THIS IS NOT A DEATH FIC THIS IS NOT A DEATH FIC THIS IS NOT A DEATH FIC THIS IS NOT A DEATH FIC
This is a cross over with Highlander/Mag 7/ The Sentinel. As if the seven didn't keep me busy enough. None of these boys belong to me. I haven't figured out how to make money off them unfortunately.
//If the words are between the backslashes it's projected thoughts telepathy or a close cousin.// If they are in itallics they're thoughts.
Death takes a Holiday
Dawn Monday
"'A vacation' he said." Adam Pierson, a.k.a. Methos, the oldest living immortal, wrapped his jacket more tightly around himself to ward off the cold. "A vacation has sunshine, indoor plumbing and hot water. Only MacLeod would consider an island in the back-of-no-where a vacation. I know I've seen enough of the back-of-no-where to recognize it. I don't care if it is June it's freezing out here at night." Methos raised his voice as his rant ran down.
With a put upon sigh and a pout Methos watched his friend Duncan MacLeod and his kinsman Connor MacLeod sitting drinking by the bonfire. Nothing can be worse than freezing my ass off watching two morose, drunken Scotsmen recount the good old days . . . . They wouldn't. Methos stiffened as Connor stumbled over and pulled something from the bundle he had brought down previously. By all the Gods, NO! Haven't I suffered enough? I've known for centuries what a Scotsman wears under his kilt without having to suffer through the drunken exhibition of these two and now bagpipes. Methos whimpered pitifully. I'm going to have to kill them. I don't care if it is Connor's 483rd Birthday. Methos' fingers lovingly stroked the hilt of his broadsword. "Maybe if I get drunk enough," Pierson snagged the bottle of scotch as Duncan cavorted by flashing the disgruntled man once more. At least they haven't painted each other blue yet.
The merry making came to an abrupt halt as the sounds of a laboring engine came to their attention.
"That'sh nay goood." Duncan struggled to keep his eyes focused on the low flying plane. Raising his hand to shield his eyes from the rising sun he watched as it flew in a crippled circle.
"It's going into the lake." Methos lurched to his feet unsteadily.
The trio watched in horror as the twin engine plane skipped across the water before coming to a halt and immediately began sinking beneath the surface.
"There." Connor pointed losing his belt he dropped the kilt to the pebbles and began to wade out, closely followed by Duncan. Throwing his hands up over his head Methos shook off his jacket and stomped down the beach and out into the frigid water.
"Three," Connor called back in an amazingly sober tone. Immediately he swam toward the bobbing heads.
"Let's get you to shore," Duncan said to the shaking black man as he helped support the unconscious man the survivor was towing.
"That'd be g-g-g-good," the man answered his teeth chattering violently.
"How many of you are there?" Methos asked as he swam by.
"Six, only six. Chris and Buck went after Ezra," Nathan said in a shaken tone.
"Damn," Methos whispered. Mortals throwing themselves into harm's way. Most likely three dead instead of one.
"They were both Navy SEALs," The burly man grunted as he paddled past using one arm.
"A chance they have then," Connor admitted. "How badly are you hurt?" he demanded as he swam up beside the injured man.
"Bruised but unbroken. I can get to shore on my own," Josiah assured his rescuer. Rolling to his back he began to kick determinedly as he searched the waters desperately. "There! Thank you God," Sanchez smiled widely.
"Are you sure you can make the shore on your own?" Connor demanded watching the three bobbing heads further out.
"Yes, go help them please." Josiah urged.
Connor began to swim strongly toward the tiring men, closely followed by Methos.
The exhausted pair were treading water while giving the third man CPR.
"Let us," Methos urged gently taking over the chest compressions from the light haired man. An exhausted nod was the only response. Connor began to tow the limp body back to the shore while the others continued CPR.
Duncan carried the barely conscious man up to the fire and gently lay him down. Nathan stumbled along behind and dropped down beside the still form. Jackson's gentle fingers brushed back the wet hair and examined the gash along JD's hair line. Duncan laid one of the plaids down beside the pair before hurrying down to help Josiah up the beach.
