a regular army of hippopotami...
Right. So the insomnia still hasn't gone away, but that's good news for anyone who wanted to read the next bit of that damned Highlander AU. Which I'm now calling Shades and Echoes. There's a reason behind it, but don't expect coherency from a woman whose only sleep in the past 36 hours took place on a flight from D.C. to L.A. Apologies to anyone whose f-list has been spammed by my insanity.
Chapter Five:
December 19, 1986
Methos didn't get up until mid-afternoon, and when he did it was only because his slumber was disturbed by the presence of another Immortal. The remnants of Darius' good brandy were still clinging to his thoughts and making his head pound. He grabbed his Ivanhoe out of pure instinct; then a knock at his door was followed by the raised voice of Duncan MacLeod.
"Adam?"
"Give me a minute," he called, and tucked his sword back under his bed. Pulling on a bathrobe, he made his way to the door, and fixed the Highlander with Adam Pierson's fiercest glare. The Scot was impervious -- and he was, to Methos' dismay, clad in a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. And most likely weaponless to boot, Methos thought, trying not to shake his head in amazement.
"Just getting up?" MacLeod asked, raising both eyebrows at Methos' attire.
"I was sleeping, actually," Methos snapped, wishing that he could afford to give MacLeod a taste of what he'd actually rousted out of bed. "It's my day off. I was planning on coming by later -- after I woke up."
Predictably, Adam Pierson in a snit did nothing to dent the Highlander's oppressively cheerful demeanor.
"Well, then it's a good thing I stopped by, isn't it?" he asked. "The daylight doesn't last long this time of year, and it's not safe to run in the dark."
"I don't run," Methos said flatly, turning away from the door and going back down the stairs. MacLeod followed him.
"You're going to start," he said. Methos ignored him in favor of pulling a pair of jeans and a sweater out of the dresser, then frowned. He didn't want the Highlander poking around in his things while he changed; on the other hand, giving MacLeod a good look at his physique might lead to questions as to how bookish Adam Pierson had developed that sort of musculature.
"You're going to need sweatpants. And a t-shirt," MacLeod said from behind him.
Methos swore silently at him in three different languages, and pulled the requisite clothing out of another drawer.
"It's the middle of December!" he protested. "It's freezing cold outside."
"It'll toughen you up," MacLeod said, showing no signs of remorse for his unholy state of exuberance. For what felt like the hundredth time, Methos wished that he'd had the sense to disappear before the auction. Why didn't I just pretend I was sick?
Throwing a bitter glare at MacLeod -- it bounced off of him, of course -- Methos retreated to the bathroom, trusting the Highlander's innate courtesy to keep him from poking around where he shouldn't.
When he emerged a few minutes later, clad in sweatpants and t-shirt and feeling somewhat closer to human, MacLeod was examining the titles on his bookshelves with raised eyebrows.
"You've got pretty eclectic tastes," MacLeod said, with a gesture at a shelf that Methos knew contained two copies of Demosthenes' Exordia, both in various stages of disrepair and each in a different language (French and Russian), a smattering of first edition British mysteries from the 1920's, a German translation of Juvenal's Satires, two Stephen King novels and several volumes of Romantic poetry, in addition to a handful of modern thrillers with absolutely no redeeming literary value whatsoever. Methos refused to apologize for them, and took great pleasure in shelving the worst of them next to Byron's more pretentious works.
"There are a lot of things worth reading in this world," he commented mildly, glad that his paranoia about being caught out by the Watchers had largely kept him from bringing any of his older and more difficult to explain possessions along to furnish this flat. MacLeod, for his part, seemed to have just been making conversation. He ran a critical eye over Methos' now-clad form and nodded.
"That should do. Do you have decent running shoes?"
"Yes," Methos sighed.
"Good," MacLeod said. "It's three miles from here to the barge."
***
The Highlander set an easy pace at first, obviously heartened by the fact that Methos at least knew how to stretch properly. After a few hundred yards, the worst of the stiffness had worked itself out of Methos' legs and shoulders and he settled in to run MacLeod into the ground, hoping to at least keep the man from patronizing him unbearably. Running was a good, non-aggressive way of proving that he was physically fit, and might cut out some of the mind-numbingly boring drills that he just knew were going to be inflicted on him ad nauseam.
"I thought you didn't run," MacLeod said. That he was still able to talk so easily was irritating; still, his breath was coming a little bit faster.
Good, Methos though viciously, and increased his pace again.
