by Cameron Dial
Disclaimer: "Highlander" and its
associated names, trademarks and characters are the property
of Davis/Panzer Productions, Inc., which reserves all copyrights. This
story is
for entertainment purposes only. No monetary compensation is received by the author.
No copyright infringement is intended.
I know it's their sandbox. I just dropped by to play.
This started out as a missing scene from "Till Death," an episode written by Michael A. Mahoney
and Sacha Reins (story by Beatrice Mathouret). Then I figured I'd add some
background so people would have a bit of context. Honest, that's all I had in mind.
The novelization just sort of happened.
Methos slouched even deeper into the cushions of MacLeod's couch, holding up a
chocolate brown mug. Mac filled it and then his own from a tea pot while
Methos kept a tight rein on the half-smile that was threatening. Ever
since he had returned from an annoying and fruitless morning of
apartment-hunting, MacLeod had been building up to something--in fact, the Scot
had practically ambushed him with tea and biscuits the moment he'd walked
through barge's door. He'd been helping himself to a piece of shortbread
when Mac hit him with the request.
"It's finally happened," Methos replied. "You've lost your
mind."
"Come on, Methos. You'd be doing them an incredible favor."
"Read my lips. N. O."
"Okay!" MacLeod said. "You'd be doing me a
favor. Milk?" he asked, practically beaming.
"Oh, now that's not fair," Methos groused. "You're making
it personal now. You think that I'll feel guilty when I say no?"
"Sugar?" If possible, the wattage that
lit MacLeod's face had gone up another notch.
"You're wasting your time," Methos advised him. "I haven't
felt guilt since the eleventh century. I don't even know these
people!"
"Yeah, well, that's why I'm asking you." MacLeod seemed to
think Methos should be impressed with the logic of his plan.
Methos appeared unimpressed.
"All you have to do is act a little," Mac insisted.
"Do I look like an actor?" Methos asked, sounding offended. As
a matter of fact, he had been an actor a time or two over the past 5,000
years--hell, he'd been just about everything over the past 5,000 years--but
MacLeod didn't need to know that.
"Well--you've been with the Watchers for years," Mac said, "and
no one's suspected you." He'd obviously been anticipating that
objection, too, and had his reasons all lined up, like ducks in a row. Of
course, Methos would be just as happy to shoot his reasons down for him,
like ducks in a row. MacLeod, in the meantime, had turned the wattage up
again and was practically pleading with him now. "Don't you want to
see Gina and Robert live happily ever after?" he wheedled, shoving the
plate of shortbread in Methos' direction.
The old man shrugged, snagging a cookie before Mac could notice the smile had
slipped just a bit. "Yeah," Methos said. "But I want
to see me live happily ever after even more."
"Oh, come on, Methos!" MacLeod snorted. He pushed off
the couch impatiently and grabbed his mug, almost sloshing hot tea as he
moved. Just as impatiently, he set the mug down and snatched an antique
leather map case from the credenza behind the couch. "They won't
even know who you are," he insisted dramatically. A new idea
occurred to him and his eyes lit with potential. "You'll just be
this mysterious immortal who's coming after Robert's head--"
Methos rolled his eyes and permitted himself a chuckle. Oh, yeah,
MacLeod, like that's going to convince me.
"Robert and Gina's marriage is in your hands!"
Shaking his head, Methos pushed himself up on his right elbow and sat up,
looking over the back of the couch at Mac. "You're not listening
to me," he told the younger man. "I don't give a damn about
their marriage."
"Well, I do!"
"Is it really that important to you?" Methos asked.
"Yes, it's that important to me!" To emphasize the point, Mac
bopped him on the head with the map case
"Okay," Methos said. "I do this for you . . . and you give
me the barge."
MacLeod laughed, of course. Still, pinned by Methos' gaze, it was hard
not to squirm just a bit. "Right," he said. "Like you're serious." He looked like
a man who had just become aware there might be sharks in the water.
"Yeah, I'm serious," Methos shot back.
Damn. Nobody could do deadpan like Methos.
"Hey," Methos pointed out, "I need a place to live."
MacLeod's eyes were still on him, of course, so he closed in for the
kill. "That's the deal. Take it or leave it."
MacLeod opened his mouth once--to protest?--and then closed it.
Methos didn't even bother to hide the smile this time.
Mac stood there, hesitating, half-hoping Methos would
say it was a joke, break into laughter--something . . . nothing.
