It had been Endgame; it was over.
Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod, cousin to the late Connor Macleod of the Clan Macleod, had won. The world was safe… for now. But at what cost?
Connor was dead, when he wasn't supposed to be. Duncan had killed him; absorbed his Quickening when he died. But he wasn't supposed to have-- it wasn't supposed to be this way! Why did it have to end like this?
Because it had been Endgame, and he couldn't have fought it alone. Not and live, anyway. So what was he doing here, of all places? This had been Connor's fight-- not his! Connor had won-- not Duncan. He had felt it-- felt him-- coursing through his veins, taking over his body, still living inside him. Forever-- and forever it had been. And forever it would be, for as long as Duncan was alive.
It was over; Endgame was done. Finished, spent and exhausted beyond belief, Duncan passed out.
And that was how she found him ten minutes later.
Duncan awoke the next morning lying under soft covers in a semi-dark room. Slowly, not really wanting to, he looked around. There were dusky blue blinds keeping out the sunlight and a pale color on the walls that appeared to be cream. A closed, dark wooden door that looked as if it weighed a ton with a brass handle stood directly in front of him, a matching dresser and closet to the right and an old nightstand with a small lamp and a digital alarm clock on it beside the bed. He was lying on a waterbed, covered in a pale green silk comforter and a homemade quilt, his head cushioned by several pillows of soft materials and colors. Bewildered, cautious, the next thing he sensed was an immortal nearby.
He sat bolt upright, which turned out to be a mistake. He fell off the bed with an ungraceful thud. Immortal though he may be, but he was not immune to pain! His head felt like it had split with an ax, and the room spun. Through blurred vision he was only vaguely aware of being lifted back onto the mattress. He reeled despite the pain, and was rewarded with hefty swearing which quite clearly reached his buzzing ears.
"Close your eyes, dammitall, boy! And let me help you for God's sake!" The command was sharp, even if the voice was lilting and melodically rich and mellow. Strangely, no accent softened the very definite female voice, though lord knew it was a voice meant to have one! He obeyed her command, feeling too weak not to, and not really caring besides.
"Now, hold still. Let this salve work-- trust me, I don't bite guests… very often, that is," she added. Was she trying to lighten the mood? Who cares, he thought-- if she wanted me dead, she could've done it already.
"Here," said the melodic voice, "Drink this-- it'll help the pain some." He felt a cup of some kind held to his lips. Warmth arose from it, smelling of berries and some kind of herb that he couldn't identify. Well-- if it killed him, he didn't care right now-- Connor was dead by his hand; he deserved to die for that, at least. And the result would be only temporary anyway. So he took a deep breath, and swallowed it with his eyes closed.
It was hot! The liquid rushed down his throat in a pale burning sensation. "Scottish whiskey it isn't," said the voice in a laughing tone when he gasped, "But trust me-- it'll do the trick. I've used it many times m'self. Wait a few moments before you try to open your eyes, son-- stuff takes a while to work." Son? Just how old was this immortal? No one had called him "son" since his father, God rest his soul.
She was right, the pain was dulling quickly. Careful not to open his eyes just yet, he pushed himself upright against the headboard. Another thought occurred to him-- he still had his cloths on! Except for his shoes, he was fully clothed-- even his sword was in place! Not many immortals would've done him the courtesy of keeping him clothed, much less trusting him to remain with his sword. Just who the hell was this woman? Very slowly, very cautiously, Duncan opened his eyes.
His first impression was that she seemed genuinely concerned for him. Duncan read pure relief in her eyes and stance when he focused his burning eyes on her face.
"Good, you can still see," she said warmly, "That means no trauma. Ye didn't hit you as hard as I thought. For a while there I was afraid you might lose your eyesight, but thankfully I was wrong. Welcome back, Mr. Macleod." Duncan managed one of those cocky grins that had always gotten him women in the past, though he didn't really know why he was smiling when all he wanted to do was die.
"It seems God hasn't given up on me yet," he said, surprised at how raw his voice sounded, and at his own words. She took honey from a tray that she must have brought in and mixed it into the mug he had evidently drunk from, and proffered it to him again. "It'll help your throat, too, Mr. Macleod."
"So, you ransacked my wallet."
"Naturally."
"Fantastic."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment-- I think."
"Hah!"
She was very lovely. Beautiful would've been going too far-- but lovely seemed to suite her amber hair with copper streaks in it, serious brown eyes like milk chocolate, and Faye Dunaway mouth. Her skin was somewhere between beige and taupe, bordering on light tan, and she looked about thirty-five.
"You do this often?" asked Duncan. He sipped the wine-colored tea carefully this time. It was very soothing on his throat. He felt sleepy.
"What?"
"Take in injured, unconscious immortals. Risk getting your head cut off to save another." That last part had been bitter; he hadn't meant that. She didn't seem to notice, and if she did, she obviously didn't care.
"No," she said lightly, standing up and stretching her back. She was built-- not heavy, but she certainly had meat on her bones. Ample breasts and hips, muscles evident in her arms and fabulous abs, great legs… she made for a very enticing picture-- Methos would love her. But Duncan was not turned on-- all he could see was what he didn't have anymore. He needed to get off this train of thought.
"So," he said, fighting to stay awake, "What's your name?" She stopped stretching and picked up the tray. She looked at him, unsmiling, but not unkind.
"Meredith," she said, "Meredith of… well, nevermind. It was a long time ago. Good night, Mr. Macleod, when you wake up you can have a nice warm shower in a familiar place." And with that, she headed for the door, tray balanced on her broad hip.
He never got to protest-- sleep overtook him before he could form a reply.
Returning to consciousness this time proved to be less painful than before. Duncan's head still ached, but only just and distantly at that. It was more like remembering a migraine than really feeling any true pain. That was a relief. He opened his eyes.
What? He was back in his own apartment! How the hell had that happened? Meredith, he supposed, had taken him back after he fell asleep. Well, now, he thought, so this was what she meant by a familiar place. He turned over, and curled up in a ball with the pillow. Memories came drifting back, and the tears started falling.
This would never do. He had to stop crying-- go somewhere, maybe, where the memories weren't so painful. Duncan knew the perfect place for that…
So he got up, and traipsed off to the bathroom for that much-needed hot shower.
Two hours late found him entering Joe's Café. He sensed Methos before he saw him, and for a split second before going into the café, he'd panicked before he remembered that the bad guy was dead. He firmly got control of himself, and headed straight for Joe and Methos at the bar area. They both looked mildly surprised.
"So," said Joe after a pause, "Meredith took good care of you, eh? Never mind-- I can see for myself that she did." He took a glass from behind the counter and filled it with whiskey. Duncan regarded him with suspicion and surprise, the latter reflected on Methos's face as well.
"Methos," said Duncan slowly, "What do you know about this?" He turned to face the oldest immortal alive, who turned his dark eyes on the younger immortal. "I have no idea," he said. They both turned dusky gazes towards Joe expectantly. Methos raised his eyebrows, both of them knowing that the aging mortal knew more than he was letting on. Joe sighed, exasperated: "Alright, alright," he said frustrated, "Meredith is an immortal I sent after Macleod… just as a precaution. I didn't know who was going to win, even though all money said Mac would. Look," he sighed, running his hands through his gray hair, "I knew that it would be hard on you, and I wanted somebody there to take care of you whom I trusted. I knew Methos would've stopped me, and Meredith is… well, a good friend of mine," Joe finished with another sigh. Both immortals were regarding him indifferently. "Don't look at me like that!" he half-yelled, "It was her suggestion in the first place, anyway. I didn't want to at first, but when she asked again, I agreed that it might be a good idea. Meredith is good at things like that. In fact," his mouth twitched for a second, "Meredith is good at a lot of things. And she has—never mind." He waited, watching both his friends' reactions. They were slow in coming.
"You sent someone after me?" "You sent someone after him?" Joe put his head in his hands, shaking it. What a pair those two make, he thought. "Yeah, I did," he said with a note of anger and challenge in his voice. He brought down his hands with a small bang on the countertop. The two immortals regarded each other again. Duncan shrugged. Joe rolled his eyes and handed Macleod his whiskey, then turned to walk down to another customer who had just entered the bar area. Duncan caught his arm; "Thanks," he said meeting Joe's eyes intensely, "Thank you, my friend." Joe smiled, relief flooding the part of him that had worried even though Meredith had told him not to: "Hey, Mac, what're friends for?" he said with a smile. Then he went on to the other customers in the bar, sneaking glances at his two immortal friends.
"So," said Methos, turning to Macleod, "Who is this Meredith you two were talking about?" Methos rarely heard of an immortal he didn't know these days and the personal connection with Joe had his curiosity peeked. Duncan chuckled, his heart already feeling lighter. He took a sip of his whiskey that Joe imported especially for him before answering the older immortal.
