Happy Holidays, Diane! (3/3)
Title: Sastrugi (3/3)
Author: hafital aka Horses, Horses, Horses, Horses (get the obscure movie reference?)
Written for: Diane/dswdiane
Characters/Pairings: D/M
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: h/c
Author's Notes> I am deeply grateful to my two betas. This story is set sometime after Highlander: Endgame and fully ignores Highlander: The Source.
Summary: On the eve of Duncan selling his Seacouver loft, Methos shows up with an unusual job offer. Together they embark on a rare adventure that tests even their Immortal limits.
Go to Part One
Go to Part Two
Sastrugi
MacLeod woke with his cheek pressed against Methos's chest, listening to his steady heart beating. He shifted, raised his head. There was very little light, mostly coming from the camp stove in the corner. Methos's skin was red and bruised, the small capillaries having burst. He lifted a hand, placed it against MacLeod's cheek, carding gently through his hair. Methos's fingers were swollen, turned dark with frostbite, but Immortal healing battled the damage, slowly. The cold, thought MacLeod, it slowed down healing.
"Are you in pain?" he asked. It must hurt terribly. He moved to check Methos's legs and feet.
Methos shrugged. "I'll live," he said with a sad smile. "Alice?"
MacLeod dropped his eyes, passing his hands down Methos's hips. He carefully removed Methos's socks. His toes were black, but MacLeod could see the spark of healing ripple across the skin. "She survived the crash, but only for a few minutes. There was nothing I could do. I'm sorry. The two pilots are dead, too."
Methos closed his eyes. He raised his swollen, black and blue hand and covered his face.
MacLeod rummaged through the supplies. There was emergency food, flares, a map. He put his outer gear back on, took a small cooking pot and went outside into the dark, windy cold and gathered as much snow as he could. The snow was fine and powdery and flew away as soon as he tried to scoop it up, but he gathered what he could before his hands froze.
Back inside, he made warm soupy food for Methos and himself. He held the pot to Methos's lips, ordered him to drink. Methos in particular needed to eat. They both did.
The satellite phone beeped when he turned it on: no signal, not with the storm outside blocking the sky. They would have to wait.
*
The windstorm lasted for hours before dying down, MacLeod wasn't sure how long exactly. He made more food for Methos. They slept a little, Methos tense beside him, breathing through the slow pain of healing. He lost track of time, wasn't sure if it was day or night. Without a satellite link, the sat phone didn't help. MacLeod went back out to the wrecked fuselage, salvaged what they could use, but they wouldn't be able to carry much. He hauled the two bodies away from the wrecked plane and laid them side-by-side by a rocky outcropping that made a natural shelter against the wind. He went back for Alice's body, but found Methos walking toward him through the blowing wind carrying her in his arms.
He almost ordered Methos back into the tent, but stepped aside and let Methos lay Alice next to the other two. They couldn't dig, not into this frozen mountain. He wondered if they should burn the bodies, or if they should just leave them. Perhaps the bodies could be claimed somehow. He didn't know if Alice had any family, if the two pilots had loved ones.
MacLeod looked up to the sky. He could see the sun, but the wind blew strong, and there were clouds coming up from behind the other mountains. The sat phone beeped, searching for an uplink, failed. Inside the tent he found Methos packing up their supplies, dismantling the camp stove. He already knew.
"We have to get off this mountain," he said.
*
MacLeod carried the heavier load, the food, the supplies they needed, and put the lighter stuff into Methos's bag. They left the cameras, but took the film. He rigged two harnesses from materials taken from the wreck. They put them on over their outer clothes and MacLeod clipped a long safety line between him and Methos. They both carried small axes. With detailed maps he found in the survival kit, and doing his best to guess the speed and trajectory of the plane, the length of time they'd flown before crashing, he knew approximately where they were: on the eastern side of the Transantarctic Mountains.
He made Methos go first. They moved as quickly as they could but neither he nor Methos were at top form. Methos stumbled frequently. MacLeod kept looking at the sky. Periodically, he checked the sat phone. Sometimes it almost connected. It must be the storm, he thought, or something related.
They kept moving, stopping briefly for breaks, eating their rapidly dwindling food. They hiked over hard snow and hard ice. Sometimes the incline was gentle, sometimes they had to use anchors and their axes, free climbing around sudden drops and cliffs. His fingers wouldn't work properly, legs giving way suddenly. He couldn't think around the cotton in his head, around the hard cold spiking through each limb. MacLeod gave Methos one of the candy bars he carried. At this altitude, and in this cold, with the exertion of climbing and outpouring of energy needed for healing, they weren't eating enough calories. Methos's face, the little he could see, was gray with exhaustion. MacLeod wasn't sure how many hours passed before Methos collapsed onto his knees.
"Come on," said MacLeod, hooking his arms underneath Methos's armpits. "Keep moving. Just a little bit more." They were nearly to the plateau. Macleod worried that if they stopped now, they'd never get up again.
"Forget it. Just leave me."
"Don't be so dramatic. Get up." MacLeod tried lifting Methos, but his own strength failed. They both plopped to the ground.
"No, I mean it. You can come back for me." Methos rested his head back against MacLeod.
The cold from the ground crept up and sank its teeth into his spine. MacLeod was so cold he felt warm. If he left Methos here, he would come back for him. Leave him with the extra supplies. Maybe Methos would survive. Or freeze. Popsicle Methos. Bring him back to New Zealand like that, in a body bag, blue and white and lifeless. Through the slow, thick fog in his mind, MacLeod realized what he was thinking and surged to his feet. "Out of the question."
"Mac," said Methos. "I'm spent. My blood is ice. My heart can't pump any more. This is deep hypothermia. I can feel it. We'll both end up frozen forever."
"I said no. No way. Now, move. Come on." MacLeod scrambled for purchase, still hooked underneath Methos's armpits. "I said move."
MacLeod felt Methos gulped in air and pushed against him for leverage, until they were both standing.
They stumbled along. After a moment, MacLeod took out two more candy bars and gave them both to Methos. Then he got one for himself. They still had food. Not much, not nearly enough, but it was something. Methos started laughing softly to himself. Then louder, and louder, until they had to stop so he could catch his breath.
"Do you mind?" asked MacLeod, but he was smiling, too. "What?"
"That was bad. That was like a scene from a really bad movie." He imitated MacLeod. "Mooovve. What are you, Sarah Connor?"
"It worked, didn't it?" he said, embarrassed and laughing.
"That was the Oscar clip. Or at least it would make the trailer."
Methos kept giggling, high and infectious. MacLeod joined him. They both were losing what little grasp on sanity they had, but that was okay. That was fine, as long as they kept moving down the mountain.
*
A driving wind fell upon them as they stumbled and spilled down to the more level ground of the plateau. The wind kicked around the loose snow. MacLeod could feel Methos at the other end of the safety line they were each clipped to. They walked as far as they could from the mountains until Methos stopped, tugging at the safety line. He fell to his knees, sank to the ground. In the blinding swirl, MacLeod realized just how much he had underestimated this continent. He had felt safe in the security of his Immortality, but not even that was a guarantee here. Not even that could save him. He realized for the first time that they might not make it.