Methos watched as the Scot stood still--stubbornly--bound by that iron-clad
honor of his. Well, they said true friendship was a rare jewel at
whatever the cost, didn't they? And Robert and Gina had been his friends
for almost 300 years. Methos estimated it took MacLeod less than three
heartbeats to make his decision. If he hadn't suspected manipulation,
he'd no doubt have conceded faster.
"Fine," MacLeod said, determined to put a good face on it.
"If that's what it takes."
"That's what it takes," Methos said cheerfully.
"Fine."
"Good."
"Good."
"Right."
Tea mug gripped firmly in one hand, Mac had plopped himself down on the arm of
the couch. It would be too demeaning to ask if "the barge"
included all of its furnishings as well. "You'd better make it look
good--" MacLeod growled, wagging a forefinger in Methos' face.
"Like you say, darling, I'm an actor--"
"Oh, good," Mac responded sarcastically. Less than
certain now of his own little deal with the devil, he took a big gulp of tea
rather than look around at the barge he'd just bargained away. He burned
his tongue, of course. Whoever said "better a devil you know
than a devil you don't" obviously hadn't known Methos.
"Blackbeard, Bluebeard, Drake--" punctuating each name
with a swipe of his sword, Robert de Valicourt was
treating Methos to a recitation of his glory days with the brethren of the
coast. "I must have sailed with half the pirates in the Caribbean," he concluded,
looking a bit nostalgic for the good old days. "I kind of miss those
old ships," he commented.
"Not me," Methos said. He worked his hands into the black
leather gloves he'd had stashed in his coat pocket and commented peevishly,
"I hate the sea."
"Oh? Why's that?"
Methos made a face. "I crossed the Atlantic to Iceland with a bunch of Irish
monks in 765," he said. "Six of us in a rowboat
with no facilities."
"Ooh."
Whatever else Robert was going to say was swallowed up the ring of presence
that was approaching; his words forgotten, Robert looked around, trying to
identify where the tell-tale immortal signatures were coming from.
Methos, quicker to identify the source and its direction, had already turned to
his left--within seconds MacLeod's black Citroen appeared on the concourse
below them and Gina had thrown open the passenger's door, bright as a cardinal in
the snow in her red coat.
The audience had arrived.
"Show time," Methos and Robert chorused quietly.
"Leave him alone, you bastard!" MacLeod beside her now, Gina shouted
the words up at Methos over the clash and ring of steel on steel.
They'd chosen the perfect stage for the fight, two flights up in the decimated
structure, close enough to the edge for the contest to look real but high
enough up to allow them to pull their blows if need be. Robert,
unfortunately for Methos, had the added incentive of performing for his
lady-love, who was dashing up the stairs at that very moment; it meant that
Methos had to block a bit more realistically than he'd planned when the smitten
de Valicourt's adrenaline surge got the better of
him. As the two "combatants" closed, their blades slid together
until their fists were locked close on the entangled hilts and Methos hissed,
"It goes 'hip, head, hip, thrust, jump back,' "
De Valicourt blinked once, then nodded, coloring
slightly as he realized he'd been improvising rather than following their
pre-arranged staging. "Yes, of course," he answered.
"Sorry."
"Gina!" MacLeod was shouting below them as he and Gina de Valicourt pounded up the metal stairs from the ground
floor.
Success writ large on his face, Robert's grin was not exactly what one normally
wore in the middle of a heated sword fight. Still, Methos thought, you
could hardly blame the guy, with a woman like Gina ready to throw herself into
his arms. And speaking of Gina--
"Gina, you can't
interfere! Gina, wait!" MacLeod shouted.
She rounded the last flight of stairs, Mac a close second behind her. He
snatched the sleeve of her red coat just in time, anchoring her to the landing
less than a dozen yards from Methos and Robert, shouting, "Gina, no!"
"He could lose his head!" Gina shouted, struggling to get free.
"If he does it'll be the last thing that guy sees!" MacLeod swore.
"That should do it," Robert grunted into Methos' ear as they collided
yet again, swords ringing. "Give me a jab, not too deep."
Methos grinned ferally. "Wuss," he accused, working his sword arm free of
Robert's restraint. After all--the whole idea was to make Gina believe he
was a legitimate threat to her beloved Robert, wasn't it? "Where's
your sense of drama?" he asked, plunging the blade into Robert's
all-too-exposed abdomen. He met de Valicourt's
eyes--simultaneously hurt and accusing--and grimaced, realizing that Robert
wasn't the only one who had gotten carried away with the performance.
Automatically taking Robert's weight with his own, Methos braced them both as
Gina screamed in reaction. Well, what goes in must come out.
