"Whispered On The Winds," Highlander/Marvel, part 5/5
We're at the end of this ride. Many, many thanks to my betas on this: 
draconis ,
devohoneybee,
mischief,
raine, and
samjohnsson .
Hope you guys have enjoyed!
Part 5 on AO3 here; on Dreamwidth, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4.
Rated: R most likely. Some spoilers for several of the Marvel Cinematic Universe movies, particularly Iron Man. The Highlander elements come in via Killa and Lapilus' amazing Alternate Universe vid, "Opportunities." Written for an art prompt from Pentapus' Reverse Bigbang, and for Crossover100 prompt #79 -- desert.
Whispered On The Winds
2012, London
Fog was drifting in from the French doors, wisps of moisture rolling into the ballroom and almost muffling the rumble of a riverboat going by. As a contrast with the 'Arabian Nights' theme of the party, the fog made Methos wish his hosts had provided good beer or Irish coffee. Fortunately, the red wine he'd finally found was almost strong enough to cope with the irony of it all.
Methos had deliberately gone for a costume more pseudo-medieval than desert scanty; as a result, he wasn't freezing amid the white sand and fake palm trees. One bright soul had come as a were-jackal. (An amazing number of the guests seemed to have the Arabian Nights mixed up with Egypt; in this case, Methos thought the mistake was deliberate good sense.)
Judging by a few of the disappearances and fidgety reappearances, a few people had acquired sand in unpleasant places. The party wasn't completely dull or useless, though. He'd been able to scout out and, in some cases, flirt with prospective targets over the course of the night. He'd even overheard a pair of useful conversations when charitable patrons had discussed their proposed security upgrades.
He'd also learned that a certain well-connected man was a ne'er do well whose cousin was adding a feature or six to her system. Someone who couldn't very well be denied entry but had a nasty habit of absconding with portable wealth might make a very useful red herring in a future job.
Methos commiserated with the other attendees, admitted that he'd had to sell off or secure a few things himself, and had made copious mental notes. Any jobs based on this gossip would need at least a six-month cooling off period, and have to be spread out over probably six more months besides, but a year's heists planned wasn't a bad night's work.
Especially when that night had included good wine, a view of a few rare first edition books, and an offer or four to keep him warm later. He might even take one of the offers up if he saw them on the way out, because it was definitely time to make his exit. He hadn't relocated anything here himself, but he'd seen a few jewels wander off costumes and at least four drug deals -- two of them unbeknownst to the 'donors,' he rather thought.
So. Time to make his goodbyes here, as he hadn't at the last couple parties. Once he'd established again that he was unpredictably courteous, he could head home.
Methos sauntered past a pair of women doing a very good Charleston and a trio of belly dancers. The women were good; the young man was amazing, but probably still working for another hour. Just past them, he found someone dressed as King Tut who was freezing quite a few of his assets off. Despite the drugs that kept him from noticing the chill, he remembered seeing their hosts dancing to French-Algerian jazz half an hour ago.
By now, they were most likely either getting food or drink. Methos glanced around again for a remarkably clean brigand chief -- really, no one did authenticity these days and thank Whomever for that -- and a genie whose outfit drew its influences from Hollywood. As he did, a hand slipped into the crook of his arm.
He kept walking, his attention on the inner pocket of his tunic, the one that held his licenses and cash. No one tried to lift anything, and he glanced over to see strawberry blond hair, cut short and shingled as Amanda's recent platinum pageboy. The figure, however, wasn't Amanda's, and she would never wear a kimono to an Arabian Nights party.
"You didn't mention knowing Grayson." The Black Widow's murmur was low, breathy, and sounded as admiring as any of the other people who'd tried to flatter Methos out of money for a pet cause that evening.
"No. That's not a name I'd mention," Methos said softly. "You're looking well. Did I see you in the background of the Monaco footage?"
She gave him an amused tilt of head, not so much a 'yes' as 'you know I won't answer that.' Answer enough. "No, I imagine you wouldn't. He seems to have an interest in old journals."
"It's a very good Malbec," Methos said lightly. "Come alone, I'll get you one with my refill."
Natasha smiled at him adoringly. "Or we could just go home?"
"I'll take you home if he's not interested," offered a blond youngster who'd spent time in a tanning booth before he donned that skimpy costume. Good thing, too; as pale as that blond hair was, he'd have been deathly white against the black silk.
