Happy Holidays, killabeez!
Title: We’ll Have A Fae Old Time
Author: Snoopy & The Red Baron, collaborative (because the finishing of this fic qualifies as a Genuine Christmas Miracle)
Written For: Killabeez
Fandoms: Highlander & Lost Girl
Continuity notes: Set in season 3 of Lost Girl at some nebulous point after The Ceremony (S3-E9), which is decidedly post-canon for Highlander. Also, Author ignores all post-series Highlander canon; ditto anything to do with Lost Girl’s myth arc(s) post said cutoff episode.
Characters/Pairings: Gen. Methos, Trick, Dyson, Bo, Kenzi
Rating: PG
Word count: 5800
Summary: Methos has lived the last 1600 odd years with a debt to the Blood King hanging over his head. In 2013, His Royal Faeness finally calls to collect...
Methos hated Toronto in the wintertime.
Well. Better to say he hated pretty much everything that sat within spitting distance of the Great Lakes in the wintertime, where spring was lie told to children and baseball fans and the ice storms could last until June. He’d spent the roaring twenties, plus or minus a few years on either side, in small-town western-upstate New York as the resident coroner-slash-undertaker-slash-taxidermist -- and never, ever again! Not even for the chance to live safely on cemetery grounds again, or for the beautiful built-in exit strategy of an ice-fishing accident. Stars above, but winters here made even Siberia look tame by comparison -- and he would know.
He’d just walked out of a deliciously boring life as a maths teacher in Yakutsk.
Toronto though always seemed to go above and beyond for him, whenever he had the misfortune, and this time she’d really rolled out the red carpet: his flight had been delayed due to weather (and it was down to his having been an international flight that it even landed at all; the domestics were being rerouted), his hotel overbooked because of the same, or rather because all departures had been cancelled due to the weather and so stranded all of the outbound travelers in town.
When he’d finally arrived at said overbooked hotel (via cab, from the bus depot, no less, thanks to the airport shuttle getting stuck on the Mall and its passengers rescued by a timely Peter Pan) the place was a zoo. A soggy, smelly, overcrowded zoo, with overcranked heat and treacherous floors and not a single seat at the bar. And when he learned he’d already lost his room (he wasn’t travelling with small children, elderly persons, or other singles he was willing to bunk with) he’d actually caught himself wondering if the damned city didn’t somehow hate him back, just a little, for reasons that he honestly could not fathom. Though that was probably the exhaustion talking. This past week had been interminable, and from here it looked like it was only going to get longer.
Bloody fae. Probably chose Toronto specifically for its winning hospitality.
Good job then that Trick (a name just as honest as “Piotr Bichurin” for a being quite possibly just as old) ran a waystation these days; His Bloody Grace could bloody well put him up for the night.
*
Five hours, two busses, four cabs, and one very long walk into the wind later, Methos finally stumbled across Trick’s threshold and into fae territory. The door slammed shut behind him almost instantly, helped along by a timely gust of sleet-soaked wind, and the sound reverberated ominously in the closeness of the room. Or maybe he’d only imagined that it did. His dealing with the fae always played merry hell on his instincts. Though the fact he’d found the door unlocked was -- telling.
Telling him what, he didn’t know yet. And that worried him a bit.
Still, Methos had to forcibly remind himself that this particular fae meant him no harm (probably. An official summons was a hell of a long way from the accidental if progressively friendlier reunions they’d shared in the past) as he leaned back against the door, half to make sure that it’d actually latched -- not raised in a barn, thanks (they hadn’t been invented yet) -- but also to give his body -- and ergo his quickening -- a chance to adjust to the sudden, drastic change in his environment. Living in Yakutsk he didn’t lack for coldgear, and he’d doubled up his layers in the hotel men’s room before departing, so all he’d felt at first was the absence of weight around his legs that meant they were finally free of the icy drifts, and the soft stillness in the air where the winter gale had been. But that was about to change.
Four heartbeats, then five, six, seven, as he slung his battered duffle from his shoulders and braced himself before--
His quickening flared up, sparking hot and sharp beneath his skin like the electric current it resembled. Deeper in his hands and feet and more shallowly behind his face, his body gave a final surge against the frostnip he’d been courting and defeated it utterly, now that the elements had stopped fighting back. It was irritating and uncomfortable -- and it made him sneeze. Right into his scarf. Lovely.
(An immortal could die of exposure, sure, same as any human; it just took them longer. And there was no comforting illusion of warmth, either. No, the lucky immortal dropped off itching.)
“Hey, you made it,” he heard, not two seconds later, just as the last little zings were fading along with whatever damage the cold had wrought. The voice was unmistakable -- and revealed its owner to be unmistakably happy, come to that, probably for the fact he’d arrived safely and in one solid if slightly frozen piece. It would have been inconvenient for both of them (and embarrassing as hell, besides) if their reunion had been waylaid by an unscheduled detour through the city morgue.
Methos grunted acknowledgement, the best he could manage while his head was half buried in layers of wool and fleece, and set to unwrapping himself. He tossed back his hood, tore off his hat and ski mask in one go and shoved them into one pocket, and pulled the scarf away from his chin. Only then did he let himself seek the Blood King out.
The Dal Ria, as it was called, was dark and moody, he saw; now that he could actually see it properly. Likely half from the total lack of light outside -- power was down in this part of the city -- and half because whatever Trick used to compensate for the lack of electricity (oil lamps and candles, to the untrained eye, but this was a fae pub so anything was possible) was obviously centered on the bar area. So it took Methos a moment to spot his host, weaving as he was through blotchy shadows that lately resolved into tables, once his eyes adjusted to the contrast (and maybe they were just regular old oil lamps and candles, and Methos was too used to the casual magic of faedom to believe that the mundane existed even here).
Trick was grinning, Methos saw, and he was carrying a glass of something in one hand with a bartender’s familiar ease as he wound his way towards him, and that was -- well. Not unexpected, exactly. But the sight still eased something in him, just the same, and not only for the prospect of imminent booze.
Not that he’d ever admit it, not under threat of torture or MacLeod’s entirely too soulful hangdog stare, but he’d been almost afraid to see the old fae, this time around. Sixteen hundred years was a long time to hold onto a debt, and he could only guess at why Trick would call to collect on it now. And those guesses, made intermittently over the last eight days or so then and during one long transatlantic flight especially, had not been good company.
Fae might age more slowly than humans, but they did age, and they could even be killed outright if one knew what they were doing. (Or even if one didn’t know, precisely, and simply lucked out because he cared more about ending the soul-sucking bastard who raped and murdered his wife than he did about avenging the honor of his house -- which of course was how Methos found himself in debt to the bloody Blood King in the first place -- but that was neither here nor there.) He’d worried this was a deathbed summons -- and it still could be, for all he knew; that the fae was upright and walking meant little -- and the thought made Methos--
Cranky.
He was so old, now. Hell, he’d become a myth to his own people, and his life had been a lie for so long that, by the time Kronos had forced his hand with MacLeod, he’d all but forgotten what it was like to be honest (with anyone who wasn’t Darius, but that was one thought he wasn’t going near, not even in passing). Of the very few left who knew him as he really was, they were either so young the idea they could claim to know him at all was laughable -- or else they were after his head. Mostly they were after his head.
