"Internment" chapter 12
Internment is a Highlander fanfiction story, no profit made, great respect to TPTB.
caution: slash
“Damn, you’re thin.” Joe said as he reached across the bar to touch his malnourished friend. Methos hung his head and shrugged awkwardly trying to project his Adam Pierson mask - it lasted only a moment - before the old guy’s smirk replaced it.
“Could I have a beer, Joe?”
“Sure....Say, I, ah - I want to apologize for not listening to you that night -.”
Leaning against the bar, Methos rested both forearms and showed his empty hands. “Beer will cure it, Joe.” Dawson filled two pints from the best tap, and passed them over to Methos and MacLeod. The thirsty man drew his down in one long smooth pull. Before the empty glass touched the bar, Joe had another one ready .
The last twenty-four hours had flashed by in a blur for the two immortals now bellied-up to Joe’s bar.
After evacuating the island, the Apache flew them at good clip for approximately an hour before they landed at a small heliport south of Vancouver. There a technician awaited the ten immortals with her electronic scanner and a scalpel to remove the subcutaneous tracking devices that the bad guys had implanted between their shoulder blades. MacLeod’s FBI “bug” remained in place. “We’ll leave that be, just in case I have to tract you down again.” McCormick did his best to not smirk, and Methos succeeded in keeping his face carefully neutral. Teasing was more fun in private.
McCormick loaded the tired refugees into a small bus and drove them hither and yon, seemingly at random, until they finally arrived at a safe house somewhere in Surrey. It was a sprawling bungalow surrounded by fir trees and an impressive steel fence. The fence gave Methos a twinge of anxiety, but he recovered his edge when given the first beer and the first shower.
After feeding them a hearty spread, McCormick debriefed the ten immortals, filling them in on the plans he and MacLeod had concocted the previous week, and the clues he had scored since conferring with the Highlander in Virginia.
With varying degrees of enthusiasm the immortals accepted a spectrum of assignments appropriate to their abilities and experience.
McCormick supplied them with passports and e-tickets for flights out of Vancouver International. But before they scattered back to their individual lives, the FBI agent instigated a call up or email system suitable to the lifestyle of each, to make sure they remained free while the hunt was on. He suspected that Michelle and Sam were unlikely to keep him posted.
“If I don’t hear from you regularly we will assume something is wrong and come looking for you,” he warned them. Privately he suggested to MacLeod that he, or Michelle’s teacher Amanda, keep an eye on them.
A few hours later Methos and MacLeod landed in Seacouver, tired, but also elated. They suffered through customs then stumbled down to baggage claim where they retrieved their swords and met their ride.
When seeing Joe’s familiar face the reality of his new freedom finally registered with Methos. Duncan tried persuading him into first getting some rest, but Methos had insisted that unwinding after his prolonged ordeal required quantities of beer best obtained at Joe’s bar.
“How about we just drink beer, Joe, and talk tomorrow?”
“Hey, we don’t have to talk about it at all, just next time yell at me when I’m not listening. You’ve done it before.”
MacLeod judged it time for a change of subject. He looked around, making sure no other bar customers could hear. “Joe, you won’t believe what he said when it was time to climb into the copter: ‘Maybe I’ll just stick around here for a bit longer.’!”
Methos snorted. “Can you blame me for being reluctant to get into a helicopter with Cassandra?”
MacLeod scowled at his friend, not sure he bought into that explanation. “It seemed to me you were scared of coming back to civilization.”
“Heaven’s no. You’ve got that backward, MacLeod. Civilization is scared of me. And well it should be. Why in my day - oh back about the Bronze Age - they knew me as Death and youngsters like you knew better than to f- .” MacLeod covered the blathering ancient’s mouth with his hand.
“Blah, blah, bah!” MacLeod chanted. Methos licked the hand. Happily it tasted of beer. Mac laughed; rubbed his palm on his FBI issue blue jeans.
Joe laughed too, happy to see them teasing about a once forbidden topic. He also noticed how few beers it was taking for Methos to show signs that the alcohol was affecting him after a year of abstinence. “Yep, sounds like he was getting to like living in a - cave - I hear?”
“Yes, Joe, a cave. And it was a very nice cave till Mac’s clan showed up and took over. Speaking of not wanting to leave - Mac, did you see Robert’s face when he realized we were leaving behind the boat?”
