Flight to Barbados - Fiction PG or R Rated
Flight to Barbados
By Lilllian Wolfe
This is in response to Ith’s “Dr. Clifford as Methos Challenge.” It’s been a while since I wrote any tales so this is a bit rough and maybe not 100% accurate on British terms. Dr. Clifford, Camilla and Maddy belong to the BBC; Methos, Joe and Duncan MacLeod belong to Davis-Panzer. This is in fun and not meant to infringe on any copyrights. Not making one thin dime with it, just doing a little speculating.
Rated PG or R for sexual situation.
In November, Daniel Clifford arrived at Holby City, scalpels spinning and raring to go. But we soon learned that there was a woman in his past and being an inquiring mind, I just had to wonder about the almost Mrs. Clifford and what had happened to cause Daniel to stand her up at the altar.
Hope you enjoy it.
LW - Feb. 28, 2007
Middlesex Hospital, October 2006
With a quick, precise move, Daniel Clifford whipped out the damaged spleen of a 15 year old patient, a car accident victim who was on the edge. But she’d come through fine, all her vitals were good and it looked like a successful operation. Dan glanced over at Camilla, his surgical nurse and gave her a quick smile. “That’s it for this. Another winner and the last one for the next few weeks.”
Dark eyes over the surgical mask sparked with a gleam to answer him. “For both of us,” the lithe, lovely brunette answered.
Dan turned to his SHO, “She’s all yours, Maddy. Talk to her parents, will you, please?”
The shorter brunette nodded, taking over in the operating room as Dan exited. Out of the corner of his eye, Dan saw Camilla casting a pleased, almost smug look at the SHO. “One more day and Dan and I will be on our way. No hard feelings, Maddy?”
He didn’t wait for the response but he knew it was fine. Maddy Young was cool with the upcoming wedding, even if Camilla wasn’t her favourite person. He’d never had more than a good friendship with her. Maddy liked to play around too much. He had some paperwork to finish, then he was off for the next four weeks. Life was pretty darn good, he reflected.
Millie caught up with him a few moments later, running her hand along his arm in that possessive way she had and as he turned, her hand moved up to caress his jaw. Just the light contact ignited his desire and he turned into her touch, pulling her face into his hands for a deep, loving kiss. Her response was instantaneous. And just like that, he was burning with his need for this woman who’d fired his life in the last the last few months. He pulled away, feeling breathless, “It our last day of freedom, Millie. And I want you...” He urged her back toward the wall.
She pushed him back, hissing under her breath, “Daniel... Not now. Not here.”
“Millie...” As his objection started, she slipped under his arm and down the hallway. Sighing, Dan turned and followed her. Might as well get out of the scrubs and get the paperwork done. But Millie made a turn to right to a side hallway and cast a quick glance behind her at Dan, then she slipped into the ladies’ room. Dan paused, waiting, and a few moments later, Millie pushed the door open and peeked out.
Glancing casually around, Dan followed, slipping into the loo behind Millie. In moments, he was wrapping his arms around her and doing his best to examine her tonsils with his tongue. But Millie was just as eager to taste him. Hands slid under his scrubs top, brushing against his bare skin and sliding lightly over his muscles. He pushed her back against the door, his mouth working against her throat as his hands lifted her scrub top. Her hands were in his hair, long fingers rubbing through the silkiness of it as his fingers pulled at the drawstring on her pants.
Fingers touched, lips touched, eyelashes brushed against cheeks, and the two lovers burned to unite. Clothes falling to the tiled floor, Dan’s arms wrapped around Millie and her legs wrapped around him. Panting, gasping, struggling for position as they still shoved against the door, “Now! God, now!” Millie hissed in his ear and that was all he needed, even as he felt an unexpected thrust as someone pushed against the door and Millie tensed. Trying to stifle sound, groans and gasps, they climaxed as a woman’s voice on the other side complained loudly to someone else that the door seemed to be stuck.
Dan held Millie tightly, both holding their breath until it sounded like the person had walked away, then they both exhaled and gasped for air. Dan tilted his head back, laughing softly, exhilarated. Pushing them apart, Millie’s hands ran down his sweaty chest as she bent to reach her clothes. Reluctantly, he stepped back, finding his own scrubs and began pulling them on. With a tilt of her head and amused eyes, Millie urged him to step further into the bathroom so she could check the hall outside. Within a few minutes, they were on their way to the lockers to clean up and change clothes.