Or they were Cassandra, which was really no better, in the end. Damn but he missed Darius. (And -- alright, maybe his mind was wandering through graveyards for a reason, tonight. That didn’t mean he had to like it.)
The fae were different, though. They weren’t part of the Game, and they gained nothing from taking an immortal’s head -- or from taking anything else, for that matter, as a few of the more predatory fae had discovered the hard way. Some species, he’d learned, had even developed an almost instinctual aversion to immortals in general. And since the rest couldn’t pick an immortal out of a crowd of one, by and large the fae left the immortals alone. (The Third Race, they called them: not food, but then not equal, either. Not part of the hierarchy and so worthy only of being ignored. You’ve never seen arrogance until you’ve seen fae arrogance.) And on the flip side, very few immortals knew the fae even existed at all, apart from whatever folklore they’d assimilated over the course of their lives. Without the telltale buzz of immortality, unchanging faces were written off as coincidence, or stress, or a chance encounter with someone’s descendant. If they were even recognized at all.
In the end it meant that immortals and fae didn’t intermingle all that much, apart from the occasional murder (Methos certainly hadn’t been the first immortal to kill one of the fae, just as there had been instances where fae had found reason to take an immortal’s head), and that made his centuries-old association with Trick unique enough to be remarked upon, and not always favorably. Though that was less a problem now that there was no one else left alive who knew the truth of how they started. And that was -- unfortunate, Methos thought. There was such a small number of fae with lifespans as long as his, or so he’d been told, and there was a certain kinship to be had in owning that kind of age. Methos knew how much he valued sharing it without having to worry about his head for once, and surely those fae must feel the same. To be able to sit down over a beer or six and just -- talk. To someone who knew, someone who was there, someone who understood. Without all the bloody politics getting in the way, because that was the fae for you. World’s oldest sandbox bullies, not the least to their own kind.
And then there was Trick.
Trick, who knew who and what Methos was -- knew who and what he had been, apart from what the fae legends said -- and didn’t judge him by anything approaching modern standards. Who in fact never had, no matter the running definition of “modern,” 1600 years and counting. Trick, who could still speak all of the (not-quite) dead languages Methos knew (and who had, once, spent a rather dull if not unpleasant summer in the seventeenth century patiently re-teaching him the one he’d somehow, disturbingly, more than half forgotten). Trick, who shared Methos’ unique view of the world, one visible only to those who’d spent so many millennia watching it grow up alongside them.
Trick, who for his part, once had a very real chance to take Methos’ head, for vengeance if not for his quickening, and had instead chosen to show mercy, even against the advice of his court. Trick who had, in point of fact, slouched into the cell where Methos was being kept, with a flagon of impossibly old wine and a wooden stool for his own royal behind, and offered a toast to women loved and lost, and the often terminal idiocy of youth, and the fact they’d both managed to survive in spite of them. He’d walked out of the Blood King’s court the next day with one hell of a hangover and a debt he’d apparently have to wait 1600 years to repay.
And now here he was. Finally.
The beer had better be at least half as good as he remembered.
*
“All the world at your fingertips,” he groused, still stomping the snow from his boots. That and he had an image to maintain, and he didn’t care to go off-script. Or at least, not yet. “And you chose Toronto? Really? What’s wrong with the Riviera? Or Bora Bora? I hear the Leeward Islands are lovely this time of year.”
“In short? Tourists, the French, French tourists, and undine.” Trick cleared the maze of tables as he said this, and Methos got his first good look at the fae. His hair was a little shorter, maybe a little grayer, but other than that he looked remarkably the same. It could just as easily have been a lie, of course; Methos knew that well enough, but even still he allowed himself that small sliver of reassurance anyway.
“Undine?” Like most things probably fae, the word was vaguely familiar somehow. The faintly iridescent contents of the old-fashioned highball in Trick’s hand, less so.
“Species of under-fae. Think less evolved sea-nymph.”
Methos blinked, and the memory slotted into place. “Huh. That’s not what Paracelsus said.” Or how he’d said it, come to that.
“Paracelsus was human,” Trick said, as though it explained everything. Though judging by his inflection, he must’ve thought it did; how very fae of him. He reached Methos then, and he pressed the highball into his gloved hands.
“Welcome, my friend,” he said, sincerely enough of course, but still it wasn’t how Trick usually greeted him. Which was fair, since Methos didn’t usually stumble through Trick’s door half-frozen, either.
Or on official business. That was probably more the case, this time. If nothing else, the fae certainly knew how to stand on ceremony. (And stand. And stand. And stand. While nattering on like it was everyone’s privilege to hear them speak.) Honestly? Fae formalities were a far sight better at unsettling him than even the Watchers could manage.
Trick’s smile was genuine though, and his eyes were kind, and he’d wrapped both hands around Methos’ around the glass like he didn’t care that Methos’ gloves were soaked through and crusted over in patches of ice. And when he said, “it’s good to see you,” he sounded like he meant it.
“And you,” Methos replied, and he tacked a word that translated, roughly, as most noble elder scholar on the end of it, in what modern linguists dubbed Old Akkadian. It was an address he’d used for Trick before, if sparingly, because it wasn’t a fae language, and it had long since fallen out of fashion by the time Trick first ventured into the part of the world where its descendants were spoken, but still it was the most succinct gesture of respect that Methos could give. Official business, after all, and Trick was still the Blood King.
And Methos still owed him a life. Wasn’t that why he was here?
Some other immortal had crossed the fae, or perhaps there was some undesired member of the fae themselves, someone high born or with connections -- or come to that, even an important mortal -- who needed killing off the books, and it was somehow important enough to Trick that he’d finally called in his marker. Methos knew the better seers saw him as some kind of personification of Death, and that was nothing if not a damned convenient way to hide an unsanctioned hit. The thought left a bad taste in his mouth (oh, not the killing; he’d figured this would be the way of it since day one, really. No, rather the fact that Trick felt the need to even bring in a wringer at all, because that just smacked of politics, and Methos hated fae politics like he hated few others things) and a longing to just get whatever ugly mess this was sorted, already. Before he had time to wonder just who the poor bastard was, and what had made Trick, the same fae who’d shown mercy to the man who’d killed his own kin, decide that they deserved it.
--And all of that was still far better than wondering to whom his debt was about to be passed down. For some reason, Methos wasn’t quite ready to let go of the bastard.
(Not that he was exactly ready to commit murder, either, but Methos was selfish in his old age. He knew full well which prospect was easier.)
“Don’t start,” Trick warned, but his grin slipped wider as he said it, so Methos didn’t count it. His fingers were still wrapped around Methos’ own, and he squeezed once before pulling away. “And drink that, would you? You look terrible.”
“You say the nicest things,” Methos muttered, but he brought the glass up. It looked a bit like maple syrup served over rocks and it smelled like the aftermath of an electrical fire. A fae drink, then. Of course.
“Yes,” Trick drawled, when he caught Methos sniffing it. “I went through all the trouble of tracking you down and calling you home, just so I could poison you.”
