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hafitalTitle: Missed Connections
Pairing: Duncan/Methos, ~30,000 words, Adult (for violence and adult situations)
Author's Note: More notes to follow the final post. This story is set some time after Highlander: Endgame, and fully ignores Highlander: The Source.
I would be no where without my betas![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
killabeez, unovis_lj, and terrio. Special thank you and hugs and all around adoration to killabeez for just being awesome and generous and wonderful.
Summary: A tug of war passed between them, push me pull me. He wanted to shake Methos; he wanted to hug and squeeze him with all of his strength. His eyes stung. The moment crystallized as he realized just how much, with all the blood and sweat and pain of the last two days, he had wanted to live, how much he wanted Methos to live.
Missed Connections
by hafital
Part 2
~~~
MacLeod stared at her body with mixed emotions. He didn't want to kill her, not like this. She deserved better. She was a magnificent fighter. But those were their options: kill her now, try and likely fail to kill her later, or run--run forever.
MacLeod gripped his sword, slightly unfamiliar in his left hand. He looked up as Methos came close. "Methos," he said, his voice ragged, drinking in the sight of him.
"Highlander." The moonlight cast stark shadows under Methos's eyes. "I distinctly remember telling you once, long ago--you cannot fight my battles for me. Stand aside, Duncan. This is my decision."
MacLeod held Methos's eyes, weighing both the truth and lie of that statement. A tug of war passed between them, push me pull me. He wanted to shake Methos; he wanted to hug and squeeze him with all of his strength. His eyes stung. The moment crystallized as he realized just how much, with all the blood and sweat and pain of the last two days, he had wanted to live, how much he wanted Methos to live. I want him to live. With a shaky nod, he stepped back.
Methos's expression gentled. He held his hand out. "May I borrow your sword?"
Hesitant, MacLeod handed his katana over.
Methos stood over her body, a sword in each hand, leaving her sword still in her death grip. She gasped and arched her back as she revived, already swinging as she leapt to her feet. Methos blocked her attack and thrust his broadsword through her chest. Impaled, she looked down at the blade. Her breathing was audible, damp and bubbling.
Methos held the katana to her chin, tilted her face up to look at him.
"You should have taken me while I was down," she said, blood painting her lips.
"I wanted you to see my face up close, since you worked so hard for it. I am Methos."
Her smile was almost beatific. She bowed her head for a moment, slowly, sluggish. "Yes. And it worked. You're here."
She raised a hand and crooked her finger at him.
MacLeod could see Methos look at her intently, trying to read her as he leaned in a little closer. She whispered something MacLeod could not hear. A crease appeared between Methos's eyes. He searched her face, startled, and then he glanced around to the windows of the chateau. MacLeod felt a tickling at the back of his neck. The wind whistled, a light playful breeze.
With a yell, the female Immortal yanked herself free of Methos's blade, and swung her sword. MacLeod cried out in warning.
Methos spun smoothly, the katana gleaming in the moonlight. Her head fell to the cobblestones and rolled away.
The breeze grew stronger, blowing into a whirlwind. The first bolt of lightning drove Methos to his knees. He screamed as another bolt struck. The sky darkened, a tempest rising. MacLeod felt the power tug at his center; he shielded his eyes. All the windows of the chateau shattered, raining shards of glass.
Bolts of lightning stabbed the ground. Methos lay pinned, speared with each jagged lightning strike. A loud wailing carried over the wind. Methos curled in on himself, cradling his head in hands and arms. Electricity arced over the metal gate and across the chateau.
The quickening faded. MacLeod knelt beside Methos, trying to take hold of him with his one good arm, the wind blinding his eyes. He touched Methos's face, his hair. Methos was gasping, shaking, but he reached for MacLeod. Fingers like ice gripped him. They floundered, holding each other.
The wailing continued. Through the fog of fatigue and blood loss clouding his mind, MacLeod realized it was an alarm. They had to get out of there. A car spun onto the avenue, tires squealing. The police had arrived. There was nothing for it but to wait for them. MacLeod took Methos's hand in his and squeezed.
The car barreled through the open, swinging gates. MacLeod smiled when he saw Joe open the driver side door. "Joseph, your timing could not be more perfect."
"You like that, huh? Can't leave you two alone for a second," said Joe. "Get in, they're thirty seconds out."
MacLeod gathered Methos as best he could with limbs not working properly and his arm still unhealed. He tossed Methos into the back seat, then went back for the body and head, stuffing them into the boot. Just as they spun on to a dirt road leading from the back of the chateau and into the dark woods, the Paris police came blaring down the avenue.
~~~
Relief from tension and fear coupled with exhaustion caused the light in Methos's flat to zigzag each time MacLeod moved his head or glanced around, giving objects a golden aura. Fully recovered, Methos was yelling at him, really quite angry. But MacLeod felt euphoric after two days of hell and would willingly listen to Methos rant and rave for hours. He sat on the couch, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands, and watched Methos pace back and forth, arms and hands flailing in emphasis. Joe perched on the end of an armchair, smiling a little as he ducked one of Methos's sweeping gestures.
Methos spun and pointed at MacLeod. "Of all the stupid, insane, idiotic things--they should rename you Duncan MacLeod of the Clan Stubborn, Stiff-necked Idiots. You're lucky I didn't leave. And believe me, I was tempted. Wasn't I, Joe? 'Have a nice trip,'" he said in a mocking voice. "I would have, far away from you. Do you have any idea what you've put me through the past two days? What you put Joe through?"
