Persistence of Vision, for dkwilliams
Title: Persistence of Vision
Author: killabeez
Written for: Diana Williams (dkwilliams)
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos, Joe Dawson
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~7,100
Warnings: character death offstage (Cassandra)
Author notes: Amand-r is truly the most patient and beneficent of rulers.
Summary: When Methos takes a bad Quickening, Joe calls in the cavalry.
You can't miss it, Joe had said when he'd given MacLeod the address. He hadn't exaggerated. The house was about ten miles from anything, the huge stone gate standing open to the road. As if signaling his arrival, the first raindrops struck the windshield as MacLeod turned in and followed the long driveway under the thick, sheltering canopy of trees.
It's an emergency, Joe had said, which was more than enough for MacLeod. There wasn't much he wouldn't do for Joe Dawson these days. But then Joe had added, It's Methos, and a traitorous spark of anticipation had lit in MacLeod's chest. He hadn't seen Methos since the impromptu gathering on the barge after O'Rourke, and hadn't even known Methos was still in France. They'd all skated through that night in one piece, thanks in no small part to Methos, but afterwards, the reluctant hero of the day made himself scarce. MacLeod had caught himself thinking about his friend more often than he could count in the last few months, but he'd been too proud to ask Joe where Methos might have gone. Something about Methos always brought out that side of him, as if he feared Methos might disappear for good if MacLeod let on that he liked having Methos around.
Now Methos was in trouble, and Joe had asked for his help. MacLeod didn't much like what it said about him, that his first reaction had been the eagerness of a green boy. He'd thought he was over feeling like this about Methos, but apparently, he wasn't as over it as he'd told himself he was.
After nearly half a mile, the trees parted at last and MacLeod found himself in front of an elegant country house gently marred by signs of neglect, the driveway turning in a wide curve before the entrance. He got out and surveyed the yard, but saw only Joe's familiar Range Rover and the steady fall of rain on the cobblestones, the empty fountain and nearby orchards. A note on the door told him to let himself in, so he did so.
Inside, white cloths covered the furniture, but the house was in good condition; someone had kept it free of dust and well-aired. MacLeod's trained eye appraised the fine cabinetry and built-ins for a moment, the elegant light fixtures and Italian marble, before the faint sound of the slide on a 9mm pistol clicked to his right.
MacLeod raised his hands. "Relax, Joe. It's me."
Joe Dawson stepped out from behind an arching doorway, lowering the gun. "Can't be too careful these days."
"I hear you." MacLeod offered his hand, and Joe took it, his grip warm and strong at MacLeod's wrist.
"Thanks for coming. It's good to see you."
"You, too." MacLeod cast a glance down the entry hall. "Where is he?"
Joe turned to lead the way deeper into the house. "Asleep. Gave him something to keep him quiet for now."
MacLeod cast a glance askance. "You drugged him? What the hell happened?"
"He took a bad quickening. Maybe more than one--we're not sure."
MacLeod didn't much like the look on Joe's face, and stopped in his tracks. "What do you mean, you're not sure?"
Joe halted, too, leaning on his cane. "You've heard of Kolak?"
"Marko Kolak?" A chill skated through MacLeod. Darius had mentioned him a few times. An ancient headhunter, thousands of years old, with more blood on his hands than MacLeod cared to think about. If what Darius had said was true, he'd slain more Immortals than MacLeod had met in his lifetime. "I thought he was killed centuries ago."
"We thought so, too. But guess what? Watchers ain't infallible."
"You don't say."
"Mac, listen, we think Kolak killed Cassandra. We think that's how he found Methos."
MacLeod felt again the strong pang of regret. It had been only a fortnight since Joe had told him of Cassandra's death, and he still hadn't come to terms with it. Immortals died in the Game, but Cassandra felt like a personal failure somehow. He'd made his choice when she raised her blade over Methos' neck and would have done the same again, but he wasn't blind to the selfishness of that choice. He could still remember the look on her face.
Whoever had killed Cassandra had killed her Watcher as well, and Joe had been investigating their deaths. If it had been this Kolak, and he took on Cassandra's power and knowledge...
"And you're sure Methos took his head?" MacLeod asked, brows drawing downward. Whatever else he might say about Methos, he was sure that the last thing he would have wanted was any part of Cassandra's quickening. MacLeod swallowed, thinking about what Richie's quickening had felt like. How the screams of rage had ripped open his mind. The memory still turned his insides cold. "What happened?"
The expression on Joe's face was dire, and the look he cast toward the corridor ahead made MacLeod suddenly aware of how dangerous a man Joe Dawson could be. "Methos went after his own Watcher. She said he wasn't himself--that he tried to kill her. She had to shoot him point blank to save her own ass. She tied him up, stuck his own dagger through his heart, and called me."
MacLeod's own heart gave a pang of sympathy. He frowned. "Since when does Methos have a Watcher?"
"Since he killed a guy named Morgan Walker, maybe a year ago." Joe grimaced. "We thought maybe whatever this is would wear off, but it's been almost a day, and he's still raving. Hasn't spoken a word in any language I know."
MacLeod digested that. What Watcher besides Joe would go to those lengths to help an Immortal? Did she know who Methos was? The implications were troubling, but would have to wait for another day.
Before he could ask more questions, Joe pushed open a door and led him down the hallway beyond, coming to stop in an open doorway. MacLeod joined him. Inside lay a bedchamber, and on the bed lay Methos, his sleeves pushed up and his feet bare, unconscious. MacLeod's gaze swept over the familiar, lean form, taking in the signs of battle and the damage done by blade and bullet that still marred his clothing. Someone had cleaned the blood off him, but he still wore the clothes he'd had on when he fought. A part of MacLeod wished he could have seen it. The rest of him felt the chill of death narrowly averted, and a friend in trouble who needed his help.
"What else aren't you telling me, Joe?" he asked at last.
Joe met MacLeod's gaze. "His Watcher--she's my daughter. Long story. Methos knows her. He's saved her life. He'd no more hurt her than he'd hurt me."
MacLeod's first thought was that Joe was too trusting. He'd seen what Methos was capable of, if pushed far enough. But he said nothing about that. It wouldn't help the situation.
"So what do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Stay here with him. Keep him from hurting himself, or anyone else, until it wears off."
"You're joking."
Joe made a face. "Do I look like I'm joking? We've got at least one Watcher dead, and if they find out Amy and I interfered, we'll both be neck deep in it. I can't stay here. I've gotta get back." He nodded toward Methos. "But somebody's gotta stay with him."
Again, MacLeod felt a surge of selfish reaction he didn't care to acknowledge. This time it bore an uncomfortable resemblance to simple jealousy. He hadn't even known Joe had a daughter. He set it aside, knowing it was childish to resent Methos and Joe's friendship when they'd both risked so much for him.
"Whatever you need, Joe. You know that."
"There's food," said Joe, "and enough firewood to get you through a few days, at least. I know it ain't much of a plan, but it's the best I could do on short notice."
"He won't like it," MacLeod said. "He'd tell us we're both fools."
The color rose in Joe's face. He knew what he was asking. In a low voice, he said, "Look, I know you guys have been through some rough spots the last few years, but he still cares about you. He trusts you. And I know it's mutual, so you know--hide the sharp objects and keep him sedated until whatever this is has a chance to settle."
MacLeod's gaze returned to Methos. Joe was entrusting him to keep him safe, and keep him from hurting anybody. MacLeod wasn't sure he trusted himself to do that, but one thing was certain: he owed Methos. This wasn't a dark quickening, not exactly, but it might not be so different. If Methos hadn't been there during his own bout of insanity, he shuddered to think what might have happened.
"What about this place?" he asked, turning to the practicalities of the situation. "Where are we?"
"It's Amanda's." At MacLeod's look, Joe shrugged. "She owed me one."
MacLeod's eyebrows rose. "Must've been a big one."
"You could say that. Anyway, I told her we needed someplace safe, without too many neighbors."
"I hope you read the fine print."
Joe took a hypodermic needle case out of his coat. "Near as I can tell, these things last about three hours. I gave him the last one maybe twenty minutes before you got here."
Reluctant, MacLeod took it. "What am I supposed to do, keep him drugged out of his mind until I come up with a better idea?"
"You know as well as I do, these things take time. We just gotta keep him from hurting anybody until he has a chance to snap out of it."