Natasha shook her head, smiling. "When you already have an admirer?" He turned to look and Methos moved them both along while he wandered his flustered way towards possible amours.
Methos asked softly, "Do we need to leave?"
"Afraid to take me home?" she countered, still clinging to his arm and smiling.
"Not really in a mood to decamp to a backup site," Methos said quietly.
"It might be better if we left," she said lightly.
"You sound distressingly like one of my partners." Methos headed towards the doors. "Come on. I know all the best coffee bars."
"I think I'm flattered by the comparison." Natasha added quickly but still quietly, "No. We have no interest in recruiting any of you three. That wasn't a threat. I needed to know who you were working with to decide when to approach you. That's all."
So SHIELD wasn't after Duncan or Amanda. He'd have to find out if she'd shared that information with SHIELD, however. "Good."
He left it at that as they headed for his car. They both checked the car, quickly and unobtrusively, then climbed in. Watching her crouch in that kimono almost erased his annoyance. Almost.
Methos drove with most of his attention on the road, disregarding Natasha's idle comments; he could already tell this wasn't going to be a conversation to be held at fifty miles per hour. Getting home took almost an hour and would have taken longer if it wasn't two in the morning.
Methos coded the security system off, already making plans to change the code as soon as Natasha left. He waved her in, however, and closed up and locked up behind her. "So. Coffee for this?"
"Some coffee house." She smiled at him. "Yes. Coffee, please, and some vodka if you have any?"
That wasn't a request he'd expected. Methos stopped and reevaluated her; she wasn't trying to present a front, he realized. "This isn't business, then."
Natasha shook her head. "No. I have a couple days off and some information for you which didn't need to be on paper, bytes, or a phone line."
"Ah." Methos flicked the coffee machine on and got cream out of the fridge, vodka from the freezer, and a tin of ginger biscuits off the shelf. "Duncan's been baking again."
"Shoulders like that and he bakes?" Natasha teased, but she brought two mugs over for the tray and added the sugar bowl and a pair of shot glasses.
"Shoulders and thighs like that, and a mouth made for sin, and he likes being domestic," Methos corrected. "Good thing, too. Amanda isn't."
"Amanda has... other talents," Natasha purred. She laughed, too, when he gave her a threatening glare. "No, Adam. I knew Amanda's name and skills before I killed you that time in Brasilia, so don't bother. They're fond memories, thank you. I just didn't know she was like you until a few years ago."
"And now that you know?" He poured the coffee into an insulated carafe and picked up the tray, leading the way back to his study. He was going to want the familiar ground, he suspected. He'd also have more weapons to hand at his desk than in the lounge.
Natasha followed him in, admiring (and probably memorizing) the house as she went. "How many cleaning people does it take to keep this place up?"
"A team once a week," Methos said calmly. "Bonded and insured. Do I need to change them?"
"No, they're incorruptible. I checked." She shrugged, breasts shifting under the kimono distractingly; the motion was probably more habit than intent by now.
"You would," Methos muttered, but it was nice to have the confirmation from someone whose professional opinion he could trust. "Close the door."
Natasha raised an eyebrow, turned to do so -- and smiled. "Now that's lovely. Who painted that for you?"
"I did, of course." Methos tried to look affronted, but he did love the way the room looked with the door closed. Windows and desk and couch on the south wall; books sweeping the length of the east and west walls in rows of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The north wall was his pride and joy, however, centered on the door and hand-painted to look like the forests of Britain as Methos first remembered them, full of green shadow and dappled gold light and tree trunks rising out of smaller plant life. If she looked, and he suspected she would over the course of the discussion, Natasha would find fruit here, flowers there, and a variety of animals under some of the shrubs. Including one of the great wolves that had rightfully been the terror of Europe. (He'd put it in to remind him of some of his past mistakes in both enemies and lovers.)
She stood there admiring it while Methos dispensed coffee, then turned and came back, removing her necklace as she did. She poured a warm string of golden pearls onto the tray before she took her coffee, added sugar to it, and sat down. "Could you give that back to Amanda? She hadn't meant to loan it to me."
"If she didn't steal it back in the interim, she probably did," Methos retorted. He took the strand up, running it through his hands. High quality, matched, naturally gold pearls? He was playing with a small fortune, and Amanda had definitely liked Natasha if she'd left it with her -- or she hadn't been in any position to go after it.
He put the necklace and its question aside. He also turned on a white noise generator and asked for an answer he probably wouldn't like. "Grayson?"
