(no subject)
OK, OK. But really, this is all I have of the crossover so far. In which Methos goes looking for Rambaldi, and finds Rambaldi's mother. Is it too late to warn you that my Methos characterization here is all over the place?
3.
Tracking Milo Rambaldi himself was going to be impossible. Methos, in his own opinion quite sensibly, didn't bother; he returned to Paris only long enough to reassure Joe that he was not, in fact, deceased. A few hours in a cybercafe in Amsterdam got him the information he needed: Rambaldi might leave no trail, but his mother was another story entirely.
Twenty-three hours later he was sitting in the kitchen of a bungalow in Los Angeles, drinking coffee, eating cake, and commiserating with Gabriella Maria Rambaldi over the many defects of her future daughter-in-law. A sane man would have run while he could; Methos, transfixed by the thought of yet another Rambaldi catastrophe, stayed until the happy couple turned up for their weekly dinner. He was introduced as a cousin--and Milo had better remember the family tree they were cooking up, because Methos could see in a second that this Carrie woman would notice any inconsistency--and used that as the excuse to drag Milo off into the kitchen.
"A baby?" he asked as soon as the door closed behind them. "Milo--Marshall--are you insane? Don't you remember the Russian fiasco?"
"OK, I know that it, uh, didn't work out so well before, but you know, this time, with Carrie, I think everything is really good."
"Really good? How can you tell? I mean, until the little brat grows up and tries to kill you. Again." The reminder didn't seem to dent Milo's obvious happiness.
"You know, uh, Adam, the external circumstances there were completely different. This time we're much more compatible, and I think that's really going to make a difference. Carrie and I are completely in agreement about nearly everything."
That, Methos thought, wasn't what Signora Rambaldi had said.
Marshall continued. "Also, I mean, you remember what Russia was like. All the plotting, and that kind of thing. Which I never really took to, and that's a little surprising, since everyone thinks I'm so good at the longterm plotting. Rambaldi-me, I mean, not Marshall Flinkman-me, because I don't think anyone really thinks Marshall is very good at planning, although you know, if you have a short-term emergency and need a technical whiz, he's your man. Or I am."
Methos took advantage of the pause for breath. "But you're working for the American Government--for the CIA? Don't tell me that they don't have long term plans."
Milo beamed with pleasure. "It's amazing--you have no idea of the stuff I get to build. There was this time that Sydney, I mean, Agent Bristow, I used to work with her, and anyway, she needed a..." Suddenly his face fell. "Oh. I can't tell you. National security: they made me sign a lot of papers." Then the smile re-emerged. "Also, it's a great way to keep track of all the people who are interested in, you know, my legacy."
"Your legacy just got me killed." There was, Methos realized too late, no way to say that without whining.
"Yeah," Milo said. "Sorry."
Methos sighed. "Never mind. The Pierson identity was nearly played out, anyway."
"If you need help building a new one, I'm happy to oblige. Since it was kind of my fault that Pierson got killed. Although it was also a kind of funny coincidence, that Mr. Sloane brought that manuscript to you--since it brought you here. Or it would be, if I were sure coincidences existed. Anyway, do you have any plans--for your next identity, I mean?"
"Not really," Methos said, then turned a sharp look on Milo. "Why?"
"Well, I'm sure it's nothing, but I was wondering..."
"Why do I have the feeling that you're about to suggest something that won't be good for my health?"
"No, nothing like that, really. It's just that you mentioned that whole thing with Russia, and you know, I'd kind of lost contact with that side of the family, after the revolution, but I was wondering if you could keep an eye on them for a while? They've turned up, at least I think so, and you know, I just need to know how they are."
"You want me to go to Russia and hunt down your errant descendants? No."
"Well, you need to do something. Mr. Sloane will probably realize that you aren't dead. He might even think that you're me."
"Fuck," seemed the only thing to say.
"And you like Russia."
"I don't like Russia," Methos protested. "It's either too hot or too cold, and it's always full of Russians."
"It will take you out of Sloane's reach. Probably."
"I don't like you either, Milo."
"Marshall," Rambaldi corrected him. "And you do like me. Remember the time we spent in Vienna, with the fireworks and the organ recital? Wasn't that amazing?"
"You blew up a concert hall. Amazing isn't the word I'd use."
"Well, the explosion was stronger than I thought it would be--I changed the formula a little and it works like a charm now."
Methos closed his eyes. "Why haven't I learned to stay away from you?"
When he opened them, Milo was smiling at him. "You stay the night here, and I'll get you everything you need tomorrow. It's all super-secret CIA stuff, but I figure it's OK, since I'm helping a friend and all. Right?"