"Sorry," Methos muttered, and had the decency to wince with Robert as
he jerked the sword out.
Free of the impaling sword and Methos' supporting arm, Robert crumpled to the
floor.
As if on cue, MacLeod released Gina, who rushed forward, MacLeod pursuing
Methos as Gina sank to the floor, Robert in her arms. Clutching her
husband's body to her own, Gina murmured apologies to Robert, assuring him over
and over of her love. "I'll never leave you, Robert," she said
fiercely, glaring at Methos. "Never."
"Oh, Gina--" Robert sighed.
Oh, Gina? Methos had known lionesses who
weren't that protective of their cubs. He shot MacLeod a warning glare
and beat a hasty retreat, leaving MacLeod hovering over Robert and Gina like a
nervous wet nurse.
"He's gone," MacLeod announced. "Gina scared him
off. I don't think we'll see him again." He raised a
conspirator's eyebrow at Robert, but Gina looked up at him, Methos' death
shining in her eyes.
"I'm going to find that bastard and take his head if it's the last thing I
do," Gina said.
MacLeod met her eyes and managed a shaky smile. He'd been afraid she was
going to say that.
Two days
later Methos showed up at the barge again, less than happy but hardly surprised
to learn that Gina de Valicourt was, indeed, swearing
revenge. Squaring off with MacLeod in the newly designated office space
the Highlander had made for himself in the barge, Methos shook his head. "I
knew it!" he snapped. "Getting between a married couple . . . it's a rule I haven't broken for 2,000 years. I
knew this would happen."
"Look, she'll cool off," MacLeod said. "I'm just telling
you to be careful, that's all."
"Great," Methos replied. "So I lose my head after 5,000
years so that you can play marriage guidance counselor. I must have been out of
my mind!"
"Oh, come on, Methos," Mac protested. "The marriage is in
two days' time." He watched as Methos threw himself into one of the
leather chairs he'd just bought, wisely refraining from comment when the old
man automatically threw a long leg over the chair arm. "All you have
to do is lay low for a while. They'll go off on their honeymoon, they'll
be there for . . . ten years," he predicted, shrugging expansively.
"She'll forget all about this."
Predictably, Methos wasn't impressed. "Stake your life on that, would you?" he demanded, looking MacLeod in the
eye.
"Well, yeah," Mac lied. Unable to hold the other's gaze
convincingly, he turned away.
"Okay," Methos said, holding out his hand. "Give me the
keys."
MacLeod turned, his face blank for a moment.
"What keys?"
"The keys to the barge."
Laughing, MacLeod loosened his ponytail from his shirt collar. "You
weren't serious," he said. "You
were testing me."
Methos still had his hand out. "Nope," he said. "If
I'm going to die, you're going to pay me for it."
"I can't give you the barge!" MacLeod sputtered. "I've
just redecorated!"
"Nice job," Methos said. "Give me the keys."
Mac stared at him for a moment, unbelieving. He's actually going to do
this to me.
"Come
on," Methos prompted.
Automatically, habitually, MacLeod touched his palms to his coat pockets,
looking for his keys. Glancing down, he found them sitting on a stack of
papers on the corner of his desk--his new desk. Picking the keys
up, he squeezed his hand around them momentarily and then tossed them at
Methos. "With friends like you, who needs enemies?" he asked.
"I was just thinking the same thing," Methos said, catching the
keys. "Hey, hey, hey, hey--off!"
"What? It's my chair."
"My chair," Methos corrected.
The old man pulled it out from the desk and plopped himself down. Then,
purely out of spite, MacLeod was sure, he crossed his
arms over his chest and put his booted feet up on the desk to claim his
property. Well, that answered the question about furniture, at least.
It also left MacLeod sputtering inarticulately in protest, mutely pointing to
Methos' hiking boots on top of the desk. His
desk.
"You know where the door is," Methos said.
MacLeod grabbed a stack of papers at random and headed for the stern.
"Have a nice day!" Methos called after him.
It was probably best that MacLeod didn't see the look of wicked glee on his
friend's face at the moment.
Dispossessed of house and home--well, barge and home, anyway--MacLeod wound up
at Chateau de Valicourt, where Robert treated him
first to an excellent burgundy and then to an account of how well everything
had worked out between himself and Gina. "You saved my marriage, Duncan," he said expansively.
"I don't know how I'm going to thank you enough, you and your friend
Pierson." He winced just a bit, remembering the sword he'd received
through his gut just 48 hours before, and admitted, "He didn't have to try
quite so hard, though."