A few hours later, Daniel shook hands with a cousin of Camilla’s and politely thanked her parents for the lovely wedding rehearsal dinner. Her mother hugged him affectionately, clearly pleased to welcome the handsome Dr. Clifford to their family. Such an elegant man, she had commented to her husband a little earlier, charming and with fine taste. Dan had merely given her an almost shy smile, amused in so many ways with that observation.
He smiled now as he waited for Millie to say good night to her bridesmaids. He was driving her to her parents, then he would go on to a bachelor party that the lads at the hospital had insisted on. But his mind was on the development of this persona.
Daniel Clifford was, indeed, an elegant man. He was well educated, well dressed, had impeccable manners, in spite of a somewhat crisp sense of humor. He was charming and ladies found his quick wit and humour fun and sexy. He had developed his sexist attitude during his years as an intern as he discovered that several of his prettier colleagues didn’t apply their knowledge and skills to the extent they could and they responded better to challenging teasing rather than encouraging words. And more than ever he found that people in general needed to be pushed. In fact, he’d complained to Joe Dawson about the lack of motivation in people these days and how they expected everything to be handed to them.
Joe had snorted. “You are complaining? One of the laziest Immortals I’ve ever seen thinks that people aren’t motivated. Ain’t that a pisser?”
“Yeah, Joe. Very funny, but it’s true. And in fact, I am very motivated at the moment and enjoying it.” Methos snarled back. “Where an Immortal can take time off for a decade or so, mortals can’t. And if you are going to work at a job, you should do what you’re getting paid for.”
While Joe found it amusing, he had agreed with the oldest Immortal. He’d been having troubles with a new barman who seemed to find chatting to customers more fun than other bar duties and in fact had fired the man the night before, so was looking for new help himself. Still, even Joe was a having a little trouble with Methos’ enthusiasm for the medical profession again and this sudden overachiever that was Dan Clifford. And he about choked when Methos told him he’d taken to playing golf.
“It’s not like I never picked up a club before, Joe,” Methos had complained.
“Uh-huh. In the last couple of centuries?”
“Well, no,” he’d admitted. “But I used to play quite often when I was in Scotland in the mid-1700’s. The game hasn’t changed that much.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I just never pictured your lazy bones out on a golf course. But then, I never really expected you to work a real job again. Let’s face it, researcher and Watcher was an easy gig compared to medical practice. But I gotta wonder, why England? Why not somewhere in the US, like Hawaii?”
“I think you know, Joe,” Methos had answered softly.
“...darling?” A woman’s voice and a light touch on his arm. Dan blinked and smiled at Camilla. “You were drifting,” she accused.
“A litte,” he admitted, “...thinking about the next few weeks together.” He caught her arm and led her down the path to the car that was already waiting for them.
As they neared Camilla’s family home, she reached across and laid her hand first on the top of Dan’s as he started to shift, then slid it across to his knee. “You and Barbados for three weeks. I can’t believe it’s all starting tomorrow.”
He pulled the car to the curb at the park near the house. It was an enclosed park, locked now, but it was one he and Camilla had gone to a couple of times for a romantic picnic on a warm day, Her hand moved up his thigh. “This is our last night as singles, as free wheeling lov--”
Her mouth locked on his in a deep kiss. “Don’t say anything else,” she whispered. And he didn’t. He was much too busy with other things.
Four and a half hours later, Dan pulled the car into the driveway of his middle class house. He sat in the driveway, still buzzed from a late night of drinking with the guys, and reflected on what he was doing in just about twelve hours. Wife number seventy, to be exact. Not that Camilla knew that or even had a clue that he’d ever been married. He hadn’t been really seriously involved with anyone since Alexa ten years earlier, although he’d gotten close twice before, And he wasn’t really sure why he’d let Millie maneuver him into marriage this time, except he liked her a lot and she was a terrifically fun sexual partner, something a really old man could appreciate. Sooner or later, he would have to tell Camilla what he was, but maybe they could divorce before it became really obvious that he wasn’t aging and he wouldn’t have to tell her anything. He brightened a bit at that thought. And now, he and his new wife would be off on a long honeymoon… Well, not long by the DeValicort’s standard, but pretty long for most newlyweds. He opened the car door, reached for his coat and started toward the entrance, thoughts still on the white beaches and silky sheets ahead when he froze in his tracks.
“Shit,” he breathed softly as the familiar sensation of another Immortal touched him. He glanced around for anyone, then carefully reached under the drivers seat for the cloth-wrapped shape he kept there. Quickly unwrapping his sword, Methos crouched low and cautiously approached the house. Disappointment filled him as the sensation increased as he got closer, confirming what he had hoped wasn’t true... that the other Immortal was in his house. This was definitely bad. While he had practiced now and then with his sword, most of his swings lately had been with a golf club. Damn, damn, damn! He shifted to use the bushes for cover and began working his way toward a window. Most of all he wanted to get the solid brick of the house against his back until he knew who he was facing.
