Director's Commentary: Coming Out of the Cold
Hello and welcome to the director's commentary for 'Coming Out of the Cold'. I've always had a soft spot for this story, and it's one of the few of mine that was written as an allegory, rather than just as a story-telling exercise. I don't know that many other people liked this one as much as I did, especially seeing as there's no porn, but it's a story that I can actually talk about, so here we go….
Methos shivered and pulled the bedclothes closer around him, blinking as he poked his nose out of the lingering warmth. It was still fully dark, but the cabin was a hell of a lot colder than it had been when they'd gone to bed. The fire had gone to ashes, pale and delicate as snowflakes on the top.
Okay, and there's the requisite, post-Endgame 'fire gone to ashes' reference, overdone, probably, but still valid, I think. Methos loves the fire in Duncan, however you see their relationship, and it's not a stretch for me to think that he'd be saddened to watch it die after Connor's death. And that he'd be the one to stir it up again.
So the whole story has this whole hot/cold, light/dark extended metaphor thing going on. There's a whole other thing sneaking in underneath all that as well, but we'll get to that later.
And Duncan...Duncan was nowhere to be seen. Hmm... Presence still flickered at the edge of his senses; he was still around somewhere. The question was, where?
Irritation had a small tussle with concern. Concern won on points. Duncan was still finding his way back after Connor's death and as much Methos wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, he wanted to reassure himself that Duncan was okay more. Not that he'd ever admit that.
Arranging the blanket around his shoulders and his face into a suitably pissy expression, Methos rolled himself out of bed. The cold hardwood floor made his toes curl and another shiver chased the first down his spine. Bloody Scot. The pissy expression was less of an affectation now. He pulled the blanket more tightly around himself, grateful for the lingering warmth it held.
The cabin was large, but Duncan wasn't inside; he knew that already. Outside, then. Damn it. Even the doorknob was cold under his fingertips as he turned it and forced himself out into the pre-dawn chill.
It's kind of a fanon-ish theory that Methos hates the cold, but I like it anyway. He looks so bloody miserable in so many of the scenes shot in the snow in Paris, and that's good enough for me.
Duncan was there, a half-formed shape sitting on the steps in the utter dark. His smile was a brief flicker of white in the darkness.
Duncan quite often goes off by himself to heal; we see that again and again in the series. In fact I wonder sometimes how Methos managed to wrangle an invitation to come to the cabin with Duncan in this story. It can't have been easy, but Methos can be a sneaky, persistent bastard. But all the same, Duncan is still going off on his own, needing that 'alone time' to work things out for himself.
"Methos?" Wonderingly, just like the first time.
Ah…that moment when boy meets boy and a thousand slashers sigh. It's a great moment and I make no apologies for reminding you of it. I wanted this to be a gen story, but the slashiness keeps creeping in regardless.
"Who else?" Methos answered. The silence prickled and he rushed to fill it. "It's freezing out here, MacLeod."
"Not quite." Duncan turned back to gaze out across the inky lake. "Snow's coming." There was something in his voice...more melancholy than Methos had heard from him since the burial. Duncan had faced it all, Connor, Faith, the whole damn mess, with his usual strength and courage, but Methos knew only too well how memories lay like land mines, just waiting for the oddest triggers to set them off.
Duncan knows, as Methos does, that the worst of it is far from over. Such massive, overwhelming grief and betrayal don't go away quickly. Grief isn't linear, and it's not nearly as predictable as people like to think, sometimes it doubles back on itself and sneaks up behind you, ambushing you in the dog food aisle at the supermarket when you don't even own a dog.
Methos drew the top edge of the blanket up over his head, pulling the thick, dark wool around himself like a shawl. It wasn't the first time he'd been this cold, no doubt it wouldn't be the last. He sighed to himself and settled down one step up from Duncan.
Duncan glanced back and Methos was close enough to see his eyes widen. "You look like..." He shook his head and turned away. "Never mind."
Duncan and Connor have spent their share of time sitting around campfires, wrapped in blankets.
Methos let it go. "Aren't you cold?"
Duncan shrugged. "The wind smells like snow. I can't sleep--" He shook his head. "It's nothing. Forget it."
"Can you?" There was a long pause but Methos waited it out. The least he could do -- for a friend. The thought crossed his mind that if he'd done more -- done anything, back when it might have made a difference -- then it might not have come to this, but he squelched it with an old and customary ruthlessness. What was done was done. Then Duncan was speaking and he silenced himself in the wake of that beautiful voice.