MacLeod opened the case and checked the contents, though the idea of it turned his stomach. He'd been drugged himself more than once, and knew first hand that anything powerful enough to keep an Immortal under for more than a few minutes would have unpleasant side effects. He put the case into his pocket without comment. His eyes went back to Methos, who hadn't stirred.
"You sure he'll get over it on his own?" he asked, dubious.
Joe scowled. "Yeah, I'm positive, because I'm an Immortal quickening doctor. What do you think? No, I'm not sure. But he's been around a hell of a long time and he's as stubborn as the both of us put together, so, yeah, I think he'll get through it. We've dealt with worse."
"So long as you're the one who gets to explain this to him afterwards."
Joe grunted at that, but his suddenly innocent expression said MacLeod might be out of luck on that count.
MacLeod accompanied Joe back toward the front hallway. At the door, he reached out and stopped Joe with a hand on his arm. "Be careful, will you? Don't risk your neck for us."
"It ain't my first rodeo," Joe said, and cast a glance back the direction they had come. "You, too, you hear me? I don't want to have to close the book on either one of you."
"I'll do my best."
* * * * *
MacLeod returned to the guest room and stood in the doorway, studying Methos' unconscious form. "What am I going to do with you?" he murmured. He'd missed that arresting face, and couldn't help the relief he felt at seeing him again even under these circumstances. He didn't want to think about the possibility that whatever had happened to Methos might not be temporary.
He'd seen this or something like it once before, with Cochrane, though he found it hard to imagine that Methos could be suffering emotional trauma from killing the likes of Kolak. Even if the two men had history together--say, history like Methos had with Kronos--MacLeod didn't think Methos was the type to run from what he'd done the way Warren had. Maybe a few years ago, before the Horsemen, but not any more.
Cassandra, though...that complicated things. MacLeod didn't pretend to understand what Cassandra meant to Methos, but he'd struggled with his own regrets enough to know how difficult it could be to accept one's failures when it was too late to make amends. Despite his thorny history with Cassandra, her death made him sick at heart, and he could only imagine how Methos must feel. Cassandra had been very old and her power strong, not to mention the anger she carried. Could her quickening have persisted within Kolak the way Bryce Korland's had within Coltec?
One thing he knew for certain--drugging Methos wasn't the answer. He knew his friend would say the same. Wherever Methos was now, he had to fight his way back on his own, and he'd need all the focus of his formidable mind and will to do that.
Not to mention, MacLeod thought wryly, he'd probably have MacLeod's liver out over it if he found out MacLeod had gone along with shooting him full of barbiturates. There were certain things Methos might forgive of Joe Dawson that any other man would pay dearly for, and MacLeod felt sure this was one of them.
He checked Methos' pulse and breathing. Both were slow and faint, closer to a coma than unconsciousness. Methos' skin felt cool to the touch. MacLeod didn't like it, but at least it seemed as though Methos would be out for a while.
He took advantage of that and made a circuit of the whole house, collecting anything he thought might be used as a weapon. It took the better part of an hour; MacLeod stopped counting rooms after the ninth or tenth bedchamber, and simply moved as swiftly as possible. When he was done, he locked everything in a tall cabinet in the pantry--the best he could do under the circumstances.
He returned to Methos' room. After a moment's consideration, he stripped off his coat and shirt, then his shoes, so that he wore only his singlet and trousers, which were loose and flowing enough to, he hoped, make it obvious he wasn't hiding any weapons.
The thought of tying Methos occurred to MacLeod, but he could picture how Methos would react to that. He'd have to do this the old fashioned way.
* * * * *
When the drugs wore off, they wore off fast, and MacLeod had a moment of wishing he'd given more consideration to restraints. He'd half-hoped that Methos might open his eyes and recognize MacLeod, or at least show some sign of the Methos he knew. Instead, Methos took one look at him and rolled to his feet on the opposite side of the bed, then demanded something in a language that sounded like nothing MacLeod could identify. He had the distinct impression that if he didn't answer to Methos' satisfaction, things were about to get messy.
MacLeod raised his hands, showing they were empty, and kept his distance. "I mean you no harm," he said. "I'm a friend." He tried the same in Gaelic, then German, then Italian, but though his eyes narrowed at the German, Methos showed no sign of comprehension. Not for the first time, MacLeod wished his skill with languages were better.
He fell back on the more basic methods of communication. "Look," he said. "Food." He showed Methos a shallow bowl of Marcona almonds from a packet he'd had in his car, along with a handful of tiny, sweet apples from the orchard and a metal cup full of water. He wished he had a beer to offer, but then again, with the way Methos was watching him, a glass bottle would probably be a bad idea.
It scarcely mattered, for Methos ignored the food and prowled toward the doorway, which MacLeod had deliberately left open. He had carefully placed himself away from it, making it clear that he wasn't Methos' jailor--even though, in truth, he was, and he poised himself to move if Methos made a break for it. Methos' head swiveled as if he sensed the thought, and his gaze snapped back to MacLeod, watchful. MacLeod felt the hair on his arms lift. Methos had never missed much, and he was all too aware of that fact, but this Methos seemed to look straight through him as if he were transparent.
MacLeod took a sip of the water and a bite of the food to show him it wasn't poisoned, then left it on the table beside the window and backed off to what he hoped was a reassuring distance.
Keep talking, he told himself, hoping his voice would seem familiar. "Duncan," he said, gesturing to himself. "Duncan MacLeod. We're friends. Your name is Methos."
He'd hoped that using Methos' true name might establish a level of trust between them, but Methos didn't react to it at all. It was as though he didn't recognize the sound of it, MacLeod thought, watching Methos case the room. Could he have reverted to a memory even older than the name Methos? The possibility unsettled him. He was used to thinking of Methos as his friend's true name, as his clan's name had always been his. But perhaps, like so many other things about Methos, it was a mistake to make that assumption.
"You're safe here," he tried, putting all his conviction into the words. "Listen to me--I want to help you."
At that, Methos cast a look his direction, then spoke again with a decidedly impatient tone. The syllables seemed to have too many consonants and not enough vowels, but they flowed easily from Methos' lips. MacLeod may not have understood the words, but the derision was clear enough. Well, he supposed wryly, at least some things didn't change.
At least Methos was paying attention to him now, so Duncan touched his temple, then pointed to Methos. "You've lost your memory, my friend." He made a sharp, slashing gesture across his own throat, then touched his temple again and spread his hands. "I'm sorry. But I want to help."
Methos' eyes narrowed. MacLeod could see him processing everything--MacLeod's crude sign language, their surroundings, the state of his own clothing. Whatever ill effects he had suffered, plainly his intelligence had not been affected. Trust, though, would take longer. With a calculating air, Methos turned his back on MacLeod and left the room.
"Not making this easy, are you?" MacLeod said under his breath, and hurried after him.
* * * * *
The rain and wind beat steadily against the windows, daylight nearly gone as Methos stalked down the darkened corridors, exploring everything, suspicious but curious in spite of himself. MacLeod followed close after, but kept his distance. As long as Methos was content to stay within the chateau's walls, MacLeod was content to let him choose their path.
At the conservatory doors, they hit their first snag. Methos tested the first one, and when it was locked, he turned a narrow-eyed, knowing look on MacLeod. Surprise, surprise, it said, as clearly as if Methos had spoken. He tested the others, looking out through the glass as he did so. The sky was a deep purple-gray. Beyond the portico, a grassy hillside spread away down a gentle slope to the creek below. The shadows of trees lay on all sides, ghostly dark through the rain and the gathering gloom.
Methos gave him a look that said all too clearly that he was aware of the leash MacLeod intended to keep him on, and MacLeod was welcome to try his luck if he wished, but he left the doors and resumed his exploration. It was a detente, of sorts. MacLeod, for his part, did not look forward to the moment when his charge tired of playing this game.
It was a little like looking after a three-year-old, MacLeod reflected, watching Methos become fascinated by a row of mirrors in one of the reception halls. They spent an inordinate amount of time there, MacLeod watching, amused, as Methos examined his own reflection in detail. MacLeod half-hoped that seeing his own image might trigger something, but Methos gave no sign that the precisely mirrored image of his own face was anything but a curiosity to be catalogued and then forgotten.
At the library doors, Methos hesitated, and MacLeod figured it was worth a shot. "Books," he said quietly, watching Methos. "You like books. Would you like to see?" He dared to draw closer to Methos than he had yet, and though Methos tensed, he didn't react otherwise. "Come on," he said, and gestured inside.
