Happy Holidays, Diane! (2/3)
Title: Sastrugi (2/3)
Author: hafital aka Horses, Horses, Horses, Horses (get the obscure movie reference?)
Written for: Diane/dswdiane
Characters/Pairings: D/M
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: h/c
Author's Notes> I am deeply grateful to my two betas. This story is set sometime after Highlander: Endgame and fully ignores Highlander: The Source.
Summary: On the eve of Duncan selling his Seacouver loft, Methos shows up with an unusual job offer. Together they embark on a rare adventure that tests even their Immortal limits.
Go To Part One
Sastrugi
It took a bit of convincing on Methos's part, but Alice and Brett finally accepted that no permanent damage was done. Brett in particular was very insistent, citing insurance claims and formal reports, but he finally gave way. They made it back to base camp without further incident. Completely exhausted, everyone ate in total silence and then climbed into their tents with very little conversation.
Finally horizontal, MacLeod couldn't sleep. Every muscle along his shoulders and back throbbed. Each time he closed his eyes he saw Methos sliding down the wall with wide-eyed panic. He wouldn't have died. They hadn't really been in danger for their lives, and yet, MacLeod couldn't shake it. After nearly an hour of restlessness, he quietly left the tent.
The air seemed colder than earlier, although he knew it wasn't. It was just that he was tired. He sat down on one of the skidoos, turning to face the open sea so he could watch icebergs drift slowly past.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Alice standing there. He budged over so she could sit next to him. Her light brown hair was free of its braid, sticking out from underneath the hood of her jacket. Her face was white, bleached by the cold, maybe also from residual fear. He didn't know her at all. They'd both kept their distance. There seemed to be some unspoken rule about assistants and contract laborers like him staying separate from the scientists. She'd been as chilly and as frosty as the wind and the snow peaked mountains. But Methos liked her, and for him, MacLeod could be polite.
They were silent for a long time, until Alice breathed in and turned toward him. "That was an incredibly stupid and brave thing, what you did."
He smiled a little. "You sound like Adam." In truth, he didn't feel brave. He felt like a cheat. He couldn't die, no matter how many mountains he fell from, he would always rise and walk away. But these mortals, with their fragile bodies and their unstoppable thirst, they perished at the whim of the indifferent wind, at the mercy of Antarctica. He looked at Alice, really looked at her possibly for the first time since they'd met. She wasn't striking, not like Christine from McMurdo Station, but could be called pretty in the evenness of her features: petite nose, intelligent blue eyes. She was cold and haughty and not very nice, and MacLeod was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to protect her with all of his power. He wanted to protect all of them, all of these crazy humans who clung to the skin of this continent. There were tears in her eyes. She was shaking.
He took her hands in his. "Would you believe me if I told you I knew he wouldn't die? That neither of us would die. Call it faith."
She creased her forehead, wiped at her eyes. "I can't make you out, or him. What is it with the two of you?"
MacLeod squeezed her hands and then let them go. "A lot of history," he said, with another smile.
She laughed. "Okay, keep your secrets."
"Why are you here?" he asked her, really curious.
A stray hair fell over her eyes. She brushed it aside. "I love it. This is the last free place on earth. It belongs to everyone, to no one. And it can teach us so much."
"You don't think it'll get exploited eventually?" MacLeod knew there was supposed to be a wealth of untapped natural resources in Antarctica: coal, oil, gas. Sadly he felt it was just a matter of time.
"No one will let that happen," she said with such assurance MacLeod could only nod and hope she was right.
They fell silent again, sitting side by side, until without a word she got up and left, returning to her tent. He watched her, a lone figure walking, backlit by the Antarctic light.
*
MacLeod's days became a blur of cold and wind and blowing snow, the constant blue sky and the stretching white horizon. Trekking and hiking, constant movement, never resting, until Brett, always the timekeeper, signaled it was time to head back to base.
In contrast to his days, the nights were spent trying to sleep with the daylight shining through the fabric of their tent. He sometimes lay awake, with Methos's warm body lying next to his, sprawled across the floor of their tent, hogging all the space. It made him smile, and he watched Methos's chest rising and falling, listened to the wind batting against the tent, howling, wailing.
He found a friend in Alice. They worked well together; they made a good team, all three of them. MacLeod was conscious of not interfering between Methos and Alice, but it seemed to him that she held herself back, battled with her attraction to Methos, and for his part, Methos didn't push her. She was quiet and serious, only becoming animated when she spoke of her work: ice cores, trapped carbon dioxide, the atmosphere a hundred years a go, a thousand years ago, the ever present threat of global warming. "This place is disappearing," she said, her eyes glowing, her cheeks flushed. "So slowly, but I can see it. It's why I asked for Adam and why I work for CSF."
She was cagey about her involvement with CSF, enough to raise MacLeod's suspicions, to think she had another reason for wanting to document her work here. The CSF logo was everywhere, like they owned the continent. But he said nothing, helping Methos frame a shot of a deep crevasse that had opened up beneath a CSF ice core drilling station, causing all personnel to perish.
Back at McMurdo Station, word got around of MacLeod's abseil rescue, and he was made to repeat the story of the fall in the mountain fissure for everyone's entertainment.
"'Sha, man, that is intense," said a snow-blistered young man called Jaffo, laughing, holding out his hand for MacLeod to slap, to shake and snap their fingers. "You're welcome on any trip I take out onto the ice."
Others clapped him on the back, and more than one woman came close, with bright eyes and grudging respect, whispering things in his ear. "Welcome to Antarctica, baptism by fire," they said. "Not bad for a fingy, and a Carsy at that. Wait till you get slotted, then you'll really be one of us, you and your pet beaker. You'll be wintering over before you know it."
MacLeod gathered that a 'fingy' stood for 'fucking new guy' and 'beaker' was the general, slightly unfavorable, term for scientists, which apparently they thought Methos was and MacLeod didn't see the need to correct them seeing as it fit Methos so well. (He imagined Methos strongly denying any resemblance to an orange-haired muppet, and laughed). 'Slotted' had to do with falling into an unseen crevasse on the ice.
He noticed that few of his new friends wore CSF issued clothing.
"Working for Carsy's all right," said Jaffo, swigging a blue alcoholic drink. "A lot of money, good pay, good jobs. Nothing boring about being a Carsy, except the mort rate's high. Got a bad rep. They lose a lot of people every year. But that's Antarctica. Nothing safe here. Yet, Carsy's all a bit," he wrinkled his nose, eyeing Brett who had entered the room, "corporate, if you get my meaning." Jaffo leaned in conspiratorially. "Don't you think he smiles too much? It's unnatural. Some of us think he's really a robot."