“Venice, 1659,” Methos countered, because it was better than calling attention to Trick’s turn of phrase. Still, he sipped at the drink anyway, and found that it tasted a lot more like how it smelled than how it looked. It slid down his throat like a warm glowing coal, and settled -- not unpleasantly -- just below his sternum, forming a pool of welcomed heat that gently fanned on each inhale.
“Don’t put that on me,” Trick was saying, “you’re the one who refused to leave the city.” Which was true, Methos supposed. Same as the fact another immortal can’t track you if you’re dead. (And hidden in the bottom of a nobleman’s casket in a funeral procession bound for Ravenna, but that was another tale.)
And dead men pay no debts, but Methos was smart enough to keep that thought to himself. Instead he shrugged, kept focused on the details so to avoid the bigger picture.
“I was a vicar. Selmy would’ve gotten bored when he realized I never had to leave holy ground.”
“You were the vicar who stole the abbot’s mistress. He’d have stuck a knife in your back and left you outside the abbey walls, and he’d have done it for free.”
That gave Methos pause. Not that it wasn’t true, but… “I probably shouldn’t ask how you know that.” He sipped at the drink again. It didn’t taste any better the second go round -- hell if anything, it tasted worse. But the warmth was spreading, each swallow adding another ember, and muscles long abused by cold and quickening were finally starting to relax.
That and a drink in hand always made for a nice distraction.
“You probably shouldn’t,” Trick agreed. “Now would you mind getting out of--” he gestured, expansively, at Methos’ still-dripping clothes. “I know your health is a non-issue, but my floors would appreciate it. That and I’m cold just looking at you.”
Methos didn’t mind at all. In fact, he complied with alacrity. There was only so much one drink -- even a fae drink of dubious provenance -- could do against the all-over sog his little trek had left him with. Even as Trick’s magic booze worked to thaw him from the inside out (and as always with fae, that was far more literal statement that he was comfortable with making) his clothes were still actively chilling him from the outside in. His gloves found a home in the opposite pocket from his hat and mask, then he shucked out of his parka and hung both it and his scarf on one of the hooks on the wall by the door.
“You can leave your sword,” Trick said, just as Methos was reaching for the hidden sheath sewn into the parka lining. It wasn’t a request.
It was also entirely unexpected, and Methos stopped short. Briefly he thought about disobeying, because -- who was Trick to command him? Debt or no debt.
True the Dal was just as good as holy ground, should Methos actually ask for sanctuary, so it wasn’t like the sword was necessary, per se. Or at least, not necessary for his immediate safety. But that wasn’t the point. Trick had known him a damned long time, certainly long enough to know that an immortal’s sword was just as much security blanket as it was weapon, and he’d seen first-hand just how -- twitchy -- Methos got, when his wasn’t easily called to hand.
And now he was telling Methos to leave his behind.
His outstretched hand pulled into a fist, briefly, the only marker of his indecision. The moment stretched, and the air inside the Dal felt heavy and close, and the weight of Trick’s gaze on his back as he waited, so very patiently, set every last one of his nerves standing up on edge.
That pissed him off. Really, Methos was more tempted now to ignore Trick purely for spite, smart play or no. But push come to shove, he decided he really wasn’t interested in testing the limits of the Blood King’s tolerance. Not tonight. Not when it had been Trick’s own brother-in-law that Methos had left in literal pieces in the middle of a fae holy site (though that last had been largely by accident; while he knew the fae frequented the area, he hadn’t exactly known why) and the Blood King could have called for his head for either offense -- and he’d had more than enough fae at his call to put paid to the threat -- but instead, he’d chosen mercy.
He let the fist fall, uselessly, to his side. He suddenly felt very, very tired, and every last day of his age. “Are you going to tell me why I’m here?” he asked, still facing his abandoned sword, his back still to Trick like it didn’t bother him in the slightest.
“Better that I show you,” Trick said, surprising him again. “C’mon. You can stash your bag behind the bar.”
Once again Methos thought of protesting, because that would separate him from the more explosive members of his arsenal (what? You thought his sword was the only weapon he carried into fae territory? He went better armed on a trip to the grocery store), not to mention most of his spare ammo, but in the end the same thought swayed him: diminished did not mean unarmed. So instead he let Trick stow his bag in some secret hidey-hole (Methos had been behind that bar; unless Trick had remodeled there was nowhere big enough to store a duffle that size, or at least nowhere ordinary) and then, bemused, he’d followed as Trick led him around to the back door.
The stairs that led down to Trick’s private quarters were gloomy, narrow and twisty and poorly lit, and the treads had soft cups worn into them by what was probably centuries of foot traffic. Trick went first, of course, and Methos caught himself wondering just how resilient the fae’s body was, should he miss his footing and so send them both hurrying down the hard way. It was that kind of day.
“You know, ass over teakettle really is an undignified way to go,” he snarked.
And then the buzz kicked in.
Methos froze, and an ugly mix of shock and betrayal churned in his gut, adding a sharp, bitter tang to the spike of adrenaline. Whoever the other was, they’d obviously been invited, and him with his sword upstairs -- and on orders, no less. Might as well be on the moon.
Trick was ahead of him still, and Methos seriously considered turning on his heel and bolting for the door, but before his legs could put paid to the thought Trick reached back, landed a hand on Methos’ wrist; not really restraining, just there; a point of warmth and contact in the semi-dark.
“It’s alright,” Trick said, his tone placating, like Methos was some sort of animal that had spooked and needed soothing. He’d been halfway to turning his head when the buzz had hit, likely all the better to make some sort of rejoinder to Methos’ comment, and he’d obviously caught the tail end of Methos’ reaction. Had seen Methos’ body jump straight to fight or flight and took it for the hardwired instinct that it was.
Methos bit back -- something; a curse, a bark of half-crazed laughter -- and Trick’s grip tightened, not much, not painfully, but enough that Methos suddenly felt his own pulse scudding beneath Trick’s fingers.
“Her name is Kenzi,” Trick said -- slow and steady, the patronizing bastard. “She met her first death three weeks ago.” Then he paused, looked Methos square in the eye, and said, “she’s not a threat,” And that was the Blood King, proclaiming.
Suddenly, and with all the painful, blinding insight of a quickening, Methos knew exactly how his debt would be repaid.
He was still reeling -- hell, none of his speculating had even come close -- when Trick sighed, deep in his throat and audible.
“We’ll talk about your trust issues later.”
That, Methos thought, was deeply unfair. He twisted his wrist out of Trick’s grasp. “You might’ve warned me,” he said, instead of calling attention to Trick’s own insensitivity, tit for tat. It wasn’t worth the argument.
“And you might consider giving me the benefit of the doubt, just once.”
“If you’d let me keep my sword I probably would have.”
Before Trick could answer that -- and Methos had little doubt that the fae absolutely would have answered, most likely at length -- the door at the bottom of the stairs swung open, flooding the stairwell with light. Methos blinked, and a tall shadow loomed across the threshold. Not the immortal though; the buzz didn’t fade in the slightest.
“Is that him?” the shadow growled, and then he heard Trick sigh again. Exasperation, this time. He pinched at the bridge of his nose.
“Dyson, this is Piotr Bichurin. Piotr, Dyson.”