"This isn't bad, you'll be fine once we get you warmed up," Nathan sighed in relief. Carefully he began stripping the wet clothes off and wrapped JD in the heavy wool tartan. JD blinked drunkenly but tried to help.
Josiah sat down with a tired thump beside JD cradling his arm protectively. The lost look on the man's face kept drawing Nathan's troubled gaze.
"Josiah?" Nathan reached over and shook the other man slightly.
"I couldn't hold him." Josiah stared at his hands opening and closing his fists. "They look so strong don't they? I couldn't hold him," Sanchez whispered. Tears ran unchecked down his face.
"Vin!" JD turned his head against Josiah's thigh and sobbed brokenly.
A friend lost. Duncan sighed before heading down to the water once more. Wading out he wrapped an arm around one of the wavering strangers and urged him on towards the fire. Connor swung the limp body up in his arms and hurried toward the blazing fire. Methos slid his shoulder under the third stranger's arm and all but carried him up the beach.
Stumbling, Connor almost dropped his precious burden falling to his knees with an abrupt jerk. Water spewed from the semi-conscious body's mouth and the limp man began to cough and gag.
Nathan worriedly examined the other man before sitting back with a grin. "I suppose swimming to shore on your own would have been too much like manual labor to suit you, Ezra?"
Ezra continued to cough and gag for several minutes while they stripped him and wrapped him in the other tartan.
"Mistah . . . Jackson . . . have you . . . any concept . . . how wool . . . against mah . . . bare skin . . . will irritate me?" Ezra wheezed.
"I'd have figured these Wilmington lips would have sweetened that prickly disposition more than that," Buck teased, yet the dark blue eyes were filled with loss. "Damn glad you decided to hang around, Ez."
"You let him . . . Mr. Jackson, please tell me his shots are up to date!" Ezra scowled but his eyes were warm as he pretended to strike the smirking Wilmington. Suddenly the Southerner's facade crumbled revealing how devastated he was. Buck's big arms wrapped around the smaller man while he cried heartbrokenly on his shoulder.
Chris moved silently among his men. A shaking hand rested briefly on each head as he made his round. "Nate?" Larabee stood protectively over his team.
"I'll feel better once Josiah, JD, and Ezra are checked out at a hospital. Except for needing warming up they aren't bad." Nathan reported.
"Let's get you up to the cabin," Duncan urged calmly. "Some hot tea and warm blankets should warm you up in no time."
"Need to use your phone," Chris said as he began to adjust.
"Nearest working phone is 45 minutes by canoe. Cell phones don't have service out here. I'm sorry but I don't have a radio." Duncan said.
"Secure the team, then go for assistance," Buck muttered blankly, falling back on his military training.
"You have a cabin?" Chris straightened.
"Aye, will you allow us to carry your friends up?" Duncan asked quietly.
Larabee frowned for a moment then nodded.
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The three immortals did their best to make their unexpected guests comfortable. Duncan frowned as he noted that Connor was effectively managing to stay away from the mortals by retrieving soaked clothing from the beach and any number of necessary but distant tasks.
"Connor?" Duncan demanded as the other man dumped a pile of sodden clothing onto the porch.
"The dark haired youngster. His name is Johnnie Dunne. A fine lad. He used to do odd jobs for me when I would go to Boston. His mother was a maid at the hotel I frequented." Connor sighed.
"Oh," Duncan winced.
"Worse. I died," Connor growled.
"A kinsman who looks much alike," Duncan suggested a common explanation.
"No good. He's a friendly lad and we talked often. He knows 'Graham Nash' had no family. I died in front of him . . . very messily." Connor grunted.
"Well then you better be the one that goes for help," Duncan said patting Connor's shoulder.
"I paid for the boy's schooling though he knows it not." Connor admitted.
"I'll watch over him for you, kinsman." Duncan promised.
"Thank you, Duncan. He's a bonny Laddie," Connor said.
Duncan looked through the window at the six huddled men. "They've lost a friend this night."
"Aye, that they have." Connor agreed.
The two men watched as Methos carried over a tray full of coffee cups. Respectfully he moved away leaving the men to grieve in peace. Silently he slipped out the door to join the MacLeods.
"You look as if you've seen a ghost," Connor huffed.