"Yeah," MacLeod said, "but it
worked." It was a fine line to tread, being happy for one friend and
simultaneously so annoyed at another.
"Ah, Mac, you should have seen her," Robert said, winking.
Settling back onto the couch, he smiled, remembering the last two nights with
his wife. "She was an animal," he confided with a grin.
"It turned her on so much that night she, uh . . . " Words failed
him, and at the same time it occurred to him that there were certain things
that--as much as he liked MacLeod--were best not shared even with one's best
friend. It faded into a chuckle as he sipped his wine and settled for
saying, "We may have to try this again sometime."
"Forget it," Mac said firmly, unable even to imagine going through
the past few days again. "So, where's Gina?" he asked.
A bit sheepishly, Robert admited they'd had another
argument.
"Ah, not again," MacLeod said. "What now?"
"Well, I wanted you to be my best man, and she wanted you to give her away."
MacLeod sipped his wine and shook his head. "Look," he said,
"tell her either way is fine with me."
"You can tell her yourself," Robert promised, "once she gets
back from your place."
"My place?" MacLeod asked, choking on his
wine abruptly. He grabbed Robert's arm and hauled his started host off
the couch without explanation. "Come on!"
Among the
new additions Mac had made to the barge there was a wet bar complete with
stainless steel stools in the far corner of the living
area and a new entertainment rack bolted to the wall. Set up opposite the
office area, it included a turn table, multiple CD changer, sound-surround speakers,
and an assortment of various other electronic toys. At the moment, Methos
was browsing through the Scot's CD collection. "Opera," he
said, slipping one plastic jewel case behind the other.
"Opera, opera, opera . . . hmm. Got a lot of opera here." As a matter of fact,
that was about all he could find among the stacked CD cases. He'd
obviously been neglecting MacLeod's education in the finer things in
life. "I'm going to have to do something about this music," he
muttered. "There's no Springsteen, no Queen . . . "
There was, however, a growing sense of another Immortal quite nearby, and he
turned to find Gina slipping silently down the half dozen stairs into the
living area, her sword drawn and ready for battle.
"You!" she seethed.
Method edged sideways into the office, automatically placing the couch and the
credenza between himself and Gina's sword.
"I can explain," he offered. "It was a joke."
"I'm not laughing."
Nope, most definitely not laughing. The
spark in those nearly black eyes was undeniably attractive, though, and it was
easy to see why both MacLeod and de Valicourt were so
obviously smitten with the lady. That beside the point, he'd stuck his
sword upright between two couch cushions for the sole purpose of annoying
MacLeod when the Scot returned home, and at the moment it was about as
unattainable to him as Excalibur, waiting for the true King of England to free
it from its resting place. Damn MacLeod anyway.
"Where is MacLeod?" Gina demanded. "Dead?"
"No!" Methos protested. "This has all just been a big
mistake."
"Huge," Gina agreed. "And you made it when you tried to
kill my husband."
"I knew this would happen," Methos muttered. He threw himself
head first over the credenza, grabbing for his sword as Gina brought her blade
down where his vulnerable neck had been the barest split second before.
Gina's blade slid across his undeniably awkward parry as he came to ground,
yelping, "It was all MacLeod's idea!"
He got his feet beneath him and stood in front of the small fireplace, using
the angle of his blade against hers to shove her away from him as she
charged. She gave less than a foot of ground before attacking him again,
but it was enough. He'd secured a two handed grip on the Ivanhoe--enough
to show her he meant business this time--and held her off long enough to growl,
"For heaven's sake, would you just listen? It was your friend
MacLeod's idea! MacLeod's and Robert's!"
"You tried to kill Robert!"
"No, we wanted to make it look like I was trying to kill
Robert! It was all a . . . " he hesitated,
not willing to use the word "joke" again, not about something that so
obviously mattered to her. "It was all very carefully staged,"
he said. Well, maybe not that carefully staged, but at least he
had her attention now. "Look--Robert was afraid you were going to
leave him. And MacLeod--well, he had this idea . . . "
Saints be praised--he'd always liked intelligent women. He saw the idea
light in her eyes, knew she'd not only leaped ahead of him, but had already
weighed the variables involved and realized he was telling the truth.
"Keep talking," she said.
Five minutes later they had their own little drama worked out, and were
watching with amusement through a porthole as MacLeod and Robert arrived in
Mac's car, tires squealing on the quay.
"This is a mess," Robert said as they spilled out of the car and
slammed the doors shut. "Would he hurt her?"
"Would she go for his head?" MacLeod asked in turn.
"Yes, she would."
Oh, God.