Methos barely had time to register the fact Trick used his current alias before the newcomer -- some fae named Dyson, apparently -- ground out, “that’s not what you called him before.”
“That’s because it wasn’t his name before. You know how often immortals swap identities. If you want his true name, you’ll have to get it from him.”
Dyson merely grunted. Methos wondered what species of fae he was, and if vocalization was a particular chore for them.
“How’s Bo?” Trick asked then. The question had a raw, worried edge to it, and it came out it sort of a rush, like he’d been impatient for the chance to ask it. But before Dyson could answer -- even before Methos could wonder who or what Trick meant, or why he so obviously cared--
“God, Dyson, let them in already!”
“Yeah! Before I brain hives, or something.”
“Impatient,” Dyson said, while Methos was still wincing. Brain hives?
“Who else is here?” he asked, the better to avoid jumping to any more conclusions.
“My granddaughter,” Trick said, and Methos didn’t miss the way Dyson startled for hearing it. Either he hadn’t known, or he hadn’t thought that Trick would share.
Not that Methos wasn’t startled his own self. Trick told him once, when they were both piss drunk and maudlin, that half the reason he wasn’t the Blood King anymore was because his family was dead. Methos hadn’t thought he’d been lying.
“They’re kind of a matched set,” Dyson said, with the air of someone sharing an inside joke.
Trick’s wife and daughter had both been succubi, Methos remembered. “Do I even want to know?”
“Hey!” One of the girls called out, a clear, crisp alto. She came up behind Dyson, slid between his body and the doorframe and leaned into the jamb, all the better to stare up at them. Dyson shifted instantly, ceding the space to her, falling back to stand just off of her left shoulder. How very interesting.
Still not the immortal though, so that just left the granddaughter. Bo, Trick said. Short for Isabo?
“Don’t know you its impolite to talk about a girl behind her back?” Bo asked, the tease in her voice a pale cover for the blatant threat assessment that was the rest of her.
She had her grandmother’s eyes.
“You must be Bo,” Methos said. “Piotr Bichurin. I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you.”
“We’ll talk,” Trick assured him, at the same time Bo hissed--
“You never said he was Russian!”
“Because he’s not,” Trick said, sounding harassed. Methos didn’t blame him. How many more times were they going to have this conversation?
“I don’t have to be,” he said, accent shifting as even he said it, losing its Oxford educated Volgograd Oblast, sliding into the Welsh-flavored Cambridge of his previous life. “Or I can be Canadian, if it’d help.” Except no, he really couldn’t. Too unpracticed; the region’s diphthongs were problematic. And his Quebecois was marred by having been too long in Paris all too recently; damn. “Or not. How ‘bout upstate New York?”
“Wow, creepy,” came the other voice, higher pitched than Bo’s. The girl in question, Kenzi, shoved herself forward, between Bo and Dyson, and the buzz finally faded as Methos got his first good look at her.
His first impression was of her youth: really, she couldn’t have been more than twenty when she died. And she looked small and underfed, sandwiched as she was between the two taller, broader fae, but even still, she looked completely comfortable sharing their space. Methos had to wonder just how she fit into their world. Kenzi was no one’s thrall, he realized. Her eyes were far too sharp.
“You’re so teaching me that,” she said, pointing up at him with what he realized, belatedly, was a short wooden spoon. Covered in some type of thin, green slime. What the--
“And why are we all just standing here, anyway? Dinner’s ready.”
Methos blinked. “Dinner?” But Kensi had already vanished back into Trick’s rooms.
“I hope you like Thai,” Bo said, then followed on her heels, calling “red or white? ” to Kensi as she went.
With one final glare -- a dominance stare, more likely, though he’d probably meant it as some sort of warning -- Dyson brought up the rear.
“I liked Yakutsk,” Methos lamented. It wasn’t a whine, because he still had his dignity, thank you very much, but it came close.
“You’ll like Kenzi,” Trick told him. He sounded like he believed it. “Don’t worry. This isn’t normal.”
“Still adjusting?” It wouldn’t surprise him. Newfound immortality was hard enough to cope with on its own, and Kenzi still had fae to deal with. Overprotective fae, if he’d read things right, and wasn’t that a laugh.
The next few years were going to be interesting.
“You could say that. Now c’mon. Kenzi gets offended if we don’t at least try her cooking.” And with that, Trick started back down the stairs again.
Resigned, Methos followed after him.
“She any good?” he asked, because -- why not? And better to know what he was in for.
“Better than you’d expect,” Trick admitted. Then he stopped short again, just inside the door. “Just -- don’t tell her I said that.”
“Of course not.”
“And whatever you do, don’t let her bake.”
“Hey slow pokes!” Kenzi called suddenly from someplace unseen. “While it’s hot!”
“Noted,” Methos said, and he followed Trick through his honeycomb of rooms, the scent of toasted spices increasing as they went. “We still need to talk,” he said, just in case that wasn’t already clear.
“Of course we do,” Trick agreed. “We’ll eat, and then Dyson will take Bo and Kenzi home -- and before you ask, don’t worry. I’ve already had their place canonized. And then we’ll talk.” He paused again, just as they reached what appeared to be his kitchen doorway. Kenzi, Bo, and Dyson were moving through an oddly domestic tableau: laying place settings, shoveling food into serving dishes, pouring wine.
And apparently arguing about which type of alcohol went better with Thai. Kenzi claimed to favor a hoppier beer. There was hope for her yet.
“There’s still a lot that you don’t know,” Trick said, and for once he sounded nearly as old as Methos suspected he was.
Like what really happened to Aife, Methos thought but didn’t say. And whether Dyson was in fact the Lycan that swore fealty to the Blood King in a fit of pique against -- whichever side he was supposed to be aligned with. Methos had only been paying half attention at the time.
But that could wait.
It all could wait, really. After all, it wasn’t like they didn’t have plenty of time.
“And there’s a lot that they don’t know,” he said, nodding towards Bo.
“They know that we’re old friends,” Trick told him. “And that you’re in my debt. That’s all.”
Methos hummed agreement. “Which means they don’t know about Aberdeen,” he said.
Trick startled. “Aberdeen?”
“Or San Francisco. Or Lisbon.”
“Lisbon! That was--”
“Or Ankara.” And with that he strode forward into the kitchen.
“What? No!” Trick darted after him. “Ankara was not my fault.”
“What wasn’t your fault?” Bo asked, innocently.
“Nothing!” Trick insisted.
Methos just grinned. “We were in Turkey,” he said to Bo, “turn of the fifteenth century. And there was this Timurid princess--”
“Oh, she was not!” Trick interrupted, insistent.
“Fine. There was this very lovely Turkish girl, and she was betrothed to a Timurid price - happy now? At least until she met your grandfather.”
“No way!” Kenzi shouted. “Go Trickster!”
Trick shoved his face into both hands. “You’re going to make me regret this,” he told his palms. “Aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. But his granddaughter was grinning ear to ear, eager for the tale.
She had nice smile, he thought. For some reason he suspected she didn’t get the chance to wear it often.
Methos nodded. “Every chance I get,” he said.
Trick sighed, but his eyes had found Bo, too. He figured the old fae didn’t really mind.
