Disclaimer: Highlander, and anything recognizable from the series and/or movies, is not mine. Pity that. Rather they are the property of Bill Panzer, Peter Davis, Rysher Distribution, and some French guys, among others.
Rating: M, for Fluff, Angst, Alcohol, and Semi-Graphic Sex between two guys.
Pairing: Duncan/Methos
Status: Complete
White Elephant
Dawson eased himself carefully out of the back of the cab; the concrete and slate sidewalks were slick with water and muddy ice, much like the streets. The cab driver, in a rare show of courtesy for that breed, helped him unload his small travel kit and the long, leather-bound case he'd carried from Prague. The last months had been rough on the aging mortal, and he looked every one of his years.
"Thanks," Dawson said, shutting the cab door behind him. "I need you to wait for fifteen."
"No problem, but I got to keep the meter running." The driver, a young black man with a voice as deep, wide and slow as the River herself despite his concave chest, flashed Dawson a smile.
"Fine." Dawson looked up at the off-white plastered walls behind him, the edge of a wrought iron balcony just visible through reaching brown tree branches and the slumbering skeletal vines that clung to it and the wall. For a moment he wondered if the matted, ropy vines were clawing their way to the heights or determined to pull the structure down.
Maybe both.
He looked back at the driver waiting, one foot on the curb and one in the street, before hefting both bags in his free hand. "I'll be back down in fifteen, one way or another. Maybe sooner."
"Not expecting a warm welcome home?" The young man's grin grew wider, commiserating.
"Nah, just hoping he doesn't kill the messenger."
The narrow gate in the wall, almost hidden by the same vines, squeaked open and clanged shut behind him, the rattling metal setting up an echo in the even cooler courtyard it led into. He glanced around; a few potted plants, halfway cared for, some wooden chairs that were more wood than paint, and an equally-peeling double door that led into the first floor.
There was music behind door number one, and a baby wailed from what looked like number three. "Bob, I'll take the box, as long as Carol Merrill is in it," Dawson muttered, and started up the stairs. The carpet on the steps was faded red and worn through in spots, dirt and dark wood working their way free around the edges. At one time the stairs had been solid oak and lovingly waxed, the banisters gleaming with oil. Now he was afraid to touch them no matter how off balance and slow it made him; God only knew what he might catch, and it wasn't like he was immortal.
"Sweet Jesus," he swore as he battled his way up the last steps. "Man has more money than Midas; you'd think he'd spring for something a little nicer."
At least up here the runner was a little cleaner, the doors a little wider apart. He limped halfway down the hall, realized he'd gone the wrong way and swore a little more. Maybe he should have told the cabbie thirty instead, but too late now. Too late for too damn much.
Eight, naturally, was around the corner from the stairs, and when Joe closed his eyes to better place the layout, realized it was the corner with the balcony he'd seen earlier. Had there been movement? Was his presence already announced?
Only one way to find out. He raised his hand and rapped on the door, counted to ten, then knocked again. Silence as long as a second thought, then the rasp and clunk of a bolt drawn and the door opened just wide enough to be taken as an invitation to enter. The door hung loosely on its hinges, so Joe nudged it farther open with the bags he carried. When nothing jumped, shot, or yelled at him he swung it the rest of the way and walked into the apartment, knocking the door closed with his cane.
"Coffee will be ready in a minute." The voice, familiar in pitch and phrase but strange in accent came from what Dawson took to be the kitchen to his left.
"Thanks, but I've only got a minute; I got a driver downstairs waiting," Joe called back, glancing around the small apartment. Down the short hall behind the front door he got a glimpse of tile, the bathroom backing onto the kitchen. White walls and faded industrial brown carpet in the main room, no separate bedroom. Much smaller than his Parisian house, although there were many of the same pieces. Leave it to Methos to decorate a flophouse with genuine Persian rugs, and mix thrift store specials with Louis XV
"Really?" The owner of the voice stepped out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel before tossing it back. Methos looked much the same, Joe thought, same nose, same eyes, same hair. Maybe a little thinner, but then he'd been eating on his own, without someone to cook for or for him, or to wrestle him away from whatever he was researching.
"McLeod didn't send you over here to yenta for him? Or is this visit purely on your own?"
Dawson ran the words back through his mind, checking for sarcasm. Yes, it was there, but more like a habit than meant to sting.
"On my own." He swung the bags up and dropped the duffel on a nearby table, enjoying the solid thud it made before setting the hardened leather case next to it. "The bag has the things you left at my place this last time. The other is something I thought you should have."
"A sword case?" Methos edged towards the table and ran his hand over the case. "A nice thought, but it's not like I need one." He glanced up and Joe could see a hint of suspicion in the old man's eyes. "Or do I?"
Joe shrugged. "You tell me."
He watched Methos carefully, trying to read any expression on the ultimate poker face, while the old man watched him in return; weighing, measuring, putting together God alone knew what pieces of information and experience. Then something flickered in his hazel eyes, something that looked almost like fear before they glazed over, Methos' thoughts miles from the shabby apartment.