"Meredith is the immortal that Joe apparently sent after me to make sure I was okay after my fight with… Well, I passed out, so it was good that somebody was there to take care of me. If I had failed, she would've stopped him. In any case, she took me back to her place and took care of me. Apparently, she told me, I almost lost my eyesight." Methos nearly spilled the beverage he'd been sipping on. Duncan sighed, "I guess I took a harder beating than I thought. Anyway, when I woke up, I fell out of bed when I sensed her." Again, Methos had a hard time swallowing his drink. It was very expensive wine, and Macleod seemed bound and determined to make him wear it.
"She helped me back into bed, and gave me a drink that helped to make the pain go away. But she drugged it with some kind of herb to make me sleep."
"So you didn't get to really see her, then?" asked a very curious and slightly disappointed Methos. Damn, he thought, why did he get my hopes up if he didn't even get a glimpse? Oh, well, maybe I'll ask Joe if she frequents the bar often…
"Actually, I did." Okay! Now we're getting somewhere! "So? What was she like?" Macleod hesitated. He seemed to be thinking about something.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I wouldn't call her beautiful, but I'd definitely say she was very lovely." You call that a straight answer and I'm changing my name to Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile. Methos waved an impatient hand; "Same thing, Macleod. What was she like? And don't avoid the question again or I'll pop ya one."
Duncan smiled over Methos's frustration, but he didn't know any other way to put it! "Well… Her hair is sort of an amber-honey kind of color with copper streaks in it. And that does not, by the way, appear to be a dye-job; I think it's actually natural. Brown eyes-- kind of like melted milk chocolate; serious eyes, but very expressive. Great skin, great body." Methos raised his eyes at that. Duncan practically smirked-- it was so like Methos to judge on sight alone. Too many years had taught the oldest immortal alive that what you see is what you get, and leave the beautiful women alone 'cause they can do some real damage if you let them in. Duncan took another sip of his whiskey.
"Well?" Methos prompted when it looked as if Duncan had stopped. Duncan looked at him blankly: "'Well' what?" he asked. Methos gave him an "Oh, puh-lease" look. "Well… that's it. There's nothing more to tell, really. We exchanged a few words, I fell asleep, next thing I know-- I'm back in my own apartment still in my street cloths. I decided to come here to… forget… and here I am, telling all my problems and strange experiences to an immortal that no longer cares whether he lives or dies, so long as someone is still fighting the good fight for him." Oops, he hadn't meant to say that. Cynical and hard-to-get-along-with Methos may be, but he didn't deserve that slap in the face. Duncan winced; "Sorry, Methos, I didn't mean that. I guess I'm still trying to cope with everything that's been happening. I came here to forget for a while, but all I can do is remember." Methos bit back several answers, all of them the wrong ones. Duncan was his friend, and like it or not, Methos had been too long without to give him any advice on the sort of thing Duncan was going through. All he could do was offer him support, and oddly enough, he felt that he could give it.
Joe sensed his friends needed him again, so he headed down to their end of the bar.
It was then that she chose to enter the bar.
Both immortals sat up straight and searched the café for the presence they sensed nearby. Joe joined in, sweeping the room quickly with his eyes. They came to rest on a figure that had stopped at the bottom of the stairwell. Joe smiled with genuine relief and happiness-- "Meredith!" he called, waving an arm in greeting as he plodded slowly towards her. Both Methos and Duncan watched them sharply.
Meredith emerged from the stairwell, walking forward to meet Joe with arms wide open. She was wearing tight jeans with a man's white long- sleeved shirt and black heeled boots. Her hips swayed seductively as she walked, whether she meant them to or not, and she flung her arms out to capture Joe in a hug and a kiss on the cheek-- two items he heartily returned. Slinging their arms about the waist, the pair made for the bar, smiling.
"Glad to see you up and about, Mr. Macleod," she said in her lilting voice. She had a smile, Duncan noticed, that could make the rain go away. Unsure of how to act, he granted her another woman-catching grin. She rolled her eyes, and unslung her arm from Joe's waist. Leaning forward, she caught him by surprise, flinging her arms around his neck and squeezing. After a nanosecond of hesitation, Macleod returned the embrace. He managed to get a peek at Methos's reaction as well, and smirked in spite of himself.
For some reason, Methos was feeling very left out of the show-- almost… jealous. That was so unlike him. And he didn't appreciate it when Duncan lorded Meredith's embrace over him, either. But what he did like was Meredith! Gods, the woman was gorgeous-- Duncan certainly had it wrong when he said lovely but not beautiful! If I didn't happen to know that Helen of Troy wasn't as awesome as the legends say-- and that she didn't have a face that launched a thousand ships-- I'd call her another Helen of Troy. What am I saying? Am I actually attracted to her? That's not too hard, considering! Wouldn't that make Macleod's day!
"Well," she was talking to him now, "I don't believe we've met before- - at least not face-to-face. My name is Meredith." She held out a graceful hand that had long fingers attached to it. What class-- what style! What!? Wait a second-- 'at least not face-to-face'? She's seen me before?
"You've seen me before?" he asked, incredulous. She smiled at him. Oh, yeah, sparks were definitely flying!
"Of course-- you don't get to be as old as we do and not see the infamous Methos at least once from a distance. Only, by the time you realize it, he's gone. Kind of like me," that last part intrigued him, but Joe had her attention again, talking about food. As Joe headed back behind the bar, Meredith gracefully slid a barstool between him and Macleod, avidly waving her hands and talking to Joe. Methos exchanged a look with Macleod-- evidently he hadn't missed her little comment either. Interesting, he thought, very interesting! The expression in Macleod's eyes told Methos that he was really curious… and a bit suspicious too. Mentally, they played Rocks, Scissors, Paper. Macleod lost.
"So, Meredith," said Duncan leaning casually on his elbow, "Just how old are you?" Oh, great one Macleod. Real smooth! She turned to face him, a mixed and unreadable look on her face. Duncan thought he saw pain reflected for an instance, but then it was gone. Joe was very quiet about pouring Meredith a strong dose of vodka. There's something not right here! Duncan thought to himself. Meredith cast her eyes downward for a moment, before returning with a soft smile. "Let's not talk about that, okay?" she asked quietly, taking her vodka and tipping it back quicker than any normal person would.
Methos looked at Duncan, and nodded. You, my dear, are a mystery I intend to solve! This was one woman he intended to… Well, what did he want to do about her? Oh… how about throwing her over my shoulder, carrying her up to my room, and ravishing the hell out of her? He watched her with detached awe as she tipped back five more shots with amazing speed. She turned towards him then, and he forced himself to focus on her words.
"Well," she said conversationally, "How are you, Methos? The last time I saw you, Cassandra was fleeing into the night. It's been a long time since then, hasn't it?" Methos waited for the torrent of painful memories that usually engulfed him whenever somebody mentioned Cassandra and his past, but the storm never even started. Meredith's gaze was warm and gentle, and he took his time in answering. Joe and Duncan were both watching him closely.
"Oh," he sighed, "Surviving." He grinned then, and added, "I still have my head!" She smiled then, dazzling him. She was so warm-- you could just feel it about her. It was so easy to grow only amiably cynical and cool after living so long, how did she keep living so fully? He envied her that, and found himself wishing he could have that carefree warmth back again.
They talked the rest of the afternoon. Meredith regaled them with tales of her past that had them all in stitches. She told them of how she and Joe had met when she'd stopped some crazy war protester from bashing his brains out right as soon as Joe had stepped off the train. Then they had dated, and she'd helped him as a watcher, too. Joe brought out sandwiches and beer for Methos, wine for Macleod, and the strongest vodka he had for Meredith. He smiled as he watched his friends talking, and joined in the conversations himself. He was glad that they had all hit it off so well… he just hoped that they'd still be this nice when they found out that Meredith wasn't in the Watchers' Database!
Joe also had his keen eye on the way Methos was reacting to her. It had been a long time since he'd shown any interest in another woman, but Meredith seemed to have opened him up. Maybe there could be something there-- he certainly hoped so! He wasn't going to be around much longer, and he wanted to know that his friends would be well taken care of when he… passed on. Joe didn't want to alarm anybody, but he knew that his heart wasn't what it used to be.
But enough of that! Meredith is here, everyone is having a good time, so why dampen the day with gloomy thoughts?
Meredith had been keeping an eye on Joe all evening. He was beginning to worry her-- he had been so keen on her meeting his two friends, and was it her or was he looking a bit gray in the face? She would have to ask Methos and Duncan about that whenever she had them alone.