Was there anything Methos could have done to stop Kell or Connor from doing what they did? Possibly, but Methos knows the futility of hindsight; I don't think he'd spend a lot of time beating himself up over it.
"The first snows of the winter fell the day Connor found me. I'll never forget the way he looked, standing there in the most ridiculous get-up I'd ever seen." Duncan breathed the ghost of a laugh. "But, god, to have kin again..." Duncan's head tipped back as he lifted his face to the black sky. "Whenever I feel the first fall of snow, I'm back there...reliving it...how it felt not to be alone anymore. To feel that I wasn't the only one. He was my kin, my clan, my brother." Duncan's voice wavered a little on the last word.
"And now he's gone," Methos finished for him.
"Yes." Duncan tugged his own blanket around himself more tightly. "Do you remember what it was like before you knew what you were? Before you learnt that there was a name for us that wasn't a curse?"
And here we are at that other thing, the real reason for this story. For many of us who have grown up 'different' in some way, there's someone (or a lot of people if you're really lucky) who tells/shows you in some way that what you are is okay, that you're not some weird, awful, evil thing for being who you were born to be. Connor was that person for Duncan and now he's gone. There are a lot of us who can relate to that. The title of this story wasn't an accident.
Memories tumbled like great worn river stones in Methos' mind, but it seemed he had always known what he was. As if whatever mortal life he'd had was just a story he'd told himself enough times to make it true. He had been born, somewhere, been raised by someone, and managed by some great good fortune to stave off death until the moment he'd reached an age that was the perfect balance between youth and maturity to allow him to survive so absurdly long. But actual memories, feelings, names, faces? Time had long since washed them away. He shook his head, then realized Duncan couldn't see him where he was sitting. "No. No, I can't," he whispered.
Duncan's voice was low and rough. "When I was banished from my clan, all I wanted to know was who I was -- what I was. If I wasn't Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, then what was I? They said I was a demon, but I didn't feel like a demon. No matter what they said I was, I knew it was wrong. They were wrong. They cursed me and banished me, denied me and--" Duncan's voice broke, "disowned me as a son." In the silence Methos heard him draw a deep, ragged breath. "But Connor found me and.…" Duncan finished on something that Methos didn't catch, but the meaning was clear enough.
"He became your family, your brother," Methos put in.
"Aye, but more than that, Methos, so much more than that. He told me what I was -- that I wasn't evil or wrong, that Immortality wasn't a curse or the work of the devil. I was...right in myself again. Do you have any idea what that meant to me?"
This is without a doubt my favourite part of the whole story, because this is what it's all about for me. There are a lot of us who know just how Duncan feels when his family disowns him for being what he is. There are a lot of us out there who are still being punished for who we are.
Envy shafted through Methos in an unexpected, ungenerous burst. "Do you know how lucky you were?" he asked, at the last minute reining in the sharpness that bit at his tongue. He only failed a little.
I quite often think that Methos was not born to be the cat who walked by himself, but learnt it.
Duncan turned and looked at him, surprise in the lift of his heavy brows. "Of course I know," he shot back, real passion in his voice for the first time since Scotland. He was on his feet before Methos could say another word. "Why do you think I--" Duncan broke off and shook his head. "Never mind," he rasped, slipping past Methos and back into the cabin.
"Mac!" Methos called as he rose and almost tripped over the blanket in the process. He righted himself with a muttered curse and stepped back into the room. "Mac?" he said again, closing the door behind him. Duncan was standing by a wide window, silhouetted by dying starlight and the faint hint of dawn. "Want some coffee?"
The hours around dawn seem made for these odd, raw kind of conversations, don't they? And then the sun comes up and you haven't slept and you're scratchy and hungover and drained with emotion. It's a weird phenomenon.
Methos' heart pounded in his ears a few times before Duncan said, "Sure." Another couple of heartbeats. "Thanks."
Nodding, though Duncan's back was turned, Methos busied himself with turning grounds and water into fragrant brew. The soft clatter was a comfort in the silence while he waited for Duncan to speak again.
"Here," Methos said when it was done, nudging Duncan with the back of his wrist and passing him one of the two steaming mugs he held.
And there goes Methos, defusing the emotion like it was going to blow up in his face. He tends to do this, poke and prod at Duncan and then back off when it gets a bit intense.
Duncan wrapped his hands around it and nodded once. "Did you ever wonder why I took Richie in? Why I took an interest in Claudia and Michelle?"
He was beginning to have an idea, but he held his tongue and shifted to stand at the window with Duncan, close enough for their shoulders to brush now and then.