Flashback? Joe wondered. He'd seen a similar look on other immortals; a tone, a scent, a chance word or turn of phrase would send them back decades. Or millennia, in Methos' case. The look only lasted for seconds, barely long enough for Joe to notice and speculate, before the other man was back with him.
"If I open it will snakes pop out?"
Dawson chuckled, reminded of the present Rich Ryan had given the Old Man two years ago. Methos had been trying to teach the element of surprise to Duncan's protégé for weeks; the look on his face when he opened the box—on the label 'From Anne' in the doctor's own script to throw him off—and dozens of fake snakes popped out had been definitely a Kodak moment.
Then he remembered what it held, and the humor faded from his voice. "Not snakes, but no guarantee that it won't bite."
Methos gave him one of those long, cool looks he was so good at. Flat-eyed and measuring, debating on whether you got to walk away from him with everything intact. Then his hazel eyes cleared and warmed, and the old man turned his attention to snapping open the case.
Already knowing what was inside Joe looked away, studying a tiny oil painting the size of his hand on one of the bookshelves. His shoulders and back tensed, making the muscles there even more painful and he longed to sit down. Seconds ticked away to minutes, and still no movement or sound behind him. He'd expected angry words demanding an explanation, a cool threat wanting the same. Hell, steel at his neck or a gun to his head would have been just as likely an option.
Instead he heard the tiny snick of a door opening and felt a cold draft ruffle the ends of his hair. Surprised, Joe turned then, seeing Methos leaning over the balcony railing and shouting something in French. A handful of bills drifted down afterwards and he sighed before crossing the room and easing onto the couch; if Methos was going to make him call another cab, the least he could do was wait in comfort.
Methos closed the balcony door, detoured into the kitchen and returned with two cups of coffee. "Here, looks like you need this," he said, offering one to Dawson then sitting on the ottoman in front of the mortal.
"Thanks," Joe answered, cradling the mug in his hands. The heat was near scalding and the scent next door to heaven; one of the few things the oldest immortal never skimped on was his coffee.
The two friends sat in silence, each marshalling their own thoughts and emotions. Dawson settled himself further; he was walking a slippery path, one that could easily lead to the permanent deaths of both his friends. But if something didn't happen, and soon, at least one of them would be as good as dead anyways.
For his part, Methos touched the tiny thread that connected him to his Highlander. Tenuous after Bordeaux, it had become stronger with each passing year, deepened and widened once they'd become lovers. It hung between them, brilliant as silver, strong as steel. He ran mental fingers along it again, and this time hid a frown in his coffee. There was something there, a tiny flaw he'd noticed just before their last fight, something that worried him and that worry had led to him picking a nasty argument with Duncan.
Bad enough that he'd left after some harsh words on both sides, something that had happened a few times in the past. Something that could only be expected when two strong personalities tried to share their lives.
But the sword in that case had been Mac's katana, something he'd not part with willingly. Unlike himself, who might prefer a length or style but discarded weapons as easily as names, Mac was more sentimental. Not that the Highlander couldn't use an astonishing variety of weapons; any immortal over 200 learned multiple styles, although most had only 2 or 3 they used the majority of the time. Styles and weapons changed, and it was important for survival to blend.
Problem: Mac would never willingly give up his katana, yet the awareness between them assured Methos he was still alive. Problem: Dawson was sitting on his couch, drinking his coffee, seemingly content, yet he looked like he'd been carried across the Alps slung over a llama and the look he'd given Methos when Dawson dropped the carry bag had been edged with disdain.
Ah, well. Best to get the rest of it over with.
"All right, Joe, now that we've dispensed with the pleasantries, go ahead," he said, watching the mortal carefully.
Dawson looked at him, puzzled. "Go ahead and what?" He swallowed the last of his coffee and set the mug aside. "Although I'd appreciate the use of your phone since you lost me my ride." The warm drink had been delightful on his tongue, and churned like acid in his stomach.
"Drop the other shoe." Methos leaned to the side and set his mug on a Victorian-era side table. "Why go out of your way to bring me a pair of shoes and a toothbrush I left behind? Why leave the cab waiting for a quick getaway? Oh yes, and why did you bring Mac's katana?"
This was it, the make or break. Joe could only hope he knew these two as well as he thought. And now that the moment was here, he realized he had another problem.
"I…don't know where to start."
"The beginning is usually a good place." Methos raised one eyebrow.
"Yeah, well, Biblical jokes aside, the beginning was the first time you ended it with Mac." Joe looked down at his hands, leaned back on the sofa and glanced up at the steady hazel eyes watching him.
Those eyes looked startled. "I've never ended it with Mac." Methos waved a hand. "I couldn't, even if I wanted to. Oh, we've had some pretty bad arguments, even spent some time apart like now, but I could never leave him, not permanently. If anything," Methos added, "he'd have to leave me, and I don't think that's possible either. Short of death, of course."
"Of course," Joe answered dryly. "Well then, the first time you took a leave of absence from the mess you two call a relationship then. It was…ugly."
"I hadn't seen you guys in a couple of days; thought I'd stop by…."
Three days since he'd seen either of the immortal lovebirds, it was time to roust them out of their nest.