Joe raised his hands, as if to say, "Keep me out of this." MacLeod opened his mouth to speak. Methos ignored them both.
"Is it a thing with MacLeods? Were you all born with a death wish? It would have served you right if she'd killed you."
"I don't have a death wish," he said, gently.
"Actually, I'm starting to see her point. But then I'd probably absorb your bloody overdeveloped sense of honor or whatever it is you call it and go out and get myself killed first thing. Well, count me out. I want nothing to do with it. Or you. Or any of it."
"Methos," said MacLeod, raising his voice. There were questions that needed answers. He wanted to know what the female Immortal had said to scare Methos before he'd taken her head.
Abruptly, Methos stopped. He emitted one short, forceful sigh, and stood with his hands on his hips.
MacLeod noticed the dark, hunted look layered underneath Methos's quarrelsome expression, hidden by the frantic frayed edges of his energy, and the questions he had fizzled for the moment. "I'm sorry," he said, instead.
Methos rolled his eyes, screwed his mouth like he was getting ready to start back up again, but abruptly, he stilled. He stared at MacLeod for one devastating moment, then grabbed a bottle of beer and sat heavily into the other armchair, shoulders bunched around his ears as if attempting to burrow into the cushions. Sullen, he took a drink, thumbing the label. "Whatever you say."
MacLeod decided sulking was better than yelling. He turned to Joe. "Do we know anything about her? I never got her name. She knew Kronos. And Cassandra."
There was a palpable silence, heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts tossed back and forth among all three men like a hot potato. Joe had confirmed that Cassandra was killed in her home two days ago. No one knew who killed her. MacLeod wasn't surprised, hadn't dared hope she might have escaped, but upon hearing the news, he felt an ache in his chest.
"Anything?" he asked. "She had the kind of power that comes from taking a lot of heads, how is it the Watchers don't know who she is?"
Joe rubbed his face. "Hey, we do our best, all right? If we ever had a Watcher on her, it hasn't been in recent memory. There was a reference to a student of Cassandra's that might be her, if she's as old as you think she is. Nothing in Kronos's chronicle, but there are century-wide gaps in his. We're looking. I've got my best people on it."
Grateful but frustrated, MacLeod scratched his head. "Thanks," he said. Through the thick sense of relief that still wrapped around him like a woolly blanket, he couldn't quite get rid of a mild unease that settled just underneath his heart. "Methos?"
Methos shot him a dark, wrathful look. "Don't ask me. I made it an art form avoiding those two. Clearly, Cassandra's to blame for tipping our mystery friend on how to find me."
MacLeod frowned, watching Methos shred the label on his beer bottle. "I don't know. She denied it when I asked her. Implied it was Kronos, although if he did, why did she wait till now to make her move? What did she say to you?"
Their eyes met and the room fell silent. MacLeod thought he saw something in Methos's expression, a little of that startled look that scared MacLeod more than anything that had happened the past two days. Joe's cell phone chirped and everyone jumped, the moment passing.
With a furrowed brow, Joe thumbed through a message on his phone, clearing it before tucking it away. He grabbed his cane and stood. "Well kids, it's been fun, but I've got a car and a dead body to dump."
"Joseph," said MacLeod, with a tone implying he knew the Watcher was vacating the premises prematurely. The message he'd received must have been important.
"Mac, I promise. As soon as I have anything, you'll be the first to know."
Slightly mollified, MacLeod got up to walk Joe to the door. "Thanks," he said again, holding out his hand and pulling Joe in for a one-armed hug. Joe waved him off, but reached out and squeezed MacLeod's shoulder before heading out the door toward his car.
Returning to the living room, MacLeod watched Methos stare moodily at his beer bottle. MacLeod settled his hands awkwardly at his sides. "Thanks for letting me stay here," he said, hoping to ease their way back to a calmer footing.
For an answer, Methos nodded briefly in acknowledgement but otherwise ignored him.
MacLeod sighed. As tired as he was, all he wanted to do was collapse horizontally onto a reasonably comfortable surface. He wasn't sure what time it was but thought it must be two or three in the morning. He could go to bed; Methos would still be mad at him in the morning. But he didn't want Methos to be mad at him. "I don't regret it," he said. "You can be as angry with me as you want. Faced with the same decision again, I would make the same choice."
Methos lifted his eyes. "Did it occur to you that you were playing right into her hands?"
"What choice did I have?" MacLeod took a step forward. "Any move I made would have led her to you, and I wasn't going to take the risk."
Methos sat up, rigid. "And I suppose I should be thankful," he said bitterly. "Did you even stop to think, for a minute, that I might not want you to sacrifice yourself for me? Please, don't do me any favors."
"I wasn't trying to sacrifice myself," said MacLeod, frustrated. He took another step forward, as if close proximity would make Methos understand. "She came to me. And I wasn't going to play her game, whatever it was. If that meant fighting her, then so be it."
"Oh, and look how well that was going," cried Methos, sitting on the edge of the chair, using his beer bottle for emphasis. "You were as good as dead, MacLeod."
"What do you want from me?" he asked, finally angry. "Should I say I'm sorry? Should I leave? Tell me what you want, and I'll do it, because obviously I can't figure it out. It was an impossible situation and I did the best I could. And I can't regret it. I'm sorry if that makes you angry." MacLeod's throat constricted, and he felt his voice give, the stress of the evening finally taking its toll. "I didn't know what else to do," he said, almost pleading. "All I could think was to warn you, get you out of the city. She would have killed you."
Still clutching the beer bottle, Methos relaxed slightly. More quietly, he said, "You're assuming I would have fought fairly."
