's stomach was gone, replaced with an aching in his chest. He wished fervently that he could behead those demons for his friend. And then he reflected with some satisfaction that he already had.
II
Days later, MacLeod found Methos at home, somewhat to his surprise. Or at least some immortal was occupying the brownstone Methos had recently rented as a Seacouver residence. MacLeod took the stairs three at a time, concerned that Methos would leave out another exit once he sensed someone's approach.
"Adam! It's MacLeod!" he called out.
He reached the door and knocked. The feeling of another immortal presence never faded.
He waited for what seemed an unnecessarily long time, but he was grateful for the chance to get his thoughts together. He really hadn't expected to meet the older immortal. He had expected the brownstone to be empty even of Methos's belongings.
He knocked on the doorframe again, rattling the screen with the blows.
"Adam?"
"What do you want, MacLeod?" Methos demanded from the other side of the door. MacLeod started. What was this hostility about? It had been three nights since MacLeod and Joe had unwillingly watched as Methos horrified Grossman with the truth, and, since fleeing the bar, Methos had not returned any phone calls. But, while MacLeod had been frosty to the former Horseman of the Apocalypse since their return from Bordeaux, he couldn't think of any serious reason Methos would have to be hostile to him.
"Would you open the door?"
Methos complied, but he held it open only enough to stand in it. His expression could not be called welcoming. "What do you want?"
"I'm checking to see if you're home. Joe is worried. You aren't answering your phone," he paused. "Can I come in?"
"No. I'm busy."
MacLeod considered. It was always possible he had come at a "bad time", but Methos's expression would be more, ... well... embarrassed, wouldn't it? It was also possible that he had mistaken the oldest immortal's continued presence in Seacouver as an interest in maintaining contact with MacLeod when it wasn't.
He couldn't very well pretend nothing had happened between them.
"So, su casa isn't mi casa anymore?" MacLeod held his breath.
Something flickered on Methos's face.
"I guess not," he replied after a pause, but, in a baffling contradiction to his words, he stepped back, pulling the door fully open.
MacLeod stepped just inside the townhouse and looked around. It was furnished much as Methos's place in Paris had been when MacLeod first met him. Eclectic and valuable objets d'art graced nooks and niches. The other furnishings had been selected to best display the collection of vases and sculptures. The exception was a bookcase on one wall, assembled out of boards and bricks. A remnant, perhaps, of Methos's graduate student persona.
MacLeod's attention was caught by the reclining terra cotta figure on the topmost shelf. It was a chacmool, ancient and gory emblem of Mayan human sacrifice. Between its hands, which should have held the still beating heart of its victim, someone had stuck a cheerful spray of daffodils. Someone with an ironic sense of humor.
Methos made no move to close the door. He held it as if waiting for his visitor to leave. He radiated un-welcome.
MacLeod took the door from him and shut it.
"MacLeod, I don't want company."
MacLeod ignored him. He moved around the sofa, which was placed in the center of the room, studying the decor. There was no evidence of packing boxes, but something was wrong here. What was it?
He spotted a framed picture of Methos and Alexa together on a beach. "Santorini?" he asked.
When Methos didn't reply, MacLeod looked up to find the other immortal had moved from his position by the door to stand closer to the couch. MacLeod wondered for a moment where Methos kept his sword.
He moved on around the living room and Methos mirrored his movements, keeping the couch between them.
MacLeod stopped.
Methos stopped.
MacLeod frowned. "What is the matter with you?" He hadn't meant it to sound so angry. Much of his anger at Methos had drained out of him the other night at Joe's.
"MacLeod, I'm in no condition to fight with you."
"Fight with me! What makes you think I want to fight you?"
"I told you I don't want company, and you're still here. Is this 'There Can Be Only One' time?"
"What?" Shock and fury rocked MacLeod. "Why would I want your head, now? What's the matter with you!"
"You've killed better friends than me for much less than what I've done, Highlander."
Sully. Cullen. Ingrid. How dare he?
