![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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: Noise swelled around him, but MacLeod only heard the pounding of his feet against the pavement and his rhythmic breathing loud in his ears. The crowds were a blur, a mosaic of scattered dim lights and movement barely registered, serving only to slow him down like a thousand hands reaching out to grab hold as he struggled to get free.
Missed Connections
by hafital
Part 5
~~~
MacLeod woke with a start, drenched in sweat. He was on the couch. The apartment was warm, windows closed, blinds drawn. He lay for a moment, staring at the ceiling and breathing through the adrenaline rush.
I miss you, too.
The words were burned into his vision. He saw them when he closed his eyes, listening to the ambient sounds of city living. The time on the DVD player said it was past eight in the evening. He hadn't intended to fall asleep. He swung his legs around and sat up, rubbing his face. His glance fell on his cell phone. The moment before it rang, he shivered.
It was a number he didn't recognize. He stared at the display, fighting a sudden urge to throw the phone out the window. Instead, he pressed 'send'.
"Mr. Nash?" said a hesitant, slightly familiar voice. "This is Beth, from The Village Voice. Something's happened."
His stomach clenched, his hands went cold. "Tell me," he said.
Through their tenuous connection composed of airwaves and electricity, he sensed her unease. "Someone hacked into our computers last night. It's happened a couple times in the past, so I almost didn't think anything of it. Usually it's just some whackjob trying to slip in some propaganda or whatever. We always catch it before anything is printed. But, this time, there was nothing put into our system, nothing in the layout files, in our email, nothing. Only, our database was breached, where we keep emails, scans of faxes, etc."
MacLeod's vision darkened. He breathed and his blood started pumping again, burning like acid through his veins.
"But," she continued. "We get so many ads for 'Missed Connections' every day. There's no way to verify any of it, we don't even try. We keep no solid contact information." She said it reassuringly. "Whoever he is, wherever, he's safe."
She was astute, had picked up on so much, and spoke with such certainty, such conviction, MacLeod almost believed her. He wanted to believe her but the dread and panic of his dream kept thrumming through his mind. "I need to know what was in that database," he said.
There was a pause, then, "All right. Give me a moment."
She put him on hold. Fighting a need to do something, he forced himself to control his breathing. He poured himself a mug of tepid, stale coffee.
Hold music chimed in his ear. He placed the rim of the mug against his lips, warm liquid poured down his throat, when Immortal presence flared white-hot and pin-sharp, like a knifepoint scraped down his back. The mug shattered as it hit the floor.
He was out the door in less than a minute, Beth and The Village Voice forgotten, cell phone stuffed into a pocket. He followed the whisper of presence into the chilled spring New York night.
He saw a man, tall with dark hair, disappear down into a subway station.
~~~
Down subway stations, into trains, into Manhattan, MacLeod chased. He lost his quarry in the rabbit warren tangle of narrow streets that comprised most of downtown New York City, spending precious minutes combing each street. Barred from many of the buildings, he began to despair when he sensed the flicker of presence. The Immortal was too far away for MacLeod to see his face, blending into the crowds around Wall Street.
The flicker of presence drove MacLeod further north, into Chinatown, into Soho, back and forth, across Manhattan.
In the bright lights and constant activity of St Mark's Place, MacLeod spotted the Immortal standing still in a churning sea of pedestrians and NYU students. He was smiling, and had large dark eyes and pale skin, his hair swept back. His smile broadened before he disappeared.
MacLeod ran after him. Night descended and the lights of the square glared. He caught a glimpse of the Immortal turning a corner, moving further east. MacLeod followed. The Immortal slipped easily around pedestrians, but MacLeod had power and he spotted him disappearing into the darker streets of Alphabet City.
Over the pounding in his ears, MacLeod heard the whine of traffic on Roosevelt Drive. Without pausing, he dodged cars, crossing the wide highway to the park on the other side. Cars honked, tires squealed.
The stink of the East River wafted over him. MacLeod slowed, regulated his breathing. He unsheathed his sword, walking carefully down to the promenade. The sky was cloudless, leaving the moon free to spill its light everywhere.
A game was ending in the baseball diamond, the players and spectators laughing and talking. MacLeod held his sword close to his body, hiding it in the folds of his coat. The wind off the water cut like a knife. Although it was early spring, the night was cold. His hands numbed. He moved further away from the baseball diamond, to a small grove of trees and the uneven ground of a construction site.
It started at the base of his spine, rushed up his back to sink into his neck. Immortal presence buzzed, rattling his teeth more than the chill in the air. MacLeod turned in a circle, calling out, "You invited me here. The least you can do is show yourself."
Laughter echoed, light and cheerful sounding, ringing through the night air. "Duncan MacLeod," cried the Immortal in cultured tones. He pronounced MacLeod's name loftily, with flair. "At last we meet. I've heard so much about you."
"What have you heard?" MacLeod watched the moving shadows, listening to the gentle sound of the river rushing along.
"Oh, this and that," said the Immortal. "Mostly that." A man emerged from between veils of darkness. His bright white teeth glowed in his broad grin, as if he were posing for the cameras, waving to his fans. Then his eyes hardened. "The Highlander, brave Immortal, defender of the innocent, best friend to the one, the only oldest of us all," he taunted.
MacLeod felt cold, every muscle in his body stretched taut. "You must be Keyumars."
"At your service," Keyumars bowed. "Do you know what my name means? It means… I am the first, like Adam," he said with a wave of his hand and a smile.
Keyumars leaped and attacked. MacLeod turned into the direction of the swing, but when he turned back the Immortal had vanished into the shadows under the trees. Laughter rang again.
"It was sotouching," said Keyumars, once again speaking from the shadows, voice thrown, coming from nowhere and anywhere. "And clever. All those messages, endearing love notes. We almost didn't catch it. But I knew if I watched you, eventually you would lead me to him."
It was just a slight change in the air, the barest whisper of movement. But it was enough to warn him. MacLeod raised his sword. Blades clashed. With speed, he drove Keyumars back. Under the stark moonlight, he noticed the shadow of the wolf in the Immortal's smile, in the glint of his eyes.
Cruelly, the man resembled Methos, skin pale in the moonlight, dark hair falling softly.
MacLeod disarmed him, too easily. Keyumars smiled, barely out of breath. He knew he had the advantage: MacLeod could not kill him, would not, if there was a chance of information, of finding Methos. "Where is he?" MacLeod said, sword to the Immortal's neck.
Keyumars laughed. "You mean, you still don't know?"
Before MacLeod could react, his sword was swept aside. With alarming speed, the man knocked MacLeod onto his back. Winded, MacLeod rolled to the side, managing to keep hold of his sword. There was a cut against his cheek, a sharp, bright pain, but he brought his sword around and met Keyumars's blade. The river moved placidly, the trees danced in the wind.
"You amaze me," said Keyumars, still smiling, but he struggled against MacLeod's greater strength. "After I went through all this trouble to distract you."
MacLeod punched him in the face. Keyumars staggered backward, but kept his balance. "Where is he?" MacLeod asked again.
Keyumars wiped the blood from his mouth, shadows exaggerating his wide wolfish smile. "You know," he said, as if bestowing a blessing. "You've always known."
At that moment, the scattered lights of the park flickered. The night glowed as lightning arced upward through the clouds in jagged spears. Both men looked up to the sky and back into Brooklyn. MacLeod felt his blood drain. Thunder boomed like a rolling bass drum.
MacLeod saw the lights of the Manhattan skyline extinguish in blocks, cascading out. He turned his attention to Keyumars who was smiling a secret smile just as the park lights winked out. Instinct made MacLeod move and bring up his sword to block Keyumars's.
"Which do you think is stronger? The goat or the weasel? Tell me, MacLeod, are you as fast as I?" He smirked, his eyes glinting off the shine from their swords. Nearby, MacLeod barely registered the noise of cars braking and tires squealing on Roosevelt Drive as motorists were forced to adjust to the lack of light. Cars crashed, screams rose into the air. "Who can reach Methos first, I wonder." With a grunt, Keyumars pushed him back.
Before MacLeod could recover, Keyumars had already fled into the layered darkness. MacLeod cried out and followed, desperation and fear making him beg the enveloping shadows not to go, not to leave him.
MacLeod went down on his knees, crying. His sword rolled to a stop nearby. Gravel bit into his hands. They said he knew, that he had always known. The cold frigid air was harsh in his lungs.
I'm so far away from you. Do you know how far? I could be next door and still be as far as the moon. I don't know how to be this far away from you.
Oh, Methos. MacLeod stood up and started running. He ran as hard and as fast as he could.
~~~
New York City plunged into darkness. People left their apartment buildings, exiting stores and restaurants and movie theatres, looking up at the sky with confusion.
Cars honked, drivers yelled from their windows. The subways stopped. Police tried to shepherd the growing throngs, asking everyone to return to their homes.
Noise swelled around him, but MacLeod only heard the pounding of his feet against the pavement and his rhythmic breathing loud in his ears. The crowds were a blur, a mosaic of scattered dim lights and movement barely registered, serving only to slow him down like a thousand hands reaching out to grab hold as he struggled to get free.
Despite the crowds and the millions of New Yorkers stranded in Manhattan or Brooklyn, MacLeod managed to cross the Brooklyn Bridge in record time, ignoring the burn of his muscles and the ache in his lungs. Less than forty minutes had passed by the time he arrived in his neighborhood. He skidded to a halt, breathing hard, standing outside of his building. The air crackled with unspent electricity. The streets were less crowded than Manhattan, but he still saw people gathered on corners.
Catching his breath, he hunched over, silently pleading with Methos, with himself and God and unknown spirits, anything, anyone that listened. He stood when he heard a whoop from a police car, and he moved out of the street to let it pass. The police car turned left at the next corner. MacLeod followed, slowly at first, then faster. As he turned the corner, he saw a building a few blocks east of his street surrounded by police cars and fire engines. There was a crowd of people on the opposite side of the street, obviously displaced, forced to evacuate the building. He walked closer, staying in the darker shadows, and stopped just out of sight. Tiny shards of glass crunched beneath his shoes. MacLeod looked up and despite the lack of light could just make out the shattered windows of one of the top floors.
It was a converted office building, like his. With no way past the police, he found a side entrance, jimmied the lock. A doorman was speaking to an officer. MacLeod slipped past and into the stairwell. He ran up the stairs to the top, carefully opening the door, peering down the hallway. The automatic sprinklers had been activated and the carpet was sodden with water. The walls were still damp, droplets condensing, falling with audible plops to the floor.
Scorch marks cut deep grooves along the wall. The stench of ozone was so strong he put the back of his hand up to his face.
He walked slowly down the hall, pausing briefly at the threshold of the final apartment. Time slowed. Sound buzzed in his ears, drowning out the noise filtering in from the streets. All he could hear was the rasp of his breathing. There were officers in the apartment, talking and taking pictures, although he couldn't hear them and they seemed not to notice as he calmly walked forward. He didn't stop to wonder why. It was as if he moved at a different speed, making himself invisible. His fingers went numb. His hands tingled.