"And you're assuming she didn't know every single one of your tricks. She knew your name, Methos. And she wasn't hunting an imposter."
Methos fell silent, his darkened eyes growing thoughtful until they dropped to the collection of beer bottles cluttering his coffee table. Tension bled from the room, leaving a silence heavy with relief and regrets. They had survived and the female Immortal was dead. MacLeod took his seat on the couch. His eyes fell on a bulky plastic Carrefour shopping bag next to the coffee table. From the bag, MacLeod took out a boxy new rice cooker. "Aw, you shouldn't have," he said.
"What makes you think that's for you?"
MacLeod smiled. He put the rice cooker down. "You're right about one thing." He turned to face Methos. "She played us both. I just can't figure out what her real goal was. What did she say to you?"
Methos shrugged. "That she was Kronos's girlfriend."
For some reason, that struck MacLeod as hilarious, and he started laughing. Really laughing, with tears stinging his eyes. Methos looked at him with a growing smile and soon they were both gasping for breath.
As their laughter died, they grew solemn. It was like one of those awkward moments in parties when conversation fails and no one knows what to say. MacLeod opened his mouth to ask where the extra linen might be and if Methos minded lending him a towel, but he was suddenly captivated by the look on Methos's face--fear, sadness, loss. "What is it?"
It took a few seconds for Methos to speak. Sitting on the edge of the armchair, head bowed slightly, Methos looked exposed and alone. "You almost died tonight," he said.
The air grew thin and MacLeod had difficulty breathing. "But I didn't," he said.
"Yeah," said Methos, so quietly. "I did leave, Duncan, after I got your message. Got on a train to London. But--" He stopped.
"It's what I wanted. I was so scared, Methos, that you hadn't gotten my message. That she'd find a way to trace it back to you." Speaking became difficult and they both let silence say the rest.
After a moment, Methos leaned forward and set the empty beer bottle on the table, adding it to the collection.
"When I got back," said Methos, "there was no way to approach you without her knowing. Joe pulled all the Watchers from the area, only long distance surveillance allowed. She was very good. There was never a good sniper shot; she seemed to melt in and out of the shadows. Not that Joe would have let me. When you left the barge, both times, she followed you just out of sensing range, and so I couldn't be anywhere near, couldn't risk it." He paused. "Tonight, after you left, we went to the barge first."
Understanding, MacLeod felt a constriction in his chest. He knew what it must have looked like: the place destroyed, every surface covered in blood. "I'm sorry."
Methos blinked and smiled a little. "Not your fault." He chuckled, nervously--a short, rather truncated and bitter sort of laugh. "This feels uncomfortably like confession."
MacLeod huffed a laugh. "Whatever sins you have, I share them," he said. "Methos," he paused, trying to find the right words. "This is who I am." He held out both of his hands, palms up and open. "And it's unlikely to change."
Methos gave a lopsided grin. "I figured that out. Thanks." They shared a smile and MacLeod finally felt that everything was back to what it should be. The past two days were history and he and Methos were still alive. MacLeod felt the full weight of fear lift and felt dizzy from relief. "And, I guess," continued Methos, causing MacLeod to look at him again, noticing his heightened color, the careful way Methos kept rearranging the empty bottles on the table with restless hands, "if this is a night for confessions...I know a little bit about living with regret, MacLeod. It sometimes seems it is all I have to show for five thousand years. And I realized, sitting on that train to London, cursing you with every breath several times over, that this was one regret I couldn't live with."
"Methos."
"Let me say it."
MacLeod held his breath.
"You're frustrating, stubborn, and occasionally insufferable. And I'd just as soon kill you myself if you ever put me through something like this again. But I want you to know, before it's too late, that I do love you."
The lights seemed to pulse. MacLeod felt wonder and shock all over his body. He clenched his hands, wanting to reach out to Methos. Instead, he gathered his disarrayed thoughts. "Methos, I--"
"In every sense of the word. I always have. Probably always will."
MacLeod sat back. He knew Methos liked him well enough, but their relationship had always been strained, never easy. "You never said. I never knew."
"It wasn't important."
"Not important? How can you say that?"
"No, not really. Think back to everything that's happened since you and I first met--Kalas, the Watchers, Kronos, Alexa. What purpose would it have served? If I had told you, it would have only complicated matters, possibly harmed our friendship. And at the time, our friendship was more important than anything. Still is."
Feeling like he was missing something, MacLeod wrinkled his brow. He remembered Methos was a master at misdirection.
"And besides," said Methos. "I didn't think you'd go for it. I'm not your style. And you would think less of me."
MacLeod felt a flash of irritation. "Nice to know you think so highly of me. Do you always insult those you confess to love? Fall in love with bigoted assholes, do you? Wait, don't answer that."
Methos blinked and flushed. "Sorry," he said. "Defense mechanism."
His irritation vanished. Instead, MacLeod was overwhelmed with affection for Methos so huge it filled the entire room. He smiled. "Now that, I believe."
MacLeod watched Methos twitch and fidget in his chair, still oddly fascinated by the beer bottles. MacLeod was struck by a memory of Methos in the loft kitchen in Seacouver, uncertain, in love and vulnerable, but with a kind of braveness about him. He realized Methos's confession didn't change anything. Methos was right--their friendship was always more important. It had brought them to this moment, and they could never have got there without all the pain and heartache and loss, all of the laughter and quiet moments. The realization was like a hot explosion in his chest and all he could do was stare at Methos as if he were a stranger.