Now, there's an idea! Meredith thought to herself, Methos and me… alone… hmmm, I can think of a few things I'd like to do with him all to myself! Whoa, down girl, down! How could she think of him like this! Hell, that's an easy one-- just look at him! No doubt about it, he was a good-looking one. Duncan wasn't too bad either, but Methos just plain sizzled! Oho, watch it, girl! You may actually fall for this guy, and you can't risk that kind of relationship at this point… at least not yet. Meredith shook herself when she found that she'd been staring unconsciously at Methos for some time. She would have to be very careful around Methos, or she'd forget herself and what she was. She was, after all, not really supposed to exist! She was a forgotten fable-- a myth not even remembered anymore. She was already old when Methos was born-- she had even known his mother! And this, she could NEVER let anyone know- she'd been too long out of the game to start suddenly back into it, and once her age was out, there'd be no stopping the flow of immortals after her head! No, she'd have to leave soon, anyway. Best to keep things simple.
She looked at Joe again. He had a wheeze in his breath that she wasn't sure that the others were picking up on, and he did look gray. Hmmm… maybe I'd better stick around for a while-- or at least close by! Don't want to not know if something happens… when something happens. Face it girl, the guy is a mortal and he's going to die sooner or later… hopefully later. Please, God, later! I just got back-- I have to get to know him again. Please… just a few more years—days, even-- and I'll never ask for another thing for myself my entire life. Just please let him live! Meredith took a deep breath. She had to stay calm-- she couldn't afford to become emotional in front of complete strangers, no matter how much Joe trusted them.
It was time to close up the café. Methos, Duncan, and Meredith helped Joe and his small staff to clean up. They had talked all day, and each felt comfortable with the others, but still didn't really know them any better than they had when they first met. It was a paradox, really-- three total strangers who felt so comfortable together that they were already swapping history and using a first-name basis. Joe felt… almost a paternal pride when he saw how well they were getting along. But when his gaze fell on Meredith, it turned into another kind of emotion. It was all mixed up passion, honor, comfort, happiness, confusion, uncertainty… Some insane kind of euphoria where all sensations count and never make sense or follow reason or logic. He used to hate that Meredith made him feel that way, but now, growing old and familiar with her and her ways, he knew that he was in love and this is what it felt like to be in love with the oldest immortal alive. He privately got a kick out of the fact that he could actually go to bed with an older woman at his age. Too late, though, too late, now that he was probably dying. He didn't want to put her through that pain; he didn't want her to know. He didn't want to start something that would leave another painful gap in her life-- Lord knows it had been a hell-ride. But Joe did want to love her again, the way he used to, before she went away, travelling. Her travelling heart-- a piece of it belonged to him, but the rest had gotten away. He felt a great swelling of sorrow, but quelled it before it got to him. Then he saw Meredith's gaze on him, and knew that peculiar look in her eyes all too well; she was following his train of thought. She knew, and wanted the same. But not really-- she still wanted a life, or at least what was left of life, with him.
The conversation drifted off when everyone must have sensed how tired Joe was. Duncan and Methos were leaving together, since it was getting cold out at night and Methos didn't like the cold and Duncan had his Thunderbird. As they were walking out the door, Duncan turned on his heel, and Methos almost ran into him because he'd been thinking about his beautiful new acquaintance. Irritated, he glared at Macleod, who ignored him entirely too easily after years of practice. "Hey, Meredith, would you like a ride to where ever it is you're staying?" he called across the room. Methos looked sharply at Mac before turning to watch Meredith.
She hesitated before answering, looking at Joe, then astonished them all (and infuriated and disappointed Methos) when she stated quietly: "No, thank you kindly, Duncan, but I think I'll be staying the night here. There are some…"affairs" that need looking after." Joe chuckled with Meredith's habit of playing with words. Everything about her was so familiar to him… Duncan simply shrugged and dragged an unyielding and gaping Methos after him. If Meredith said she wanted to stay, Duncan wasn't going to argue with her. It was none of his business… yet! And then they were out the door.
The door shut behind Duncan and Methos, and Meredith turned to look at Joe. She knew that she had drawn the line with them, but she couldn't help it. One look at Joe reminded her why she'd come back and she had decided to stay the night. Her resolve hardened, and she watched his face in the dim light. The staff had already left by the back door, so the whole place was empty. The night belonged to them. She smiled at him, and he gave her the smile she had fallen in love with, a hint of resignation coloring his sigh.
She came to him then; slid into his arms with a gliding ease that he loved about her. Joe held her to him, inhaling her intoxicating twilight musk. She never wore perfume, but she always had that special scent about her. Her eyes drunk him in, and he took her hand. He led her up the stairs to his apartment, not even bothering to turn on the lights. Quietly, she came around in front of him, and untangled him from his jacket. Joe tossed his cane to one side, and they slid onto his bed. Slowly, concentrating on every step, they undressed each other. Joe didn't have to be embarrassed about his legs with her; she knew him already. The ease and the comfort of familiarity enfolded them; they rejoiced to find each other again. I remember these hands; how you used to tease me with them. I remember how to please you, how you used to love it when I did it this way… I remember, this is how you like it… Euphoria caught them both, strongly, until they lost count. And then they fell asleep, at the first red streaks of dawn, for even an Immortal can't make love all night long and not be exhausted the next morning.
"Was this a mistake?" asked Joe reluctantly when they finally came to for breakfast-- or lunch, rather. Meredith turned to look at him, calmly assessing his query. She held a spatula in one hand and the handle of a frying pan in the other. Absently, she flipped their French toast while she stared at Joe and thought out her answer.
Joe watched his lover sink deep into thought. He watched her carefully, not wanting to disturb her… especially when she had a hot spatula in one hand. The last time he'd done that, he'd wound up with a spatula-burn on his face that had smarted like hell and taken weeks to heal. Despite her outward appearance, Meredith had a fiery temper that was easily aroused.
"I don't think so, Joe, but I'm not sure," she said thoughtfully, "But, why don't we try it and find out, eh?" She smiled at him, but he didn't-- couldn't-- give her one back. She softened into a loving gaze. "I know, Joe," she said quietly, "I know. But I don't care-- I want you." She came over to him, and put her arms around his waist. Gazing softly and achingly up into his face, she whispered: "I love you. I'll never leave you. I came, I'm here, and I stay. 'Till death do us part, Joe, 'till death do us part. Remember? Okay?" She honored him with a tender smile. This time, Joe could return it. And he did, kissing her gently at first, then deeper with renewed passion. They broke off, breathless, grinning from ear to ear. "If we're not careful, we'll wind up in bed again!" exclaimed Joe. Meredith showed him a mouth full of teeth: "Who says it has to be in bed?" And so Joe found himself laughing… and very late meeting Duncan and Methos.
"Joe, you look exhausted," were the first words out of Duncan's mouth when Joe finally came downstairs to join them, "Didn't you get any sleep last night?" The words were out of his mouth before he could censor them. Methos just glared at him with a look that could kill, and Joe only just managed to turn a loud guffaw into a cough. He sobered up real fast, though, when Methos turned to favor him with that glare.
"As a matter of fact," he said, trying to sound testy and indignant, "I didn't sleep a wink until the sun came up. I just got up two hours ago." This time he couldn't contain himself when Duncan gaped openly at him. A sullenly silent Methos took another hefty swig of his beer. He didn't see anything funny about it-- Joe had taken his woman! Whoa, wait a minute-- she's not my woman! You haven't even asked her out and you're already calling her your woman! What is with you, man? Meredith, that's what! Shut up!
"Could we just get on with this, please?" he asked, trying to sound light but actually sounding irritated. His companions sobered up and had the good sense not to mention it to him. "Alright, Joe," he continued, "I accessed the Watcher's database last night, and there wasn't a thing in there about Meredith! Who is she and what is she doing here? I think we-- at least as friends if not immortals-- have the right to know." Joe took a deep sigh, for one instant regretting he ever thought to drag Meredith into this.
"Well," he said, "I'm not really sure myself. She's told me things… and then some things she hasn't. What do you want to know? I'll to my best to answer, but some things you'll have to ask Meredith."
"Fair enough," Duncan interjected. Methos glared at him again. Duncan ignored him entirely, having had far too much practice in doing so over the course of their friendship, "How did she become immortal?"
"Before Meredith became immortal, she lived with her three sisters in a quiet village that stood in the middle of a much-disputed territory," said Joe, recalling a past that wasn't his, "There were four tribes all vying for control of the village, and the villagers were fed up with it. Meredith was their resident healer-woman. One day, she and her sisters came up with the idea that each one of them would marry the chief of the different tribes, therefore uniting them.
"The plan was approved by all concerned, and the following fortnight, the sisters were married. It was agreed that they would all stay in the village, as ambassadors in neutral territory."