MacLeod laughed and nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes back for it.”
“I somehow doubt that Gina will allow that.” There were smirks all around.
Methos yawned, then laid his head on the bar for a second, realized what he had done, and straightened up again.
“Ready to go home?”
“Home?”
“Come on, I’ll drive you two clowns home.” Joe offered.
******
Golden men:
“Sir? I’m sorry sir, we’ve lost them.”
“What!”
“It was the FBI, sir. When we went to check on them, there was an Apache helicopter landing. Our Bells were no match for it. They removed the immortals from the island.”
“You’re sure it was the FBI? How could that happen?”
“Not sure, sir, but it fits with finding a FBI tracking implant on MacLeod.”
******
Joe pulled up next to the dojo, turned to look at the back seat of his SUV to find what he had suspected, Methos lying curled up asleep.
“Well at least he’s not snoring.”
“Thanks for the ride, Joe.”
“No problem, MacLeod. Glad you two are back.”
The Scot climbed out to open the slider door of the back compartment and rousted the sleeper, yanking him to his feet unceremoniously. “I’m awake, I’m awake!”
“Sure you are. Good night, Joe.”
MacLeod tried to support the sleep walker into the dojo, but Methos resisted. It was during the elevator ride that the ancient again drifted off on his feet.
At last they reached the loft. “We’re home, Methos.”
“Home?”
MacLeod looked around the place, it felt like ages since he’d been there, though it really had been only ten days. Ten exhausting days.
“Mi Casa....”
“Thanks, Mac.”
“Come on.” He linked arms and led his ancient friend to the bed. Silently he helped him undress and then collapse under the covers.
“Night.” MacLeod wished him, but forced himself to stay awake a little longer to secure the door and elevator, before sliding into bed himself.
Once during the night Methos woke him, shaking from a nightmare, shouting, “We are human!” MacLeod held him, intertwining limbs, shushing him. They fell back to sleep.
His bladder woke him at dawn, but he had no trouble returning to bed after a quick trip to the bathroom. Tomorrow, or the next day even, was soon enough for a run. A few hours later the feeling of being watched tingled down his spine. He looked up into hazel eyes and an impish grin.
“You any good at cutting hair, MacLeod?”
Reaching out he twisted a strand of the wild hair around his fingers, then pulled Methos toward him. The man resisted not at all, allowing the Highlander to sample his lips.
“Maybe you should leave if for awhile?”
“Ha, ha. No. You got scissors?”
“Yeah.” MacLeod sighed loudly as he climbed out of bed to hunt down the barber shears form their hiding place somewhere in the bathroom. Soon he returned with them, a comb, and a couple towels. Methos sat up on the bed, legs crossed. MacLeod placed one towel around his shoulders and the other he spread out on the bed to receive the locks.
He started with a warning, “I’m not going to shave the neck, for a proper modern cut you’ll have to go elsewhere. I can give you a sort of Beatles cut for now.”
“Well at least I’ll only be decades out of date instead of millennia.”
“Exactly. Now hold still.” MacLeod combed out the ragged mop slowly, noting that Methos must have taken a hack at it a time or two during his year of imprisonment.
“Tell me about the dream.”
“I thought you wanted me to hold still.”
Mac cleared his throat.
Methos sighed. “Same old crap. We were all fenced in a camp - all immortals. With nothing but our swords.” And I was a pariah amongst them.
Nodding as Methos spoke, he finished combing and tried to decide where to start cutting. He made a side part in the silky strands with his fingers.
“We have to find them,” MacLeod said as he finally made the first cut. We will find them,” he corrected himself.
“In all the time I was there I could never comprehend why these strange captors snatched my crude tools as if they were something special.” As he spoke MacLeod did his best to make a straight cut in the shaggy mane below the ear and around the neck at collar length.
“Well they are special if you know the man who made them is 5000 years old.”
“But the tools aren’t 5000. They’re brand new. They don’t prove anything. Any good archaeology student learns to knap stone.”
MacLeod finished the cut around his neck, placed the locks on the towel and blew away the loose hairs on Methos’ neck. The thin man shivered and hid his smile. MacLeod climbed around from behind his back to the front, facing him. “Let’s see what we can do for bangs.” Methos frowned.