These were the katabatic winds MacLeod had read about: strong, unrelenting, they could blow for weeks. The satellite phone beeped. Through the noise of the storm, MacLeod thought he heard it beep again.
"Hello," he yelled, grabbing the phone from his backpack, pushed the buttons. "Yes, we're here."
The voice that came through the phone was small and tinny, carried away in the wind. "This is Jaffo at McMurdo Station calling CSF Flight 20."
MacLeod could have cried. If he'd had any moisture left in his body he would have sat down and cried like a baby. "This is Duncan MacLeod," he answered. "CSF Flight 20 crashed, exact location of the crash unknown, but we're on the east side of the Transantarctics. There are two survivors. Myself and Adam Pierson." He looked to Methos who still lay on the ground dusted with snow.
There was static filled silence on the other end. "Magnetic storm," said Jaffo. "Interference difficult, can't track sat phone. Search and rescue on their way. Trek out to these coordinates."
MacLeod pulled out his map, memorizing the coordinates Jaffo gave him. The search and rescue point was about ten, fifteen kilometers further east, but he wasn't even sure of where they were at that moment to figure out in which direction to go. He looked at the sky, the sun's position obscured by the wind and the snow. He wished desperately for a GPS device. The phone call ended, the sat phone cutting out. He didn't know the time frame, how long they had, or if the search and rescue team would come by plane or by helicopter.
He pulled Methos to standing, shaking him, slapping his face until Methos woke and pushed back. If he had to, MacLeod would drag Methos the rest of the way, but they were getting to the rescue point no matter what. The sat phone, when it worked, told him their coordinates. Using that, and gut instinct, he started out in a direction.
Thankfully, as they moved further away from the mountains, the storm died down, although the wind still blew strong, pushed at their backs and at their sides. Methos bumped into him and then walked sideways until the safety rope caused him to stumble and weave drunkenly back. Macleod knew there was no way they could keep on course, but he kept looking at the sat phone, kept looking at the map.
The ground was uneven, ridged with deep grooves cut into the snow and ice like scalloped edges, etched parallel to the wind. Sastrugi, that's what the ridges were called, he remembered from his reading.
Methos fell behind. MacLeod felt the drag of the safety rope. He turned back to yell at Methos but tripped on a large upsweep of snow, his feet kicking through. The ground opened up, sudden, wide, and he fell backward, arms flailing. He yelled.
Slotted, that's what they called it, when you fell through an unexpected crevasse. His fall stopped with a sudden jerk, the harness he wore riding up hard, and he heard a loud snap, cried out with the blinding white pain of a broken back.
Dizzy from shock and pain, MacLeod looked up and saw Methos half dangling over the edge of the crevasse, having stopped himself from going over by wedging his axe into the frozen ice underneath the layer of snow.
MacLeod could hear Methos struggle, trying to climb back all the way to the surface, but MacLeod's weight made it impossible.
"Methos," he called. They looked at each other, both dangling from opposite ends of the rope that kept them connected. MacLeod took out the knife he carried in the inside of his jacket. "You go on."
"Don't you dare," said Methos, through his clenched jaw, still struggling to pull himself up and out of the crevasse.
"It's all right," said MacLeod. He put the knife against the rope.
"I mean it, MacLeod. If you cut that rope I will never forgive you." They locked eyes, and the distance between them melted away. It was as if they were face to face, battling over swords in the dojo, challenging each other, pushing to see how far the other would bend. MacLeod believed him; Methos would never forgive him. He moved the knife away from the rope, cutting the straps of his backpack instead. The backpack fell away, carrying all of their food and supplies, and the sat phone.
Grunting, yelling with each inch he gained, Methos crawled slowly back up over the lip of the crevasse. MacLeod watched from where he hung, swaying until he could grab onto the sides of the crevasse, using his knife and axe to climb up, but without the use of his legs he was nearly useless. Inch by inch he was lifted. He took a moment to look around. The crevasse was beautiful, filled with majestic ice sculptures, immense spikes of frozen ice, hollowed passages filled with blue light. MacLeod realized he still had his camera, always kept in an inside pocket. For Methos, he thought, he took a few pictures.
At the top he took hold of Methos's hand. Together they collapsed in a heap at the edge of the crevasse, panting, holding each other. Methos smiled at him and MacLeod smiled back. They didn't move.
"My back's broken," said MacLeod.
Methos nodded, pulling MacLeod into a more normal position. They sat with their backs against a small mound. The wind blew flurries around them.
"So," started MacLeod, conversationally, as if they sat on stools at a bar drinking beers while the game played. They had no tent, no shelter, no food. Brilliantly, miraculously, he remembered that he'd put the flares in Methos's backpack. He took them out, snapped them in his hands. They flared bright fuchsia. He wasn't sure how far they were from the pick up point. "What are your plans after this?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Methos. "I thought I might take a vacation. Some place warm. Bora Bora."
MacLeod chuckled, grinning. He couldn't help asking. "By yourself?"
Methos didn't answer, falling silent. "I lied to you," he said after a while.
"Oh." MacLeod shifted a little. Methos's face was still flushed with angry red skin, all along the cheekbones and the tip of his nose. His lips were dry, cracked. Methos wouldn't meet his eyes. "What about?" he asked softly.
"I do know why I asked you to come with me." Methos's voice rumbled quietly in the cold air.
MacLeod waited for Methos to elaborate but he said nothing more. The flares burned brightly. MacLeod turned, leaned close against Methos, resting cheek to cheek.
The wind picked up. It wasn't the driving strength of the katabatic winds but more of a flattening from above. MacLeod looked up and saw a helicopter, landing several meters away. A man emerged, smiling, and MacLeod could have kissed Brett, so happy he was to see him. Except, something was wrong. Where was the medevac? Why was Brett alone? Where was the search and rescue team? Beside him MacLeod felt Methos stiffen in anticipation. He felt his own stomach tighten with fear.
Brett trudged over the sastrugi ridges toward them. "Hello, there," he said behind his usual wide, toothy grin and his dark sunglasses. "Someone's been waiting to meet you."
He stepped aside. From the helicopter, MacLeod saw another man, no one he recognized, drop down to the ground. In his hand he carried a long broadsword. Immortal presence tingled down MacLeod's spine, melting into his numb legs. The man approached, stopping just a couple of meters away. He was tall, dark-haired, covered in CSF standard-issue clothing.
MacLeod looked at Methos. Methos's eyes were bright, hard. "You must be the eponymous Carson," said Methos, calmly.
Carson inclined his head. "And you are Doctor Benjamin Adams. You knew my teacher, Morgan Walker."
"Ah," said Methos, struggling to rise. He gripped his axe in one hand, picked up MacLeod's axe with the other. "I might have known."
MacLeod grabbed at Methos's arm, but what could he say? There was nothing he could do. He couldn't feel his legs. There was nowhere to run even if he could stand. MacLeod was helpless. He gripped the handle of his small knife he still held in his hand. "Methos," he said, his throat hurting.