More like a feral, frighteningly intelligent three-year-old, he thought, as he turned his back on Methos and led the way into the library. The hair on his neck stood on end, and he half-expected to be struck from behind, but no attack came. Instead, Methos followed him inside.
Methos was drawn to the old books, his long fingers reaching out to touch the leather spines as if he couldn't help himself. MacLeod went to the first shelf that caught his eye, and pulled down an oversized, volume--Gustave Dore's illustrated Rime of the Ancient Mariner. He cast a glance at Methos and opened the book on the sheet-draped writing desk, then stepped back so Methos could see.
Methos' reaction to the book was as intense as MacLeod could have hoped. Whether it evoked true memory or not, MacLeod couldn't tell, but for the first time, the tension left Methos' body and he seemed less like an ancient barbarian warlord in modern clothing, and more like the sharp-witted, mercurial man MacLeod knew. As MacLeod watched, he touched the pages and turned them with careful focus, examining each detail of engraving and lettering, of paper and ink and binding with a kind of reverence that gave MacLeod hope. He was sure, then, that somewhere in there, his friend still retained that ineffable sense of self that he thought of as Methos.
When Warren had retreated into the blindness of amnesia, MacLeod had been angry. He remembered that. It had infuriated him to think that an Immortal would willfully turn his back on his own history and try to forget it, no matter how ugly. A man's history made him what he was--he'd always believed that--and to turn one's back on it was to refuse the lessons of the past; worse, to run from them like a coward.
Since then, he'd killed Richie with his own hand and faced the darkness inside him in a way that had forever changed him. He was a different man, and he understood better. The courage it took to live Methos' life, to live with everything he'd done and choose to go on, was something he could aspire to. Such a man was no coward. Methos was only lost, and waiting for someone to find him.
"What's happened to you?" he asked quietly. "Where did you go?"
At his tone, Methos spared him a glance, though his attention was still on the book. He spoke briefly in that same incomprehensible tongue, then went back to turning the pages. He was still the same man, and yet indefinably not the same. Watching him, MacLeod's instincts told him in no uncertain terms that this man was dangerous. His own Methos had perfected the art of seeming harmless, of disappearing into a crowd. Seeing him now, MacLeod found that hard to imagine.
MacLeod decided it was as good a time as any to pull out his ace in the hole. He slipped the CD he'd taken from his car out of his pocket and put it into the old stereo. He would have given it even odds that the machine would work, but the first guitar strums played, and he turned the volume up so that Joe's music filled the room.
Methos' head came up. If he'd been a cat, his ears would have swiveled and come to attention. That's right, MacLeod thought. You know this.
"Joe Dawson," he said aloud, watching Methos carefully. "You remember Joe."
You said you'd leave without a care
But the rumor on the river is anything
that touches you will be free
but I know you can't be free
Well, you know you can never leave this river
without me
MacLeod responded to the truth of Joe's words and his voice despite himself. He hadn't chosen the song on purpose, but it felt as painfully true as anything, and Methos seemed to sense his emotional reaction as if MacLeod had spoken it aloud. He turned and met MacLeod's gaze, and for long seconds, MacLeod forgot that this wasn't his Methos.
"That's Joe," he said, keeping his focus on the task at hand. "He's your friend. He brought you here."
He fell quiet for a minute, letting Methos listen. They said music was one of the most powerful triggers of memory. Methos seemed suspicious of the invisible voice; he began to circle the room, searching for it. But at the same time, MacLeod could see that he responded to it despite himself. Some part of him must remember, for his expression was fiercely intent with that impatient look MacLeod was beginning to recognize, and as he prowled the room, he listened with even greater attention than he had devoted to the book. It might help if he could take Methos to his own flat, if Methos were surrounded by his own things, but if Joe had thought it was safe, he would have done that to begin with.
Without warning, Methos spoke what sounded like a curse. He muttered something under his breath and headed for the door. MacLeod followed.
Methos took them across the hallway and back into the conservatory. He stopped before the tall glass doors and turned an accusing glare on MacLeod. The words he spoke held the unmistakable authority of command, and MacLeod understood them instantly: open it.
MacLeod tried to keep his body language calm and open. If he lost Methos' trust now, one of them was gonna get hurt, and his reluctance to hurt Methos put him at a distinct disadvantage. At least the edged weapons were safely locked away, but the expression on Methos' face made him feel anything but safe.
"I don't have the key," he said, spreading his hands to show they were empty. "Methos, listen to me." He had shocked Warren into remembering, and look how that had turned out. The last thing he wanted was to provoke Methos. What had made him think he could reach his friend with blind luck and the power of wishful thinking?
Methos commanded him again to open the door, his voice deadly calm. With a sinking certainty, MacLeod knew there was nothing for it. Methos had been willing to pretend trust as long as he was at a disadvantage, but this was the test, and if MacLeod failed, he proved himself an enemy. "Wait here, okay?" he said, hands still spread. Carefully, he crossed the room to the marble fireplace. On the mantel sat the key. He held it up so Methos could see it. "All right?" He came back toward Methos, careful not to make any threatening moves, and put the key in its lock.
Chill, wet air washed in as he opened the door. Methos watched his every move, but what expression he wore, MacLeod couldn't tell. "I must be out of my mind," he muttered to himself. "All right, come on."
They went out onto the portico. This was a spring rain, at least, so it could have been worse; the drops were cold as they swept across his skin, but not icy. Methos didn't seem bothered by it, though he wore little more clothing than MacLeod himself did. MacLeod felt his nipples pebble from the chill. The key was cool and heavy against his palm, and Methos gave him an intent, unreadable look before he went to the marble railing and looked out, surveying the view.
Heart pounding dully in his chest, MacLeod came to stand beside him. He was acting on instinct, now; it had gotten them this far, and he had nothing else to go on. As if it were yesterday, he found himself remembering that night under the bridge, when he'd had Methos' neck under his sword and gut instinct had told him to stop.
He laid the key between them on the railing, in what he hoped Methos would interpret as a gesture of trust. Beside him, the other man was a tall, still figure, as familiar to him and as alien to him as he'd ever been. MacLeod wished he knew what Methos was thinking--nothing new there. So, what now?
As long as Methos was listening, the best he could do was try. Feeling awkward, he began, "The last time I saw you, we were on the barge. We were drinking champagne. You saved my ass that night, do you remember? You saved all of us--Amanda, and Joe. Not for the first time, I might add. I told you that I was grateful to you for teaching me something."
Methos had left Paris the day after their impromptu celebration that night, and MacLeod had refused to read anything into his sudden departure. It wasn't the first time Methos had stepped into and out of his life within the space of a few days, and he thought maybe he was finally learning to accept Methos for who and what he was. Still, he'd missed his friend.
"I didn't want you to go," he confessed. "I was hoping we could remember how to be friends again." His voice betrayed him, going rough, and the emotion made Methos look at him curiously. The words might have meant nothing to Methos, but he responded to the feeling in them.
"I should have told you that," MacLeod admitted. "Instead of making some speech, even if it was true. I should have asked you to stay."
Methos' eyes were a deep, stormy green in the fading light, his expression as unreadable as ever. But he seemed to be intent on MacLeod now, the wariness in his posture relaxing a bit. He moved closer, as though MacLeod's confession had drawn him. MacLeod fought the urge to swallow. He could feel the heat of Methos' body, and a sudden memory surfaced of the one time he had known that strong, lean form intimately.
He'd never tried to put into words before what Methos was to him. Friends? He hoped so. Lovers? Never that. They'd crossed the line only once, the night after Robert and Gina's wedding, and he had no idea what it had meant to Methos. After too many glasses of champagne, feeling good because they'd saved his friends' marriage and done it together, he'd made a clumsy pass at Methos and been surprised that Methos hadn't rebuffed him. He'd kissed Methos on the mouth while he brought him off with his fingers and then Methos had sucked him, his hands like no one else's on MacLeod's skin. It had been good, and over too quickly, and before he could figure a way to make it happen again, Jacob and the Watchers had driven Methos to leave Paris.
That had been three years ago, and a lot of water under the bridge. The desire had never really gone away, but the time had never again seemed right. For all he knew, Methos had written it off entirely. He'd tried not to think about it too much, and after the Horsemen, those feelings had taken a back seat to more pressing matters between them.