Methos grasped the porch rail and shivered. "All you can do is spread your wings and flee the coming storm." The eldest whispered.
"Methos?" Duncan questioned.
"A thing of legends, MacLeod," Methos hissed. "That is a hunting pack."
"God have mercy. The Wild Hunt," Connor paled.
"A fairy tale," Duncan protested looking back and fourth between the older pair.
"Ramirez told me of the Hunters. It was less than a generation after a watchman until my birth. There were many stories of a hunting pack from the beginning of the MacLeods." Connor said seriously.
"I've seen two," Methos rocked on the balls of his feet nervously. "The first . . . I fled the Horsemen . . . but I had already brought down the Huntsman's wrath upon me. Very persistent a Hunting Pack. So Death fled with the hounds of justice at his heels seeking to pull him down. They chased me across most of Asia Minor and Europe finally into the land of the Northmen. I died three times, yet I could not shake that damned hunter from my trail. I engineered my escape by weighting myself down with ballast stone and jumped off of a ship, sinking into the sea. When the ropes rotted through some forty-one years later I went on my way. The Huntsman's grave and that of his Companions were on the headland overlooking the site where I went in, only their mortality ended their pursuit." Methos revealed.
The second was in the holy lands during the third crusade. I was very careful to avoid incurring the wrath of this Huntsman and his Pack. The Hunter . . . recognized my difference from mortal men. He passed over me and sought other prey. There was no escape once they took up the hunt. Those men in there wear the faces of that pack."
"Ramirez claimed the Huntsman to be more than human," Connor mused.
"An immortal?" Duncan asked almost like a child at story time.
"No a Singer, a rare type of the Guardian warriors," Methos answered distractedly.
"A Sentinel?" Duncan frowned.
"Some claim them to be Elf as well." Connor said.
"More fairy tales. I don't see an elf in there do you?" Duncan huffed.
"Tannah was," Methos smiled faintly. Have you forgotten so soon Champion that most myth has a foundation in truth.
"What?" Duncan spluttered in disbelief.
"Well technically he was half-elven." Methos smirked and picked up the wet clothes carrying them inside to hang and dry.
"Connor?" Duncan demanded.
"How should I know?" Connor snorted.
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Thrusting a pile of clothes into Chris' arms Methos' words broke up the heated argument between Wilmington and Larabee. "You are the only mobile member of your party I can even attempt to clothe. Connor is waiting on the beach with the canoe to take you to the nearest phone." Backing off he gave the pair as much privacy as possible.
"He's right, Buck, there aren't any dry clothes that will fit you, Josiah or Nathan. JD and Ezra aren't going anywhere except a hospital. That leaves me," Chris said shakily.
"Alright, Chris, you come back. We need you." Buck backed off when faced with the logistics.
"I'll be back." Larabee's eyes were full of pain but the determination was there as well.
You're not going to hide in a bottle this time are you, Chris Larabee. Buck nodded in relief. "You might want to hurry, Nathan's got that 'something isn't right' look in his eyes and Ezra's breathing is getting worse. Chris nodded looking toward the southerner.
"See if you can get Josiah moving. He's blaming himself." Larabee ordered.
"I'll talk to him," Buck agreed as he stalked off.
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"Thank you . . . I don't even know your names," Larabee admitted as he joined Methos in the kitchen.
"Adam Pierson, the dark Scotsman is Duncan MacLeod. The other one is his kinsman Connor." Methos introduced himself.
"Chris Larabee, Buck Wilmington has the mustache. Josiah Sanchez is the bearded one. Nathan Jackson is the black man. CPR is Ezra Standish and JD Dunne is the head injury." Larabee responded.
"Should we be concerned about uninvited guests?" Methos asked.
Larabee looked over and scowled.
"We saw the strafing damage on the plane," Methos explained.
"It's possible. We're ATF agents out of Denver," Chris sighed rubbing a shaking hand across his hair.
"We will be alert then." Methos promised. "Connor is waiting."
Chris pulled on the warm, borrowed clothing. Two pair of socks helped fill the hiking boots to a usable state. Nodding to his team Larabee slipped out the door into the night.