Methos's eyes were sad but clear, bright in the sun and the wind. He squeezed MacLeod's hand before turning to face Carson.
*
Methos stumbled, blocking Carson's swinging sword with one axe, hacking with the other. MacLeod could feel Methos's exhaustion, flinching with every blow and jab that Methos received. Carson was just playing with him. It would be over soon. Carson sliced Methos's thigh. Methos cried out but ducked just in time, swinging back and hitting Carson in the upper arm. Both men pulled back, circled each other. Methos couldn't walk straight, tripping over his feet.
MacLeod recalled the little that he knew about Morgan Walker -- slave trader, killer. Carson didn't look like a killer. He looked like a businessman, a Wall Street tycoon playing dress-up in the wilds of Antarctica. This was about money. MacLeod thought of Alice Barrett and her ideals, her dreams. This man thought he could own Antarctica.
The wind blew harder, kicking up the snow flurries, obscuring MacLeod's vision. Carson swung his broadsword, hacking into the cold air, beating Methos backward. Methos fell, sprawled on his back, fending off each blow. With both axes, he hooked the broadsword's blade, kicked with his foot. Carson staggered back. Before Carson could recover, Methos swept wide and buried one axe in Carson's sword arm. He swung around again, buried the second axe in Carson's neck. Carson clawed at his throat with his one good hand, blood gushing through his fingers.
Staggering, legs collapsing beneath him, Methos grabbed Carson's sword, and delivered the killing stroke. He fell to the ground as the quickening gathered, collecting in a cloud of snow and electricity above Methos's head before striking.
The helicopter sparked and exploded. The sky darkened as cloud cover grew.
MacLeod saw Brett reach into his jacket and pull out a gun, pointing it at Methos. Brett's smile had become edged with fear. MacLeod willed his legs to work, pushed himself up to an almost kneeling position. "Hey," he called. The quickening was ending. Methos lay on the ground, motionless. Brett turned. MacLeod hefted his knife. Brett looked shocked when the knife slammed into his shoulder, disabling his arm. The gun fell from his hands. Brett dropped to his knees, fell onto his side, crying out in pain.
MacLeod crawled toward Methos. The quickening storm kicked snow into his face, clouded his eyes. He thought he saw a figure come striding through the whipping wind, untouched by the storm, then several more figures appeared. He lay on his back and stared up into the familiar face of Christine.
"Need some help?" she asked, smug smile tugging at her lips. She peered into his face. At that moment she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
She knelt by Brett, taking her gloves off to feel his pulse. MacLeod saw it and wondered how he'd missed it before, right there on the inside of her wrist: the Watcher's tattoo.
Sickbay at McMurdo Station smelled like antiseptic and ammonia. MacLeod, hooked up to an IV pumping liquids into his body, tried to shift on his observation gurney, unable to turn over. Methos lay in the next bay, asleep, also hooked up to IVs. At least Methos's skin was mostly back to normal, having lost much of the angry frostburn. MacLeod had tried to insist that they didn't need medical attention, but Christine had not listened. "No one will know," she said. "I've got it covered. You're both suffering from dehydration and hypothermia."
Decorations hung lopsided over heart monitors and EKG machines. Lights framed the doorway and the mock window that looked into the next room. They'd missed Christmas somewhere between craggy cliffs and blue ice.
The door opened and Christine entered with two trays of food. She set one by Methos, off to the side for when he woke, then brought the other to MacLeod, setting it right in front of him.
She pulled a stool over. "Eat everything. You're about one third the man you were."
MacLeod caught his reflection on the metal surface of a storage cabinet opposite where he lay. His face was thin but he knew he would recover. He wanted answers before he started eating. "You were Carson's Watcher?"
"It'll get cold," she said, taking his spoon and dipping it in the bowl of soup. When he didn't take it, she smiled. "Obviously."
"You should have said something."
She crossed her arms. "That's not what we do, and you know it. What could I have said that would have changed anything? He would have found some way of making the challenge. I did what I could; I watched."
"You should have said something," MacLeod insisted. "Alice died, the two pilots died. If you had come to me, it wouldn't have happened. She'd still be alive." It was the old argument again. Watchers who sit back and do nothing while innocent people die.
Christine stared at him intently. There was pity in her eyes. "Carson was many things -- powerful, rich -- but not even he could control Antarctica. Not really. Alice Barrett, Marcus Stapleton, Stevie Williams all died because Marcus and Stevie decided to fly into a storm over the Transantarctics instead of turning back. Carson was an opportunist, plain and simple. If he saw something he could exploit, he did. This is Antarctica, MacLeod. She takes no prisoners. Not even your kind."
There was truth in her words, and he knew it, but she couldn't quite meet his eyes. They had been played like puppets. MacLeod knew his blame in the whole thing, ignoring his suspicions as he had, but he would not let her off the hook so easily. "Did they fly into the storm because they were foolhardy, or because if they didn't they wouldn't keep their jobs next summer?" he asked. "What about the money Carson poured into Antarctica, none of it for the surface reasons of science and research? If left alone, Carson would have owned this continent and all of its potential resources. You're right, he exploited everyone. Even you."
Her eyes were dark, unreadable. "Eat everything on your tray," she said, standing up. He stopped her before she could leave.
"You love this place. You're like Alice. She had the same fire inside driving her. I see it in your eyes. Don't forget it."
She pulled free from his grip on her arm, looked at him for a moment, then left.
MacLeod sighed. That hadn't gone well, and he was sorry to have pushed her so hard. Next to him Methos shifted. "I know you're awake." MacLeod swallowed his first spoonful of soup.
"They're not going to change, you know." Methos's voice was rough, raw. "She said it: It's not what they do. It's not who they are."
"I know," said MacLeod, quietly. "But she might change. You believe in the inevitably of things. Things happen because that's how they happen. She would have died no matter what, one way or another." MacLeod wasn't arguing. He was old enough to know how hard it was to change. Like the katabatic winds driving grooves of sastrugi into the snow. Sometimes you just had to let the wind push you where it willed. Maybe he could not have prevented the plane crash. Maybe he was just as arrogant as Carson.
MacLeod didn't look to the side, to Methos, but he could hear his quiet breathing, the slide of fabric over fabric.
"No," answered Methos.
"No, what?"
"You think very loudly. You're not like him, so stop it. All we can do is learn from both what we do wrong and what we do right, and continue on. Alice had her suspicions about Carson, probably brought too much attention to herself. None of us are blameless."
It sounded like Methos was trying to convince himself, but MacLeod was grateful. They fell silent and didn't speak anymore until they were released by Jaffo and sent back to their quarters. Methos disappeared and MacLeod was left to pack for their departure the next day.
*
A crowd gathered to see them off: Jaffo, Cilla, Tommy, and many others whose names washed over MacLeod as he hugged them, shook hands, kissed a few cheeks. He looked for Christine, but he couldn't find her anywhere. Just before entering the dark door of the plane, he turned back and looked around to all of McMurdo Station. He saw Christine, by herself, climbing the big hill that butted up against the south side of the station. She turned and stood looking out toward them. At that distance, he couldn't make out her face, or any distinguishing features. She waved, and he waved back.