“Hey, at least I didn’t put a bowl over your head.” On impulse he kissed the nose. Methos laughed and kissed Mac’s nose back. He grinned, but warned him still with a motion. Holding up various strands of hair he cogitated the next cut and suggested, “I think we’re aiming for Rubber Soul here.” Clip.
Methos sighed, and returned to his puzzle. “And then there is the issue of them starting to leave a few swords lying around. What’s that about?”
“Nothing good I’m sure. They were testing us?” Clip.
“Maybe. Do you think we passed?” The third clip created bangs.
MacLeod shook his head. He tugged at Methos’ hair cut here and there, smiling at his work. “Cute as a bug’s ear. You look about 19.” He kissed him before Methos could retort.
“Thank you -.” Came the breathless reply between kisses.
MacLeod pulled back to carefully remove the towels, comb, and scissors to the bedside table before returning his attention to Methos. He rubbed the stubbled jaw line with his calloused fingers, and caressed the wind roughened cheek with his palm, then he scratched a line down the long neck with his nails to the hollow of the throat. “Maybe I should give you a shave. Later, I mean.”
Methos groaned and melted against his hand, but then without warning jumped up and ran to the bathroom.
MacLeod shook his head, puzzled for a moment before realizing that Methos hadn’t been out of bed yet that morning. Two minutes later he returned, nude, with lotion bottle in hand. For an awkward moment Methos rearranged the clutter on the bedside table, making front row space for the lotion, but then climbed back on the bed and plastered himself to MacLeod, flattening his lover against the sheets.
“Sorry. I’m back!” He bounced a little against the prone body. MacLeod gasped for lost air, but smiled, allowing entrance of a warm tongue to meet with his own, which then explored the roof of his mouth. Methos’ pelvis bucked against him, the meeting of hard members forcing sounds of delight from both of them.
A bit of rustling and MacLeod’s underwear went sailing across the floor. For a few moments they seemed to work at cross purposes, struggling desperately against each other, but a rhythm was found, their thrusting synchronized; flesh molding. Methos made a grab for the lotion, managed to catch and shove it into Mac’s shaking hand.
“I believe its your turn, Duncan.” Methos rolled onto his stomach, waggled his backside. “Now would be good.”
The lotion was cold. MacLeod hissed his surprise as he stroked himself, but it was good to slow down the action or it would be over too soon.
Watching his partner handle himself started Methos shaking. “Duncan, Now! I’m fucking tired of being alone.”
Always a first responder to desperation MacLeod abruptly turned his lover over, then pushed his thighs to his chest and positioned himself in between them.
“Look at me, Methos. You’re not alone.”
The penetration was sharp by necessity. Holding still in close connection, time stopped for them with eyes locked and hearts drumming in sync. When he finally moved MacLeod cried out in satisfaction, “Yes!” He surged into the tight heat, dissolving in pleasure. Methos shouted in relief as Duncan let loose. A bit rough, but the pounding no more than was required as they slammed their way to sizzling climax. As they came Methos shouted something ancient and loud enough to temporally deafening MacLeod.
“What?”
“I said thank you, Duncan - and how much do you weigh now?”
“Oh sorry, love.” MacLeod moved quickly off his extra thin lover, but folded in close to him. “We need to fatten you back up. Make you a nice haggis,” he teased, fingers smoothing through the dampness covering him.
“How about a hamburger and French fries?” Methos stopped the roaming fingers from tickling.
MacLeod chuckled, then asked, “And a chocolate milkshake?”
“Oh, gods, yes!” Methos started to sit up, but Mac held him down for another kiss.
“Lets start with breakfast. We can go to that good place on the corner, Clancy’s.”
So it was decided that refueling the older immortal was the main item on the day’s agenda. They showered - a rather long, side tracked shower - then both dressed in MacLeod’s clothes and headed for the neighborhood café.
Half way through a heavenly breakfast MacLeod’s cell phone rang. He checked the number before answering. “It’s McMormick.”
His companion sighed. “Of course.”
“MacLeod here.”
“I have the name.”
“Tell me.”
“The island is owned by a logging company, which is owned by a large conglomerate - .”
“Matthew!”
“Patience, Highlander. We’ve traced it back to a filthy rich recluse, Micah Albertus III. He lives in Seattle and collects old things.”
“Artifacts?”