"I wanted to give them what he gave me," Duncan said softly. "I knew they would be Immortal someday and I didn't want them to go through what I did. Immortality is difficult enough without knowing that there's more to it than just the killing. Without Connor I might never have really known what it means to be Immortal. It's more than just the Game, more than the Quickenings. He showed me the...joy. The responsibility. Showed me there was value in the things we can do with the time we have." Duncan set the untouched coffee aside on the deep windowsill and wrapped his arms across his chest, turning to face Methos at last with his dark eyes wide and intent. "Connor MacLeod gave me back my self. Yes, Methos, I know how lucky I was. And I never thanked him for it."
Duncan asks at one point during the series, (and I think it may be in 'Courage' - one of my favourite episodes), he wonders who he would have been if he'd never met Connor. It's an interesting question.
"Yes you did," Methos told him, surprised at his own vehemence as he reached out to rest his hand on a tense forearm. "You are his legacy, Mac, and the man you are was his reward for the gift he gave you." Suddenly it seemed very important that Duncan know this. His gut clenched a little as he met Duncan's gaze squarely. "And you're a hell of a reward."
I love that Methos is capable of moments of spontaneous honesty, despite all his 'why would I tell the truth?' guff. He undoes himself, usually because of Duncan.
Duncan ducked his head and Methos could see the denial forming on his lips. He touched a finger to them to stop it.
Oops. There's that slashiness creeping in again.
"You are," he said. "Take it from me, I have seen the best and the worst of what we can become. And you, my friend, are the best."
Duncan shook his head and dislodged Methos' silencing finger. "No, not the best. Just living the best way I know how."
"Connor's legacy," Methos returned with a smile. "How was he with breakfasts?"
Duncan blinked at him. "Terrible."
Methos is defusing like crazy again. I think he's had a lot of time to refine his sense of how far he can push before it's time to back off and right now Duncan has had enough.
"Then I hope his legacy doesn't extend that far because I am starving."
Deep, genuine laughter rolled through Duncan. "Methos...what would I do without you to remind me that we're only human?"
Methos watched him go into the kitchen, the warrior burnished bronze by the rising sun struggling through the clouds, and hoped he'd never have to find out.
Does Duncan realize Methos just played him like a fiddle? Maybe so. He's not as oblivious as he appears most of the time. And there we go with the light/dark metaphor again. It's a bit of an anvil, but there you go.
The End
Methos shivered and pulled the bedclothes closer around him, blinking as he poked his nose out of the lingering warmth. It was still fully dark, but the cabin was a hell of a lot colder than it had been when they'd gone to bed. The fire had gone to ashes, pale and delicate as snowflakes on the top.
Okay, and there's the requisite, post-Endgame 'fire gone to ashes' reference, overdone, probably, but still valid, I think. Methos loves the fire in Duncan, however you see their relationship, and it's not a stretch for me to think that he'd be saddened to watch it die after Connor's death. And that he'd be the one to stir it up again.
So the whole story has this whole hot/cold, light/dark extended metaphor thing going on. There's a whole other thing sneaking in underneath all that as well, but we'll get to that later.
And Duncan...Duncan was nowhere to be seen. Hmm... Presence still flickered at the edge of his senses; he was still around somewhere. The question was, where?
Irritation had a small tussle with concern. Concern won on points. Duncan was still finding his way back after Connor's death and as much Methos wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, he wanted to reassure himself that Duncan was okay more. Not that he'd ever admit that.
Arranging the blanket around his shoulders and his face into a suitably pissy expression, Methos rolled himself out of bed. The cold hardwood floor made his toes curl and another shiver chased the first down his spine. Bloody Scot. The pissy expression was less of an affectation now. He pulled the blanket more tightly around himself, grateful for the lingering warmth it held.
The cabin was large, but Duncan wasn't inside; he knew that already. Outside, then. Damn it. Even the doorknob was cold under his fingertips as he turned it and forced himself out into the pre-dawn chill.
It's kind of a fanon-ish theory that Methos hates the cold, but I like it anyway. He looks so bloody miserable in so many of the scenes shot in the snow in Paris, and that's good enough for me.
Duncan was there, a half-formed shape sitting on the steps in the utter dark. His smile was a brief flicker of white in the darkness.
Duncan quite often goes off by himself to heal; we see that again and again in the series. In fact I wonder sometimes how Methos managed to wrangle an invitation to come to the cabin with Duncan in this story. It can't have been easy, but Methos can be a sneaky, persistent bastard. But all the same, Duncan is still going off on his own, needing that 'alone time' to work things out for himself.