It was a one-bedroom apartment, furnished eclectically with non-matching pieces probably bought at a thrift store. The coffee table was splintered into pieces. The sodden couch was burned black. The acrid smell of melted synthetic fabrics mixed freely with the ozone. Black scorch marks ringed around fried electrical sockets. Quickening damage was visible on all sides: walls buckled and mottled from the heat, shattered vases, glass everywhere. MacLeod notice the puddles of pink water and the spray of blood along one wall the sprinklers had failed to douse.
The body lay covered chest down near the couch, and the decapitated head lay to one side under a separate sheet. MacLeod went down to his knees, ignoring the wetness seeping through his jeans. Screams clogged in his throat, unable to get out. Unshed tears stung his eyes. With his numb fingers he lifted the sheet away from the head to look at the face contorted in its last throes of life. He couldn't breathe and hadn't been breathing for several minutes. His vision darkened but he looked into the face of the beheaded Immortal and recognized the goat-like features of Diego de Almagro. Next to the body he saw Almagro's rapier lying on the floor outlined by police chalk.
Sound and feeling and emotion returned with an explosive assault and MacLeod let out one low ragged cry of relief. He became visible, and two police officers roughly grabbed him by the arms. Before he was bodily hauled away, his right hand closed around a white square piece of paper that was lying on the floor, hidden under part of the broken coffee table. He didn't know why he grabbed it. It was there and it had belonged to Methos and so he took it.
The police barked at him, threatening arrest and demanding to know how he got into the apartment.
"Sorry," he said. "I'm a friend. I was worried." MacLeod rambled incoherently, visibly distressed. They couldn't get any sense out of him. He let all of his frustration and his fear show. He was shaking and he physically hurt as feeling returned to his limbs. With twin expressions of disgust and annoyance, two policemen escorted him from the building, dragging him over to where the other inhabitants waited, and told him to stay put and that he would be needed for questioning.
MacLeod wiped at his face and tried to collect his thoughts. Methos was out there, somewhere nearby. Anastasia and Keyumars were after him, or perhaps they had already found him. MacLeod's instincts screamed, nearly on fire, and his leg muscles twitched: time was running out. But the trail had gone cold.
He looked down at the piece of paper in his hands. It was a photograph. He turned it over and saw a picture of Methos and himself from years ago. Before Connor. Before Richie. It was a candid shot and MacLeod had no recollection of the moment it was taken. He was looking at Methos, smiling slightly, with a beer half way to his mouth, his expression one of affectionate annoyance. Indulgent. Next to him, Methos was blurred, caught in motion with zigzagged lines of over-exposed light, head thrown back in laughter. On the other side, Methos had written, Joe's Bar. 1995.
MacLeod stared at the picture. The image of Methos made it look like he was melting, dissolving into swirls of light. It reminded him of his dream, of the beach and the sun, sand blowing everywhere and Methos in the distance swept away by the wind.
He felt a flash of Immortal presence, just barely, like a caress. The electricity hadn't returned and the street winnowed away in the distance into darkness. Car headlights only served to blind him further. Several people within the crowd carried flashlights or candles, but he couldn't see all of their faces.
A chime rang, like the bell on a bicycle. MacLeod turned in a circle, trying to locate the source of the presence. A block away, he saw a silhouette of a tall slender man standing in shadow cast by a headlight beam. The bell chimed again, and he turned to see a girl on a bike turn a corner and disappear.
He knew where Methos was. Methos had told him, after all. Maybe Keyumars and Anastasia were right, and he had always known, somehow willfully blind. But the truth was it was safer not to know. Since that night outside the Chateau de Grosbois, MacLeod had lived with the dream of one day finding Methos, of taking him in his arms so they could argue and laugh and fight over who got the last of the ice cream, so he could make love to him again and again. But the dream always soured when he realized hunters would not stop trying to use him to get to Methos. It was a nightmare he didn't believe he would ever be free of.
She and I shared a hotdog on a hot summer day, dodging crowds on the boardwalk and watching people shoot each other with paintballs. I left her alone and called you from a pay phone. You weren't there and I didn't leave a message.
MacLeod ran in the direction of Coney Island and the ocean.
~~~
The world was reduced to the beat of his footfalls and the dark blur of buildings and trees. Every part of his body ached, but MacLeod only focused on his breathing. In and out, in and out. Coney Island lay dark and quiet under the great expanse of sky. The cold air seemed to lend an edge of brilliance to the stars. Mac ran down Ocean Parkway until the road terminated at a dead end.
The amusement park was dark, gated shut. He walked out to the boardwalk. It was strange to see it empty and devoid of activity. Under starlight, the ocean receded to a fuzzy line of black on black. He had lost track and didn't know what time it was. The moon was high overhead.
He quieted himself, searched with his emotions and feelings, breath puffing before him. He closed his eyes and listened. Faintly, he heard the all too familiar ring of metal. He took a step toward the sound. Then it was like the air itself hushed, like the quiet void of a soundless vacuum. It lasted less than a moment before the air crackled and the dark night split down the middle as another quickening rose into the sky.
If he thought he'd run fast earlier, it was nothing to the effort he poured into his limbs now, feet pounding on the wooden boardwalk. Heart bursting, chest aching, muscles heavy, he pumped his arms, his neck straining forward.
Quickening called to quickening. The heavy thrum of a strong Immortal presence washed over him. He skidded and turned down a walled-off street. Lightning anointed the air, over and over again. A spray painted sign read, "Shoot the Freak, Live Human Targets." Graffiti and paintball splotches decorated every spare inch of brick wall. MacLeod saw an opening leading under the boardwalk. It was like an open maw, a black hole. He charged through into the murky underworld, heedless of the quickening that snapped around him.
It was near pitch black, the only light falling faintly from between slats of the boardwalk, making thin stripes along the bone-white sand. The ground was uneven and sloped downward, into a kind of pit. MacLeod had the impression of a cavernous and complicated system of catacombs.
The last of the quickening crackled and disappeared. His eyes adjusted to the near blackness. He saw two figures, one hunched on the ground on hands and knees, the other approaching with a sword in hand. Metal glinted in the distance. The stench of ozone intensified, trapped under the boardwalk. The air snapped and was alive with the last electric caress of the recently spent quickening. MacLeod saw a dark shape on the ground and knew it must be the body of the recently beheaded Immortal.
The standing figure raised his sword. The man on the ground gasped, lifted his head, obviously trying to coordinate his movements long enough to defend himself, to move or raise his sword.
MacLeod cried out. His voice echoed. The two figures turned their heads. The man on the ground sat in a weak shaft of moonlight, profile revealed. MacLeod almost didn't recognize him. He had changed his hair. It was longer, nearly shoulder length, and in the ghostly light it looked like the color of sand. But it was the profile he knew and loved so well and MacLeod's heart hammered so hard it hurt. He stumbled as he ran. Methos.
Keyumars looked from MacLeod back to Methos. He stood with his sword held high, his expression almost peaceful, eager. He cried out with effort, reached a little higher, and swung.
It was an elastic moment, crystal clear in MacLeod's mind. In a hidden sheath, he carried the bronze knife he had taken from Cassandra's house. He kept it on him for no reason other than it was there and it was old, and had probably been held at one point by Cassandra, Methos, and Kronos. In that wide-open moment, using all of his strength, MacLeod leapt. He flew through the dark and with a grunt tackled Keyumars to the ground, imbedding the knife in his chest clear through to the handle.
Keyumars screamed, but it came out a sick, monstrous sound. His widened eyes stared at MacLeod, the life fading slowly away. In the thin light, his blood looked black as it stained the sand.
Panting, MacLeod disentangled himself from Keyumars, once again struck by the man's resemblance to Methos with his dark hair, pale skin, and strong profile. Movement caught his attention and he turned.
The real Methos was there, alive. With the change in hair color, Methos looked like another man. They stared at each other. In the quiet, MacLeod heard the sound of waves, and the whispers and scratches of vermin and birds.
You came, said Methos, with an almost shy smile.
Methos, was all MacLeod could answer in return, emotion strangling his throat.
They reached for each other at the same moment, locked in an embrace, chest to chest, heart to beating heart. MacLeod pressed his mouth to Methos's neck, breathing harshly. He closed his eyes. He couldn't believe it. Methos's hands were in MacLeod's hair, then around his back, tightening, squeezing.
"Mac," said Methos, finally pulling away enough to allow speech. He cupped and searched MacLeod's face with wonder and something close to laughter. Shuddering from the effect of taking two quickenings so close together, he smiled wide. Joyous. Happy. "Nice entrance."
MacLeod cracked a grin, relief washed over him like a wave that crashed over the top of his head and he let himself drown in it. He pulled Methos closer, kissing his forehead and cheek and lips and neck. Methos bowed his head, resting it against MacLeod's chest. "After Grosbois, I figured it was my turn," said MacLeod, finally, when he could speak.
They grinned at each other like fools, touching, reaffirming. Two years had passed since the last time MacLeod had touched Methos.
Keyumars lay still in the dark blue underlight. Methos sighed and rose unsteadily to his feet. MacLeod followed and they stood staring at the two bodies lying in ungainly heaps. MacLeod recognized the delicate, petite frame of the other body, the designer jeans belonging to Anastasia. Her head lay gruesomely on its side, the russet hair messy and tangled. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed in death, pretty like a covergirl. He was sorry she died, feeling a sadness for Anastasia he couldn't put into words.
He and Methos stood for a moment, together, hand in hand, breathing in the salty stench of trash and stale beer mixed in with rotting seaweed, mildew, and bird droppings. The darkness felt alive, and MacLeod knew there were homeless people throughout this little underworld.
Methos picked up his fallen sword. He breathed in deep, bracing himself for one more quickening. MacLeod stepped forward. It should be him that took Keyumars's head.
"Absolutely not," said Methos, without waiting for MacLeod to voice his protest.
"Methos," said MacLeod, in a reasoning tone.
Methos only shook his head and kneeled to yank the knife out of Keyumars's chest.
"Wait," said MacLeod, putting his hand on Methos's arm. "I have an idea," he said, taking out his cell phone and dialing.
~~~
MacLeod called some people he knew in New York who were discreet and quick. With instructions not to remove the knife from the corpse, Keyumars was boxed and shipped as cargo on a freighter leaving the Port of Brooklyn, heading south. The destination of the cargo was to be sent en route.
Then he called Robert and Gina and asked them for a favor. They said yes. They would be on the next flight out.
MacLeod's final phone call was to Joe. He asked Joe to do what he did best. He asked him to watch and record.
~~~
MacLeod and Methos parted in New York, taking separate flights going in separate directions. MacLeod hardly noticed what airport he landed in or flew out of, what country he drove through, or any of the people he spoke with as he made sure no one traced his footsteps. It was a torturous seventy-two hours before he saw Methos again.
As he disembarked the small charter floatplane, the warm velvet Caribbean air caressed his skin. Methos waited at the end of the dock. MacLeod slowed as he approached, standing almost nose-to-nose. Methos still looked foreign, different, and MacLeod noticed Methos's atypical silence, the sense of hushed sadness wrapped around him.
With his face serious and his eyes quietly taking stock of MacLeod from head to toe, Methos put his hands on his hips and glared. "Took your time, didn't you. I got in last night. Had to stop both Robert and Gina from combing the world for you. And Joe's no help at all. I don't know why he bothers to call himself your Watcher. Did you get lost?"