MacLeod grinned. He listened with interest to the stories the others started telling of narrow escapes and daring rescues from the jaws of Antarctica. It seemed everyone had a story told in scars and wounds of near death on the ice. MacLeod enjoyed being the center of attention, listening and learning: always be prepared, never leave base without plenty of extra rope, on the ice bring an axe, bring a knife.
He caught Christine watching, hovering on the fringes of the room, as striking in appearance as before. She looked darkly at him, something in her eyes that MacLeod couldn't read, hidden and mysterious. She approached, an unspoken challenge in her stance. "You're not really one of us until you join the Three Hundred Club," she said, hands on hips. The others in the room gasped, some said to leave him alone, and others said it was the best idea, he should do it right away.
He sat back and smiled, all charm and relaxation. "Is that like the Mile High Club?"
A few laughed, and Christine just curled her lips a little. "Nothing like."
MacLeod started to feel a little uneasy. "Well, I'd love to, but I've got work to do," he said, standing, backing out of the room, suddenly eager to find Methos and hide.
They all laughed at him, and the determined look on Christine's face told him he wouldn't escape so easily.
*
MacLeod found Methos using the station's dark room, the safe light bulb indicating it was okay to enter. Methos wasn't alone. Alice turned when MacLeod opened the door, looking slightly flushed. Macleod didn't think he had interrupted anything more intimate than a conversation; she and Methos were standing side by side as he showed her photographs hanging from the clothesline running through the center of the room.
Alice said a quick good-bye, sliding past MacLeod. She gave him a pale smile before he shut the door and she disappeared around the hallway corner.
He turned toward Methos and raised his eyebrows, wondering if he should apologize. Methos shrugged.
"Well, for a pair of country mice, a couple of fingys, one of us a beaker, you and me are not bad. If tomorrow's a dingle day, we could go out to observation hill and get some grips in before we have to pack our klatch and bagdrag, leaving Mactown for the ice. I'll make sure we take a lot of nutties with us for snacks, and pray it's not a manky ride."
Methos frowned at him. "Gone native already?"
Macleod grinned. "What's wrong? Do you have your monk-on or something? Did you forget to degomble? A little too much big eye? Tired? Need to find your donga?"
"You can stop now."
"I particularly like 'Mactown.' Makes me feel at home here."
Methos shook his head, looking very much put upon. "Are you staying or going? I've got a bit more to do here before I can turn in."
"I'll stay," said MacLeod. Macleod went down the row of black and white photographs, showing a more documentary style instead of the nature shots Methos was known for.
MacLeod stopped at a photograph of him taken while still in London, in Methos's flat: he stood in front of the window, backlit so the London skyline was clear but he was just a silhouette, just the shape of a man. Next was another of him, and MacLeod was surprised to realize it had been taken the day of the accident, hundreds of meters above the ground. In the photograph his face was lined with strain, etched with deep concentration, gray against the white of the sky and the background. Methos had framed the shot to encompass the open fissure in the background and the rock wall, sheer and stark. MacLeod hadn't realized Methos had managed to take a picture; it was all a blur now, just a series of impressions of ice and rock and the heavy weight of Methos against him. The photo brought it all back.
"What do you think?" asked Methos.
MacLeod turned to the next photo of Alice hunched over a clipboard, a look of complete absorption on her face, her eyebrows creased together. Framed behind her was her tent with the CSF letters just off to the side, and then behind that a mountain, and then several more mountains behind that, like shark teeth, ragged and pointy. "Very good," he said, quietly.
They both quietly started working on separate things. MacLeod tidied up the mess that Methos always made with his cameras and his film, photographs all over the place. Methos leaned over a light board with an eyeglass, looking at developed film. At one point, Methos switched to safe light and the room turned into a murky sea of dark red.
MacLeod watched Methos as he worked, neither having spoken in over half an hour. He leaned against a metal cabinet. "Why did you want me to come with you?" he asked.
Methos looked at him. In the red light, he seemed older than his perpetual mid-thirties appearance. Or maybe Methos was just tired and the red light picked up on the shadows and the lines of his face.
"You know why. I already told you."
"No, I mean, really, why did you find me? Out of the blue, there you are. I'm not complaining. I'm glad, more than I can say, just, I don't know why."
Methos looked at the floor and was silent a long time. He fiddled with a pencil. MacLeod knew he wasn't being clear, that he hadn't truly conveyed to Methos how happy he was just at this moment, to be at the bottom of the world on an iced-over science station in a dark room with this man, this particular old friend. After everything that had happened, after all of the fighting and the deaths of those he loved and hated alike, MacLeod couldn't say how grateful he was, but he felt it, a pressure in the center of his chest.
"I don't know why," said Methos, finally. "I just woke up one morning and thought of you. Total impulse. I hadn't even planned to offer you the job that day in Seacouver, I just did. Good thing, I guess," he said with a lopsided smile.
"Nah," said MacLeod. "You'd have done fine with out me. But, I can't help but think about that anchor."
"I know," said Methos, shifting a little. "I talked to Brett about it. He blamed it on what they like to call the A-factor. It's Antarctica. The ice is unpredictable. You're thinking it wasn't an accident."
"Well," said Macleod, waggling his head back and forth. "You're usually the paranoid one--"
"With good reason!"
"--but, yeah, I do think it's a bit odd, except I can't figure how anyone could have planned it, and both Brett and Alice could have fallen as easily as you or me."
They frowned at each other. MacLeod could make guesses, instincts warring with each other, but there was nothing to be done except to go day by day and keep their eyes and ears alert.
He walked over to Methos, plucked the pencil out of his hand and laid it aside. He watched him carefully, noting the wary way Methos sort of stepped back. Macleod leaned in, his hands on Methos's shoulders, and pressed his lips to Methos's forehead, right where the bruise had been.
"This would be a perfect time for your girlfriend to walk in," MacLeod said, pulling Methos into a hug.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" said Methos with a short laugh, and MacLeod could feel the tension in Methos's back disappear.
When they pulled away, he regretted the red light that hid whether Methos blushed or not. "Tell me," MacLeod said, as conversationally as he could make it. They stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder. "Do you know what the Three Hundred Club is and should I be worried?"
Methos's eyebrows went up and he barked a laugh. "Oh, this I have to see."
Watching Methos grin like a fool and then burst out into more laughter did nothing to make MacLeod feel safe. He realized that the answer was yes; he should be very, very worried.
*
He was grabbed in the middle of his sleep cycle, arms and legs held firmly, and carried bodily through the station. He tried to fight, kicking and shouting, but it was no good. No one came to his rescue and actually, it seemed as if the crowd of faces around him grew in number, gathering more and more people as they navigated through the corridors. He recognized his captors, at least two of them: the sun-blistered Jaffo and Christine, marching beside him with firm, determined faces.