"I don't like to run," he said, when the Highlander had caught up to him once more. "Especially after a night of drinking. I did enough of that in college." There, that was a good explanation for an un-Pierson-like level of physical fitness, and never mind that Methos had actually spent his time at St. Aidan's immersed in beer and old books.
"Long-distance?" MacLeod asked. Methos nodded and picked up the pace again; after that, neither of them had breath for conversation, and he could forget about the crawling nervousness along the back of his neck that came from going virtually unarmed. A single gun was not enough.
***
"You were drinking last night?" Duncan asked, once the two of them had stopped outside the barge to catch their breath. He was more than a little impressed by Adam's speed and endurance -- it would make teaching him easier, and the edge of competitiveness the lad had shown was a hopeful sign -- but couldn't help the disapproval he felt at the idea of the younger Immortal out by himself at all, let alone while intoxicated. Too many Immortals spent too much time in Paris.
"Yes, well, I had a bit of a rough day yesterday, if you recall," Adam said. "Much more excitement than I'm used to."
"What do you do for a living?" Duncan asked curiously. And does it have anything to do with how you knew about Immortals before you became one? Adam had been too upset yesterday to press forward with uncomfortable questions, but Duncan wasn't about to forget that the lad hadn't needed to be told of his true nature.
"I'm a doctoral candidate," Adam said, pulling one arm over his head and down to stretch out the muscles. "At the Sorbonne. Classical studies. I do a bit of research for a private firm to keep myself in beer and books."
"Oh?" Duncan finished stretching and moved towards the barge. "What sort of research?"
"Translations, mostly." Adam followed him, both of them stopping as the feel of two Immortal presences washed over them. Duncan bit back a groan of dismay; Adam put a hand to his head and swayed for a minute.
"You'll get used to it eventually," Duncan said. "It's worse than usual because you're feeling two of them."
"Two?" Adam's eyebrows lifted. "They're not going to try and take my head, are they?"
"No," Duncan said, "though I may be tempted to take theirs." He pushed open the door and glared impartially at Fitzcairn and Amanda, both of whom were looking up at him with feigned innocence writ large on their faces.
"Duncan," Amanda said, rising from the sofa and coming to his side. "Who's your friend?"
"Really, Amanda," Fitz said. "It's the lad we saw at the auction yesterday. Are you getting sloppy in your old age, then?" He nodded genially at Adam from his place in the most comfortable chair. "Hugh Fitzcairn."
"Adam Pierson."
"And this," Duncan said, "is Amanda."
"Oh, the pleasure's all mine," Amanda said, giving Adam her most sultry look along with her hand.
"I'm sure it is," Adam said dryly, shaking her hand. He looked... amused, which was not the normal male reaction to Amanda, but which Duncan found infinitely preferable to dealing with the sort of response she usually engendered. For some reason, the thought of watching Adam falling all over Amanda was a distinctly unpleasant one.
"So, Adam," Amanda purred, "what were you doing before Duncan scooped you up?" She'd apparently taken Adam's indifference personally; there was a wicked gleam in her eyes, and Duncan decided to cut her off at the pass before she said or did something inappropriate.
"That's enough," he said firmly, and pushed her gently in the direction of the couch. "Adam and I have some work to do."
Adam let out a heartfelt groan. "Have a heart, MacLeod," he said. "I just ran three miles in the freezing cold."
"And now you're going to come up on deck and practice in it," Duncan said mercilessly.
"I want to watch," Amanda said. Duncan shot her a suspicious look, and she offered him her most charming smile in return.
"What? It never hurts to go over the basics again." The glare that Adam leveled at her was truly venomous, but she seemed unconcerned. "Besides, I have a warm coat with me."
"Fine," Duncan said. "But no commentary." He crossed the barge to the display of swords mounted on the far wall. "Adam?"
Adam followed him reluctantly. Duncan took down a schiavona that he'd picked up at an estate auction some two centuries earlier and held it out to him hilt-first. Adam froze, staring at Duncan with a stunned, astounded expression on his face for a long moment before reaching over and taking the sword. Shaking his head slightly, he stepped back out of range and swung the weapon about a time or two, his stance making it painfully obvious that he'd never held a blade before in his life. Fitz diplomatically busied himself with refilling his pipe, but Amanda was smirking at Adam from across the room.
"You can stay down here after all," Duncan told her, exasperated, and herded Adam out onto the deck. As he closed the door, he could hear Fitz chuckling.
***
( chapter six)
***
Author's Notes: A schiavona is a type of sword that became popular in Italy during the 16th and 17th centuries. It's a true broadsword; the length is something in the neighborhood of 40 inches, and it weighs a little over a kilogram -- at least, according to the Wikipedia article that I got the information from. Sadly, arms and armour is not one of my specialties. (see the picture below if you're curious).