He’d just made it to the safety of his garden, slipping back against the trellis, and scrunched down a little lower to ease to the window, when the front door opened, a head popped out and a deep voice stopped him in his tracks. “Methos, it’s MacLeod.”
He let the sword drop toward the ground as the tension went out of his body. Catching his breath, he straightened. “Forget how to use a phone, MacLeod?”
Mac stood on the porch, staring at him. “I wanted to talk to you in person. You’ve got a problem.” He turned and stepped back inside, expecting Methos to follow.
I have a problem? Yeah, you, Methos thought in annoyance. Why was the man here now? After ten years of practically nothing, he suddenly shows up on the doorstep when you’re about to get married? If Joe told him... Methos bit his lip in anger, then strode through the door with that chip still on his shoulder, set his coat on the chair and turned to face Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.
He looked good. Hair still short, still in good shape and as handsome as ever. He sat now, sipping Dan Clifford’s brandy and smoking one of the Cuban cigars. Ten years and nothing had changed that much. Not in outward appearance, Methos amended, but a lot had changed in the friendship they’d had. After the near-death situation with O’Roarke, they had all gone their own ways. Too much danger, Mac had said, especially for Joe, He’d come too close to losing both Joe and Amanda and he wasn’t going to risk them again, His decision... Wasn’t it always his decision? Methos thought bitterly.
For as much as he was looking at Mac, the Highlander was also studying him. What did he see? Longer hair than when he’d last seen him, about the same weight, better dressed. A whole new me...
“Nice suit,” Mac commented. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in one.”
Methos crossed to the sideboard and poured a splash of whiskey into a tumbler, then sat on the sofa at an angle to him. He sipped the amber liquid, replacing the amount that had burned out in that burst of adrenaline.
“So, you’re Dr. Clifford now, eh? Back to being a physician. Why, Methos?”
“Why not? It’s a good profession and I’m good at it. Heaven knows, I’ve got enough degrees in medicine. It wasn’t that hard to catch up on the new stuff and I probably know my way around the insides of people better than anyone else. And it’s a better way to slice them than some of my previous professions.”
Mac nodded. “I have to agree with that.”
“What’s this about, MacLeod? You didn’t cross the Channel just to have a brandy and a cigar. So what’s the problem?”
“Someone’s hunting you.”
Methos stared. That was it? Just “someone’s hunting you?” After a few moments of silence, he muttered, “That’s it? You came here to tell me that? You could have emailed or phoned that in. Or did you lead him here?” The annoyance was evident in his voice. Crap, he didn’t need to deal with a hunter right now. Too damn many people knew about Methos these days,
“No, I didn’t lead him here!” Mac snapped back. “Actually, I followed him here.”
That got the old man’s attention. His eyes went wide. “Here?! My house?”
“No, not your house. To London. I think someone may have told him you’re in London.”
“Wait a minute,” he protested, shaking his head. “I’m not getting this. How did you know he’d be here? Where did you--?
“I followed him from Paris. He was looking for you there. Let me start at the beginning.”
“Please do,” he muttered, getting up to refill his glass. On second thought, he carted the whole bottle to the coffee table, and sat down heavily, giving MacLeod his full attention.
“About a month ago, a friend stopped by my place in Brussels. While we were catching up on things, he asked me if I knew anything about Methos. I told him I knew of the legend, but not much else and asked what it was about. He told me there were rumours of the oldest Immortal still being alive and in Europe. Someone in Paris had been looking for him, offering money for information. Good money, fifty thousand Euros if anyone could give him information on where to find Methos.” Mac paused, refilled his glass with whiskey.
“Did you get a name?” Methos asked hoarsely, a foreboding twisting his guts. Life had been quiet, a regular human life with no real worries of someone coming after him. He had a good profession, had worked hard to make it to general surgical consult, and he was a top surgeon, respected by his peers. And he liked it! He’d gotten complacent, and comfortable, and he wasn’t ready to let it go now. Damn! He glared at Mac as if it was his fault that this had happened,
Shaking his head, Mac pulled out his cell phone and said, “No, but I found him in Paris at a club in Pigalle. Do you recognize him?” He flipped open the phone, punched a button and handed it to Methos,
The image was dark, not a lot of light in clubs, but it was clear enough to see the features. A bronzed-looking man with very short black hair and dark eyes, a full beard and moustache,. The face was angular, with a sharp, pointed chin accentuated by the beard. His nose was long and narrow, and tipped with a nose ring. “Charming,” Methos muttered, but he didn’t recognize him. Still there was something familiar. He shook his head as he entered his email address and sent the photo to his account.
