There is Nothing Without Time 3/3
Title: There is Nothing Without Time
Author(s): filenotch
Artist: amyeyl
Crossover: Highlander
Word Count: ~25,000
Characters/Pairings: Methos, Duncan MacLeod, Ahriman, Bobby Singer, Castiel; Methos/Duncan
Warnings: It's Supernatural. It's Highlander. People die, and it isn't always pretty.
Link to Art Master Post: Amyeyl's great pencils
Methos pulled himself out before he became lost. He hated the sensation, even as he recognized how important it was to Duncan. Methos searched those last memories, that mental state, the no-state, that Duncan had achieved in his meditation. Methos had spent plenty of time in these last years hiding in Nepal with monks who expected meditation practice, but he had never been able to become everything, become nothing in the way the monks had tried to teach him. He was too much himself, too proud of his long survival. Meditation had taught him only to accept his own paradoxes.
He looked at Castiel, surprised to find him staring into the distance, his mouth open in a muted expression of shock and dismay. Methos couldn't help feeling again as if he was seeing an emotion that was new to the angel. After a moment Castiel turned his gaze to Methos. "How?" he breathed. "How did he do that? Only God… And not even… What was he?"
"He was the best of us," Methos murmured. Methos could not shake the thought that Duncan had loved him knowing that he was himself no better than Methos, though he'd once thought his choices were just; and Methos had loved Duncan because he wanted to shelter himself in something better than he was. The irony choked him. "He accepted all that he was."
Castiel blinked and shook his head slightly, an attenuated motion as if to clear it. "That cannot be. There is good, and there is evil, Heaven and Hell."
"Humans are not all one thing or the other."
Castiel had a brief, dismissive expression. "Of course. That is Original Sin, but the good and the evil should be at war."
"As you are at war, assured of your righteousness?"
Castiel nodded, his face returning to the impassive mask he usually wore.
"We justify all manner of atrocities," Methos said, his memory flashing images of villages devastated behind the Four Horsemen, of the faces of scared farm boys in British uniforms falling under Duncan's sword, of a mother struck dead because a demon chose to ride her.
Castiel looked away, then stepped back, eyes widening. Methos followed his glance and saw the form of Dean Winchester.
"Castiel, what are you doing here, and who is this guy? Where's Bobby?" he asked in tones that were cautious, curious, and aggressive, all at once. He stood balanced, as if ready to move. With training, Methos thought, he would be a very good fighter.
The tone of voice, the body language-it was different. Methos looked carefully, but there was no flash of red in the eyes, nothing to indicate this might not be Dean in the flesh. Bobby talked about Dean and his brother from time to time, but they had not met.
Castiel blinked. "Bobby Singer is coming back from a hunt. Methos and I are exploring his memories to determine how to defeat a …thing that doesn't belong here."
"If it's a hunt, I'm in." Dean stepped forward. "How do we kill it?"
"We don't know," Methos said. "Zen it to death, from what I can tell."
"Zen?"
"I think…" Methos started, and then thought for a moment. "I think it needs hate and fear. It creates illusions, manipulates responses. If you don't respond, it has no power."
Dean's eyebrows scrunched together. "Kind of makes it hard to fight. Or do you just stand there?"
"I think any response is enough," Methos said, "even thoughts and feelings. Bobby tried to ignore it, but he couldn't."
Dean straightened up. "That thing went after Bobby?"
"He's all right," Methos said. "He's on his way back."
"Well, how'd you get here, then?"
"Angel express," Methos said, nodded toward Castiel. When he looked, he noticed that Castiel was looking elsewhere, avoiding Dean.
"So," said Dean, "I, uh, have to confess I've been here for a little while. You two were just standing there and holding hands."
"We were looking through my memories for a way to defeat Ahriman." Methos said.
"Ahriman?"
"Long story," Methos said. "It's the name of the thing we have to send back."
"Back?"
"To where I came from. Think of it as a different dimension."
"Okay," Dean said, drawing it out, disbelieving but not questioning. "Any idea how?"
"That's what we were trying to understand," Methos said.
"Why do you have to look in your memories? Don't angels just know stuff?"
"He is not written," Castiel said, looking at Methos but speaking to Dean.
Dean scratched his head, stepping into the room. "Y'know, I got here a good five, ten minutes ago, and um, it looked something else might be going on. I mean, kind of a surprise to see an angel looking like he was about to start making out."
"That is not-" "That's not-" Castiel and Methos began together, but Dean kept walking toward them, his eyes on Castiel.
"But he wasn't the one you wanted, was he?" Dean said. He closed quickly on Castiel, gripped him tight by the upper arms, and began to back him toward the bookcase. "Was it me?" And he pushed his mouth onto Castiel's, forcing it open, forcing his tongue.
Castiel did not fight back, did not move, and his eyes were wide, unfocused.
Methos froze because he did not know Dean, and did not know if this was something he would do, but the look on Castiel's face was too much like Bobby's, and he knew in a moment that this was Ahriman. This was an opportunity. He and Castiel had both seen Duncan's memories of defeating the demon, but Ahriman was probably torturing Castiel with his illusions, and Castiel did not seem able to be everything and nothing, or whatever it was Duncan had done with his meditation. Castiel's hands began to come up, tentatively, as if to embrace the form of Dean, and Methos knew he had to interfere.
Methos reached to grab the form of Dean by his shoulder, but his hand made contact on nothing. Castiel's coat was deformed by the demon's hands on his arms, but Methos reached again and found nothing to grab, watching his hand go through the plaid shirt. He moved and grabbed Castiel by the arm, yanking his body along the bookcase and out from under the monsterous kiss.