As always, thanks awfully to everyone who's taken the time to leave feedback. You guys are awesome.
Chapter Five:
December 19, 1986
Methos didn't get up until mid-afternoon, and when he did it was only because his slumber was disturbed by the presence of another Immortal. The remnants of Darius' good brandy were still clinging to his thoughts and making his head pound. He grabbed his Ivanhoe out of pure instinct; then a knock at his door was followed by the raised voice of Duncan MacLeod.
"Adam?"
"Give me a minute," he called, and tucked his sword back under his bed. Pulling on a bathrobe, he made his way to the door, and fixed the Highlander with Adam Pierson's fiercest glare. The Scot was impervious -- and he was, to Methos' dismay, clad in a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. And most likely weaponless to boot, Methos thought, trying not to shake his head in amazement.
"Just getting up?" MacLeod asked, raising both eyebrows at Methos' attire.
"I was sleeping, actually," Methos snapped, wishing that he could afford to give MacLeod a taste of what he'd actually rousted out of bed. "It's my day off. I was planning on coming by later -- after I woke up."
Predictably, Adam Pierson in a snit did nothing to dent the Highlander's oppressively cheerful demeanor.
"Well, then it's a good thing I stopped by, isn't it?" he asked. "The daylight doesn't last long this time of year, and it's not safe to run in the dark."
"I don't run," Methos said flatly, turning away from the door and going back down the stairs. MacLeod followed him.
"You're going to start," he said. Methos ignored him in favor of pulling a pair of jeans and a sweater out of the dresser, then frowned. He didn't want the Highlander poking around in his things while he changed; on the other hand, giving MacLeod a good look at his physique might lead to questions as to how bookish Adam Pierson had developed that sort of musculature.
"You're going to need sweatpants. And a t-shirt," MacLeod said from behind him.
Methos swore silently at him in three different languages, and pulled the requisite clothing out of another drawer.
"It's the middle of December!" he protested. "It's freezing cold outside."
"It'll toughen you up," MacLeod said, showing no signs of remorse for his unholy state of exuberance. For what felt like the hundredth time, Methos wished that he'd had the sense to disappear before the auction. Why didn't I just pretend I was sick?
Throwing a bitter glare at MacLeod -- it bounced off of him, of course -- Methos retreated to the bathroom, trusting the Highlander's innate courtesy to keep him from poking around where he shouldn't.
When he emerged a few minutes later, clad in sweatpants and t-shirt and feeling somewhat closer to human, MacLeod was examining the titles on his bookshelves with raised eyebrows.
"You've got pretty eclectic tastes," MacLeod said, with a gesture at a shelf that Methos knew contained two copies of Demosthenes' Exordia, both in various stages of disrepair and each in a different language (French and Russian), a smattering of first edition British mysteries from the 1920's, a German translation of Juvenal's Satires, two Stephen King novels and several volumes of Romantic poetry, in addition to a handful of modern thrillers with absolutely no redeeming literary value whatsoever. Methos refused to apologize for them, and took great pleasure in shelving the worst of them next to Byron's more pretentious works.
"There are a lot of things worth reading in this world," he commented mildly, glad that his paranoia about being caught out by the Watchers had largely kept him from bringing any of his older and more difficult to explain possessions along to furnish this flat. MacLeod, for his part, seemed to have just been making conversation. He ran a critical eye over Methos' now-clad form and nodded.
"That should do. Do you have decent running shoes?"
"Yes," Methos sighed.
"Good," MacLeod said. "It's three miles from here to the barge."
***
The Highlander set an easy pace at first, obviously heartened by the fact that Methos at least knew how to stretch properly. After a few hundred yards, the worst of the stiffness had worked itself out of Methos' legs and shoulders and he settled in to run MacLeod into the ground, hoping to at least keep the man from patronizing him unbearably. Running was a good, non-aggressive way of proving that he was physically fit, and might cut out some of the mind-numbingly boring drills that he just knew were going to be inflicted on him ad nauseam.
"I thought you didn't run," MacLeod said. That he was still able to talk so easily was irritating; still, his breath was coming a little bit faster.
Good, Methos though viciously, and increased his pace again.
"I don't like to run," he said, when the Highlander had caught up to him once more. "Especially after a night of drinking. I did enough of that in college." There, that was a good explanation for an un-Pierson-like level of physical fitness, and never mind that Methos had actually spent his time at St. Aidan's immersed in beer and old books.