“And people apparently. I guess we are ready to put the witch in play.”
caution: slash
“Damn, you’re thin.” Joe said as he reached across the bar to touch his malnourished friend. Methos hung his head and shrugged awkwardly trying to project his Adam Pierson mask - it lasted only a moment - before the old guy’s smirk replaced it.
“Could I have a beer, Joe?”
“Sure....Say, I, ah - I want to apologize for not listening to you that night -.”
Leaning against the bar, Methos rested both forearms and showed his empty hands. “Beer will cure it, Joe.” Dawson filled two pints from the best tap, and passed them over to Methos and MacLeod. The thirsty man drew his down in one long smooth pull. Before the empty glass touched the bar, Joe had another one ready .
The last twenty-four hours had flashed by in a blur for the two immortals now bellied-up to Joe’s bar.
After evacuating the island, the Apache flew them at good clip for approximately an hour before they landed at a small heliport south of Vancouver. There a technician awaited the ten immortals with her electronic scanner and a scalpel to remove the subcutaneous tracking devices that the bad guys had implanted between their shoulder blades. MacLeod’s FBI “bug” remained in place. “We’ll leave that be, just in case I have to tract you down again.” McCormick did his best to not smirk, and Methos succeeded in keeping his face carefully neutral. Teasing was more fun in private.
McCormick loaded the tired refugees into a small bus and drove them hither and yon, seemingly at random, until they finally arrived at a safe house somewhere in Surrey. It was a sprawling bungalow surrounded by fir trees and an impressive steel fence. The fence gave Methos a twinge of anxiety, but he recovered his edge when given the first beer and the first shower.
After feeding them a hearty spread, McCormick debriefed the ten immortals, filling them in on the plans he and MacLeod had concocted the previous week, and the clues he had scored since conferring with the Highlander in Virginia.
With varying degrees of enthusiasm the immortals accepted a spectrum of assignments appropriate to their abilities and experience.
McCormick supplied them with passports and e-tickets for flights out of Vancouver International. But before they scattered back to their individual lives, the FBI agent instigated a call up or email system suitable to the lifestyle of each, to make sure they remained free while the hunt was on. He suspected that Michelle and Sam were unlikely to keep him posted.
“If I don’t hear from you regularly we will assume something is wrong and come looking for you,” he warned them. Privately he suggested to MacLeod that he, or Michelle’s teacher Amanda, keep an eye on them.
A few hours later Methos and MacLeod landed in Seacouver, tired, but also elated. They suffered through customs then stumbled down to baggage claim where they retrieved their swords and met their ride.
When seeing Joe’s familiar face the reality of his new freedom finally registered with Methos. Duncan tried persuading him into first getting some rest, but Methos had insisted that unwinding after his prolonged ordeal required quantities of beer best obtained at Joe’s bar.
“How about we just drink beer, Joe, and talk tomorrow?”
“Hey, we don’t have to talk about it at all, just next time yell at me when I’m not listening. You’ve done it before.”
MacLeod judged it time for a change of subject. He looked around, making sure no other bar customers could hear. “Joe, you won’t believe what he said when it was time to climb into the copter: ‘Maybe I’ll just stick around here for a bit longer.’!”
Methos snorted. “Can you blame me for being reluctant to get into a helicopter with Cassandra?”
MacLeod scowled at his friend, not sure he bought into that explanation. “It seemed to me you were scared of coming back to civilization.”
“Heaven’s no. You’ve got that backward, MacLeod. Civilization is scared of me. And well it should be. Why in my day - oh back about the Bronze Age - they knew me as Death and youngsters like you knew better than to f- .” MacLeod covered the blathering ancient’s mouth with his hand.
“Blah, blah, bah!” MacLeod chanted. Methos licked the hand. Happily it tasted of beer. Mac laughed; rubbed his palm on his FBI issue blue jeans.
Joe laughed too, happy to see them teasing about a once forbidden topic. He also noticed how few beers it was taking for Methos to show signs that the alcohol was affecting him after a year of abstinence. “Yep, sounds like he was getting to like living in a - cave - I hear?”
“Yes, Joe, a cave. And it was a very nice cave till Mac’s clan showed up and took over. Speaking of not wanting to leave - Mac, did you see Robert’s face when he realized we were leaving behind the boat?”