Pulling up in front of the dojo, he'd seen Methos' Volvo was missing. Maybe they'd taken a long weekend without letting him know. Not something MacLeod would usually do, but if Methos had told him he'd taken care of it, Mac wouldn't give it another thought. On the other hand, one of them might just be out on a beer run.
"It was Sunday night, about seven-ish…."
Joe parked behind the old building and knew something was wrong the second the back door swung open. Mac might be careless of such things, but Methos never was and Mac had always indulged his lover's paranoia. It got worse when he stepped inside; a dark, chill dankness greeted him, the feel of a warehouse long abandoned, the total opposite of what he'd come to expect of the busy place, so full of light and activity. Even the lift sounded older, ready to give out when he slammed the gate down and brought it to life with his key.
"…and the door was open. I…"
The back of his neck itched and his stomach tightened. Not thinking, Joe checked his pocket for the gun he kept handy at all times these days. His thumb rested gently on the safety and he stepped to the side, taking advantage of what cover the elevator had.
The contraption ground to a halt in darkness, its groaning gears the only sound. Then the smell hit him; death, a bouquet every field Watcher knew from experience. Blood, decay and loosened bowels, feel of old violence in the air, reek of alcohol and spice, something destroyed.
Joe waited, counting off three full minutes, breath quiet and slow, countering his racing heart, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light filtering in from the streetlamps.
"At first, I didn't see anything, hear anything. It was just…"
Movement.
A skittering across the hardwood floor, something small and loose rolling a few feet then stopping. The sound came from near the sofa, and Joe found himself stepping forward only to hit the barred gate. The thing would be incredibly noisy to raise. Joe kicked himself in the head; why worry when anyone still there would have heard him come in and the damn thing stop at the top. Another early warning system built into the old building. Joe backed as far away as he could and used his cane to leverage the grate up. The harsh clang when it jarred open was nothing he could do anything about, but it was greeted with a thump and a moan.
"The place was a mess."
Cautiously he peeked around the corner. Dark, yes, and pretty trashed, but not like he'd expect the place to look if either of them had taken a Quickening. Or been lost to one. No burns, windows intact, furniture still (mostly) in place, pots and pans still hanging intact. He'd expect more damage if one or both were permanently dead. Hell, if Methos went he'd expect the whole building to explode.
Another moan decided him, and Joe edged out into the room. His cane hit something and outside light glinted off an empty bottle of whiskey spinning half-heartedly from the impact.
"Mac?" Joe called out. Another thump from the other side of the couch and he edged around the corner of the sofa. The source of the moans and thumps revealed himself. "Jesus," Joe swore, nose wrinkling at the smell.
"Mac was…. Jesus."
Mac lay on the floor in front of the couch, the remains of at least two cases of booze scattered across the furniture and floors. Joe noted absently that it was all hard liquor, not a beer can in sight. The smell of death and alcohol was at it strongest here.
Lying in the middle of the wreckage was MacLeod. The immortal was on the floor, covered in things Joe didn't even want to think about. Glossy hair was dull and matted down, and Mac's olive skin was sallow in the dim light. His clothes hung on him, where they weren't glued to his skin by vomit and urine.
It looked, to Joe, as if the man had drunk himself to death, several times over. But what the hell could have put him in such a state? Not even Tessa's death-.
"I could only think of one thing."
Joe felt his heart seize. And just where was the Old Man of the Sea-couver? Not dead, Joe refused to believe that. Evidence gathered by the Watchers over centuries indicated that the older and stronger the immortal, the more damage the Quickening caused when released. One like Methos' would surely have caused a huge amount of damage, not to mention at least a local power failure. Nothing of the kind had been reported, and it would have been hot gossip on the Watcher grapevine, hours of speculation on the source of the explosion; was it an immortal or not, and if so, who?
A quick look around and it dinged on the Watcher that there was none of Methos' usual clutter lying about. Could that be the source of the problem? Had the oldest immortal ended his affair with Duncan?
Another moan along with movement roused Joe from his thoughts. Mac's hand was groping along the floor, headed towards a bottle on its side that still had a little liquid dripping from the mouth onto the floor. The Watcher smacked the bottle with his cane, the sharp crack of wood and glass echoing in the loft followed by the sound of the bottle rolling across the floor. It came to rest against the fireplace, a little more fluid sloshing out when it jarred still.
Joe looked down at Mac, watching the barely alive immortal scrunch his eyes and look back.
"Joe?" Mac's voice was faint and raspy, like the throat that produced it was too raw for sound and ripped at the edges of the word in protest.
"Where's Methos?" he blurted out, anxious to put at least that worry to rest. For a second he thought Mac had died again, Mac's body collapsing in on itself.
"Gone." The word was pulled out, pain soaking every sound, and Joe's heart spasmed with it. "Left. Hates me."
The Hell? Joe thought, confused. Three days ago the two had been hanging on each other so tightly he'd finally checked them over for signs of a superglue accident. What could have happened in the meantime to separate them? And from the look of things in the loft, it had to have been at least two days ago; not even Mac could drink enough to trash himself this badly in less than that, immortal healing and all.
"I didn't know what to do. Tap dancing isn't my best thing."