“So, your grandfather and this almost-princess--”
-fin-
Author: Snoopy & The Red Baron, collaborative (because the finishing of this fic qualifies as a Genuine Christmas Miracle)
Written For: Killabeez
Fandoms: Highlander & Lost Girl
Continuity notes: Set in season 3 of Lost Girl at some nebulous point after The Ceremony (S3-E9), which is decidedly post-canon for Highlander. Also, Author ignores all post-series Highlander canon; ditto anything to do with Lost Girl’s myth arc(s) post said cutoff episode.
Characters/Pairings: Gen. Methos, Trick, Dyson, Bo, Kenzi
Rating: PG
Word count: 5800
Summary: Methos has lived the last 1600 odd years with a debt to the Blood King hanging over his head. In 2013, His Royal Faeness finally calls to collect...
Methos hated Toronto in the wintertime.
Well. Better to say he hated pretty much everything that sat within spitting distance of the Great Lakes in the wintertime, where spring was lie told to children and baseball fans and the ice storms could last until June. He’d spent the roaring twenties, plus or minus a few years on either side, in small-town western-upstate New York as the resident coroner-slash-undertaker-slash-taxidermist -- and never, ever again! Not even for the chance to live safely on cemetery grounds again, or for the beautiful built-in exit strategy of an ice-fishing accident. Stars above, but winters here made even Siberia look tame by comparison -- and he would know.
He’d just walked out of a deliciously boring life as a maths teacher in Yakutsk.
Toronto though always seemed to go above and beyond for him, whenever he had the misfortune, and this time she’d really rolled out the red carpet: his flight had been delayed due to weather (and it was down to his having been an international flight that it even landed at all; the domestics were being rerouted), his hotel overbooked because of the same, or rather because all departures had been cancelled due to the weather and so stranded all of the outbound travelers in town.
When he’d finally arrived at said overbooked hotel (via cab, from the bus depot, no less, thanks to the airport shuttle getting stuck on the Mall and its passengers rescued by a timely Peter Pan) the place was a zoo. A soggy, smelly, overcrowded zoo, with overcranked heat and treacherous floors and not a single seat at the bar. And when he learned he’d already lost his room (he wasn’t travelling with small children, elderly persons, or other singles he was willing to bunk with) he’d actually caught himself wondering if the damned city didn’t somehow hate him back, just a little, for reasons that he honestly could not fathom. Though that was probably the exhaustion talking. This past week had been interminable, and from here it looked like it was only going to get longer.
Bloody fae. Probably chose Toronto specifically for its winning hospitality.
Good job then that Trick (a name just as honest as “Piotr Bichurin” for a being quite possibly just as old) ran a waystation these days; His Bloody Grace could bloody well put him up for the night.
*
Five hours, two busses, four cabs, and one very long walk into the wind later, Methos finally stumbled across Trick’s threshold and into fae territory. The door slammed shut behind him almost instantly, helped along by a timely gust of sleet-soaked wind, and the sound reverberated ominously in the closeness of the room. Or maybe he’d only imagined that it did. His dealing with the fae always played merry hell on his instincts. Though the fact he’d found the door unlocked was -- telling.
Telling him what, he didn’t know yet. And that worried him a bit.
Still, Methos had to forcibly remind himself that this particular fae meant him no harm (probably. An official summons was a hell of a long way from the accidental if progressively friendlier reunions they’d shared in the past) as he leaned back against the door, half to make sure that it’d actually latched -- not raised in a barn, thanks (they hadn’t been invented yet) -- but also to give his body -- and ergo his quickening -- a chance to adjust to the sudden, drastic change in his environment. Living in Yakutsk he didn’t lack for coldgear, and he’d doubled up his layers in the hotel men’s room before departing, so all he’d felt at first was the absence of weight around his legs that meant they were finally free of the icy drifts, and the soft stillness in the air where the winter gale had been. But that was about to change.
Four heartbeats, then five, six, seven, as he slung his battered duffle from his shoulders and braced himself before--
His quickening flared up, sparking hot and sharp beneath his skin like the electric current it resembled. Deeper in his hands and feet and more shallowly behind his face, his body gave a final surge against the frostnip he’d been courting and defeated it utterly, now that the elements had stopped fighting back. It was irritating and uncomfortable -- and it made him sneeze. Right into his scarf. Lovely.
(An immortal could die of exposure, sure, same as any human; it just took them longer. And there was no comforting illusion of warmth, either. No, the lucky immortal dropped off itching.)
“Hey, you made it,” he heard, not two seconds later, just as the last little zings were fading along with whatever damage the cold had wrought. The voice was unmistakable -- and revealed its owner to be unmistakably happy, come to that, probably for the fact he’d arrived safely and in one solid if slightly frozen piece. It would have been inconvenient for both of them (and embarrassing as hell, besides) if their reunion had been waylaid by an unscheduled detour through the city morgue.
Methos grunted acknowledgement, the best he could manage while his head was half buried in layers of wool and fleece, and set to unwrapping himself. He tossed back his hood, tore off his hat and ski mask in one go and shoved them into one pocket, and pulled the scarf away from his chin. Only then did he let himself seek the Blood King out.
The Dal Ria, as it was called, was dark and moody, he saw; now that he could actually see it properly. Likely half from the total lack of light outside -- power was down in this part of the city -- and half because whatever Trick used to compensate for the lack of electricity (oil lamps and candles, to the untrained eye, but this was a fae pub so anything was possible) was obviously centered on the bar area. So it took Methos a moment to spot his host, weaving as he was through blotchy shadows that lately resolved into tables, once his eyes adjusted to the contrast (and maybe they were just regular old oil lamps and candles, and Methos was too used to the casual magic of faedom to believe that the mundane existed even here).
Trick was grinning, Methos saw, and he was carrying a glass of something in one hand with a bartender’s familiar ease as he wound his way towards him, and that was -- well. Not unexpected, exactly. But the sight still eased something in him, just the same, and not only for the prospect of imminent booze.
Not that he’d ever admit it, not under threat of torture or MacLeod’s entirely too soulful hangdog stare, but he’d been almost afraid to see the old fae, this time around. Sixteen hundred years was a long time to hold onto a debt, and he could only guess at why Trick would call to collect on it now. And those guesses, made intermittently over the last eight days or so then and during one long transatlantic flight especially, had not been good company.
Fae might age more slowly than humans, but they did age, and they could even be killed outright if one knew what they were doing. (Or even if one didn’t know, precisely, and simply lucked out because he cared more about ending the soul-sucking bastard who raped and murdered his wife than he did about avenging the honor of his house -- which of course was how Methos found himself in debt to the bloody Blood King in the first place -- but that was neither here nor there.) He’d worried this was a deathbed summons -- and it still could be, for all he knew; that the fae was upright and walking meant little -- and the thought made Methos--
Cranky.
He was so old, now. Hell, he’d become a myth to his own people, and his life had been a lie for so long that, by the time Kronos had forced his hand with MacLeod, he’d all but forgotten what it was like to be honest (with anyone who wasn’t Darius, but that was one thought he wasn’t going near, not even in passing). Of the very few left who knew him as he really was, they were either so young the idea they could claim to know him at all was laughable -- or else they were after his head. Mostly they were after his head.