Methos fidgeted himself right out of the armchair. "Listen, Mac. Take the bed. I'm too tired to sleep. I'll just pop out for a ten-minute walk and be right back." He was already up and nearly to the door.
"Oh, no you don't," said MacLeod, leaping between Methos and the door.
"Out of my way." Methos dodged to the left.
MacLeod blocked him. "You do not get to run away from this."
"Who said anything about running? I said a walk."
"Hah hah. No walking away, either."
"This is my flat. I can leave it if I want." He feinted to the right, then started for the left.
"Coward." MacLeod didn't fall for the trick, blocking with ease. He was careful not to touch. This was Methos's deal; he had to make the first move.
"Every time. I said, out of my way."
MacLeod searched Methos's pinched, white face, eyes shining with resistance, and knew he should step aside and let him pass. He didn't move. "No," he said, quietly.
Methos's eyes widened slightly. He took several deep breaths and seemed about to push MacLeod, but instead he closed his eyes and stood under the bare light of the hallway. Methos put a hand against MacLeod's chest, palm flat over his heart.
MacLeod covered Methos's hand with his. He took Methos's other hand and held it as if he were going to lead in a dance and closed his eyes. They stood apart, but he listened to Methos's breathing, noticing the way Methos smelled and his body heat radiating gently.
They leaned in close. Methos held MacLeod by the waist. MacLeod turned his face blindly and their lips touched. He opened his mouth and felt a jolt of desire so strong he gripped Methos for balance. Opening his eyes, he pulled back just enough to see Methos looking at him. MacLeod touched Methos's face with both hands, held him in wonder, looking at him. Methos's hands spread across his back.
MacLeod remembered waking that morning knowing he would likely die, knowing that Methos was out there somewhere far away, alone. He crushed his mouth to Methos's, hungry, rough in his need. He felt Methos's fingers grip his T-shirt. He kissed Methos's lips, his chin, his neck. He felt Methos's breath against his skin, hot and damp.
He held Methos close. They wrapped their arms around each other tight. MacLeod turned his face into Methos's neck and scrunched his eyes shut. He didn't know how long they stood before Methos moved, raised one hand to the back of MacLeod's head, fingers in his hair. With shuddering breaths, they pulled apart, lips seeking lips and skin, fingers tangled together.
They moved through the hallway, through the living room, to the bed. MacLeod pushed Methos down, tugged at his clothing until the sweater came off and the jeans were unsnapped and pushed down. MacLeod stopped when he got to the shoes.
"You wore the Testoni shoes?" He looked with scandalous outrage at Methos. "To a challenge?" The shoes--dark leather oxford cut, with clean stitching and a neat tapered toe--were scuffed and marked.
Grinning like an imp in his underpants, Methos flattened himself onto the bed. "What else are shoes good for but to go on feet?"
The shoes went bump-thump onto the floor. MacLeod trapped Methos below him. "They're fifteen hundred dollar shoes, Methos. You don't wear them to a challenge. I never said you could borrow them. They were a gift from Amanda."
Methos huffed, indignant. "If you really believe Amanda paid for those shoes, you're much more gullible than I thought."
MacLeod glared down at him. "That's beside the point. They're mine."
"Oh, you can have them back, then," said Methos, innocently.
MacLeod groaned, and lay down on top of Methos. "You can have them," he muttered into Methos's neck. "You bastard."
Methos was laughing softly, cradling MacLeod's head, trailing a hand down MacLeod's back and under his shirt. MacLeod inhaled.
They lay side by side. MacLeod passed his hand down Methos's arm, over his chest. Methos traced the lines of MacLeod's face. The heat from before built back up again, more slowly but with less desperation. They tossed the rest of their clothing aside. MacLeod cupped Methos's erection in his hand, watched Methos shiver and close his eyes, arch his back and push into MacLeod's hand.
MacLeod swallowed Methos's cries when he came, hard. They looked at each other, their breath mingling, wet and hot. With his fingers slick with lube, MacLeod spread Methos open and then pushed in. He was surrounded by Methos, wanting more, wanting everything. He pushed in, pulled out, crying out with every thrust. Methos came again, and then MacLeod spilled everything he had. It was over far too quickly, and MacLeod lay panting, entangled. He kept his hands on Methos, unwilling to separate. They traded kisses. Methos pulled MacLeod into his arms and they lay side by side. "I love you, too, you fool," said MacLeod, and took Methos's hand in his as he closed his eyes and slept.
~~~
He woke in the swallowing darkness to Methos's hot tongue licking his nipple. They moved in shadows, taking and giving. MacLeod groaned as he thrust into Methos's mouth. He felt a finger penetrate him and it was all he could do not to pound into Methos so hard he would injure him. He came, blindly, and pulled Methos up to take his mouth with his. He was instantly hard again, turned Methos over, cupped his ass and spread him wide before taking his erection and pushing in. Methos cried out and came, spilling onto the bed. MacLeod followed, clutching Methos close.
Before falling asleep, Methos turned to face him. MacLeod felt lips brush his forehead, a hand carding gently through his hair.
~~~
He thrashed awake. The loud banging gave him just enough time to realize Methos was not with him when the doors to the flat crashed open and uniformed policemen stormed in with guns. Instinct drove MacLeod from the bed, automatically reaching for his sword but finding it missing. A plainclothes detective stepped forward with his badge in hand. "Monsieur MacLeod, you are wanted for questioning. For murder."
MacLeod stood, naked but for the sheet he held in front of him, and felt a cold hand close over his heart. Methos was gone.