Ahriman let him go, laughing. "Delicious," it said in lilting French accents, suddenly petite and blond and Tessa Noel. "Would you like to know what it was that Duncan loved about me more than he would ever love you?"
"No," Methos said, trying not to react, using the past ten years' schooling of his mind in the monasteries of Nepal. He felt Castiel pull himself free from his grip. He let his thoughts open. That Duncan had loved her more was a fact, and knowing the reason would change nothing. He would accept his jealousy and put it behind him. She smiled broadly, her manner more brazen than anything in Duncan's memory, reminding Methos that this was Ahriman. He tried something different. "How do you know you wouldn't love me more than you loved him? I'm much older, and far more exciting."
The eybrows went up on the fine face, and Methos looked for red in the wide, blue eyes. "I loved him for his weaknesses, and named them strengths," the figure said, the lilting tones too sweet. "He found comfort in me, and just enough challenge, and he he understood me, but I could still surprise him. You were all challenge and mystery. You were work, and you seemed to like it that way, and he loved you despite it. No one could love you the way he loved me, because you will not let them."
Even the master of illusions could speak truth. It had spoken truth to Duncan, but it had not cut him so deeply as this truth did Methos. And when Ahriman began to change, to circle him as Duncan, as Alexis, as Cassandra, as Kronos, in a hundred accusations from loves that he had failed, Methos could ignore it by strengthening his shell. He could not open himself, lose himself, as Duncan had done. And at his failure, Ahriman laughed, derisive and piercing.
And then it stopped. Exeunt omnes, cacharrando, Methos thought, but his heart was racing underneath the practiced cool.
He opened his eyes to find Castiel staring at him, a shade of concern on his face, and a hint of something lost. For Castiel, it was almost a look of despair. "He kissed me." He turned and spat. "I can still feel it." He spat again, shaking his head a bit, as if to clear it. "I… I am tainted.
Methos closed his eyes for a moment. He could not say what impulse drove him, but he remembered Castiel's surprise that Methos could perceive his true form and voice, and he remembered his own voice saying, There's more room in me. He stepped toward Castiel. "Was that your first kiss?"
Castiel's eyes snapped up, wide as if caught out, but he nodded.
"Allow me," he said, and he took Castiel by the shoulders, gently moving him so that his back was no longer to the bookshelves. Castiel allowed himself to be moved, not dropping his gaze. "This is what it should be," Methos said, and he closed in, bringing his lips to within an inch of Castiel's, breathing in the ice that was his breath and the earth that was his body. He moved his hands to Castiel's face, holding it gently and consciously reaching past the skin, then sealing the connection with his mouth. He felt the now-familiar sensation of stretching, of vastness, and at the same time he felt Castiel's mouth open gently under his, felt their toungues touch in a tentative dance.
In the aweful sensation of all that was Castiel, Methos could taste the dark stain of Ahriman's kiss. He pulled it to him, separated it and took it into himself, leaving Castiel in the brilliant, diamond reflection that was his true self. And, for a moment, he could feel Castiel's true voice trumpeting thanks and relief.
Methos stepped back, dropping his hands and feeling the sensation drop like a knife, cutting him off from something so much larger than himself. For the first time he felt it as a loss. He reached out again, and only trusted himself to touch cloth, so he pulled gently at Castiel's loosened tie. "Better now?"
Castiel nodded, looking at the floor. When he said nothing else, Methos waited, glad of the silence to pull himself together. Suddenly, as if the kiss had not happened, Castiel said, "I could not do it." Methos looked to see Castiel holding out one hand and gazing into the palm as if the answer would be found there. "I remembered what you remembered, and I felt his memories in you. I took them in me so I would know." Castiel looked up, and his voice dropped. "What he did, this Duncan MacLeod, I cannot do."
Methos let half of his mouth curl, controlling the sensations left over from having been stretched with Castiel. "I can't do it, either."
"I am what God made me. I cannot be everything or nothing. I am what I am." Castiel's voice had a shade of anger. "What do we do?"
"What can you do?" Methos asked, the question snapping out with a sudden force from his unresolved emotions, his need to be himself.
"Anything." Castiel looked down at his outstretched hand again. "Almost… anything."
Methos snorted. "We can neither of us find the Zen to do what Duncan did. Unless you can send me back in time, so that I can decide not to kill Duncan MacLeod, I don't know how to beat this thing."
"Of course," Castiel breathed. "I should have thought of that."
"Thought of what?"
"Sending you back in time."
Methos didn't want to believe. "You don't even know where I come from."
"I can find out," Castiel said, and then he was gone.
Methos was down to the last two inches of bourbon when Bobby came into the house. "Sorry about leaving with another date."
"I been ditched by prettier," Bobby said, putting down his backpack and walking over to take the bottle from Methos's hand. "Drunker, too." Bobby uncapped it, and found a glass, pouring out three fingers worth and leaving it on the table, far from where Methos slumped on the couch, before plopping down in a chair. "So, what happened?"
"We couldn't do it. We figured out what MacLeod did, but we can't do it."
"Why not?"
Methos snorted. "We aren't good enough."
"What? I've seen you in action, and c'mon, that's an angel you're dealing with. How the hell are you not good enough?"
Methos was drunk enough that he wasn't sure if he could make it make sense to Bobby. "Not that. I mean good, like good and evil."
"Isn't good supposed to come with the whole angel package?"
Methos shook his head, and regretted it. It had taken a lot of bourbon down quickly to get him to this point, and it wouldn't last long. He tried to explain Zen and no-mind, and wasn't sure if it was coming across, but finally Bobby started laughing at him.