MacLeod smiled, and felt everything between him and Methos take one more step toward being all right. "Sorry. Missed my connection out of Helsinki. Snowstorm. Have you ever been stuck in Helsinki in the middle of a snowstorm? I don't recommend the experience."
Methos grabbed one of MacLeod's bags, and they made their way through the lush garden to the main house that stood nestled against a large verdant hill. Beyond the house, the night sky rose dark and smooth and speckled with stars. As they walked, Methos reached across and touched MacLeod's wrist. MacLeod stopped. Neither man needed to say what was on their minds and in their hearts: MacLeod had rushed to arrive as soon as he could, but he would not risk any Immortal following him. With no way of communicating, after three days, Methos had feared the worst.
They paused briefly, just one beat, before continuing, almost as if they had never stopped at all.
~~~
The island used to be one of Robert de Valicourt's pirate smuggling hideouts, serving as a base of operation for his many ventures. It also used to have a sugar cane plantation and supplied safe harbor for various outlaws and escaped slaves from America.
The descendants of those same outlaws and one-time slaves still lived on the island's west end. There was a small resort town and a good income from savvy tourists looking for remote locations for their vacations, mostly from South America, some from the States.
The eastern coast was naturally cut off from the rest of the island by geography, several small mountains and lots of vegetation. In modern days, Robert had made it a summer home. The main house was modest in size, only a few bedrooms and a simple kitchen. It was meant as a retreat, manageable without servants. The garden grew half wild, and although MacLeod believed the Valicourts must retain a gardener and a housekeeper for when they weren't there, he noticed both the house and the garden were in need of some maintenance.
Over two bottles of wine and Gina's excellent chicken marsala, the four Immortals and one mortal sat around the quaint dining table and argued who should take Keyumars's head. Joe, whom Robert and Gina accepted with mild curiosity if a little stiffness, was busy preparing his video camera. The body had arrived a couple of hours ahead of MacLeod.
"Do you think this will work?" asked Robert into the sudden silence that fell over the party.
Everyone looked at MacLeod. "It'll work," he said. "Once we cut his hair and put Methos's clothes on him. It'll be convincing enough." He took a deep breath, and looked at everyone around the table. "I'll do it," he said. The protests started back up again, mainly from Robert and Gina. Methos sat silently watching, toying with his half full wine glass.
"You can't," said Robert. MacLeod gritted his teeth. "Stop and think about it, Mac. You'll be known as the one who took Methos's quickening. You'll be even more hunted than you are already. No, I'll--"
"I'll do it," interrupted Gina. "I'll kill the bastard. I'll take his head with my bare hands."
"Gina, sweetheart," said Robert, a little too condescending. MacLeod winced.
Gina's eyes flashed. "I'll take his head, even if I have to take yours first, Robert. You can't stop me."
Robert, swallowing, calmly placed his hand over his wife's. "I'm not saying you can't. No one would be so foolish," he smiled. "I just think…" he trailed off and something passed between husband and wife which MacLeod could not see. They both softened as they held hands. "You can wear a disguise," said Robert, after a moment. "You'll be an unnamed, mysterious, beautiful Immortal."
Gina smiled with her victory. She moved to rise from the table. MacLeod started to protest. It was far too dangerous for Gina. Even with a disguise, there were only so many female Immortals who could believably take on Methos. "Gina," started MacLeod, "you can't. It's too risky."
"And it's all right for you to risk? Men," she cried, continuing to insult MacLeod in French. Robert, seeing MacLeod on his side, once again tried to reason with his wife. The noise around the table grew and grew until one of the wine bottles flew over their heads and shattered loudly against the brick wall on the other side of the room.
"Enough," said Methos, eyes bright, lips thin. "I appreciate all of you being so eager to take on my demons for me," he said, not looking at any of them. His voice dropped low. "But I'm fighting him."
Robert and Gina sat with identical stunned expressions. MacLeod started to rise. Methos turned and left the room, the door slamming behind him.
After a moment, Robert spoke. "You know, it makes sense. He's in disguise already, he can hardly be accused of killing himself since he'll be, you know, dead, and more importantly, he can't be mistaken for you," he said to MacLeod.
MacLeod didn't answer. He looked at the door. It led to the private beach.
Joe was the only one who looked amused. He turned to MacLeod. "Well, what are you waiting for? Go after him."
He hesitated. Methos very likely wished to be alone. He looked at his friends. Without a word, he rose and followed Methos.
~~~
Moonrise over the ocean.
After the cold months in New York City, the warm, moist air was a balm on his skin and he took a moment to breathe in the scent of night flowers in bloom. He walked through the overgrown garden path, down to the beach. The tide was low, the waves gently rolling in.
He searched for Methos and found him some distance down the coast, a solitary figure. His back was to the house. The image recalled MacLeod's recurring dream so strongly that he stopped and had to breathe through the panic that welled up. Methos was safe. They were safe. The threat was gone. It took a moment for his stomach to unclench. His legs twitched with the need to run, but he walked slowly instead, letting the water lap at his bare feet.
Methos didn't turn to look at him. He was busy searching the sand for bits of shells and rocks, making a small pile.
MacLeod picked up a rock from Methos's pile and threw it out into the ocean. It plopped into the dark waters. Methos made a noise that was a cross between a grunt of protest and a snort of amusement, as if to say 'hey, these are mine,' and 'oooh, good idea.'
They threw rocks and broken shells, trying to outdistance each other. MacLeod was very aware of Methos next to him and wondered where they would go after this final fight with Keyumars was settled and they could put this whole bloody business behind them. It felt like a lifetime had passed since that night in Paris. He wasn't sure they were the same two men anymore. Methos had said he loved him, but that was when he believed he would never see MacLeod again. Their lives were so uncertain, even more so than normal. MacLeod could not bear it if Immortals still came after him in the hopes of finding Methos, but neither was he able to contemplate leaving Methos's side, at least not for a while.
Methos found a good sized rock and heaved it into the ocean. It made a decent plonk and splashed. "Are you worried I can't take him?" Methos asked, finally looking at MacLeod.
MacLeod thought about it, but shook his head. "No, not really." He paused, scratched his nose where sweat had gathered. "Well," he amended. "A little, yes, but only because there are no certainties in life. I know you can take him."
A breeze blew, ruffling Methos's hair. MacLeod stopped to face the dark ocean. The night sky was clear and the stars were numerous and bright. He picked up another rock, letting it rattle around in his closed hand. "It was Anastasia who killed Cassandra. I don't know if you knew that." It seemed important for Methos to know. MacLeod threw the stone. It disappeared against the black night.
It took MacLeod a moment to realize Methos had stopped and was looking at MacLeod with an odd expression. "Did she say why?"
MacLeod realized Methos might not know about Anastasia or the conquistador. Or Keyumars. He might not know about the connection he had to all three, or to Camilla.
"What did Camilla say to you, that night?" MacLeod could still see that startled look on Methos's face, that stark expression of fear.
Methos breathed in, turned to face the ocean. He walked a little forward until the water washed over his feet. "She said I could kill her and it didn't matter, she would still take everything from me. There were others, and they would all hunt you until I gave up. She said, 'look at the camera and smile.'"
MacLeod dusted his hands off on his jeans. He turned back briefly to the house, seeing through a window the silhouettes of his friends still sitting around the table. He wondered what discussions Robert and Gina would have with Joe. "They were students," he said, splashing into the water next to Methos. "Of Cassandra's first, and then later of Kronos's. I don't really know more than that. I don't need to know more," he added with a trace of tired disgust.
"No," said Methos. "That pretty much tells me everything. I can imagine the rest."
"You know," said Macleod. He was getting used to the hair. More and more the Methos he knew returned, as if shedding layers. "In an odd way, I'm not so sure how much any of this was about you. It was more about Kronos and Cassandra. You were just--" He trailed off.
"A catalyst? A prize?" Methos's tone was perfectly irked and it made MacLeod smile.
"You represented something different to each of them," said MacLeod. "The conquistador wanted your power. Anastasia couldn't reconcile Cassandra's unwillingness to betray you with everything she knew to be true about who you were. Keyumars wants to be you, and he's going to get his wish. And Camilla, Camilla was like Kronos. They both wanted to own you, break you, possess you, and if they couldn't do that, then they made sure to take everything away from you and leave you with nothing. But all of them, the whole bloody lot of them, they're all dead, or will be soon. So, I don't know, maybe you could say they all got what they wanted."
Methos stared at him. "You have been eating fortune cookies."
MacLeod chuckled, and the desire to hold Methos was so great he reached out touched Methos's shoulder.
What he had said simplified matters too much. The complexities of Methos's relationship with Kronos were intricate and tangled and impossible to comprehend. He wouldn't even try. Although he found himself almost pitying Kronos. "Do you think he loved you?" he asked, not at all sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Methos scrunched his eyes shut. MacLeod gave in to instinct and stepped close. The gentle waves slapped and lapped against their feet. He kissed Methos, lips dry, just the barest hint of pressure.
He stepped back and looked once again out over the dark ocean, marked by the moon, breathing in the salty sea air. The tide was coming in; the waves grew in size, foaming like race horses. Before he could form the thought, he started taking his shirt off, then unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans.
"What are you doing?" asked Methos with a growing expression of alarm.
"I'm getting naked," said MacLeod matter-of-factly.
Scandalized, mouth opening and closing like a fish, Methos looked back at the house and then at MacLeod.
"Come on," prodded MacLeod.
"MacLeod, we can't," said Methos in a harsh whisper.
Grinning at Methos's suddenly evident modesty, MacLeod hopped from one foot to the other as he struggled with his jeans. Finally naked, he said, "Trust me."
They stood facing each other, one naked, the other withdrawn, assessing. Slowly, Methos reached for his shirt and then took it off. Soon, they were both naked and MacLeod took Methos's hand and led him step by step into the ocean.
At first they were tentative, bracing as each wave splashed, slapping against bare thighs. The waves grew the further out they went. MacLeod leaped as another wave crashed. Salty seawater, moonlight, and Methos's laughter next to him mixed freely. They swam in the ocean, hands reaching across to touch each other, never straying far. They embraced underwater, legs and arms slippery and smooth.
They left the waves behind and swam out almost to the buoy. Methos rolled onto his back and floated. MacLeod did the same. They bobbed like the buoy, gently tossed from nascent wave to nascent wave. MacLeod listened to the music of the ocean.
Eventually, they swam back toward the coast to collapse on the sand, breathing heavily. Methos rose onto his elbows and surveyed the beach and the garden and the house. MacLeod rose to his feet and hauled Methos up to standing. They were sandy and salty, but Methos looked relaxed and the controlled energy he had maintained since New York was smoothed out. He walked loose-limbed.
MacLeod started picking up their clothing.
Methos followed, but chose not to help. "When I left you in Paris, it was to protect you. But you still put yourself in danger."
"What are you saying?" MacLeod straightened, noticing Methos's defensive stance.
"Don't think I don't know you let yourself be visible just enough to draw challengers away from me. That wasn't the plan. The whole point was to avoid that," said Methos.