They took MacLeod through the station to one of the largest loading bays where a crowd waited.
His captors let him go and he stumbled. "What the hell is going on?"
Christine ignored him, climbing onto a couple of storage containers to rise above the crowd. "Thank you, everyone, for coming to this, Duncan MacLeod's inaugural entry into the Three Hundred Club. As I'm sure most of you know entry into this prestigious club requires the participant to go through three hundred degrees Fahrenheit by stripping naked, rolling around in the snow, and then hitting the sauna." She paused and the crowed clapped, hooted, stomped their feet, and cheered. One lone person in the back called out, "Take it off," which was met with more yelling and cheering and general mayhem.
"No way," said MacLeod, trying to leave, forcibly pushed back by a couple of big no-nonsense men. He spotted Methos in the crowd, with his perpetual camera. "Adam," he growled.
With his maniacal grin, Methos waved. "Don't get mad at me, it wasn't my idea. I'm innocent."
"And the camera? Have you no sense of decency?"
"None. Oh, and look." Methos pulled out MacLeod's compact digital camera. "Don't worry, I'll take some shots with yours as well."
"Why, you--" MacLeod lunged for Methos who quickly jumped behind Alice for protection.
Christine stepped in MacLeod's way. "It seems we have a squealer here." Everyone booed. "Don't be such a baby. Do you want company?" she asked. She turned back to the crowd, raising her voice. "Is that it? What do you say, people? Anyone want to join Duncan here so he doesn't feel so alone?"
MacLeod looked to Methos. "Absolutely not," said Methos.
"Coward. Just for that I'm going to mislabel all your film." But Methos only grinned with evil glee and took MacLeod's picture. To his own horror, MacLeod started to laugh as well, damn it all: Methos looked the happiest he'd seen him since the trip started.
The crowd started chanting: "Duncan. Duncan. Duncan." MacLeod looked out to the crowd and recognized Brett, smiling and clapping away, and Alice -- quiet, haughty Alice -- wolf whistling and yelling, "Do it. Do it," with great gusto. MacLeod felt deeply betrayed.
"Well, if no one else will, then I suppose I'd better," said Christine, MacLeod's jaw dropped when she started to strip. "Now you have to do it."
Damn, she was good. Standing up straight, with a challenging look, MacLeod whipped off his shirt. The crowd erupted in cheers. Then it was a race to get naked first. Suddenly they were joined by two more. Then a third. Then a fourth.
Six naked people, including MacLeod leading the pack, resisting the urge to cup his balls protectively, yelled and shouted, psyching themselves up and jiggling and flopping as they ran the gauntlet through the crowd. At the other end, Methos, grinning maniacally, held open the door to the outside, revealing a swirling world of wind and finely powdered snow and all MacLeod could do was yell, "I'm going to get you for this," as he ran past. Then he squealed as the cold hit him. It was a blur of shrieks and wind and blinding, dusty snow. Everyone screamed, slipped, clung to each other in a tangle of pink and brown skin rolling around on the ground. MacLeod felt like his skin would slough off, like it was all fire and ice.
Through the blinding white he saw Christine standing with her hair whipping all around her, tall and untouched by the ice, hands on her hips. She yelled, her voice carrying easily through the noise of the windstorm, "Come on, come on, everybody back inside, move it, move it, move it."
They all rushed back in. The crowd cheered as they ran down the hallway. He flashed on Methos's face in the crowd, a blurred image laughing and smiling like an imp, as MacLeod rushed forward into the communal sauna.
The first burst of warm steam felt heavenly, but then as he warmed, he felt raw all over, tender, cold on the inside and hot on the outside. Through the fog, Christine smiled. "Now you're one of us."
And all he could do was laugh, and then wince with the pain of defrosting.
*
MacLeod felt warm and tingly, sleepy after all the exertion. In the mess hall, he was plied with strange Antarctic alcoholic drinks. He talked and hugged and laughed, posing for pictures, with many people whose names he hoped he would remember, warmly accepted by everyone. He was called a friend and a good sport. He chatted up attractive women and bonded with the guys, until he noticed that Methos wasn't anywhere to be found.
He slipped away but was stopped in the hallway. Christine emerged from the shadows, her arms folded across her chest. "Looking for that good-looking beaker of yours?"
He smiled, laughed a little. There was something about this woman that made him cautious. "Why? Have you found him?"
Her dark eyes seemed to read him easily, judged him, and found him wanting. "He went back to his quarters. You should keep a better eye on him," she said with a trace of teasing threat to her tone. She moved out of MacLeod's way and down the corridor. "He seems a bit accident-prone."
She disappeared around the corner. MacLeod frowned, scratched his head, Christine's words filling him with unease as he stood outside of his quarters wondering what to expect. He could sense Methos behind the door.
With great force, he banged the door open. Startled, Methos looked up from where he sat on his bunk, cross-legged in his stocking feet, reading a book. "Mac?"
"Everything okay?" MacLeod looked around.
Methos also looked around, an amused but confused expression on his face. "Yes," he said, "I think so. Why wouldn't it be?"
MacLeod felt a bit foolish, but then remembered that Methos had ambushed him, betrayed him to Christine and the others, and willfully and gleefully took pictures of him in a delicate state for the likely nefarious purpose of blackmail. "You!" he thundered, pointing at Methos.
"Me," cried Methos, trying to retreat further back into his bunk, as if he could melt into his pillow. "Now, now, don't be mad. You had fun and you know it."
MacLeod, taking only a second to kick the door shut, pounced on Methos with all of his weight.
"Ow, ow, ow," said Methos, curling in on himself. "Don't hurt me," he pleaded, but he was laughing and squirming and MacLeod had a hard job keeping Methos from sliding right through his hands. So he did the only thing he could do: MacLeod kissed him, firmly on the lips, awkwardly pressing down with his weight.
Methos went still, squeaked, arms and hands locked in odd positions until he suddenly relaxed beneath MacLeod, opening, kisses long and languid with lips and tongue and teeth.
"This isn't part of your employment contract," said Methos, eyes glinting.
"Let's call it overtime," said MacLeod, kissing Methos's nose. Methos opened his mouth. MacLeod moved against him, thigh against thigh. He pulled back, tore his shirt off, shivering as Methos slid his hands up MacLeod's back.
Methos smirked. "Still sensitive?"
"What do you think?" asked MacLeod, sticking his hand down Methos's trousers, taking hold of his cock with one smooth tug. Methos gasped.
With their clothing half off, feet dangling over the side of the bed, MacLeod stuck his tongue down Methos's throat, grunting when Methos scraped fingers down the raw skin of his back, bucking into Methos's hand until he came, hard. He took a moment, listening to his heart beating in his ears. He pressed his lips against Methos's throat, trailing down to a collarbone, to a nipple. MacLeod swirled his tongue over Methos's stomach. He pushed clothing out of the way, taking Methos's cock into his mouth, sucking deep and long. Methos gripped MacLeod's shoulders, arched up off the bed, and came.