Now, with Methos standing close in the dark, the wild thought surfaced that maybe he could wake Methos with a kiss, like in the old stories. Ridiculous. But he couldn't seem to pull his gaze away from Methos' mouth, and his own had gone dry. His heart pounded like a freight train on its tracks. He'll probably kill you, he thought. And then, What have you got to lose?
Too late, he realized his mistake. He had only a moment's warning, the slightest flash of intent in Methos' eyes. Then the other man struck, and the pain came as such a shock that MacLeod barely knew he went to his knees. The marble was cold and wet, and MacLeod choked on his own blood.
Blackness came swiftly; the last thing he saw was Methos standing over him, silhouetted against the darkening sky.
* * * * *
The moon had risen when MacLeod woke, its pale glow struggling through the heavy clouds, the sound of the rain a steady patter in his ears. He lay on the wet marble, and it felt as though he cold had penetrated to his bones.
He put a hand to his neck, remembered pain pulsing deep. His skin and hair were stiff with an alarming surfeit of blood, now drying in a dark pool where he'd lain. The key, he thought bitterly. Methos had stabbed him to death with the bloody key.
"Son of a bitch," he swore under his breath, then rose and leaned against the railing, searching the edge of the dark wood for any sign of movement.
He was, of course, far too late. Methos was gone. And so, he realized with a sinking dread, was the second key that had been in his pocket.
A quick check confirmed his worst fears: the cabinet stood open and his katana was missing, as were both hunting rifles. Methos might not remember much, but he knew weapons well enough to recognize a threat. MacLeod could only hope he didn't remember how to load one.
He swore again, snatched up an antique rapier, dull as it was, and hurried out into the night.
* * * * *
It had been a long time since he'd had to track a man in the woods, in the rain, in the dark, and Methos was skilled at eluding pursuit. He also had at least half an hour's lead on MacLeod. He might have found the road by now, and MacLeod could only hope that at this hour and in the rain, luck was on his side and no cars might pass this way. He didn't want to think about what Methos might do to some hapless local.
Then again, Methos could have easily taken MacLeod's head as he lay dead. Was it mercy he'd shown, or only self-preservation? Had he decided to give MacLeod a chance? Or simply been reluctant to take another quickening so soon after the violent trauma Kolak's had caused him? MacLeod didn't dare guess. He was certain, though, that Methos wouldn't take well to MacLeod pursuing him with a sword in his hand, no matter how dull and rusty the blade.
The moon was high and he was wet to the skin when he admitted to himself that he had no hope of catching up with his quarry. Whatever trail Methos might have left, the rain had all but obliterated. And even if he did catch Methos up, what then? He wasn't about to take Methos' head--not that he'd stand much chance under the circumstances. Better to call Joe and admit he'd screwed up. The Watchers would catch sigh of Methos sooner or later, and they could figure something out. Hopefully, he thought grimly, before Methos killed someone.
MacLeod came to a halt in the middle of a clearing, frustrated and angry with himself. What had he been thinking? He should have done as Joe asked. So what if Methos didn't forgive him for it? They'd endured one another's anger before. What had made him think he, of all people, could win Methos' trust without even a common language between them?
Then his hand tightened on the hilt of the rapier, and he looked down at it in disgust. Had Ahriman taught him nothing? "Never will I renounce the good mind," he murmured.
Sudden clarity came over him then. Before he could second-guess himself, he shifted his grip on the useless rapier and flung it, end-over-end, into the trees.
MacLeod drew a deep, steadying breath. Then, in the middle of the clearing, he knelt on the wet grass, rested his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes.
If anyone had asked him what he was doing, he would have been hard-pressed to explain. Ever since he'd faced the demon, he'd experienced the world differently than before, and he was still learning what he was capable of. He thought of it as expanding his senses, his self, and had used meditation techniques to develop those skills, sometimes spending hours outside his physical body. A few times, he had managed to achieve a oneness with the world around him and sustain it for as much as an hour. During those times, he might sense the emotions of others, or gain insights that turned out to be prescient. The things he learned during those sessions were often difficult to put into words, but he did not doubt that they were real.
Now, he let go of his frustration, his feelings of foolishness, and reached out into the night. He concentrated on remembering how it had felt when he and Methos shared Kronos and Silas' quickenings, and at the same time, tried to remember what Jim Coltec had taught him. This time, instead of simply letting go of his physical body, he focused his energy outward, seeking the answer of another. Perhaps minutes passed; perhaps hours. The rain fell, but if he was cold, he didn't feel it.
The swell of answering energy, when it came, ran through him in a euphoric wave of heat and light, so powerful he rocked backward on his heels. It was enough to break his concentration. He opened his eyes and put a hand out to brace himself.
A tall shape stood at the edge of the clearing. Some distant part of him recognized that Methos made a terrifying figure, lithe and dangerous, MacLeod's sword in his hand and his sharp features outlined in the moonlight. Any another time, he might have felt fear, but in that moment, he only thought that if Methos wanted his head, then perhaps it was meant to be this way. At least his quickening might help restore Methos to himself.
With effort, he drew a breath and called out. "Methos, listen to me. I won't fight you. And I'm not gonna walk away. Not this time. If you want me, come and take me."
But Methos held the sword down by his side, and the way he looked at MacLeod made it seem as though time itself slowed around them. It had felt that way the day they'd met, MacLeod remembered. Mi casa es su casa.
"Idiot," Methos said then, eyes bright, as he might have on any other day. "On your knees and weaponless? Where's your sword?"
MacLeod's heart began to beat again in something like its normal rhythm. "Must've lost it," he said. His voice half-caught in his chest.
Methos shook his head in disgust and came deeper into the clearing. "I swear, MacLeod, I despair of you." His tone was light, derisive--but MacLeod heard the true emotion underneath.
"You're getting my blade wet," he replied without thinking, and then felt himself flush crimson, suddenly glad for the cover of darkness.
Methos' eyes gleamed, but he failed to take the bait, only reached out a hand to help MacLeod to his feet. They stood there for a long moment, and MacLeod couldn't help remembering the holy spring, the same warm, strong hand reaching to take his, the acceptance and forgiveness that had brought him back into the world. He let out a breath.
"Methos," he said, and gave a soft laugh of sheer relief.
* * * * *
They went back to the house. Neither of them had dry clothes to put on, but a quick search of the kitchen rewarded them with tins of anchovies and tiny green beans, a packet of flatbread, some kind of eggplant spread, a jar of marinated mushrooms and a cured salumi--the makings for a passable feast. MacLeod built a fire in the sitting room while Methos went in search of towels, drying MacLeod's katana carefully before returning it.
Some time later, warmed, well-fed and mostly dry, they cleaned up the remains of their dinner and settled in on the rug before the fire. Soon it would be dawn. MacLeod didn't relish the thought of driving back to Paris without sleep, and from the looks of Methos, he wouldn't get much argument. "You should get some rest," he said, seeing the way Methos' blinks were growing longer with each passing minute.
"Considering how long I was out, I should be wide awake."
"Uh huh. Tell that to your eyelids."
"You're one to talk," Methos countered. "You look as tired as I feel."
MacLeod nodded. But he felt curiously reluctant to get up and make his way to one of the cold bedchambers. It was warm by the fire, and the cushions were soft.
Apparently, Methos felt the same. Neither of them moved. MacLeod thought idly of asking Methos about what had happened, and how much he remembered, but it could wait for another day. Instead he watched the fire, feeling exhaustion begin to creep over him. He could sleep here, he thought. And maybe in a few hours, they would go back to the barge and he would cook Methos breakfast like the old days. He'd like that.
He might have dozed; he couldn't be sure. Perhaps a few minutes had passed when Methos said softly, "Some stunt you pulled out there."
"Mm," MacLeod said without opening his eyes. "Tell me about it."
He was vaguely aware that Methos had moved closer to the fire, and to him. MacLeod couldn't blame him. It was cold outside, and it wasn't a very big rug.
After what might have been a few seconds, or much longer than that, Methos said softly, "Want to tell me why?"
MacLeod opened his eyes. Methos was closer, his eyes undeniably captivating and many-faceted in the firelight. The way Methos was looking at him warmed MacLeod down to his foundations, and his lips curved despite his best efforts. "You really gonna make me say it?"
Methos smiled back, his eyes turning up at the corners. "Maybe later."