"Plan? There was a plan?" MacLeod started laughing so hard he kept dropping pieces of clothing.
Methos glowered. "I'm serious. Even as isolated and underground as I went, completely off the grid, avoiding all contact with Immortals and mortals, in constant hiding, not even carrying a bloody cell phone, I still heard enough about your exploits to turn my blood to ice. What the hell were you think--"
"Methos," interrupted MacLeod, still laughing and having a hard time getting air. He waved his hand, as if that gesture could do the explaining for him. "I can't help what people say. Not half of it is true."
"You deny you made yourself available for hunters to find you? Did you think you could kill them all for me?"
MacLeod sobered. "I didn't seek them out, if that's what you're asking." Methos's jaw tightened. They glared at each other. MacLeod sighed. The pit of his stomach twisted. He didn't want to have this conversation now. It was too soon. "They found me, Methos, everywhere I went. They found me. I admit it, I could have hidden better. I could have done what Connor did. I could have holed up in some monastery somewhere. Gone to Malaysia again. But I didn't do any of those things. And they found me. They always found me. If they found me, they might find you, no matter if everyone knew that was no longer the case. The stories are exaggerated. Most of the challengers never went through with it."
They were silent. There was no way to know the future. This plan of theirs, this last best chance to fix the damage done by Camilla and Kronos, could work. They would film Methos fighting Keyumars, with Keyumars's hair cut to look like Methos, and Keyumars wearing Methos's clothing. It would be convincing enough. The real Methos would stay anonymous. They would upload the video with the title, "Unknown Immortal takes Methos's head," and disseminate it far and wide. It could work. Or it could make no difference at all.
MacLeod couldn't read Methos's expression, eyes hard and glittering, face almost carved in stone. He faced the garden, the pool and the expanse of yard. "We should stage the fight there," he said, pointing to an area that was fenced off from the rest of the house, buttressed on one side by a rocky outcropping, and on the other by what MacLeod assumed was a boat house. "Joe would have a good vantage point from over there," he pointed to a line of bushes. "It's a good amount of space, but contained. What do you think?"
MacLeod breathed in shakily. He nodded. "Good idea. Let's tell the others. I want to get this over with."
They walked back toward the house, side by side, still naked. MacLeod tried not to think about tomorrow, or the next day, or the many days after that when he and Methos would part because it was the smart thing to do. Perhaps the only thing. He might still be used as a means to find Methos. He couldn't bear that. And he knew well enough what it was like to have a loved one used as leverage: it was impossible. They would have to part. The video would help, maybe, maybe not. It would take centuries for Methos to become a legend again. Maybe the years would pass quickly. Maybe they could still meet every couple of decades or so.
As they meandered through the garden to the house, MacLeod's steps grew heavier. His feet were like lead; his head weighed a ton. He wasn't sure he could do this. He wasn't sure he had the strength.
"I can't do this."
Deep in his own black thoughts, MacLeod thought he had spoken. But he turned and saw Methos a couple of steps behind him and realized it was Methos's voice, rough with emotion.
"I don't think I can do this." He looked scared, a little desperate. "Mac."
MacLeod took his hand. Naked in the moonlight in a tropical garden, it was like a scene out of a West Village musical review, only with tears and heartbreak and fewer dance numbers. Methos sat down on a low brick wall and bent his head against MacLeod's chest and stomach, hands on MacLeod's hips, warm against MacLeod's cool skin. He put his hands through Methos's hair, still expecting short and dark but finding long and pale, stiff from swimming in the ocean. "I miss your hair," he said.
Methos's grip on his hips tightened slightly. He huffed a laugh, giving off a puff of warm moist breath that tickled MacLeod's navel. MacLeod felt a twinge of desire and would have wanted nothing more than to make love under the moonlight. Instead he went on his knees and cupped Methos's face Methos's hands slid up to MacLeod's shoulders. "We could stay here," he said. "Robert and Gina already offered. Not forever, but a year or two, until we see what the weather is like," he smiled faintly.
As hideouts go, they could do worse. There was some risk, but minimal. It wasn't entirely cut off from the rest of the world, which could leave an avenue open for hunters to find them, but that was preferable to complete isolation. They had the resort town and stores and people, but were still removed from all of that and could spend their days on the eastern coast never speaking to another soul if that was what they wished. They might kill each other after two years, but MacLeod was willing to find out, if Methos was.
"Is this what you want?" asked Methos, with wonder, searching MacLeod's face.
MacLeod thought about it. His throat closed, his eyes stung. He nodded. "Yes."
~~~
The night grayed toward dawn. Although no one had slept, Methos didn't wish to wait any longer.
Gina cut Keyumars's hair to look like Methos. MacLeod had asked Joe to bring the same clothing Methos had worn in the video and he and Gina struggled to dress the corpse in Methos's jeans, cable knit sweater (with a hole for the still embedded knife), and long dark coat.
Robert, displaying a hidden talent for scenery design, made the area Methos had chosen for the fight look like a generic back alley of any town in any country. From somewhere on the island, he had ferreted out trash bins and corrugated tin, wire fencing and an old generic truck, no license plate. Through the two dimensions of a camera, it was convincing enough, especially filmed in low enough light to make it look grainy.
With everything ready, Robert, Gina, and MacLeod retreated far enough away for their presence not to be felt. Before leaving, MacLeod touched Methos's arm. He was afraid to look him in the face for fear of betraying himself. He knew Methos needed to do this, and that he could do it, but still, MacLeod was afraid. Methos's strong fingers gripped and squeezed and then let go.
MacLeod followed Gina and Robert along a trail that wound up from behind the house up the mountain to a quiet little grotto built around a cool mountain spring. It was holy ground, MacLeod realized, recognizing the religious symbols carved into wooden figurines, and the stubby candles and fresh cut flowers laid across a small altar.
From there they could watch the fight while still being near enough to be in firing range with a sniper rifle. Through the telescopic sight, MacLeod watched Keyumars gasp back to life, looking with shock at his chest, at the strange clothes he wore. He watched Methos toss Keyumars's sword at his feet and hold his hand up, as if to say "Take your time." They were speaking but were too far to be heard. Keyumars stood up, swishing his sword back and forth. He was laughing, smiling with that overreaching bravado MacLeod remembered from their encounter. Methos's expression was amused, almost curious, and even hundreds of feet away and viewing through a telescopic sight, MacLeod thought he saw Methos's eyes glint as he summed his opponent up.
Keyumars made the first attack, but even as he did so MacLeod realized it was because Methos had manipulated him into doing so. He watched, fascinated by Methos's body language and fighting style, so different than it usually was. He was playing the part, maneuvering Keyumars to the best advantage of Joe's hidden video camera. He was a master. He fought with just enough of a sense of helplessness to give the impression that Keyumars had the upper hand. Then, swiftly, the energy shifted. Keyumars came down to his knees, disarmed. He raised his head as if to receive a blessing. Methos swung.
When it came down to the moment, MacLeod closed his eyes. Despite knowing full well that it was just a disguise, Keyumars looked like Methos and MacLeod couldn't watch him lose his head.
He heard, and felt, the quickening rise and strike and then dissipate. MacLeod opened his eyes and saw Methos, his Methos, trying to rise from the aftermath of the quickening. In a flash, MacLeod was down the mountain and at his side.
It was over.
~~~
A warm, fragrant breeze blew in from the open window, ruffling the curtains and the white linen drapery over the canopy bed. With one eye, MacLeod took note of the time. It was just before eight in the morning and already it was humid and hot as hell.
As he woke fully, he heard the tap-tapping of fingers on a computer keyboard. Turning over, he saw Methos sitting next to him in bed, skin bronzed, naked but covered with a white sheet over his lap, which was probably there more as a meager protection from the hot underside of the laptop perched across his legs than for decency's sake.
Before leaving, Gina had got her hands on Methos, forcing him into a chair. She cut and dyed his hair back to a more normal style and color, since he no longer needed the disguise. MacLeod was grateful.
He watched Methos for a moment, absorbed in whatever it was he was doing. It had only been a few weeks since Robert and Gina had left. Amanda was coming for a visit the following week. She had insisted, after yelling at them both over the phone, together and separately, for an agonizing period of time, and neither MacLeod nor Methos were strong or clever enough to say no to her.
But for the time being, they were alone. MacLeod reached out and grazed his fingers down Methos's exposed side, down to his flat stomach and hipbone. Methos flinched away, ticklish. MacLeod pushed at the laptop in annoyance. It wobbled on Methos's lap. "Stop that," said Methos, batting at MacLeod's hand.
MacLeod did it again, expertly avoiding Methos's attempts at trapping his hand. "You're going to cook your private parts, you know that."
Methos smiled, lopsided. "Just a few minutes more."
"A few minutes more and you're going to have charred dangly bits." MacLeod kept trying to push the laptop away, but settled on tickling Methos instead. Methos defensively protected his stomach, laughing.
"Okay, okay, see, I'm closing it." He closed the laptop with a snip, setting it carefully on his bedside table.
Grunting happily with success, MacLeod pounced. He kissed Methos into submission. Methos spread his legs and MacLeod sat back, hands raking over Methos's skin from shoulders to chest, down to sensitive stomach that made Methos inhale sharply. "This calls for a close inspection," he said, taking great interest in making sure Methos hadn't actually damaged his cock and balls.
MacLeod took Methos's growing erection between his hands and licked it like a lollipop. Methos made a noise deep in his throat, arched his back, and thrust into MacLeod's mouth. He thrust again, reaching to grab hold of MacLeod's hair. He tugged and MacLeod opened his throat. Another thrust and Methos came with a grunt. MacLeod swallowed, climbing up over Methos body, kissed him with his semen still on his lips. "How many views is it up to?" he asked, reaching toward the bedside table.
Methos was still breathing hard. He reached up and touched MacLeod's face, brushing hair away. "Over half a million," said Methos. "Not bad."
MacLeod slid off Methos's body. He slicked his fingers and reached between Methos's legs, watching as he pushed in. He loved this part, before he was distracted with his own pleasure, when he could watch Methos and take note of his expressions, his concentration as he looked at MacLeod with lazy desire. MacLeod stretched his fingers. Methos breathed in, widened his legs.
Carefully withdrawing, MacLeod returned to his earlier position, hooking Methos's legs over his. He pushed in slowly. Methos arched, and bore down. MacLeod saw stars and remembered to breathe. He lowered his head and captured Methos's lips with his. Their fingers laced together. He pushed in all the way.
The breeze continued to blow over their heated, damp skin. MacLeod thrust quickly, and hard, fingers indenting flesh. Methos shuddered and came a second time, almost violently. MacLeod held on, pounding until he followed with a moan and a sudden collapse of all muscles.
They lay still as their hearts slowed back down to normal. Methos's arm came around MacLeod, even though it was really too warm for lingering contact. MacLeod badly needed to take a shower, but instead, he snuggled up next to Methos's heated body and dozed. After a moment, he heard the soft snip of the laptop opening followed by the tap-tapping of fingers typing.
"For your information," said Methos, a bit primly. "I'm ordering you a pair of Testoni shoes. I've asked Amanda to bring them."