“Well, if it isn’t your past hunting you, it could be a head hunter,” Mac said taking the phone back.
“Like that’s any more reassuring,” Methos grumbled. “Except that maybe he doesn’t know what I look like.”
“That’s possible. Any photos of you on the Internet? Maybe with the hospital staff... Or with a paper you’ve published. You are publishing, aren’t you?”
“Clifford is, yeah. But I haven’t allowed any photos with the articles and I insist that no photos of me be put on the staff roster at hospital. I’ve been careful, Mac.” And he had been. He wouldn’t even let Camilla add his photo to the wedding announcement on the off chance someone from his past might recognize him.
“Then you’d better be even more careful,” Mac advised, getting to his feet. Methos followed him to the door, ready to lock and bolt it behind him. Mac turned, gave him one of those looks that would have made putty out of him a dozen years ago. “You take it easy, Methos. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Makes two of us,” he answered a more glibly than he felt.
“Oh, and someone named Millie called to remind you to bring your passport tomorrow. Maybe you ought to reconsider that.” On that final piece of advice, Mac stepped outside leaving the oldest Immortal pondering just how much of his business the Highlander did know.
He slammed the bolt on the door, then methodically checked the back door, the garden door and the cellar door. Next he started in on all the windows. Then he sat down at his computer and pulled the photo up again, adjusting the lightness and contrast and staring at it, trying to figure out what it was that made the face seem familiar. If he removed the beard...
He shook his head. No, it wouldn’t come. He turned off the computer, and headed for his bed, pausing to set the alarm clock. It was nearly 4:30 and he needed to be up and getting ready by noon. But sleep didn’t come easily. Every noise, every tree branch brushing against the window brought him fully awake.
By 10:30, he gave up and headed for the shower. As he finished packing the last few items in his suitcase, he glanced over at his sword. Pack it for his honeymoon? It seemed almost nuts to him. For the past decade he hadn’t needed the sword and he’d quit carrying it, putting it in his car. He picked it up, bouncing its weight in his hand and considering the necessity of carrying it with him. He couldn’t take it on the plane; it would need to be checked in luggage and there were explanations that go along with that and how do you explain you need to take a 13th century sword on holiday along with your golf clubs? And what was he going to tell Camilla? Reluctantly, he slipped the sword back into its case and put it in the closet.
As he loaded his suitcase and golf clubs in the car, he hesitated and wondered if a special club could be made with a sharpened edge, one that could take someone’s head if necessary. He almost smiled at the image of swinging a golf club like his sword. Actually, he had to break some of the sword swing in his golf game and he was still having little problems with it.
One final check, patting his jacket to make sure he had the plane tickets, his passport, his wallet, and oh, yes, the wedding ring. All set, yet as a car passed, slowing a little as it went by, he found his eyes coming up to watch, trying hard to feel if there was another Immortal. The car turned at the corner and he let out the breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding. Then he took a deep breath, put Methos to the back of his mind and let Dan Clifford get into the car.
It wasn’t that easy.
Maybe you ought to reconsider that.
MacLeod’s voice was there in his mind, forcing him to think about what he didn’t want to consider. Someone was hunting him. Maybe someone he knew or maybe not. The fact was that other Immortals knew Methos was no longer a myth and no matter what he called himself, his was still that coveted head. Abruptly, Methos pulled the car to the side of the road and closed his eyes. Damnit, Mac was right. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t pull Camilla into this, couldn’t subject her to the danger that being his wife could entail.
He pulled out his phone. How could he tell her? What would he tell her? She would be at the church in about 30 minutes, ready to become Mrs. Clifford; the wife of someone who didn’t really exist. No, it wasn’t fair. If he couldn’t tell her the whole truth, it wasn’t right to bring her into a lie. He pressed the speed dial number and waited, his mind already making alternate plans to leave town alone. If he could disappear for a few weeks, then move to another city, it would be likely the head hunter wouldn’t find him, or at least he would have bought more time.