MacLeod learned that morning that Brett had survived and would be shipped off Antarctica as soon as he could travel, barred from ever returning. Already there were rumblings about CSF going under, questions about what it might all mean, about the future of Antarctica and everyone's place there. There were scared faces and hopeful faces, a few relieved faces.
Methos and he had not spoken since their conversation in sickbay, aside from an offhand comment here or there about packing. Had Methos made sure to take everything from the dark room? Had MacLeod cleared out the drawers?
The plane ride was tense, long, and quiet. They arrived at Christchurch late in the day. In the hotel, as Methos and he parted to go to their separate rooms, MacLeod knew. He had known since before leaving McMurdo Station, but had ignored it.
"Methos," he said, trying to think of something more to say. Methos looked at him, eyes shining from the lights of the hotel hallway. It was like they still had the safety rope tied between them. Time to cut the rope. He reached into his pocket and handed over his digital camera. "Keep it," he said, "There are pictures on there for you." He held the camera until Methos finally took it from his hand. "It'll be all right," he said, for no reason except that he really wanted it to be true.
Methos smiled. "I believe you."
In the morning there was a note waiting for MacLeod at the front desk, written in Methos's handwriting.
My barn having burned down to the ground,
I can now see the moon.
Be somewhere I can find you in six months.
Typical, thought MacLeod. Leave it to Methos to leave cryptic notes and then vanish.
Adam Pierson disappeared. The London flat was cleared out, left empty. None of his solicitors or agents knew where to find him. He'd left word that he would be in contact when he was ready, and that was that. MacLeod didn't try too hard to find him. He believed Methos would come to him when he was ready.
At first MacLeod found it difficult not having Methos beside him. After so many intense days together, spending all day, every day dependent on each other, tied together in more ways than with just a rope, it was like losing a limb. Like losing sight, or hearing. It was hardest at night. MacLeod listened for Methos's breathing and was restless without it.
He bought a boat. A big forty-foot cutter sailboat, with a decent sized cabin and a ten-foot mast. He named her Sastrugi because of the way she cut through water, making grooves and waves. For six months he made the sea his home, making port here and there. He spent a week with Amanda in Mexico. He visited Joe in San Francisco. Joe wouldn't answer his questions, only smiled that snaggle-toothed smile. "I simply don't know, buddy. He doesn't talk to me."
MacLeod huffed, sipped his whiskey. He was itching to get back out onto his boat, to sail away, but he made himself sit still.
"Christine refused reassignment," said Joe, rising from his stool, carrying his guitar in his hands. "Thought you might like to know."
He had wanted to know. He hoped it was a good decision for her.
In June he sailed to Southern California and paid a lot of money to make port in Marina Del Ray. He used his credit cards, checked his email, had all of his mail redirected to a local post office box. He sat in café shops and read newspapers and magazines, rented a car and drove around Venice Beach, but always slept on his boat. One morning he sipped his coffee and read a small back column in the last few pages of the June edition of National Geographic. The title read: "Carson Science Foundation: More Secrets Revealed."
It seemed once Carson disappeared -- presumed dead, just another claimed by Antarctica -- suddenly much came to light about private interests groups backed by high powered money and potential mining contracts. An unnamed individual bought all of Carson's stakes and proceeded to dismantle them, bringing everything public. The CSF was no more, reformed under the new name of Barrett Antarctic Survey, administered by Jeffery "Jaffo" Stephens and Christine Deluna, with a focus in conservation, research, and safety.
Well, thought MacLeod, Methos had certainly kept himself busy.
The summer days continued, long and lazy. MacLeod had a routine of waking up, walking to a local breakfast spot, shopping for the day's supplies, then rummaging around the boat doing odd jobs and repairs.
On a hot Tuesday, he returned from breakfast to find a brown paper-wrapped package waiting right on the stern with no note. He brought it below deck, put his groceries down before tearing the paper away. It was a large picture book. The photo on the cover was one taken in the crevasse, showing the magnificent ice garden that no one but himself would ever see in person. Inside the book were pages of sweeping panoramic views of glaciers and open blue skies, harrowing shots of narrow ice-covered corridors between overhanging cliffs, underwater murky photographs of glowing sea life. Interspersed among the larger than life photographs were the black and white stills, mostly of Alice, some of himself and a few others.
One section was filled with pictures taken with his digital camera, hundreds of smiling faces of the people who worked at McMurdo Station. He smiled to see large, blown up pictures of his pasty white behind running through wind-whipped snow, and all of the others who'd joined in the fun that day. He traced his name next to Adam Pierson's.
Immortal presence made his knees go weak, and his head bent forward. The boat rocked as someone stepped on board. There was a gentle knock and MacLeod turned around to see Methos standing framed in the small doorway. He looked like himself, less the young urban professional and more just Methos, in his long dark duster, sweatshirt and dark jeans. They stared at each other for a moment.
"It had to be a boat, didn't it?" asked Methos.
MacLeod chuckled a little. "You sound surprised." He got two beers from the small fridge in the galley, handed one to Methos. He took a long pull from his. "Come to make another job offer?"
"No," said Methos, stepping fully into the cabin. There wasn't that much room to stand up straight, to give each other space. "Yes." Pause. "No."
"I see," said MacLeod, amused.
Methos saw the book left on the small table. He walked over to it, flipped a couple of pages. "The last works of Adam Pierson. What do you think?"
MacLeod studied Methos's back for a moment, trying to read his body language: nervous, waiting, held in. "I think it's amazing," he answered, softly.
Methos turned and faced him. "That means a lot. Thank you."
MacLeod wasn't sure what to say next. Wasn't sure if this was just a visit or more. He picked up on Methos's apprehension, feeling a tightening in his belly. "Are you hungry? Just went shopping, so you're in luck. Or we could go for some food--"
Methos stepped in close and kissed him quiet, pressing MacLeod back into a corner hedged in by cabinets and overhanging storage bins. MacLeod opened his mouth and Methos pushed in further. The kiss moved, it traveled, mashed up against lips and teeth, sliding tongue against tongue. MacLeod nipped at Methos's neck.
Methos inhaled, turned his head for better access. "Actually, you see, I was hoping for the job offer this time."
"Methos," said MacLeod, taking their half-finished beers, leading Methos through the small space to the back where the bed was. He unsnapped Methos's jeans, pushed him back onto the bed tucked into the bow of the boat. MacLeod climbed on top. "Shut up."
"Right. Good id--"
The rest was muffled. MacLeod lay fully on Methos and kissed him deeply. They both laughed a little as they shimmied out of the rest of their clothing, trying not to bump their heads in the small space. MacLeod rose up onto his elbow, catching Methos's hand in his, threading their fingers together. It was a good hand, a strong hand. He remembered the swollen fingers, the black of frostbite, and brought it up to his lips. The boat swayed gently.
