Happy Holidays, pat_t! (1/2)
Title: The Beginning of Always (1/2)
Author: KRAMPUS
Written for: pat_t
Characters/Pairings: D/M, Amanda, Joe
Rating: PG-13/R (mainly for a smidge of violence)
Author's Notes: No MacLeods were permanently harmed in the writing of this story. This is set approximately around 2003 for reasons. Title also comes from Dante. Undying gratitude to my beta.
Summary: If you woke up tomorrow in a strange place and an unfamiliar Immortal was there claiming to be your friend, someone you've never seen before in your life, who you have no reason to trust, would you believe him?
In that book which is my memory,
On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you,
Appear the words, "Here begins a new life."
--Dante Alighieri, Vita Nuova
~*~
Methos cursed as he sat in his car. The internal debate had started that morning, and had continued throughout the day -- as he dressed, as he drove across town to Joe's bar -- and now he sat in the parking lot, immobilized.
A tease of Immortal presence rippled across his nerves. Knowing he was caught didn't magically resolve his internal conflict, and he continued to stare at the darkened parking lot, the night full of roving car lights, street lamps, and the smattering of twinkling stars on the horizon.
The shadows to the left of him shifted, followed by a knuckled rap on the car window. MacLeod stood there, leaning over with a curious half-smile. Methos took in a deep breath and lowered the window.
They looked at each other and Methos saw the understanding in Mac's eyes. "Nice night," said Mac.
Methos suppressed a snort of laughter. "I don't know. A bit humid, isn't it?"
Mac's lips twitched, then he turned thoughtful. "It's just a beer. Doesn't have to be more than that."
That made Methos feel like a complete coward. He shook his head. "It's not that," he said, even though that could very well be the biggest lie that had ever crossed his lips. But he insisted again. "You know, it's not that," he repeated.
In the yellow light of the street lamps, MacLeod's gentle brown eyes darkened. "I'm not going to force you to get out of the car."
Methos opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again. No, he wouldn't force him. He'd asked, late at night the week prior, over a game of chess: "Would you have a beer with me?"
Methos looked curiously at him, waving his half-empty beer bottle in Mac's face. "Aren't we having beers now?"
MacLeod laughed, nodding his head in acknowledgment. "I mean, at a bar or restaurant. Joe's or any place. The two of us."
"What? Like a date?"
The faint flush on MacLeod's cheeks answered that question and Methos choked on his swallow of beer. He almost sputtered out, "you're not serious," but stopped himself just in time. Instead, he held very still.
"I…" He fell silent, at a loss for words. "Mac?"
What he'd wanted to ask was, why now? After all these years of friendship, the weight of both their long lives, the uncertainty of the recent years, why now? They'd both played with innuendo, but never seriously.
Mac was still rosy-cheeked, but he was smiling a little. "Didn't you ever think about it?"
"Of course I did."
"Well then?"
"I…" and Methos fell silent a second time, but frowned. "Did you think of it?" he asked in turn.
MacLeod was still smiling, eyes lowering. "Of course I did," he said, repeating Methos's words back to him.
Methos wanted to say MacLeod could have fooled him, but he knew that to be a lie. The harmless, casual flirting he'd teased MacLeod with had always been returned -- he'd just hadn't seriously pursued it, and neither had MacLeod. He took a breath, finding himself wishing MacLeod had simply cornered him. He was a man of action, wasn't he? He should have just acted. It would have been a forgone conclusion if MacLeod had simply seduced him. But he hadn't. He'd asked instead. And that made all the difference.
MacLeod patted his shoulder. "It's okay, Methos. I understand." He started walking away.
"No," said Methos, in a rush, scrambling out of the car. "I'm sorry. This is not at all what I expected. I… I don't know what I'm doing."
MacLeod turned and they stood in the circle of light from the street lamp. A fleeting thought of how ridiculous this was floated in the back of Methos's mind.
"You're having a beer with me," said MacLeod, holding out his hand, and with barely a moment of hesitation, Methos grasped it. Together they walked to the door of Joe's bar.
~*~
MacLeod led the way through the evening crowd to a table in the corner that had a RESERVED sign on it. Methos caught sight of Joe by the stage in conversation with his band members. Joe glanced at them as they entered and gave Methos one snaggle-toothed rascally grin before continuing with whatever he was doing.
Methos huffed under his breath, pulling his seat out.
"Did you say something?" asked MacLeod.
Methos frowned at MacLeod, who was smiling as he gazed down at his menu, and snapped his own menu open, but he started smiling too.
They sipped their beers and ate the bar food served personally by Joe, who'd slapped both of them hard on the back before ambling back to the stage for the start of the first set of the evening.
It was hilariously awkward to find himself short of conversation topics, and Methos refused to even entertain the idea that he might be nervous, like a schoolgirl on a first date. MacLeod was infuriatingly relaxed beside him, listening to the music with apparent complete contentment.
"This is mad, you realize," said Methos, although he hadn't intended to speak.
MacLeod looked at him but didn't say anything. Methos didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
"I mean, what are we doing?" he continued, unable to stop now that he'd started. "Think on our history, on everything we've been through. How is this a good idea?" He gestured to indicate the both of them. "We carry large swords around with us in the likely event we will need to cut off someone's head."
Some strangled part of him was horrified that he seemed unable to shut up.
"I have a hard time believing that this could be… serious. That, I don't know… " he was conscious of MacLeod's unwavering gaze. "That this isn't temporary or an act of desperation. Or, I don't know."
"You think I'm, what? Deluded? Desperate? That you're my last resort?"
Methos winced. "God, when you say it like that."
"Well that is what you're saying, isn't it? Do you really think so little of us, together?"
"No, I… I guess I have a hard time believing that this could be...." A noisy bar was not the place to be having this conversation and he mentally kicked himself, once again annoyed at his inability to ever do anything right when it came to MacLeod. "That you would want…"
"You?"
MacLeod had spoken so simply, Methos couldn’t read what he was thinking. He forced himself to speak. "Remember, Mac, it wasn't that long ago you could barely stand to speak to me. I remember if you don't. What are we going to do when this explodes in our face? Maybe you'd be fine, but I don't -- I couldn't--" He stopped to breathe. "You'd hate me all over again."
"I never hated you," said MacLeod, a wrinkle between his eyebrows.
Methos started to protest, then swallowed past a lump in his throat. "No, I guess you didn't."
MacLeod leaned in. "Whatever happens between us, I need you to know at least this: I never hated you."
"I shouldn't have said that." Methos spoke quietly.
"So what if it's mad?" asked MacLeod, still pressing close so that Methos was aware of his familiar scent, making it very difficult for him to think. "I already said I wasn't going to force you. You have to want this, too."
"I can't lose you," Methos admitted, finally, what he was most afraid of.
MacLeod smiled. "Haven't lost me yet."
Exasperated, Methos snorted. "You are mad. We haven't even, you know, done anything. It could be terrible. Then we'd just be embarrassed on top of everything--"
Methos froze as MacLeod took his hand, raised it up to his lips, and kissed the back of his knuckles. He was fixated on the sensation of MacLeod holding his hand, the tingle of his skin where MacLeod had kissed him. He had a fleeting thought that, clever though he might be, he was well out of his depth when it came to MacLeod.