Part 1
Part 3
Pairing: Duncan/Methos, ~30,000 words, Adult (for violence and adult situations)
Author's Note: More notes to follow the final post. This story is set some time after Highlander: Endgame, and fully ignores Highlander: The Source.
I would be no where without my betas
killabeez, unovis_lj, and terrio. Special thank you and hugs and all around adoration to killabeez for just being awesome and generous and wonderful.Summary: A tug of war passed between them, push me pull me. He wanted to shake Methos; he wanted to hug and squeeze him with all of his strength. His eyes stung. The moment crystallized as he realized just how much, with all the blood and sweat and pain of the last two days, he had wanted to live, how much he wanted Methos to live.
Missed Connections
by hafital
~~~
MacLeod stared at her body with mixed emotions. He didn't want to kill her, not like this. She deserved better. She was a magnificent fighter. But those were their options: kill her now, try and likely fail to kill her later, or run--run forever.
MacLeod gripped his sword, slightly unfamiliar in his left hand. He looked up as Methos came close. "Methos," he said, his voice ragged, drinking in the sight of him.
"Highlander." The moonlight cast stark shadows under Methos's eyes. "I distinctly remember telling you once, long ago--you cannot fight my battles for me. Stand aside, Duncan. This is my decision."
MacLeod held Methos's eyes, weighing both the truth and lie of that statement. A tug of war passed between them, push me pull me. He wanted to shake Methos; he wanted to hug and squeeze him with all of his strength. His eyes stung. The moment crystallized as he realized just how much, with all the blood and sweat and pain of the last two days, he had wanted to live, how much he wanted Methos to live. I want him to live. With a shaky nod, he stepped back.
Methos's expression gentled. He held his hand out. "May I borrow your sword?"
Hesitant, MacLeod handed his katana over.
Methos stood over her body, a sword in each hand, leaving her sword still in her death grip. She gasped and arched her back as she revived, already swinging as she leapt to her feet. Methos blocked her attack and thrust his broadsword through her chest. Impaled, she looked down at the blade. Her breathing was audible, damp and bubbling.
Methos held the katana to her chin, tilted her face up to look at him.
"You should have taken me while I was down," she said, blood painting her lips.
"I wanted you to see my face up close, since you worked so hard for it. I am Methos."
Her smile was almost beatific. She bowed her head for a moment, slowly, sluggish. "Yes. And it worked. You're here."
She raised a hand and crooked her finger at him.
MacLeod could see Methos look at her intently, trying to read her as he leaned in a little closer. She whispered something MacLeod could not hear. A crease appeared between Methos's eyes. He searched her face, startled, and then he glanced around to the windows of the chateau. MacLeod felt a tickling at the back of his neck. The wind whistled, a light playful breeze.
With a yell, the female Immortal yanked herself free of Methos's blade, and swung her sword. MacLeod cried out in warning.
Methos spun smoothly, the katana gleaming in the moonlight. Her head fell to the cobblestones and rolled away.
The breeze grew stronger, blowing into a whirlwind. The first bolt of lightning drove Methos to his knees. He screamed as another bolt struck. The sky darkened, a tempest rising. MacLeod felt the power tug at his center; he shielded his eyes. All the windows of the chateau shattered, raining shards of glass.
Bolts of lightning stabbed the ground. Methos lay pinned, speared with each jagged lightning strike. A loud wailing carried over the wind. Methos curled in on himself, cradling his head in hands and arms. Electricity arced over the metal gate and across the chateau.
The quickening faded. MacLeod knelt beside Methos, trying to take hold of him with his one good arm, the wind blinding his eyes. He touched Methos's face, his hair. Methos was gasping, shaking, but he reached for MacLeod. Fingers like ice gripped him. They floundered, holding each other.
The wailing continued. Through the fog of fatigue and blood loss clouding his mind, MacLeod realized it was an alarm. They had to get out of there. A car spun onto the avenue, tires squealing. The police had arrived. There was nothing for it but to wait for them. MacLeod took Methos's hand in his and squeezed.
The car barreled through the open, swinging gates. MacLeod smiled when he saw Joe open the driver side door. "Joseph, your timing could not be more perfect."
"You like that, huh? Can't leave you two alone for a second," said Joe. "Get in, they're thirty seconds out."
MacLeod gathered Methos as best he could with limbs not working properly and his arm still unhealed. He tossed Methos into the back seat, then went back for the body and head, stuffing them into the boot. Just as they spun on to a dirt road leading from the back of the chateau and into the dark woods, the Paris police came blaring down the avenue.
~~~
Relief from tension and fear coupled with exhaustion caused the light in Methos's flat to zigzag each time MacLeod moved his head or glanced around, giving objects a golden aura. Fully recovered, Methos was yelling at him, really quite angry. But MacLeod felt euphoric after two days of hell and would willingly listen to Methos rant and rave for hours. He sat on the couch, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands, and watched Methos pace back and forth, arms and hands flailing in emphasis. Joe perched on the end of an armchair, smiling a little as he ducked one of Methos's sweeping gestures.
Methos spun and pointed at MacLeod. "Of all the stupid, insane, idiotic things--they should rename you Duncan MacLeod of the Clan Stubborn, Stiff-necked Idiots. You're lucky I didn't leave. And believe me, I was tempted. Wasn't I, Joe? 'Have a nice trip,'" he said in a mocking voice. "I would have, far away from you. Do you have any idea what you've put me through the past two days? What you put Joe through?"