"I doubt it, although it may seem that way." Joe nudged Mac's body with his cane. "Get up. Shower. Twice." He walked away, heading for the kitchen. "I'll make coffee and we'll talk. Then you'll make dinner."
He rummaged through the fridge, looking for the coffee and using that as an excuse to ignore the man behind him. He heard movement, feet scuffing on the floor, Mac's usual light tread missing, then a door closing. Joe paused in counting scoops, waiting for the groan that was the plumbing in the building to tell him what happened next. Soon the familiar bang-bang-bang of the pipes told him Mac was following his orders.
How much longer that would last was anyone's guess.
Hearing the shower come on, he flipped on the coffee maker and pulled out a pair of mugs, then turned his attention to the freezer. A little digging later Joe unearthed a package of frozen muffins and popped them in the oven to defrost and warm. Not the best, but better than nothing.
By the time Mac was out of the shower Joe was comfortable in one of the armchairs, coffee and blueberry muffin next to him. He watched, sipping occasionally, while his friend shuffled painfully across the room in his robe, dug out clean clothes and retreated to the bathroom to dress.
The man had lost weight as well, Joe thought. Immortal healing drained reserves; recovering from death even more. From the look of him, Mac had spent the last couple of days drinking himself to death, only to recover and repeat.
Joe held his silence until Mac had tossed off one cup, poured himself another and taken the chair across from him.
"So what happened?" he asked. "Last time I saw you two you couldn't keep your hands off each other."
"We had an argument," Mac said to his coffee. Was his face red with heat or embarrassment?
"What about?"
Shrewd blue eyes met iron-clad hazel. "He never did tell me what you fought about, then or any other time."
"Nothing important." Mac shrugged, his nose still buried in his mug. "You know how it goes; one thing leads to another, you say things in anger you'd never say otherwise. He left."
"Sometimes words said in anger are the truest." Joe set his mug down on the table, glancing up when no comment on the use of a coaster was forthcoming. "The *way* they're said might not be the best, and the issues they raise might not be quite so volatile in another setting, but they're still true thoughts."
Should he pry? No, not yet; see where Mac went with it.
"What brings you by?" Apparently Mac wasn't going anywhere with it.
Joe set his crumb covered plate next to his mug, picking up his coffee before leaning back again. "Well, I hadn't seen you two lovebirds in a couple of days; thought I'd stop by and invite myself in for dinner."
Mac's wince at the term 'lovebirds' was visible to anyone. "Sorry it had to be tonight, Joe," his smile was half-hearted. "I…didn't want anyone to know yet."
Joe snorted. "Relationships are hard, Mac. A lot of give and take. I doubt you've seen the back of the Old Man permanently, and if you have," he waved a hand, "good riddance. Anyone who caves after one big blow-up isn't worth your time."
"Let's just say I wasn't too happy with you at the time, and frankly I'm not real happy with you now."
He felt a pang at his own words. Methos was his friend, yes, and it would hurt to never see him, or only occasionally, their friendship fading over the years to the obligatory postcards at Christmas and birthday. But dammit, MacLeod was his friend too, and not just that, his Immortal, someone he knew more about than many people did their own spouses.
Food, shower, coffee and company appeared to have helped, as did the fact that Joe was ignoring the filth around the loft and the condition he'd found Mac in. There was some good color in Mac's face, and even though there was still pain, it looked like he'd put it away for a while.
"Well, I don't think you're up to cooking tonight. What say we go out? There's a new steak and rib place uptown I've been meaning to try. You can cook dinner for us this weekend." And give me another shot at finding out what went wrong, Joe added to himself. In the meantime, he'd keep a closer eye on MacLeod, keep the immortal busy and out of trouble until he could track Methos down.
He hadn't managed to find Methos, but it turned out that wasn't a problem. Mac had called to cancel their dinner that weekend, and for a minute Joe had been worried. Then he'd heard a clear baritone in the background asking about wine and he'd chuckled before demanding a rain-check.
Now Joe studied the impassive face of the man across from him while he finished his abbreviated tale.
"The second time," Joe shook his head, remembering Mac sobbing into his hands, determined to not seek oblivion in the bottom of a bottle, and finally falling asleep on Joe's couch. The Highlander had been silent and morose, in a depression so deep Joe had feared he might look for someone to take his head. He'd set both Mike and Rich to hunting Methos, to no avail.
"The second time he was a basket case, but he got over it eventually. Coincidentally, about the time you strolled back into town. You have a lot to answer for Methos."
"Me?" The other man looked truly shocked, but knowing his friend as well as he did, Joe could see worry and maybe just a sliver of fear flicker across Methos' face. Careful now.
"What about you, Joe? Why did you wait until now to mention anything? Did you think Mac would?" Methos jumped up from his seat and busied himself by picking up the mugs and rinsing them in the tiny kitchen.
"Me?" Joe said, echoing the other and raising his voice to be heard above the running water. "I'm not sharing a bed with either of you. Balancing Mac, you and the Watchers is enough of a circus act for me."