As they ran toward the barge another wash of Immortal presence hit them, and
Gina appeared, her face tired and drawn as she walked down the gangplank toward
them. "It's over," she said. "The son of a bitch is
dead."
"You took his head?" MacLeod gaped, not knowing what else to
say as a wave of disbelief rolled through him.
"He tried for Robert," Gina said simply. Then, as if it
explained everything: "He tried to kill the man I love."
She gestured vaguely with her sword, indicating the barge. "Sorry
about the mess in there," she said.
Mac stared first at Gina, then at Robert. "No!" he
shouted. "No, no, no, no! It was all an act," he
jabbered. "Robert--tell her!" Not that it would make
any difference. He froze then as yet another presence sliced through
his awareness and Methos appeared on deck, grinning down at them.
"You--" Mac blurted. He glared at Methos, then at Gina.
They were both starting to laugh. "Not funny!" MacLeod said.
"Oh, I don't know," Methos countered. "Pretty funny from
here . . . "
"Oh, really?" MacLeod demanded. "Maybe I ought to take your
head instead," he suggested, clearing the gangplank in a few
strides. Laughing, Methos was prudently backing away from him, hands out
in protest. "How about that?" MacLeod
asked him. "Would you like that?"
"Relax, Duncan!" Gina said, leading
Robert up the gangplank. "Can't you take a joke?" she asked as
Methos raised both eyebrows at him.
"I guess Fitz would have found it
funny," MacLeod acknowledged reluctantly, shooting another look at
Methos. Of course, Fitz had found almost
anything funny, as long as it was at MacLeod's expense. Just like
somebody else he knew.
"So,"
Gina asked him, "are you going to give me away at my wedding?"
"No," MacLeod said shortly.
"Oh, please, Duncan!" Gina said, giving
him her best pout. "Please?"
Duncan rolled his eyes. "Oh, all right,"
he conceded. He grabbed her abruptly, making her squeal as he pulled her
into a mock passionate embrace. For just a moment he was tempted to drop
her on the deck, figuring it might teach her a lesson or two--of course, that
would still leave him with one more smart aleck to deal with, and Methos didn't
strike him as the repentant type. "Take her," he said, and she
laughed as he swung her into Robert's arms. He'd have to figure out a way
to get even with the two of them another time and hope it didn't backfire on
him. "Go on, for God's sake."
Laughing, Robert caught her and hugged her close. Take her? For as long as she'd have him.
It was later in the day that MacLeod's
wedding present to Robert and Gina arrived at the barge by special
courier. Not even bothering to ask for Methos' help, MacLeod lugged it
inside and started unpacking the case, deliberately scattering as much
packaging straw on the office floor as he could in the process.
"Hey!" Methos shouted at him from the bedroom. "Enough with the mess! I have to live here."
"Oh, I'm sorry," MacLeod responded, sounding anything but
apologetic. He held up a large vase with pleasure. "My wedding
present to them," he announced with satisfaction. "One of only
six left in the world."
Methos snorted. "When I was living in China way back when," he
said, "those things were a dime a dozen." He shook his
head. "If only I'd known then what I know now."
"Pity," MacLeod said coldly. He couldn't resist digging in the
knife. "So, what are you going to get them?" he asked. "A toaster?"
"No," Methos said slowly, "I was thinking of something more
unique."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"My boat."
MacLeod looked appalled. "The barge?" he demanded.
"You can't give them the barge!"
"Why not?" Methos asked, pulling the keys
out of his jeans pocket. "It's my boat. I'll do what I like
with it."
MacLeod stared at him, not even beginning to know what to say to that.
"Fine," he snapped at last. It was bad enough to have lost the
barge to Methos, but now the man wanted to turn it into some sort of a
hand-me-down wedding present! He started scattering straw with a
vengeance, too busy to notice the smile Methos was hiding as he moved into the
living area. "But then I figured that probably everyone would
give them something unique," Methos said slowly, "so I went with a
toaster."
He tossed the keys to MacLeod, who reached reflexively to snatch them out of
the air, losing his grip on the vase at the same time. It crashed to the
floor, breaking into a dozen pieces.
"You--"
"You keep the barge," Methos said. "I hate the
water." On his way out, he tossed the Highlander the broom.
"You've really got a mess there, MacLeod," he commented.
"Better get it cleaned up."
"What . . . I . . . you--" Alternately
staring at the shattered vase on the floor and the door through which Methos
had disappeared, it was some minutes before MacLeod became any more
coherent. When he finally did, it occurred to him that a toaster wasn't
such a bad idea after all.
The End