"Man, you are lit."
"But do you get it?"
"Yeah, I get it. So what are you going to do?"
"Castiel's off trying to find out where I come from so he can send me back in time."
"In time for what?"
"In time." Methos levered himself off the couch. The drunk was fading thanks to Immortal physiology, and he really wan't ready to feel anything yet. Where had Bobby put that bottle?
"Wait, you mean he's going to send you back to before…" Bobby's voice trailed off, and Methos could hear him inhale.
"Before I killed him, yes." Methos almost hissed the last word, dragging it out as he staggered across the room. He banged his thigh on the corner of the table, but caught the bottle before it tipped over. Methos upended the bourbon, taking two harsh swallows, then looked at the small bit left and thought about drinking it. Instead he took it over to Bobby, walking carefully. "Here."
He knew what Bobby must be thinking. If Castiel could go back in time, was there something Bobby could do to keep his wife alive? "Don't."
"Don't what?" Bobby grunted.
"I have five thousand years of what if, and it doesn't do any good. If only doesn't work any better, either."
"But you get the chance!"
Methos said nothing. Anything he said would make it worse for Bobby, who was still coming down from a hunt, edgy with hating and loving what they did. He sat back on the couch, and then lay down. If he slept, he wouldn't feel anything, either.
¬¬¬***
He came awake all at once, the sensation of a Quickening wired into his sense of danger. He rolled off the sofa into a crouch, looking around for the source of the noise and for his sword. When he saw Castiel standing in the middle of the room, he relaxed a fraction. Bobby was nowhere to be seen.
"You could knock, you know," he said, rising and moving toward the kitchen. He needed something to eat. Castiel followed him and stood out of the way while Methos made coffee and toasted bread while it brewed. Castiel said nothing, which was not like him. Every time Methos glanced his way, he met those piercing eyes. The coffee maker made its final gurgle.
"Breakfast?" he asked. Castiel shook his head, so Methos took a bite of toast. "Figure it out?" he said around the mouthful. Castiel nodded once, his eyes never leaving Methos's face. He swallowed the toast and said, "In most human cultures it is impolite to stare." Castiel said nothing, so Methos stared back, washing down bites with sips of coffee. When he had finished he said, "Well, what do we do?"
Castiel stepped forward and put two fingers on Methos's shoulder, and with the rush of wings they were in the warehouse with the symbols on the walls. The doors were still open, and in the interveneing weeks, leaves had blown into the building. Graffitti tags had been painted over some of the sigils on the walls, but the circle where Methos had arrived was intact.
Castiel said nothing, still. He led Methos to the circle, and reached up with both hands for his face. Methos braced himself, but it did not come. There was only warm skin, the press of lips in a chaste kiss. Blessing and benediction. Castiel walked to the edge of the circle and began to walk around it-widdershins, Methos noted-and when he completed the circuit he faced Methos and nodded once, gravely.
The ground opened beneath him, and Methos felt like he was falling, but there was no wind of passage. When he landed, he was on his feet, ten steps from MacLeod's front door in New York, watching himself pull out a pistol with a silencer. He watched the figure start to turn with the feeling of an unexpected Quickening, but his own sword was already out, already moving, and Methos, the oldest immortal, took his own head.
There was no lightening with the quickening, almost no sense of change, just a long moment of resonance, as if a bass string deep within him had been plucked. When it passed, he looked at the set face of the severed head, and remembered wearing that same grim expression. Methos picked up the pistol, shot the lock once, and dragged the body inside. He wondered if there were any Watchers any more, some decade after the Gathering, to clean up after them.
Methos went up the four flights of stairs making to attempt at stealth, feeling MacLeod's Quickening. He opened the door to find the Highlander sitting up in bed, turning to face him. "Candygram," he said, as he always said when he came back from months away.
MacLeod almost sighed. "I knew you were alive."
Methos could hear the relief and welcome and caution in MacLeod's voice, but he couldn't give in. Duncan's eyes flitted to the sword in his hand, still wet with the blood of his younger self. Methos glanced at the Ivanhoe hanging above the bed and said, "Put some pants on. I'll meet you in your dojo." If there could be only one, it would be a fair fight, and if he won, Duncan MacLeod wouldn't hate, wouldn't let Ahriman free, and Ahriman would die with him.
MacLeod looked at him, suddenly completely awake, and nodded, swallowing. "Now, then?"
"Now," Methos said. He turned and went down the stairs to the floor below, shedding his coat and other weapons. They would do this right. He waited in the dark, holding the Ivanhoe by the hilt, point down, breathing and waiting for the surge of need, for that sense under his skin that he needed to kill, for even just the surge of adrenaline before a fight. He felt only calm.
MacLeod walked in wearing only loose black pants. He spared Methos a glance, and took his katana from where it hung on the wall, unsheathing it, setting the scabbard aside and spinning the sword once. In the muted lighting from the New York streets, Methos could see MacLeod’s muscles flex, less defined than they had been in the past. He was still in good shape, but clearly hadn't been driving himself as hard. Part of Methos's mind marked this change as a point in his favor, even as he wondered at the lack of blood lust. He remembered climbing the stairs weeks ago, and the need that skated under his skin. There was nothing like that now. He watched as MacLeod warmed up, stretched sleep-slack muscles, bringing them back into shape. Methos waited, unmoving, not responding when MacLeod glanced his way.
After a few moments, MacLeod faced him. Duncan faced him. Methos tried to distance himself again, but the first name, the name whispered at night or cried out in pleasure-that was the name he could not shake. MacLeod he could kill. Had killed. Duncan? He wasn't so sure.
"Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."
Methos nodded, and raised the Ivanhoe, not trusting himself to speak. He understood why Castiel had said nothing. There was nothing he wanted to say.
"Won't you answer a challenge with your name?" Duncan asked.
Methos took a breath, waited a moment longer. Duncan moved his head a fraction, but it told Methos that the Challenge had to be answered. "You know who I am, and what I am," he said. "You know what I'm capable of, what I've done, and what I could do. I am the snake in the story, and you took me in anyway."
Duncan did not lower his guard, but he said, "You never bit me."
I killed you, he thought, trying to hold his face in scorn. Duncan was alive. Castiel had sent him back, and Methos should be grateful and not so scared. Deliberately, Methos smirked, but his was harder than he had expected. He made his voice as knowing and lascivious as he could. "Not in any way you didn't like."
He saw Duncan's face darken, readied himself for the first attack, but Duncan stopped and lowered his sword. "We don't have to do this. You don't have to do this."
"There can be only one, isn't that what they tell us?" At that moment, despite the sneer in his voice, Methos would have been satisfied whether he lived or died. This time he would not kill in cold blood, and lie to himself about the reason why. If he died, Duncan would live, and would have every memory of Methos's long life. He would know how well he was loved. Methos took a breath, and repeated, "There can be only one," bringing the Ivanhoe around for a side cut that he knew Duncan could easily block, but it would be the start. He pressed, and Duncan parried, moving to the side so that Methos could not back him to the wall. A part of Methos reveled in the clash of steel, the effort, the automatic analysis, looking for any opening. Duncan beat back his blade and whirled away, landing in the center of the room with his sword out straight. Methos beat at the blade once, but only as a test. He was glad of the chance to catch his breath.
"You said that to me once before," Duncan said. "You were trying to get me to take your head so that I would be strong enough to defeat Kalas."
"Is that what I told you?" Methos sneered. He did not want to remember that night. He had known the Highlander wouldn't do it.
"You offered me your neck. You were going to fight me and be sure to lose." Duncan dropped the point of his sword. "Is that what you're doing now?"
"Why would I do that?" Methos said, stepping forward with another side cut, forcing Duncan back and into guard. "Why do you think I waited so long after the Gathering? I was waiting for you to go soft," he lied. He was trying to make Duncan angry, to get him off balance. It was simply a tactic of battle, and he pressed forward again, feignting left and low, then bringing the heavy blade under and up on the right. It caught on Duncan's wide hakama trousers, and he pushed in to nick the skin above his knee before pulling back. In the half second as he returned to guard, he was open, and Duncan could have attacked, but he didn't. He hadn't attacked once, only defended.
"What's wrong, Highlander? If you plan to lose, why not just kneel down now?"
"Never," Duncan said, and even in the deep breaths of the effort of the fight, his voice sounded preternaturally calm. "You don't have to do this," he said again.
Methos attacked again, and this time he was watching for it-the steps of the kata meditation. Before living through Duncan's memories he would not have recognized it so quickly. "You're soft, MacLeod. I've been training for this. You knew what I was when you took me in, and now is the time I turn to bite." He narrowed his eyes and pushed harder. "Do you really want me to be the last?"
But Duncan didn't respond to the goading. He sheathed his katana and hung it on the wall, then sat, posed for meditation, and closed his eyes.
"Bloody hell," whispered Methos, letting out some of the hope he had locked away. But he stayed in the role, and walked over, placing the Ivanhoe on Duncan's shoulder. "If I run you through, I will not disappear like Ahriman. I am not part of you." Duncan's eyes opened, and he looked up at Methos.
"How can you know that?" His eyes widened. "Are you Ahriman?"
"Would I tell you if I was?" Methos asked, but something more made it into his voice-disgust at the thought, and realization that a streak of Ahriman was in him, taken from Castiel. His left hand came to his lip, unbidden, remembering the kiss. Ahriman was in both of them now.
He lowered the Ivanhoe and reached into his pocket. He found the penny Bobby had given him in exchange for the knife. He dropped it in Duncan's lap. "Penny for your thoughts."
Duncan picked up the coin and looked up as he fingered it. "I went through the Gathering, Methos. I know what it feels like to need to fight and to kill. I don't feel that now."
"Neither do I," Methos said. He let the silence stretch for a moment. "Did you win the Prize?" he asked, knowing the answer.
Duncan shook his head. "There was no prize."
"Yes, there is," he said, remembering the stupid, romantic thing Duncan had said to him the last time they were together. "I'm here." He put down his sword and did something he remembered about Tessa Noel, sitting in front of Duncan and turning to lie on his back with his head in Duncan's lap. He felt vulnerable and open.
"You're the Prize?" Duncan said affectionately, carding his hand through Methos's hair as if by reflex, exactly as he had done with Tessa. "Definitely not a snake. More donkey, I'd say."
"Yes, yes," Methos sighed. "Three-letter word, starts with A."
They stayed there for a long moment, the only movement Duncan's fingers in Methos's hair. Duncan finally said, "So you got a new sword?"
Methos swallowed. "No. Same one."
"What, did you break in and replace it with a replica hanging over my bed?"
"Same one. Take a look at that penny I gave you," Methos said, looking up at Duncan.
Duncan held it up to the light coming in through the window from the streetlamps, twisting it between his fingers. "This doesn't look right. Lincoln is supposed to be in profile." He looked back down at Methos. "Where did you get this?"
"That's a very long story, and I'm not sure you're going to believe it." Methos sat up and turned to face Duncan. "The snake is dead, and I've got the body down stairs to prove it."