MacLeod started laughing, and it was a long while before he could stop.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
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: Noise swelled around him, but MacLeod only heard the pounding of his feet against the pavement and his rhythmic breathing loud in his ears. The crowds were a blur, a mosaic of scattered dim lights and movement barely registered, serving only to slow him down like a thousand hands reaching out to grab hold as he struggled to get free.
Missed Connections
by hafital
~~~
MacLeod woke with a start, drenched in sweat. He was on the couch. The apartment was warm, windows closed, blinds drawn. He lay for a moment, staring at the ceiling and breathing through the adrenaline rush.
I miss you, too.
The words were burned into his vision. He saw them when he closed his eyes, listening to the ambient sounds of city living. The time on the DVD player said it was past eight in the evening. He hadn't intended to fall asleep. He swung his legs around and sat up, rubbing his face. His glance fell on his cell phone. The moment before it rang, he shivered.
It was a number he didn't recognize. He stared at the display, fighting a sudden urge to throw the phone out the window. Instead, he pressed 'send'.
"Mr. Nash?" said a hesitant, slightly familiar voice. "This is Beth, from The Village Voice. Something's happened."
His stomach clenched, his hands went cold. "Tell me," he said.
Through their tenuous connection composed of airwaves and electricity, he sensed her unease. "Someone hacked into our computers last night. It's happened a couple times in the past, so I almost didn't think anything of it. Usually it's just some whackjob trying to slip in some propaganda or whatever. We always catch it before anything is printed. But, this time, there was nothing put into our system, nothing in the layout files, in our email, nothing. Only, our database was breached, where we keep emails, scans of faxes, etc."
MacLeod's vision darkened. He breathed and his blood started pumping again, burning like acid through his veins.
"But," she continued. "We get so many ads for 'Missed Connections' every day. There's no way to verify any of it, we don't even try. We keep no solid contact information." She said it reassuringly. "Whoever he is, wherever, he's safe."
She was astute, had picked up on so much, and spoke with such certainty, such conviction, MacLeod almost believed her. He wanted to believe her but the dread and panic of his dream kept thrumming through his mind. "I need to know what was in that database," he said.
There was a pause, then, "All right. Give me a moment."
She put him on hold. Fighting a need to do something, he forced himself to control his breathing. He poured himself a mug of tepid, stale coffee.
Hold music chimed in his ear. He placed the rim of the mug against his lips, warm liquid poured down his throat, when Immortal presence flared white-hot and pin-sharp, like a knifepoint scraped down his back. The mug shattered as it hit the floor.
He was out the door in less than a minute, Beth and The Village Voice forgotten, cell phone stuffed into a pocket. He followed the whisper of presence into the chilled spring New York night.
He saw a man, tall with dark hair, disappear down into a subway station.
~~~
Down subway stations, into trains, into Manhattan, MacLeod chased. He lost his quarry in the rabbit warren tangle of narrow streets that comprised most of downtown New York City, spending precious minutes combing each street. Barred from many of the buildings, he began to despair when he sensed the flicker of presence. The Immortal was too far away for MacLeod to see his face, blending into the crowds around Wall Street.
The flicker of presence drove MacLeod further north, into Chinatown, into Soho, back and forth, across Manhattan.
In the bright lights and constant activity of St Mark's Place, MacLeod spotted the Immortal standing still in a churning sea of pedestrians and NYU students. He was smiling, and had large dark eyes and pale skin, his hair swept back. His smile broadened before he disappeared.
MacLeod ran after him. Night descended and the lights of the square glared. He caught a glimpse of the Immortal turning a corner, moving further east. MacLeod followed. The Immortal slipped easily around pedestrians, but MacLeod had power and he spotted him disappearing into the darker streets of Alphabet City.
Over the pounding in his ears, MacLeod heard the whine of traffic on Roosevelt Drive. Without pausing, he dodged cars, crossing the wide highway to the park on the other side. Cars honked, tires squealed.
The stink of the East River wafted over him. MacLeod slowed, regulated his breathing. He unsheathed his sword, walking carefully down to the promenade. The sky was cloudless, leaving the moon free to spill its light everywhere.
A game was ending in the baseball diamond, the players and spectators laughing and talking. MacLeod held his sword close to his body, hiding it in the folds of his coat. The wind off the water cut like a knife. Although it was early spring, the night was cold. His hands numbed. He moved further away from the baseball diamond, to a small grove of trees and the uneven ground of a construction site.
It started at the base of his spine, rushed up his back to sink into his neck. Immortal presence buzzed, rattling his teeth more than the chill in the air. MacLeod turned in a circle, calling out, "You invited me here. The least you can do is show yourself."
Laughter echoed, light and cheerful sounding, ringing through the night air. "Duncan MacLeod," cried the Immortal in cultured tones. He pronounced MacLeod's name loftily, with flair. "At last we meet. I've heard so much about you."
"What have you heard?" MacLeod watched the moving shadows, listening to the gentle sound of the river rushing along.
"Oh, this and that," said the Immortal. "Mostly that." A man emerged from between veils of darkness. His bright white teeth glowed in his broad grin, as if he were posing for the cameras, waving to his fans. Then his eyes hardened. "The Highlander, brave Immortal, defender of the innocent, best friend to the one, the only oldest of us all," he taunted.
MacLeod felt cold, every muscle in his body stretched taut. "You must be Keyumars."
"At your service," Keyumars bowed. "Do you know what my name means? It means… I am the first, like Adam," he said with a wave of his hand and a smile.
Keyumars leaped and attacked. MacLeod turned into the direction of the swing, but when he turned back the Immortal had vanished into the shadows under the trees. Laughter rang again.
"It was sotouching," said Keyumars, once again speaking from the shadows, voice thrown, coming from nowhere and anywhere. "And clever. All those messages, endearing love notes. We almost didn't catch it. But I knew if I watched you, eventually you would lead me to him."
It was just a slight change in the air, the barest whisper of movement. But it was enough to warn him. MacLeod raised his sword. Blades clashed. With speed, he drove Keyumars back. Under the stark moonlight, he noticed the shadow of the wolf in the Immortal's smile, in the glint of his eyes.
Cruelly, the man resembled Methos, skin pale in the moonlight, dark hair falling softly.
MacLeod disarmed him, too easily. Keyumars smiled, barely out of breath. He knew he had the advantage: MacLeod could not kill him, would not, if there was a chance of information, of finding Methos. "Where is he?" MacLeod said, sword to the Immortal's neck.
Keyumars laughed. "You mean, you still don't know?"
Before MacLeod could react, his sword was swept aside. With alarming speed, the man knocked MacLeod onto his back. Winded, MacLeod rolled to the side, managing to keep hold of his sword. There was a cut against his cheek, a sharp, bright pain, but he brought his sword around and met Keyumars's blade. The river moved placidly, the trees danced in the wind.
"You amaze me," said Keyumars, still smiling, but he struggled against MacLeod's greater strength. "After I went through all this trouble to distract you."
MacLeod punched him in the face. Keyumars staggered backward, but kept his balance. "Where is he?" MacLeod asked again.
Keyumars wiped the blood from his mouth, shadows exaggerating his wide wolfish smile. "You know," he said, as if bestowing a blessing. "You've always known."
At that moment, the scattered lights of the park flickered. The night glowed as lightning arced upward through the clouds in jagged spears. Both men looked up to the sky and back into Brooklyn. MacLeod felt his blood drain. Thunder boomed like a rolling bass drum.
MacLeod saw the lights of the Manhattan skyline extinguish in blocks, cascading out. He turned his attention to Keyumars who was smiling a secret smile just as the park lights winked out. Instinct made MacLeod move and bring up his sword to block Keyumars's.
"Which do you think is stronger? The goat or the weasel? Tell me, MacLeod, are you as fast as I?" He smirked, his eyes glinting off the shine from their swords. Nearby, MacLeod barely registered the noise of cars braking and tires squealing on Roosevelt Drive as motorists were forced to adjust to the lack of light. Cars crashed, screams rose into the air. "Who can reach Methos first, I wonder." With a grunt, Keyumars pushed him back.
Before MacLeod could recover, Keyumars had already fled into the layered darkness. MacLeod cried out and followed, desperation and fear making him beg the enveloping shadows not to go, not to leave him.
MacLeod went down on his knees, crying. His sword rolled to a stop nearby. Gravel bit into his hands. They said he knew, that he had always known. The cold frigid air was harsh in his lungs.
I'm so far away from you. Do you know how far? I could be next door and still be as far as the moon. I don't know how to be this far away from you.
Oh, Methos. MacLeod stood up and started running. He ran as hard and as fast as he could.
~~~
New York City plunged into darkness. People left their apartment buildings, exiting stores and restaurants and movie theatres, looking up at the sky with confusion.
Cars honked, drivers yelled from their windows. The subways stopped. Police tried to shepherd the growing throngs, asking everyone to return to their homes.
Noise swelled around him, but MacLeod only heard the pounding of his feet against the pavement and his rhythmic breathing loud in his ears. The crowds were a blur, a mosaic of scattered dim lights and movement barely registered, serving only to slow him down like a thousand hands reaching out to grab hold as he struggled to get free.
Despite the crowds and the millions of New Yorkers stranded in Manhattan or Brooklyn, MacLeod managed to cross the Brooklyn Bridge in record time, ignoring the burn of his muscles and the ache in his lungs. Less than forty minutes had passed by the time he arrived in his neighborhood. He skidded to a halt, breathing hard, standing outside of his building. The air crackled with unspent electricity. The streets were less crowded than Manhattan, but he still saw people gathered on corners.
Catching his breath, he hunched over, silently pleading with Methos, with himself and God and unknown spirits, anything, anyone that listened. He stood when he heard a whoop from a police car, and he moved out of the street to let it pass. The police car turned left at the next corner. MacLeod followed, slowly at first, then faster. As he turned the corner, he saw a building a few blocks east of his street surrounded by police cars and fire engines. There was a crowd of people on the opposite side of the street, obviously displaced, forced to evacuate the building. He walked closer, staying in the darker shadows, and stopped just out of sight. Tiny shards of glass crunched beneath his shoes. MacLeod looked up and despite the lack of light could just make out the shattered windows of one of the top floors.
It was a converted office building, like his. With no way past the police, he found a side entrance, jimmied the lock. A doorman was speaking to an officer. MacLeod slipped past and into the stairwell. He ran up the stairs to the top, carefully opening the door, peering down the hallway. The automatic sprinklers had been activated and the carpet was sodden with water. The walls were still damp, droplets condensing, falling with audible plops to the floor.
Scorch marks cut deep grooves along the wall. The stench of ozone was so strong he put the back of his hand up to his face.
He walked slowly down the hall, pausing briefly at the threshold of the final apartment. Time slowed. Sound buzzed in his ears, drowning out the noise filtering in from the streets. All he could hear was the rasp of his breathing. There were officers in the apartment, talking and taking pictures, although he couldn't hear them and they seemed not to notice as he calmly walked forward. He didn't stop to wonder why. It was as if he moved at a different speed, making himself invisible. His fingers went numb. His hands tingled.