"Methos?" Wonderingly, just like the first time.
Ah…that moment when boy meets boy and a thousand slashers sigh. It's a great moment and I make no apologies for reminding you of it. I wanted this to be a gen story, but the slashiness keeps creeping in regardless.
"Who else?" Methos answered. The silence prickled and he rushed to fill it. "It's freezing out here, MacLeod."
"Not quite." Duncan turned back to gaze out across the inky lake. "Snow's coming." There was something in his voice...more melancholy than Methos had heard from him since the burial. Duncan had faced it all, Connor, Faith, the whole damn mess, with his usual strength and courage, but Methos knew only too well how memories lay like land mines, just waiting for the oddest triggers to set them off.
Duncan knows, as Methos does, that the worst of it is far from over. Such massive, overwhelming grief and betrayal don't go away quickly. Grief isn't linear, and it's not nearly as predictable as people like to think, sometimes it doubles back on itself and sneaks up behind you, ambushing you in the dog food aisle at the supermarket when you don't even own a dog.
Methos drew the top edge of the blanket up over his head, pulling the thick, dark wool around himself like a shawl. It wasn't the first time he'd been this cold, no doubt it wouldn't be the last. He sighed to himself and settled down one step up from Duncan.
Duncan glanced back and Methos was close enough to see his eyes widen. "You look like..." He shook his head and turned away. "Never mind."
Duncan and Connor have spent their share of time sitting around campfires, wrapped in blankets.
Methos let it go. "Aren't you cold?"
Duncan shrugged. "The wind smells like snow. I can't sleep--" He shook his head. "It's nothing. Forget it."
"Can you?" There was a long pause but Methos waited it out. The least he could do -- for a friend. The thought crossed his mind that if he'd done more -- done anything, back when it might have made a difference -- then it might not have come to this, but he squelched it with an old and customary ruthlessness. What was done was done. Then Duncan was speaking and he silenced himself in the wake of that beautiful voice.
Was there anything Methos could have done to stop Kell or Connor from doing what they did? Possibly, but Methos knows the futility of hindsight; I don't think he'd spend a lot of time beating himself up over it.
"The first snows of the winter fell the day Connor found me. I'll never forget the way he looked, standing there in the most ridiculous get-up I'd ever seen." Duncan breathed the ghost of a laugh. "But, god, to have kin again..." Duncan's head tipped back as he lifted his face to the black sky. "Whenever I feel the first fall of snow, I'm back there...reliving it...how it felt not to be alone anymore. To feel that I wasn't the only one. He was my kin, my clan, my brother." Duncan's voice wavered a little on the last word.
"And now he's gone," Methos finished for him.
"Yes." Duncan tugged his own blanket around himself more tightly. "Do you remember what it was like before you knew what you were? Before you learnt that there was a name for us that wasn't a curse?"
And here we are at that other thing, the real reason for this story. For many of us who have grown up 'different' in some way, there's someone (or a lot of people if you're really lucky) who tells/shows you in some way that what you are is okay, that you're not some weird, awful, evil thing for being who you were born to be. Connor was that person for Duncan and now he's gone. There are a lot of us who can relate to that. The title of this story wasn't an accident.
Memories tumbled like great worn river stones in Methos' mind, but it seemed he had always known what he was. As if whatever mortal life he'd had was just a story he'd told himself enough times to make it true. He had been born, somewhere, been raised by someone, and managed by some great good fortune to stave off death until the moment he'd reached an age that was the perfect balance between youth and maturity to allow him to survive so absurdly long. But actual memories, feelings, names, faces? Time had long since washed them away. He shook his head, then realized Duncan couldn't see him where he was sitting. "No. No, I can't," he whispered.
Duncan's voice was low and rough. "When I was banished from my clan, all I wanted to know was who I was -- what I was. If I wasn't Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, then what was I? They said I was a demon, but I didn't feel like a demon. No matter what they said I was, I knew it was wrong. They were wrong. They cursed me and banished me, denied me and--" Duncan's voice broke, "disowned me as a son." In the silence Methos heard him draw a deep, ragged breath. "But Connor found me and.…" Duncan finished on something that Methos didn't catch, but the meaning was clear enough.
"He became your family, your brother," Methos put in.
"Aye, but more than that, Methos, so much more than that. He told me what I was -- that I wasn't evil or wrong, that Immortality wasn't a curse or the work of the devil. I was...right in myself again. Do you have any idea what that meant to me?"