* * END * *
Author: killabeez
Written for: Diana Williams (dkwilliams)
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos, Joe Dawson
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~7,100
Warnings: character death offstage (Cassandra)
Author notes: Amand-r is truly the most patient and beneficent of rulers.
Summary: When Methos takes a bad Quickening, Joe calls in the cavalry.
You can't miss it, Joe had said when he'd given MacLeod the address. He hadn't exaggerated. The house was about ten miles from anything, the huge stone gate standing open to the road. As if signaling his arrival, the first raindrops struck the windshield as MacLeod turned in and followed the long driveway under the thick, sheltering canopy of trees.
It's an emergency, Joe had said, which was more than enough for MacLeod. There wasn't much he wouldn't do for Joe Dawson these days. But then Joe had added, It's Methos, and a traitorous spark of anticipation had lit in MacLeod's chest. He hadn't seen Methos since the impromptu gathering on the barge after O'Rourke, and hadn't even known Methos was still in France. They'd all skated through that night in one piece, thanks in no small part to Methos, but afterwards, the reluctant hero of the day made himself scarce. MacLeod had caught himself thinking about his friend more often than he could count in the last few months, but he'd been too proud to ask Joe where Methos might have gone. Something about Methos always brought out that side of him, as if he feared Methos might disappear for good if MacLeod let on that he liked having Methos around.
Now Methos was in trouble, and Joe had asked for his help. MacLeod didn't much like what it said about him, that his first reaction had been the eagerness of a green boy. He'd thought he was over feeling like this about Methos, but apparently, he wasn't as over it as he'd told himself he was.
After nearly half a mile, the trees parted at last and MacLeod found himself in front of an elegant country house gently marred by signs of neglect, the driveway turning in a wide curve before the entrance. He got out and surveyed the yard, but saw only Joe's familiar Range Rover and the steady fall of rain on the cobblestones, the empty fountain and nearby orchards. A note on the door told him to let himself in, so he did so.
Inside, white cloths covered the furniture, but the house was in good condition; someone had kept it free of dust and well-aired. MacLeod's trained eye appraised the fine cabinetry and built-ins for a moment, the elegant light fixtures and Italian marble, before the faint sound of the slide on a 9mm pistol clicked to his right.
MacLeod raised his hands. "Relax, Joe. It's me."
Joe Dawson stepped out from behind an arching doorway, lowering the gun. "Can't be too careful these days."
"I hear you." MacLeod offered his hand, and Joe took it, his grip warm and strong at MacLeod's wrist.
"Thanks for coming. It's good to see you."
"You, too." MacLeod cast a glance down the entry hall. "Where is he?"
Joe turned to lead the way deeper into the house. "Asleep. Gave him something to keep him quiet for now."
MacLeod cast a glance askance. "You drugged him? What the hell happened?"
"He took a bad quickening. Maybe more than one--we're not sure."
MacLeod didn't much like the look on Joe's face, and stopped in his tracks. "What do you mean, you're not sure?"
Joe halted, too, leaning on his cane. "You've heard of Kolak?"
"Marko Kolak?" A chill skated through MacLeod. Darius had mentioned him a few times. An ancient headhunter, thousands of years old, with more blood on his hands than MacLeod cared to think about. If what Darius had said was true, he'd slain more Immortals than MacLeod had met in his lifetime. "I thought he was killed centuries ago."
"We thought so, too. But guess what? Watchers ain't infallible."
"You don't say."
"Mac, listen, we think Kolak killed Cassandra. We think that's how he found Methos."
MacLeod felt again the strong pang of regret. It had been only a fortnight since Joe had told him of Cassandra's death, and he still hadn't come to terms with it. Immortals died in the Game, but Cassandra felt like a personal failure somehow. He'd made his choice when she raised her blade over Methos' neck and would have done the same again, but he wasn't blind to the selfishness of that choice. He could still remember the look on her face.
Whoever had killed Cassandra had killed her Watcher as well, and Joe had been investigating their deaths. If it had been this Kolak, and he took on Cassandra's power and knowledge...
"And you're sure Methos took his head?" MacLeod asked, brows drawing downward. Whatever else he might say about Methos, he was sure that the last thing he would have wanted was any part of Cassandra's quickening. MacLeod swallowed, thinking about what Richie's quickening had felt like. How the screams of rage had ripped open his mind. The memory still turned his insides cold. "What happened?"
The expression on Joe's face was dire, and the look he cast toward the corridor ahead made MacLeod suddenly aware of how dangerous a man Joe Dawson could be. "Methos went after his own Watcher. She said he wasn't himself--that he tried to kill her. She had to shoot him point blank to save her own ass. She tied him up, stuck his own dagger through his heart, and called me."
MacLeod's own heart gave a pang of sympathy. He frowned. "Since when does Methos have a Watcher?"
"Since he killed a guy named Morgan Walker, maybe a year ago." Joe grimaced. "We thought maybe whatever this is would wear off, but it's been almost a day, and he's still raving. Hasn't spoken a word in any language I know."
MacLeod digested that. What Watcher besides Joe would go to those lengths to help an Immortal? Did she know who Methos was? The implications were troubling, but would have to wait for another day.
Before he could ask more questions, Joe pushed open a door and led him down the hallway beyond, coming to stop in an open doorway. MacLeod joined him. Inside lay a bedchamber, and on the bed lay Methos, his sleeves pushed up and his feet bare, unconscious. MacLeod's gaze swept over the familiar, lean form, taking in the signs of battle and the damage done by blade and bullet that still marred his clothing. Someone had cleaned the blood off him, but he still wore the clothes he'd had on when he fought. A part of MacLeod wished he could have seen it. The rest of him felt the chill of death narrowly averted, and a friend in trouble who needed his help.
"What else aren't you telling me, Joe?" he asked at last.
Joe met MacLeod's gaze. "His Watcher--she's my daughter. Long story. Methos knows her. He's saved her life. He'd no more hurt her than he'd hurt me."
MacLeod's first thought was that Joe was too trusting. He'd seen what Methos was capable of, if pushed far enough. But he said nothing about that. It wouldn't help the situation.
"So what do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Stay here with him. Keep him from hurting himself, or anyone else, until it wears off."
"You're joking."
Joe made a face. "Do I look like I'm joking? We've got at least one Watcher dead, and if they find out Amy and I interfered, we'll both be neck deep in it. I can't stay here. I've gotta get back." He nodded toward Methos. "But somebody's gotta stay with him."
Again, MacLeod felt a surge of selfish reaction he didn't care to acknowledge. This time it bore an uncomfortable resemblance to simple jealousy. He hadn't even known Joe had a daughter. He set it aside, knowing it was childish to resent Methos and Joe's friendship when they'd both risked so much for him.
"Whatever you need, Joe. You know that."
"There's food," said Joe, "and enough firewood to get you through a few days, at least. I know it ain't much of a plan, but it's the best I could do on short notice."
"He won't like it," MacLeod said. "He'd tell us we're both fools."
The color rose in Joe's face. He knew what he was asking. In a low voice, he said, "Look, I know you guys have been through some rough spots the last few years, but he still cares about you. He trusts you. And I know it's mutual, so you know--hide the sharp objects and keep him sedated until whatever this is has a chance to settle."
MacLeod's gaze returned to Methos. Joe was entrusting him to keep him safe, and keep him from hurting anybody. MacLeod wasn't sure he trusted himself to do that, but one thing was certain: he owed Methos. This wasn't a dark quickening, not exactly, but it might not be so different. If Methos hadn't been there during his own bout of insanity, he shuddered to think what might have happened.
"What about this place?" he asked, turning to the practicalities of the situation. "Where are we?"
"It's Amanda's." At MacLeod's look, Joe shrugged. "She owed me one."
MacLeod's eyebrows rose. "Must've been a big one."
"You could say that. Anyway, I told her we needed someplace safe, without too many neighbors."
"I hope you read the fine print."
Joe took a hypodermic needle case out of his coat. "Near as I can tell, these things last about three hours. I gave him the last one maybe twenty minutes before you got here."
Reluctant, MacLeod took it. "What am I supposed to do, keep him drugged out of his mind until I come up with a better idea?"
"You know as well as I do, these things take time. We just gotta keep him from hurting anybody until he has a chance to snap out of it."