Author(s): filenotch
Artist: amyeyl
Crossover: Highlander
Word Count: ~25,000
Characters/Pairings: Methos, Duncan MacLeod, Ahriman, Bobby Singer, Castiel; Methos/Duncan
Warnings: It's Supernatural. It's Highlander. People die, and it isn't always pretty.
Link to Art Master Post: Amyeyl's great pencils
Methos pulled himself out before he became lost. He hated the sensation, even as he recognized how important it was to Duncan. Methos searched those last memories, that mental state, the no-state, that Duncan had achieved in his meditation. Methos had spent plenty of time in these last years hiding in Nepal with monks who expected meditation practice, but he had never been able to become everything, become nothing in the way the monks had tried to teach him. He was too much himself, too proud of his long survival. Meditation had taught him only to accept his own paradoxes.
He looked at Castiel, surprised to find him staring into the distance, his mouth open in a muted expression of shock and dismay. Methos couldn't help feeling again as if he was seeing an emotion that was new to the angel. After a moment Castiel turned his gaze to Methos. "How?" he breathed. "How did he do that? Only God… And not even… What was he?"
"He was the best of us," Methos murmured. Methos could not shake the thought that Duncan had loved him knowing that he was himself no better than Methos, though he'd once thought his choices were just; and Methos had loved Duncan because he wanted to shelter himself in something better than he was. The irony choked him. "He accepted all that he was."
Castiel blinked and shook his head slightly, an attenuated motion as if to clear it. "That cannot be. There is good, and there is evil, Heaven and Hell."
"Humans are not all one thing or the other."
Castiel had a brief, dismissive expression. "Of course. That is Original Sin, but the good and the evil should be at war."
"As you are at war, assured of your righteousness?"
Castiel nodded, his face returning to the impassive mask he usually wore.
"We justify all manner of atrocities," Methos said, his memory flashing images of villages devastated behind the Four Horsemen, of the faces of scared farm boys in British uniforms falling under Duncan's sword, of a mother struck dead because a demon chose to ride her.
Castiel looked away, then stepped back, eyes widening. Methos followed his glance and saw the form of Dean Winchester.
"Castiel, what are you doing here, and who is this guy? Where's Bobby?" he asked in tones that were cautious, curious, and aggressive, all at once. He stood balanced, as if ready to move. With training, Methos thought, he would be a very good fighter.
The tone of voice, the body language-it was different. Methos looked carefully, but there was no flash of red in the eyes, nothing to indicate this might not be Dean in the flesh. Bobby talked about Dean and his brother from time to time, but they had not met.
Castiel blinked. "Bobby Singer is coming back from a hunt. Methos and I are exploring his memories to determine how to defeat a …thing that doesn't belong here."
"If it's a hunt, I'm in." Dean stepped forward. "How do we kill it?"
"We don't know," Methos said. "Zen it to death, from what I can tell."
"Zen?"
"I think…" Methos started, and then thought for a moment. "I think it needs hate and fear. It creates illusions, manipulates responses. If you don't respond, it has no power."
Dean's eyebrows scrunched together. "Kind of makes it hard to fight. Or do you just stand there?"
"I think any response is enough," Methos said, "even thoughts and feelings. Bobby tried to ignore it, but he couldn't."
Dean straightened up. "That thing went after Bobby?"
"He's all right," Methos said. "He's on his way back."
"Well, how'd you get here, then?"
"Angel express," Methos said, nodded toward Castiel. When he looked, he noticed that Castiel was looking elsewhere, avoiding Dean.
"So," said Dean, "I, uh, have to confess I've been here for a little while. You two were just standing there and holding hands."
"We were looking through my memories for a way to defeat Ahriman." Methos said.
"Ahriman?"
"Long story," Methos said. "It's the name of the thing we have to send back."
"Back?"
"To where I came from. Think of it as a different dimension."
"Okay," Dean said, drawing it out, disbelieving but not questioning. "Any idea how?"
"That's what we were trying to understand," Methos said.
"Why do you have to look in your memories? Don't angels just know stuff?"
"He is not written," Castiel said, looking at Methos but speaking to Dean.
Dean scratched his head, stepping into the room. "Y'know, I got here a good five, ten minutes ago, and um, it looked something else might be going on. I mean, kind of a surprise to see an angel looking like he was about to start making out."
"That is not-" "That's not-" Castiel and Methos began together, but Dean kept walking toward them, his eyes on Castiel.
"But he wasn't the one you wanted, was he?" Dean said. He closed quickly on Castiel, gripped him tight by the upper arms, and began to back him toward the bookcase. "Was it me?" And he pushed his mouth onto Castiel's, forcing it open, forcing his tongue.
Castiel did not fight back, did not move, and his eyes were wide, unfocused.
Methos froze because he did not know Dean, and did not know if this was something he would do, but the look on Castiel's face was too much like Bobby's, and he knew in a moment that this was Ahriman. This was an opportunity. He and Castiel had both seen Duncan's memories of defeating the demon, but Ahriman was probably torturing Castiel with his illusions, and Castiel did not seem able to be everything and nothing, or whatever it was Duncan had done with his meditation. Castiel's hands began to come up, tentatively, as if to embrace the form of Dean, and Methos knew he had to interfere.
Methos reached to grab the form of Dean by his shoulder, but his hand made contact on nothing. Castiel's coat was deformed by the demon's hands on his arms, but Methos reached again and found nothing to grab, watching his hand go through the plaid shirt. He moved and grabbed Castiel by the arm, yanking his body along the bookcase and out from under the monsterous kiss.