MacLeod's anger burned white hot. He advanced on the slighter man, who retreated around the couch. MacLeod almost leaped over it. He didn't want Methos's head, he wanted the satisfaction of feeling his fist smash into Methos's face. The vision tantalized, but MacLeod recognized this level of fury as dangerously hard to control, and instead, whirled around and threw open the door.
Behind him, Methos spoke as mildly as if the Highlander had just returned a borrowed book. "Thanks for coming by, MacLeod," he said. For the briefest moment, Methos looked smug.
MacLeod froze. His anger froze with him. Puzzle pieces snapped into place. Three nights ago he had watched as Methos deliberately destroyed David Grossman's image of him, wielding harsh truths, and refusing to allow the mild mannered rabbi to believe the best of his friend. Refusing it so that Grossman would not doubt Cassandra's story, and so might be better able to give her whatever solace she sought. Then the master of manipulation had driven Grossman away with a callous joke about Hitler and body counts. MacLeod now perceived a pattern. He closed the door and turned back to Methos.
Methos's eyes narrowed. "I thought you were leaving," he complained.
"I bet you did."
Methos stepped back, looking annoyed and slightly alarmed. MacLeod did not advance. Instead, he turned all his meditation-honed powers of concentration to studying the oldest living immortal. He saw the man now with a focus he usually only achieved during the duress of mortal combat. He knew Methos had paid a high emotional price for the other evening's sacrifice. Methos usually vanished when things became unpleasant. He should have fled more than Joe's bar the other night. Something was holding him here. In this townhouse.
Whatever it was, the strain on the other man was obvious to MacLeod's strangely enhanced perception. Immortals might not succumb to sickness, but they could succumb to neglect and stress. Even Grossman had observed that Methos didn't look well, and Methos had said he was in no condition ... Now MacLeod could see the stress. Stress had hurled Brian Cullen into despair and addiction. Methos's drug of choice was considerably more mild, and, ... was nowhere to be seen. Not even any empty bottles. That's what had seemed wrong. What are you doing here, Methos?
"Uh, it's my house?"
It took MacLeod a moment to realize that he must have spoken aloud. Or else Methos had become a mind reader. No matter, he still held the older immortal with his focused intensity.
He took a step forward.
Methos took a step, not back, but to the side. His gaze flickered, once, to the left. In combat it might betray a concern, or telegraph an intent. Here, it was a clue.
What was to Methos's left? The wall. On it, a stereo and CD collection. Beside it, a small table with, ... the phone. Testing, MacLeod moved toward the phone.
Sure enough, so did Methos.
The red LED on the answering machine announced thirteen unplayed messages. Unplayed because Methos had heard each one as it came in.
"Why aren't you answering your phone, Methos?" MacLeod knew he said this aloud, for he was startled by the menace in his own voice.
Apparently, so was Methos. His eyes grew over-large in his pale face. He practically quivered. MacLeod was reminded, more than anything else, of an injured animal which wouldn't come out of hiding because it didn't know it was being offered aid.
His vision grew more eerie. It morphed from that of focus and concentration to a level of clarity which was almost mystical. The light in the room seemed to dim and grow around its main occupant. MacLeod could almost see a glowing, symbolic chain linking Methos to the phone. And the chain had a name on it.
"Grossman!" he exclaimed. Methos jumped. The vision vanished. What was that, anyway? "You're waiting for Grossman to call!"
If Methos was surprised that MacLeod had become a mind reader, he didn't show it, other than by a startled blink.
"It's my phone. I'll do what I like with it."
"But he might not call for days, or weeks! He might never call."
Methos flinched as if he'd been hit. "He said he would."
Well, there was that. MacLeod regarded his friend and noticed again the ache in his chest somewhere in the vicinity of the seat of compassion. Methos looked back at him, five feet away and completely unreachable.
"MacLeod, would you go if I just asked you to?" Methos implored.
Whether by accident or by plan, Methos had won now. MacLeod really was too well-mannered to stay where he wasn't wanted. Unlike Methos. Now he had to go.
"You know, you could call him."
"I could if he had a listed number."
You didn't get his number!