MacLeod opened the case and checked the contents, though the idea of it turned his stomach. He'd been drugged himself more than once, and knew first hand that anything powerful enough to keep an Immortal under for more than a few minutes would have unpleasant side effects. He put the case into his pocket without comment. His eyes went back to Methos, who hadn't stirred.
"You sure he'll get over it on his own?" he asked, dubious.
Joe scowled. "Yeah, I'm positive, because I'm an Immortal quickening doctor. What do you think? No, I'm not sure. But he's been around a hell of a long time and he's as stubborn as the both of us put together, so, yeah, I think he'll get through it. We've dealt with worse."
"So long as you're the one who gets to explain this to him afterwards."
Joe grunted at that, but his suddenly innocent expression said MacLeod might be out of luck on that count.
MacLeod accompanied Joe back toward the front hallway. At the door, he reached out and stopped Joe with a hand on his arm. "Be careful, will you? Don't risk your neck for us."
"It ain't my first rodeo," Joe said, and cast a glance back the direction they had come. "You, too, you hear me? I don't want to have to close the book on either one of you."
"I'll do my best."
* * * * *
MacLeod returned to the guest room and stood in the doorway, studying Methos' unconscious form. "What am I going to do with you?" he murmured. He'd missed that arresting face, and couldn't help the relief he felt at seeing him again even under these circumstances. He didn't want to think about the possibility that whatever had happened to Methos might not be temporary.
He'd seen this or something like it once before, with Cochrane, though he found it hard to imagine that Methos could be suffering emotional trauma from killing the likes of Kolak. Even if the two men had history together--say, history like Methos had with Kronos--MacLeod didn't think Methos was the type to run from what he'd done the way Warren had. Maybe a few years ago, before the Horsemen, but not any more.
Cassandra, though...that complicated things. MacLeod didn't pretend to understand what Cassandra meant to Methos, but he'd struggled with his own regrets enough to know how difficult it could be to accept one's failures when it was too late to make amends. Despite his thorny history with Cassandra, her death made him sick at heart, and he could only imagine how Methos must feel. Cassandra had been very old and her power strong, not to mention the anger she carried. Could her quickening have persisted within Kolak the way Bryce Korland's had within Coltec?
One thing he knew for certain--drugging Methos wasn't the answer. He knew his friend would say the same. Wherever Methos was now, he had to fight his way back on his own, and he'd need all the focus of his formidable mind and will to do that.
Not to mention, MacLeod thought wryly, he'd probably have MacLeod's liver out over it if he found out MacLeod had gone along with shooting him full of barbiturates. There were certain things Methos might forgive of Joe Dawson that any other man would pay dearly for, and MacLeod felt sure this was one of them.
He checked Methos' pulse and breathing. Both were slow and faint, closer to a coma than unconsciousness. Methos' skin felt cool to the touch. MacLeod didn't like it, but at least it seemed as though Methos would be out for a while.
He took advantage of that and made a circuit of the whole house, collecting anything he thought might be used as a weapon. It took the better part of an hour; MacLeod stopped counting rooms after the ninth or tenth bedchamber, and simply moved as swiftly as possible. When he was done, he locked everything in a tall cabinet in the pantry--the best he could do under the circumstances.
He returned to Methos' room. After a moment's consideration, he stripped off his coat and shirt, then his shoes, so that he wore only his singlet and trousers, which were loose and flowing enough to, he hoped, make it obvious he wasn't hiding any weapons.
The thought of tying Methos occurred to MacLeod, but he could picture how Methos would react to that. He'd have to do this the old fashioned way.
* * * * *
When the drugs wore off, they wore off fast, and MacLeod had a moment of wishing he'd given more consideration to restraints. He'd half-hoped that Methos might open his eyes and recognize MacLeod, or at least show some sign of the Methos he knew. Instead, Methos took one look at him and rolled to his feet on the opposite side of the bed, then demanded something in a language that sounded like nothing MacLeod could identify. He had the distinct impression that if he didn't answer to Methos' satisfaction, things were about to get messy.
MacLeod raised his hands, showing they were empty, and kept his distance. "I mean you no harm," he said. "I'm a friend." He tried the same in Gaelic, then German, then Italian, but though his eyes narrowed at the German, Methos showed no sign of comprehension. Not for the first time, MacLeod wished his skill with languages were better.
He fell back on the more basic methods of communication. "Look," he said. "Food." He showed Methos a shallow bowl of Marcona almonds from a packet he'd had in his car, along with a handful of tiny, sweet apples from the orchard and a metal cup full of water. He wished he had a beer to offer, but then again, with the way Methos was watching him, a glass bottle would probably be a bad idea.
It scarcely mattered, for Methos ignored the food and prowled toward the doorway, which MacLeod had deliberately left open. He had carefully placed himself away from it, making it clear that he wasn't Methos' jailor--even though, in truth, he was, and he poised himself to move if Methos made a break for it. Methos' head swiveled as if he sensed the thought, and his gaze snapped back to MacLeod, watchful. MacLeod felt the hair on his arms lift. Methos had never missed much, and he was all too aware of that fact, but this Methos seemed to look straight through him as if he were transparent.
MacLeod took a sip of the water and a bite of the food to show him it wasn't poisoned, then left it on the table beside the window and backed off to what he hoped was a reassuring distance.
Keep talking, he told himself, hoping his voice would seem familiar. "Duncan," he said, gesturing to himself. "Duncan MacLeod. We're friends. Your name is Methos."
He'd hoped that using Methos' true name might establish a level of trust between them, but Methos didn't react to it at all. It was as though he didn't recognize the sound of it, MacLeod thought, watching Methos case the room. Could he have reverted to a memory even older than the name Methos? The possibility unsettled him. He was used to thinking of Methos as his friend's true name, as his clan's name had always been his. But perhaps, like so many other things about Methos, it was a mistake to make that assumption.
"You're safe here," he tried, putting all his conviction into the words. "Listen to me--I want to help you."
At that, Methos cast a look his direction, then spoke again with a decidedly impatient tone. The syllables seemed to have too many consonants and not enough vowels, but they flowed easily from Methos' lips. MacLeod may not have understood the words, but the derision was clear enough. Well, he supposed wryly, at least some things didn't change.
At least Methos was paying attention to him now, so Duncan touched his temple, then pointed to Methos. "You've lost your memory, my friend." He made a sharp, slashing gesture across his own throat, then touched his temple again and spread his hands. "I'm sorry. But I want to help."
Methos' eyes narrowed. MacLeod could see him processing everything--MacLeod's crude sign language, their surroundings, the state of his own clothing. Whatever ill effects he had suffered, plainly his intelligence had not been affected. Trust, though, would take longer. With a calculating air, Methos turned his back on MacLeod and left the room.
"Not making this easy, are you?" MacLeod said under his breath, and hurried after him.
* * * * *
The rain and wind beat steadily against the windows, daylight nearly gone as Methos stalked down the darkened corridors, exploring everything, suspicious but curious in spite of himself. MacLeod followed close after, but kept his distance. As long as Methos was content to stay within the chateau's walls, MacLeod was content to let him choose their path.
At the conservatory doors, they hit their first snag. Methos tested the first one, and when it was locked, he turned a narrow-eyed, knowing look on MacLeod. Surprise, surprise, it said, as clearly as if Methos had spoken. He tested the others, looking out through the glass as he did so. The sky was a deep purple-gray. Beyond the portico, a grassy hillside spread away down a gentle slope to the creek below. The shadows of trees lay on all sides, ghostly dark through the rain and the gathering gloom.
Methos gave him a look that said all too clearly that he was aware of the leash MacLeod intended to keep him on, and MacLeod was welcome to try his luck if he wished, but he left the doors and resumed his exploration. It was a detente, of sorts. MacLeod, for his part, did not look forward to the moment when his charge tired of playing this game.
It was a little like looking after a three-year-old, MacLeod reflected, watching Methos become fascinated by a row of mirrors in one of the reception halls. They spent an inordinate amount of time there, MacLeod watching, amused, as Methos examined his own reflection in detail. MacLeod half-hoped that seeing his own image might trigger something, but Methos gave no sign that the precisely mirrored image of his own face was anything but a curiosity to be catalogued and then forgotten.
At the library doors, Methos hesitated, and MacLeod figured it was worth a shot. "Books," he said quietly, watching Methos. "You like books. Would you like to see?" He dared to draw closer to Methos than he had yet, and though Methos tensed, he didn't react otherwise. "Come on," he said, and gestured inside.