Joe raised his hands, as if to say, "Keep me out of this." MacLeod opened his mouth to speak. Methos ignored them both.
"Is it a thing with MacLeods? Were you all born with a death wish? It would have served you right if she'd killed you."
"I don't have a death wish," he said, gently.
"Actually, I'm starting to see her point. But then I'd probably absorb your bloody overdeveloped sense of honor or whatever it is you call it and go out and get myself killed first thing. Well, count me out. I want nothing to do with it. Or you. Or any of it."
"Methos," said MacLeod, raising his voice. There were questions that needed answers. He wanted to know what the female Immortal had said to scare Methos before he'd taken her head.
Abruptly, Methos stopped. He emitted one short, forceful sigh, and stood with his hands on his hips.
MacLeod noticed the dark, hunted look layered underneath Methos's quarrelsome expression, hidden by the frantic frayed edges of his energy, and the questions he had fizzled for the moment. "I'm sorry," he said, instead.
Methos rolled his eyes, screwed his mouth like he was getting ready to start back up again, but abruptly, he stilled. He stared at MacLeod for one devastating moment, then grabbed a bottle of beer and sat heavily into the other armchair, shoulders bunched around his ears as if attempting to burrow into the cushions. Sullen, he took a drink, thumbing the label. "Whatever you say."
MacLeod decided sulking was better than yelling. He turned to Joe. "Do we know anything about her? I never got her name. She knew Kronos. And Cassandra."
There was a palpable silence, heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts tossed back and forth among all three men like a hot potato. Joe had confirmed that Cassandra was killed in her home two days ago. No one knew who killed her. MacLeod wasn't surprised, hadn't dared hope she might have escaped, but upon hearing the news, he felt an ache in his chest.
"Anything?" he asked. "She had the kind of power that comes from taking a lot of heads, how is it the Watchers don't know who she is?"
Joe rubbed his face. "Hey, we do our best, all right? If we ever had a Watcher on her, it hasn't been in recent memory. There was a reference to a student of Cassandra's that might be her, if she's as old as you think she is. Nothing in Kronos's chronicle, but there are century-wide gaps in his. We're looking. I've got my best people on it."
Grateful but frustrated, MacLeod scratched his head. "Thanks," he said. Through the thick sense of relief that still wrapped around him like a woolly blanket, he couldn't quite get rid of a mild unease that settled just underneath his heart. "Methos?"
Methos shot him a dark, wrathful look. "Don't ask me. I made it an art form avoiding those two. Clearly, Cassandra's to blame for tipping our mystery friend on how to find me."
MacLeod frowned, watching Methos shred the label on his beer bottle. "I don't know. She denied it when I asked her. Implied it was Kronos, although if he did, why did she wait till now to make her move? What did she say to you?"
Their eyes met and the room fell silent. MacLeod thought he saw something in Methos's expression, a little of that startled look that scared MacLeod more than anything that had happened the past two days. Joe's cell phone chirped and everyone jumped, the moment passing.
With a furrowed brow, Joe thumbed through a message on his phone, clearing it before tucking it away. He grabbed his cane and stood. "Well kids, it's been fun, but I've got a car and a dead body to dump."
"Joseph," said MacLeod, with a tone implying he knew the Watcher was vacating the premises prematurely. The message he'd received must have been important.
"Mac, I promise. As soon as I have anything, you'll be the first to know."
Slightly mollified, MacLeod got up to walk Joe to the door. "Thanks," he said again, holding out his hand and pulling Joe in for a one-armed hug. Joe waved him off, but reached out and squeezed MacLeod's shoulder before heading out the door toward his car.
Returning to the living room, MacLeod watched Methos stare moodily at his beer bottle. MacLeod settled his hands awkwardly at his sides. "Thanks for letting me stay here," he said, hoping to ease their way back to a calmer footing.
For an answer, Methos nodded briefly in acknowledgement but otherwise ignored him.
MacLeod sighed. As tired as he was, all he wanted to do was collapse horizontally onto a reasonably comfortable surface. He wasn't sure what time it was but thought it must be two or three in the morning. He could go to bed; Methos would still be mad at him in the morning. But he didn't want Methos to be mad at him. "I don't regret it," he said. "You can be as angry with me as you want. Faced with the same decision again, I would make the same choice."
Methos lifted his eyes. "Did it occur to you that you were playing right into her hands?"
"What choice did I have?" MacLeod took a step forward. "Any move I made would have led her to you, and I wasn't going to take the risk."
Methos sat up, rigid. "And I suppose I should be thankful," he said bitterly. "Did you even stop to think, for a minute, that I might not want you to sacrifice yourself for me? Please, don't do me any favors."
"I wasn't trying to sacrifice myself," said MacLeod, frustrated. He took another step forward, as if close proximity would make Methos understand. "She came to me. And I wasn't going to play her game, whatever it was. If that meant fighting her, then so be it."
"Oh, and look how well that was going," cried Methos, sitting on the edge of the chair, using his beer bottle for emphasis. "You were as good as dead, MacLeod."
"What do you want from me?" he asked, finally angry. "Should I say I'm sorry? Should I leave? Tell me what you want, and I'll do it, because obviously I can't figure it out. It was an impossible situation and I did the best I could. And I can't regret it. I'm sorry if that makes you angry." MacLeod's throat constricted, and he felt his voice give, the stress of the evening finally taking its toll. "I didn't know what else to do," he said, almost pleading. "All I could think was to warn you, get you out of the city. She would have killed you."
Still clutching the beer bottle, Methos relaxed slightly. More quietly, he said, "You're assuming I would have fought fairly."