MacLeod left with a plan. Grossman had given a business card to Joe.
III
"MacLeod, I told you, I don't want company."
"Yeah, well, I'm coming in anyway."
Methos gave ground before the larger man, but took up a defensive position protecting the dining nook. And the phone. Funny how MacLeod now interpreted the man's moves in tactical terms.
Well, he had the killing blow, he hoped.
He reached into his grocery bag and removed the topmost six-pack. He placed it on the sofa table, and looked at Methos.
Pure gratitude shimmered on the man's face and form.
Touché.
"Okay, you can stay," Methos said, melting.
Triumphant, MacLeod followed him to the kitchen, where he passed the bottles to Methos, who relayed them into the empty refrigerator. A familiar act.
MacLeod studied the older man, groping for the mysterious clarity of vision which he had had before. Methos looked thinner, he noticed. Was he not eating? Did they starve you in the death camp, Death? Stupid question. Of course they did.
MacLeod riffled through his own memories of the war. He had never seen a concentration camp, not even after the war, but he had felt their effects. Shock and fury reverberated through the Allied forces as camp after camp was liberated, and ordinary soldiers saw what they had not prevented. MacLeod had seen the backlash when he visited a hastily erected American POW pen for holding the surrendering German soldiers. "How little can we feed them and still be within the Geneva convention?" the commander had asked.
He was not a cruel man. He and his men were in the war as a glorious rescue, not for any personal grudge. But they had seen a horror which made them hate.
When MacLeod protested the treatment of the prisoners, he met an immense stony wall of disinterest. A wall built neither of policy nor of sadism, but of pure sickened reaction. He had heard the stories, of course, but it was the eyes of those soldiers which haunted his dreams. You have not seen what we have seen.
MacLeod had never met a war he liked - not even in his youth, if he was honest with himself - but suddenly he had realized that somewhere, not so far away, this war had a monstrous heart of evil, a core of true darkness unlike anything he had encountered before. He had not seen it, but it made him shiver.
Methos had lived in it. Survived, as immortals always did, amidst the deaths of generations.
A clock struck the half-hour, banishing MacLeod's memories, but not quite returning him to himself. He looked at his fellow immortal, hoping for something to reassure him that they were both here, in the present. A mocking look, a cynical joke, would be welcome.
No such luck.
Methos sat across the table from him, regarding his beer. And, as if he were a reflection of MacLeod's thoughts, he was shivering.
MacLeod had to move. He stood and strode past Methos to the screened back door. Seacouver's eternal rain had started again, and a damp breeze blew through the screen. MacLeod closed the door. Maybe Methos was just cold.
Methos looked up at the action. MacLeod met his gaze, still trying to really see the man. He resisted an impulse to touch him, reminded again of the wounded animal coaxed out of hiding. If you got that far, you still didn't touch. The animal would lash out. What did you do? You... offered food and backed away.
"I'm calling for a pizza."
"Not on my phone!" Methos lashed out.
MacLeod drew his cellular phone slowly out of an inner jacket pocket, as if he were disarming himself at the point of a gun. "No, on mine."
Methos slumped.
MacLeod placed the call.
"You're paying for it," Methos warned.
"Why? I bought the beer."
"I'm out of cash. Banks don't deliver."
MacLeod nodded, replacing his phone. A thought occurred to him. "Is your home phone the only number he has?"
Methos nodded.
Oh. But, still . . . "You know, you could use your cellular to return calls to your friends," he admonished.
"I could if I wanted to talk to anyone." Methos sounded so desolate, so utterly alone, it was all MacLeod could do to keep from hugging the hunched shoulders. He had never been able to ignore another's pain. "It's something I admire," Sean Burns had said. Another friend he'd killed.
Burns. Burns would have tried to help Methos with talking. MacLeod could try. It would mean not avoiding the subject any longer. Would Methos allow it?
He sat opposite the man who had been Death on a horse, and tried to comfort him with words.
"Methos, what is it you're afraid of?" When Methos didn't reply, MacLeod went on. It wasn't hard to guess. "You're afraid of what she's telling him. You're thinking of all the things she could be saying. You're ... remembering things you did."