MacLeod was just conscious enough to make sure all of their limbs were accounted for and safely on the bunk, which was decidedly not big enough for the both of them but he rectified that problem by falling asleep half on top of Methos and didn't remember anything else until their alarm woke them up two hours later.
The next day they boarded a CSF plane heading over the Transantarctic Mountains to the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Base. From there they would be going out to the Polar Plateau.
MacLeod strapped himself into the fuselage of the plane, with Methos and Alice on the other side. It was just the three of them. "Where's Brett?" he asked, yelling over the noise of the engines. He hadn't seen Brett or Brett's smile all morning.
"He's not coming," answered Methos.
"Not coming?" repeated MacLeod, shocked, as if Methos had just said Brett had turned into a parsnip. "But why?" By all accounts MacLeod should be relieved, but he felt strangely panicky at breaking up their merry little band. He had gotten used to Brett, after all.
Methos shrugged. "He was never meant to. He's scheduled elsewhere."
MacLeod frowned. "But why?"
"I don't know why. He just is."
"But why?"?
"MacLeod," said Methos, not amused, very stern and annoyed.
MacLeod grinned, thinking of the previous night and the way Methos had thrown his head back when he nipped at his neck. They had been a little awkward in the morning, but Methos had kissed MacLeod just before they left the privacy of their quarters and MacLeod couldn't help but smile wider at the memory. His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Methos turned pinker than an Antarctic morning.
Alice watched with her blue eyes and her quick understanding, and MacLeod wished he could take the teasing back, instantly sorry. He didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to come between her and Methos and whatever was blossoming there. She turned her body away as much as she could, putting on her noise protection headset.
Methos looked worriedly at Alice, sparing an angry glare at MacLeod. The mood on the plane plummeted even as they rose into the air. MacLeod wanted to say he was sorry, that he would fix it somehow, but the noise was deafening. He put his own headset on.
The plane tossed back and forth between crosswinds, sinking and rising with turbulence. At first it was like any other plane ride in Antarctica, rocky and unpredictable. But the shaking grew worse and MacLeod's head hurt from the constant jarring. There was a sudden drop. The plane stabilized, but then dropped again. Even with the noise protection headsets, he could hear a storm outside, beating against the hull. Across from him Methos sat straight-backed against the fuselage, pale, his eyes closed. Alice looked at him with an expression he had only seen on her face once before, the day of the abseil accident: white and pinched and very scared. He released his restraints, ignoring both Methos and Alice yelling at him. He couldn't hear them anyway.
The plane jarred violently. It made him stumble, bounced him from side to side, but he made it to the cockpit. It was all noise and shaking and chaos. It was difficult to hear what the pilots were saying. They yelled at him, gestured for him to take a seat, to strap himself in. "Storm," they yelled. "Very bad. We have to go back. Go back. Go back."
The pilot repeated his last two words, as if the repetition would make reality more favorable. MacLeod stumbled back. He grabbed hold of the netting along the sides of the plane just as a particularly bad plunge lifted him off his feet. He slammed against the ceiling and then fell to the floor. A little stunned, he tried to sit up. Suddenly, the plane stopped shaking. It flew smoothly. It was over, he thought, the storm had passed. In that crystal moment, he looked over and made eye contact with Methos, a perfect still shot, a frozen picture.
The next second, the floor of the plane splintered. The fuselage shook like a test tube in a centrifuge before being ripped into shreds. MacLeod saw blinding gray, almost black. He thought he'd gone blind. He didn't know up from down, but he held on, until he lost his grip, hit his head, and knew no more.
MacLeod woke up with a gasp, half buried in snow swept over him by the wind. He'd been tossed from the plane, spit out and left on the side. It was dark, an unnatural dark of a blinding snow storm blocking out the sun, but he could see pieces of the plane only a few feet in front of him. His limbs felt heavy; he couldn't feel his feet or his hands, but he stood up and started moving.
A fire burned in one of the engines, but it was so cold he couldn't feel the heat of the flames. He called for Methos, called for Alice, his voice carried away by the wind. He came upon the two pilots first, lying dead in an ungainly heap of limbs, torn from the cockpit.
MacLeod climbed into the fuselage, shouting for Methos. Methos was still strapped in, his neck broken but he was whole. There was a moan, and MacLeod rushed to Alice's side. She was bleeding into a pool of red snow that had already gathered beside her, punctured through her abdomen by a steel rod.
Through the shrieking wind and the roar of the engine fire, he could hear his breath loud in his ears. He took one of Alice's hands in his. Snow collected on her eye-lashes, powder fine, like confectioner's sugar. He wiped her face. She was lucid, he could see her recognize him. She looked deeply into his eyes as her life drained away into the snow.
He stayed with her until he feared he would never leave and he and Methos would be buried there forever. Before rising, he closed Alice's eyes.
Crawling through the plane wreck, he found their supplies, their tents and sleeping gear, Methos's cameras and film, and also the emergency kit every CSF plane carried. In the ravaged cockpit, he found the satellite phone.
He set up the tent quickly, lighting one of the camp stoves in the corner, then went back to the wreck. He dragged Methos's body, already mostly frozen, through the storm, the drag marks disappearing in the wind. Using the sleeping bags, he created a cocoon. Methos was blue, dead eyes staring. MacLeod struggled to undress him, to get his frozen clothing off. His fingers were stiff and wouldn't hold things properly. He stripped his own clothes and lay on top of Methos, needing to generate as much heat as possible.
MacLeod didn't stop to think. He didn't think of the two dead pilots. He didn't think of Alice. All he could do was chafe Methos's arms, over and over again. "Come on," he said. "Come back to me. Come back."
Lying on top of Methos, shivering, he started talking. He talked to Methos about the traveling he had done after Connor's death, the funny little towns he'd find himself in, the strange people he'd met. "She collected three-legged dogs. When I was there she had ten or twelve, all named after dead presidents. Truman was my favorite. A boxer. He was just a puppy, abandoned by his owners, left to starve. When she found him, his back right leg had to be amputated. I stayed there for three months. That was in Texas, near Galveston."
And on and on. He kept talking, wrapped his arms around Methos's unresponsive body. He whispered into his ear. "I'm so glad you asked me to come with you. I'm so glad I'm here. Wake up, Methos. Wake up."
He didn't know how long he talked. Hours, certainly. Methos gasped, sucked in air. MacLeod saw color flood Methos's face, his eyes fluttered open. He gathered Methos into his arms and squeezed, buried his head against Methos's rapidly warming neck and cried.