"And you're assuming she didn't know every single one of your tricks. She knew your name, Methos. And she wasn't hunting an imposter."
Methos fell silent, his darkened eyes growing thoughtful until they dropped to the collection of beer bottles cluttering his coffee table. Tension bled from the room, leaving a silence heavy with relief and regrets. They had survived and the female Immortal was dead. MacLeod took his seat on the couch. His eyes fell on a bulky plastic Carrefour shopping bag next to the coffee table. From the bag, MacLeod took out a boxy new rice cooker. "Aw, you shouldn't have," he said.
"What makes you think that's for you?"
MacLeod smiled. He put the rice cooker down. "You're right about one thing." He turned to face Methos. "She played us both. I just can't figure out what her real goal was. What did she say to you?"
Methos shrugged. "That she was Kronos's girlfriend."
For some reason, that struck MacLeod as hilarious, and he started laughing. Really laughing, with tears stinging his eyes. Methos looked at him with a growing smile and soon they were both gasping for breath.
As their laughter died, they grew solemn. It was like one of those awkward moments in parties when conversation fails and no one knows what to say. MacLeod opened his mouth to ask where the extra linen might be and if Methos minded lending him a towel, but he was suddenly captivated by the look on Methos's face--fear, sadness, loss. "What is it?"
It took a few seconds for Methos to speak. Sitting on the edge of the armchair, head bowed slightly, Methos looked exposed and alone. "You almost died tonight," he said.
The air grew thin and MacLeod had difficulty breathing. "But I didn't," he said.
"Yeah," said Methos, so quietly. "I did leave, Duncan, after I got your message. Got on a train to London. But--" He stopped.
"It's what I wanted. I was so scared, Methos, that you hadn't gotten my message. That she'd find a way to trace it back to you." Speaking became difficult and they both let silence say the rest.
After a moment, Methos leaned forward and set the empty beer bottle on the table, adding it to the collection.
"When I got back," said Methos, "there was no way to approach you without her knowing. Joe pulled all the Watchers from the area, only long distance surveillance allowed. She was very good. There was never a good sniper shot; she seemed to melt in and out of the shadows. Not that Joe would have let me. When you left the barge, both times, she followed you just out of sensing range, and so I couldn't be anywhere near, couldn't risk it." He paused. "Tonight, after you left, we went to the barge first."
Understanding, MacLeod felt a constriction in his chest. He knew what it must have looked like: the place destroyed, every surface covered in blood. "I'm sorry."
Methos blinked and smiled a little. "Not your fault." He chuckled, nervously--a short, rather truncated and bitter sort of laugh. "This feels uncomfortably like confession."
MacLeod huffed a laugh. "Whatever sins you have, I share them," he said. "Methos," he paused, trying to find the right words. "This is who I am." He held out both of his hands, palms up and open. "And it's unlikely to change."
Methos gave a lopsided grin. "I figured that out. Thanks." They shared a smile and MacLeod finally felt that everything was back to what it should be. The past two days were history and he and Methos were still alive. MacLeod felt the full weight of fear lift and felt dizzy from relief. "And, I guess," continued Methos, causing MacLeod to look at him again, noticing his heightened color, the careful way Methos kept rearranging the empty bottles on the table with restless hands, "if this is a night for confessions...I know a little bit about living with regret, MacLeod. It sometimes seems it is all I have to show for five thousand years. And I realized, sitting on that train to London, cursing you with every breath several times over, that this was one regret I couldn't live with."
"Methos."
"Let me say it."
MacLeod held his breath.
"You're frustrating, stubborn, and occasionally insufferable. And I'd just as soon kill you myself if you ever put me through something like this again. But I want you to know, before it's too late, that I do love you."
The lights seemed to pulse. MacLeod felt wonder and shock all over his body. He clenched his hands, wanting to reach out to Methos. Instead, he gathered his disarrayed thoughts. "Methos, I--"
"In every sense of the word. I always have. Probably always will."
MacLeod sat back. He knew Methos liked him well enough, but their relationship had always been strained, never easy. "You never said. I never knew."
"It wasn't important."
"Not important? How can you say that?"
"No, not really. Think back to everything that's happened since you and I first met--Kalas, the Watchers, Kronos, Alexa. What purpose would it have served? If I had told you, it would have only complicated matters, possibly harmed our friendship. And at the time, our friendship was more important than anything. Still is."
Feeling like he was missing something, MacLeod wrinkled his brow. He remembered Methos was a master at misdirection.
"And besides," said Methos. "I didn't think you'd go for it. I'm not your style. And you would think less of me."
MacLeod felt a flash of irritation. "Nice to know you think so highly of me. Do you always insult those you confess to love? Fall in love with bigoted assholes, do you? Wait, don't answer that."
Methos blinked and flushed. "Sorry," he said. "Defense mechanism."
His irritation vanished. Instead, MacLeod was overwhelmed with affection for Methos so huge it filled the entire room. He smiled. "Now that, I believe."
MacLeod watched Methos twitch and fidget in his chair, still oddly fascinated by the beer bottles. MacLeod was struck by a memory of Methos in the loft kitchen in Seacouver, uncertain, in love and vulnerable, but with a kind of braveness about him. He realized Methos's confession didn't change anything. Methos was right--their friendship was always more important. It had brought them to this moment, and they could never have got there without all the pain and heartache and loss, all of the laughter and quiet moments. The realization was like a hot explosion in his chest and all he could do was stare at Methos as if he were a stranger.