Or they were Cassandra, which was really no better, in the end. Damn but he missed Darius. (And -- alright, maybe his mind was wandering through graveyards for a reason, tonight. That didn’t mean he had to like it.)
The fae were different, though. They weren’t part of the Game, and they gained nothing from taking an immortal’s head -- or from taking anything else, for that matter, as a few of the more predatory fae had discovered the hard way. Some species, he’d learned, had even developed an almost instinctual aversion to immortals in general. And since the rest couldn’t pick an immortal out of a crowd of one, by and large the fae left the immortals alone. (The Third Race, they called them: not food, but then not equal, either. Not part of the hierarchy and so worthy only of being ignored. You’ve never seen arrogance until you’ve seen fae arrogance.) And on the flip side, very few immortals knew the fae even existed at all, apart from whatever folklore they’d assimilated over the course of their lives. Without the telltale buzz of immortality, unchanging faces were written off as coincidence, or stress, or a chance encounter with someone’s descendant. If they were even recognized at all.
In the end it meant that immortals and fae didn’t intermingle all that much, apart from the occasional murder (Methos certainly hadn’t been the first immortal to kill one of the fae, just as there had been instances where fae had found reason to take an immortal’s head), and that made his centuries-old association with Trick unique enough to be remarked upon, and not always favorably. Though that was less a problem now that there was no one else left alive who knew the truth of how they started. And that was -- unfortunate, Methos thought. There was such a small number of fae with lifespans as long as his, or so he’d been told, and there was a certain kinship to be had in owning that kind of age. Methos knew how much he valued sharing it without having to worry about his head for once, and surely those fae must feel the same. To be able to sit down over a beer or six and just -- talk. To someone who knew, someone who was there, someone who understood. Without all the bloody politics getting in the way, because that was the fae for you. World’s oldest sandbox bullies, not the least to their own kind.
And then there was Trick.
Trick, who knew who and what Methos was -- knew who and what he had been, apart from what the fae legends said -- and didn’t judge him by anything approaching modern standards. Who in fact never had, no matter the running definition of “modern,” 1600 years and counting. Trick, who could still speak all of the (not-quite) dead languages Methos knew (and who had, once, spent a rather dull if not unpleasant summer in the seventeenth century patiently re-teaching him the one he’d somehow, disturbingly, more than half forgotten). Trick, who shared Methos’ unique view of the world, one visible only to those who’d spent so many millennia watching it grow up alongside them.
Trick, who for his part, once had a very real chance to take Methos’ head, for vengeance if not for his quickening, and had instead chosen to show mercy, even against the advice of his court. Trick who had, in point of fact, slouched into the cell where Methos was being kept, with a flagon of impossibly old wine and a wooden stool for his own royal behind, and offered a toast to women loved and lost, and the often terminal idiocy of youth, and the fact they’d both managed to survive in spite of them. He’d walked out of the Blood King’s court the next day with one hell of a hangover and a debt he’d apparently have to wait 1600 years to repay.
And now here he was. Finally.
The beer had better be at least half as good as he remembered.
*
“All the world at your fingertips,” he groused, still stomping the snow from his boots. That and he had an image to maintain, and he didn’t care to go off-script. Or at least, not yet. “And you chose Toronto? Really? What’s wrong with the Riviera? Or Bora Bora? I hear the Leeward Islands are lovely this time of year.”
“In short? Tourists, the French, French tourists, and undine.” Trick cleared the maze of tables as he said this, and Methos got his first good look at the fae. His hair was a little shorter, maybe a little grayer, but other than that he looked remarkably the same. It could just as easily have been a lie, of course; Methos knew that well enough, but even still he allowed himself that small sliver of reassurance anyway.
“Undine?” Like most things probably fae, the word was vaguely familiar somehow. The faintly iridescent contents of the old-fashioned highball in Trick’s hand, less so.
“Species of under-fae. Think less evolved sea-nymph.”
Methos blinked, and the memory slotted into place. “Huh. That’s not what Paracelsus said.” Or how he’d said it, come to that.
“Paracelsus was human,” Trick said, as though it explained everything. Though judging by his inflection, he must’ve thought it did; how very fae of him. He reached Methos then, and he pressed the highball into his gloved hands.
“Welcome, my friend,” he said, sincerely enough of course, but still it wasn’t how Trick usually greeted him. Which was fair, since Methos didn’t usually stumble through Trick’s door half-frozen, either.
Or on official business. That was probably more the case, this time. If nothing else, the fae certainly knew how to stand on ceremony. (And stand. And stand. And stand. While nattering on like it was everyone’s privilege to hear them speak.) Honestly? Fae formalities were a far sight better at unsettling him than even the Watchers could manage.
Trick’s smile was genuine though, and his eyes were kind, and he’d wrapped both hands around Methos’ around the glass like he didn’t care that Methos’ gloves were soaked through and crusted over in patches of ice. And when he said, “it’s good to see you,” he sounded like he meant it.
“And you,” Methos replied, and he tacked a word that translated, roughly, as most noble elder scholar on the end of it, in what modern linguists dubbed Old Akkadian. It was an address he’d used for Trick before, if sparingly, because it wasn’t a fae language, and it had long since fallen out of fashion by the time Trick first ventured into the part of the world where its descendants were spoken, but still it was the most succinct gesture of respect that Methos could give. Official business, after all, and Trick was still the Blood King.
And Methos still owed him a life. Wasn’t that why he was here?
Some other immortal had crossed the fae, or perhaps there was some undesired member of the fae themselves, someone high born or with connections -- or come to that, even an important mortal -- who needed killing off the books, and it was somehow important enough to Trick that he’d finally called in his marker. Methos knew the better seers saw him as some kind of personification of Death, and that was nothing if not a damned convenient way to hide an unsanctioned hit. The thought left a bad taste in his mouth (oh, not the killing; he’d figured this would be the way of it since day one, really. No, rather the fact that Trick felt the need to even bring in a wringer at all, because that just smacked of politics, and Methos hated fae politics like he hated few others things) and a longing to just get whatever ugly mess this was sorted, already. Before he had time to wonder just who the poor bastard was, and what had made Trick, the same fae who’d shown mercy to the man who’d killed his own kin, decide that they deserved it.
--And all of that was still far better than wondering to whom his debt was about to be passed down. For some reason, Methos wasn’t quite ready to let go of the bastard.
(Not that he was exactly ready to commit murder, either, but Methos was selfish in his old age. He knew full well which prospect was easier.)
“Don’t start,” Trick warned, but his grin slipped wider as he said it, so Methos didn’t count it. His fingers were still wrapped around Methos’ own, and he squeezed once before pulling away. “And drink that, would you? You look terrible.”
“You say the nicest things,” Methos muttered, but he brought the glass up. It looked a bit like maple syrup served over rocks and it smelled like the aftermath of an electrical fire. A fae drink, then. Of course.
“Yes,” Trick drawled, when he caught Methos sniffing it. “I went through all the trouble of tracking you down and calling you home, just so I could poison you.”