Making a flash decision, Methos reached across and pulled MacLeod in, planting his lips right over MacLeod's. MacLeod made a noise but then relaxed as Methos loosened his hold. A fission of energy shivered down his spine as they parted.
MacLeod, bemused, was looking at him with a charmingly smug expression.
"That answers that, I guess," said Methos. "Okay, you win."
"Well that was easy," said MacLeod, with a smirk.
~*~
A few hours later they walked out of Joe's into the crisp night air, their warm breath fogging in front of them.
"Will you come back to my place?" asked MacLeod with an expression that was open and smiling and somehow conveying that MacLeod wouldn't be offended if he said no.
Methos marveled for a moment. A mere week ago, MacLeod asking if he wanted to come over had a completely different set of expectations.
"All right," he said, and then blinked as MacLeod beamed at him.
They had a brief discussion since they'd arrived at the bar separately, deciding that Methos would follow MacLeod, not wishing to leave his car. MacLeod walked with him to where they parked.
"See you in a few," said Methos, unlocking his door.
"Yeah," said MacLeod, but he took hold of Methos's arm, turning him so they could face each other, telegraphing his intentions.
MacLeod kissed him gently, pressing close under the starlit sky, a deeper kiss than the one from before. Methos felt MacLeod's warm breath caress his cheek as he kissed along his throat, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the heat of MacLeod's lips.
After a moment, MacLeod stepped back. "Don't be late," he said, turning away.
Methos shut his car door and gripped the steering wheel, unaware of anything but the lingering memory of MacLeod's warmth. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed before he turned the key in the ignition.
~*~
It was a strange, surreal five miles drive to the dojo, all the more for how familiar it was.
With every second that passed, every pause at a light, or left or right turn bringing him closer to his destination, a voice in his head told him to turn back. If he was going to turn away, the time was now.
But he didn't turn around. He kept driving. And then he knew, with sudden clarity, that if given a choice he would always choose MacLeod. This had been true from their first meeting. It was true during their darkest, bitterest, most broken moments. Very likely, it would always be true, no matter what may happen, what changed between them, whatever lay in the future.
He felt a pain -- he thought it was pain -- in his chest. He fumbled for his phone, dialed MacLeod's number, and pressed the phone to his ear, breathing hard as his car idled at a light. Cars honked and drove past him.
It rang and rang, and then voicemail picked up.
"Mac? I… I just… needed to hear your voice. I'm on my way. I'm coming to you. I'm minutes away. But I had to tell you, I--God, this may be mad, but I don't care. I… I'll be right there. I'm on my way. Wait for me. I love you. Please know that."
He hung up, and drove on, speeding through the streets.
Half a block away from the dojo, a brilliant white arc of quickening fire spiked through the night sky, bending down to spear through Methos's car. He raised his arms up just as his windshield exploded.
~*~
The quickening seemed to go on forever.
In a cold, blind panic, his car dead, Methos ran the last half-block to the dojo. The sky was bright with fire, jagged light ripping the darkness away. Again, and again, and Methos felt the lick of quickening energy rattle his bones.
Then silence.
The lights were out, and the dojo had darkened, blown out windows. As he entered the main floor, through the shadows he could see a headless body lying twisted to one side, scorch marks on the walls, the glass of the office windows scattered everywhere.
He paused only long enough to see it wasn't MacLeod. One band of unbearable pressure released around his heart. But he couldn't feel a buzz. He started yelling MacLeod's name, running for the stairs.
He couldn't feel a buzz as he tripped up the steps. He couldn't feel a buzz as he banged the door open.
There was evidence of a terrible fight: furniture overturned, glass everywhere glinting in the meager moonlight. He saw a pair of legs and pulled at the body, but it wasn't MacLeod. A second Immortal, now headless. He still couldn't feel a buzz.
Methos waded through the room, tossing aside chairs and tables, and then he found a third body, headless, not MacLeod. A third Immortal, and the implications of what must have happened began to crystallize.
Desperate, he turned in a circle. He could not feel a buzz, and it was tearing him apart. He was shaking. He felt cold and hot.
There was scorch marks everywhere, the tapestry hanging over MacLeod's bed blackened, smoking.
The moonlight fell on a shiny, bright metal, and he saw the blade of MacLeod's katana lying buried under the heavy wooden bureau. He tripped in his haste, grunting to lift the bureau but let it fall back down when there was no body underneath it. He turned, and saw a pale hand lying over the threshold of the bathroom door. Methos dropped to his knees, lifting MacLeod into his arms, clutching him to his chest. He buried his face into MacLeod's whole and bloodstained neck.
MacLeod had a long stiletto knife imbedded through his skull, buried to the hilt. He was dead. But he wasn't gone.
Methos rocked MacLeod's lifeless body, shuddering with a relief so profound he could only keen in agony as he cried.
~*~
How long he sat on the bathroom floor, cradling MacLeod's body, he did not know. He couldn't seem to move, his mind blank, until a pair of gentle hands squeezed his shoulder.
"Come on, Methos. Let's get off the floor. Come on."
Methos looked up to see the Joe bending down, leaning on his cane. He blinked in surprise. He hadn't heard Joe enter the loft let alone cross through all the wreckage, hadn't been aware of anything at all. "He's not dead. Not really," said Methos.
"I know, pal."
"How did you? Where did--"
"Watcher caught the light show. Phoned it in. I got here as soon as I could. Come on. You can't stay down here all night."
Together they hauled MacLeod's body out of the bathroom and onto the bed. They had a brief debate on whether they should move to Methos's apartment or to Joe's, or stay in the ruined loft, but ultimately it seemed unwise to transport an unconscious MacLeod across town.
"If I'm reading the clues right," said Joe, looking around the carnage of the loft, "MacLeod fought and killed three Immortals, fighting at least one of them with a stiletto imbedded through his skull. How is that even possible?"
Methos sighed as he climbed onto the bed, kneeling by MacLeod's head to get a closer look at the wound. "I don't know. How does MacLeod manage to do anything? Penetrating head injuries aren't always fatal. I've seen soldiers pick up and keep fighting with an arrow stuck straight through an eye socket. No one much knows how the brain works. Even in these modern times, it's still largely a mystery."
He touched all around the entrance and exit wounds. The spike had gone through the frontal bone with the tip emerging through the occipital bone. The stiletto hadn't killed MacLeod, at least not right away, but it was preventing him from reviving. He brushed aside Macleod's bloodied, matted hair. Methos shut his eyes, suppressing a shiver and trying very hard not to think back to earlier in the evening, trying not to remember how warm MacLeod had been as they kissed in the parking lot.
He gripped the handle, braced one hand against the back of MacLeod's head, and pulled in one smooth motion. After the stiletto was clear, his hands began to shake, his vision clouding as he dropped the knife and bent low to press his forehead against MacLeod's.
Joe was maneuvering around the room, occasionally righting furniture, but then he stopped, and Methos was aware that he was being watched. "Will he be all right?" asked Joe.
Methos looked at him but didn't answer.
There was no way to know how long it would take for MacLeod to revive. Methos helped Joe remove the bodies, a team of Watchers efficiently carrying them away. They did what they could to put the loft back to rights, but eventually Joe stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes. Methos returned to MacLeod to lay beside him, one hand over MacLeod's unmoving chest.
He lost track of the hours slipping past, dozing in and out of sleep, until with a gasp and a sudden surge of Immortal presence, MacLeod jackknifed back to life.