*
On To Part Three
Author: hafital aka Horses, Horses, Horses, Horses (get the obscure movie reference?)
Written for: Diane/dswdiane
Characters/Pairings: D/M
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: h/c
Author's Notes> I am deeply grateful to my two betas. This story is set sometime after Highlander: Endgame and fully ignores Highlander: The Source.
Summary: On the eve of Duncan selling his Seacouver loft, Methos shows up with an unusual job offer. Together they embark on a rare adventure that tests even their Immortal limits.
Go To Part One
Sastrugi
It took a bit of convincing on Methos's part, but Alice and Brett finally accepted that no permanent damage was done. Brett in particular was very insistent, citing insurance claims and formal reports, but he finally gave way. They made it back to base camp without further incident. Completely exhausted, everyone ate in total silence and then climbed into their tents with very little conversation.
Finally horizontal, MacLeod couldn't sleep. Every muscle along his shoulders and back throbbed. Each time he closed his eyes he saw Methos sliding down the wall with wide-eyed panic. He wouldn't have died. They hadn't really been in danger for their lives, and yet, MacLeod couldn't shake it. After nearly an hour of restlessness, he quietly left the tent.
The air seemed colder than earlier, although he knew it wasn't. It was just that he was tired. He sat down on one of the skidoos, turning to face the open sea so he could watch icebergs drift slowly past.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Alice standing there. He budged over so she could sit next to him. Her light brown hair was free of its braid, sticking out from underneath the hood of her jacket. Her face was white, bleached by the cold, maybe also from residual fear. He didn't know her at all. They'd both kept their distance. There seemed to be some unspoken rule about assistants and contract laborers like him staying separate from the scientists. She'd been as chilly and as frosty as the wind and the snow peaked mountains. But Methos liked her, and for him, MacLeod could be polite.
They were silent for a long time, until Alice breathed in and turned toward him. "That was an incredibly stupid and brave thing, what you did."
He smiled a little. "You sound like Adam." In truth, he didn't feel brave. He felt like a cheat. He couldn't die, no matter how many mountains he fell from, he would always rise and walk away. But these mortals, with their fragile bodies and their unstoppable thirst, they perished at the whim of the indifferent wind, at the mercy of Antarctica. He looked at Alice, really looked at her possibly for the first time since they'd met. She wasn't striking, not like Christine from McMurdo Station, but could be called pretty in the evenness of her features: petite nose, intelligent blue eyes. She was cold and haughty and not very nice, and MacLeod was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to protect her with all of his power. He wanted to protect all of them, all of these crazy humans who clung to the skin of this continent. There were tears in her eyes. She was shaking.
He took her hands in his. "Would you believe me if I told you I knew he wouldn't die? That neither of us would die. Call it faith."
She creased her forehead, wiped at her eyes. "I can't make you out, or him. What is it with the two of you?"
MacLeod squeezed her hands and then let them go. "A lot of history," he said, with another smile.
She laughed. "Okay, keep your secrets."
"Why are you here?" he asked her, really curious.
A stray hair fell over her eyes. She brushed it aside. "I love it. This is the last free place on earth. It belongs to everyone, to no one. And it can teach us so much."
"You don't think it'll get exploited eventually?" MacLeod knew there was supposed to be a wealth of untapped natural resources in Antarctica: coal, oil, gas. Sadly he felt it was just a matter of time.
"No one will let that happen," she said with such assurance MacLeod could only nod and hope she was right.
They fell silent again, sitting side by side, until without a word she got up and left, returning to her tent. He watched her, a lone figure walking, backlit by the Antarctic light.
*
MacLeod's days became a blur of cold and wind and blowing snow, the constant blue sky and the stretching white horizon. Trekking and hiking, constant movement, never resting, until Brett, always the timekeeper, signaled it was time to head back to base.
In contrast to his days, the nights were spent trying to sleep with the daylight shining through the fabric of their tent. He sometimes lay awake, with Methos's warm body lying next to his, sprawled across the floor of their tent, hogging all the space. It made him smile, and he watched Methos's chest rising and falling, listened to the wind batting against the tent, howling, wailing.
He found a friend in Alice. They worked well together; they made a good team, all three of them. MacLeod was conscious of not interfering between Methos and Alice, but it seemed to him that she held herself back, battled with her attraction to Methos, and for his part, Methos didn't push her. She was quiet and serious, only becoming animated when she spoke of her work: ice cores, trapped carbon dioxide, the atmosphere a hundred years a go, a thousand years ago, the ever present threat of global warming. "This place is disappearing," she said, her eyes glowing, her cheeks flushed. "So slowly, but I can see it. It's why I asked for Adam and why I work for CSF."
She was cagey about her involvement with CSF, enough to raise MacLeod's suspicions, to think she had another reason for wanting to document her work here. The CSF logo was everywhere, like they owned the continent. But he said nothing, helping Methos frame a shot of a deep crevasse that had opened up beneath a CSF ice core drilling station, causing all personnel to perish.
Back at McMurdo Station, word got around of MacLeod's abseil rescue, and he was made to repeat the story of the fall in the mountain fissure for everyone's entertainment.
"'Sha, man, that is intense," said a snow-blistered young man called Jaffo, laughing, holding out his hand for MacLeod to slap, to shake and snap their fingers. "You're welcome on any trip I take out onto the ice."
Others clapped him on the back, and more than one woman came close, with bright eyes and grudging respect, whispering things in his ear. "Welcome to Antarctica, baptism by fire," they said. "Not bad for a fingy, and a Carsy at that. Wait till you get slotted, then you'll really be one of us, you and your pet beaker. You'll be wintering over before you know it."
MacLeod gathered that a 'fingy' stood for 'fucking new guy' and 'beaker' was the general, slightly unfavorable, term for scientists, which apparently they thought Methos was and MacLeod didn't see the need to correct them seeing as it fit Methos so well. (He imagined Methos strongly denying any resemblance to an orange-haired muppet, and laughed). 'Slotted' had to do with falling into an unseen crevasse on the ice.
He noticed that few of his new friends wore CSF issued clothing.
"Working for Carsy's all right," said Jaffo, swigging a blue alcoholic drink. "A lot of money, good pay, good jobs. Nothing boring about being a Carsy, except the mort rate's high. Got a bad rep. They lose a lot of people every year. But that's Antarctica. Nothing safe here. Yet, Carsy's all a bit," he wrinkled his nose, eyeing Brett who had entered the room, "corporate, if you get my meaning." Jaffo leaned in conspiratorially. "Don't you think he smiles too much? It's unnatural. Some of us think he's really a robot."