Ahriman let him go, laughing. "Delicious," it said in lilting French accents, suddenly petite and blond and Tessa Noel. "Would you like to know what it was that Duncan loved about me more than he would ever love you?"
"No," Methos said, trying not to react, using the past ten years' schooling of his mind in the monasteries of Nepal. He felt Castiel pull himself free from his grip. He let his thoughts open. That Duncan had loved her more was a fact, and knowing the reason would change nothing. He would accept his jealousy and put it behind him. She smiled broadly, her manner more brazen than anything in Duncan's memory, reminding Methos that this was Ahriman. He tried something different. "How do you know you wouldn't love me more than you loved him? I'm much older, and far more exciting."
The eybrows went up on the fine face, and Methos looked for red in the wide, blue eyes. "I loved him for his weaknesses, and named them strengths," the figure said, the lilting tones too sweet. "He found comfort in me, and just enough challenge, and he he understood me, but I could still surprise him. You were all challenge and mystery. You were work, and you seemed to like it that way, and he loved you despite it. No one could love you the way he loved me, because you will not let them."
Even the master of illusions could speak truth. It had spoken truth to Duncan, but it had not cut him so deeply as this truth did Methos. And when Ahriman began to change, to circle him as Duncan, as Alexis, as Cassandra, as Kronos, in a hundred accusations from loves that he had failed, Methos could ignore it by strengthening his shell. He could not open himself, lose himself, as Duncan had done. And at his failure, Ahriman laughed, derisive and piercing.
And then it stopped. Exeunt omnes, cacharrando, Methos thought, but his heart was racing underneath the practiced cool.
He opened his eyes to find Castiel staring at him, a shade of concern on his face, and a hint of something lost. For Castiel, it was almost a look of despair. "He kissed me." He turned and spat. "I can still feel it." He spat again, shaking his head a bit, as if to clear it. "I… I am tainted.
Methos closed his eyes for a moment. He could not say what impulse drove him, but he remembered Castiel's surprise that Methos could perceive his true form and voice, and he remembered his own voice saying, There's more room in me. He stepped toward Castiel. "Was that your first kiss?"
Castiel's eyes snapped up, wide as if caught out, but he nodded.
"Allow me," he said, and he took Castiel by the shoulders, gently moving him so that his back was no longer to the bookshelves. Castiel allowed himself to be moved, not dropping his gaze. "This is what it should be," Methos said, and he closed in, bringing his lips to within an inch of Castiel's, breathing in the ice that was his breath and the earth that was his body. He moved his hands to Castiel's face, holding it gently and consciously reaching past the skin, then sealing the connection with his mouth. He felt the now-familiar sensation of stretching, of vastness, and at the same time he felt Castiel's mouth open gently under his, felt their toungues touch in a tentative dance.
In the aweful sensation of all that was Castiel, Methos could taste the dark stain of Ahriman's kiss. He pulled it to him, separated it and took it into himself, leaving Castiel in the brilliant, diamond reflection that was his true self. And, for a moment, he could feel Castiel's true voice trumpeting thanks and relief.
Methos stepped back, dropping his hands and feeling the sensation drop like a knife, cutting him off from something so much larger than himself. For the first time he felt it as a loss. He reached out again, and only trusted himself to touch cloth, so he pulled gently at Castiel's loosened tie. "Better now?"
Castiel nodded, looking at the floor. When he said nothing else, Methos waited, glad of the silence to pull himself together. Suddenly, as if the kiss had not happened, Castiel said, "I could not do it." Methos looked to see Castiel holding out one hand and gazing into the palm as if the answer would be found there. "I remembered what you remembered, and I felt his memories in you. I took them in me so I would know." Castiel looked up, and his voice dropped. "What he did, this Duncan MacLeod, I cannot do."
Methos let half of his mouth curl, controlling the sensations left over from having been stretched with Castiel. "I can't do it, either."
"I am what God made me. I cannot be everything or nothing. I am what I am." Castiel's voice had a shade of anger. "What do we do?"
"What can you do?" Methos asked, the question snapping out with a sudden force from his unresolved emotions, his need to be himself.
"Anything." Castiel looked down at his outstretched hand again. "Almost… anything."
Methos snorted. "We can neither of us find the Zen to do what Duncan did. Unless you can send me back in time, so that I can decide not to kill Duncan MacLeod, I don't know how to beat this thing."
"Of course," Castiel breathed. "I should have thought of that."
"Thought of what?"
"Sending you back in time."
Methos didn't want to believe. "You don't even know where I come from."
"I can find out," Castiel said, and then he was gone.
Methos was down to the last two inches of bourbon when Bobby came into the house. "Sorry about leaving with another date."
"I been ditched by prettier," Bobby said, putting down his backpack and walking over to take the bottle from Methos's hand. "Drunker, too." Bobby uncapped it, and found a glass, pouring out three fingers worth and leaving it on the table, far from where Methos slumped on the couch, before plopping down in a chair. "So, what happened?"
"We couldn't do it. We figured out what MacLeod did, but we can't do it."
"Why not?"
Methos snorted. "We aren't good enough."
"What? I've seen you in action, and c'mon, that's an angel you're dealing with. How the hell are you not good enough?"
Methos was drunk enough that he wasn't sure if he could make it make sense to Bobby. "Not that. I mean good, like good and evil."
"Isn't good supposed to come with the whole angel package?"
Methos shook his head, and regretted it. It had taken a lot of bourbon down quickly to get him to this point, and it wouldn't last long. He tried to explain Zen and no-mind, and wasn't sure if it was coming across, but finally Bobby started laughing at him.