"Long-distance?" MacLeod asked. Methos nodded and picked up the pace again; after that, neither of them had breath for conversation, and he could forget about the crawling nervousness along the back of his neck that came from going virtually unarmed. A single gun was not enough.
***
"You were drinking last night?" Duncan asked, once the two of them had stopped outside the barge to catch their breath. He was more than a little impressed by Adam's speed and endurance -- it would make teaching him easier, and the edge of competitiveness the lad had shown was a hopeful sign -- but couldn't help the disapproval he felt at the idea of the younger Immortal out by himself at all, let alone while intoxicated. Too many Immortals spent too much time in Paris.
"Yes, well, I had a bit of a rough day yesterday, if you recall," Adam said. "Much more excitement than I'm used to."
"What do you do for a living?" Duncan asked curiously. And does it have anything to do with how you knew about Immortals before you became one? Adam had been too upset yesterday to press forward with uncomfortable questions, but Duncan wasn't about to forget that the lad hadn't needed to be told of his true nature.
"I'm a doctoral candidate," Adam said, pulling one arm over his head and down to stretch out the muscles. "At the Sorbonne. Classical studies. I do a bit of research for a private firm to keep myself in beer and books."
"Oh?" Duncan finished stretching and moved towards the barge. "What sort of research?"
"Translations, mostly." Adam followed him, both of them stopping as the feel of two Immortal presences washed over them. Duncan bit back a groan of dismay; Adam put a hand to his head and swayed for a minute.
"You'll get used to it eventually," Duncan said. "It's worse than usual because you're feeling two of them."
"Two?" Adam's eyebrows lifted. "They're not going to try and take my head, are they?"
"No," Duncan said, "though I may be tempted to take theirs." He pushed open the door and glared impartially at Fitzcairn and Amanda, both of whom were looking up at him with feigned innocence writ large on their faces.
"Duncan," Amanda said, rising from the sofa and coming to his side. "Who's your friend?"
"Really, Amanda," Fitz said. "It's the lad we saw at the auction yesterday. Are you getting sloppy in your old age, then?" He nodded genially at Adam from his place in the most comfortable chair. "Hugh Fitzcairn."
"Adam Pierson."
"And this," Duncan said, "is Amanda."
"Oh, the pleasure's all mine," Amanda said, giving Adam her most sultry look along with her hand.
"I'm sure it is," Adam said dryly, shaking her hand. He looked... amused, which was not the normal male reaction to Amanda, but which Duncan found infinitely preferable to dealing with the sort of response she usually engendered. For some reason, the thought of watching Adam falling all over Amanda was a distinctly unpleasant one.
"So, Adam," Amanda purred, "what were you doing before Duncan scooped you up?" She'd apparently taken Adam's indifference personally; there was a wicked gleam in her eyes, and Duncan decided to cut her off at the pass before she said or did something inappropriate.
"That's enough," he said firmly, and pushed her gently in the direction of the couch. "Adam and I have some work to do."
Adam let out a heartfelt groan. "Have a heart, MacLeod," he said. "I just ran three miles in the freezing cold."
"And now you're going to come up on deck and practice in it," Duncan said mercilessly.
"I want to watch," Amanda said. Duncan shot her a suspicious look, and she offered him her most charming smile in return.
"What? It never hurts to go over the basics again." The glare that Adam leveled at her was truly venomous, but she seemed unconcerned. "Besides, I have a warm coat with me."
"Fine," Duncan said. "But no commentary." He crossed the barge to the display of swords mounted on the far wall. "Adam?"
Adam followed him reluctantly. Duncan took down a schiavona that he'd picked up at an estate auction some two centuries earlier and held it out to him hilt-first. Adam froze, staring at Duncan with a stunned, astounded expression on his face for a long moment before reaching over and taking the sword. Shaking his head slightly, he stepped back out of range and swung the weapon about a time or two, his stance making it painfully obvious that he'd never held a blade before in his life. Fitz diplomatically busied himself with refilling his pipe, but Amanda was smirking at Adam from across the room.
"You can stay down here after all," Duncan told her, exasperated, and herded Adam out onto the deck. As he closed the door, he could hear Fitz chuckling.
***
( chapter six)
***
Author's Notes: A schiavona is a type of sword that became popular in Italy during the 16th and 17th centuries. It's a true broadsword; the length is something in the neighborhood of 40 inches, and it weighs a little over a kilogram -- at least, according to the Wikipedia article that I got the information from. Sadly, arms and armour is not one of my specialties. (see the picture below if you're curious).
As always, thanks awfully to everyone who's taken the time to leave feedback. You guys are awesome.