"So you're saying Mac's depressed over our separation? If he's that bad off what are you doing here?" Methos walked out of the kitchen, drying his hands. His jaw was clenched tight, and Joe had the impression of a mule digging in its heels. "Because you're right; you don't sleep with us. And I'll add this," he said, tossing the towel over the back of his chair. "I left because Mac wouldn't. I still hope to change his mind on that, but I can't do it from here. I had planned on turning up on his doorstep in the next week or so. Besides, it's not like I can stay away from him."
The last sentence came out almost—wistful, Joe thought. Time to dangle a herring. "Next week might be too late, Methos."
In the silence that followed Joe distantly registered the sounds of the city; cars passing, children yelling, a far off siren as police rushed to some emergency. But all those faded as he felt his heart begin to pound and wondered if one of those emergencies might not be the discovery of his own body. He was caught in Methos' eyes, until fear dropped an ice cube down his back and he shivered. Those amorally patient eyes, distant as any predator examining its prey.
"But he's not a tame lion."
The quote echoed in Joe's thoughts. No, not tame at all. It was something he forgot occasionally, that Immortals were trained but hardly tamed. Show a threat to any of them, and the carefully cultivated harmlessness that let them blend in was stripped away. Especially in the older ones.
Especially in this one.
"So how did you find me this time, when you couldn't the last two?" The words were mild, but the distant look of the predator was still there.
Joe shrugged. Never show fear, they can smell it, he thought wildly, trying to come up with an answer. Maybe the truth? "I asked Mac."
"You asked Mac." Methos smiled, a quick twist of his lips. "A novel approach. And he told you, just like that?"
"Just like that."
Methos relaxed and leaned back in his chair. Joe felt something in his stomach unknot at the same time. "So he did send you as a yenta."
The Watcher shook his head. "No, he sent me as a messenger."
"And the message was what? 'Come home, all is forgiven'? I don't think so."
Anger wrenched at him, and Dawson suddenly found himself struggling to his feet. "You son-of-a-bitch. I don't know what Mac sees in you, and if I could help it I'd keep you away from him." He balanced on his prosthetics long enough to shake his cane in Methos' startled face. "You might be a friend, but right now I'm not liking you very much. I don't know what you two argued about, and frankly I don't give a shit. But whatever it is has torn him up good twice now, and this time I'm not sure he'll make it back."
Joe shook his head in disgust. "You want his message? Well this is it: 'He can't do for me what he asks me to do for him. So be it.' I sure as hell hope that makes more sense to you than it does to me."
He limped over to the door, not waiting for Methos to play host and see him out. Joe paused with one hand on the knob and looked back. Methos was standing next to his chair, the look on his face caught between amazed and appalled.
"Oh, one other thing, Methos. If you're thinking of getting in touch with him, he's not at home. He's in Switzerland." Joe's smile was grim as he let himself out. "There's a new headhunter in Bern," he added, shutting the door in Methos' face.
Joe was halfway down the stairs when Methos caught him, one long hand resting gently enough on his arm to not overbalance him, but firmly enough to keep him from going down the rest of the stairs.
He looked up over his shoulder at Methos at his blandest. "You might as well come back up, Joe," the oldest immortal said. "Our flight doesn't leave until four."
The Watcher kept his relief to himself when he made his way back up the stairs to Methos' apartment. He dropped back onto the chair he'd vacated and waited for the interrogation to begin.
Methos draped himself across the ottoman in front of him, acting for once the age he actually looked, rather than the 'all knowing wise man' he constantly denied being. The confusion disappeared almost instantly, five thousand years of experience automatically shuffling priorities. Joe felt a little more of the fear and tension he'd been carrying melt away; he'd needed back-up on this one, and it looked like he might get just the one he needed.
"Just to make sure I'm following your reasoning here," Methos started, chin resting on one hand. "Two weeks ago, Mac and I had an argument, and I left to give us both some time to cool off."
"I wouldn't know about that, but the time frame seems about right." Joe spread his hands in agreement. "I'd guess you'd been gone two or three days when I dropped by."
Methos nodded. "This time, instead of being morose, depressed, despondent and all-together Scottish he was—what?" He frowned, any thoughts hidden behind the sweep of long black lashes. "Headhunter." Joe watched his jaw move, like a man probing at a rotten tooth. Methos shook his head. "No." He sat back on the ottoman. "I can feel him, Joe, down the link. He's determined, set on a course, and just as bloody-minded about carrying it out as always. If he's looking for a headhunter, it's not because he's suicidal; more likely it's a threat to one of his 'Clan'."
Joe could hear the quotes around the word, but it had been said in that half-mocking, half-serious way Methos had started using towards Mac's friends and adopted family. He hid his grin, wondering for a moment if Methos realized his attitude reflected Mac's more and more as each year passed. The Immortal Clan MacLeod had more than one defender, but the very mortal Watcher wasn't about to point that out; it would ruin the fun.
"Who's the hunter, and why is Mac hunting him. Most especially, why is Mac hunting him without his sword?" Methos leaned his chin against one long-fingered hand fell silent.
"The katana isn't the only blade Mac knows how to use, ya know," Joe broke in when the quiet stretched too long for his nerves.