END
Author: hafital aka Horses, Horses, Horses, Horses (get the obscure movie reference?)
Written for: Diane/dswdiane
Characters/Pairings: D/M
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: h/c
Author's Notes> I am deeply grateful to my two betas. This story is set sometime after Highlander: Endgame and fully ignores Highlander: The Source.
Summary: On the eve of Duncan selling his Seacouver loft, Methos shows up with an unusual job offer. Together they embark on a rare adventure that tests even their Immortal limits.
Go to Part One
Go to Part Two
Sastrugi
MacLeod woke with his cheek pressed against Methos's chest, listening to his steady heart beating. He shifted, raised his head. There was very little light, mostly coming from the camp stove in the corner. Methos's skin was red and bruised, the small capillaries having burst. He lifted a hand, placed it against MacLeod's cheek, carding gently through his hair. Methos's fingers were swollen, turned dark with frostbite, but Immortal healing battled the damage, slowly. The cold, thought MacLeod, it slowed down healing.
"Are you in pain?" he asked. It must hurt terribly. He moved to check Methos's legs and feet.
Methos shrugged. "I'll live," he said with a sad smile. "Alice?"
MacLeod dropped his eyes, passing his hands down Methos's hips. He carefully removed Methos's socks. His toes were black, but MacLeod could see the spark of healing ripple across the skin. "She survived the crash, but only for a few minutes. There was nothing I could do. I'm sorry. The two pilots are dead, too."
Methos closed his eyes. He raised his swollen, black and blue hand and covered his face.
MacLeod rummaged through the supplies. There was emergency food, flares, a map. He put his outer gear back on, took a small cooking pot and went outside into the dark, windy cold and gathered as much snow as he could. The snow was fine and powdery and flew away as soon as he tried to scoop it up, but he gathered what he could before his hands froze.
Back inside, he made warm soupy food for Methos and himself. He held the pot to Methos's lips, ordered him to drink. Methos in particular needed to eat. They both did.
The satellite phone beeped when he turned it on: no signal, not with the storm outside blocking the sky. They would have to wait.
*
The windstorm lasted for hours before dying down, MacLeod wasn't sure how long exactly. He made more food for Methos. They slept a little, Methos tense beside him, breathing through the slow pain of healing. He lost track of time, wasn't sure if it was day or night. Without a satellite link, the sat phone didn't help. MacLeod went back out to the wrecked fuselage, salvaged what they could use, but they wouldn't be able to carry much. He hauled the two bodies away from the wrecked plane and laid them side-by-side by a rocky outcropping that made a natural shelter against the wind. He went back for Alice's body, but found Methos walking toward him through the blowing wind carrying her in his arms.
He almost ordered Methos back into the tent, but stepped aside and let Methos lay Alice next to the other two. They couldn't dig, not into this frozen mountain. He wondered if they should burn the bodies, or if they should just leave them. Perhaps the bodies could be claimed somehow. He didn't know if Alice had any family, if the two pilots had loved ones.
MacLeod looked up to the sky. He could see the sun, but the wind blew strong, and there were clouds coming up from behind the other mountains. The sat phone beeped, searching for an uplink, failed. Inside the tent he found Methos packing up their supplies, dismantling the camp stove. He already knew.
"We have to get off this mountain," he said.
*
MacLeod carried the heavier load, the food, the supplies they needed, and put the lighter stuff into Methos's bag. They left the cameras, but took the film. He rigged two harnesses from materials taken from the wreck. They put them on over their outer clothes and MacLeod clipped a long safety line between him and Methos. They both carried small axes. With detailed maps he found in the survival kit, and doing his best to guess the speed and trajectory of the plane, the length of time they'd flown before crashing, he knew approximately where they were: on the eastern side of the Transantarctic Mountains.
He made Methos go first. They moved as quickly as they could but neither he nor Methos were at top form. Methos stumbled frequently. MacLeod kept looking at the sky. Periodically, he checked the sat phone. Sometimes it almost connected. It must be the storm, he thought, or something related.
They kept moving, stopping briefly for breaks, eating their rapidly dwindling food. They hiked over hard snow and hard ice. Sometimes the incline was gentle, sometimes they had to use anchors and their axes, free climbing around sudden drops and cliffs. His fingers wouldn't work properly, legs giving way suddenly. He couldn't think around the cotton in his head, around the hard cold spiking through each limb. MacLeod gave Methos one of the candy bars he carried. At this altitude, and in this cold, with the exertion of climbing and outpouring of energy needed for healing, they weren't eating enough calories. Methos's face, the little he could see, was gray with exhaustion. MacLeod wasn't sure how many hours passed before Methos collapsed onto his knees.
"Come on," said MacLeod, hooking his arms underneath Methos's armpits. "Keep moving. Just a little bit more." They were nearly to the plateau. Macleod worried that if they stopped now, they'd never get up again.
"Forget it. Just leave me."
"Don't be so dramatic. Get up." MacLeod tried lifting Methos, but his own strength failed. They both plopped to the ground.
"No, I mean it. You can come back for me." Methos rested his head back against MacLeod.
The cold from the ground crept up and sank its teeth into his spine. MacLeod was so cold he felt warm. If he left Methos here, he would come back for him. Leave him with the extra supplies. Maybe Methos would survive. Or freeze. Popsicle Methos. Bring him back to New Zealand like that, in a body bag, blue and white and lifeless. Through the slow, thick fog in his mind, MacLeod realized what he was thinking and surged to his feet. "Out of the question."
"Mac," said Methos. "I'm spent. My blood is ice. My heart can't pump any more. This is deep hypothermia. I can feel it. We'll both end up frozen forever."
"I said no. No way. Now, move. Come on." MacLeod scrambled for purchase, still hooked underneath Methos's armpits. "I said move."
MacLeod felt Methos gulped in air and pushed against him for leverage, until they were both standing.
They stumbled along. After a moment, MacLeod took out two more candy bars and gave them both to Methos. Then he got one for himself. They still had food. Not much, not nearly enough, but it was something. Methos started laughing softly to himself. Then louder, and louder, until they had to stop so he could catch his breath.
"Do you mind?" asked MacLeod, but he was smiling, too. "What?"
"That was bad. That was like a scene from a really bad movie." He imitated MacLeod. "Mooovve. What are you, Sarah Connor?"
"It worked, didn't it?" he said, embarrassed and laughing.
"That was the Oscar clip. Or at least it would make the trailer."
Methos kept giggling, high and infectious. MacLeod joined him. They both were losing what little grasp on sanity they had, but that was okay. That was fine, as long as they kept moving down the mountain.
*
A driving wind fell upon them as they stumbled and spilled down to the more level ground of the plateau. The wind kicked around the loose snow. MacLeod could feel Methos at the other end of the safety line they were each clipped to. They walked as far as they could from the mountains until Methos stopped, tugging at the safety line. He fell to his knees, sank to the ground. In the blinding swirl, MacLeod realized just how much he had underestimated this continent. He had felt safe in the security of his Immortality, but not even that was a guarantee here. Not even that could save him. He realized for the first time that they might not make it.