MacLeod laughed and nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes back for it.”
“I somehow doubt that Gina will allow that.” There were smirks all around.
Methos yawned, then laid his head on the bar for a second, realized what he had done, and straightened up again.
“Ready to go home?”
“Home?”
“Come on, I’ll drive you two clowns home.” Joe offered.
******
Golden men:
“Sir? I’m sorry sir, we’ve lost them.”
“What!”
“It was the FBI, sir. When we went to check on them, there was an Apache helicopter landing. Our Bells were no match for it. They removed the immortals from the island.”
“You’re sure it was the FBI? How could that happen?”
“Not sure, sir, but it fits with finding a FBI tracking implant on MacLeod.”
******
Joe pulled up next to the dojo, turned to look at the back seat of his SUV to find what he had suspected, Methos lying curled up asleep.
“Well at least he’s not snoring.”
“Thanks for the ride, Joe.”
“No problem, MacLeod. Glad you two are back.”
The Scot climbed out to open the slider door of the back compartment and rousted the sleeper, yanking him to his feet unceremoniously. “I’m awake, I’m awake!”
“Sure you are. Good night, Joe.”
MacLeod tried to support the sleep walker into the dojo, but Methos resisted. It was during the elevator ride that the ancient again drifted off on his feet.
At last they reached the loft. “We’re home, Methos.”
“Home?”
MacLeod looked around the place, it felt like ages since he’d been there, though it really had been only ten days. Ten exhausting days.
“Mi Casa....”
“Thanks, Mac.”
“Come on.” He linked arms and led his ancient friend to the bed. Silently he helped him undress and then collapse under the covers.
“Night.” MacLeod wished him, but forced himself to stay awake a little longer to secure the door and elevator, before sliding into bed himself.
Once during the night Methos woke him, shaking from a nightmare, shouting, “We are human!” MacLeod held him, intertwining limbs, shushing him. They fell back to sleep.
His bladder woke him at dawn, but he had no trouble returning to bed after a quick trip to the bathroom. Tomorrow, or the next day even, was soon enough for a run. A few hours later the feeling of being watched tingled down his spine. He looked up into hazel eyes and an impish grin.
“You any good at cutting hair, MacLeod?”
Reaching out he twisted a strand of the wild hair around his fingers, then pulled Methos toward him. The man resisted not at all, allowing the Highlander to sample his lips.
“Maybe you should leave if for awhile?”
“Ha, ha. No. You got scissors?”
“Yeah.” MacLeod sighed loudly as he climbed out of bed to hunt down the barber shears form their hiding place somewhere in the bathroom. Soon he returned with them, a comb, and a couple towels. Methos sat up on the bed, legs crossed. MacLeod placed one towel around his shoulders and the other he spread out on the bed to receive the locks.
He started with a warning, “I’m not going to shave the neck, for a proper modern cut you’ll have to go elsewhere. I can give you a sort of Beatles cut for now.”
“Well at least I’ll only be decades out of date instead of millennia.”
“Exactly. Now hold still.” MacLeod combed out the ragged mop slowly, noting that Methos must have taken a hack at it a time or two during his year of imprisonment.
“Tell me about the dream.”
“I thought you wanted me to hold still.”
Mac cleared his throat.
Methos sighed. “Same old crap. We were all fenced in a camp - all immortals. With nothing but our swords.” And I was a pariah amongst them.
Nodding as Methos spoke, he finished combing and tried to decide where to start cutting. He made a side part in the silky strands with his fingers.
“We have to find them,” MacLeod said as he finally made the first cut. We will find them,” he corrected himself.
“In all the time I was there I could never comprehend why these strange captors snatched my crude tools as if they were something special.” As he spoke MacLeod did his best to make a straight cut in the shaggy mane below the ear and around the neck at collar length.
“Well they are special if you know the man who made them is 5000 years old.”
“But the tools aren’t 5000. They’re brand new. They don’t prove anything. Any good archaeology student learns to knap stone.”
MacLeod finished the cut around his neck, placed the locks on the towel and blew away the loose hairs on Methos’ neck. The thin man shivered and hid his smile. MacLeod climbed around from behind his back to the front, facing him. “Let’s see what we can do for bangs.” Methos frowned.