MacLeod grinned. He listened with interest to the stories the others started telling of narrow escapes and daring rescues from the jaws of Antarctica. It seemed everyone had a story told in scars and wounds of near death on the ice. MacLeod enjoyed being the center of attention, listening and learning: always be prepared, never leave base without plenty of extra rope, on the ice bring an axe, bring a knife.
He caught Christine watching, hovering on the fringes of the room, as striking in appearance as before. She looked darkly at him, something in her eyes that MacLeod couldn't read, hidden and mysterious. She approached, an unspoken challenge in her stance. "You're not really one of us until you join the Three Hundred Club," she said, hands on hips. The others in the room gasped, some said to leave him alone, and others said it was the best idea, he should do it right away.
He sat back and smiled, all charm and relaxation. "Is that like the Mile High Club?"
A few laughed, and Christine just curled her lips a little. "Nothing like."
MacLeod started to feel a little uneasy. "Well, I'd love to, but I've got work to do," he said, standing, backing out of the room, suddenly eager to find Methos and hide.
They all laughed at him, and the determined look on Christine's face told him he wouldn't escape so easily.
*
MacLeod found Methos using the station's dark room, the safe light bulb indicating it was okay to enter. Methos wasn't alone. Alice turned when MacLeod opened the door, looking slightly flushed. Macleod didn't think he had interrupted anything more intimate than a conversation; she and Methos were standing side by side as he showed her photographs hanging from the clothesline running through the center of the room.
Alice said a quick good-bye, sliding past MacLeod. She gave him a pale smile before he shut the door and she disappeared around the hallway corner.
He turned toward Methos and raised his eyebrows, wondering if he should apologize. Methos shrugged.
"Well, for a pair of country mice, a couple of fingys, one of us a beaker, you and me are not bad. If tomorrow's a dingle day, we could go out to observation hill and get some grips in before we have to pack our klatch and bagdrag, leaving Mactown for the ice. I'll make sure we take a lot of nutties with us for snacks, and pray it's not a manky ride."
Methos frowned at him. "Gone native already?"
Macleod grinned. "What's wrong? Do you have your monk-on or something? Did you forget to degomble? A little too much big eye? Tired? Need to find your donga?"
"You can stop now."
"I particularly like 'Mactown.' Makes me feel at home here."
Methos shook his head, looking very much put upon. "Are you staying or going? I've got a bit more to do here before I can turn in."
"I'll stay," said MacLeod. Macleod went down the row of black and white photographs, showing a more documentary style instead of the nature shots Methos was known for.
MacLeod stopped at a photograph of him taken while still in London, in Methos's flat: he stood in front of the window, backlit so the London skyline was clear but he was just a silhouette, just the shape of a man. Next was another of him, and MacLeod was surprised to realize it had been taken the day of the accident, hundreds of meters above the ground. In the photograph his face was lined with strain, etched with deep concentration, gray against the white of the sky and the background. Methos had framed the shot to encompass the open fissure in the background and the rock wall, sheer and stark. MacLeod hadn't realized Methos had managed to take a picture; it was all a blur now, just a series of impressions of ice and rock and the heavy weight of Methos against him. The photo brought it all back.
"What do you think?" asked Methos.
MacLeod turned to the next photo of Alice hunched over a clipboard, a look of complete absorption on her face, her eyebrows creased together. Framed behind her was her tent with the CSF letters just off to the side, and then behind that a mountain, and then several more mountains behind that, like shark teeth, ragged and pointy. "Very good," he said, quietly.
They both quietly started working on separate things. MacLeod tidied up the mess that Methos always made with his cameras and his film, photographs all over the place. Methos leaned over a light board with an eyeglass, looking at developed film. At one point, Methos switched to safe light and the room turned into a murky sea of dark red.
MacLeod watched Methos as he worked, neither having spoken in over half an hour. He leaned against a metal cabinet. "Why did you want me to come with you?" he asked.
Methos looked at him. In the red light, he seemed older than his perpetual mid-thirties appearance. Or maybe Methos was just tired and the red light picked up on the shadows and the lines of his face.
"You know why. I already told you."
"No, I mean, really, why did you find me? Out of the blue, there you are. I'm not complaining. I'm glad, more than I can say, just, I don't know why."
Methos looked at the floor and was silent a long time. He fiddled with a pencil. MacLeod knew he wasn't being clear, that he hadn't truly conveyed to Methos how happy he was just at this moment, to be at the bottom of the world on an iced-over science station in a dark room with this man, this particular old friend. After everything that had happened, after all of the fighting and the deaths of those he loved and hated alike, MacLeod couldn't say how grateful he was, but he felt it, a pressure in the center of his chest.
"I don't know why," said Methos, finally. "I just woke up one morning and thought of you. Total impulse. I hadn't even planned to offer you the job that day in Seacouver, I just did. Good thing, I guess," he said with a lopsided smile.
"Nah," said MacLeod. "You'd have done fine with out me. But, I can't help but think about that anchor."
"I know," said Methos, shifting a little. "I talked to Brett about it. He blamed it on what they like to call the A-factor. It's Antarctica. The ice is unpredictable. You're thinking it wasn't an accident."
"Well," said Macleod, waggling his head back and forth. "You're usually the paranoid one--"
"With good reason!"
"--but, yeah, I do think it's a bit odd, except I can't figure how anyone could have planned it, and both Brett and Alice could have fallen as easily as you or me."
They frowned at each other. MacLeod could make guesses, instincts warring with each other, but there was nothing to be done except to go day by day and keep their eyes and ears alert.
He walked over to Methos, plucked the pencil out of his hand and laid it aside. He watched him carefully, noting the wary way Methos sort of stepped back. Macleod leaned in, his hands on Methos's shoulders, and pressed his lips to Methos's forehead, right where the bruise had been.
"This would be a perfect time for your girlfriend to walk in," MacLeod said, pulling Methos into a hug.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" said Methos with a short laugh, and MacLeod could feel the tension in Methos's back disappear.
When they pulled away, he regretted the red light that hid whether Methos blushed or not. "Tell me," MacLeod said, as conversationally as he could make it. They stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder. "Do you know what the Three Hundred Club is and should I be worried?"
Methos's eyebrows went up and he barked a laugh. "Oh, this I have to see."
Watching Methos grin like a fool and then burst out into more laughter did nothing to make MacLeod feel safe. He realized that the answer was yes; he should be very, very worried.
*
He was grabbed in the middle of his sleep cycle, arms and legs held firmly, and carried bodily through the station. He tried to fight, kicking and shouting, but it was no good. No one came to his rescue and actually, it seemed as if the crowd of faces around him grew in number, gathering more and more people as they navigated through the corridors. He recognized his captors, at least two of them: the sun-blistered Jaffo and Christine, marching beside him with firm, determined faces.
They took MacLeod through the station to one of the largest loading bays where a crowd waited.