"Get on with it, Joe-- even my history doesn't take this long. I want a straight answer," interrupted Methos. When Duncan gave him a glare, he added: "Please." Joe looked at him, and continued:
"Well, the rest I only know from sneaking Meredith's sisters' diaries. Apparently," Joe continued with a catch in his voice, "About three weeks into the marriage, Meredith started to become withdrawn and timid whenever her husband was around. Her sisters questioned her, and found out that the chieftain-- Meredith calls him Caesar-- was abusing her. But she wouldn't leave him-- she didn't want to jeopardize the peace. So they decided to keep quiet.
"Then one night, approximately three years later, Meredith came home from Market to find her home silent. Not liking it at all, she ran into the shelter. There, she saw all four of her children beheaded. There was… blood everywhere." Joe had to stop, for not only was this difficult to talk about-- hell, this was Meredith's life! -- but he had to catch his breath. Trying to control his wheezing, he continued under the horrified stares of his immortal friends:
"Then out of nowhere, Caesar attacks her. She fought him off as best she could, but she lost and he killed her. When she came back to life, it was right in front of the villagers. They forced her to leave, but her sisters took care of her. So she lived out in the middle of nowhere for a long time, afraid that Caesar would find her one day." Joe stopped. He knew that there was more to it than that, but that was all he she had told him. He had exhausted his memory, and now he found that he wanted to know more as well. "That's all I know," he stood up suddenly, wiping his hands surreptitiously on his pants, "That's all I'll ask her, too. If you want to know more-- be my guest. It's your life-- albeit an immortal one!" He left them, then, and went round to the bar area. Stepping behind the counter, he started pouring Mac some whiskey and Methos some wine. The two immortals looked at each other, Duncan rolled his eyes, and they followed Joe. They pulled down two stools, and sat down together. Joe set their drinks out silently. Nobody wanted to speak.
Meredith stood at the landing in the middle of the stairwell. She narrowed her eyes when Methos asked too many questions for her liking, but held still her tongue. She had to be quiet, or else she wouldn't find out anything. Then she wouldn't be prepared… and that could cost her life. When Joe spoke about her children-- her babies-- she heard the tenderness in his rough voice. Meredith refused to cry-- never for a moment could she afford that luxury, that release. She had too many enemies on her list right now. But Cassandra was coming to town to help her out-- then she could set some wrong things right… for once in her life, something would come out right in the end. Sighing, she hollered down the stairs "Hey, Joe!"
"Yeah?" he called back. "Have you seen my toothbrush anywhere?" It was a stupid question, but it was her way of telling him that she would talk with him later. He knew that, and answered her in a tone that told her he had his eyes closed in guarding: "It's in the cabinet by the mouthwash-- where it always was." Yes, he remembered this old code of theirs-- all too well, she decided. Could she really put him through this again? Did she really have it in her to do this again? She hoped so… she didn't know how else she would survive what was coming for her. Sighing heavily, screwing up her face at the future, she tromped up the stairs with weighted footsteps.
Joe stood quietly at the bar. His best friends in the whole world sat in front of him, just staring. They weren't really staring at him, but their gazes were directed in his direction. He closed his eyes. What a hell of a night he was going to have.
Night came without the city taking much of a notice; it crept along the streets, snaking up towers and crawling out of sewers to take over the world from which it had been banished by the sun. But the sun was no longer in the sky—there was nobody now who could challenge the night when he claimed the world as his own for a while. The people on the street took no care of it—they had seen this game before and too long to understand how strongly their ancestors had worshiped it.
But a few did remember, and these precious few still retained their respect for the natural order of things. They reveled in the night.
Cassandra had known this was coming for a long time. She stood with her hands on her hips and feet spread apart, watching and waiting. Hands balled into fists so hard that her nails dug into the palms, her lips thinned in dislike of what she viewed. New York hasn't changed a bit, she thought acidly; three bodies lay at her feet. She was willing to bet the house and farm that one was a drug dealer—one of them was definitely a prostitute. There was blood everywhere. She doubted that anyone had called the police—the alley was too far out of the way, too deserted to attract anything but rats… of all kinds. And besides—she had tracked Lysander's route too closely to think that he didn't have anything to do with it, and he had always done his "business" rather… Forget it; there isn't a word in the dictionary that could describe this.
A rustle from the prostitute alerted her at once. The cheap-ticket picked up her head, groaning. Lysander always did like "professionals". The poor girls he always chose were usually just that: girls. Girls fed up with Mommy and Daddy always puttering around treating them like a baby, ran away from home, and then found out what it was really like to live on the edge. "Babes" in "Toy"-land, Cassandra thought angrily. The streetwalker managed to get to her knees. Cassandra could just barely make out what she said:
"Oh, my GOD, Raymond is gonna kill me," she muttered fearfully. She looked around, astonished, mouth open, genuine fear in her eyes. "Oh, God," she whispered, putting a hand to her stomach, "And I'm…" She dissolved into tears for a moment. She straightened up like an arrow as soon as she heard Cassandra's voice.
"I can help you, you know," she said quietly. Cassandra kept her voice to a quiet level of determination. She softened her gaze as she looked at the woman opposite her, who was older than she had first appeared—late twenties, maybe early thirties. Anything higher and she wouldn't have been a prostitute anymore. She was regarding Cassandra with an expression which spoke of many emotions: fear primarily, then confusion, distrust, hate, desperation.
"Why should I trust you?"
"You shouldn't. You don't have to. But I can help you."
"How? Why would you want to?" the prostitute snapped.
"I know who did this," Cassandra swept her hand to encompass the scene in front of her, "And I want him stopped. I want him dead." For a moment, there was a chill in her eyes that sucked the light out of the streetlight behind her. Then it was gone; that moment, though, seemed to pull the strings of forever, and the prostitute got up and came over to her. They looked each other straight in the eyes. The woman nodded.
"I'll come with you," she said quietly. Cassandra turned with her arm linked with the woman's, and they walked away from the scene of hell behind them, not looking back; women of the night with the light at their backs.
"Where are we going?" the woman asked. She was looking thoughtfully out the window of Cassandra's car as they drove into a better district.
"A friend of mine is in town. I need to go see her; help each other sort out some of our problems. Lysander is one of them. Caesar is another. We'll help you get where you need to go." The now ex-prostitute looked down at her cheap black dress, torn fish-nets, and dirty high-heels.
"My name is Candy."
"Really?"
"No, that's just what Raymond always called me, so the name stuck. It's really… Lori Anna."
"Pleased to meet you, Lori Anna. Welcome to a new life."
"Thank you."
"Cassandra."
"What?" Lori looked at her, taking in the loose cotton-ribbed white shirt, black pants, and black leather boots.
"My name is Cassandra."
"Oh." They turned a corner. Lori looked out the window again. Cassandra leaned over the seat and reached into the back. She rummaged through a bag absently, keeping her eyes on the rode. The light turned red; she blew on it to make it turn green. Drawing the bag half to the front seat, she continued on through the intersection, and the light turned red again behind her. Her fingers closed on the object of her search. Cassandra drew out a long tunic sweater in a deep emerald green, and tossed it to Lori Anna.
"Here, put this on. It'll keep you warmer."
"How did you know I was cold?"
"Death always makes a person cold."
"What?"
"You've just had a bad experience; there's always a chill where death hangs in the air. We've just come from a place that reeked of it… and you don't have to… show so much skin anymore."
It was quiet in the car for a few minutes after Lori Anna had put the tunic on. Lori kept her gaze directed out the window for most of the ride. She seemed dried up for a while; it would take a lot to get this girl out into the world again, but she could do it, thought Cassandra. She had enough strength to do it. They turned the corner on Joe's street.
"Joe, dear, get out the gin," said Meredith coming down the stairs, "We have company." Duncan and Methos looked up at her, confused. Joe was baffled as well: "Of course we do, Meredith," he said, gesturing at the other two immortals. Meredith shook her head, and there was a knocking on the door to the closed bar. She smiled at Joe as if to say "I told you so", and went to answer it.
She opened the door, and Cassandra stepped in, followed by the girl she knew would be with her. Cassandra and she hugged each other tightly for a moment, exclaiming words of greeting, and then Cassandra swept her hand out to introduce her companion. The woman was in her late twenties, maybe early thirties; she probably looked younger than she really was. Her eyes gave her away, though. She stepped forward hesitantly, and offered Meredith her hand. "Lori Anna."
Meredith smiled warmly, and took it, but then pulled her in for a hug of her own. Stunned, Lori tried to hug back. "Hi," Meredith said brightly, "I'm Meredith. I knew you were coming, so I had Joe get out the gin," she turned to Cassandra, "I assume vodka for you?" Cassandra grinned, eyes bright for one moment, "You bet!" she answered mischievously.
"C'mon in," said Meredith, "The boys are waiting for us." Ye GODS, I hope to hell and back that Cassy doesn't decide to go psycho again on me. And PLEASE let Methos be in a receptive mood tonight…
Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod, cousin to the late Connor Macleod of the Clan Macleod, had won. The world was safe… for now. But at what cost?