“Venice, 1659,” Methos countered, because it was better than calling attention to Trick’s turn of phrase. Still, he sipped at the drink anyway, and found that it tasted a lot more like how it smelled than how it looked. It slid down his throat like a warm glowing coal, and settled -- not unpleasantly -- just below his sternum, forming a pool of welcomed heat that gently fanned on each inhale.
“Don’t put that on me,” Trick was saying, “you’re the one who refused to leave the city.” Which was true, Methos supposed. Same as the fact another immortal can’t track you if you’re dead. (And hidden in the bottom of a nobleman’s casket in a funeral procession bound for Ravenna, but that was another tale.)
And dead men pay no debts, but Methos was smart enough to keep that thought to himself. Instead he shrugged, kept focused on the details so to avoid the bigger picture.
“I was a vicar. Selmy would’ve gotten bored when he realized I never had to leave holy ground.”
“You were the vicar who stole the abbot’s mistress. He’d have stuck a knife in your back and left you outside the abbey walls, and he’d have done it for free.”
That gave Methos pause. Not that it wasn’t true, but… “I probably shouldn’t ask how you know that.” He sipped at the drink again. It didn’t taste any better the second go round -- hell if anything, it tasted worse. But the warmth was spreading, each swallow adding another ember, and muscles long abused by cold and quickening were finally starting to relax.
That and a drink in hand always made for a nice distraction.
“You probably shouldn’t,” Trick agreed. “Now would you mind getting out of--” he gestured, expansively, at Methos’ still-dripping clothes. “I know your health is a non-issue, but my floors would appreciate it. That and I’m cold just looking at you.”
Methos didn’t mind at all. In fact, he complied with alacrity. There was only so much one drink -- even a fae drink of dubious provenance -- could do against the all-over sog his little trek had left him with. Even as Trick’s magic booze worked to thaw him from the inside out (and as always with fae, that was far more literal statement that he was comfortable with making) his clothes were still actively chilling him from the outside in. His gloves found a home in the opposite pocket from his hat and mask, then he shucked out of his parka and hung both it and his scarf on one of the hooks on the wall by the door.
“You can leave your sword,” Trick said, just as Methos was reaching for the hidden sheath sewn into the parka lining. It wasn’t a request.
It was also entirely unexpected, and Methos stopped short. Briefly he thought about disobeying, because -- who was Trick to command him? Debt or no debt.
True the Dal was just as good as holy ground, should Methos actually ask for sanctuary, so it wasn’t like the sword was necessary, per se. Or at least, not necessary for his immediate safety. But that wasn’t the point. Trick had known him a damned long time, certainly long enough to know that an immortal’s sword was just as much security blanket as it was weapon, and he’d seen first-hand just how -- twitchy -- Methos got, when his wasn’t easily called to hand.
And now he was telling Methos to leave his behind.
His outstretched hand pulled into a fist, briefly, the only marker of his indecision. The moment stretched, and the air inside the Dal felt heavy and close, and the weight of Trick’s gaze on his back as he waited, so very patiently, set every last one of his nerves standing up on edge.
That pissed him off. Really, Methos was more tempted now to ignore Trick purely for spite, smart play or no. But push come to shove, he decided he really wasn’t interested in testing the limits of the Blood King’s tolerance. Not tonight. Not when it had been Trick’s own brother-in-law that Methos had left in literal pieces in the middle of a fae holy site (though that last had been largely by accident; while he knew the fae frequented the area, he hadn’t exactly known why) and the Blood King could have called for his head for either offense -- and he’d had more than enough fae at his call to put paid to the threat -- but instead, he’d chosen mercy.
He let the fist fall, uselessly, to his side. He suddenly felt very, very tired, and every last day of his age. “Are you going to tell me why I’m here?” he asked, still facing his abandoned sword, his back still to Trick like it didn’t bother him in the slightest.
“Better that I show you,” Trick said, surprising him again. “C’mon. You can stash your bag behind the bar.”
Once again Methos thought of protesting, because that would separate him from the more explosive members of his arsenal (what? You thought his sword was the only weapon he carried into fae territory? He went better armed on a trip to the grocery store), not to mention most of his spare ammo, but in the end the same thought swayed him: diminished did not mean unarmed. So instead he let Trick stow his bag in some secret hidey-hole (Methos had been behind that bar; unless Trick had remodeled there was nowhere big enough to store a duffle that size, or at least nowhere ordinary) and then, bemused, he’d followed as Trick led him around to the back door.
The stairs that led down to Trick’s private quarters were gloomy, narrow and twisty and poorly lit, and the treads had soft cups worn into them by what was probably centuries of foot traffic. Trick went first, of course, and Methos caught himself wondering just how resilient the fae’s body was, should he miss his footing and so send them both hurrying down the hard way. It was that kind of day.
“You know, ass over teakettle really is an undignified way to go,” he snarked.
And then the buzz kicked in.
Methos froze, and an ugly mix of shock and betrayal churned in his gut, adding a sharp, bitter tang to the spike of adrenaline. Whoever the other was, they’d obviously been invited, and him with his sword upstairs -- and on orders, no less. Might as well be on the moon.
Trick was ahead of him still, and Methos seriously considered turning on his heel and bolting for the door, but before his legs could put paid to the thought Trick reached back, landed a hand on Methos’ wrist; not really restraining, just there; a point of warmth and contact in the semi-dark.
“It’s alright,” Trick said, his tone placating, like Methos was some sort of animal that had spooked and needed soothing. He’d been halfway to turning his head when the buzz had hit, likely all the better to make some sort of rejoinder to Methos’ comment, and he’d obviously caught the tail end of Methos’ reaction. Had seen Methos’ body jump straight to fight or flight and took it for the hardwired instinct that it was.
Methos bit back -- something; a curse, a bark of half-crazed laughter -- and Trick’s grip tightened, not much, not painfully, but enough that Methos suddenly felt his own pulse scudding beneath Trick’s fingers.
“Her name is Kenzi,” Trick said -- slow and steady, the patronizing bastard. “She met her first death three weeks ago.” Then he paused, looked Methos square in the eye, and said, “she’s not a threat,” And that was the Blood King, proclaiming.
Suddenly, and with all the painful, blinding insight of a quickening, Methos knew exactly how his debt would be repaid.
He was still reeling -- hell, none of his speculating had even come close -- when Trick sighed, deep in his throat and audible.
“We’ll talk about your trust issues later.”
That, Methos thought, was deeply unfair. He twisted his wrist out of Trick’s grasp. “You might’ve warned me,” he said, instead of calling attention to Trick’s own insensitivity, tit for tat. It wasn’t worth the argument.
“And you might consider giving me the benefit of the doubt, just once.”
“If you’d let me keep my sword I probably would have.”
Before Trick could answer that -- and Methos had little doubt that the fae absolutely would have answered, most likely at length -- the door at the bottom of the stairs swung open, flooding the stairwell with light. Methos blinked, and a tall shadow loomed across the threshold. Not the immortal though; the buzz didn’t fade in the slightest.
“Is that him?” the shadow growled, and then he heard Trick sigh again. Exasperation, this time. He pinched at the bridge of his nose.
“Dyson, this is Piotr Bichurin. Piotr, Dyson.”