It was a one-bedroom apartment, furnished eclectically with non-matching pieces probably bought at a thrift store. The coffee table was splintered into pieces. The sodden couch was burned black. The acrid smell of melted synthetic fabrics mixed freely with the ozone. Black scorch marks ringed around fried electrical sockets. Quickening damage was visible on all sides: walls buckled and mottled from the heat, shattered vases, glass everywhere. MacLeod notice the puddles of pink water and the spray of blood along one wall the sprinklers had failed to douse.
The body lay covered chest down near the couch, and the decapitated head lay to one side under a separate sheet. MacLeod went down to his knees, ignoring the wetness seeping through his jeans. Screams clogged in his throat, unable to get out. Unshed tears stung his eyes. With his numb fingers he lifted the sheet away from the head to look at the face contorted in its last throes of life. He couldn't breathe and hadn't been breathing for several minutes. His vision darkened but he looked into the face of the beheaded Immortal and recognized the goat-like features of Diego de Almagro. Next to the body he saw Almagro's rapier lying on the floor outlined by police chalk.
Sound and feeling and emotion returned with an explosive assault and MacLeod let out one low ragged cry of relief. He became visible, and two police officers roughly grabbed him by the arms. Before he was bodily hauled away, his right hand closed around a white square piece of paper that was lying on the floor, hidden under part of the broken coffee table. He didn't know why he grabbed it. It was there and it had belonged to Methos and so he took it.
The police barked at him, threatening arrest and demanding to know how he got into the apartment.
"Sorry," he said. "I'm a friend. I was worried." MacLeod rambled incoherently, visibly distressed. They couldn't get any sense out of him. He let all of his frustration and his fear show. He was shaking and he physically hurt as feeling returned to his limbs. With twin expressions of disgust and annoyance, two policemen escorted him from the building, dragging him over to where the other inhabitants waited, and told him to stay put and that he would be needed for questioning.
MacLeod wiped at his face and tried to collect his thoughts. Methos was out there, somewhere nearby. Anastasia and Keyumars were after him, or perhaps they had already found him. MacLeod's instincts screamed, nearly on fire, and his leg muscles twitched: time was running out. But the trail had gone cold.
He looked down at the piece of paper in his hands. It was a photograph. He turned it over and saw a picture of Methos and himself from years ago. Before Connor. Before Richie. It was a candid shot and MacLeod had no recollection of the moment it was taken. He was looking at Methos, smiling slightly, with a beer half way to his mouth, his expression one of affectionate annoyance. Indulgent. Next to him, Methos was blurred, caught in motion with zigzagged lines of over-exposed light, head thrown back in laughter. On the other side, Methos had written, Joe's Bar. 1995.
MacLeod stared at the picture. The image of Methos made it look like he was melting, dissolving into swirls of light. It reminded him of his dream, of the beach and the sun, sand blowing everywhere and Methos in the distance swept away by the wind.
He felt a flash of Immortal presence, just barely, like a caress. The electricity hadn't returned and the street winnowed away in the distance into darkness. Car headlights only served to blind him further. Several people within the crowd carried flashlights or candles, but he couldn't see all of their faces.
A chime rang, like the bell on a bicycle. MacLeod turned in a circle, trying to locate the source of the presence. A block away, he saw a silhouette of a tall slender man standing in shadow cast by a headlight beam. The bell chimed again, and he turned to see a girl on a bike turn a corner and disappear.
He knew where Methos was. Methos had told him, after all. Maybe Keyumars and Anastasia were right, and he had always known, somehow willfully blind. But the truth was it was safer not to know. Since that night outside the Chateau de Grosbois, MacLeod had lived with the dream of one day finding Methos, of taking him in his arms so they could argue and laugh and fight over who got the last of the ice cream, so he could make love to him again and again. But the dream always soured when he realized hunters would not stop trying to use him to get to Methos. It was a nightmare he didn't believe he would ever be free of.
She and I shared a hotdog on a hot summer day, dodging crowds on the boardwalk and watching people shoot each other with paintballs. I left her alone and called you from a pay phone. You weren't there and I didn't leave a message.
MacLeod ran in the direction of Coney Island and the ocean.
~~~
The world was reduced to the beat of his footfalls and the dark blur of buildings and trees. Every part of his body ached, but MacLeod only focused on his breathing. In and out, in and out. Coney Island lay dark and quiet under the great expanse of sky. The cold air seemed to lend an edge of brilliance to the stars. Mac ran down Ocean Parkway until the road terminated at a dead end.
The amusement park was dark, gated shut. He walked out to the boardwalk. It was strange to see it empty and devoid of activity. Under starlight, the ocean receded to a fuzzy line of black on black. He had lost track and didn't know what time it was. The moon was high overhead.
He quieted himself, searched with his emotions and feelings, breath puffing before him. He closed his eyes and listened. Faintly, he heard the all too familiar ring of metal. He took a step toward the sound. Then it was like the air itself hushed, like the quiet void of a soundless vacuum. It lasted less than a moment before the air crackled and the dark night split down the middle as another quickening rose into the sky.
If he thought he'd run fast earlier, it was nothing to the effort he poured into his limbs now, feet pounding on the wooden boardwalk. Heart bursting, chest aching, muscles heavy, he pumped his arms, his neck straining forward.
Quickening called to quickening. The heavy thrum of a strong Immortal presence washed over him. He skidded and turned down a walled-off street. Lightning anointed the air, over and over again. A spray painted sign read, "Shoot the Freak, Live Human Targets." Graffiti and paintball splotches decorated every spare inch of brick wall. MacLeod saw an opening leading under the boardwalk. It was like an open maw, a black hole. He charged through into the murky underworld, heedless of the quickening that snapped around him.
It was near pitch black, the only light falling faintly from between slats of the boardwalk, making thin stripes along the bone-white sand. The ground was uneven and sloped downward, into a kind of pit. MacLeod had the impression of a cavernous and complicated system of catacombs.
The last of the quickening crackled and disappeared. His eyes adjusted to the near blackness. He saw two figures, one hunched on the ground on hands and knees, the other approaching with a sword in hand. Metal glinted in the distance. The stench of ozone intensified, trapped under the boardwalk. The air snapped and was alive with the last electric caress of the recently spent quickening. MacLeod saw a dark shape on the ground and knew it must be the body of the recently beheaded Immortal.
The standing figure raised his sword. The man on the ground gasped, lifted his head, obviously trying to coordinate his movements long enough to defend himself, to move or raise his sword.
MacLeod cried out. His voice echoed. The two figures turned their heads. The man on the ground sat in a weak shaft of moonlight, profile revealed. MacLeod almost didn't recognize him. He had changed his hair. It was longer, nearly shoulder length, and in the ghostly light it looked like the color of sand. But it was the profile he knew and loved so well and MacLeod's heart hammered so hard it hurt. He stumbled as he ran. Methos.
Keyumars looked from MacLeod back to Methos. He stood with his sword held high, his expression almost peaceful, eager. He cried out with effort, reached a little higher, and swung.
It was an elastic moment, crystal clear in MacLeod's mind. In a hidden sheath, he carried the bronze knife he had taken from Cassandra's house. He kept it on him for no reason other than it was there and it was old, and had probably been held at one point by Cassandra, Methos, and Kronos. In that wide-open moment, using all of his strength, MacLeod leapt. He flew through the dark and with a grunt tackled Keyumars to the ground, imbedding the knife in his chest clear through to the handle.
Keyumars screamed, but it came out a sick, monstrous sound. His widened eyes stared at MacLeod, the life fading slowly away. In the thin light, his blood looked black as it stained the sand.
Panting, MacLeod disentangled himself from Keyumars, once again struck by the man's resemblance to Methos with his dark hair, pale skin, and strong profile. Movement caught his attention and he turned.
The real Methos was there, alive. With the change in hair color, Methos looked like another man. They stared at each other. In the quiet, MacLeod heard the sound of waves, and the whispers and scratches of vermin and birds.
You came, said Methos, with an almost shy smile.
Methos, was all MacLeod could answer in return, emotion strangling his throat.
They reached for each other at the same moment, locked in an embrace, chest to chest, heart to beating heart. MacLeod pressed his mouth to Methos's neck, breathing harshly. He closed his eyes. He couldn't believe it. Methos's hands were in MacLeod's hair, then around his back, tightening, squeezing.
"Mac," said Methos, finally pulling away enough to allow speech. He cupped and searched MacLeod's face with wonder and something close to laughter. Shuddering from the effect of taking two quickenings so close together, he smiled wide. Joyous. Happy. "Nice entrance."
MacLeod cracked a grin, relief washed over him like a wave that crashed over the top of his head and he let himself drown in it. He pulled Methos closer, kissing his forehead and cheek and lips and neck. Methos bowed his head, resting it against MacLeod's chest. "After Grosbois, I figured it was my turn," said MacLeod, finally, when he could speak.
They grinned at each other like fools, touching, reaffirming. Two years had passed since the last time MacLeod had touched Methos.
Keyumars lay still in the dark blue underlight. Methos sighed and rose unsteadily to his feet. MacLeod followed and they stood staring at the two bodies lying in ungainly heaps. MacLeod recognized the delicate, petite frame of the other body, the designer jeans belonging to Anastasia. Her head lay gruesomely on its side, the russet hair messy and tangled. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed in death, pretty like a covergirl. He was sorry she died, feeling a sadness for Anastasia he couldn't put into words.
He and Methos stood for a moment, together, hand in hand, breathing in the salty stench of trash and stale beer mixed in with rotting seaweed, mildew, and bird droppings. The darkness felt alive, and MacLeod knew there were homeless people throughout this little underworld.
Methos picked up his fallen sword. He breathed in deep, bracing himself for one more quickening. MacLeod stepped forward. It should be him that took Keyumars's head.
"Absolutely not," said Methos, without waiting for MacLeod to voice his protest.
"Methos," said MacLeod, in a reasoning tone.
Methos only shook his head and kneeled to yank the knife out of Keyumars's chest.
"Wait," said MacLeod, putting his hand on Methos's arm. "I have an idea," he said, taking out his cell phone and dialing.
~~~
MacLeod called some people he knew in New York who were discreet and quick. With instructions not to remove the knife from the corpse, Keyumars was boxed and shipped as cargo on a freighter leaving the Port of Brooklyn, heading south. The destination of the cargo was to be sent en route.
Then he called Robert and Gina and asked them for a favor. They said yes. They would be on the next flight out.
MacLeod's final phone call was to Joe. He asked Joe to do what he did best. He asked him to watch and record.
~~~
MacLeod and Methos parted in New York, taking separate flights going in separate directions. MacLeod hardly noticed what airport he landed in or flew out of, what country he drove through, or any of the people he spoke with as he made sure no one traced his footsteps. It was a torturous seventy-two hours before he saw Methos again.
As he disembarked the small charter floatplane, the warm velvet Caribbean air caressed his skin. Methos waited at the end of the dock. MacLeod slowed as he approached, standing almost nose-to-nose. Methos still looked foreign, different, and MacLeod noticed Methos's atypical silence, the sense of hushed sadness wrapped around him.
With his face serious and his eyes quietly taking stock of MacLeod from head to toe, Methos put his hands on his hips and glared. "Took your time, didn't you. I got in last night. Had to stop both Robert and Gina from combing the world for you. And Joe's no help at all. I don't know why he bothers to call himself your Watcher. Did you get lost?"
