Disclaimer: No harm, no foul - I don't own the characters, I don't make any money out of writing this, it's purely for enjoyment.
This is for those on the Methos/Slash list who were debating Methos' role within the Horsemen. What can I say - I got inspired g. It hasn't been beta'd in the strictest sense of the word, but it has been read by the wonderful Sonia and Anthea (danke, merci, gratzi, spaseba, cheers m'dears g). All mistakes, errors and slaughter of the English language are my fault - but if it doesn't make sense, blame Sonia and Anthea eg
Alleyways Gangs and Crossbows
He rides on
a white horse; he wears a golden crown. Three Horsemen come from
Hell, but he is the sword of God - the power of the Kingdom of
Heaven.
Unknown
MacLeod stared at the book in his hands, eyes barely seeing the text. Methos as the first horseman. Why? Nowrong question. Not why, but how? That was the question that bothered MacLeod more than anything else. How had his friendhow had Methos become the Hand of God?
Almost under their own volition, MacLeod's legs took him out of the barge, but Methos was long gone. Damn. And it wasn't as if he knew where the ancient was living these days either. Damn. Then a wave of tiredness hit the Scot and he remembered that he had now been awake more than twenty-four hours. Damn.
Reluctantly, he obeyed the demands of his tired body and went to lie down, fully intending to sleep. But slumber was a very long time in coming. Too many questions were crowding his mind.
*************************************
It was well into the evening when MacLeod awoke. What sleep he had managed to have had been fitful at best. He felt decidedly unrefreshed, but he had to try and get to the bottom of this mystery and he head a feeling the only way to do that would be to try and track down the irritating eldest Immortal.
With that decided, he got out of bed, showered, changed and left the barge. He had no firm idea of where he was going, but given what Methos had said that morning – about having taken on a gang – he knew where he could start.
Two hours later and MacLeod was beginning to think that this had been a bad idea. He was just beginning to decide his best bet was to look for Methos in a bar, when he realised that he had wandered absently down a blind alley. Turning, he found the entry blocked by a group of six or eight youths.
In the half-light of the street lighting, MacLeod could make out that at least four of the youths were wielding lengths of pipe or baseball bats. The leader, though, had a crossbow held almost negligently in his hands.
"Eh. Anglais," he spat.
"Ecossais," MacLeod retorted, "and proud of it."
"Bah!" In a flash of motion, the leader brought the crossbow to bear and fired. MacLeod had only a moment to try and avoid the bolt, then it struck him in the gut, forcing itself so far through his stomach that he had no hope of pulling it free.
Pain brought him to his knees. His vision became blurred and filled with black spots as consciousness began to recede. He was aware of the gang approaching and closing in on him. He was vaguely aware of the touch of another Immortal presence. Then consciousness faded altogether.
************************************
The first thing MacLeod realised as he returned was there was a burning pain in his stomach. Pain that was, even as he catalogued it, fading.
"Easy there," commented a distinctive accented voice. Not quite English, not quite Welsh either. Methos.
Struggling, MacLeod forced his eyes to open and focus. "Methos?"
Wry amusement lit the planes of the ancient's face. "Just what were you trying to prove, eh, MacLeod?"
"What was I" MacLeod's eyes widened. "I wasne trying to prove anything!"
"Sure you weren't," Methos stated. Getting to his feet, the ancient walked away to return with a glass of water. "C'mon. Drink – you lost a lot of blood."
MacLeod struggled into a sitting position, and realised he was in Methos' new apartment, sitting on the ancient's bed. Given little option, he obediently drank from the glass that Methos was holding. "What happened?"
"You got hit in the stomach by a crossbow quarrel," Methos replied, setting the glass down. "I found you, pulled it out and brought you back here."
"The gang?"
"They'redealt with."
MacLeod cocked an eyebrow in question. "Dealt with?"
Methos rolled his eyes. "Are we back playing at echoes, MacLeod? That's what I just said."
"Not good enough. I want to know what you're doing."
"At the moment," Methos answered caustically, "answering silly questions asked by an equally silly Scot. Just what were you doing in that alley anyway?"
"Looking for you."
"I'm flattered." Methos shook his head. "Why would I have been in a blind alley in central Paris?"
"You tell me, Methos," MacLeod replied. "That *was* the gang you had atussle with last night, wasn't it?" Methos made a non-committal noise. "So?"
"Like I said this morning, it's a vow."
Methos made to walk away, but MacLeod snagged his wrist. "Uh-uh, Methos. You've gotta do better than that."
"Mac-Leod," Methos growled. "Let go of my wrist. I don't owe you anything. Especially not after this evening's little escapade."
"Mebe, mebe no'," MacLeod answered, the Scots burr increasing, "but Ah'm worried about ye."
"Why? I didn't think you cared a damn what happened to me. I thought we were 'through'," Methos replied, throwing the hastily spoken words of more than four months earlier straight into MacLeod's face.
"What was Ah supposed te say? Ye were pushing me away."
"For all the good it did me," Methos snapped. "Now let go of my wrist."
"What were ye doing last night?"
"Gods, MacLeod, you are starting to sound like a cracked record. I thought we covered this already."
"OK. Ye were taking on a gang. Why?"
"Because," Methos retorted, trying to pull his wrist free. MacLeod merely tightened his grip.
"No' gud enough, Methos. Why?"
"Damn you MacLeod – this is none of your business."
"Yer mae friend, Methos" MacLeod began.
"Could have fooled me."
Stalemate. Still MacLeod retained his grip on the ancient Immortal's wrist, not tight enough to snap the bones, but more than tight enough to prevent him from twisting out of the hold.
"If yer no' mae friend," said MacLeod eventually, "why did ye come to the barge last night?"
"I"
"Ye trusted me te keep watch over ye. Why?"
"I"
"May Ah guess?" Methos gestured with his free hand. "Even though Ah've been a complete ass over everything, ye still trust me enough to know Ah will keep watch over ye."
MacLeod watched Methos' face carefully, looking for any hint that he was close to the truth. When the expression shuttered into blankness, the Scot knew he was absolutely right.
"Your point?" Methos hissed.
"Mae point is, ye trust me with your life, so why can't ye trust me with *this*?"
"Because you won't understand."
"And yer so sure o' that?"
"Yes. I am." Methos finally broke the grip around his wrist.
"How did et happen?"
Methos blinked, puzzled. "What?"
" 'And Ah saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering and to conquer.' Ah read the Bible chapter, Methos. How did et happen?"