Methos barely had time to register the fact Trick used his current alias before the newcomer -- some fae named Dyson, apparently -- ground out, “that’s not what you called him before.”
“That’s because it wasn’t his name before. You know how often immortals swap identities. If you want his true name, you’ll have to get it from him.”
Dyson merely grunted. Methos wondered what species of fae he was, and if vocalization was a particular chore for them.
“How’s Bo?” Trick asked then. The question had a raw, worried edge to it, and it came out it sort of a rush, like he’d been impatient for the chance to ask it. But before Dyson could answer -- even before Methos could wonder who or what Trick meant, or why he so obviously cared--
“God, Dyson, let them in already!”
“Yeah! Before I brain hives, or something.”
“Impatient,” Dyson said, while Methos was still wincing. Brain hives?
“Who else is here?” he asked, the better to avoid jumping to any more conclusions.
“My granddaughter,” Trick said, and Methos didn’t miss the way Dyson startled for hearing it. Either he hadn’t known, or he hadn’t thought that Trick would share.
Not that Methos wasn’t startled his own self. Trick told him once, when they were both piss drunk and maudlin, that half the reason he wasn’t the Blood King anymore was because his family was dead. Methos hadn’t thought he’d been lying.
“They’re kind of a matched set,” Dyson said, with the air of someone sharing an inside joke.
Trick’s wife and daughter had both been succubi, Methos remembered. “Do I even want to know?”
“Hey!” One of the girls called out, a clear, crisp alto. She came up behind Dyson, slid between his body and the doorframe and leaned into the jamb, all the better to stare up at them. Dyson shifted instantly, ceding the space to her, falling back to stand just off of her left shoulder. How very interesting.
Still not the immortal though, so that just left the granddaughter. Bo, Trick said. Short for Isabo?
“Don’t know you its impolite to talk about a girl behind her back?” Bo asked, the tease in her voice a pale cover for the blatant threat assessment that was the rest of her.
She had her grandmother’s eyes.
“You must be Bo,” Methos said. “Piotr Bichurin. I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you.”
“We’ll talk,” Trick assured him, at the same time Bo hissed--
“You never said he was Russian!”
“Because he’s not,” Trick said, sounding harassed. Methos didn’t blame him. How many more times were they going to have this conversation?
“I don’t have to be,” he said, accent shifting as even he said it, losing its Oxford educated Volgograd Oblast, sliding into the Welsh-flavored Cambridge of his previous life. “Or I can be Canadian, if it’d help.” Except no, he really couldn’t. Too unpracticed; the region’s diphthongs were problematic. And his Quebecois was marred by having been too long in Paris all too recently; damn. “Or not. How ‘bout upstate New York?”
“Wow, creepy,” came the other voice, higher pitched than Bo’s. The girl in question, Kenzi, shoved herself forward, between Bo and Dyson, and the buzz finally faded as Methos got his first good look at her.
His first impression was of her youth: really, she couldn’t have been more than twenty when she died. And she looked small and underfed, sandwiched as she was between the two taller, broader fae, but even still, she looked completely comfortable sharing their space. Methos had to wonder just how she fit into their world. Kenzi was no one’s thrall, he realized. Her eyes were far too sharp.
“You’re so teaching me that,” she said, pointing up at him with what he realized, belatedly, was a short wooden spoon. Covered in some type of thin, green slime. What the--
“And why are we all just standing here, anyway? Dinner’s ready.”
Methos blinked. “Dinner?” But Kensi had already vanished back into Trick’s rooms.
“I hope you like Thai,” Bo said, then followed on her heels, calling “red or white? ” to Kensi as she went.
With one final glare -- a dominance stare, more likely, though he’d probably meant it as some sort of warning -- Dyson brought up the rear.
“I liked Yakutsk,” Methos lamented. It wasn’t a whine, because he still had his dignity, thank you very much, but it came close.
“You’ll like Kenzi,” Trick told him. He sounded like he believed it. “Don’t worry. This isn’t normal.”
“Still adjusting?” It wouldn’t surprise him. Newfound immortality was hard enough to cope with on its own, and Kenzi still had fae to deal with. Overprotective fae, if he’d read things right, and wasn’t that a laugh.
The next few years were going to be interesting.
“You could say that. Now c’mon. Kenzi gets offended if we don’t at least try her cooking.” And with that, Trick started back down the stairs again.
Resigned, Methos followed after him.
“She any good?” he asked, because -- why not? And better to know what he was in for.
“Better than you’d expect,” Trick admitted. Then he stopped short again, just inside the door. “Just -- don’t tell her I said that.”
“Of course not.”
“And whatever you do, don’t let her bake.”
“Hey slow pokes!” Kenzi called suddenly from someplace unseen. “While it’s hot!”
“Noted,” Methos said, and he followed Trick through his honeycomb of rooms, the scent of toasted spices increasing as they went. “We still need to talk,” he said, just in case that wasn’t already clear.
“Of course we do,” Trick agreed. “We’ll eat, and then Dyson will take Bo and Kenzi home -- and before you ask, don’t worry. I’ve already had their place canonized. And then we’ll talk.” He paused again, just as they reached what appeared to be his kitchen doorway. Kenzi, Bo, and Dyson were moving through an oddly domestic tableau: laying place settings, shoveling food into serving dishes, pouring wine.
And apparently arguing about which type of alcohol went better with Thai. Kenzi claimed to favor a hoppier beer. There was hope for her yet.
“There’s still a lot that you don’t know,” Trick said, and for once he sounded nearly as old as Methos suspected he was.
Like what really happened to Aife, Methos thought but didn’t say. And whether Dyson was in fact the Lycan that swore fealty to the Blood King in a fit of pique against -- whichever side he was supposed to be aligned with. Methos had only been paying half attention at the time.
But that could wait.
It all could wait, really. After all, it wasn’t like they didn’t have plenty of time.
“And there’s a lot that they don’t know,” he said, nodding towards Bo.
“They know that we’re old friends,” Trick told him. “And that you’re in my debt. That’s all.”
Methos hummed agreement. “Which means they don’t know about Aberdeen,” he said.
Trick startled. “Aberdeen?”
“Or San Francisco. Or Lisbon.”
“Lisbon! That was--”
“Or Ankara.” And with that he strode forward into the kitchen.
“What? No!” Trick darted after him. “Ankara was not my fault.”
“What wasn’t your fault?” Bo asked, innocently.
“Nothing!” Trick insisted.
Methos just grinned. “We were in Turkey,” he said to Bo, “turn of the fifteenth century. And there was this Timurid princess--”
“Oh, she was not!” Trick interrupted, insistent.
“Fine. There was this very lovely Turkish girl, and she was betrothed to a Timurid price - happy now? At least until she met your grandfather.”
“No way!” Kenzi shouted. “Go Trickster!”
Trick shoved his face into both hands. “You’re going to make me regret this,” he told his palms. “Aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. But his granddaughter was grinning ear to ear, eager for the tale.
She had nice smile, he thought. For some reason he suspected she didn’t get the chance to wear it often.
Methos nodded. “Every chance I get,” he said.
Trick sighed, but his eyes had found Bo, too. He figured the old fae didn’t really mind.
“So, your grandfather and this almost-princess--”
-fin-