These were the katabatic winds MacLeod had read about: strong, unrelenting, they could blow for weeks. The satellite phone beeped. Through the noise of the storm, MacLeod thought he heard it beep again.
"Hello," he yelled, grabbing the phone from his backpack, pushed the buttons. "Yes, we're here."
The voice that came through the phone was small and tinny, carried away in the wind. "This is Jaffo at McMurdo Station calling CSF Flight 20."
MacLeod could have cried. If he'd had any moisture left in his body he would have sat down and cried like a baby. "This is Duncan MacLeod," he answered. "CSF Flight 20 crashed, exact location of the crash unknown, but we're on the east side of the Transantarctics. There are two survivors. Myself and Adam Pierson." He looked to Methos who still lay on the ground dusted with snow.
There was static filled silence on the other end. "Magnetic storm," said Jaffo. "Interference difficult, can't track sat phone. Search and rescue on their way. Trek out to these coordinates."
MacLeod pulled out his map, memorizing the coordinates Jaffo gave him. The search and rescue point was about ten, fifteen kilometers further east, but he wasn't even sure of where they were at that moment to figure out in which direction to go. He looked at the sky, the sun's position obscured by the wind and the snow. He wished desperately for a GPS device. The phone call ended, the sat phone cutting out. He didn't know the time frame, how long they had, or if the search and rescue team would come by plane or by helicopter.
He pulled Methos to standing, shaking him, slapping his face until Methos woke and pushed back. If he had to, MacLeod would drag Methos the rest of the way, but they were getting to the rescue point no matter what. The sat phone, when it worked, told him their coordinates. Using that, and gut instinct, he started out in a direction.
Thankfully, as they moved further away from the mountains, the storm died down, although the wind still blew strong, pushed at their backs and at their sides. Methos bumped into him and then walked sideways until the safety rope caused him to stumble and weave drunkenly back. Macleod knew there was no way they could keep on course, but he kept looking at the sat phone, kept looking at the map.
The ground was uneven, ridged with deep grooves cut into the snow and ice like scalloped edges, etched parallel to the wind. Sastrugi, that's what the ridges were called, he remembered from his reading.
Methos fell behind. MacLeod felt the drag of the safety rope. He turned back to yell at Methos but tripped on a large upsweep of snow, his feet kicking through. The ground opened up, sudden, wide, and he fell backward, arms flailing. He yelled.
Slotted, that's what they called it, when you fell through an unexpected crevasse. His fall stopped with a sudden jerk, the harness he wore riding up hard, and he heard a loud snap, cried out with the blinding white pain of a broken back.
Dizzy from shock and pain, MacLeod looked up and saw Methos half dangling over the edge of the crevasse, having stopped himself from going over by wedging his axe into the frozen ice underneath the layer of snow.
MacLeod could hear Methos struggle, trying to climb back all the way to the surface, but MacLeod's weight made it impossible.
"Methos," he called. They looked at each other, both dangling from opposite ends of the rope that kept them connected. MacLeod took out the knife he carried in the inside of his jacket. "You go on."
"Don't you dare," said Methos, through his clenched jaw, still struggling to pull himself up and out of the crevasse.
"It's all right," said MacLeod. He put the knife against the rope.
"I mean it, MacLeod. If you cut that rope I will never forgive you." They locked eyes, and the distance between them melted away. It was as if they were face to face, battling over swords in the dojo, challenging each other, pushing to see how far the other would bend. MacLeod believed him; Methos would never forgive him. He moved the knife away from the rope, cutting the straps of his backpack instead. The backpack fell away, carrying all of their food and supplies, and the sat phone.
Grunting, yelling with each inch he gained, Methos crawled slowly back up over the lip of the crevasse. MacLeod watched from where he hung, swaying until he could grab onto the sides of the crevasse, using his knife and axe to climb up, but without the use of his legs he was nearly useless. Inch by inch he was lifted. He took a moment to look around. The crevasse was beautiful, filled with majestic ice sculptures, immense spikes of frozen ice, hollowed passages filled with blue light. MacLeod realized he still had his camera, always kept in an inside pocket. For Methos, he thought, he took a few pictures.
At the top he took hold of Methos's hand. Together they collapsed in a heap at the edge of the crevasse, panting, holding each other. Methos smiled at him and MacLeod smiled back. They didn't move.
"My back's broken," said MacLeod.
Methos nodded, pulling MacLeod into a more normal position. They sat with their backs against a small mound. The wind blew flurries around them.
"So," started MacLeod, conversationally, as if they sat on stools at a bar drinking beers while the game played. They had no tent, no shelter, no food. Brilliantly, miraculously, he remembered that he'd put the flares in Methos's backpack. He took them out, snapped them in his hands. They flared bright fuchsia. He wasn't sure how far they were from the pick up point. "What are your plans after this?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Methos. "I thought I might take a vacation. Some place warm. Bora Bora."
MacLeod chuckled, grinning. He couldn't help asking. "By yourself?"
Methos didn't answer, falling silent. "I lied to you," he said after a while.
"Oh." MacLeod shifted a little. Methos's face was still flushed with angry red skin, all along the cheekbones and the tip of his nose. His lips were dry, cracked. Methos wouldn't meet his eyes. "What about?" he asked softly.
"I do know why I asked you to come with me." Methos's voice rumbled quietly in the cold air.
MacLeod waited for Methos to elaborate but he said nothing more. The flares burned brightly. MacLeod turned, leaned close against Methos, resting cheek to cheek.
The wind picked up. It wasn't the driving strength of the katabatic winds but more of a flattening from above. MacLeod looked up and saw a helicopter, landing several meters away. A man emerged, smiling, and MacLeod could have kissed Brett, so happy he was to see him. Except, something was wrong. Where was the medevac? Why was Brett alone? Where was the search and rescue team? Beside him MacLeod felt Methos stiffen in anticipation. He felt his own stomach tighten with fear.
Brett trudged over the sastrugi ridges toward them. "Hello, there," he said behind his usual wide, toothy grin and his dark sunglasses. "Someone's been waiting to meet you."
He stepped aside. From the helicopter, MacLeod saw another man, no one he recognized, drop down to the ground. In his hand he carried a long broadsword. Immortal presence tingled down MacLeod's spine, melting into his numb legs. The man approached, stopping just a couple of meters away. He was tall, dark-haired, covered in CSF standard-issue clothing.
MacLeod looked at Methos. Methos's eyes were bright, hard. "You must be the eponymous Carson," said Methos, calmly.
Carson inclined his head. "And you are Doctor Benjamin Adams. You knew my teacher, Morgan Walker."
"Ah," said Methos, struggling to rise. He gripped his axe in one hand, picked up MacLeod's axe with the other. "I might have known."
MacLeod grabbed at Methos's arm, but what could he say? There was nothing he could do. He couldn't feel his legs. There was nowhere to run even if he could stand. MacLeod was helpless. He gripped the handle of his small knife he still held in his hand. "Methos," he said, his throat hurting.