"Has reason to think that if you did still exist, you're probably dead now," Natasha said briskly. "I made sure a partial book cover that looked like yours was found with a partial body: male, tall, and in good shape before he died."
Methos sipped his coffee to hide his mouth and eyes and ran through Kronos' first score of alibis, pushing aside all the might-have-beens that Kronos always brought up. He finally said, "No wonder you wanted vodka."
"For both of us?" She stood, poured glasses for them both, and handed it over. "You'll want the details, I assume?"
"You assume correctly. Gods. You played games with Grayson?" Methos added sugar to his own coffee preemptively. Even immortals could end up in shock, and Grayson and his mentor were a challenge he hadn't wanted to take up.
"He's good," Natasha said lightly, "but not as good as he thinks. Now, when Darius was still in charge, he was terrifyingly competent." Her fingers twitched on her glass and she hissed, "Grayson is one of you?" She kept watching him and bit her lip. "No. Both of them are like you? Bozhe moi."
He hadn't held still enough, or he'd held too still, or maybe she could just read him too well now, as he could almost read her.... "Both of them are like me," Methos said quietly. "Do not ever let them know that you know, or you will be a very long time dying and I'll be digging for a safe enough hole. Or a large enough army."
"That's why von Doom isn't doing any better," Natasha said softly. "They're holding him off. And..." She changed what she'd been saying and Methos let her. He had no intention of ever working for SHIELD. "Did Darius abdicate because he'd been in charge too long? Or because Doom rose to power and he wanted to slide behind the scenes?"
"Both, probably. But yes. Those two consider that section of Europe to be theirs and Doom probably has no idea how much of his trouble they're responsible for." Methos held himself very level. "Enough of that. Tell me about what you left for Grayson's men and how you tracked them to Grayson."
"Tracking them was the easy part," Natasha said. "They delivered the book remnants and the sword--"
"A sword," Methos interrupted.
"It was the strangest weapon you were carrying in Afghanistan," Natasha said calmly, "and you've had one almost every time I've met you, even when you didn't have a gun. The one time you didn't have a sword, you had a very long knife. So I assumed one or the other was needed for the cover and acquired two swords and some very good knives, ones I'd use if I depended on them."
"Two swords." Methos was starting to feel like a parrot or a bad echo, but he hadn't expected this. Thorough, yes, and smart, yes, but he hadn't realized how much she'd put together. "Why two?"
"One for the body and one for me. I might ask for lessons sometime. People are surprisingly unnerved by a blade that long." She shook her head. "Drink your coffee. Let me know when I should start again."
Methos threw the vodka straight down his throat and followed it with some of the coffee. "Go on."
She nodded and straightened, the kimono fold sliding to expose a little more creamy skin. She sounded like the professional he knew damn well she was when she continued. "Here's what I left for them. They found most of a man who'd been almost six feet tall and in good enough shape that the forensic analysis of the bones confirmed extensive musculature and flexibility."
She went on, "The body was partially destroyed by fire. It retained the torso, one arm, and part of both legs. The hand was still holding the book cover and the heat-soaked vellum; the pages were not readable, even by checking for indentations. No feet, no head, insufficient flesh or skin left for fingerprints. He was found with a partially deformed gun -- we threw it in a fire; Hawkeye says thank you, that was fun to test -- and a heat-damaged sword, plus a pair of knives, also damaged."
"Where did you get the body?" Methos asked, frowning.
"A local farmer -- young and healthy, his family was wealthy by local standards -- who'd stepped on a mine." Natasha looked at him. "I assumed too much chemical trace in the bones would be a problem?"
Methos sighed in relief and leaned forward to refill his vodka, already mentally scheduling a quiet panic to be followed the next day by figuring out how much damage needed to be controlled. Panic first, though, although not right now. "You were right. Lovely. Now I think I may owe you."
Natasha waved that off. "I might have paid a little extra, but it was the sort of job where not doing it right would leave me farther in debt. It was better to go over and above. Shall we settle for sword lessons when we're in one place?"
Methos nodded immediately. "Done. You couldn't have done the whole thing more perfectly if you'd asked what I'd need."
"I pay attention," she said lightly. "And I like new skills, Adam. I imagine you could use a new sparring partner now and then?"
"I could. But we're even, Natasha. Thank you." He refilled their vodka and lifted the glass to her.