Methos didn't look up, but he began to peel the label off of his beer bottle. MacLeod was certain he was on target.
"Does it matter so much to you? What he thinks?"
MacLeod tried to imagine what Grossman meant to Methos. He knew Grossman had befriended "Adam" after the war. After Bergen-Belsen. "I never saw a man who needed to talk as badly as he did," Grossman had said. What had it been like?
You have not seen what we have seen.
To MacLeod's surprise, Methos answered. "I just don't want to lose all my friends over this," he said, very quietly.
The "over this" rekindled MacLeod's old anger. As if murder and rape were trifles which his friends ought to overlook! For a moment MacLeod's resolution slipped. Then he took a firm hold of it. He was a guest here. Methos didn't have to let him in.
"You never lost Joe, Methos." Surely the man had mortal friends who knew nothing about any of it. Maybe that's not what he meant. MacLeod reminded himself that Methos had killed probably his oldest immortal friend "over this". He thought again of Brian Cullen.
Go ahead, say it.
"And you haven't lost me, either. And Grossman ... is probably a better man than I am."
Mercifully, Methos let these declarations pass. MacLeod hoped he had heard them. Or maybe he hoped he hadn't.
"He's never going to call," Methos mourned.
If he didn't, MacLeod reflected, the tightly strung man before him might snap. "Yes, he is."
And soon, now.
MacLeod realized with a glance at the antique Seth Thomas clock, that he wouldn't have time to wait for the pizza before Grossman called. He took out the cash for it and set it on the table. He regarded the unhappy man huddled there. Beer, pizza, a phone call ... it was all MacLeod could do for him now. It was time for him to go.
"I'm coming back later. Don't go anywhere."
IV
Methos was still at home, to MacLeod's relief. He announced himself again.
"Come in, MacLeod," he heard clearly through the screen door. Despite the rain, Methos had his front door open.
He found Methos sprawled on his couch, a six pack on the floor. The pizza was there, too, untouched. But the place no longer felt like a prison.
Methos reached down and tossed MacLeod a beer. MacLeod caught it and grinned. Methos almost smiled back. His expression was odd, though. Distant.
MacLeod sat carefully in a chair which looked more surrealistic than functional. Dali never made chairs, did he? He reached for the pizza box and helped himself.
They drank their beers. MacLeod thought he had seldom savored a companionable silence so much. He waited for Methos to stop staring at the ceiling and break it.
"I forgot I would have to explain about being Methos."
Oh. Oh! Well, this was safer ground.
"How did that go?"
"I don't know. He didn't believe it."
"He told you he didn't believe you?"
"No. But I could tell. But that must mean he doubts Cassandra. She would tell him that much. Now I don't know what's going on."
MacLeod considered this. "How could you tell he didn't believe you?"
Methos sighed and sat up. "He didn't ask any of the usual questions."
"What do you mean?"
Methos slid to his feet and wandered around the room. "You know, did I build Stonehenge, was I Alexander's tactical advisor, did I design the pyramids. Those questions." His wandering brought him back to the pizza box. He extracted a piece of pizza and bit into it, his expression still distant. A 5000 year old man eating pizza.
MacLeod gave himself a mental shake. "I never asked you those questions."
Methos looked at MacLeod as he worked on his pizza slice. "I know. Why didn't you?"
Why? Several flippant answers occurred to MacLeod, but he rejected them. He sorted through his feelings for the truth. "At first there wasn't time. Later, well, ..." did he dare risk what would sound like a criticism? How fragile was the other man? "... you're not always very approachable."
Methos's expression didn't change. "I have no idea what you are talking about."
MacLeod let it drop. He took another piece of pizza, hoping it would encourage Methos to do the same. The other immortal really did look thinner. Peaked, his mother would have said. "Can I ask them now?"
Methos gave him a surprised look, then he looked down. "Okay."
"Did you build Stonehenge?"
"No. I was nowhere near the place."
"Who did then?"