The voice that answered wasn’t Camilla but her mother. His bride was getting ready and no, he couldn’t speak to her. It was bad luck, he could talk to her soon enough, her mother informed him. “Right,” he agreed softly, breaking the connection. He turned the car and headed for an internet café near the hospital. He had time enough to start his exit plan before the flight to Barbados…
***Finis***.
By Lilllian Wolfe
This is in response to Ith’s “Dr. Clifford as Methos Challenge.” It’s been a while since I wrote any tales so this is a bit rough and maybe not 100% accurate on British terms. Dr. Clifford, Camilla and Maddy belong to the BBC; Methos, Joe and Duncan MacLeod belong to Davis-Panzer. This is in fun and not meant to infringe on any copyrights. Not making one thin dime with it, just doing a little speculating.
Rated PG or R for sexual situation.
In November, Daniel Clifford arrived at Holby City, scalpels spinning and raring to go. But we soon learned that there was a woman in his past and being an inquiring mind, I just had to wonder about the almost Mrs. Clifford and what had happened to cause Daniel to stand her up at the altar.
Hope you enjoy it.
LW - Feb. 28, 2007
Middlesex Hospital, October 2006
With a quick, precise move, Daniel Clifford whipped out the damaged spleen of a 15 year old patient, a car accident victim who was on the edge. But she’d come through fine, all her vitals were good and it looked like a successful operation. Dan glanced over at Camilla, his surgical nurse and gave her a quick smile. “That’s it for this. Another winner and the last one for the next few weeks.”
Dark eyes over the surgical mask sparked with a gleam to answer him. “For both of us,” the lithe, lovely brunette answered.
Dan turned to his SHO, “She’s all yours, Maddy. Talk to her parents, will you, please?”
The shorter brunette nodded, taking over in the operating room as Dan exited. Out of the corner of his eye, Dan saw Camilla casting a pleased, almost smug look at the SHO. “One more day and Dan and I will be on our way. No hard feelings, Maddy?”
He didn’t wait for the response but he knew it was fine. Maddy Young was cool with the upcoming wedding, even if Camilla wasn’t her favourite person. He’d never had more than a good friendship with her. Maddy liked to play around too much. He had some paperwork to finish, then he was off for the next four weeks. Life was pretty darn good, he reflected.
Millie caught up with him a few moments later, running her hand along his arm in that possessive way she had and as he turned, her hand moved up to caress his jaw. Just the light contact ignited his desire and he turned into her touch, pulling her face into his hands for a deep, loving kiss. Her response was instantaneous. And just like that, he was burning with his need for this woman who’d fired his life in the last the last few months. He pulled away, feeling breathless, “It our last day of freedom, Millie. And I want you...” He urged her back toward the wall.
She pushed him back, hissing under her breath, “Daniel... Not now. Not here.”
“Millie...” As his objection started, she slipped under his arm and down the hallway. Sighing, Dan turned and followed her. Might as well get out of the scrubs and get the paperwork done. But Millie made a turn to right to a side hallway and cast a quick glance behind her at Dan, then she slipped into the ladies’ room. Dan paused, waiting, and a few moments later, Millie pushed the door open and peeked out.
Glancing casually around, Dan followed, slipping into the loo behind Millie. In moments, he was wrapping his arms around her and doing his best to examine her tonsils with his tongue. But Millie was just as eager to taste him. Hands slid under his scrubs top, brushing against his bare skin and sliding lightly over his muscles. He pushed her back against the door, his mouth working against her throat as his hands lifted her scrub top. Her hands were in his hair, long fingers rubbing through the silkiness of it as his fingers pulled at the drawstring on her pants.
Fingers touched, lips touched, eyelashes brushed against cheeks, and the two lovers burned to unite. Clothes falling to the tiled floor, Dan’s arms wrapped around Millie and her legs wrapped around him. Panting, gasping, struggling for position as they still shoved against the door, “Now! God, now!” Millie hissed in his ear and that was all he needed, even as he felt an unexpected thrust as someone pushed against the door and Millie tensed. Trying to stifle sound, groans and gasps, they climaxed as a woman’s voice on the other side complained loudly to someone else that the door seemed to be stuck.
Dan held Millie tightly, both holding their breath until it sounded like the person had walked away, then they both exhaled and gasped for air. Dan tilted his head back, laughing softly, exhilarated. Pushing them apart, Millie’s hands ran down his sweaty chest as she bent to reach her clothes. Reluctantly, he stepped back, finding his own scrubs and began pulling them on. With a tilt of her head and amused eyes, Millie urged him to step further into the bathroom so she could check the hall outside. Within a few minutes, they were on their way to the lockers to clean up and change clothes.