"Mac," said Methos, snapping fully awake and trying to grab hold of MacLeod. "It's all right."
MacLeod, chest heaving, looking at Methos with a bewildered expression that bled into fear and wide-eyed panic, glancing wildly around him. "What--where?"
"It's all right," repeated Methos. "It's me, it's Methos." MacLeod continued to look at him without recognition, his arms flailing as he pushed Methos away. He was shaking his head, looking all around as if trying to escape.
"MacLeod," said Methos, forcefully, grasping MacLeod's face to try and make him look at him. "Listen to me. It's all right. I'm your friend. I'm your friend, Mac, your friend," he repeated.
MacLeod's panic lessoned and he stopped fighting. His brow was creased in confusion as he gazed at Methos, still breathing hard.
From the couch, Joe rose and moved closer. "Finally," he said, moving around the couch, smiling. MacLeod looked at Joe, and Methos saw his expression change from one of bewilderment and fear to a hard, brutal anger.
"You," growled MacLeod, and before Methos could stop him he was off the bed, one hand grabbing Joe by the throat. "Where is she? What have you done with her?"
"MacLeod," yelled Methos, taking hold of MacLeod's arm. "Let him go."
"Tell me where she is?" demanded MacLeod, not listening.
"Duncan," said Methos, shaking MacLeod, forcing him to look at Methos. "Duncan MacLeod, let him go. You will not kill him. You will let him go. Now."
Slowly, MacLeod shifted his eyes to Methos. Something flickered there, a quick flash of recognition, then he stepped back and let go. Joe collapsed to the floor. Methos glanced down long enough to ensure that Joe was still breathing. He placed himself between them, pushing MacLeod back.
MacLeod was shaking slightly, from anger or fear, as he stumbled back onto the bed. He looked desperately up at Methos. "Where's Tessa? Where's Richie?"
With dawning horror, Methos knelt down and cupped his face in both his hands. MacLeod's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "What do you remember last?"
~*~
Methos called Amanda. She listened in horror as he told her what had happened. "Can you come?" he asked. "He doesn't know me, and doesn't seem to be all that fond of Joe. But he'll know you."
"Of course. I'm on my way, but Methos, if you’re right, then the last time he remembers, when we saw each other last, well--it wasn't one of our best, to be honest. He might not be happy to see me, either."
"Did you part in anger?" asked Methos.
"Well, no, not really. But there was this business with Blaine and I may or may not have gotten MacLeod kidnapped, and then there was Tessa--"
"Amanda," Methos interrupted. "No doubt you were your usually charming self, but trust me," and he sighed, "you are what he needs right now. Will you come?"
She was coming on the next flight out of Paris, but it would still be several hours before she could get there.
"She's on her way," said Methos, to Joe sitting on one of the bar stools by the kitchen, still rubbing at his neck. To MacLeod, who remained on the bed exploring with shaking fingers the now healed wound sites on his skull, marked by clumps of blood-matted hair.
Methos examined Joe's neck. "He didn't mean it," he said, touching the bruises that were forming on either side of his throat. "He's not himself."
"Yeah, I know." He shook his head, his blue eyes shadowed.
Methos walked slowly back to MacLeod who sensed his approach and looked warily up at him. "Tessa?" he asked, although in such a fearful, timid way, Methos was certain MacLeod already knew the answer Methos could not bring himself to give. MacLeod nodded, eyes falling down to his bloodied and dirty hands. "Tell me what happened."
There was, finally, a note of steel in MacLeod's voice.
"As near as I can tell, you were attacked here, in your home, by at least three Immortals at once. Bad luck," he added.
MacLeod huffed.
"During the fight, this," and Methos picked up the stiletto, handing it to MacLeod, "was staked through your skull. You still managed to take all three Immortals' heads, though God knows how. It seems it, or the three quickenings, or a combination of both, affected your memory."
MacLeod visibly swallowed. "How long?" he asked with wet eyes. "Since…" But he didn't finish.
Methos didn't pretend not to understand. MacLeod was asking how long a gap there was in his memory. "About ten years, I think," he said.
MacLeod nodded. "And Richie too?" he asked, and those wet eyes pleaded with Methos.
He could not do this. It was why he'd called Amanda, coward that he was, he could not be the one to break MacLeod's heart like this, to lay out all the horrors of these past years. MacLeod was nodding even though Methos hadn't answered, holding back tears, and Methos took a deep, shaking breath. "Mac," he said, his voice breaking. "This can wait."
MacLeod kept nodding, as if trying to accept. "You're my friend?"
Methos froze. He was cold. His chest hurt. "Yes," he whispered. "I'm your friend."
MacLeod furrowed his brow, blinked a few times. "I believe you."
~*~
Methos coaxed MacLeod into the bathroom and into a shower, and then once he was out again back into a newly remade bed to sleep. "You're still healing, Mac. The more you sleep, the better."
For a second it looked like MacLeod was going to argue or become mulish, but then, with a look at Methos and a furtive glance at Joe, he lay down on top of the covers. Rolling on to his side, he was asleep within minutes.
Methos sighed with his entire body, collapsing onto the edge of the bed and dropping his head into his hands. He heard the familiar sounds of Joe's labored steps crossing the loft.
Joe's eyes were still bruised and shadowed. "Is this permanent? Will he get his memory back?"
Methos shook his head, then looked out the window. It was dark again. Somehow an entire day had simply disappeared. "Don't ask me that question."
Joe gripped Methos's shoulder by way of apology.
"Go home, Joe. Get some rest."
"Doesn't seem right to leave."
Methos shrugged. "Not sure it's such a good idea for you to be here anyway."
Joe's face darkened, but he nodded. "Call me, if you need anything."
They gripped each other's hands before Joe made his slow, methodical way to the elevator, which was once again working. Left alone in the silent loft with a sleeping MacLeod, Methos felt the cumulative weight of the last couple of days bear down on him. He had every intention of relocating to the couch but when it came time to move he found he could not do it. Instead, he lay down beside MacLeod, as he had done earlier. This time, when he put his hand over MacLeod's chest, he felt the reassuring beat of his heart's steady rhythm.
He slept without dreaming, not waking, not even moving until the rattle of the elevator and the shiver of Immortal presence woke him with a start. Beside him, MacLeod was already awake and looking at him with a slightly perplexed, confused expression.
Methos felt his cheeks warm, and sat up quickly, just as the elevator landed and Amanda entered the room. Methos saw the stark relief cross MacLeod's face when he saw Amanda. After recovering from the quickenings, nothing in this life was familiar to him -- not the loft, not Methos or Joe -- but Amanda was eternal. She sailed quickly across the room, coming to a stop in front of MacLeod.
"Oh, darling," she said, as MacLeod let himself sink into her embrace, gripping her tightly.
It was daytime again, and the light from the windows was so bright, Methos felt his eyes water. He rose from the bed, feeling very out-of-place and in-the-way.
He touched Amanda's shoulder. Her worried eyes rose up to meet his. "Tell him everything," he said. "Everything you can."
He trusted she understood that to include his past as well as MacLeod's. He wouldn't make the same mistake again, no matter the cost. She gave a shaky nod of her head before returning her attention to MacLeod. Neither noticed when Methos left, taking the stairs.