His captors let him go and he stumbled. "What the hell is going on?"
Christine ignored him, climbing onto a couple of storage containers to rise above the crowd. "Thank you, everyone, for coming to this, Duncan MacLeod's inaugural entry into the Three Hundred Club. As I'm sure most of you know entry into this prestigious club requires the participant to go through three hundred degrees Fahrenheit by stripping naked, rolling around in the snow, and then hitting the sauna." She paused and the crowed clapped, hooted, stomped their feet, and cheered. One lone person in the back called out, "Take it off," which was met with more yelling and cheering and general mayhem.
"No way," said MacLeod, trying to leave, forcibly pushed back by a couple of big no-nonsense men. He spotted Methos in the crowd, with his perpetual camera. "Adam," he growled.
With his maniacal grin, Methos waved. "Don't get mad at me, it wasn't my idea. I'm innocent."
"And the camera? Have you no sense of decency?"
"None. Oh, and look." Methos pulled out MacLeod's compact digital camera. "Don't worry, I'll take some shots with yours as well."
"Why, you--" MacLeod lunged for Methos who quickly jumped behind Alice for protection.
Christine stepped in MacLeod's way. "It seems we have a squealer here." Everyone booed. "Don't be such a baby. Do you want company?" she asked. She turned back to the crowd, raising her voice. "Is that it? What do you say, people? Anyone want to join Duncan here so he doesn't feel so alone?"
MacLeod looked to Methos. "Absolutely not," said Methos.
"Coward. Just for that I'm going to mislabel all your film." But Methos only grinned with evil glee and took MacLeod's picture. To his own horror, MacLeod started to laugh as well, damn it all: Methos looked the happiest he'd seen him since the trip started.
The crowd started chanting: "Duncan. Duncan. Duncan." MacLeod looked out to the crowd and recognized Brett, smiling and clapping away, and Alice -- quiet, haughty Alice -- wolf whistling and yelling, "Do it. Do it," with great gusto. MacLeod felt deeply betrayed.
"Well, if no one else will, then I suppose I'd better," said Christine, MacLeod's jaw dropped when she started to strip. "Now you have to do it."
Damn, she was good. Standing up straight, with a challenging look, MacLeod whipped off his shirt. The crowd erupted in cheers. Then it was a race to get naked first. Suddenly they were joined by two more. Then a third. Then a fourth.
Six naked people, including MacLeod leading the pack, resisting the urge to cup his balls protectively, yelled and shouted, psyching themselves up and jiggling and flopping as they ran the gauntlet through the crowd. At the other end, Methos, grinning maniacally, held open the door to the outside, revealing a swirling world of wind and finely powdered snow and all MacLeod could do was yell, "I'm going to get you for this," as he ran past. Then he squealed as the cold hit him. It was a blur of shrieks and wind and blinding, dusty snow. Everyone screamed, slipped, clung to each other in a tangle of pink and brown skin rolling around on the ground. MacLeod felt like his skin would slough off, like it was all fire and ice.
Through the blinding white he saw Christine standing with her hair whipping all around her, tall and untouched by the ice, hands on her hips. She yelled, her voice carrying easily through the noise of the windstorm, "Come on, come on, everybody back inside, move it, move it, move it."
They all rushed back in. The crowd cheered as they ran down the hallway. He flashed on Methos's face in the crowd, a blurred image laughing and smiling like an imp, as MacLeod rushed forward into the communal sauna.
The first burst of warm steam felt heavenly, but then as he warmed, he felt raw all over, tender, cold on the inside and hot on the outside. Through the fog, Christine smiled. "Now you're one of us."
And all he could do was laugh, and then wince with the pain of defrosting.
*
MacLeod felt warm and tingly, sleepy after all the exertion. In the mess hall, he was plied with strange Antarctic alcoholic drinks. He talked and hugged and laughed, posing for pictures, with many people whose names he hoped he would remember, warmly accepted by everyone. He was called a friend and a good sport. He chatted up attractive women and bonded with the guys, until he noticed that Methos wasn't anywhere to be found.
He slipped away but was stopped in the hallway. Christine emerged from the shadows, her arms folded across her chest. "Looking for that good-looking beaker of yours?"
He smiled, laughed a little. There was something about this woman that made him cautious. "Why? Have you found him?"
Her dark eyes seemed to read him easily, judged him, and found him wanting. "He went back to his quarters. You should keep a better eye on him," she said with a trace of teasing threat to her tone. She moved out of MacLeod's way and down the corridor. "He seems a bit accident-prone."
She disappeared around the corner. MacLeod frowned, scratched his head, Christine's words filling him with unease as he stood outside of his quarters wondering what to expect. He could sense Methos behind the door.
With great force, he banged the door open. Startled, Methos looked up from where he sat on his bunk, cross-legged in his stocking feet, reading a book. "Mac?"
"Everything okay?" MacLeod looked around.
Methos also looked around, an amused but confused expression on his face. "Yes," he said, "I think so. Why wouldn't it be?"
MacLeod felt a bit foolish, but then remembered that Methos had ambushed him, betrayed him to Christine and the others, and willfully and gleefully took pictures of him in a delicate state for the likely nefarious purpose of blackmail. "You!" he thundered, pointing at Methos.
"Me," cried Methos, trying to retreat further back into his bunk, as if he could melt into his pillow. "Now, now, don't be mad. You had fun and you know it."
MacLeod, taking only a second to kick the door shut, pounced on Methos with all of his weight.
"Ow, ow, ow," said Methos, curling in on himself. "Don't hurt me," he pleaded, but he was laughing and squirming and MacLeod had a hard job keeping Methos from sliding right through his hands. So he did the only thing he could do: MacLeod kissed him, firmly on the lips, awkwardly pressing down with his weight.
Methos went still, squeaked, arms and hands locked in odd positions until he suddenly relaxed beneath MacLeod, opening, kisses long and languid with lips and tongue and teeth.
"This isn't part of your employment contract," said Methos, eyes glinting.
"Let's call it overtime," said MacLeod, kissing Methos's nose. Methos opened his mouth. MacLeod moved against him, thigh against thigh. He pulled back, tore his shirt off, shivering as Methos slid his hands up MacLeod's back.
Methos smirked. "Still sensitive?"
"What do you think?" asked MacLeod, sticking his hand down Methos's trousers, taking hold of his cock with one smooth tug. Methos gasped.
With their clothing half off, feet dangling over the side of the bed, MacLeod stuck his tongue down Methos's throat, grunting when Methos scraped fingers down the raw skin of his back, bucking into Methos's hand until he came, hard. He took a moment, listening to his heart beating in his ears. He pressed his lips against Methos's throat, trailing down to a collarbone, to a nipple. MacLeod swirled his tongue over Methos's stomach. He pushed clothing out of the way, taking Methos's cock into his mouth, sucking deep and long. Methos gripped MacLeod's shoulders, arched up off the bed, and came.