MacLeod smiled, and felt everything between him and Methos take one more step toward being all right. "Sorry. Missed my connection out of Helsinki. Snowstorm. Have you ever been stuck in Helsinki in the middle of a snowstorm? I don't recommend the experience."
Methos grabbed one of MacLeod's bags, and they made their way through the lush garden to the main house that stood nestled against a large verdant hill. Beyond the house, the night sky rose dark and smooth and speckled with stars. As they walked, Methos reached across and touched MacLeod's wrist. MacLeod stopped. Neither man needed to say what was on their minds and in their hearts: MacLeod had rushed to arrive as soon as he could, but he would not risk any Immortal following him. With no way of communicating, after three days, Methos had feared the worst.
They paused briefly, just one beat, before continuing, almost as if they had never stopped at all.
~~~
The island used to be one of Robert de Valicourt's pirate smuggling hideouts, serving as a base of operation for his many ventures. It also used to have a sugar cane plantation and supplied safe harbor for various outlaws and escaped slaves from America.
The descendants of those same outlaws and one-time slaves still lived on the island's west end. There was a small resort town and a good income from savvy tourists looking for remote locations for their vacations, mostly from South America, some from the States.
The eastern coast was naturally cut off from the rest of the island by geography, several small mountains and lots of vegetation. In modern days, Robert had made it a summer home. The main house was modest in size, only a few bedrooms and a simple kitchen. It was meant as a retreat, manageable without servants. The garden grew half wild, and although MacLeod believed the Valicourts must retain a gardener and a housekeeper for when they weren't there, he noticed both the house and the garden were in need of some maintenance.
Over two bottles of wine and Gina's excellent chicken marsala, the four Immortals and one mortal sat around the quaint dining table and argued who should take Keyumars's head. Joe, whom Robert and Gina accepted with mild curiosity if a little stiffness, was busy preparing his video camera. The body had arrived a couple of hours ahead of MacLeod.
"Do you think this will work?" asked Robert into the sudden silence that fell over the party.
Everyone looked at MacLeod. "It'll work," he said. "Once we cut his hair and put Methos's clothes on him. It'll be convincing enough." He took a deep breath, and looked at everyone around the table. "I'll do it," he said. The protests started back up again, mainly from Robert and Gina. Methos sat silently watching, toying with his half full wine glass.
"You can't," said Robert. MacLeod gritted his teeth. "Stop and think about it, Mac. You'll be known as the one who took Methos's quickening. You'll be even more hunted than you are already. No, I'll--"
"I'll do it," interrupted Gina. "I'll kill the bastard. I'll take his head with my bare hands."
"Gina, sweetheart," said Robert, a little too condescending. MacLeod winced.
Gina's eyes flashed. "I'll take his head, even if I have to take yours first, Robert. You can't stop me."
Robert, swallowing, calmly placed his hand over his wife's. "I'm not saying you can't. No one would be so foolish," he smiled. "I just think…" he trailed off and something passed between husband and wife which MacLeod could not see. They both softened as they held hands. "You can wear a disguise," said Robert, after a moment. "You'll be an unnamed, mysterious, beautiful Immortal."
Gina smiled with her victory. She moved to rise from the table. MacLeod started to protest. It was far too dangerous for Gina. Even with a disguise, there were only so many female Immortals who could believably take on Methos. "Gina," started MacLeod, "you can't. It's too risky."
"And it's all right for you to risk? Men," she cried, continuing to insult MacLeod in French. Robert, seeing MacLeod on his side, once again tried to reason with his wife. The noise around the table grew and grew until one of the wine bottles flew over their heads and shattered loudly against the brick wall on the other side of the room.
"Enough," said Methos, eyes bright, lips thin. "I appreciate all of you being so eager to take on my demons for me," he said, not looking at any of them. His voice dropped low. "But I'm fighting him."
Robert and Gina sat with identical stunned expressions. MacLeod started to rise. Methos turned and left the room, the door slamming behind him.
After a moment, Robert spoke. "You know, it makes sense. He's in disguise already, he can hardly be accused of killing himself since he'll be, you know, dead, and more importantly, he can't be mistaken for you," he said to MacLeod.
MacLeod didn't answer. He looked at the door. It led to the private beach.
Joe was the only one who looked amused. He turned to MacLeod. "Well, what are you waiting for? Go after him."
He hesitated. Methos very likely wished to be alone. He looked at his friends. Without a word, he rose and followed Methos.
~~~
Moonrise over the ocean.
After the cold months in New York City, the warm, moist air was a balm on his skin and he took a moment to breathe in the scent of night flowers in bloom. He walked through the overgrown garden path, down to the beach. The tide was low, the waves gently rolling in.
He searched for Methos and found him some distance down the coast, a solitary figure. His back was to the house. The image recalled MacLeod's recurring dream so strongly that he stopped and had to breathe through the panic that welled up. Methos was safe. They were safe. The threat was gone. It took a moment for his stomach to unclench. His legs twitched with the need to run, but he walked slowly instead, letting the water lap at his bare feet.
Methos didn't turn to look at him. He was busy searching the sand for bits of shells and rocks, making a small pile.
MacLeod picked up a rock from Methos's pile and threw it out into the ocean. It plopped into the dark waters. Methos made a noise that was a cross between a grunt of protest and a snort of amusement, as if to say 'hey, these are mine,' and 'oooh, good idea.'
They threw rocks and broken shells, trying to outdistance each other. MacLeod was very aware of Methos next to him and wondered where they would go after this final fight with Keyumars was settled and they could put this whole bloody business behind them. It felt like a lifetime had passed since that night in Paris. He wasn't sure they were the same two men anymore. Methos had said he loved him, but that was when he believed he would never see MacLeod again. Their lives were so uncertain, even more so than normal. MacLeod could not bear it if Immortals still came after him in the hopes of finding Methos, but neither was he able to contemplate leaving Methos's side, at least not for a while.
Methos found a good sized rock and heaved it into the ocean. It made a decent plonk and splashed. "Are you worried I can't take him?" Methos asked, finally looking at MacLeod.
MacLeod thought about it, but shook his head. "No, not really." He paused, scratched his nose where sweat had gathered. "Well," he amended. "A little, yes, but only because there are no certainties in life. I know you can take him."
A breeze blew, ruffling Methos's hair. MacLeod stopped to face the dark ocean. The night sky was clear and the stars were numerous and bright. He picked up another rock, letting it rattle around in his closed hand. "It was Anastasia who killed Cassandra. I don't know if you knew that." It seemed important for Methos to know. MacLeod threw the stone. It disappeared against the black night.
It took MacLeod a moment to realize Methos had stopped and was looking at MacLeod with an odd expression. "Did she say why?"
MacLeod realized Methos might not know about Anastasia or the conquistador. Or Keyumars. He might not know about the connection he had to all three, or to Camilla.
"What did Camilla say to you, that night?" MacLeod could still see that startled look on Methos's face, that stark expression of fear.
Methos breathed in, turned to face the ocean. He walked a little forward until the water washed over his feet. "She said I could kill her and it didn't matter, she would still take everything from me. There were others, and they would all hunt you until I gave up. She said, 'look at the camera and smile.'"
MacLeod dusted his hands off on his jeans. He turned back briefly to the house, seeing through a window the silhouettes of his friends still sitting around the table. He wondered what discussions Robert and Gina would have with Joe. "They were students," he said, splashing into the water next to Methos. "Of Cassandra's first, and then later of Kronos's. I don't really know more than that. I don't need to know more," he added with a trace of tired disgust.
"No," said Methos. "That pretty much tells me everything. I can imagine the rest."
"You know," said Macleod. He was getting used to the hair. More and more the Methos he knew returned, as if shedding layers. "In an odd way, I'm not so sure how much any of this was about you. It was more about Kronos and Cassandra. You were just--" He trailed off.
"A catalyst? A prize?" Methos's tone was perfectly irked and it made MacLeod smile.
"You represented something different to each of them," said MacLeod. "The conquistador wanted your power. Anastasia couldn't reconcile Cassandra's unwillingness to betray you with everything she knew to be true about who you were. Keyumars wants to be you, and he's going to get his wish. And Camilla, Camilla was like Kronos. They both wanted to own you, break you, possess you, and if they couldn't do that, then they made sure to take everything away from you and leave you with nothing. But all of them, the whole bloody lot of them, they're all dead, or will be soon. So, I don't know, maybe you could say they all got what they wanted."
Methos stared at him. "You have been eating fortune cookies."
MacLeod chuckled, and the desire to hold Methos was so great he reached out touched Methos's shoulder.
What he had said simplified matters too much. The complexities of Methos's relationship with Kronos were intricate and tangled and impossible to comprehend. He wouldn't even try. Although he found himself almost pitying Kronos. "Do you think he loved you?" he asked, not at all sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Methos scrunched his eyes shut. MacLeod gave in to instinct and stepped close. The gentle waves slapped and lapped against their feet. He kissed Methos, lips dry, just the barest hint of pressure.
He stepped back and looked once again out over the dark ocean, marked by the moon, breathing in the salty sea air. The tide was coming in; the waves grew in size, foaming like race horses. Before he could form the thought, he started taking his shirt off, then unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans.
"What are you doing?" asked Methos with a growing expression of alarm.
"I'm getting naked," said MacLeod matter-of-factly.
Scandalized, mouth opening and closing like a fish, Methos looked back at the house and then at MacLeod.
"Come on," prodded MacLeod.
"MacLeod, we can't," said Methos in a harsh whisper.
Grinning at Methos's suddenly evident modesty, MacLeod hopped from one foot to the other as he struggled with his jeans. Finally naked, he said, "Trust me."
They stood facing each other, one naked, the other withdrawn, assessing. Slowly, Methos reached for his shirt and then took it off. Soon, they were both naked and MacLeod took Methos's hand and led him step by step into the ocean.
At first they were tentative, bracing as each wave splashed, slapping against bare thighs. The waves grew the further out they went. MacLeod leaped as another wave crashed. Salty seawater, moonlight, and Methos's laughter next to him mixed freely. They swam in the ocean, hands reaching across to touch each other, never straying far. They embraced underwater, legs and arms slippery and smooth.
They left the waves behind and swam out almost to the buoy. Methos rolled onto his back and floated. MacLeod did the same. They bobbed like the buoy, gently tossed from nascent wave to nascent wave. MacLeod listened to the music of the ocean.
Eventually, they swam back toward the coast to collapse on the sand, breathing heavily. Methos rose onto his elbows and surveyed the beach and the garden and the house. MacLeod rose to his feet and hauled Methos up to standing. They were sandy and salty, but Methos looked relaxed and the controlled energy he had maintained since New York was smoothed out. He walked loose-limbed.
MacLeod started picking up their clothing.
Methos followed, but chose not to help. "When I left you in Paris, it was to protect you. But you still put yourself in danger."
"What are you saying?" MacLeod straightened, noticing Methos's defensive stance.
"Don't think I don't know you let yourself be visible just enough to draw challengers away from me. That wasn't the plan. The whole point was to avoid that," said Methos.