At first, he was at odds with what to do with himself after the heightened fear of the past forty-eight hours, but he eventually made his way to his apartment. He took a long shower, spending too long standing under the spray of hot water pounding relentlessly on his shoulders and back, until the water began to cool. He dressed and ate a dissatisfying meal standing up in the kitchen, unable to settle. He was just beginning to turn his attention to the many everyday tasks he'd ignored in the wake of MacLeod's life exploding once again when his phone rang.
"He's gone," said Amanda, immediately.
"What?" Methos felt his fingers grow cold.
"He left, about five minutes ago. And he didn't take his sword with him."
"Tell me everything." He was already moving, finding his shoes and struggling into his coat.
"I was trying to pace it, and not dump everything on him at once. I mean, when you start listing everything MacLeod's been through since Tessa, it's a lot, Methos. It's overwhelming."
"How far did you get?" he asked, and he had to stop himself from asking if she'd told him about the Horsemen. Whether she'd gotten to the part that had nearly ended their friendship. But this wasn't about him, as much as it tore him apart. This was about MacLeod.
"That business with the dark quickening. I was going to stop and suggest a break, you know, leave the rest for another day, and that we should get out of the loft, go somewhere, but he demanded to know more. You know how he gets. He… he demanded I tell him what happened to Richie."
Methos closed his eyes, pressing his cell phone so hard against his ear it began to ache. "He was already suspicious," he said.
"I think he remembers some things," she said. "Because as soon as I was trying to explain how Richie's death wasn't his fault, he was asking about Connor."
"Damn it," said Methos.
"I couldn't lie to him," Amanda said, and Methos could hear how upset she was, how stricken with the horror of convincing MacLeod that the death of those he loved by his own hands wasn't his fault, and he felt very guilty for leaving it all on her shoulders. "He would have known."
Methos was silent as he forced himself to think on what to do next. "I know where he is. Or where I think he is."
She sighed.
"I'm sorry, Amanda. It was unfair to leave everything to you to explain. I just…"
"I know," she said. "I made the most sense; it had to be me. He's just so impossible sometimes."
Methos huffed a bitter laugh.
~*~
He found MacLeod exactly where he thought he would, sitting on the curb across the street from where his old antique shop used to be, where he used to live as something like a family with Tessa and Richie.
MacLeod raised his head as soon as he felt Methos's presence, then sighed and looked back down to the gravel-covered driveway.
He was already looking more like himself, thought Methos, less the bloodied haggard mess he was after the quickenings. He sat down next to MacLeod. "If you're going to run away, you should take your sword with you."
MacLeod shook his head. "I wasn't running."
"Right," said Methos, in a tone of voice that usually got MacLeod arguing, and he was indeed rewarded with an irate glower.
"It's just… Yesterday, she was alive. We were walking down the street, together. I can still feel her hand in mine."
Methos hadn't realized it was possible to feel worse. "Mac, I'm so sorry. This is not something you should have to relive again. If there had been something I could have done to stop this, I would have. Between somehow keeping the truth from you versus telling you everything, there was no way to make the right choice. I'm sorry."
MacLeod looked at him curiously, which was at least a different emotion than sadness and regret. "What are you to me?" he asked with wonder.
Methos took a moment before answering. "Like I said, I'm your friend."
MacLeod's expression darkened. "You should rethink that," he said, and his voice was very rough. "I kill all of my friends."
And there it was, the thing that was unavoidable no matter how desperately you look away, no matter the truth or the lies or the regret. "We're Immortal, MacLeod," he said. "It is a fact of our existence."
MacLeod's eyes were liquid, changing color in the growing dusk. Another day gone. Methos hated himself for being so brutal, but it did no one any favors pretending it was otherwise. Unbidden, Methos remembered his internal struggle sitting in his car just a couple of nights ago, wrestling with what he wanted to be true versus what he knew was inevitable. He knew MacLeod's hands were stained with the blood of those he loved, for Methos carried the same stains on his. It was madness to love each other. Complete madness. But here he was, sitting in the growing dusk with an Immortal he would likely die for.
"I never used to believe that," said MacLeod. "We have free will. We make our own choices. We're not slaves to the game."
"And you believe it still. All of those that died at your hands, Duncan, they all had free will. They all made their own choices."
"Did Richie?" asked MacLeod, voice breaking.
Methos made a face, because if they descended into a discussion about Ahriman, things would go downhill fast. "Yes, him too. What happened with Richie was tragic. I was there. I saw what you went through. Are you to blame? Was Richie? Was I? Were any of us? We all make our choices. Richie put himself in harms way because he cared for you. It is painful to know that, but it was his choice and it dishonors his memory to say otherwise. He would have forgiven you."
MacLeod took in a big shuddering breath, and shook his head. "I don't know if I can accept that."
"No," sighed Methos. "It is a lot to take in. I probably wouldn't even try."
That curious questioning look returned to MacLeod's face.
"My standard fall back response to any given situation: do nothing," explained Methos. "Especially when faced with these big philosophical questions, trying to figure out what's 'right' and what's 'wrong.' Sure fire way to bring on a giant headache."
MacLeod looked both outraged and amused as he studied Methos. "You know," he said, his eyes traveling across Methos's face. "I never believed you existed. 'The oldest Immortal.' You're a myth, a legend."
"It's good to be a myth," said Methos, and then he held his breath as he saw MacLeod grasp at a shadow of a memory, his expression turning inward, unconsciously raising his hand in the air, as if to catch a beer can thrown casually across the space between.
Then MacLeod's eyes focused on Methos again, and he dropped his hand. "Will I stay like this?"
Methos had avoided this question, his own heart unable to contemplate the possibility that MacLeod would never remember. "I don't know," he said. Then, he spoke again, very slowly. "I… think not. Immortal healing should prevent any physical reason for permanent memory loss. Which leaves only an emotional or psychological reason. But," and he grimaced slightly as he remembered Warren Cochrane, "you have never been a man who hides from pain, MacLeod. You have always faced your challenges head on. It is both your greatest strength and your greatest weakness. I think your brain is still a bit scrambled, and in time, you will remember."
He did a knock knock gesture on MacLeod's skull.
MacLeod continued to study him, and Methos saw a return of wonder and awe, a little something similar to the way MacLeod used to look at him in those early days when they first met. It chilled him, and he realized that he did not want MacLeod to look at him like that. He could not bear the thought of the inevitable disappointment. Not again.
Something must have shown on his face, because MacLeod's look of awe was gone, changing to one of understanding. He reached across and took Methos's hand in his, threading their fingers together, palm to palm.
"Do nothing?" asked MacLeod, with a hint of amused disbelief. "Is this how you do nothing? Fine example."
"Yeah, well," said Methos, grateful for the darkness that hid what must be a mortifying blush. "You seem to be the annoying exception."
Methos tried to pull his hand free but MacLeod held on. "Methos," he said, and for some reason the way MacLeod spoke his name made Methos's heart pound in his chest. It was the first time MacLeod had said it since waking with a ten-year gap in his memory. "Methos," he repeated, "Tha--"
Methos clapped his free hand over MacLeod's mouth. "Don't say it. Please don't say it," he said.
MacLeod's brow creased, but he didn't struggle. After a moment, he took hold of the hand covering his mouth, pressing it even further against his lips, closing his eyes.
Methos leaned forward. "Come on," he said, after a long moment. "Amanda's worried. Let's get you back home."