"I don't know, MacLeod. The people who lived there at the time, I imagine," Methos's voice had a familiar, irritated tone. MacLeod was glad to hear it. "What am I, an encyclopedia?"
MacLeod affected a sigh. "Like I said, you're not very approachable."
"Point. Okay. Point taken," Methos allowed. He sank onto the couch and took a piece of pizza. "Care to try again?"
"Were you Alexander's tactical advisor?"
"No. I was a foot soldier in his army, though." And ...? MacLeod was sure he could see Methos struggle to volunteer information without being sarcastic. "I never made it to the Hyphasis. He wanted to establish a colony on the Jaxartes, and I was volunteered. Not that I minded. I've always preferred settling down to warfare." He glanced up at MacLeod, almost fearfully. "Most of the time, anyway."
MacLeod refrained from comment. He did wonder for a moment what Hyphasis and Jaxartes were. What was the question about the pyramids? Well, it didn't matter, he found he had a question of his own for the oldest of his kind. He had his own untended wounds. How could you do it? How could you enjoy it? "Did you ride with Kronos as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?"
Methos reacted to his feet and retreated to the bookcase. "That's not part of the legend."
"Maybe it should be. Answer the question." Please.
Methos was still. MacLeod waited. He had learned this waiting trick from Grossman. The chacmool kept its uncaring gaze fixed over Methos's head. The daffodils were starting to droop.
"Yes."
"Did you kill thousands of people?"
Methos looked out the window into the rain-slicked street. "Yes," he replied.
"Did you like it?" MacLeod held his own gaze steady, but gentled his tone. He'd had enough of judging, for now. He just wanted to finish this, to offer his friendship again, despite Methos's past. He was prepared for the answer, this time.
Methos shivered again, once, still looking into the distance. "Yes. I think."
What? He wasn't prepared for this answer! MacLeod traded one type of intensity for another. "You think!" he almost yelled.
Released, Methos turned away, to face the bookshelf. He wiped a hand across his face. "I don't really remember what I felt. It's more like a movie I saw that had me in it."
MacLeod's world reeled. How many times had he replayed their scene by Methos's car? Where Methos giggled as he boasted about how he had enjoyed killing people? Where MacLeod had nearly wept as he declared their friendship over? Methos had said he liked it. Had done little to keep the Highlander from believing he was eager to return to his old life. Had manipulated him again.
"You. Told. Me ..." he couldn't finish. He almost couldn't breathe.
Methos watched him. "Sorry," he said gently, and with utter sincerity, "It wasn't what you think. I just lost it."
Strangely, it helped. MacLeod took two deep, centering breaths. The rain, which had been falling quietly, began to drum the window glass. "You didn't, ... you didn't do that deliberately? To drive me away?"
"I would have much rather had your help."
"You had it anyway."
"I know. Thanks." They both listened to the rain. MacLeod felt better than he had in months.
"You could try that, you know," he offered.
"What?"
"Apologizing."
"Apologize to whom? The shades of the dead?"
"No. To Cassandra."
Methos paled. "I think not."
"Why not?"
"Do you really think there's an apology big enough? You have no idea."
"I think I do. She spent a week telling me about it in Bordeaux. Telling me what she's telling David now."
Methos winced.
"Worse, probably - she wanted me to kill you."
Methos positively flinched.
"You should apologize," MacLeod was unrelenting.
"It's laughable."
"So, you get laughed at. It's still the right thing to do."
"And you are the expert on the right thing to do," Methos hardly bothered to put sarcasm in his words. It was almost a statement of fact.
MacLeod didn't answer. He didn't have to.
The phone rang. Methos walked to it and waited. Answer the phone, Methos. Come back to your friends.
Methos picked up before the machine did. MacLeod smiled.
"Oh, David!" Methos turned a desperate expression on the Highlander. David! MacLeod scrambled to his feet and gathered his coat. He needed no preternatural vision to read Methos's plea.
As he pulled the door shut behind him, rain pelting his exposed neck, he heard Methos speak.
"No," he said, in a bemused tone, "I was nowhere near the place."