Methos's eyes were sad but clear, bright in the sun and the wind. He squeezed MacLeod's hand before turning to face Carson.
*
Methos stumbled, blocking Carson's swinging sword with one axe, hacking with the other. MacLeod could feel Methos's exhaustion, flinching with every blow and jab that Methos received. Carson was just playing with him. It would be over soon. Carson sliced Methos's thigh. Methos cried out but ducked just in time, swinging back and hitting Carson in the upper arm. Both men pulled back, circled each other. Methos couldn't walk straight, tripping over his feet.
MacLeod recalled the little that he knew about Morgan Walker -- slave trader, killer. Carson didn't look like a killer. He looked like a businessman, a Wall Street tycoon playing dress-up in the wilds of Antarctica. This was about money. MacLeod thought of Alice Barrett and her ideals, her dreams. This man thought he could own Antarctica.
The wind blew harder, kicking up the snow flurries, obscuring MacLeod's vision. Carson swung his broadsword, hacking into the cold air, beating Methos backward. Methos fell, sprawled on his back, fending off each blow. With both axes, he hooked the broadsword's blade, kicked with his foot. Carson staggered back. Before Carson could recover, Methos swept wide and buried one axe in Carson's sword arm. He swung around again, buried the second axe in Carson's neck. Carson clawed at his throat with his one good hand, blood gushing through his fingers.
Staggering, legs collapsing beneath him, Methos grabbed Carson's sword, and delivered the killing stroke. He fell to the ground as the quickening gathered, collecting in a cloud of snow and electricity above Methos's head before striking.
The helicopter sparked and exploded. The sky darkened as cloud cover grew.
MacLeod saw Brett reach into his jacket and pull out a gun, pointing it at Methos. Brett's smile had become edged with fear. MacLeod willed his legs to work, pushed himself up to an almost kneeling position. "Hey," he called. The quickening was ending. Methos lay on the ground, motionless. Brett turned. MacLeod hefted his knife. Brett looked shocked when the knife slammed into his shoulder, disabling his arm. The gun fell from his hands. Brett dropped to his knees, fell onto his side, crying out in pain.
MacLeod crawled toward Methos. The quickening storm kicked snow into his face, clouded his eyes. He thought he saw a figure come striding through the whipping wind, untouched by the storm, then several more figures appeared. He lay on his back and stared up into the familiar face of Christine.
"Need some help?" she asked, smug smile tugging at her lips. She peered into his face. At that moment she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
She knelt by Brett, taking her gloves off to feel his pulse. MacLeod saw it and wondered how he'd missed it before, right there on the inside of her wrist: the Watcher's tattoo.
Sickbay at McMurdo Station smelled like antiseptic and ammonia. MacLeod, hooked up to an IV pumping liquids into his body, tried to shift on his observation gurney, unable to turn over. Methos lay in the next bay, asleep, also hooked up to IVs. At least Methos's skin was mostly back to normal, having lost much of the angry frostburn. MacLeod had tried to insist that they didn't need medical attention, but Christine had not listened. "No one will know," she said. "I've got it covered. You're both suffering from dehydration and hypothermia."
Decorations hung lopsided over heart monitors and EKG machines. Lights framed the doorway and the mock window that looked into the next room. They'd missed Christmas somewhere between craggy cliffs and blue ice.
The door opened and Christine entered with two trays of food. She set one by Methos, off to the side for when he woke, then brought the other to MacLeod, setting it right in front of him.
She pulled a stool over. "Eat everything. You're about one third the man you were."
MacLeod caught his reflection on the metal surface of a storage cabinet opposite where he lay. His face was thin but he knew he would recover. He wanted answers before he started eating. "You were Carson's Watcher?"
"It'll get cold," she said, taking his spoon and dipping it in the bowl of soup. When he didn't take it, she smiled. "Obviously."
"You should have said something."
She crossed her arms. "That's not what we do, and you know it. What could I have said that would have changed anything? He would have found some way of making the challenge. I did what I could; I watched."
"You should have said something," MacLeod insisted. "Alice died, the two pilots died. If you had come to me, it wouldn't have happened. She'd still be alive." It was the old argument again. Watchers who sit back and do nothing while innocent people die.
Christine stared at him intently. There was pity in her eyes. "Carson was many things -- powerful, rich -- but not even he could control Antarctica. Not really. Alice Barrett, Marcus Stapleton, Stevie Williams all died because Marcus and Stevie decided to fly into a storm over the Transantarctics instead of turning back. Carson was an opportunist, plain and simple. If he saw something he could exploit, he did. This is Antarctica, MacLeod. She takes no prisoners. Not even your kind."
There was truth in her words, and he knew it, but she couldn't quite meet his eyes. They had been played like puppets. MacLeod knew his blame in the whole thing, ignoring his suspicions as he had, but he would not let her off the hook so easily. "Did they fly into the storm because they were foolhardy, or because if they didn't they wouldn't keep their jobs next summer?" he asked. "What about the money Carson poured into Antarctica, none of it for the surface reasons of science and research? If left alone, Carson would have owned this continent and all of its potential resources. You're right, he exploited everyone. Even you."
Her eyes were dark, unreadable. "Eat everything on your tray," she said, standing up. He stopped her before she could leave.
"You love this place. You're like Alice. She had the same fire inside driving her. I see it in your eyes. Don't forget it."
She pulled free from his grip on her arm, looked at him for a moment, then left.
MacLeod sighed. That hadn't gone well, and he was sorry to have pushed her so hard. Next to him Methos shifted. "I know you're awake." MacLeod swallowed his first spoonful of soup.
"They're not going to change, you know." Methos's voice was rough, raw. "She said it: It's not what they do. It's not who they are."
"I know," said MacLeod, quietly. "But she might change. You believe in the inevitably of things. Things happen because that's how they happen. She would have died no matter what, one way or another." MacLeod wasn't arguing. He was old enough to know how hard it was to change. Like the katabatic winds driving grooves of sastrugi into the snow. Sometimes you just had to let the wind push you where it willed. Maybe he could not have prevented the plane crash. Maybe he was just as arrogant as Carson.
MacLeod didn't look to the side, to Methos, but he could hear his quiet breathing, the slide of fabric over fabric.
"No," answered Methos.
"No, what?"
"You think very loudly. You're not like him, so stop it. All we can do is learn from both what we do wrong and what we do right, and continue on. Alice had her suspicions about Carson, probably brought too much attention to herself. None of us are blameless."
It sounded like Methos was trying to convince himself, but MacLeod was grateful. They fell silent and didn't speak anymore until they were released by Jaffo and sent back to their quarters. Methos disappeared and MacLeod was left to pack for their departure the next day.
*
A crowd gathered to see them off: Jaffo, Cilla, Tommy, and many others whose names washed over MacLeod as he hugged them, shook hands, kissed a few cheeks. He looked for Christine, but he couldn't find her anywhere. Just before entering the dark door of the plane, he turned back and looked around to all of McMurdo Station. He saw Christine, by herself, climbing the big hill that butted up against the south side of the station. She turned and stood looking out toward them. At that distance, he couldn't make out her face, or any distinguishing features. She waved, and he waved back.