Methos blinked and focused on him. "Oh, I know. He's very…versatile," the oldest immortal gave Joe a suggestive smirk. "Who's Mac hunting?" Methos cut the air with the question.
"Sven Johannson." Joe's lips twitched. He'd decided on the flight in what to give and what to make Methos dig for. And what not to give away at all.
"Johannson. Not an easy mark. Well over a thousand and one of the few really old hunters left. They seem to be dropping like flies lately." The last words came out slowly, carefully, while Methos studied Joe closely. "In fact, in the last couple of weeks four dead hunters have popped up in the database. Research is putting it down to a statistical fluke. After all, it's happened before; most recently, and notably, in Bordeaux, where three crazed headhunters died at MacLeod's sword. Regrettably, in the process one Watcher researcher named Adam Pierson, believing they could lead him to their fourth, the elusive Methos, was not only killed, he was revealed as a new Immortal."
"I'd wondered," Joe said when Methos finished. "Those records are so tightly sealed not even my best bribes were working."
"I had to 'cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye' promise not to give away any Watcher secrets to my new peers." The humor ran out of the old man's face. "No one's in danger, are they?" The question wasn't really a question, and Joe didn't bother to answer. It was easy enough to see what conclusion Methos had come to. "Mac isn't protecting anyone, he's hunting the hunters."
"He prefers the term 'pre-emptive strike'."
"My ass!" Methos exploded to his feet, rage vibrating off of his skin like heat off asphalt.
Joe watched, bemused, as the normally self-disciplined immortal, the epitome of 'c'est la vie', stormed around the room throwing a tantrum that would do any fishwife proud. He shouted, he waved his arms, he banged on the table and kicked the ottoman he'd been sitting on across the room. When Methos went for a jade warrior on a side table, Joe stood up.
"Adam!" Joe snapped. Methos arm pulled back to throw, never stopping the long flow of what the Watcher took for obscenities. "Pierson! Put that down! Now!"
Methos stopped in mid rant and looked at what he held, setting the figurine down in silence. "Thanks, Joe." He took a deep breath and let it out, the temper going with it. "You see, Joe, this is exactly what we were arguing about." He looked over, hazel eyes gone gold with temper at the Watcher who watched him. "Somehow he can't quite grasp that I might have learned a few things about handling myself, and insists on coming between me and any potential challenger."
"Ah, love," Joe grinned, chuckling at the affronted look that crossed Methos' face. "Neither of you can stand the idea that the other might be at risk. A couple of Watchers with immortal pairs to keep an eye on warned me about it." Leaning on his cane he walked to the table and fastened the sword case. "Get your coat and call a cab; if our plane leaves at four we need to get going."
Methos snorted and disappeared into the bedroom, returning with a battered backpack slung over one shoulder. " 'Call a cab' indeed. We'll take my car."
This time Joe waited for Methos to usher him out. "What language was that anyways?"
Methos looked at him while he locked the door behind them, smiling slyly. "Hittite. Best language in the world for swearing in."
Bern was cold.
Then again, it was winter.
Methos snugged himself back into the doorway and tried to shove his hands further into his pockets. He had three sweaters on under his coat, gloves under his mittens, and thermal socks inside lined and waterproofed boots. There was a knit cap under his hat and a wool muffler wrapped around his face and neck that would do a certain alien scientist proud. Unfortunately, neither science nor fashion had found a way to keep his eyelashes from freezing, and the damned things dripped little icicles down his face when he blinked.
Three hours now he'd been standing outside, watching the back door of Club Doxie, a place that was only a dance club by courtesy. Ash and mud coated the brickwork while smoke and char painted the heavy wooden door in shades of gray and black. A light would sometimes flicker in an upstairs window, revealing a spider web of cracks in the darkened panes.
He'd trailed Johannson here three hours ago, moving carefully in and out of the other's range, manipulating his own quickening to make himself younger, if still powerful. If Johannson had learned the trick at all, he'd be thinking Methos was an eager youngster, drunk on the power of too many kills too quickly. Maybe someone else, still young, who'd taken a large number of powerful quickenings.
Someone who's Quickening would read very much like Mac's.
Close to midnight his patience was rewarded. A short, burly figure, made heavier by the layers of sweater and coat that wrapped him, stepped into the alleyway where Methos kept watch. The door scraped shut across the concrete, slammed to with a bang, and left the other immortal standing on the step. For a minute the man stood there, unmoving, like a silhouette of a man in the circle of light cast by a street lamp. Johannson scraped his foot across the edge of the frozen concrete, echoing the sound of the door; then his head moved, and Methos saw the light glint off his eyes, spark off an earring.
"You are smaller than I expected," he said, voice carrying across the icy air between them. The words were accented with something not native to Switzerland, something that spoke of warmer climates and rounder vowels.
"I get that a lot," Methos answered, moving to the edge of the alley in his turn.
Johannson's head cocked. "You don't sound Scottish."
"And you don't sound Swiss. Are we doing this or not? I have another appointment to keep, and I'd rather not be late." Methos stepped into the alley, sword hooked casually across his shoulder.