This is without a doubt my favourite part of the whole story, because this is what it's all about for me. There are a lot of us who know just how Duncan feels when his family disowns him for being what he is. There are a lot of us out there who are still being punished for who we are.
Envy shafted through Methos in an unexpected, ungenerous burst. "Do you know how lucky you were?" he asked, at the last minute reining in the sharpness that bit at his tongue. He only failed a little.
I quite often think that Methos was not born to be the cat who walked by himself, but learnt it.
Duncan turned and looked at him, surprise in the lift of his heavy brows. "Of course I know," he shot back, real passion in his voice for the first time since Scotland. He was on his feet before Methos could say another word. "Why do you think I--" Duncan broke off and shook his head. "Never mind," he rasped, slipping past Methos and back into the cabin.
"Mac!" Methos called as he rose and almost tripped over the blanket in the process. He righted himself with a muttered curse and stepped back into the room. "Mac?" he said again, closing the door behind him. Duncan was standing by a wide window, silhouetted by dying starlight and the faint hint of dawn. "Want some coffee?"
The hours around dawn seem made for these odd, raw kind of conversations, don't they? And then the sun comes up and you haven't slept and you're scratchy and hungover and drained with emotion. It's a weird phenomenon.
Methos' heart pounded in his ears a few times before Duncan said, "Sure." Another couple of heartbeats. "Thanks."
Nodding, though Duncan's back was turned, Methos busied himself with turning grounds and water into fragrant brew. The soft clatter was a comfort in the silence while he waited for Duncan to speak again.
"Here," Methos said when it was done, nudging Duncan with the back of his wrist and passing him one of the two steaming mugs he held.
And there goes Methos, defusing the emotion like it was going to blow up in his face. He tends to do this, poke and prod at Duncan and then back off when it gets a bit intense.
Duncan wrapped his hands around it and nodded once. "Did you ever wonder why I took Richie in? Why I took an interest in Claudia and Michelle?"
He was beginning to have an idea, but he held his tongue and shifted to stand at the window with Duncan, close enough for their shoulders to brush now and then.
"I wanted to give them what he gave me," Duncan said softly. "I knew they would be Immortal someday and I didn't want them to go through what I did. Immortality is difficult enough without knowing that there's more to it than just the killing. Without Connor I might never have really known what it means to be Immortal. It's more than just the Game, more than the Quickenings. He showed me the...joy. The responsibility. Showed me there was value in the things we can do with the time we have." Duncan set the untouched coffee aside on the deep windowsill and wrapped his arms across his chest, turning to face Methos at last with his dark eyes wide and intent. "Connor MacLeod gave me back my self. Yes, Methos, I know how lucky I was. And I never thanked him for it."
Duncan asks at one point during the series, (and I think it may be in 'Courage' - one of my favourite episodes), he wonders who he would have been if he'd never met Connor. It's an interesting question.
"Yes you did," Methos told him, surprised at his own vehemence as he reached out to rest his hand on a tense forearm. "You are his legacy, Mac, and the man you are was his reward for the gift he gave you." Suddenly it seemed very important that Duncan know this. His gut clenched a little as he met Duncan's gaze squarely. "And you're a hell of a reward."
I love that Methos is capable of moments of spontaneous honesty, despite all his 'why would I tell the truth?' guff. He undoes himself, usually because of Duncan.
Duncan ducked his head and Methos could see the denial forming on his lips. He touched a finger to them to stop it.
Oops. There's that slashiness creeping in again.
"You are," he said. "Take it from me, I have seen the best and the worst of what we can become. And you, my friend, are the best."
Duncan shook his head and dislodged Methos' silencing finger. "No, not the best. Just living the best way I know how."
"Connor's legacy," Methos returned with a smile. "How was he with breakfasts?"
Duncan blinked at him. "Terrible."
Methos is defusing like crazy again. I think he's had a lot of time to refine his sense of how far he can push before it's time to back off and right now Duncan has had enough.
"Then I hope his legacy doesn't extend that far because I am starving."
Deep, genuine laughter rolled through Duncan. "Methos...what would I do without you to remind me that we're only human?"
Methos watched him go into the kitchen, the warrior burnished bronze by the rising sun struggling through the clouds, and hoped he'd never have to find out.
Does Duncan realize Methos just played him like a fiddle? Maybe so. He's not as oblivious as he appears most of the time. And there we go with the light/dark metaphor again. It's a bit of an anvil, but there you go.
The End