A few hours later, Daniel shook hands with a cousin of Camilla’s and politely thanked her parents for the lovely wedding rehearsal dinner. Her mother hugged him affectionately, clearly pleased to welcome the handsome Dr. Clifford to their family. Such an elegant man, she had commented to her husband a little earlier, charming and with fine taste. Dan had merely given her an almost shy smile, amused in so many ways with that observation.
He smiled now as he waited for Millie to say good night to her bridesmaids. He was driving her to her parents, then he would go on to a bachelor party that the lads at the hospital had insisted on. But his mind was on the development of this persona.
Daniel Clifford was, indeed, an elegant man. He was well educated, well dressed, had impeccable manners, in spite of a somewhat crisp sense of humor. He was charming and ladies found his quick wit and humour fun and sexy. He had developed his sexist attitude during his years as an intern as he discovered that several of his prettier colleagues didn’t apply their knowledge and skills to the extent they could and they responded better to challenging teasing rather than encouraging words. And more than ever he found that people in general needed to be pushed. In fact, he’d complained to Joe Dawson about the lack of motivation in people these days and how they expected everything to be handed to them.
Joe had snorted. “You are complaining? One of the laziest Immortals I’ve ever seen thinks that people aren’t motivated. Ain’t that a pisser?”
“Yeah, Joe. Very funny, but it’s true. And in fact, I am very motivated at the moment and enjoying it.” Methos snarled back. “Where an Immortal can take time off for a decade or so, mortals can’t. And if you are going to work at a job, you should do what you’re getting paid for.”
While Joe found it amusing, he had agreed with the oldest Immortal. He’d been having troubles with a new barman who seemed to find chatting to customers more fun than other bar duties and in fact had fired the man the night before, so was looking for new help himself. Still, even Joe was a having a little trouble with Methos’ enthusiasm for the medical profession again and this sudden overachiever that was Dan Clifford. And he about choked when Methos told him he’d taken to playing golf.
“It’s not like I never picked up a club before, Joe,” Methos had complained.
“Uh-huh. In the last couple of centuries?”
“Well, no,” he’d admitted. “But I used to play quite often when I was in Scotland in the mid-1700’s. The game hasn’t changed that much.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I just never pictured your lazy bones out on a golf course. But then, I never really expected you to work a real job again. Let’s face it, researcher and Watcher was an easy gig compared to medical practice. But I gotta wonder, why England? Why not somewhere in the US, like Hawaii?”
“I think you know, Joe,” Methos had answered softly.
“...darling?” A woman’s voice and a light touch on his arm. Dan blinked and smiled at Camilla. “You were drifting,” she accused.
“A litte,” he admitted, “...thinking about the next few weeks together.” He caught her arm and led her down the path to the car that was already waiting for them.
As they neared Camilla’s family home, she reached across and laid her hand first on the top of Dan’s as he started to shift, then slid it across to his knee. “You and Barbados for three weeks. I can’t believe it’s all starting tomorrow.”
He pulled the car to the curb at the park near the house. It was an enclosed park, locked now, but it was one he and Camilla had gone to a couple of times for a romantic picnic on a warm day, Her hand moved up his thigh. “This is our last night as singles, as free wheeling lov--”
Her mouth locked on his in a deep kiss. “Don’t say anything else,” she whispered. And he didn’t. He was much too busy with other things.
Four and a half hours later, Dan pulled the car into the driveway of his middle class house. He sat in the driveway, still buzzed from a late night of drinking with the guys, and reflected on what he was doing in just about twelve hours. Wife number seventy, to be exact. Not that Camilla knew that or even had a clue that he’d ever been married. He hadn’t been really seriously involved with anyone since Alexa ten years earlier, although he’d gotten close twice before, And he wasn’t really sure why he’d let Millie maneuver him into marriage this time, except he liked her a lot and she was a terrifically fun sexual partner, something a really old man could appreciate. Sooner or later, he would have to tell Camilla what he was, but maybe they could divorce before it became really obvious that he wasn’t aging and he wouldn’t have to tell her anything. He brightened a bit at that thought. And now, he and his new wife would be off on a long honeymoon… Well, not long by the DeValicort’s standard, but pretty long for most newlyweds. He opened the car door, reached for his coat and started toward the entrance, thoughts still on the white beaches and silky sheets ahead when he froze in his tracks.
“Shit,” he breathed softly as the familiar sensation of another Immortal touched him. He glanced around for anyone, then carefully reached under the drivers seat for the cloth-wrapped shape he kept there. Quickly unwrapping his sword, Methos crouched low and cautiously approached the house. Disappointment filled him as the sensation increased as he got closer, confirming what he had hoped wasn’t true... that the other Immortal was in his house. This was definitely bad. While he had practiced now and then with his sword, most of his swings lately had been with a golf club. Damn, damn, damn! He shifted to use the bushes for cover and began working his way toward a window. Most of all he wanted to get the solid brick of the house against his back until he knew who he was facing.