Johannson bared his teeth, the wolf warming to the attack. "Oh yes, little Highlander, we are most certainly doing this. It's not a fight I'd have sought, but who am I to scorn Lady Fortuna, eh? As for your appointment, leave me her number and I'll make your excuses. Perhaps she'd prefer someone with a bigger blade."
Methos lunged without warning, sword coming off his shoulder in a two-handed stroke that clanged off the metal haft of the axe Johannson conjured from nowhere. He'd acted the part of a hot-blooded youngster, easily insulted, and Johannson had answered the blow as he expected. The strike shivered up the metal and into Methos' brain, tickling loose a memory.
Heat. Sand. Blood and ash scenting the air and clogging his lungs, the force of the blow on his weapon shattering the poorly wrought iron and he knew the giant standing over him was going to kill him. He watched the sun catch the edge of the blade, followed the arc of its fall and…
…ducked the swing-and-strike of the reinforced haft, responses etched in bone and muscle by decades of sparring with Silas. In an instant he'd rolled past the more heavily muscled Johannson, axe-blade brushing the top of his head and nicking off a tuft of hair. Methos switched tactics, batting the heavy axe head out of the way with the flat of his blade to lunge in and back, catlike, leaving a streak of blood on Johannson's forearm in exchange for a wicked bruise on his left shoulder.
Never go blade-on-blade with an axe.
Methos danced back, blade flashing from one guard to the next, the old adage ringing in his ears. He feinted left then right, watching Johannson's guard, his attacks; the way his opponent struck with butt and blade, both hands on the haft and biding his time for an opening to drive the bit into unwary flesh.
It was the alley itself, slick with ice and slush that gave Methos the opening he'd been waiting for, his slashing attack taking Johannson just far enough out of line that the hunter couldn't recover in time to fend off the dagger in the older immortal's left hand. Steel into flesh, grating over bone and into lung, hot blood pumping out in a gush over his hand when his opponent jumped back, ripping the hole larger when he pulled himself off the blade. Johannson slipped on the frozen pavement and went to one knee with a grunt, axe still at the ready.
Mindful of the immortal circling him with naked steel, the Swede pivoted on his knee, keeping Methos in sight while he waited for his wound to heal. Already blue sparks arced across the hole, weaving the flesh back together.
"I'd never heard," Johannson wheezed, splattering bloody foam with his words, "that you used a second blade."
Even in the dim light from the streetlamps Methos could see the haze in blue eyes. His opponent was hurt worse than he wanted to appear. A yearning from past days bubbled slowly to the surface, a need to play with his prey before killing it, an urge he fought as fiercely as he ever did for his life. Methos stalked slowly forward, moving around his victim in an ever tightening spiral, rubber soles making only the faintest of whispers in the slush.
"No," he admitted quietly, hazel eyes glowing copper in the light. "I'd wager you never have."
He smiled then, delighting in the visible quiver that ran through Johannson's body. His prey was weak, vulnerable, nearly at the point of decision, whether to live or die. Methos debated internally, the smile steady on his face. If the man decided to die, Methos would kill him cleanly, quickly; but if Johannson chose to live, to beg for the mercy Mac would grant him in a moment, he'd hunt him, tormenting him with little cuts, little losses, until blood loss dropped him. He held Johannson's gaze, watching the man process his choices, ready for whatever decision his opponent made.
Awareness ran warm fingers up his spine, and he saw in Johannson's face the moment he felt it too; a third immortal walking the back alleys of Bern. Of the two, Methos might have had the edge in sensing the newcomer, but he was also the one unsure of his reception.
"Mind explaining what's going on here?" The newcomer's words were addressed to both men, but his eyes rested on the man still standing.
"I'd think that was obvious," Methos said, feeling that little bubble of the past start to shrink. Reality returned with a snap and he shivered in the cold. He was not that Methos any longer, and he intended to stay that way. Wistful, he thought that his lover looked wonderfully warm and inviting, even in the shadows he stood in.
"You." Johannson cut across the two of them and they blinked in a moment of unity that had been missing from their hearts for weeks. "You're MacLeod. But then, who's this?"
The erstwhile Swede pushed himself to his feet with his axe and Methos silently cursed himself for letting the welcome feel of Mac's quickening distract him. There was a challenge in progress here, and he should have killed the man while he knelt. Instead, his wool-gathering had given the hunter enough time to heal his lung.
"Ah, you thought I was Duncan MacLeod," Methos drawled, willing the man to jump to the next conclusion.
Johannson hefted his axe. "There was a rumor there were two MacLeod's, cousins of some sort. And if he's Duncan," he jerked his head in Mac's direction, "that would make you Conor, the man that took the Kurgan's head."
"If I were Conor you'd be correct," Methos said, the hint of a smile in his words, distracting his opponent with light banter while his mind shifted gears, reaching back for a trick he'd learned in his first millennia and used only rarely since. He felt Mac through the link, questioning the stirring he felt in Methos' quickening, the way it shrank and tightened, a storm flood confined by a thread.
Johannson frowned. "Whoever you are, you are mine," he said, and lunged, axe flashing in a series of cuts designed to force his opponent back, to most likely fall on the ice, the last slip ever made.