"I've gotten fond of running into you at odd intervals, too," she said, but she lifted her glass to him, mouth curving into a smile. "To us, and to surviving those who'd control us."
They both drank to that and she refilled the shot glasses before asking, "Do your generals want you for another second who can trade out with Grayson until Darius can realistically come back as his own grandson or something?"
"Or something," Methos agreed grimly. "And... probably, yes. With enough information on me, they might think they could blackmail me into holding down the fort for a generation. They'd have to spot-check to make sure I wasn't screwing them over, and I'd have to be very careful not to get caught when I did, but yes. Modern technology makes it much harder to hold power than it used to be. It used to be that people assumed portraits were just flattering or might even have been touched up to make it obvious the current generation held power by right of blood."
Natasha winced. "I really wouldn't care to see what you could do running part of Eastern Europe."
"And if SHIELD would like to see it, just point out that Doom is already in check," Methos said grimly.
Natasha shook her head. "Some secrets are mine alone. You asked how I know it was Grayson? The book remnants were shipped to his personal secretary. The analysis on the book and the forensic examination of the body were sent directly to Grayson. So was the analysis of the weapons. The knives were recent make, very good quality; one of them was a first responder blade, the chemically inert ones?" She raised an eyebrow; Methos nodded his recognition of what she meant.
"The sword, however, was five hundred years old, give or take, and not ceremonial." Natasha shrugged. "It looked a little like the one you had in Bhutan; I hope that isn't a problem. It seemed to be a fairly standard type."
Methos sighed and relaxed as much as he could. Much better than he'd hoped and more than fair as repayment of the debts. So, since they were even.... "No, that's perfect. Do you need a place to sleep?"
Natasha relaxed back against the chair. "And breakfast if you're free," she said immediately.
He eyed her. "You really do have a few days off?"
Natasha smiled, a bare quirk of her lips. "I didn't think you'd believe me this quickly."
Methos half-smiled back, amused that her motion had closed her kimono again. Distraction concluded, maybe. Or her version of back off the job; he had never offered her more than body warmth at night because she had made it clear nothing was on offer. Too much like work, he suspected, remembering a few decades he'd felt that way, too. She'd get over that when she was ready or if she wanted to. "You wouldn't come to me with a story like that if it couldn't be confirmed. So. Care to stay a few days, risk my cooking again, and learn sword work?"
Natasha mouth curved up, the real, rare smile he'd seen only a few times in all the years. "Does it come with library privileges?"
"I think we can manage something." He stood up. "But sleep first. I'll look for something of Amanda's that might fit tomorrow." Methos considered her. "Tops will be simple enough, but I'm not so sure about pants."
"I'll pick up my bag in London tomorrow," Natasha said. "How do you feel about backgammon?"
That answer had been much too prompt for comfort, Methos decided. "We're not playing for favors."
"I was thinking about stories," she said. "I've been wanting to ask you what gave away that kill in Bora Bora."
Methos smiled wickedly as he picked the tray up. "Intel and skills, now, are traditional stakes. I can think of a few things I'd like to ask you. Evening games it is."
Natasha wandered up the stairs to find a bedroom -- it wouldn't be his, Methos knew, and she'd probably case the entire place, but what the hell; he'd been needing to rearrange a few things -- and Methos went to clean up from the coffee, put out a few ingredients for breakfast, and go to bed himself.
He took the vodka with him -- and his current journal. Tonight, he'd have a nice quiet panic about how much she'd put together and how much SHIELD might be close to figuring out. While she was there, he'd try to sort out how much damage needed to be controlled. After she was gone, he'd figure out how to do it.
Tomorrow, however, he'd enjoy her company. 'Soon' would be soon enough for everything else.
~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~
Comments, Commentary, & Miscellanea:
The Monaco footage -- from Iron Man 2, the car race and super-villain attack during same took place in Monaco.
No. I have no idea when Amanda and Natasha met up, but please, someone write this because those two would be scorching hot together! (Killa? Feel free!) And I don't know what was up with the pearls either, but oh my god, those two in bed with those pearls... bears thinking about. Yes?
First responder blades are not cheap because they're treated to be chemically inert, which makes them perfect for areas that might have hazardous materials and where you can't afford to start fires. The blades are treated so completely that they don't even strike sparks off flint.
Oh, and for those wondering why Widow's in a kimono? She started the night at a Japanese-themed party, because she thought he was more likely to be there than the Arabian Nights one.