Connor was dead, when he wasn't supposed to be. Duncan had killed him; absorbed his Quickening when he died. But he wasn't supposed to have-- it wasn't supposed to be this way! Why did it have to end like this?
Because it had been Endgame, and he couldn't have fought it alone. Not and live, anyway. So what was he doing here, of all places? This had been Connor's fight-- not his! Connor had won-- not Duncan. He had felt it-- felt him-- coursing through his veins, taking over his body, still living inside him. Forever-- and forever it had been. And forever it would be, for as long as Duncan was alive.
It was over; Endgame was done. Finished, spent and exhausted beyond belief, Duncan passed out.
And that was how she found him ten minutes later.
Duncan awoke the next morning lying under soft covers in a semi-dark room. Slowly, not really wanting to, he looked around. There were dusky blue blinds keeping out the sunlight and a pale color on the walls that appeared to be cream. A closed, dark wooden door that looked as if it weighed a ton with a brass handle stood directly in front of him, a matching dresser and closet to the right and an old nightstand with a small lamp and a digital alarm clock on it beside the bed. He was lying on a waterbed, covered in a pale green silk comforter and a homemade quilt, his head cushioned by several pillows of soft materials and colors. Bewildered, cautious, the next thing he sensed was an immortal nearby.
He sat bolt upright, which turned out to be a mistake. He fell off the bed with an ungraceful thud. Immortal though he may be, but he was not immune to pain! His head felt like it had split with an ax, and the room spun. Through blurred vision he was only vaguely aware of being lifted back onto the mattress. He reeled despite the pain, and was rewarded with hefty swearing which quite clearly reached his buzzing ears.
"Close your eyes, dammitall, boy! And let me help you for God's sake!" The command was sharp, even if the voice was lilting and melodically rich and mellow. Strangely, no accent softened the very definite female voice, though lord knew it was a voice meant to have one! He obeyed her command, feeling too weak not to, and not really caring besides.
"Now, hold still. Let this salve work-- trust me, I don't bite guests… very often, that is," she added. Was she trying to lighten the mood? Who cares, he thought-- if she wanted me dead, she could've done it already.
"Here," said the melodic voice, "Drink this-- it'll help the pain some." He felt a cup of some kind held to his lips. Warmth arose from it, smelling of berries and some kind of herb that he couldn't identify. Well-- if it killed him, he didn't care right now-- Connor was dead by his hand; he deserved to die for that, at least. And the result would be only temporary anyway. So he took a deep breath, and swallowed it with his eyes closed.
It was hot! The liquid rushed down his throat in a pale burning sensation. "Scottish whiskey it isn't," said the voice in a laughing tone when he gasped, "But trust me-- it'll do the trick. I've used it many times m'self. Wait a few moments before you try to open your eyes, son-- stuff takes a while to work." Son? Just how old was this immortal? No one had called him "son" since his father, God rest his soul.
She was right, the pain was dulling quickly. Careful not to open his eyes just yet, he pushed himself upright against the headboard. Another thought occurred to him-- he still had his cloths on! Except for his shoes, he was fully clothed-- even his sword was in place! Not many immortals would've done him the courtesy of keeping him clothed, much less trusting him to remain with his sword. Just who the hell was this woman? Very slowly, very cautiously, Duncan opened his eyes.
His first impression was that she seemed genuinely concerned for him. Duncan read pure relief in her eyes and stance when he focused his burning eyes on her face.
"Good, you can still see," she said warmly, "That means no trauma. Ye didn't hit you as hard as I thought. For a while there I was afraid you might lose your eyesight, but thankfully I was wrong. Welcome back, Mr. Macleod." Duncan managed one of those cocky grins that had always gotten him women in the past, though he didn't really know why he was smiling when all he wanted to do was die.
"It seems God hasn't given up on me yet," he said, surprised at how raw his voice sounded, and at his own words. She took honey from a tray that she must have brought in and mixed it into the mug he had evidently drunk from, and proffered it to him again. "It'll help your throat, too, Mr. Macleod."
"So, you ransacked my wallet."
"Naturally."
"Fantastic."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment-- I think."
"Hah!"
She was very lovely. Beautiful would've been going too far-- but lovely seemed to suite her amber hair with copper streaks in it, serious brown eyes like milk chocolate, and Faye Dunaway mouth. Her skin was somewhere between beige and taupe, bordering on light tan, and she looked about thirty-five.
"You do this often?" asked Duncan. He sipped the wine-colored tea carefully this time. It was very soothing on his throat. He felt sleepy.
"What?"
"Take in injured, unconscious immortals. Risk getting your head cut off to save another." That last part had been bitter; he hadn't meant that. She didn't seem to notice, and if she did, she obviously didn't care.
"No," she said lightly, standing up and stretching her back. She was built-- not heavy, but she certainly had meat on her bones. Ample breasts and hips, muscles evident in her arms and fabulous abs, great legs… she made for a very enticing picture-- Methos would love her. But Duncan was not turned on-- all he could see was what he didn't have anymore. He needed to get off this train of thought.
"So," he said, fighting to stay awake, "What's your name?" She stopped stretching and picked up the tray. She looked at him, unsmiling, but not unkind.
"Meredith," she said, "Meredith of… well, nevermind. It was a long time ago. Good night, Mr. Macleod, when you wake up you can have a nice warm shower in a familiar place." And with that, she headed for the door, tray balanced on her broad hip.
He never got to protest-- sleep overtook him before he could form a reply.
Returning to consciousness this time proved to be less painful than before. Duncan's head still ached, but only just and distantly at that. It was more like remembering a migraine than really feeling any true pain. That was a relief. He opened his eyes.
What? He was back in his own apartment! How the hell had that happened? Meredith, he supposed, had taken him back after he fell asleep. Well, now, he thought, so this was what she meant by a familiar place. He turned over, and curled up in a ball with the pillow. Memories came drifting back, and the tears started falling.
This would never do. He had to stop crying-- go somewhere, maybe, where the memories weren't so painful. Duncan knew the perfect place for that…
So he got up, and traipsed off to the bathroom for that much-needed hot shower.
Two hours late found him entering Joe's Café. He sensed Methos before he saw him, and for a split second before going into the café, he'd panicked before he remembered that the bad guy was dead. He firmly got control of himself, and headed straight for Joe and Methos at the bar area. They both looked mildly surprised.
"So," said Joe after a pause, "Meredith took good care of you, eh? Never mind-- I can see for myself that she did." He took a glass from behind the counter and filled it with whiskey. Duncan regarded him with suspicion and surprise, the latter reflected on Methos's face as well.
"Methos," said Duncan slowly, "What do you know about this?" He turned to face the oldest immortal alive, who turned his dark eyes on the younger immortal. "I have no idea," he said. They both turned dusky gazes towards Joe expectantly. Methos raised his eyebrows, both of them knowing that the aging mortal knew more than he was letting on. Joe sighed, exasperated: "Alright, alright," he said frustrated, "Meredith is an immortal I sent after Macleod… just as a precaution. I didn't know who was going to win, even though all money said Mac would. Look," he sighed, running his hands through his gray hair, "I knew that it would be hard on you, and I wanted somebody there to take care of you whom I trusted. I knew Methos would've stopped me, and Meredith is… well, a good friend of mine," Joe finished with another sigh. Both immortals were regarding him indifferently. "Don't look at me like that!" he half-yelled, "It was her suggestion in the first place, anyway. I didn't want to at first, but when she asked again, I agreed that it might be a good idea. Meredith is good at things like that. In fact," his mouth twitched for a second, "Meredith is good at a lot of things. And she has—never mind." He waited, watching both his friends' reactions. They were slow in coming.
"You sent someone after me?" "You sent someone after him?" Joe put his head in his hands, shaking it. What a pair those two make, he thought. "Yeah, I did," he said with a note of anger and challenge in his voice. He brought down his hands with a small bang on the countertop. The two immortals regarded each other again. Duncan shrugged. Joe rolled his eyes and handed Macleod his whiskey, then turned to walk down to another customer who had just entered the bar area. Duncan caught his arm; "Thanks," he said meeting Joe's eyes intensely, "Thank you, my friend." Joe smiled, relief flooding the part of him that had worried even though Meredith had told him not to: "Hey, Mac, what're friends for?" he said with a smile. Then he went on to the other customers in the bar, sneaking glances at his two immortal friends.
"So," said Methos, turning to Macleod, "Who is this Meredith you two were talking about?" Methos rarely heard of an immortal he didn't know these days and the personal connection with Joe had his curiosity peeked. Duncan chuckled, his heart already feeling lighter. He took a sip of his whiskey that Joe imported especially for him before answering the older immortal.