Methos' quickening slammed into him like a tsunami, driving him once more to his knees, stunned.
Methos saw the question in Johannson's eyes when he stood over him. "Just a guy," he assured him, and swung.
The quickening took him, like they all did, in a storm of lightening and pain. His body convulsed and shook, falling to the ground and rising in the wind that was all the power Johannson had possessed. Dozens of lives passed in thousands of fragments through his mind, a handful of them resonating as he dimly recognized other immortals he'd known. Consuelo Mendoza, of the fiery heart and impressive horse ranch. Tane Marcos, a laughing bandit who'd almost given in. Kensukai Seiji, who'd first taught him to control the demons that rode in his nightmares. A handful of others, their essential selves long frayed away and absorbed, leaving behind only their raw skills and knowledge.
It threatened to swallow him whole and shake him apart, until something outside all the pain and glory caught his attention, distracting him from the dangerous task of mastering all that was being forced into him. Something solid and warm, like his beloved deserts; something he could hold onto, stand on, lean against and be sure of. Something that gave him a point of reference in the whirling confusion around him.
For the first time in his very, very long life, he let himself lean.
Between one heartbeat and the next the confusion disappeared, and then the pain and the lightening followed. His vision was fuzzy, but good enough to make out a pair of concerned brown eyes just exactly the right color, surrounded by a fall of dark chestnut hair he knew would smell of love and musk.
With enormous effort he raised one hand, tangling his fingers in long locks that were properly silky. A slight tug pulled the face above his down closer, letting him bury his nose in brown hair.
Ah, yes, he thought, perfect.
"Perfect," Methos mumbled, echoing his thought.
"If I didn't know better, I'd swear you're drunk. Can you stand?" The deep voice had a touch of brogue in it that Methos found enchanting.
"Maybe." His hands and feet were starting to tingle. There was something he was supposed to do. Or maybe say.
"Idiot."
The face that went with the voice disappeared, only to reappear a moment later when the scenery changed. Oh, he was standing. And the warmth around him appeared to be arms. A sudden surge of a different kind of electricity went through him and he gasped, feeling his pants suddenly shrink. Heat and pressure made his hips arch and he threw his head back.
"Mac!"
MacLeod chuckled in his ear. "Lean here."
Methos found himself propped up in the same doorway he'd waited in, this time braced there by a warm body putting pressure on his legs. He felt hands at his zipper, and the sudden shock of cold air on his groin yanked his breath from him in a curse.
"At least I didn't catch any hair," Mac protested before dipping his head.
Warm mouth and soft lips surrounded his cock and Methos saw stars at the feeling. Three weeks away had been a month too long. On top of the last of the quickening energy, it was only a matter of moments before he felt beautiful suction swallowing the last of his orgasm.
Hazy, if a little chilled, Methos stroked the hair on the head still buried against him. "I'm sorry, Mac," he said softly.
"For what?" Troubled brown eyes looked up and met his own.
Methos shrugged, uncomfortable with the realization he'd come to, but willing to face it for this man. "For asking you to do something I wasn't really willing to do myself."
MacLeod rose lightly to his feet, tucking Methos' clothes together as he went. "For what? Not taking out the trash? Leaving your shoes in front of the door?" he asked, trying to lighten the moment.
Methos grabbed his arms and stopped him in mid button. "Don't. I'm sorry because, after all the times I've lectured you about accepting me as I am, not as my past, I haven't been willing to do the same for you. I haven't been willing to accept your need to protect your family." Methos looked down, then back up. "I thought I was, but I wasn't. If Joe hadn't—"
"Hmmm, yes, Joe," Duncan interrupted, pulling his lover into a hug and happy when Methos returned it. "A good thing he got back when he did; if he'd left me defenseless too much longer I was going to go buy a sword until I got back home."
"Sword?" Methos jerked back and stared at MacLeod, frowning. "Defenseless? He told me—"
Duncan laughed. "Not to worry, I wasn't in danger; at least not from immortals."
"Duncan," Methos drawled. "What did he do? How did he get your sword?"
"Quite the trick, actually. He drugged me, tied me up, and locked me in a storage shed. He let me out an hour ago, with profound apologies and my sword."
Methos stared at Duncan in profound disgust. "And you let him? Mac, anything could have happened."
"But it didn't," Mac pointed out. "Now, I don't know about you, but I don't think this is the best place to be carrying on this sort of conversation." He licked his lips and smirked.
Methos felt a familiar urge at the sight, a tightening of heart as well as groin. "You're right. I haven't rented anything yet, and all my properties here are locked up."
"Properties? Never mind," Duncan hushed his lover. "I have a suite."
"Of course you do."
"Where we can talk…"
"Talk."
"…hash things out…"
"Hash. I hate hash."
"Meethosss." Duncan glared. "You know what I mean."
Methos smiled at the Highlander and dove in for a kiss, mouth still soft and slightly bruised, Duncan's sweetness overlain by his own salt, a taste he'd grown to crave and missed desperately.
"I know." Methos smiled, amused at his own besottedness. "We'll discuss us. And other things. And then discuss other things."
"Other things?" Duncan asked.
"Joe."
Methos smiled.