If I've missed any notes that you have questions about, please feel free to leave a comment and I'll try to answer it!
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draconis ,
devohoneybee,
mischief,
raine, and
samjohnsson .
Hope you guys have enjoyed!
Part 5 on AO3 here; on Dreamwidth, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4.
Rated: R most likely. Some spoilers for several of the Marvel Cinematic Universe movies, particularly Iron Man. The Highlander elements come in via Killa and Lapilus' amazing Alternate Universe vid, "Opportunities." Written for an art prompt from Pentapus' Reverse Bigbang, and for Crossover100 prompt #79 -- desert.
Whispered On The Winds
2012, London
Fog was drifting in from the French doors, wisps of moisture rolling into the ballroom and almost muffling the rumble of a riverboat going by. As a contrast with the 'Arabian Nights' theme of the party, the fog made Methos wish his hosts had provided good beer or Irish coffee. Fortunately, the red wine he'd finally found was almost strong enough to cope with the irony of it all.
Methos had deliberately gone for a costume more pseudo-medieval than desert scanty; as a result, he wasn't freezing amid the white sand and fake palm trees. One bright soul had come as a were-jackal. (An amazing number of the guests seemed to have the Arabian Nights mixed up with Egypt; in this case, Methos thought the mistake was deliberate good sense.)
Judging by a few of the disappearances and fidgety reappearances, a few people had acquired sand in unpleasant places. The party wasn't completely dull or useless, though. He'd been able to scout out and, in some cases, flirt with prospective targets over the course of the night. He'd even overheard a pair of useful conversations when charitable patrons had discussed their proposed security upgrades.
He'd also learned that a certain well-connected man was a ne'er do well whose cousin was adding a feature or six to her system. Someone who couldn't very well be denied entry but had a nasty habit of absconding with portable wealth might make a very useful red herring in a future job.
Methos commiserated with the other attendees, admitted that he'd had to sell off or secure a few things himself, and had made copious mental notes. Any jobs based on this gossip would need at least a six-month cooling off period, and have to be spread out over probably six more months besides, but a year's heists planned wasn't a bad night's work.
Especially when that night had included good wine, a view of a few rare first edition books, and an offer or four to keep him warm later. He might even take one of the offers up if he saw them on the way out, because it was definitely time to make his exit. He hadn't relocated anything here himself, but he'd seen a few jewels wander off costumes and at least four drug deals -- two of them unbeknownst to the 'donors,' he rather thought.
So. Time to make his goodbyes here, as he hadn't at the last couple parties. Once he'd established again that he was unpredictably courteous, he could head home.
Methos sauntered past a pair of women doing a very good Charleston and a trio of belly dancers. The women were good; the young man was amazing, but probably still working for another hour. Just past them, he found someone dressed as King Tut who was freezing quite a few of his assets off. Despite the drugs that kept him from noticing the chill, he remembered seeing their hosts dancing to French-Algerian jazz half an hour ago.
By now, they were most likely either getting food or drink. Methos glanced around again for a remarkably clean brigand chief -- really, no one did authenticity these days and thank Whomever for that -- and a genie whose outfit drew its influences from Hollywood. As he did, a hand slipped into the crook of his arm.
He kept walking, his attention on the inner pocket of his tunic, the one that held his licenses and cash. No one tried to lift anything, and he glanced over to see strawberry blond hair, cut short and shingled as Amanda's recent platinum pageboy. The figure, however, wasn't Amanda's, and she would never wear a kimono to an Arabian Nights party.
"You didn't mention knowing Grayson." The Black Widow's murmur was low, breathy, and sounded as admiring as any of the other people who'd tried to flatter Methos out of money for a pet cause that evening.
"No. That's not a name I'd mention," Methos said softly. "You're looking well. Did I see you in the background of the Monaco footage?"
She gave him an amused tilt of head, not so much a 'yes' as 'you know I won't answer that.' Answer enough. "No, I imagine you wouldn't. He seems to have an interest in old journals."
"It's a very good Malbec," Methos said lightly. "Come alone, I'll get you one with my refill."
Natasha smiled at him adoringly. "Or we could just go home?"
"I'll take you home if he's not interested," offered a blond youngster who'd spent time in a tanning booth before he donned that skimpy costume. Good thing, too; as pale as that blond hair was, he'd have been deathly white against the black silk.
Natasha shook her head, smiling. "When you already have an admirer?" He turned to look and Methos moved them both along while he wandered his flustered way towards possible amours.