~*~
Part Two
Author: KRAMPUS
Written for: pat_t
Characters/Pairings: D/M, Amanda, Joe
Rating: PG-13/R (mainly for a smidge of violence)
Author's Notes: No MacLeods were permanently harmed in the writing of this story. This is set approximately around 2003 for reasons. Title also comes from Dante. Undying gratitude to my beta.
Summary: If you woke up tomorrow in a strange place and an unfamiliar Immortal was there claiming to be your friend, someone you've never seen before in your life, who you have no reason to trust, would you believe him?
In that book which is my memory,
On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you,
Appear the words, "Here begins a new life."
--Dante Alighieri, Vita Nuova
~*~
Methos cursed as he sat in his car. The internal debate had started that morning, and had continued throughout the day -- as he dressed, as he drove across town to Joe's bar -- and now he sat in the parking lot, immobilized.
A tease of Immortal presence rippled across his nerves. Knowing he was caught didn't magically resolve his internal conflict, and he continued to stare at the darkened parking lot, the night full of roving car lights, street lamps, and the smattering of twinkling stars on the horizon.
The shadows to the left of him shifted, followed by a knuckled rap on the car window. MacLeod stood there, leaning over with a curious half-smile. Methos took in a deep breath and lowered the window.
They looked at each other and Methos saw the understanding in Mac's eyes. "Nice night," said Mac.
Methos suppressed a snort of laughter. "I don't know. A bit humid, isn't it?"
Mac's lips twitched, then he turned thoughtful. "It's just a beer. Doesn't have to be more than that."
That made Methos feel like a complete coward. He shook his head. "It's not that," he said, even though that could very well be the biggest lie that had ever crossed his lips. But he insisted again. "You know, it's not that," he repeated.
In the yellow light of the street lamps, MacLeod's gentle brown eyes darkened. "I'm not going to force you to get out of the car."
Methos opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again. No, he wouldn't force him. He'd asked, late at night the week prior, over a game of chess: "Would you have a beer with me?"
Methos looked curiously at him, waving his half-empty beer bottle in Mac's face. "Aren't we having beers now?"
MacLeod laughed, nodding his head in acknowledgment. "I mean, at a bar or restaurant. Joe's or any place. The two of us."
"What? Like a date?"
The faint flush on MacLeod's cheeks answered that question and Methos choked on his swallow of beer. He almost sputtered out, "you're not serious," but stopped himself just in time. Instead, he held very still.
"I…" He fell silent, at a loss for words. "Mac?"
What he'd wanted to ask was, why now? After all these years of friendship, the weight of both their long lives, the uncertainty of the recent years, why now? They'd both played with innuendo, but never seriously.
Mac was still rosy-cheeked, but he was smiling a little. "Didn't you ever think about it?"
"Of course I did."
"Well then?"
"I…" and Methos fell silent a second time, but frowned. "Did you think of it?" he asked in turn.
MacLeod was still smiling, eyes lowering. "Of course I did," he said, repeating Methos's words back to him.
Methos wanted to say MacLeod could have fooled him, but he knew that to be a lie. The harmless, casual flirting he'd teased MacLeod with had always been returned -- he'd just hadn't seriously pursued it, and neither had MacLeod. He took a breath, finding himself wishing MacLeod had simply cornered him. He was a man of action, wasn't he? He should have just acted. It would have been a forgone conclusion if MacLeod had simply seduced him. But he hadn't. He'd asked instead. And that made all the difference.
MacLeod patted his shoulder. "It's okay, Methos. I understand." He started walking away.
"No," said Methos, in a rush, scrambling out of the car. "I'm sorry. This is not at all what I expected. I… I don't know what I'm doing."
MacLeod turned and they stood in the circle of light from the street lamp. A fleeting thought of how ridiculous this was floated in the back of Methos's mind.
"You're having a beer with me," said MacLeod, holding out his hand, and with barely a moment of hesitation, Methos grasped it. Together they walked to the door of Joe's bar.
~*~
MacLeod led the way through the evening crowd to a table in the corner that had a RESERVED sign on it. Methos caught sight of Joe by the stage in conversation with his band members. Joe glanced at them as they entered and gave Methos one snaggle-toothed rascally grin before continuing with whatever he was doing.
Methos huffed under his breath, pulling his seat out.
"Did you say something?" asked MacLeod.
Methos frowned at MacLeod, who was smiling as he gazed down at his menu, and snapped his own menu open, but he started smiling too.
They sipped their beers and ate the bar food served personally by Joe, who'd slapped both of them hard on the back before ambling back to the stage for the start of the first set of the evening.
It was hilariously awkward to find himself short of conversation topics, and Methos refused to even entertain the idea that he might be nervous, like a schoolgirl on a first date. MacLeod was infuriatingly relaxed beside him, listening to the music with apparent complete contentment.
"This is mad, you realize," said Methos, although he hadn't intended to speak.
MacLeod looked at him but didn't say anything. Methos didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
"I mean, what are we doing?" he continued, unable to stop now that he'd started. "Think on our history, on everything we've been through. How is this a good idea?" He gestured to indicate the both of them. "We carry large swords around with us in the likely event we will need to cut off someone's head."
Some strangled part of him was horrified that he seemed unable to shut up.
"I have a hard time believing that this could be… serious. That, I don't know… " he was conscious of MacLeod's unwavering gaze. "That this isn't temporary or an act of desperation. Or, I don't know."
"You think I'm, what? Deluded? Desperate? That you're my last resort?"
Methos winced. "God, when you say it like that."
"Well that is what you're saying, isn't it? Do you really think so little of us, together?"
"No, I… I guess I have a hard time believing that this could be...." A noisy bar was not the place to be having this conversation and he mentally kicked himself, once again annoyed at his inability to ever do anything right when it came to MacLeod. "That you would want…"
"You?"
MacLeod had spoken so simply, Methos couldn’t read what he was thinking. He forced himself to speak. "Remember, Mac, it wasn't that long ago you could barely stand to speak to me. I remember if you don't. What are we going to do when this explodes in our face? Maybe you'd be fine, but I don't -- I couldn't--" He stopped to breathe. "You'd hate me all over again."
"I never hated you," said MacLeod, a wrinkle between his eyebrows.
Methos started to protest, then swallowed past a lump in his throat. "No, I guess you didn't."
MacLeod leaned in. "Whatever happens between us, I need you to know at least this: I never hated you."
"I shouldn't have said that." Methos spoke quietly.
"So what if it's mad?" asked MacLeod, still pressing close so that Methos was aware of his familiar scent, making it very difficult for him to think. "I already said I wasn't going to force you. You have to want this, too."
"I can't lose you," Methos admitted, finally, what he was most afraid of.
MacLeod smiled. "Haven't lost me yet."
Exasperated, Methos snorted. "You are mad. We haven't even, you know, done anything. It could be terrible. Then we'd just be embarrassed on top of everything--"
Methos froze as MacLeod took his hand, raised it up to his lips, and kissed the back of his knuckles. He was fixated on the sensation of MacLeod holding his hand, the tingle of his skin where MacLeod had kissed him. He had a fleeting thought that, clever though he might be, he was well out of his depth when it came to MacLeod.
Making a flash decision, Methos reached across and pulled MacLeod in, planting his lips right over MacLeod's. MacLeod made a noise but then relaxed as Methos loosened his hold. A fission of energy shivered down his spine as they parted.