He’d just made it to the safety of his garden, slipping back against the trellis, and scrunched down a little lower to ease to the window, when the front door opened, a head popped out and a deep voice stopped him in his tracks. “Methos, it’s MacLeod.”
He let the sword drop toward the ground as the tension went out of his body. Catching his breath, he straightened. “Forget how to use a phone, MacLeod?”
Mac stood on the porch, staring at him. “I wanted to talk to you in person. You’ve got a problem.” He turned and stepped back inside, expecting Methos to follow.
I have a problem? Yeah, you, Methos thought in annoyance. Why was the man here now? After ten years of practically nothing, he suddenly shows up on the doorstep when you’re about to get married? If Joe told him... Methos bit his lip in anger, then strode through the door with that chip still on his shoulder, set his coat on the chair and turned to face Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.
He looked good. Hair still short, still in good shape and as handsome as ever. He sat now, sipping Dan Clifford’s brandy and smoking one of the Cuban cigars. Ten years and nothing had changed that much. Not in outward appearance, Methos amended, but a lot had changed in the friendship they’d had. After the near-death situation with O’Roarke, they had all gone their own ways. Too much danger, Mac had said, especially for Joe, He’d come too close to losing both Joe and Amanda and he wasn’t going to risk them again, His decision... Wasn’t it always his decision? Methos thought bitterly.
For as much as he was looking at Mac, the Highlander was also studying him. What did he see? Longer hair than when he’d last seen him, about the same weight, better dressed. A whole new me...
“Nice suit,” Mac commented. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in one.”
Methos crossed to the sideboard and poured a splash of whiskey into a tumbler, then sat on the sofa at an angle to him. He sipped the amber liquid, replacing the amount that had burned out in that burst of adrenaline.
“So, you’re Dr. Clifford now, eh? Back to being a physician. Why, Methos?”
“Why not? It’s a good profession and I’m good at it. Heaven knows, I’ve got enough degrees in medicine. It wasn’t that hard to catch up on the new stuff and I probably know my way around the insides of people better than anyone else. And it’s a better way to slice them than some of my previous professions.”
Mac nodded. “I have to agree with that.”
“What’s this about, MacLeod? You didn’t cross the Channel just to have a brandy and a cigar. So what’s the problem?”
“Someone’s hunting you.”
Methos stared. That was it? Just “someone’s hunting you?” After a few moments of silence, he muttered, “That’s it? You came here to tell me that? You could have emailed or phoned that in. Or did you lead him here?” The annoyance was evident in his voice. Crap, he didn’t need to deal with a hunter right now. Too damn many people knew about Methos these days,
“No, I didn’t lead him here!” Mac snapped back. “Actually, I followed him here.”
That got the old man’s attention. His eyes went wide. “Here?! My house?”
“No, not your house. To London. I think someone may have told him you’re in London.”
“Wait a minute,” he protested, shaking his head. “I’m not getting this. How did you know he’d be here? Where did you--?
“I followed him from Paris. He was looking for you there. Let me start at the beginning.”
“Please do,” he muttered, getting up to refill his glass. On second thought, he carted the whole bottle to the coffee table, and sat down heavily, giving MacLeod his full attention.
“About a month ago, a friend stopped by my place in Brussels. While we were catching up on things, he asked me if I knew anything about Methos. I told him I knew of the legend, but not much else and asked what it was about. He told me there were rumours of the oldest Immortal still being alive and in Europe. Someone in Paris had been looking for him, offering money for information. Good money, fifty thousand Euros if anyone could give him information on where to find Methos.” Mac paused, refilled his glass with whiskey.
“Did you get a name?” Methos asked hoarsely, a foreboding twisting his guts. Life had been quiet, a regular human life with no real worries of someone coming after him. He had a good profession, had worked hard to make it to general surgical consult, and he was a top surgeon, respected by his peers. And he liked it! He’d gotten complacent, and comfortable, and he wasn’t ready to let it go now. Damn! He glared at Mac as if it was his fault that this had happened,
Shaking his head, Mac pulled out his cell phone and said, “No, but I found him in Paris at a club in Pigalle. Do you recognize him?” He flipped open the phone, punched a button and handed it to Methos,
The image was dark, not a lot of light in clubs, but it was clear enough to see the features. A bronzed-looking man with very short black hair and dark eyes, a full beard and moustache,. The face was angular, with a sharp, pointed chin accentuated by the beard. His nose was long and narrow, and tipped with a nose ring. “Charming,” Methos muttered, but he didn’t recognize him. Still there was something familiar. He shook his head as he entered his email address and sent the photo to his account.