Methos asked softly, "Do we need to leave?"
"Afraid to take me home?" she countered, still clinging to his arm and smiling.
"Not really in a mood to decamp to a backup site," Methos said quietly.
"It might be better if we left," she said lightly.
"You sound distressingly like one of my partners." Methos headed towards the doors. "Come on. I know all the best coffee bars."
"I think I'm flattered by the comparison." Natasha added quickly but still quietly, "No. We have no interest in recruiting any of you three. That wasn't a threat. I needed to know who you were working with to decide when to approach you. That's all."
So SHIELD wasn't after Duncan or Amanda. He'd have to find out if she'd shared that information with SHIELD, however. "Good."
He left it at that as they headed for his car. They both checked the car, quickly and unobtrusively, then climbed in. Watching her crouch in that kimono almost erased his annoyance. Almost.
Methos drove with most of his attention on the road, disregarding Natasha's idle comments; he could already tell this wasn't going to be a conversation to be held at fifty miles per hour. Getting home took almost an hour and would have taken longer if it wasn't two in the morning.
Methos coded the security system off, already making plans to change the code as soon as Natasha left. He waved her in, however, and closed up and locked up behind her. "So. Coffee for this?"
"Some coffee house." She smiled at him. "Yes. Coffee, please, and some vodka if you have any?"
That wasn't a request he'd expected. Methos stopped and reevaluated her; she wasn't trying to present a front, he realized. "This isn't business, then."
Natasha shook her head. "No. I have a couple days off and some information for you which didn't need to be on paper, bytes, or a phone line."
"Ah." Methos flicked the coffee machine on and got cream out of the fridge, vodka from the freezer, and a tin of ginger biscuits off the shelf. "Duncan's been baking again."
"Shoulders like that and he bakes?" Natasha teased, but she brought two mugs over for the tray and added the sugar bowl and a pair of shot glasses.
"Shoulders and thighs like that, and a mouth made for sin, and he likes being domestic," Methos corrected. "Good thing, too. Amanda isn't."
"Amanda has... other talents," Natasha purred. She laughed, too, when he gave her a threatening glare. "No, Adam. I knew Amanda's name and skills before I killed you that time in Brasilia, so don't bother. They're fond memories, thank you. I just didn't know she was like you until a few years ago."
"And now that you know?" He poured the coffee into an insulated carafe and picked up the tray, leading the way back to his study. He was going to want the familiar ground, he suspected. He'd also have more weapons to hand at his desk than in the lounge.
Natasha followed him in, admiring (and probably memorizing) the house as she went. "How many cleaning people does it take to keep this place up?"
"A team once a week," Methos said calmly. "Bonded and insured. Do I need to change them?"
"No, they're incorruptible. I checked." She shrugged, breasts shifting under the kimono distractingly; the motion was probably more habit than intent by now.
"You would," Methos muttered, but it was nice to have the confirmation from someone whose professional opinion he could trust. "Close the door."
Natasha raised an eyebrow, turned to do so -- and smiled. "Now that's lovely. Who painted that for you?"
"I did, of course." Methos tried to look affronted, but he did love the way the room looked with the door closed. Windows and desk and couch on the south wall; books sweeping the length of the east and west walls in rows of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The north wall was his pride and joy, however, centered on the door and hand-painted to look like the forests of Britain as Methos first remembered them, full of green shadow and dappled gold light and tree trunks rising out of smaller plant life. If she looked, and he suspected she would over the course of the discussion, Natasha would find fruit here, flowers there, and a variety of animals under some of the shrubs. Including one of the great wolves that had rightfully been the terror of Europe. (He'd put it in to remind him of some of his past mistakes in both enemies and lovers.)
She stood there admiring it while Methos dispensed coffee, then turned and came back, removing her necklace as she did. She poured a warm string of golden pearls onto the tray before she took her coffee, added sugar to it, and sat down. "Could you give that back to Amanda? She hadn't meant to loan it to me."
"If she didn't steal it back in the interim, she probably did," Methos retorted. He took the strand up, running it through his hands. High quality, matched, naturally gold pearls? He was playing with a small fortune, and Amanda had definitely liked Natasha if she'd left it with her -- or she hadn't been in any position to go after it.
He put the necklace and its question aside. He also turned on a white noise generator and asked for an answer he probably wouldn't like. "Grayson?"