MacLeod, bemused, was looking at him with a charmingly smug expression.
"That answers that, I guess," said Methos. "Okay, you win."
"Well that was easy," said MacLeod, with a smirk.
~*~
A few hours later they walked out of Joe's into the crisp night air, their warm breath fogging in front of them.
"Will you come back to my place?" asked MacLeod with an expression that was open and smiling and somehow conveying that MacLeod wouldn't be offended if he said no.
Methos marveled for a moment. A mere week ago, MacLeod asking if he wanted to come over had a completely different set of expectations.
"All right," he said, and then blinked as MacLeod beamed at him.
They had a brief discussion since they'd arrived at the bar separately, deciding that Methos would follow MacLeod, not wishing to leave his car. MacLeod walked with him to where they parked.
"See you in a few," said Methos, unlocking his door.
"Yeah," said MacLeod, but he took hold of Methos's arm, turning him so they could face each other, telegraphing his intentions.
MacLeod kissed him gently, pressing close under the starlit sky, a deeper kiss than the one from before. Methos felt MacLeod's warm breath caress his cheek as he kissed along his throat, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the heat of MacLeod's lips.
After a moment, MacLeod stepped back. "Don't be late," he said, turning away.
Methos shut his car door and gripped the steering wheel, unaware of anything but the lingering memory of MacLeod's warmth. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed before he turned the key in the ignition.
~*~
It was a strange, surreal five miles drive to the dojo, all the more for how familiar it was.
With every second that passed, every pause at a light, or left or right turn bringing him closer to his destination, a voice in his head told him to turn back. If he was going to turn away, the time was now.
But he didn't turn around. He kept driving. And then he knew, with sudden clarity, that if given a choice he would always choose MacLeod. This had been true from their first meeting. It was true during their darkest, bitterest, most broken moments. Very likely, it would always be true, no matter what may happen, what changed between them, whatever lay in the future.
He felt a pain -- he thought it was pain -- in his chest. He fumbled for his phone, dialed MacLeod's number, and pressed the phone to his ear, breathing hard as his car idled at a light. Cars honked and drove past him.
It rang and rang, and then voicemail picked up.
"Mac? I… I just… needed to hear your voice. I'm on my way. I'm coming to you. I'm minutes away. But I had to tell you, I--God, this may be mad, but I don't care. I… I'll be right there. I'm on my way. Wait for me. I love you. Please know that."
He hung up, and drove on, speeding through the streets.
Half a block away from the dojo, a brilliant white arc of quickening fire spiked through the night sky, bending down to spear through Methos's car. He raised his arms up just as his windshield exploded.
~*~
The quickening seemed to go on forever.
In a cold, blind panic, his car dead, Methos ran the last half-block to the dojo. The sky was bright with fire, jagged light ripping the darkness away. Again, and again, and Methos felt the lick of quickening energy rattle his bones.
Then silence.
The lights were out, and the dojo had darkened, blown out windows. As he entered the main floor, through the shadows he could see a headless body lying twisted to one side, scorch marks on the walls, the glass of the office windows scattered everywhere.
He paused only long enough to see it wasn't MacLeod. One band of unbearable pressure released around his heart. But he couldn't feel a buzz. He started yelling MacLeod's name, running for the stairs.
He couldn't feel a buzz as he tripped up the steps. He couldn't feel a buzz as he banged the door open.
There was evidence of a terrible fight: furniture overturned, glass everywhere glinting in the meager moonlight. He saw a pair of legs and pulled at the body, but it wasn't MacLeod. A second Immortal, now headless. He still couldn't feel a buzz.
Methos waded through the room, tossing aside chairs and tables, and then he found a third body, headless, not MacLeod. A third Immortal, and the implications of what must have happened began to crystallize.
Desperate, he turned in a circle. He could not feel a buzz, and it was tearing him apart. He was shaking. He felt cold and hot.
There was scorch marks everywhere, the tapestry hanging over MacLeod's bed blackened, smoking.
The moonlight fell on a shiny, bright metal, and he saw the blade of MacLeod's katana lying buried under the heavy wooden bureau. He tripped in his haste, grunting to lift the bureau but let it fall back down when there was no body underneath it. He turned, and saw a pale hand lying over the threshold of the bathroom door. Methos dropped to his knees, lifting MacLeod into his arms, clutching him to his chest. He buried his face into MacLeod's whole and bloodstained neck.
MacLeod had a long stiletto knife imbedded through his skull, buried to the hilt. He was dead. But he wasn't gone.
Methos rocked MacLeod's lifeless body, shuddering with a relief so profound he could only keen in agony as he cried.
~*~
How long he sat on the bathroom floor, cradling MacLeod's body, he did not know. He couldn't seem to move, his mind blank, until a pair of gentle hands squeezed his shoulder.
"Come on, Methos. Let's get off the floor. Come on."
Methos looked up to see the Joe bending down, leaning on his cane. He blinked in surprise. He hadn't heard Joe enter the loft let alone cross through all the wreckage, hadn't been aware of anything at all. "He's not dead. Not really," said Methos.
"I know, pal."
"How did you? Where did--"
"Watcher caught the light show. Phoned it in. I got here as soon as I could. Come on. You can't stay down here all night."
Together they hauled MacLeod's body out of the bathroom and onto the bed. They had a brief debate on whether they should move to Methos's apartment or to Joe's, or stay in the ruined loft, but ultimately it seemed unwise to transport an unconscious MacLeod across town.
"If I'm reading the clues right," said Joe, looking around the carnage of the loft, "MacLeod fought and killed three Immortals, fighting at least one of them with a stiletto imbedded through his skull. How is that even possible?"
Methos sighed as he climbed onto the bed, kneeling by MacLeod's head to get a closer look at the wound. "I don't know. How does MacLeod manage to do anything? Penetrating head injuries aren't always fatal. I've seen soldiers pick up and keep fighting with an arrow stuck straight through an eye socket. No one much knows how the brain works. Even in these modern times, it's still largely a mystery."
He touched all around the entrance and exit wounds. The spike had gone through the frontal bone with the tip emerging through the occipital bone. The stiletto hadn't killed MacLeod, at least not right away, but it was preventing him from reviving. He brushed aside Macleod's bloodied, matted hair. Methos shut his eyes, suppressing a shiver and trying very hard not to think back to earlier in the evening, trying not to remember how warm MacLeod had been as they kissed in the parking lot.
He gripped the handle, braced one hand against the back of MacLeod's head, and pulled in one smooth motion. After the stiletto was clear, his hands began to shake, his vision clouding as he dropped the knife and bent low to press his forehead against MacLeod's.
Joe was maneuvering around the room, occasionally righting furniture, but then he stopped, and Methos was aware that he was being watched. "Will he be all right?" asked Joe.
Methos looked at him but didn't answer.
There was no way to know how long it would take for MacLeod to revive. Methos helped Joe remove the bodies, a team of Watchers efficiently carrying them away. They did what they could to put the loft back to rights, but eventually Joe stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes. Methos returned to MacLeod to lay beside him, one hand over MacLeod's unmoving chest.
He lost track of the hours slipping past, dozing in and out of sleep, until with a gasp and a sudden surge of Immortal presence, MacLeod jackknifed back to life.