“Well, if it isn’t your past hunting you, it could be a head hunter,” Mac said taking the phone back.
“Like that’s any more reassuring,” Methos grumbled. “Except that maybe he doesn’t know what I look like.”
“That’s possible. Any photos of you on the Internet? Maybe with the hospital staff... Or with a paper you’ve published. You are publishing, aren’t you?”
“Clifford is, yeah. But I haven’t allowed any photos with the articles and I insist that no photos of me be put on the staff roster at hospital. I’ve been careful, Mac.” And he had been. He wouldn’t even let Camilla add his photo to the wedding announcement on the off chance someone from his past might recognize him.
“Then you’d better be even more careful,” Mac advised, getting to his feet. Methos followed him to the door, ready to lock and bolt it behind him. Mac turned, gave him one of those looks that would have made putty out of him a dozen years ago. “You take it easy, Methos. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Makes two of us,” he answered a more glibly than he felt.
“Oh, and someone named Millie called to remind you to bring your passport tomorrow. Maybe you ought to reconsider that.” On that final piece of advice, Mac stepped outside leaving the oldest Immortal pondering just how much of his business the Highlander did know.
He slammed the bolt on the door, then methodically checked the back door, the garden door and the cellar door. Next he started in on all the windows. Then he sat down at his computer and pulled the photo up again, adjusting the lightness and contrast and staring at it, trying to figure out what it was that made the face seem familiar. If he removed the beard...
He shook his head. No, it wouldn’t come. He turned off the computer, and headed for his bed, pausing to set the alarm clock. It was nearly 4:30 and he needed to be up and getting ready by noon. But sleep didn’t come easily. Every noise, every tree branch brushing against the window brought him fully awake.
By 10:30, he gave up and headed for the shower. As he finished packing the last few items in his suitcase, he glanced over at his sword. Pack it for his honeymoon? It seemed almost nuts to him. For the past decade he hadn’t needed the sword and he’d quit carrying it, putting it in his car. He picked it up, bouncing its weight in his hand and considering the necessity of carrying it with him. He couldn’t take it on the plane; it would need to be checked in luggage and there were explanations that go along with that and how do you explain you need to take a 13th century sword on holiday along with your golf clubs? And what was he going to tell Camilla? Reluctantly, he slipped the sword back into its case and put it in the closet.
As he loaded his suitcase and golf clubs in the car, he hesitated and wondered if a special club could be made with a sharpened edge, one that could take someone’s head if necessary. He almost smiled at the image of swinging a golf club like his sword. Actually, he had to break some of the sword swing in his golf game and he was still having little problems with it.
One final check, patting his jacket to make sure he had the plane tickets, his passport, his wallet, and oh, yes, the wedding ring. All set, yet as a car passed, slowing a little as it went by, he found his eyes coming up to watch, trying hard to feel if there was another Immortal. The car turned at the corner and he let out the breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding. Then he took a deep breath, put Methos to the back of his mind and let Dan Clifford get into the car.
It wasn’t that easy.
Maybe you ought to reconsider that.
MacLeod’s voice was there in his mind, forcing him to think about what he didn’t want to consider. Someone was hunting him. Maybe someone he knew or maybe not. The fact was that other Immortals knew Methos was no longer a myth and no matter what he called himself, his was still that coveted head. Abruptly, Methos pulled the car to the side of the road and closed his eyes. Damnit, Mac was right. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t pull Camilla into this, couldn’t subject her to the danger that being his wife could entail.
He pulled out his phone. How could he tell her? What would he tell her? She would be at the church in about 30 minutes, ready to become Mrs. Clifford; the wife of someone who didn’t really exist. No, it wasn’t fair. If he couldn’t tell her the whole truth, it wasn’t right to bring her into a lie. He pressed the speed dial number and waited, his mind already making alternate plans to leave town alone. If he could disappear for a few weeks, then move to another city, it would be likely the head hunter wouldn’t find him, or at least he would have bought more time.
The voice that answered wasn’t Camilla but her mother. His bride was getting ready and no, he couldn’t speak to her. It was bad luck, he could talk to her soon enough, her mother informed him. “Right,” he agreed softly, breaking the connection. He turned the car and headed for an internet café near the hospital. He had time enough to start his exit plan before the flight to Barbados…
***Finis***.