Methos fidgeted himself right out of the armchair. "Listen, Mac. Take the bed. I'm too tired to sleep. I'll just pop out for a ten-minute walk and be right back." He was already up and nearly to the door.
"Oh, no you don't," said MacLeod, leaping between Methos and the door.
"Out of my way." Methos dodged to the left.
MacLeod blocked him. "You do not get to run away from this."
"Who said anything about running? I said a walk."
"Hah hah. No walking away, either."
"This is my flat. I can leave it if I want." He feinted to the right, then started for the left.
"Coward." MacLeod didn't fall for the trick, blocking with ease. He was careful not to touch. This was Methos's deal; he had to make the first move.
"Every time. I said, out of my way."
MacLeod searched Methos's pinched, white face, eyes shining with resistance, and knew he should step aside and let him pass. He didn't move. "No," he said, quietly.
Methos's eyes widened slightly. He took several deep breaths and seemed about to push MacLeod, but instead he closed his eyes and stood under the bare light of the hallway. Methos put a hand against MacLeod's chest, palm flat over his heart.
MacLeod covered Methos's hand with his. He took Methos's other hand and held it as if he were going to lead in a dance and closed his eyes. They stood apart, but he listened to Methos's breathing, noticing the way Methos smelled and his body heat radiating gently.
They leaned in close. Methos held MacLeod by the waist. MacLeod turned his face blindly and their lips touched. He opened his mouth and felt a jolt of desire so strong he gripped Methos for balance. Opening his eyes, he pulled back just enough to see Methos looking at him. MacLeod touched Methos's face with both hands, held him in wonder, looking at him. Methos's hands spread across his back.
MacLeod remembered waking that morning knowing he would likely die, knowing that Methos was out there somewhere far away, alone. He crushed his mouth to Methos's, hungry, rough in his need. He felt Methos's fingers grip his T-shirt. He kissed Methos's lips, his chin, his neck. He felt Methos's breath against his skin, hot and damp.
He held Methos close. They wrapped their arms around each other tight. MacLeod turned his face into Methos's neck and scrunched his eyes shut. He didn't know how long they stood before Methos moved, raised one hand to the back of MacLeod's head, fingers in his hair. With shuddering breaths, they pulled apart, lips seeking lips and skin, fingers tangled together.
They moved through the hallway, through the living room, to the bed. MacLeod pushed Methos down, tugged at his clothing until the sweater came off and the jeans were unsnapped and pushed down. MacLeod stopped when he got to the shoes.
"You wore the Testoni shoes?" He looked with scandalous outrage at Methos. "To a challenge?" The shoes--dark leather oxford cut, with clean stitching and a neat tapered toe--were scuffed and marked.
Grinning like an imp in his underpants, Methos flattened himself onto the bed. "What else are shoes good for but to go on feet?"
The shoes went bump-thump onto the floor. MacLeod trapped Methos below him. "They're fifteen hundred dollar shoes, Methos. You don't wear them to a challenge. I never said you could borrow them. They were a gift from Amanda."
Methos huffed, indignant. "If you really believe Amanda paid for those shoes, you're much more gullible than I thought."
MacLeod glared down at him. "That's beside the point. They're mine."
"Oh, you can have them back, then," said Methos, innocently.
MacLeod groaned, and lay down on top of Methos. "You can have them," he muttered into Methos's neck. "You bastard."
Methos was laughing softly, cradling MacLeod's head, trailing a hand down MacLeod's back and under his shirt. MacLeod inhaled.
They lay side by side. MacLeod passed his hand down Methos's arm, over his chest. Methos traced the lines of MacLeod's face. The heat from before built back up again, more slowly but with less desperation. They tossed the rest of their clothing aside. MacLeod cupped Methos's erection in his hand, watched Methos shiver and close his eyes, arch his back and push into MacLeod's hand.
MacLeod swallowed Methos's cries when he came, hard. They looked at each other, their breath mingling, wet and hot. With his fingers slick with lube, MacLeod spread Methos open and then pushed in. He was surrounded by Methos, wanting more, wanting everything. He pushed in, pulled out, crying out with every thrust. Methos came again, and then MacLeod spilled everything he had. It was over far too quickly, and MacLeod lay panting, entangled. He kept his hands on Methos, unwilling to separate. They traded kisses. Methos pulled MacLeod into his arms and they lay side by side. "I love you, too, you fool," said MacLeod, and took Methos's hand in his as he closed his eyes and slept.
~~~
He woke in the swallowing darkness to Methos's hot tongue licking his nipple. They moved in shadows, taking and giving. MacLeod groaned as he thrust into Methos's mouth. He felt a finger penetrate him and it was all he could do not to pound into Methos so hard he would injure him. He came, blindly, and pulled Methos up to take his mouth with his. He was instantly hard again, turned Methos over, cupped his ass and spread him wide before taking his erection and pushing in. Methos cried out and came, spilling onto the bed. MacLeod followed, clutching Methos close.
Before falling asleep, Methos turned to face him. MacLeod felt lips brush his forehead, a hand carding gently through his hair.
~~~
He thrashed awake. The loud banging gave him just enough time to realize Methos was not with him when the doors to the flat crashed open and uniformed policemen stormed in with guns. Instinct drove MacLeod from the bed, automatically reaching for his sword but finding it missing. A plainclothes detective stepped forward with his badge in hand. "Monsieur MacLeod, you are wanted for questioning. For murder."
MacLeod stood, naked but for the sheet he held in front of him, and felt a cold hand close over his heart. Methos was gone.
Part 1
Part 3