"Man, you are lit."
"But do you get it?"
"Yeah, I get it. So what are you going to do?"
"Castiel's off trying to find out where I come from so he can send me back in time."
"In time for what?"
"In time." Methos levered himself off the couch. The drunk was fading thanks to Immortal physiology, and he really wan't ready to feel anything yet. Where had Bobby put that bottle?
"Wait, you mean he's going to send you back to before…" Bobby's voice trailed off, and Methos could hear him inhale.
"Before I killed him, yes." Methos almost hissed the last word, dragging it out as he staggered across the room. He banged his thigh on the corner of the table, but caught the bottle before it tipped over. Methos upended the bourbon, taking two harsh swallows, then looked at the small bit left and thought about drinking it. Instead he took it over to Bobby, walking carefully. "Here."
He knew what Bobby must be thinking. If Castiel could go back in time, was there something Bobby could do to keep his wife alive? "Don't."
"Don't what?" Bobby grunted.
"I have five thousand years of what if, and it doesn't do any good. If only doesn't work any better, either."
"But you get the chance!"
Methos said nothing. Anything he said would make it worse for Bobby, who was still coming down from a hunt, edgy with hating and loving what they did. He sat back on the couch, and then lay down. If he slept, he wouldn't feel anything, either.
¬¬¬***
He came awake all at once, the sensation of a Quickening wired into his sense of danger. He rolled off the sofa into a crouch, looking around for the source of the noise and for his sword. When he saw Castiel standing in the middle of the room, he relaxed a fraction. Bobby was nowhere to be seen.
"You could knock, you know," he said, rising and moving toward the kitchen. He needed something to eat. Castiel followed him and stood out of the way while Methos made coffee and toasted bread while it brewed. Castiel said nothing, which was not like him. Every time Methos glanced his way, he met those piercing eyes. The coffee maker made its final gurgle.
"Breakfast?" he asked. Castiel shook his head, so Methos took a bite of toast. "Figure it out?" he said around the mouthful. Castiel nodded once, his eyes never leaving Methos's face. He swallowed the toast and said, "In most human cultures it is impolite to stare." Castiel said nothing, so Methos stared back, washing down bites with sips of coffee. When he had finished he said, "Well, what do we do?"
Castiel stepped forward and put two fingers on Methos's shoulder, and with the rush of wings they were in the warehouse with the symbols on the walls. The doors were still open, and in the interveneing weeks, leaves had blown into the building. Graffitti tags had been painted over some of the sigils on the walls, but the circle where Methos had arrived was intact.
Castiel said nothing, still. He led Methos to the circle, and reached up with both hands for his face. Methos braced himself, but it did not come. There was only warm skin, the press of lips in a chaste kiss. Blessing and benediction. Castiel walked to the edge of the circle and began to walk around it-widdershins, Methos noted-and when he completed the circuit he faced Methos and nodded once, gravely.
The ground opened beneath him, and Methos felt like he was falling, but there was no wind of passage. When he landed, he was on his feet, ten steps from MacLeod's front door in New York, watching himself pull out a pistol with a silencer. He watched the figure start to turn with the feeling of an unexpected Quickening, but his own sword was already out, already moving, and Methos, the oldest immortal, took his own head.
There was no lightening with the quickening, almost no sense of change, just a long moment of resonance, as if a bass string deep within him had been plucked. When it passed, he looked at the set face of the severed head, and remembered wearing that same grim expression. Methos picked up the pistol, shot the lock once, and dragged the body inside. He wondered if there were any Watchers any more, some decade after the Gathering, to clean up after them.
Methos went up the four flights of stairs making to attempt at stealth, feeling MacLeod's Quickening. He opened the door to find the Highlander sitting up in bed, turning to face him. "Candygram," he said, as he always said when he came back from months away.
MacLeod almost sighed. "I knew you were alive."
Methos could hear the relief and welcome and caution in MacLeod's voice, but he couldn't give in. Duncan's eyes flitted to the sword in his hand, still wet with the blood of his younger self. Methos glanced at the Ivanhoe hanging above the bed and said, "Put some pants on. I'll meet you in your dojo." If there could be only one, it would be a fair fight, and if he won, Duncan MacLeod wouldn't hate, wouldn't let Ahriman free, and Ahriman would die with him.
MacLeod looked at him, suddenly completely awake, and nodded, swallowing. "Now, then?"
"Now," Methos said. He turned and went down the stairs to the floor below, shedding his coat and other weapons. They would do this right. He waited in the dark, holding the Ivanhoe by the hilt, point down, breathing and waiting for the surge of need, for that sense under his skin that he needed to kill, for even just the surge of adrenaline before a fight. He felt only calm.
MacLeod walked in wearing only loose black pants. He spared Methos a glance, and took his katana from where it hung on the wall, unsheathing it, setting the scabbard aside and spinning the sword once. In the muted lighting from the New York streets, Methos could see MacLeod’s muscles flex, less defined than they had been in the past. He was still in good shape, but clearly hadn't been driving himself as hard. Part of Methos's mind marked this change as a point in his favor, even as he wondered at the lack of blood lust. He remembered climbing the stairs weeks ago, and the need that skated under his skin. There was nothing like that now. He watched as MacLeod warmed up, stretched sleep-slack muscles, bringing them back into shape. Methos waited, unmoving, not responding when MacLeod glanced his way.
After a few moments, MacLeod faced him. Duncan faced him. Methos tried to distance himself again, but the first name, the name whispered at night or cried out in pleasure-that was the name he could not shake. MacLeod he could kill. Had killed. Duncan? He wasn't so sure.
"Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."
Methos nodded, and raised the Ivanhoe, not trusting himself to speak. He understood why Castiel had said nothing. There was nothing he wanted to say.
"Won't you answer a challenge with your name?" Duncan asked.
Methos took a breath, waited a moment longer. Duncan moved his head a fraction, but it told Methos that the Challenge had to be answered. "You know who I am, and what I am," he said. "You know what I'm capable of, what I've done, and what I could do. I am the snake in the story, and you took me in anyway."
Duncan did not lower his guard, but he said, "You never bit me."
I killed you, he thought, trying to hold his face in scorn. Duncan was alive. Castiel had sent him back, and Methos should be grateful and not so scared. Deliberately, Methos smirked, but his was harder than he had expected. He made his voice as knowing and lascivious as he could. "Not in any way you didn't like."
He saw Duncan's face darken, readied himself for the first attack, but Duncan stopped and lowered his sword. "We don't have to do this. You don't have to do this."
"There can be only one, isn't that what they tell us?" At that moment, despite the sneer in his voice, Methos would have been satisfied whether he lived or died. This time he would not kill in cold blood, and lie to himself about the reason why. If he died, Duncan would live, and would have every memory of Methos's long life. He would know how well he was loved. Methos took a breath, and repeated, "There can be only one," bringing the Ivanhoe around for a side cut that he knew Duncan could easily block, but it would be the start. He pressed, and Duncan parried, moving to the side so that Methos could not back him to the wall. A part of Methos reveled in the clash of steel, the effort, the automatic analysis, looking for any opening. Duncan beat back his blade and whirled away, landing in the center of the room with his sword out straight. Methos beat at the blade once, but only as a test. He was glad of the chance to catch his breath.
"You said that to me once before," Duncan said. "You were trying to get me to take your head so that I would be strong enough to defeat Kalas."
"Is that what I told you?" Methos sneered. He did not want to remember that night. He had known the Highlander wouldn't do it.
"You offered me your neck. You were going to fight me and be sure to lose." Duncan dropped the point of his sword. "Is that what you're doing now?"
"Why would I do that?" Methos said, stepping forward with another side cut, forcing Duncan back and into guard. "Why do you think I waited so long after the Gathering? I was waiting for you to go soft," he lied. He was trying to make Duncan angry, to get him off balance. It was simply a tactic of battle, and he pressed forward again, feignting left and low, then bringing the heavy blade under and up on the right. It caught on Duncan's wide hakama trousers, and he pushed in to nick the skin above his knee before pulling back. In the half second as he returned to guard, he was open, and Duncan could have attacked, but he didn't. He hadn't attacked once, only defended.
"What's wrong, Highlander? If you plan to lose, why not just kneel down now?"
"Never," Duncan said, and even in the deep breaths of the effort of the fight, his voice sounded preternaturally calm. "You don't have to do this," he said again.
Methos attacked again, and this time he was watching for it-the steps of the kata meditation. Before living through Duncan's memories he would not have recognized it so quickly. "You're soft, MacLeod. I've been training for this. You knew what I was when you took me in, and now is the time I turn to bite." He narrowed his eyes and pushed harder. "Do you really want me to be the last?"
But Duncan didn't respond to the goading. He sheathed his katana and hung it on the wall, then sat, posed for meditation, and closed his eyes.
"Bloody hell," whispered Methos, letting out some of the hope he had locked away. But he stayed in the role, and walked over, placing the Ivanhoe on Duncan's shoulder. "If I run you through, I will not disappear like Ahriman. I am not part of you." Duncan's eyes opened, and he looked up at Methos.
"How can you know that?" His eyes widened. "Are you Ahriman?"
"Would I tell you if I was?" Methos asked, but something more made it into his voice-disgust at the thought, and realization that a streak of Ahriman was in him, taken from Castiel. His left hand came to his lip, unbidden, remembering the kiss. Ahriman was in both of them now.
He lowered the Ivanhoe and reached into his pocket. He found the penny Bobby had given him in exchange for the knife. He dropped it in Duncan's lap. "Penny for your thoughts."
Duncan picked up the coin and looked up as he fingered it. "I went through the Gathering, Methos. I know what it feels like to need to fight and to kill. I don't feel that now."
"Neither do I," Methos said. He let the silence stretch for a moment. "Did you win the Prize?" he asked, knowing the answer.
Duncan shook his head. "There was no prize."
"Yes, there is," he said, remembering the stupid, romantic thing Duncan had said to him the last time they were together. "I'm here." He put down his sword and did something he remembered about Tessa Noel, sitting in front of Duncan and turning to lie on his back with his head in Duncan's lap. He felt vulnerable and open.
"You're the Prize?" Duncan said affectionately, carding his hand through Methos's hair as if by reflex, exactly as he had done with Tessa. "Definitely not a snake. More donkey, I'd say."
"Yes, yes," Methos sighed. "Three-letter word, starts with A."
They stayed there for a long moment, the only movement Duncan's fingers in Methos's hair. Duncan finally said, "So you got a new sword?"
Methos swallowed. "No. Same one."
"What, did you break in and replace it with a replica hanging over my bed?"
"Same one. Take a look at that penny I gave you," Methos said, looking up at Duncan.
Duncan held it up to the light coming in through the window from the streetlamps, twisting it between his fingers. "This doesn't look right. Lincoln is supposed to be in profile." He looked back down at Methos. "Where did you get this?"
"That's a very long story, and I'm not sure you're going to believe it." Methos sat up and turned to face Duncan. "The snake is dead, and I've got the body down stairs to prove it."