More like a feral, frighteningly intelligent three-year-old, he thought, as he turned his back on Methos and led the way into the library. The hair on his neck stood on end, and he half-expected to be struck from behind, but no attack came. Instead, Methos followed him inside.
Methos was drawn to the old books, his long fingers reaching out to touch the leather spines as if he couldn't help himself. MacLeod went to the first shelf that caught his eye, and pulled down an oversized, volume--Gustave Dore's illustrated Rime of the Ancient Mariner. He cast a glance at Methos and opened the book on the sheet-draped writing desk, then stepped back so Methos could see.
Methos' reaction to the book was as intense as MacLeod could have hoped. Whether it evoked true memory or not, MacLeod couldn't tell, but for the first time, the tension left Methos' body and he seemed less like an ancient barbarian warlord in modern clothing, and more like the sharp-witted, mercurial man MacLeod knew. As MacLeod watched, he touched the pages and turned them with careful focus, examining each detail of engraving and lettering, of paper and ink and binding with a kind of reverence that gave MacLeod hope. He was sure, then, that somewhere in there, his friend still retained that ineffable sense of self that he thought of as Methos.
When Warren had retreated into the blindness of amnesia, MacLeod had been angry. He remembered that. It had infuriated him to think that an Immortal would willfully turn his back on his own history and try to forget it, no matter how ugly. A man's history made him what he was--he'd always believed that--and to turn one's back on it was to refuse the lessons of the past; worse, to run from them like a coward.
Since then, he'd killed Richie with his own hand and faced the darkness inside him in a way that had forever changed him. He was a different man, and he understood better. The courage it took to live Methos' life, to live with everything he'd done and choose to go on, was something he could aspire to. Such a man was no coward. Methos was only lost, and waiting for someone to find him.
"What's happened to you?" he asked quietly. "Where did you go?"
At his tone, Methos spared him a glance, though his attention was still on the book. He spoke briefly in that same incomprehensible tongue, then went back to turning the pages. He was still the same man, and yet indefinably not the same. Watching him, MacLeod's instincts told him in no uncertain terms that this man was dangerous. His own Methos had perfected the art of seeming harmless, of disappearing into a crowd. Seeing him now, MacLeod found that hard to imagine.
MacLeod decided it was as good a time as any to pull out his ace in the hole. He slipped the CD he'd taken from his car out of his pocket and put it into the old stereo. He would have given it even odds that the machine would work, but the first guitar strums played, and he turned the volume up so that Joe's music filled the room.
Methos' head came up. If he'd been a cat, his ears would have swiveled and come to attention. That's right, MacLeod thought. You know this.
"Joe Dawson," he said aloud, watching Methos carefully. "You remember Joe."
You said you'd leave without a care
But the rumor on the river is anything
that touches you will be free
but I know you can't be free
Well, you know you can never leave this river
without me
MacLeod responded to the truth of Joe's words and his voice despite himself. He hadn't chosen the song on purpose, but it felt as painfully true as anything, and Methos seemed to sense his emotional reaction as if MacLeod had spoken it aloud. He turned and met MacLeod's gaze, and for long seconds, MacLeod forgot that this wasn't his Methos.
"That's Joe," he said, keeping his focus on the task at hand. "He's your friend. He brought you here."
He fell quiet for a minute, letting Methos listen. They said music was one of the most powerful triggers of memory. Methos seemed suspicious of the invisible voice; he began to circle the room, searching for it. But at the same time, MacLeod could see that he responded to it despite himself. Some part of him must remember, for his expression was fiercely intent with that impatient look MacLeod was beginning to recognize, and as he prowled the room, he listened with even greater attention than he had devoted to the book. It might help if he could take Methos to his own flat, if Methos were surrounded by his own things, but if Joe had thought it was safe, he would have done that to begin with.
Without warning, Methos spoke what sounded like a curse. He muttered something under his breath and headed for the door. MacLeod followed.
Methos took them across the hallway and back into the conservatory. He stopped before the tall glass doors and turned an accusing glare on MacLeod. The words he spoke held the unmistakable authority of command, and MacLeod understood them instantly: open it.
MacLeod tried to keep his body language calm and open. If he lost Methos' trust now, one of them was gonna get hurt, and his reluctance to hurt Methos put him at a distinct disadvantage. At least the edged weapons were safely locked away, but the expression on Methos' face made him feel anything but safe.
"I don't have the key," he said, spreading his hands to show they were empty. "Methos, listen to me." He had shocked Warren into remembering, and look how that had turned out. The last thing he wanted was to provoke Methos. What had made him think he could reach his friend with blind luck and the power of wishful thinking?
Methos commanded him again to open the door, his voice deadly calm. With a sinking certainty, MacLeod knew there was nothing for it. Methos had been willing to pretend trust as long as he was at a disadvantage, but this was the test, and if MacLeod failed, he proved himself an enemy. "Wait here, okay?" he said, hands still spread. Carefully, he crossed the room to the marble fireplace. On the mantel sat the key. He held it up so Methos could see it. "All right?" He came back toward Methos, careful not to make any threatening moves, and put the key in its lock.
Chill, wet air washed in as he opened the door. Methos watched his every move, but what expression he wore, MacLeod couldn't tell. "I must be out of my mind," he muttered to himself. "All right, come on."
They went out onto the portico. This was a spring rain, at least, so it could have been worse; the drops were cold as they swept across his skin, but not icy. Methos didn't seem bothered by it, though he wore little more clothing than MacLeod himself did. MacLeod felt his nipples pebble from the chill. The key was cool and heavy against his palm, and Methos gave him an intent, unreadable look before he went to the marble railing and looked out, surveying the view.
Heart pounding dully in his chest, MacLeod came to stand beside him. He was acting on instinct, now; it had gotten them this far, and he had nothing else to go on. As if it were yesterday, he found himself remembering that night under the bridge, when he'd had Methos' neck under his sword and gut instinct had told him to stop.
He laid the key between them on the railing, in what he hoped Methos would interpret as a gesture of trust. Beside him, the other man was a tall, still figure, as familiar to him and as alien to him as he'd ever been. MacLeod wished he knew what Methos was thinking--nothing new there. So, what now?
As long as Methos was listening, the best he could do was try. Feeling awkward, he began, "The last time I saw you, we were on the barge. We were drinking champagne. You saved my ass that night, do you remember? You saved all of us--Amanda, and Joe. Not for the first time, I might add. I told you that I was grateful to you for teaching me something."
Methos had left Paris the day after their impromptu celebration that night, and MacLeod had refused to read anything into his sudden departure. It wasn't the first time Methos had stepped into and out of his life within the space of a few days, and he thought maybe he was finally learning to accept Methos for who and what he was. Still, he'd missed his friend.
"I didn't want you to go," he confessed. "I was hoping we could remember how to be friends again." His voice betrayed him, going rough, and the emotion made Methos look at him curiously. The words might have meant nothing to Methos, but he responded to the feeling in them.
"I should have told you that," MacLeod admitted. "Instead of making some speech, even if it was true. I should have asked you to stay."
Methos' eyes were a deep, stormy green in the fading light, his expression as unreadable as ever. But he seemed to be intent on MacLeod now, the wariness in his posture relaxing a bit. He moved closer, as though MacLeod's confession had drawn him. MacLeod fought the urge to swallow. He could feel the heat of Methos' body, and a sudden memory surfaced of the one time he had known that strong, lean form intimately.
He'd never tried to put into words before what Methos was to him. Friends? He hoped so. Lovers? Never that. They'd crossed the line only once, the night after Robert and Gina's wedding, and he had no idea what it had meant to Methos. After too many glasses of champagne, feeling good because they'd saved his friends' marriage and done it together, he'd made a clumsy pass at Methos and been surprised that Methos hadn't rebuffed him. He'd kissed Methos on the mouth while he brought him off with his fingers and then Methos had sucked him, his hands like no one else's on MacLeod's skin. It had been good, and over too quickly, and before he could figure a way to make it happen again, Jacob and the Watchers had driven Methos to leave Paris.
That had been three years ago, and a lot of water under the bridge. The desire had never really gone away, but the time had never again seemed right. For all he knew, Methos had written it off entirely. He'd tried not to think about it too much, and after the Horsemen, those feelings had taken a back seat to more pressing matters between them.