"Mac," said Methos, snapping fully awake and trying to grab hold of MacLeod. "It's all right."
MacLeod, chest heaving, looking at Methos with a bewildered expression that bled into fear and wide-eyed panic, glancing wildly around him. "What--where?"
"It's all right," repeated Methos. "It's me, it's Methos." MacLeod continued to look at him without recognition, his arms flailing as he pushed Methos away. He was shaking his head, looking all around as if trying to escape.
"MacLeod," said Methos, forcefully, grasping MacLeod's face to try and make him look at him. "Listen to me. It's all right. I'm your friend. I'm your friend, Mac, your friend," he repeated.
MacLeod's panic lessoned and he stopped fighting. His brow was creased in confusion as he gazed at Methos, still breathing hard.
From the couch, Joe rose and moved closer. "Finally," he said, moving around the couch, smiling. MacLeod looked at Joe, and Methos saw his expression change from one of bewilderment and fear to a hard, brutal anger.
"You," growled MacLeod, and before Methos could stop him he was off the bed, one hand grabbing Joe by the throat. "Where is she? What have you done with her?"
"MacLeod," yelled Methos, taking hold of MacLeod's arm. "Let him go."
"Tell me where she is?" demanded MacLeod, not listening.
"Duncan," said Methos, shaking MacLeod, forcing him to look at Methos. "Duncan MacLeod, let him go. You will not kill him. You will let him go. Now."
Slowly, MacLeod shifted his eyes to Methos. Something flickered there, a quick flash of recognition, then he stepped back and let go. Joe collapsed to the floor. Methos glanced down long enough to ensure that Joe was still breathing. He placed himself between them, pushing MacLeod back.
MacLeod was shaking slightly, from anger or fear, as he stumbled back onto the bed. He looked desperately up at Methos. "Where's Tessa? Where's Richie?"
With dawning horror, Methos knelt down and cupped his face in both his hands. MacLeod's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "What do you remember last?"
~*~
Methos called Amanda. She listened in horror as he told her what had happened. "Can you come?" he asked. "He doesn't know me, and doesn't seem to be all that fond of Joe. But he'll know you."
"Of course. I'm on my way, but Methos, if you’re right, then the last time he remembers, when we saw each other last, well--it wasn't one of our best, to be honest. He might not be happy to see me, either."
"Did you part in anger?" asked Methos.
"Well, no, not really. But there was this business with Blaine and I may or may not have gotten MacLeod kidnapped, and then there was Tessa--"
"Amanda," Methos interrupted. "No doubt you were your usually charming self, but trust me," and he sighed, "you are what he needs right now. Will you come?"
She was coming on the next flight out of Paris, but it would still be several hours before she could get there.
"She's on her way," said Methos, to Joe sitting on one of the bar stools by the kitchen, still rubbing at his neck. To MacLeod, who remained on the bed exploring with shaking fingers the now healed wound sites on his skull, marked by clumps of blood-matted hair.
Methos examined Joe's neck. "He didn't mean it," he said, touching the bruises that were forming on either side of his throat. "He's not himself."
"Yeah, I know." He shook his head, his blue eyes shadowed.
Methos walked slowly back to MacLeod who sensed his approach and looked warily up at him. "Tessa?" he asked, although in such a fearful, timid way, Methos was certain MacLeod already knew the answer Methos could not bring himself to give. MacLeod nodded, eyes falling down to his bloodied and dirty hands. "Tell me what happened."
There was, finally, a note of steel in MacLeod's voice.
"As near as I can tell, you were attacked here, in your home, by at least three Immortals at once. Bad luck," he added.
MacLeod huffed.
"During the fight, this," and Methos picked up the stiletto, handing it to MacLeod, "was staked through your skull. You still managed to take all three Immortals' heads, though God knows how. It seems it, or the three quickenings, or a combination of both, affected your memory."
MacLeod visibly swallowed. "How long?" he asked with wet eyes. "Since…" But he didn't finish.
Methos didn't pretend not to understand. MacLeod was asking how long a gap there was in his memory. "About ten years, I think," he said.
MacLeod nodded. "And Richie too?" he asked, and those wet eyes pleaded with Methos.
He could not do this. It was why he'd called Amanda, coward that he was, he could not be the one to break MacLeod's heart like this, to lay out all the horrors of these past years. MacLeod was nodding even though Methos hadn't answered, holding back tears, and Methos took a deep, shaking breath. "Mac," he said, his voice breaking. "This can wait."
MacLeod kept nodding, as if trying to accept. "You're my friend?"
Methos froze. He was cold. His chest hurt. "Yes," he whispered. "I'm your friend."
MacLeod furrowed his brow, blinked a few times. "I believe you."
~*~
Methos coaxed MacLeod into the bathroom and into a shower, and then once he was out again back into a newly remade bed to sleep. "You're still healing, Mac. The more you sleep, the better."
For a second it looked like MacLeod was going to argue or become mulish, but then, with a look at Methos and a furtive glance at Joe, he lay down on top of the covers. Rolling on to his side, he was asleep within minutes.
Methos sighed with his entire body, collapsing onto the edge of the bed and dropping his head into his hands. He heard the familiar sounds of Joe's labored steps crossing the loft.
Joe's eyes were still bruised and shadowed. "Is this permanent? Will he get his memory back?"
Methos shook his head, then looked out the window. It was dark again. Somehow an entire day had simply disappeared. "Don't ask me that question."
Joe gripped Methos's shoulder by way of apology.
"Go home, Joe. Get some rest."
"Doesn't seem right to leave."
Methos shrugged. "Not sure it's such a good idea for you to be here anyway."
Joe's face darkened, but he nodded. "Call me, if you need anything."
They gripped each other's hands before Joe made his slow, methodical way to the elevator, which was once again working. Left alone in the silent loft with a sleeping MacLeod, Methos felt the cumulative weight of the last couple of days bear down on him. He had every intention of relocating to the couch but when it came time to move he found he could not do it. Instead, he lay down beside MacLeod, as he had done earlier. This time, when he put his hand over MacLeod's chest, he felt the reassuring beat of his heart's steady rhythm.
He slept without dreaming, not waking, not even moving until the rattle of the elevator and the shiver of Immortal presence woke him with a start. Beside him, MacLeod was already awake and looking at him with a slightly perplexed, confused expression.
Methos felt his cheeks warm, and sat up quickly, just as the elevator landed and Amanda entered the room. Methos saw the stark relief cross MacLeod's face when he saw Amanda. After recovering from the quickenings, nothing in this life was familiar to him -- not the loft, not Methos or Joe -- but Amanda was eternal. She sailed quickly across the room, coming to a stop in front of MacLeod.
"Oh, darling," she said, as MacLeod let himself sink into her embrace, gripping her tightly.
It was daytime again, and the light from the windows was so bright, Methos felt his eyes water. He rose from the bed, feeling very out-of-place and in-the-way.
He touched Amanda's shoulder. Her worried eyes rose up to meet his. "Tell him everything," he said. "Everything you can."
He trusted she understood that to include his past as well as MacLeod's. He wouldn't make the same mistake again, no matter the cost. She gave a shaky nod of her head before returning her attention to MacLeod. Neither noticed when Methos left, taking the stairs.