“Hey, at least I didn’t put a bowl over your head.” On impulse he kissed the nose. Methos laughed and kissed Mac’s nose back. He grinned, but warned him still with a motion. Holding up various strands of hair he cogitated the next cut and suggested, “I think we’re aiming for Rubber Soul here.” Clip.
Methos sighed, and returned to his puzzle. “And then there is the issue of them starting to leave a few swords lying around. What’s that about?”
“Nothing good I’m sure. They were testing us?” Clip.
“Maybe. Do you think we passed?” The third clip created bangs.
MacLeod shook his head. He tugged at Methos’ hair cut here and there, smiling at his work. “Cute as a bug’s ear. You look about 19.” He kissed him before Methos could retort.
“Thank you -.” Came the breathless reply between kisses.
MacLeod pulled back to carefully remove the towels, comb, and scissors to the bedside table before returning his attention to Methos. He rubbed the stubbled jaw line with his calloused fingers, and caressed the wind roughened cheek with his palm, then he scratched a line down the long neck with his nails to the hollow of the throat. “Maybe I should give you a shave. Later, I mean.”
Methos groaned and melted against his hand, but then without warning jumped up and ran to the bathroom.
MacLeod shook his head, puzzled for a moment before realizing that Methos hadn’t been out of bed yet that morning. Two minutes later he returned, nude, with lotion bottle in hand. For an awkward moment Methos rearranged the clutter on the bedside table, making front row space for the lotion, but then climbed back on the bed and plastered himself to MacLeod, flattening his lover against the sheets.
“Sorry. I’m back!” He bounced a little against the prone body. MacLeod gasped for lost air, but smiled, allowing entrance of a warm tongue to meet with his own, which then explored the roof of his mouth. Methos’ pelvis bucked against him, the meeting of hard members forcing sounds of delight from both of them.
A bit of rustling and MacLeod’s underwear went sailing across the floor. For a few moments they seemed to work at cross purposes, struggling desperately against each other, but a rhythm was found, their thrusting synchronized; flesh molding. Methos made a grab for the lotion, managed to catch and shove it into Mac’s shaking hand.
“I believe its your turn, Duncan.” Methos rolled onto his stomach, waggled his backside. “Now would be good.”
The lotion was cold. MacLeod hissed his surprise as he stroked himself, but it was good to slow down the action or it would be over too soon.
Watching his partner handle himself started Methos shaking. “Duncan, Now! I’m fucking tired of being alone.”
Always a first responder to desperation MacLeod abruptly turned his lover over, then pushed his thighs to his chest and positioned himself in between them.
“Look at me, Methos. You’re not alone.”
The penetration was sharp by necessity. Holding still in close connection, time stopped for them with eyes locked and hearts drumming in sync. When he finally moved MacLeod cried out in satisfaction, “Yes!” He surged into the tight heat, dissolving in pleasure. Methos shouted in relief as Duncan let loose. A bit rough, but the pounding no more than was required as they slammed their way to sizzling climax. As they came Methos shouted something ancient and loud enough to temporally deafening MacLeod.
“What?”
“I said thank you, Duncan - and how much do you weigh now?”
“Oh sorry, love.” MacLeod moved quickly off his extra thin lover, but folded in close to him. “We need to fatten you back up. Make you a nice haggis,” he teased, fingers smoothing through the dampness covering him.
“How about a hamburger and French fries?” Methos stopped the roaming fingers from tickling.
MacLeod chuckled, then asked, “And a chocolate milkshake?”
“Oh, gods, yes!” Methos started to sit up, but Mac held him down for another kiss.
“Lets start with breakfast. We can go to that good place on the corner, Clancy’s.”
So it was decided that refueling the older immortal was the main item on the day’s agenda. They showered - a rather long, side tracked shower - then both dressed in MacLeod’s clothes and headed for the neighborhood café.
Half way through a heavenly breakfast MacLeod’s cell phone rang. He checked the number before answering. “It’s McMormick.”
His companion sighed. “Of course.”
“MacLeod here.”
“I have the name.”
“Tell me.”
“The island is owned by a logging company, which is owned by a large conglomerate - .”
“Matthew!”
“Patience, Highlander. We’ve traced it back to a filthy rich recluse, Micah Albertus III. He lives in Seattle and collects old things.”
“Artifacts?”
“And people apparently. I guess we are ready to put the witch in play.”