Chapter Three
He waited, aware for the third time this evening of the pounding of his own heart. Absolutely everything was at stake, and it was all up to MacLeod now. Watching him, Methos could plainly see the younger immortal's struggle to decide what was right.
Methos reflected with some amusement – which he did not display – that MacLeod's strict code of honor coupled with his complete lack of duplicity made carefully watching his face the closest possible thing to mind-reading. The old man's observations were now telling him that a desperate war was being waged within the Highlander's head.
MacLeod looked at Cassandra, the most terrifying wild card Methos could possibly imagine. He was no longer stunned by her presence – clearly, she was here because she'd been tracking Kronos – but he fervently wished she were elsewhere, for many reasons. The most pressing one right now was that she could tip the scales away from MacLeod lending his help with the plan.
MacLeod's eyes traveled from Cassandra to Methos, who tried to look his most unimposing and needy. Then MacLeod looked back to Cassandra, and Methos felt his side of the seesaw rising. Intervention was required.
"Look, MacLeod," he said, causing the other two immortals to jump at the breaking of silence, "let's take this to a less public venue, shall we? Anyone could walk in here, and we don't need any more players."
Duncan considered this for a moment before saying, "All right, up to the loft, then." Cassandra glared at Duncan, but stopped short of protesting as he touched her arm in a silent request for indulgence. She made sure Methos went into and out of the elevator before her.
Once in the loft, Methos did not help himself to a beer, nor did he sprawl in carefree comfort. He sat properly on a straight-backed chair and waited for the other two to stake out their own territory before speaking, humbly, in a non-inflammatory tone.
"If I wanted to rejoin Kronos, I'd be with him right now, you know." That seemed like a good thing to get out on the table right away. "I'm here because I can't take Kronos down by myself. I need the help of someone I can trust."
Cassandra's laugh was so bitter Methos could almost taste it. "Trust! The concept is as foreign to you as Mars is to an earthworm. He doesn't trust you, Duncan, he just knows he can use you, exploit your sense of honor and loyalty."
"Not true," said Methos, his tone light and sardonic. "I'm trying to exploit his sense of indebtedness. Can we say, 'dark quickening?'" Mentally, he kicked himself for being overly flippant and added more seriously, "But I don't think I'm wrong in believing the flow of trust has gone both ways over the years, am I?" It never hurt to play the debt card with an honorable man.
Duncan's expression changed, became less certain. He was clearly acknowledging the truth of the old immortal's words in the internal conversation he was having. Cassandra saw this as well and pounced in fresh fury.
"You can't be considering this! It's ridiculous to think you can even believe him. This, this…man"--she said it as though she meant "worm" or "rat"—" would sell you out to the highest bidder to save his own head, and he wouldn't have a moment's unrest about it after."
To Methos' quiet delight, he saw that her extreme prejudice was beginning to backfire, pushing Duncan toward a defensive stance over someone he still considered a friend, despite some lingering questions, some new doubts, and the ubiquitous gray areas.
"You've told me what you experienced with him, and the Horsemen," Duncan said gently but with resolve, "but you don't know what I've experienced. I realize I don't know all the truth," he tossed a sidelong glance in the old man's direction, "but I do know there are layers of it, and they're not all black and white."
His calm seemed to fuel Cassandra's rage, or maybe it was just that she sensed the tide turning in Methos' favor. "Truth! When it comes to him, there is no truth! There is no black or white, there is only what he needs and what he can make you believe to get it." Methos shifted uneasily, knowing that she wasn't far wrong.
She had been storming about the dojo with violent gestures and much pivoting and pacing, but now she was looking at Methos and her body was suddenly quiet. He held his breath a moment – had she seen his own misgivings reflected on his face?
Almost in response, she shook her head slightly. "You monster. You'll use him, a good man, a man you've convinced that you are worth caring about, and you'll toss him to the animals to throw them off your scent."
The chair was suddenly too uncomfortable to sit on for one second more. Methos got to his feet a little faster than he meant to, shoved his hands into his trench coat pockets with more force than intended. He stepped away from both of them, toward the outside wall of the living room, calling once again on those mantras. He was using them more tonight than he had in the past six months.
Even when he heard MacLeod shouting Cassandra's name, it didn't quite penetrate the din of his own consternation, the struggle for self-control. She was nearly upon him, sword ready for business, before he realized he needed to turn around. The world's greatest survivor, he thought bitterly, nearly taken down with his back deliberately turned to a known enemy. What a note that would make in the Watchers' annals.
There was no time to draw his steel. He could only duck her first stroke, aimed with an admirable lack of preamble at his neck, and lunge away from her wilder second swing. As her anger swelled she left herself open to counterattack, and Methos sprang forward, grabbing the wrist of the hand wielding the sword and blocking assaults from her free hand. Forcing her sword hand backward caused her to take a step in that direction, and he used the momentum to spin her back hard toward the corner of the room.
Slamming her into the wall, he felt an unexpected and potent flood of revulsion such as he'd never experienced during any physical confrontation. She was kicking, bucking, fighting to regain positioning for another attack, but the more he applied force to her, the more he tasted bile. In spite of the situation, he released her, suddenly terrified by the betrayal of his survival instinct and his own mind and body.
She misread his look and actions as simple fear and pressed her advantage, backing him against the adjacent wall with her sword under his chin, locking her triumphant eyes with his bewildered ones. The whole incident had taken just seconds and Duncan was now at her side, dragging her away with one arm, disarming her with the other. He failed to notice how easily the sword came out of her hand.
Methos, even in his distress, was aware of what he and his attacker had communicated in that brief moment of close eye contact. She had read him much more accurately in that instant than she had the few seconds before – maybe more accurately than anyone ever had done -- and what she'd seen had mystified and profoundly disturbed her.
Join the club, sweetheart, he thought limply, wiping his brow with a shaking hand.