"Meredith is the immortal that Joe apparently sent after me to make sure I was okay after my fight with… Well, I passed out, so it was good that somebody was there to take care of me. If I had failed, she would've stopped him. In any case, she took me back to her place and took care of me. Apparently, she told me, I almost lost my eyesight." Methos nearly spilled the beverage he'd been sipping on. Duncan sighed, "I guess I took a harder beating than I thought. Anyway, when I woke up, I fell out of bed when I sensed her." Again, Methos had a hard time swallowing his drink. It was very expensive wine, and Macleod seemed bound and determined to make him wear it.
"She helped me back into bed, and gave me a drink that helped to make the pain go away. But she drugged it with some kind of herb to make me sleep."
"So you didn't get to really see her, then?" asked a very curious and slightly disappointed Methos. Damn, he thought, why did he get my hopes up if he didn't even get a glimpse? Oh, well, maybe I'll ask Joe if she frequents the bar often…
"Actually, I did." Okay! Now we're getting somewhere! "So? What was she like?" Macleod hesitated. He seemed to be thinking about something.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I wouldn't call her beautiful, but I'd definitely say she was very lovely." You call that a straight answer and I'm changing my name to Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile. Methos waved an impatient hand; "Same thing, Macleod. What was she like? And don't avoid the question again or I'll pop ya one."
Duncan smiled over Methos's frustration, but he didn't know any other way to put it! "Well… Her hair is sort of an amber-honey kind of color with copper streaks in it. And that does not, by the way, appear to be a dye-job; I think it's actually natural. Brown eyes-- kind of like melted milk chocolate; serious eyes, but very expressive. Great skin, great body." Methos raised his eyes at that. Duncan practically smirked-- it was so like Methos to judge on sight alone. Too many years had taught the oldest immortal alive that what you see is what you get, and leave the beautiful women alone 'cause they can do some real damage if you let them in. Duncan took another sip of his whiskey.
"Well?" Methos prompted when it looked as if Duncan had stopped. Duncan looked at him blankly: "'Well' what?" he asked. Methos gave him an "Oh, puh-lease" look. "Well… that's it. There's nothing more to tell, really. We exchanged a few words, I fell asleep, next thing I know-- I'm back in my own apartment still in my street cloths. I decided to come here to… forget… and here I am, telling all my problems and strange experiences to an immortal that no longer cares whether he lives or dies, so long as someone is still fighting the good fight for him." Oops, he hadn't meant to say that. Cynical and hard-to-get-along-with Methos may be, but he didn't deserve that slap in the face. Duncan winced; "Sorry, Methos, I didn't mean that. I guess I'm still trying to cope with everything that's been happening. I came here to forget for a while, but all I can do is remember." Methos bit back several answers, all of them the wrong ones. Duncan was his friend, and like it or not, Methos had been too long without to give him any advice on the sort of thing Duncan was going through. All he could do was offer him support, and oddly enough, he felt that he could give it.
Joe sensed his friends needed him again, so he headed down to their end of the bar.
It was then that she chose to enter the bar.
Both immortals sat up straight and searched the café for the presence they sensed nearby. Joe joined in, sweeping the room quickly with his eyes. They came to rest on a figure that had stopped at the bottom of the stairwell. Joe smiled with genuine relief and happiness-- "Meredith!" he called, waving an arm in greeting as he plodded slowly towards her. Both Methos and Duncan watched them sharply.
Meredith emerged from the stairwell, walking forward to meet Joe with arms wide open. She was wearing tight jeans with a man's white long- sleeved shirt and black heeled boots. Her hips swayed seductively as she walked, whether she meant them to or not, and she flung her arms out to capture Joe in a hug and a kiss on the cheek-- two items he heartily returned. Slinging their arms about the waist, the pair made for the bar, smiling.
"Glad to see you up and about, Mr. Macleod," she said in her lilting voice. She had a smile, Duncan noticed, that could make the rain go away. Unsure of how to act, he granted her another woman-catching grin. She rolled her eyes, and unslung her arm from Joe's waist. Leaning forward, she caught him by surprise, flinging her arms around his neck and squeezing. After a nanosecond of hesitation, Macleod returned the embrace. He managed to get a peek at Methos's reaction as well, and smirked in spite of himself.
For some reason, Methos was feeling very left out of the show-- almost… jealous. That was so unlike him. And he didn't appreciate it when Duncan lorded Meredith's embrace over him, either. But what he did like was Meredith! Gods, the woman was gorgeous-- Duncan certainly had it wrong when he said lovely but not beautiful! If I didn't happen to know that Helen of Troy wasn't as awesome as the legends say-- and that she didn't have a face that launched a thousand ships-- I'd call her another Helen of Troy. What am I saying? Am I actually attracted to her? That's not too hard, considering! Wouldn't that make Macleod's day!
"Well," she was talking to him now, "I don't believe we've met before- - at least not face-to-face. My name is Meredith." She held out a graceful hand that had long fingers attached to it. What class-- what style! What!? Wait a second-- 'at least not face-to-face'? She's seen me before?
"You've seen me before?" he asked, incredulous. She smiled at him. Oh, yeah, sparks were definitely flying!
"Of course-- you don't get to be as old as we do and not see the infamous Methos at least once from a distance. Only, by the time you realize it, he's gone. Kind of like me," that last part intrigued him, but Joe had her attention again, talking about food. As Joe headed back behind the bar, Meredith gracefully slid a barstool between him and Macleod, avidly waving her hands and talking to Joe. Methos exchanged a look with Macleod-- evidently he hadn't missed her little comment either. Interesting, he thought, very interesting! The expression in Macleod's eyes told Methos that he was really curious… and a bit suspicious too. Mentally, they played Rocks, Scissors, Paper. Macleod lost.
"So, Meredith," said Duncan leaning casually on his elbow, "Just how old are you?" Oh, great one Macleod. Real smooth! She turned to face him, a mixed and unreadable look on her face. Duncan thought he saw pain reflected for an instance, but then it was gone. Joe was very quiet about pouring Meredith a strong dose of vodka. There's something not right here! Duncan thought to himself. Meredith cast her eyes downward for a moment, before returning with a soft smile. "Let's not talk about that, okay?" she asked quietly, taking her vodka and tipping it back quicker than any normal person would.
Methos looked at Duncan, and nodded. You, my dear, are a mystery I intend to solve! This was one woman he intended to… Well, what did he want to do about her? Oh… how about throwing her over my shoulder, carrying her up to my room, and ravishing the hell out of her? He watched her with detached awe as she tipped back five more shots with amazing speed. She turned towards him then, and he forced himself to focus on her words.
"Well," she said conversationally, "How are you, Methos? The last time I saw you, Cassandra was fleeing into the night. It's been a long time since then, hasn't it?" Methos waited for the torrent of painful memories that usually engulfed him whenever somebody mentioned Cassandra and his past, but the storm never even started. Meredith's gaze was warm and gentle, and he took his time in answering. Joe and Duncan were both watching him closely.
"Oh," he sighed, "Surviving." He grinned then, and added, "I still have my head!" She smiled then, dazzling him. She was so warm-- you could just feel it about her. It was so easy to grow only amiably cynical and cool after living so long, how did she keep living so fully? He envied her that, and found himself wishing he could have that carefree warmth back again.
They talked the rest of the afternoon. Meredith regaled them with tales of her past that had them all in stitches. She told them of how she and Joe had met when she'd stopped some crazy war protester from bashing his brains out right as soon as Joe had stepped off the train. Then they had dated, and she'd helped him as a watcher, too. Joe brought out sandwiches and beer for Methos, wine for Macleod, and the strongest vodka he had for Meredith. He smiled as he watched his friends talking, and joined in the conversations himself. He was glad that they had all hit it off so well… he just hoped that they'd still be this nice when they found out that Meredith wasn't in the Watchers' Database!
Joe also had his keen eye on the way Methos was reacting to her. It had been a long time since he'd shown any interest in another woman, but Meredith seemed to have opened him up. Maybe there could be something there-- he certainly hoped so! He wasn't going to be around much longer, and he wanted to know that his friends would be well taken care of when he… passed on. Joe didn't want to alarm anybody, but he knew that his heart wasn't what it used to be.
But enough of that! Meredith is here, everyone is having a good time, so why dampen the day with gloomy thoughts?
Meredith had been keeping an eye on Joe all evening. He was beginning to worry her-- he had been so keen on her meeting his two friends, and was it her or was he looking a bit gray in the face? She would have to ask Methos and Duncan about that whenever she had them alone.