"Has reason to think that if you did still exist, you're probably dead now," Natasha said briskly. "I made sure a partial book cover that looked like yours was found with a partial body: male, tall, and in good shape before he died."
Methos sipped his coffee to hide his mouth and eyes and ran through Kronos' first score of alibis, pushing aside all the might-have-beens that Kronos always brought up. He finally said, "No wonder you wanted vodka."
"For both of us?" She stood, poured glasses for them both, and handed it over. "You'll want the details, I assume?"
"You assume correctly. Gods. You played games with Grayson?" Methos added sugar to his own coffee preemptively. Even immortals could end up in shock, and Grayson and his mentor were a challenge he hadn't wanted to take up.
"He's good," Natasha said lightly, "but not as good as he thinks. Now, when Darius was still in charge, he was terrifyingly competent." Her fingers twitched on her glass and she hissed, "Grayson is one of you?" She kept watching him and bit her lip. "No. Both of them are like you? Bozhe moi."
He hadn't held still enough, or he'd held too still, or maybe she could just read him too well now, as he could almost read her.... "Both of them are like me," Methos said quietly. "Do not ever let them know that you know, or you will be a very long time dying and I'll be digging for a safe enough hole. Or a large enough army."
"That's why von Doom isn't doing any better," Natasha said softly. "They're holding him off. And..." She changed what she'd been saying and Methos let her. He had no intention of ever working for SHIELD. "Did Darius abdicate because he'd been in charge too long? Or because Doom rose to power and he wanted to slide behind the scenes?"
"Both, probably. But yes. Those two consider that section of Europe to be theirs and Doom probably has no idea how much of his trouble they're responsible for." Methos held himself very level. "Enough of that. Tell me about what you left for Grayson's men and how you tracked them to Grayson."
"Tracking them was the easy part," Natasha said. "They delivered the book remnants and the sword--"
"A sword," Methos interrupted.
"It was the strangest weapon you were carrying in Afghanistan," Natasha said calmly, "and you've had one almost every time I've met you, even when you didn't have a gun. The one time you didn't have a sword, you had a very long knife. So I assumed one or the other was needed for the cover and acquired two swords and some very good knives, ones I'd use if I depended on them."
"Two swords." Methos was starting to feel like a parrot or a bad echo, but he hadn't expected this. Thorough, yes, and smart, yes, but he hadn't realized how much she'd put together. "Why two?"
"One for the body and one for me. I might ask for lessons sometime. People are surprisingly unnerved by a blade that long." She shook her head. "Drink your coffee. Let me know when I should start again."
Methos threw the vodka straight down his throat and followed it with some of the coffee. "Go on."
She nodded and straightened, the kimono fold sliding to expose a little more creamy skin. She sounded like the professional he knew damn well she was when she continued. "Here's what I left for them. They found most of a man who'd been almost six feet tall and in good enough shape that the forensic analysis of the bones confirmed extensive musculature and flexibility."
She went on, "The body was partially destroyed by fire. It retained the torso, one arm, and part of both legs. The hand was still holding the book cover and the heat-soaked vellum; the pages were not readable, even by checking for indentations. No feet, no head, insufficient flesh or skin left for fingerprints. He was found with a partially deformed gun -- we threw it in a fire; Hawkeye says thank you, that was fun to test -- and a heat-damaged sword, plus a pair of knives, also damaged."
"Where did you get the body?" Methos asked, frowning.
"A local farmer -- young and healthy, his family was wealthy by local standards -- who'd stepped on a mine." Natasha looked at him. "I assumed too much chemical trace in the bones would be a problem?"
Methos sighed in relief and leaned forward to refill his vodka, already mentally scheduling a quiet panic to be followed the next day by figuring out how much damage needed to be controlled. Panic first, though, although not right now. "You were right. Lovely. Now I think I may owe you."
Natasha waved that off. "I might have paid a little extra, but it was the sort of job where not doing it right would leave me farther in debt. It was better to go over and above. Shall we settle for sword lessons when we're in one place?"
Methos nodded immediately. "Done. You couldn't have done the whole thing more perfectly if you'd asked what I'd need."
"I pay attention," she said lightly. "And I like new skills, Adam. I imagine you could use a new sparring partner now and then?"
"I could. But we're even, Natasha. Thank you." He refilled their vodka and lifted the glass to her.
"I've gotten fond of running into you at odd intervals, too," she said, but she lifted her glass to him, mouth curving into a smile. "To us, and to surviving those who'd control us."