"Plan? There was a plan?" MacLeod started laughing so hard he kept dropping pieces of clothing.
Methos glowered. "I'm serious. Even as isolated and underground as I went, completely off the grid, avoiding all contact with Immortals and mortals, in constant hiding, not even carrying a bloody cell phone, I still heard enough about your exploits to turn my blood to ice. What the hell were you think--"
"Methos," interrupted MacLeod, still laughing and having a hard time getting air. He waved his hand, as if that gesture could do the explaining for him. "I can't help what people say. Not half of it is true."
"You deny you made yourself available for hunters to find you? Did you think you could kill them all for me?"
MacLeod sobered. "I didn't seek them out, if that's what you're asking." Methos's jaw tightened. They glared at each other. MacLeod sighed. The pit of his stomach twisted. He didn't want to have this conversation now. It was too soon. "They found me, Methos, everywhere I went. They found me. I admit it, I could have hidden better. I could have done what Connor did. I could have holed up in some monastery somewhere. Gone to Malaysia again. But I didn't do any of those things. And they found me. They always found me. If they found me, they might find you, no matter if everyone knew that was no longer the case. The stories are exaggerated. Most of the challengers never went through with it."
They were silent. There was no way to know the future. This plan of theirs, this last best chance to fix the damage done by Camilla and Kronos, could work. They would film Methos fighting Keyumars, with Keyumars's hair cut to look like Methos, and Keyumars wearing Methos's clothing. It would be convincing enough. The real Methos would stay anonymous. They would upload the video with the title, "Unknown Immortal takes Methos's head," and disseminate it far and wide. It could work. Or it could make no difference at all.
MacLeod couldn't read Methos's expression, eyes hard and glittering, face almost carved in stone. He faced the garden, the pool and the expanse of yard. "We should stage the fight there," he said, pointing to an area that was fenced off from the rest of the house, buttressed on one side by a rocky outcropping, and on the other by what MacLeod assumed was a boat house. "Joe would have a good vantage point from over there," he pointed to a line of bushes. "It's a good amount of space, but contained. What do you think?"
MacLeod breathed in shakily. He nodded. "Good idea. Let's tell the others. I want to get this over with."
They walked back toward the house, side by side, still naked. MacLeod tried not to think about tomorrow, or the next day, or the many days after that when he and Methos would part because it was the smart thing to do. Perhaps the only thing. He might still be used as a means to find Methos. He couldn't bear that. And he knew well enough what it was like to have a loved one used as leverage: it was impossible. They would have to part. The video would help, maybe, maybe not. It would take centuries for Methos to become a legend again. Maybe the years would pass quickly. Maybe they could still meet every couple of decades or so.
As they meandered through the garden to the house, MacLeod's steps grew heavier. His feet were like lead; his head weighed a ton. He wasn't sure he could do this. He wasn't sure he had the strength.
"I can't do this."
Deep in his own black thoughts, MacLeod thought he had spoken. But he turned and saw Methos a couple of steps behind him and realized it was Methos's voice, rough with emotion.
"I don't think I can do this." He looked scared, a little desperate. "Mac."
MacLeod took his hand. Naked in the moonlight in a tropical garden, it was like a scene out of a West Village musical review, only with tears and heartbreak and fewer dance numbers. Methos sat down on a low brick wall and bent his head against MacLeod's chest and stomach, hands on MacLeod's hips, warm against MacLeod's cool skin. He put his hands through Methos's hair, still expecting short and dark but finding long and pale, stiff from swimming in the ocean. "I miss your hair," he said.
Methos's grip on his hips tightened slightly. He huffed a laugh, giving off a puff of warm moist breath that tickled MacLeod's navel. MacLeod felt a twinge of desire and would have wanted nothing more than to make love under the moonlight. Instead he went on his knees and cupped Methos's face Methos's hands slid up to MacLeod's shoulders. "We could stay here," he said. "Robert and Gina already offered. Not forever, but a year or two, until we see what the weather is like," he smiled faintly.
As hideouts go, they could do worse. There was some risk, but minimal. It wasn't entirely cut off from the rest of the world, which could leave an avenue open for hunters to find them, but that was preferable to complete isolation. They had the resort town and stores and people, but were still removed from all of that and could spend their days on the eastern coast never speaking to another soul if that was what they wished. They might kill each other after two years, but MacLeod was willing to find out, if Methos was.
"Is this what you want?" asked Methos, with wonder, searching MacLeod's face.
MacLeod thought about it. His throat closed, his eyes stung. He nodded. "Yes."
~~~
The night grayed toward dawn. Although no one had slept, Methos didn't wish to wait any longer.
Gina cut Keyumars's hair to look like Methos. MacLeod had asked Joe to bring the same clothing Methos had worn in the video and he and Gina struggled to dress the corpse in Methos's jeans, cable knit sweater (with a hole for the still embedded knife), and long dark coat.
Robert, displaying a hidden talent for scenery design, made the area Methos had chosen for the fight look like a generic back alley of any town in any country. From somewhere on the island, he had ferreted out trash bins and corrugated tin, wire fencing and an old generic truck, no license plate. Through the two dimensions of a camera, it was convincing enough, especially filmed in low enough light to make it look grainy.
With everything ready, Robert, Gina, and MacLeod retreated far enough away for their presence not to be felt. Before leaving, MacLeod touched Methos's arm. He was afraid to look him in the face for fear of betraying himself. He knew Methos needed to do this, and that he could do it, but still, MacLeod was afraid. Methos's strong fingers gripped and squeezed and then let go.
MacLeod followed Gina and Robert along a trail that wound up from behind the house up the mountain to a quiet little grotto built around a cool mountain spring. It was holy ground, MacLeod realized, recognizing the religious symbols carved into wooden figurines, and the stubby candles and fresh cut flowers laid across a small altar.
From there they could watch the fight while still being near enough to be in firing range with a sniper rifle. Through the telescopic sight, MacLeod watched Keyumars gasp back to life, looking with shock at his chest, at the strange clothes he wore. He watched Methos toss Keyumars's sword at his feet and hold his hand up, as if to say "Take your time." They were speaking but were too far to be heard. Keyumars stood up, swishing his sword back and forth. He was laughing, smiling with that overreaching bravado MacLeod remembered from their encounter. Methos's expression was amused, almost curious, and even hundreds of feet away and viewing through a telescopic sight, MacLeod thought he saw Methos's eyes glint as he summed his opponent up.
Keyumars made the first attack, but even as he did so MacLeod realized it was because Methos had manipulated him into doing so. He watched, fascinated by Methos's body language and fighting style, so different than it usually was. He was playing the part, maneuvering Keyumars to the best advantage of Joe's hidden video camera. He was a master. He fought with just enough of a sense of helplessness to give the impression that Keyumars had the upper hand. Then, swiftly, the energy shifted. Keyumars came down to his knees, disarmed. He raised his head as if to receive a blessing. Methos swung.
When it came down to the moment, MacLeod closed his eyes. Despite knowing full well that it was just a disguise, Keyumars looked like Methos and MacLeod couldn't watch him lose his head.
He heard, and felt, the quickening rise and strike and then dissipate. MacLeod opened his eyes and saw Methos, his Methos, trying to rise from the aftermath of the quickening. In a flash, MacLeod was down the mountain and at his side.
It was over.
~~~
A warm, fragrant breeze blew in from the open window, ruffling the curtains and the white linen drapery over the canopy bed. With one eye, MacLeod took note of the time. It was just before eight in the morning and already it was humid and hot as hell.
As he woke fully, he heard the tap-tapping of fingers on a computer keyboard. Turning over, he saw Methos sitting next to him in bed, skin bronzed, naked but covered with a white sheet over his lap, which was probably there more as a meager protection from the hot underside of the laptop perched across his legs than for decency's sake.
Before leaving, Gina had got her hands on Methos, forcing him into a chair. She cut and dyed his hair back to a more normal style and color, since he no longer needed the disguise. MacLeod was grateful.
He watched Methos for a moment, absorbed in whatever it was he was doing. It had only been a few weeks since Robert and Gina had left. Amanda was coming for a visit the following week. She had insisted, after yelling at them both over the phone, together and separately, for an agonizing period of time, and neither MacLeod nor Methos were strong or clever enough to say no to her.
But for the time being, they were alone. MacLeod reached out and grazed his fingers down Methos's exposed side, down to his flat stomach and hipbone. Methos flinched away, ticklish. MacLeod pushed at the laptop in annoyance. It wobbled on Methos's lap. "Stop that," said Methos, batting at MacLeod's hand.
MacLeod did it again, expertly avoiding Methos's attempts at trapping his hand. "You're going to cook your private parts, you know that."
Methos smiled, lopsided. "Just a few minutes more."
"A few minutes more and you're going to have charred dangly bits." MacLeod kept trying to push the laptop away, but settled on tickling Methos instead. Methos defensively protected his stomach, laughing.
"Okay, okay, see, I'm closing it." He closed the laptop with a snip, setting it carefully on his bedside table.
Grunting happily with success, MacLeod pounced. He kissed Methos into submission. Methos spread his legs and MacLeod sat back, hands raking over Methos's skin from shoulders to chest, down to sensitive stomach that made Methos inhale sharply. "This calls for a close inspection," he said, taking great interest in making sure Methos hadn't actually damaged his cock and balls.
MacLeod took Methos's growing erection between his hands and licked it like a lollipop. Methos made a noise deep in his throat, arched his back, and thrust into MacLeod's mouth. He thrust again, reaching to grab hold of MacLeod's hair. He tugged and MacLeod opened his throat. Another thrust and Methos came with a grunt. MacLeod swallowed, climbing up over Methos body, kissed him with his semen still on his lips. "How many views is it up to?" he asked, reaching toward the bedside table.
Methos was still breathing hard. He reached up and touched MacLeod's face, brushing hair away. "Over half a million," said Methos. "Not bad."
MacLeod slid off Methos's body. He slicked his fingers and reached between Methos's legs, watching as he pushed in. He loved this part, before he was distracted with his own pleasure, when he could watch Methos and take note of his expressions, his concentration as he looked at MacLeod with lazy desire. MacLeod stretched his fingers. Methos breathed in, widened his legs.
Carefully withdrawing, MacLeod returned to his earlier position, hooking Methos's legs over his. He pushed in slowly. Methos arched, and bore down. MacLeod saw stars and remembered to breathe. He lowered his head and captured Methos's lips with his. Their fingers laced together. He pushed in all the way.
The breeze continued to blow over their heated, damp skin. MacLeod thrust quickly, and hard, fingers indenting flesh. Methos shuddered and came a second time, almost violently. MacLeod held on, pounding until he followed with a moan and a sudden collapse of all muscles.
They lay still as their hearts slowed back down to normal. Methos's arm came around MacLeod, even though it was really too warm for lingering contact. MacLeod badly needed to take a shower, but instead, he snuggled up next to Methos's heated body and dozed. After a moment, he heard the soft snip of the laptop opening followed by the tap-tapping of fingers typing.
"For your information," said Methos, a bit primly. "I'm ordering you a pair of Testoni shoes. I've asked Amanda to bring them."
MacLeod started laughing, and it was a long while before he could stop.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