At first, he was at odds with what to do with himself after the heightened fear of the past forty-eight hours, but he eventually made his way to his apartment. He took a long shower, spending too long standing under the spray of hot water pounding relentlessly on his shoulders and back, until the water began to cool. He dressed and ate a dissatisfying meal standing up in the kitchen, unable to settle. He was just beginning to turn his attention to the many everyday tasks he'd ignored in the wake of MacLeod's life exploding once again when his phone rang.
"He's gone," said Amanda, immediately.
"What?" Methos felt his fingers grow cold.
"He left, about five minutes ago. And he didn't take his sword with him."
"Tell me everything." He was already moving, finding his shoes and struggling into his coat.
"I was trying to pace it, and not dump everything on him at once. I mean, when you start listing everything MacLeod's been through since Tessa, it's a lot, Methos. It's overwhelming."
"How far did you get?" he asked, and he had to stop himself from asking if she'd told him about the Horsemen. Whether she'd gotten to the part that had nearly ended their friendship. But this wasn't about him, as much as it tore him apart. This was about MacLeod.
"That business with the dark quickening. I was going to stop and suggest a break, you know, leave the rest for another day, and that we should get out of the loft, go somewhere, but he demanded to know more. You know how he gets. He… he demanded I tell him what happened to Richie."
Methos closed his eyes, pressing his cell phone so hard against his ear it began to ache. "He was already suspicious," he said.
"I think he remembers some things," she said. "Because as soon as I was trying to explain how Richie's death wasn't his fault, he was asking about Connor."
"Damn it," said Methos.
"I couldn't lie to him," Amanda said, and Methos could hear how upset she was, how stricken with the horror of convincing MacLeod that the death of those he loved by his own hands wasn't his fault, and he felt very guilty for leaving it all on her shoulders. "He would have known."
Methos was silent as he forced himself to think on what to do next. "I know where he is. Or where I think he is."
She sighed.
"I'm sorry, Amanda. It was unfair to leave everything to you to explain. I just…"
"I know," she said. "I made the most sense; it had to be me. He's just so impossible sometimes."
Methos huffed a bitter laugh.
~*~
He found MacLeod exactly where he thought he would, sitting on the curb across the street from where his old antique shop used to be, where he used to live as something like a family with Tessa and Richie.
MacLeod raised his head as soon as he felt Methos's presence, then sighed and looked back down to the gravel-covered driveway.
He was already looking more like himself, thought Methos, less the bloodied haggard mess he was after the quickenings. He sat down next to MacLeod. "If you're going to run away, you should take your sword with you."
MacLeod shook his head. "I wasn't running."
"Right," said Methos, in a tone of voice that usually got MacLeod arguing, and he was indeed rewarded with an irate glower.
"It's just… Yesterday, she was alive. We were walking down the street, together. I can still feel her hand in mine."
Methos hadn't realized it was possible to feel worse. "Mac, I'm so sorry. This is not something you should have to relive again. If there had been something I could have done to stop this, I would have. Between somehow keeping the truth from you versus telling you everything, there was no way to make the right choice. I'm sorry."
MacLeod looked at him curiously, which was at least a different emotion than sadness and regret. "What are you to me?" he asked with wonder.
Methos took a moment before answering. "Like I said, I'm your friend."
MacLeod's expression darkened. "You should rethink that," he said, and his voice was very rough. "I kill all of my friends."
And there it was, the thing that was unavoidable no matter how desperately you look away, no matter the truth or the lies or the regret. "We're Immortal, MacLeod," he said. "It is a fact of our existence."
MacLeod's eyes were liquid, changing color in the growing dusk. Another day gone. Methos hated himself for being so brutal, but it did no one any favors pretending it was otherwise. Unbidden, Methos remembered his internal struggle sitting in his car just a couple of nights ago, wrestling with what he wanted to be true versus what he knew was inevitable. He knew MacLeod's hands were stained with the blood of those he loved, for Methos carried the same stains on his. It was madness to love each other. Complete madness. But here he was, sitting in the growing dusk with an Immortal he would likely die for.
"I never used to believe that," said MacLeod. "We have free will. We make our own choices. We're not slaves to the game."
"And you believe it still. All of those that died at your hands, Duncan, they all had free will. They all made their own choices."
"Did Richie?" asked MacLeod, voice breaking.
Methos made a face, because if they descended into a discussion about Ahriman, things would go downhill fast. "Yes, him too. What happened with Richie was tragic. I was there. I saw what you went through. Are you to blame? Was Richie? Was I? Were any of us? We all make our choices. Richie put himself in harms way because he cared for you. It is painful to know that, but it was his choice and it dishonors his memory to say otherwise. He would have forgiven you."
MacLeod took in a big shuddering breath, and shook his head. "I don't know if I can accept that."
"No," sighed Methos. "It is a lot to take in. I probably wouldn't even try."
That curious questioning look returned to MacLeod's face.
"My standard fall back response to any given situation: do nothing," explained Methos. "Especially when faced with these big philosophical questions, trying to figure out what's 'right' and what's 'wrong.' Sure fire way to bring on a giant headache."
MacLeod looked both outraged and amused as he studied Methos. "You know," he said, his eyes traveling across Methos's face. "I never believed you existed. 'The oldest Immortal.' You're a myth, a legend."
"It's good to be a myth," said Methos, and then he held his breath as he saw MacLeod grasp at a shadow of a memory, his expression turning inward, unconsciously raising his hand in the air, as if to catch a beer can thrown casually across the space between.
Then MacLeod's eyes focused on Methos again, and he dropped his hand. "Will I stay like this?"
Methos had avoided this question, his own heart unable to contemplate the possibility that MacLeod would never remember. "I don't know," he said. Then, he spoke again, very slowly. "I… think not. Immortal healing should prevent any physical reason for permanent memory loss. Which leaves only an emotional or psychological reason. But," and he grimaced slightly as he remembered Warren Cochrane, "you have never been a man who hides from pain, MacLeod. You have always faced your challenges head on. It is both your greatest strength and your greatest weakness. I think your brain is still a bit scrambled, and in time, you will remember."
He did a knock knock gesture on MacLeod's skull.
MacLeod continued to study him, and Methos saw a return of wonder and awe, a little something similar to the way MacLeod used to look at him in those early days when they first met. It chilled him, and he realized that he did not want MacLeod to look at him like that. He could not bear the thought of the inevitable disappointment. Not again.
Something must have shown on his face, because MacLeod's look of awe was gone, changing to one of understanding. He reached across and took Methos's hand in his, threading their fingers together, palm to palm.
"Do nothing?" asked MacLeod, with a hint of amused disbelief. "Is this how you do nothing? Fine example."
"Yeah, well," said Methos, grateful for the darkness that hid what must be a mortifying blush. "You seem to be the annoying exception."
Methos tried to pull his hand free but MacLeod held on. "Methos," he said, and for some reason the way MacLeod spoke his name made Methos's heart pound in his chest. It was the first time MacLeod had said it since waking with a ten-year gap in his memory. "Methos," he repeated, "Tha--"
Methos clapped his free hand over MacLeod's mouth. "Don't say it. Please don't say it," he said.
MacLeod's brow creased, but he didn't struggle. After a moment, he took hold of the hand covering his mouth, pressing it even further against his lips, closing his eyes.
Methos leaned forward. "Come on," he said, after a long moment. "Amanda's worried. Let's get you back home."
~*~
Part Two