Now, there's an idea! Meredith thought to herself, Methos and me… alone… hmmm, I can think of a few things I'd like to do with him all to myself! Whoa, down girl, down! How could she think of him like this! Hell, that's an easy one-- just look at him! No doubt about it, he was a good-looking one. Duncan wasn't too bad either, but Methos just plain sizzled! Oho, watch it, girl! You may actually fall for this guy, and you can't risk that kind of relationship at this point… at least not yet. Meredith shook herself when she found that she'd been staring unconsciously at Methos for some time. She would have to be very careful around Methos, or she'd forget herself and what she was. She was, after all, not really supposed to exist! She was a forgotten fable-- a myth not even remembered anymore. She was already old when Methos was born-- she had even known his mother! And this, she could NEVER let anyone know- she'd been too long out of the game to start suddenly back into it, and once her age was out, there'd be no stopping the flow of immortals after her head! No, she'd have to leave soon, anyway. Best to keep things simple.
She looked at Joe again. He had a wheeze in his breath that she wasn't sure that the others were picking up on, and he did look gray. Hmmm… maybe I'd better stick around for a while-- or at least close by! Don't want to not know if something happens… when something happens. Face it girl, the guy is a mortal and he's going to die sooner or later… hopefully later. Please, God, later! I just got back-- I have to get to know him again. Please… just a few more years—days, even-- and I'll never ask for another thing for myself my entire life. Just please let him live! Meredith took a deep breath. She had to stay calm-- she couldn't afford to become emotional in front of complete strangers, no matter how much Joe trusted them.
It was time to close up the café. Methos, Duncan, and Meredith helped Joe and his small staff to clean up. They had talked all day, and each felt comfortable with the others, but still didn't really know them any better than they had when they first met. It was a paradox, really-- three total strangers who felt so comfortable together that they were already swapping history and using a first-name basis. Joe felt… almost a paternal pride when he saw how well they were getting along. But when his gaze fell on Meredith, it turned into another kind of emotion. It was all mixed up passion, honor, comfort, happiness, confusion, uncertainty… Some insane kind of euphoria where all sensations count and never make sense or follow reason or logic. He used to hate that Meredith made him feel that way, but now, growing old and familiar with her and her ways, he knew that he was in love and this is what it felt like to be in love with the oldest immortal alive. He privately got a kick out of the fact that he could actually go to bed with an older woman at his age. Too late, though, too late, now that he was probably dying. He didn't want to put her through that pain; he didn't want her to know. He didn't want to start something that would leave another painful gap in her life-- Lord knows it had been a hell-ride. But Joe did want to love her again, the way he used to, before she went away, travelling. Her travelling heart-- a piece of it belonged to him, but the rest had gotten away. He felt a great swelling of sorrow, but quelled it before it got to him. Then he saw Meredith's gaze on him, and knew that peculiar look in her eyes all too well; she was following his train of thought. She knew, and wanted the same. But not really-- she still wanted a life, or at least what was left of life, with him.
The conversation drifted off when everyone must have sensed how tired Joe was. Duncan and Methos were leaving together, since it was getting cold out at night and Methos didn't like the cold and Duncan had his Thunderbird. As they were walking out the door, Duncan turned on his heel, and Methos almost ran into him because he'd been thinking about his beautiful new acquaintance. Irritated, he glared at Macleod, who ignored him entirely too easily after years of practice. "Hey, Meredith, would you like a ride to where ever it is you're staying?" he called across the room. Methos looked sharply at Mac before turning to watch Meredith.
She hesitated before answering, looking at Joe, then astonished them all (and infuriated and disappointed Methos) when she stated quietly: "No, thank you kindly, Duncan, but I think I'll be staying the night here. There are some…"affairs" that need looking after." Joe chuckled with Meredith's habit of playing with words. Everything about her was so familiar to him… Duncan simply shrugged and dragged an unyielding and gaping Methos after him. If Meredith said she wanted to stay, Duncan wasn't going to argue with her. It was none of his business… yet! And then they were out the door.
The door shut behind Duncan and Methos, and Meredith turned to look at Joe. She knew that she had drawn the line with them, but she couldn't help it. One look at Joe reminded her why she'd come back and she had decided to stay the night. Her resolve hardened, and she watched his face in the dim light. The staff had already left by the back door, so the whole place was empty. The night belonged to them. She smiled at him, and he gave her the smile she had fallen in love with, a hint of resignation coloring his sigh.
She came to him then; slid into his arms with a gliding ease that he loved about her. Joe held her to him, inhaling her intoxicating twilight musk. She never wore perfume, but she always had that special scent about her. Her eyes drunk him in, and he took her hand. He led her up the stairs to his apartment, not even bothering to turn on the lights. Quietly, she came around in front of him, and untangled him from his jacket. Joe tossed his cane to one side, and they slid onto his bed. Slowly, concentrating on every step, they undressed each other. Joe didn't have to be embarrassed about his legs with her; she knew him already. The ease and the comfort of familiarity enfolded them; they rejoiced to find each other again. I remember these hands; how you used to tease me with them. I remember how to please you, how you used to love it when I did it this way… I remember, this is how you like it… Euphoria caught them both, strongly, until they lost count. And then they fell asleep, at the first red streaks of dawn, for even an Immortal can't make love all night long and not be exhausted the next morning.
"Was this a mistake?" asked Joe reluctantly when they finally came to for breakfast-- or lunch, rather. Meredith turned to look at him, calmly assessing his query. She held a spatula in one hand and the handle of a frying pan in the other. Absently, she flipped their French toast while she stared at Joe and thought out her answer.
Joe watched his lover sink deep into thought. He watched her carefully, not wanting to disturb her… especially when she had a hot spatula in one hand. The last time he'd done that, he'd wound up with a spatula-burn on his face that had smarted like hell and taken weeks to heal. Despite her outward appearance, Meredith had a fiery temper that was easily aroused.
"I don't think so, Joe, but I'm not sure," she said thoughtfully, "But, why don't we try it and find out, eh?" She smiled at him, but he didn't-- couldn't-- give her one back. She softened into a loving gaze. "I know, Joe," she said quietly, "I know. But I don't care-- I want you." She came over to him, and put her arms around his waist. Gazing softly and achingly up into his face, she whispered: "I love you. I'll never leave you. I came, I'm here, and I stay. 'Till death do us part, Joe, 'till death do us part. Remember? Okay?" She honored him with a tender smile. This time, Joe could return it. And he did, kissing her gently at first, then deeper with renewed passion. They broke off, breathless, grinning from ear to ear. "If we're not careful, we'll wind up in bed again!" exclaimed Joe. Meredith showed him a mouth full of teeth: "Who says it has to be in bed?" And so Joe found himself laughing… and very late meeting Duncan and Methos.
"Joe, you look exhausted," were the first words out of Duncan's mouth when Joe finally came downstairs to join them, "Didn't you get any sleep last night?" The words were out of his mouth before he could censor them. Methos just glared at him with a look that could kill, and Joe only just managed to turn a loud guffaw into a cough. He sobered up real fast, though, when Methos turned to favor him with that glare.
"As a matter of fact," he said, trying to sound testy and indignant, "I didn't sleep a wink until the sun came up. I just got up two hours ago." This time he couldn't contain himself when Duncan gaped openly at him. A sullenly silent Methos took another hefty swig of his beer. He didn't see anything funny about it-- Joe had taken his woman! Whoa, wait a minute-- she's not my woman! You haven't even asked her out and you're already calling her your woman! What is with you, man? Meredith, that's what! Shut up!
"Could we just get on with this, please?" he asked, trying to sound light but actually sounding irritated. His companions sobered up and had the good sense not to mention it to him. "Alright, Joe," he continued, "I accessed the Watcher's database last night, and there wasn't a thing in there about Meredith! Who is she and what is she doing here? I think we-- at least as friends if not immortals-- have the right to know." Joe took a deep sigh, for one instant regretting he ever thought to drag Meredith into this.
"Well," he said, "I'm not really sure myself. She's told me things… and then some things she hasn't. What do you want to know? I'll to my best to answer, but some things you'll have to ask Meredith."
"Fair enough," Duncan interjected. Methos glared at him again. Duncan ignored him entirely, having had far too much practice in doing so over the course of their friendship, "How did she become immortal?"
"Before Meredith became immortal, she lived with her three sisters in a quiet village that stood in the middle of a much-disputed territory," said Joe, recalling a past that wasn't his, "There were four tribes all vying for control of the village, and the villagers were fed up with it. Meredith was their resident healer-woman. One day, she and her sisters came up with the idea that each one of them would marry the chief of the different tribes, therefore uniting them.
"The plan was approved by all concerned, and the following fortnight, the sisters were married. It was agreed that they would all stay in the village, as ambassadors in neutral territory."