MacLeod was just conscious enough to make sure all of their limbs were accounted for and safely on the bunk, which was decidedly not big enough for the both of them but he rectified that problem by falling asleep half on top of Methos and didn't remember anything else until their alarm woke them up two hours later.
The next day they boarded a CSF plane heading over the Transantarctic Mountains to the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Base. From there they would be going out to the Polar Plateau.
MacLeod strapped himself into the fuselage of the plane, with Methos and Alice on the other side. It was just the three of them. "Where's Brett?" he asked, yelling over the noise of the engines. He hadn't seen Brett or Brett's smile all morning.
"He's not coming," answered Methos.
"Not coming?" repeated MacLeod, shocked, as if Methos had just said Brett had turned into a parsnip. "But why?" By all accounts MacLeod should be relieved, but he felt strangely panicky at breaking up their merry little band. He had gotten used to Brett, after all.
Methos shrugged. "He was never meant to. He's scheduled elsewhere."
MacLeod frowned. "But why?"
"I don't know why. He just is."
"But why?"?
"MacLeod," said Methos, not amused, very stern and annoyed.
MacLeod grinned, thinking of the previous night and the way Methos had thrown his head back when he nipped at his neck. They had been a little awkward in the morning, but Methos had kissed MacLeod just before they left the privacy of their quarters and MacLeod couldn't help but smile wider at the memory. His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Methos turned pinker than an Antarctic morning.
Alice watched with her blue eyes and her quick understanding, and MacLeod wished he could take the teasing back, instantly sorry. He didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to come between her and Methos and whatever was blossoming there. She turned her body away as much as she could, putting on her noise protection headset.
Methos looked worriedly at Alice, sparing an angry glare at MacLeod. The mood on the plane plummeted even as they rose into the air. MacLeod wanted to say he was sorry, that he would fix it somehow, but the noise was deafening. He put his own headset on.
The plane tossed back and forth between crosswinds, sinking and rising with turbulence. At first it was like any other plane ride in Antarctica, rocky and unpredictable. But the shaking grew worse and MacLeod's head hurt from the constant jarring. There was a sudden drop. The plane stabilized, but then dropped again. Even with the noise protection headsets, he could hear a storm outside, beating against the hull. Across from him Methos sat straight-backed against the fuselage, pale, his eyes closed. Alice looked at him with an expression he had only seen on her face once before, the day of the abseil accident: white and pinched and very scared. He released his restraints, ignoring both Methos and Alice yelling at him. He couldn't hear them anyway.
The plane jarred violently. It made him stumble, bounced him from side to side, but he made it to the cockpit. It was all noise and shaking and chaos. It was difficult to hear what the pilots were saying. They yelled at him, gestured for him to take a seat, to strap himself in. "Storm," they yelled. "Very bad. We have to go back. Go back. Go back."
The pilot repeated his last two words, as if the repetition would make reality more favorable. MacLeod stumbled back. He grabbed hold of the netting along the sides of the plane just as a particularly bad plunge lifted him off his feet. He slammed against the ceiling and then fell to the floor. A little stunned, he tried to sit up. Suddenly, the plane stopped shaking. It flew smoothly. It was over, he thought, the storm had passed. In that crystal moment, he looked over and made eye contact with Methos, a perfect still shot, a frozen picture.
The next second, the floor of the plane splintered. The fuselage shook like a test tube in a centrifuge before being ripped into shreds. MacLeod saw blinding gray, almost black. He thought he'd gone blind. He didn't know up from down, but he held on, until he lost his grip, hit his head, and knew no more.
MacLeod woke up with a gasp, half buried in snow swept over him by the wind. He'd been tossed from the plane, spit out and left on the side. It was dark, an unnatural dark of a blinding snow storm blocking out the sun, but he could see pieces of the plane only a few feet in front of him. His limbs felt heavy; he couldn't feel his feet or his hands, but he stood up and started moving.
A fire burned in one of the engines, but it was so cold he couldn't feel the heat of the flames. He called for Methos, called for Alice, his voice carried away by the wind. He came upon the two pilots first, lying dead in an ungainly heap of limbs, torn from the cockpit.
MacLeod climbed into the fuselage, shouting for Methos. Methos was still strapped in, his neck broken but he was whole. There was a moan, and MacLeod rushed to Alice's side. She was bleeding into a pool of red snow that had already gathered beside her, punctured through her abdomen by a steel rod.
Through the shrieking wind and the roar of the engine fire, he could hear his breath loud in his ears. He took one of Alice's hands in his. Snow collected on her eye-lashes, powder fine, like confectioner's sugar. He wiped her face. She was lucid, he could see her recognize him. She looked deeply into his eyes as her life drained away into the snow.
He stayed with her until he feared he would never leave and he and Methos would be buried there forever. Before rising, he closed Alice's eyes.
Crawling through the plane wreck, he found their supplies, their tents and sleeping gear, Methos's cameras and film, and also the emergency kit every CSF plane carried. In the ravaged cockpit, he found the satellite phone.
He set up the tent quickly, lighting one of the camp stoves in the corner, then went back to the wreck. He dragged Methos's body, already mostly frozen, through the storm, the drag marks disappearing in the wind. Using the sleeping bags, he created a cocoon. Methos was blue, dead eyes staring. MacLeod struggled to undress him, to get his frozen clothing off. His fingers were stiff and wouldn't hold things properly. He stripped his own clothes and lay on top of Methos, needing to generate as much heat as possible.
MacLeod didn't stop to think. He didn't think of the two dead pilots. He didn't think of Alice. All he could do was chafe Methos's arms, over and over again. "Come on," he said. "Come back to me. Come back."
Lying on top of Methos, shivering, he started talking. He talked to Methos about the traveling he had done after Connor's death, the funny little towns he'd find himself in, the strange people he'd met. "She collected three-legged dogs. When I was there she had ten or twelve, all named after dead presidents. Truman was my favorite. A boxer. He was just a puppy, abandoned by his owners, left to starve. When she found him, his back right leg had to be amputated. I stayed there for three months. That was in Texas, near Galveston."
And on and on. He kept talking, wrapped his arms around Methos's unresponsive body. He whispered into his ear. "I'm so glad you asked me to come with you. I'm so glad I'm here. Wake up, Methos. Wake up."
He didn't know how long he talked. Hours, certainly. Methos gasped, sucked in air. MacLeod saw color flood Methos's face, his eyes fluttered open. He gathered Methos into his arms and squeezed, buried his head against Methos's rapidly warming neck and cried.
*
On To Part Three