Now, with Methos standing close in the dark, the wild thought surfaced that maybe he could wake Methos with a kiss, like in the old stories. Ridiculous. But he couldn't seem to pull his gaze away from Methos' mouth, and his own had gone dry. His heart pounded like a freight train on its tracks. He'll probably kill you, he thought. And then, What have you got to lose?
Too late, he realized his mistake. He had only a moment's warning, the slightest flash of intent in Methos' eyes. Then the other man struck, and the pain came as such a shock that MacLeod barely knew he went to his knees. The marble was cold and wet, and MacLeod choked on his own blood.
Blackness came swiftly; the last thing he saw was Methos standing over him, silhouetted against the darkening sky.
* * * * *
The moon had risen when MacLeod woke, its pale glow struggling through the heavy clouds, the sound of the rain a steady patter in his ears. He lay on the wet marble, and it felt as though he cold had penetrated to his bones.
He put a hand to his neck, remembered pain pulsing deep. His skin and hair were stiff with an alarming surfeit of blood, now drying in a dark pool where he'd lain. The key, he thought bitterly. Methos had stabbed him to death with the bloody key.
"Son of a bitch," he swore under his breath, then rose and leaned against the railing, searching the edge of the dark wood for any sign of movement.
He was, of course, far too late. Methos was gone. And so, he realized with a sinking dread, was the second key that had been in his pocket.
A quick check confirmed his worst fears: the cabinet stood open and his katana was missing, as were both hunting rifles. Methos might not remember much, but he knew weapons well enough to recognize a threat. MacLeod could only hope he didn't remember how to load one.
He swore again, snatched up an antique rapier, dull as it was, and hurried out into the night.
* * * * *
It had been a long time since he'd had to track a man in the woods, in the rain, in the dark, and Methos was skilled at eluding pursuit. He also had at least half an hour's lead on MacLeod. He might have found the road by now, and MacLeod could only hope that at this hour and in the rain, luck was on his side and no cars might pass this way. He didn't want to think about what Methos might do to some hapless local.
Then again, Methos could have easily taken MacLeod's head as he lay dead. Was it mercy he'd shown, or only self-preservation? Had he decided to give MacLeod a chance? Or simply been reluctant to take another quickening so soon after the violent trauma Kolak's had caused him? MacLeod didn't dare guess. He was certain, though, that Methos wouldn't take well to MacLeod pursuing him with a sword in his hand, no matter how dull and rusty the blade.
The moon was high and he was wet to the skin when he admitted to himself that he had no hope of catching up with his quarry. Whatever trail Methos might have left, the rain had all but obliterated. And even if he did catch Methos up, what then? He wasn't about to take Methos' head--not that he'd stand much chance under the circumstances. Better to call Joe and admit he'd screwed up. The Watchers would catch sigh of Methos sooner or later, and they could figure something out. Hopefully, he thought grimly, before Methos killed someone.
MacLeod came to a halt in the middle of a clearing, frustrated and angry with himself. What had he been thinking? He should have done as Joe asked. So what if Methos didn't forgive him for it? They'd endured one another's anger before. What had made him think he, of all people, could win Methos' trust without even a common language between them?
Then his hand tightened on the hilt of the rapier, and he looked down at it in disgust. Had Ahriman taught him nothing? "Never will I renounce the good mind," he murmured.
Sudden clarity came over him then. Before he could second-guess himself, he shifted his grip on the useless rapier and flung it, end-over-end, into the trees.
MacLeod drew a deep, steadying breath. Then, in the middle of the clearing, he knelt on the wet grass, rested his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes.
If anyone had asked him what he was doing, he would have been hard-pressed to explain. Ever since he'd faced the demon, he'd experienced the world differently than before, and he was still learning what he was capable of. He thought of it as expanding his senses, his self, and had used meditation techniques to develop those skills, sometimes spending hours outside his physical body. A few times, he had managed to achieve a oneness with the world around him and sustain it for as much as an hour. During those times, he might sense the emotions of others, or gain insights that turned out to be prescient. The things he learned during those sessions were often difficult to put into words, but he did not doubt that they were real.
Now, he let go of his frustration, his feelings of foolishness, and reached out into the night. He concentrated on remembering how it had felt when he and Methos shared Kronos and Silas' quickenings, and at the same time, tried to remember what Jim Coltec had taught him. This time, instead of simply letting go of his physical body, he focused his energy outward, seeking the answer of another. Perhaps minutes passed; perhaps hours. The rain fell, but if he was cold, he didn't feel it.
The swell of answering energy, when it came, ran through him in a euphoric wave of heat and light, so powerful he rocked backward on his heels. It was enough to break his concentration. He opened his eyes and put a hand out to brace himself.
A tall shape stood at the edge of the clearing. Some distant part of him recognized that Methos made a terrifying figure, lithe and dangerous, MacLeod's sword in his hand and his sharp features outlined in the moonlight. Any another time, he might have felt fear, but in that moment, he only thought that if Methos wanted his head, then perhaps it was meant to be this way. At least his quickening might help restore Methos to himself.
With effort, he drew a breath and called out. "Methos, listen to me. I won't fight you. And I'm not gonna walk away. Not this time. If you want me, come and take me."
But Methos held the sword down by his side, and the way he looked at MacLeod made it seem as though time itself slowed around them. It had felt that way the day they'd met, MacLeod remembered. Mi casa es su casa.
"Idiot," Methos said then, eyes bright, as he might have on any other day. "On your knees and weaponless? Where's your sword?"
MacLeod's heart began to beat again in something like its normal rhythm. "Must've lost it," he said. His voice half-caught in his chest.
Methos shook his head in disgust and came deeper into the clearing. "I swear, MacLeod, I despair of you." His tone was light, derisive--but MacLeod heard the true emotion underneath.
"You're getting my blade wet," he replied without thinking, and then felt himself flush crimson, suddenly glad for the cover of darkness.
Methos' eyes gleamed, but he failed to take the bait, only reached out a hand to help MacLeod to his feet. They stood there for a long moment, and MacLeod couldn't help remembering the holy spring, the same warm, strong hand reaching to take his, the acceptance and forgiveness that had brought him back into the world. He let out a breath.
"Methos," he said, and gave a soft laugh of sheer relief.
* * * * *
They went back to the house. Neither of them had dry clothes to put on, but a quick search of the kitchen rewarded them with tins of anchovies and tiny green beans, a packet of flatbread, some kind of eggplant spread, a jar of marinated mushrooms and a cured salumi--the makings for a passable feast. MacLeod built a fire in the sitting room while Methos went in search of towels, drying MacLeod's katana carefully before returning it.
Some time later, warmed, well-fed and mostly dry, they cleaned up the remains of their dinner and settled in on the rug before the fire. Soon it would be dawn. MacLeod didn't relish the thought of driving back to Paris without sleep, and from the looks of Methos, he wouldn't get much argument. "You should get some rest," he said, seeing the way Methos' blinks were growing longer with each passing minute.
"Considering how long I was out, I should be wide awake."
"Uh huh. Tell that to your eyelids."
"You're one to talk," Methos countered. "You look as tired as I feel."
MacLeod nodded. But he felt curiously reluctant to get up and make his way to one of the cold bedchambers. It was warm by the fire, and the cushions were soft.
Apparently, Methos felt the same. Neither of them moved. MacLeod thought idly of asking Methos about what had happened, and how much he remembered, but it could wait for another day. Instead he watched the fire, feeling exhaustion begin to creep over him. He could sleep here, he thought. And maybe in a few hours, they would go back to the barge and he would cook Methos breakfast like the old days. He'd like that.
He might have dozed; he couldn't be sure. Perhaps a few minutes had passed when Methos said softly, "Some stunt you pulled out there."
"Mm," MacLeod said without opening his eyes. "Tell me about it."
He was vaguely aware that Methos had moved closer to the fire, and to him. MacLeod couldn't blame him. It was cold outside, and it wasn't a very big rug.
After what might have been a few seconds, or much longer than that, Methos said softly, "Want to tell me why?"
MacLeod opened his eyes. Methos was closer, his eyes undeniably captivating and many-faceted in the firelight. The way Methos was looking at him warmed MacLeod down to his foundations, and his lips curved despite his best efforts. "You really gonna make me say it?"
Methos smiled back, his eyes turning up at the corners. "Maybe later."
* * END * *