"Get on with it, Joe-- even my history doesn't take this long. I want a straight answer," interrupted Methos. When Duncan gave him a glare, he added: "Please." Joe looked at him, and continued:
"Well, the rest I only know from sneaking Meredith's sisters' diaries. Apparently," Joe continued with a catch in his voice, "About three weeks into the marriage, Meredith started to become withdrawn and timid whenever her husband was around. Her sisters questioned her, and found out that the chieftain-- Meredith calls him Caesar-- was abusing her. But she wouldn't leave him-- she didn't want to jeopardize the peace. So they decided to keep quiet.
"Then one night, approximately three years later, Meredith came home from Market to find her home silent. Not liking it at all, she ran into the shelter. There, she saw all four of her children beheaded. There was… blood everywhere." Joe had to stop, for not only was this difficult to talk about-- hell, this was Meredith's life! -- but he had to catch his breath. Trying to control his wheezing, he continued under the horrified stares of his immortal friends:
"Then out of nowhere, Caesar attacks her. She fought him off as best she could, but she lost and he killed her. When she came back to life, it was right in front of the villagers. They forced her to leave, but her sisters took care of her. So she lived out in the middle of nowhere for a long time, afraid that Caesar would find her one day." Joe stopped. He knew that there was more to it than that, but that was all he she had told him. He had exhausted his memory, and now he found that he wanted to know more as well. "That's all I know," he stood up suddenly, wiping his hands surreptitiously on his pants, "That's all I'll ask her, too. If you want to know more-- be my guest. It's your life-- albeit an immortal one!" He left them, then, and went round to the bar area. Stepping behind the counter, he started pouring Mac some whiskey and Methos some wine. The two immortals looked at each other, Duncan rolled his eyes, and they followed Joe. They pulled down two stools, and sat down together. Joe set their drinks out silently. Nobody wanted to speak.
Meredith stood at the landing in the middle of the stairwell. She narrowed her eyes when Methos asked too many questions for her liking, but held still her tongue. She had to be quiet, or else she wouldn't find out anything. Then she wouldn't be prepared… and that could cost her life. When Joe spoke about her children-- her babies-- she heard the tenderness in his rough voice. Meredith refused to cry-- never for a moment could she afford that luxury, that release. She had too many enemies on her list right now. But Cassandra was coming to town to help her out-- then she could set some wrong things right… for once in her life, something would come out right in the end. Sighing, she hollered down the stairs "Hey, Joe!"
"Yeah?" he called back. "Have you seen my toothbrush anywhere?" It was a stupid question, but it was her way of telling him that she would talk with him later. He knew that, and answered her in a tone that told her he had his eyes closed in guarding: "It's in the cabinet by the mouthwash-- where it always was." Yes, he remembered this old code of theirs-- all too well, she decided. Could she really put him through this again? Did she really have it in her to do this again? She hoped so… she didn't know how else she would survive what was coming for her. Sighing heavily, screwing up her face at the future, she tromped up the stairs with weighted footsteps.
Joe stood quietly at the bar. His best friends in the whole world sat in front of him, just staring. They weren't really staring at him, but their gazes were directed in his direction. He closed his eyes. What a hell of a night he was going to have.
Night came without the city taking much of a notice; it crept along the streets, snaking up towers and crawling out of sewers to take over the world from which it had been banished by the sun. But the sun was no longer in the sky—there was nobody now who could challenge the night when he claimed the world as his own for a while. The people on the street took no care of it—they had seen this game before and too long to understand how strongly their ancestors had worshiped it.
But a few did remember, and these precious few still retained their respect for the natural order of things. They reveled in the night.
Cassandra had known this was coming for a long time. She stood with her hands on her hips and feet spread apart, watching and waiting. Hands balled into fists so hard that her nails dug into the palms, her lips thinned in dislike of what she viewed. New York hasn't changed a bit, she thought acidly; three bodies lay at her feet. She was willing to bet the house and farm that one was a drug dealer—one of them was definitely a prostitute. There was blood everywhere. She doubted that anyone had called the police—the alley was too far out of the way, too deserted to attract anything but rats… of all kinds. And besides—she had tracked Lysander's route too closely to think that he didn't have anything to do with it, and he had always done his "business" rather… Forget it; there isn't a word in the dictionary that could describe this.
A rustle from the prostitute alerted her at once. The cheap-ticket picked up her head, groaning. Lysander always did like "professionals". The poor girls he always chose were usually just that: girls. Girls fed up with Mommy and Daddy always puttering around treating them like a baby, ran away from home, and then found out what it was really like to live on the edge. "Babes" in "Toy"-land, Cassandra thought angrily. The streetwalker managed to get to her knees. Cassandra could just barely make out what she said:
"Oh, my GOD, Raymond is gonna kill me," she muttered fearfully. She looked around, astonished, mouth open, genuine fear in her eyes. "Oh, God," she whispered, putting a hand to her stomach, "And I'm…" She dissolved into tears for a moment. She straightened up like an arrow as soon as she heard Cassandra's voice.
"I can help you, you know," she said quietly. Cassandra kept her voice to a quiet level of determination. She softened her gaze as she looked at the woman opposite her, who was older than she had first appeared—late twenties, maybe early thirties. Anything higher and she wouldn't have been a prostitute anymore. She was regarding Cassandra with an expression which spoke of many emotions: fear primarily, then confusion, distrust, hate, desperation.
"Why should I trust you?"
"You shouldn't. You don't have to. But I can help you."
"How? Why would you want to?" the prostitute snapped.
"I know who did this," Cassandra swept her hand to encompass the scene in front of her, "And I want him stopped. I want him dead." For a moment, there was a chill in her eyes that sucked the light out of the streetlight behind her. Then it was gone; that moment, though, seemed to pull the strings of forever, and the prostitute got up and came over to her. They looked each other straight in the eyes. The woman nodded.
"I'll come with you," she said quietly. Cassandra turned with her arm linked with the woman's, and they walked away from the scene of hell behind them, not looking back; women of the night with the light at their backs.
"Where are we going?" the woman asked. She was looking thoughtfully out the window of Cassandra's car as they drove into a better district.
"A friend of mine is in town. I need to go see her; help each other sort out some of our problems. Lysander is one of them. Caesar is another. We'll help you get where you need to go." The now ex-prostitute looked down at her cheap black dress, torn fish-nets, and dirty high-heels.
"My name is Candy."
"Really?"
"No, that's just what Raymond always called me, so the name stuck. It's really… Lori Anna."
"Pleased to meet you, Lori Anna. Welcome to a new life."
"Thank you."
"Cassandra."
"What?" Lori looked at her, taking in the loose cotton-ribbed white shirt, black pants, and black leather boots.
"My name is Cassandra."
"Oh." They turned a corner. Lori looked out the window again. Cassandra leaned over the seat and reached into the back. She rummaged through a bag absently, keeping her eyes on the rode. The light turned red; she blew on it to make it turn green. Drawing the bag half to the front seat, she continued on through the intersection, and the light turned red again behind her. Her fingers closed on the object of her search. Cassandra drew out a long tunic sweater in a deep emerald green, and tossed it to Lori Anna.
"Here, put this on. It'll keep you warmer."
"How did you know I was cold?"
"Death always makes a person cold."
"What?"
"You've just had a bad experience; there's always a chill where death hangs in the air. We've just come from a place that reeked of it… and you don't have to… show so much skin anymore."
It was quiet in the car for a few minutes after Lori Anna had put the tunic on. Lori kept her gaze directed out the window for most of the ride. She seemed dried up for a while; it would take a lot to get this girl out into the world again, but she could do it, thought Cassandra. She had enough strength to do it. They turned the corner on Joe's street.
"Joe, dear, get out the gin," said Meredith coming down the stairs, "We have company." Duncan and Methos looked up at her, confused. Joe was baffled as well: "Of course we do, Meredith," he said, gesturing at the other two immortals. Meredith shook her head, and there was a knocking on the door to the closed bar. She smiled at Joe as if to say "I told you so", and went to answer it.
She opened the door, and Cassandra stepped in, followed by the girl she knew would be with her. Cassandra and she hugged each other tightly for a moment, exclaiming words of greeting, and then Cassandra swept her hand out to introduce her companion. The woman was in her late twenties, maybe early thirties; she probably looked younger than she really was. Her eyes gave her away, though. She stepped forward hesitantly, and offered Meredith her hand. "Lori Anna."
Meredith smiled warmly, and took it, but then pulled her in for a hug of her own. Stunned, Lori tried to hug back. "Hi," Meredith said brightly, "I'm Meredith. I knew you were coming, so I had Joe get out the gin," she turned to Cassandra, "I assume vodka for you?" Cassandra grinned, eyes bright for one moment, "You bet!" she answered mischievously.
"C'mon in," said Meredith, "The boys are waiting for us." Ye GODS, I hope to hell and back that Cassy doesn't decide to go psycho again on me. And PLEASE let Methos be in a receptive mood tonight…