They both drank to that and she refilled the shot glasses before asking, "Do your generals want you for another second who can trade out with Grayson until Darius can realistically come back as his own grandson or something?"
"Or something," Methos agreed grimly. "And... probably, yes. With enough information on me, they might think they could blackmail me into holding down the fort for a generation. They'd have to spot-check to make sure I wasn't screwing them over, and I'd have to be very careful not to get caught when I did, but yes. Modern technology makes it much harder to hold power than it used to be. It used to be that people assumed portraits were just flattering or might even have been touched up to make it obvious the current generation held power by right of blood."
Natasha winced. "I really wouldn't care to see what you could do running part of Eastern Europe."
"And if SHIELD would like to see it, just point out that Doom is already in check," Methos said grimly.
Natasha shook her head. "Some secrets are mine alone. You asked how I know it was Grayson? The book remnants were shipped to his personal secretary. The analysis on the book and the forensic examination of the body were sent directly to Grayson. So was the analysis of the weapons. The knives were recent make, very good quality; one of them was a first responder blade, the chemically inert ones?" She raised an eyebrow; Methos nodded his recognition of what she meant.
"The sword, however, was five hundred years old, give or take, and not ceremonial." Natasha shrugged. "It looked a little like the one you had in Bhutan; I hope that isn't a problem. It seemed to be a fairly standard type."
Methos sighed and relaxed as much as he could. Much better than he'd hoped and more than fair as repayment of the debts. So, since they were even.... "No, that's perfect. Do you need a place to sleep?"
Natasha relaxed back against the chair. "And breakfast if you're free," she said immediately.
He eyed her. "You really do have a few days off?"
Natasha smiled, a bare quirk of her lips. "I didn't think you'd believe me this quickly."
Methos half-smiled back, amused that her motion had closed her kimono again. Distraction concluded, maybe. Or her version of back off the job; he had never offered her more than body warmth at night because she had made it clear nothing was on offer. Too much like work, he suspected, remembering a few decades he'd felt that way, too. She'd get over that when she was ready or if she wanted to. "You wouldn't come to me with a story like that if it couldn't be confirmed. So. Care to stay a few days, risk my cooking again, and learn sword work?"
Natasha mouth curved up, the real, rare smile he'd seen only a few times in all the years. "Does it come with library privileges?"
"I think we can manage something." He stood up. "But sleep first. I'll look for something of Amanda's that might fit tomorrow." Methos considered her. "Tops will be simple enough, but I'm not so sure about pants."
"I'll pick up my bag in London tomorrow," Natasha said. "How do you feel about backgammon?"
That answer had been much too prompt for comfort, Methos decided. "We're not playing for favors."
"I was thinking about stories," she said. "I've been wanting to ask you what gave away that kill in Bora Bora."
Methos smiled wickedly as he picked the tray up. "Intel and skills, now, are traditional stakes. I can think of a few things I'd like to ask you. Evening games it is."
Natasha wandered up the stairs to find a bedroom -- it wouldn't be his, Methos knew, and she'd probably case the entire place, but what the hell; he'd been needing to rearrange a few things -- and Methos went to clean up from the coffee, put out a few ingredients for breakfast, and go to bed himself.
He took the vodka with him -- and his current journal. Tonight, he'd have a nice quiet panic about how much she'd put together and how much SHIELD might be close to figuring out. While she was there, he'd try to sort out how much damage needed to be controlled. After she was gone, he'd figure out how to do it.
Tomorrow, however, he'd enjoy her company. 'Soon' would be soon enough for everything else.
~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~
Comments, Commentary, & Miscellanea:
The Monaco footage -- from Iron Man 2, the car race and super-villain attack during same took place in Monaco.
No. I have no idea when Amanda and Natasha met up, but please, someone write this because those two would be scorching hot together! (Killa? Feel free!) And I don't know what was up with the pearls either, but oh my god, those two in bed with those pearls... bears thinking about. Yes?
First responder blades are not cheap because they're treated to be chemically inert, which makes them perfect for areas that might have hazardous materials and where you can't afford to start fires. The blades are treated so completely that they don't even strike sparks off flint.
Oh, and for those wondering why Widow's in a kimono? She started the night at a Japanese-themed party, because she thought he was more likely to be there than the Arabian Nights one.
If I've missed any notes that you have questions about, please feel free to leave a comment and I'll try to answer it!
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