MacLeod learned that morning that Brett had survived and would be shipped off Antarctica as soon as he could travel, barred from ever returning. Already there were rumblings about CSF going under, questions about what it might all mean, about the future of Antarctica and everyone's place there. There were scared faces and hopeful faces, a few relieved faces.
Methos and he had not spoken since their conversation in sickbay, aside from an offhand comment here or there about packing. Had Methos made sure to take everything from the dark room? Had MacLeod cleared out the drawers?
The plane ride was tense, long, and quiet. They arrived at Christchurch late in the day. In the hotel, as Methos and he parted to go to their separate rooms, MacLeod knew. He had known since before leaving McMurdo Station, but had ignored it.
"Methos," he said, trying to think of something more to say. Methos looked at him, eyes shining from the lights of the hotel hallway. It was like they still had the safety rope tied between them. Time to cut the rope. He reached into his pocket and handed over his digital camera. "Keep it," he said, "There are pictures on there for you." He held the camera until Methos finally took it from his hand. "It'll be all right," he said, for no reason except that he really wanted it to be true.
Methos smiled. "I believe you."
In the morning there was a note waiting for MacLeod at the front desk, written in Methos's handwriting.
My barn having burned down to the ground,
I can now see the moon.
Be somewhere I can find you in six months.
Typical, thought MacLeod. Leave it to Methos to leave cryptic notes and then vanish.
Adam Pierson disappeared. The London flat was cleared out, left empty. None of his solicitors or agents knew where to find him. He'd left word that he would be in contact when he was ready, and that was that. MacLeod didn't try too hard to find him. He believed Methos would come to him when he was ready.
At first MacLeod found it difficult not having Methos beside him. After so many intense days together, spending all day, every day dependent on each other, tied together in more ways than with just a rope, it was like losing a limb. Like losing sight, or hearing. It was hardest at night. MacLeod listened for Methos's breathing and was restless without it.
He bought a boat. A big forty-foot cutter sailboat, with a decent sized cabin and a ten-foot mast. He named her Sastrugi because of the way she cut through water, making grooves and waves. For six months he made the sea his home, making port here and there. He spent a week with Amanda in Mexico. He visited Joe in San Francisco. Joe wouldn't answer his questions, only smiled that snaggle-toothed smile. "I simply don't know, buddy. He doesn't talk to me."
MacLeod huffed, sipped his whiskey. He was itching to get back out onto his boat, to sail away, but he made himself sit still.
"Christine refused reassignment," said Joe, rising from his stool, carrying his guitar in his hands. "Thought you might like to know."
He had wanted to know. He hoped it was a good decision for her.
In June he sailed to Southern California and paid a lot of money to make port in Marina Del Ray. He used his credit cards, checked his email, had all of his mail redirected to a local post office box. He sat in café shops and read newspapers and magazines, rented a car and drove around Venice Beach, but always slept on his boat. One morning he sipped his coffee and read a small back column in the last few pages of the June edition of National Geographic. The title read: "Carson Science Foundation: More Secrets Revealed."
It seemed once Carson disappeared -- presumed dead, just another claimed by Antarctica -- suddenly much came to light about private interests groups backed by high powered money and potential mining contracts. An unnamed individual bought all of Carson's stakes and proceeded to dismantle them, bringing everything public. The CSF was no more, reformed under the new name of Barrett Antarctic Survey, administered by Jeffery "Jaffo" Stephens and Christine Deluna, with a focus in conservation, research, and safety.
Well, thought MacLeod, Methos had certainly kept himself busy.
The summer days continued, long and lazy. MacLeod had a routine of waking up, walking to a local breakfast spot, shopping for the day's supplies, then rummaging around the boat doing odd jobs and repairs.
On a hot Tuesday, he returned from breakfast to find a brown paper-wrapped package waiting right on the stern with no note. He brought it below deck, put his groceries down before tearing the paper away. It was a large picture book. The photo on the cover was one taken in the crevasse, showing the magnificent ice garden that no one but himself would ever see in person. Inside the book were pages of sweeping panoramic views of glaciers and open blue skies, harrowing shots of narrow ice-covered corridors between overhanging cliffs, underwater murky photographs of glowing sea life. Interspersed among the larger than life photographs were the black and white stills, mostly of Alice, some of himself and a few others.
One section was filled with pictures taken with his digital camera, hundreds of smiling faces of the people who worked at McMurdo Station. He smiled to see large, blown up pictures of his pasty white behind running through wind-whipped snow, and all of the others who'd joined in the fun that day. He traced his name next to Adam Pierson's.
Immortal presence made his knees go weak, and his head bent forward. The boat rocked as someone stepped on board. There was a gentle knock and MacLeod turned around to see Methos standing framed in the small doorway. He looked like himself, less the young urban professional and more just Methos, in his long dark duster, sweatshirt and dark jeans. They stared at each other for a moment.
"It had to be a boat, didn't it?" asked Methos.
MacLeod chuckled a little. "You sound surprised." He got two beers from the small fridge in the galley, handed one to Methos. He took a long pull from his. "Come to make another job offer?"
"No," said Methos, stepping fully into the cabin. There wasn't that much room to stand up straight, to give each other space. "Yes." Pause. "No."
"I see," said MacLeod, amused.
Methos saw the book left on the small table. He walked over to it, flipped a couple of pages. "The last works of Adam Pierson. What do you think?"
MacLeod studied Methos's back for a moment, trying to read his body language: nervous, waiting, held in. "I think it's amazing," he answered, softly.
Methos turned and faced him. "That means a lot. Thank you."
MacLeod wasn't sure what to say next. Wasn't sure if this was just a visit or more. He picked up on Methos's apprehension, feeling a tightening in his belly. "Are you hungry? Just went shopping, so you're in luck. Or we could go for some food--"
Methos stepped in close and kissed him quiet, pressing MacLeod back into a corner hedged in by cabinets and overhanging storage bins. MacLeod opened his mouth and Methos pushed in further. The kiss moved, it traveled, mashed up against lips and teeth, sliding tongue against tongue. MacLeod nipped at Methos's neck.
Methos inhaled, turned his head for better access. "Actually, you see, I was hoping for the job offer this time."
"Methos," said MacLeod, taking their half-finished beers, leading Methos through the small space to the back where the bed was. He unsnapped Methos's jeans, pushed him back onto the bed tucked into the bow of the boat. MacLeod climbed on top. "Shut up."
"Right. Good id--"
The rest was muffled. MacLeod lay fully on Methos and kissed him deeply. They both laughed a little as they shimmied out of the rest of their clothing, trying not to bump their heads in the small space. MacLeod rose up onto his elbow, catching Methos's hand in his, threading their fingers together. It was a good hand, a strong hand. He remembered the swollen fingers, the black of frostbite, and brought it up to his lips. The boat swayed gently.
END