There was no way this was going to end well. "Sure, Marshall. I'm sure it's all going to be OK."
end part 3
ETA: parts one and two are here, if you're confused.
3.
Tracking Milo Rambaldi himself was going to be impossible. Methos, in his own opinion quite sensibly, didn't bother; he returned to Paris only long enough to reassure Joe that he was not, in fact, deceased. A few hours in a cybercafe in Amsterdam got him the information he needed: Rambaldi might leave no trail, but his mother was another story entirely.
Twenty-three hours later he was sitting in the kitchen of a bungalow in Los Angeles, drinking coffee, eating cake, and commiserating with Gabriella Maria Rambaldi over the many defects of her future daughter-in-law. A sane man would have run while he could; Methos, transfixed by the thought of yet another Rambaldi catastrophe, stayed until the happy couple turned up for their weekly dinner. He was introduced as a cousin--and Milo had better remember the family tree they were cooking up, because Methos could see in a second that this Carrie woman would notice any inconsistency--and used that as the excuse to drag Milo off into the kitchen.
"A baby?" he asked as soon as the door closed behind them. "Milo--Marshall--are you insane? Don't you remember the Russian fiasco?"
"OK, I know that it, uh, didn't work out so well before, but you know, this time, with Carrie, I think everything is really good."
"Really good? How can you tell? I mean, until the little brat grows up and tries to kill you. Again." The reminder didn't seem to dent Milo's obvious happiness.
"You know, uh, Adam, the external circumstances there were completely different. This time we're much more compatible, and I think that's really going to make a difference. Carrie and I are completely in agreement about nearly everything."
That, Methos thought, wasn't what Signora Rambaldi had said.
Marshall continued. "Also, I mean, you remember what Russia was like. All the plotting, and that kind of thing. Which I never really took to, and that's a little surprising, since everyone thinks I'm so good at the longterm plotting. Rambaldi-me, I mean, not Marshall Flinkman-me, because I don't think anyone really thinks Marshall is very good at planning, although you know, if you have a short-term emergency and need a technical whiz, he's your man. Or I am."
Methos took advantage of the pause for breath. "But you're working for the American Government--for the CIA? Don't tell me that they don't have long term plans."
Milo beamed with pleasure. "It's amazing--you have no idea of the stuff I get to build. There was this time that Sydney, I mean, Agent Bristow, I used to work with her, and anyway, she needed a..." Suddenly his face fell. "Oh. I can't tell you. National security: they made me sign a lot of papers." Then the smile re-emerged. "Also, it's a great way to keep track of all the people who are interested in, you know, my legacy."
"Your legacy just got me killed." There was, Methos realized too late, no way to say that without whining.
"Yeah," Milo said. "Sorry."
Methos sighed. "Never mind. The Pierson identity was nearly played out, anyway."
"If you need help building a new one, I'm happy to oblige. Since it was kind of my fault that Pierson got killed. Although it was also a kind of funny coincidence, that Mr. Sloane brought that manuscript to you--since it brought you here. Or it would be, if I were sure coincidences existed. Anyway, do you have any plans--for your next identity, I mean?"
"Not really," Methos said, then turned a sharp look on Milo. "Why?"
"Well, I'm sure it's nothing, but I was wondering..."
"Why do I have the feeling that you're about to suggest something that won't be good for my health?"
"No, nothing like that, really. It's just that you mentioned that whole thing with Russia, and you know, I'd kind of lost contact with that side of the family, after the revolution, but I was wondering if you could keep an eye on them for a while? They've turned up, at least I think so, and you know, I just need to know how they are."
"You want me to go to Russia and hunt down your errant descendants? No."
"Well, you need to do something. Mr. Sloane will probably realize that you aren't dead. He might even think that you're me."
"Fuck," seemed the only thing to say.
"And you like Russia."
"I don't like Russia," Methos protested. "It's either too hot or too cold, and it's always full of Russians."
"It will take you out of Sloane's reach. Probably."
"I don't like you either, Milo."
"Marshall," Rambaldi corrected him. "And you do like me. Remember the time we spent in Vienna, with the fireworks and the organ recital? Wasn't that amazing?"
"You blew up a concert hall. Amazing isn't the word I'd use."
"Well, the explosion was stronger than I thought it would be--I changed the formula a little and it works like a charm now."
Methos closed his eyes. "Why haven't I learned to stay away from you?"
When he opened them, Milo was smiling at him. "You stay the night here, and I'll get you everything you need tomorrow. It's all super-secret CIA stuff, but I figure it's OK, since I'm helping a friend and all. Right?"
There was no way this was going to end well. "Sure, Marshall. I'm sure it's all going to be OK."
end part 3
ETA: parts one and two are here, if you're confused.