Happy Holidays, hafital!
Title: Compassing
Author: The Abominable Snowman Who Just Wants To Be Loved aka silvercobwebs
Written for: hafital
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1,850
Author's Notes: Set several years after the finale, and cheerfully ignoring the movies.
Summary: 'Being led a merry dance across continents did not imbue Duncan MacLeod with a great deal of patience. Especially when customs took a particular interest in what a man might possibly store within various body cavities...'
Just where in the world is Adam Pierson?
Compassing
The plastic video case landed on the sandy rock with a mild clatter, ending the impromptu game.
'I didn't figure you for a movie buff.' Duncan knew he shouldn't have bothered bringing the damn thing along with him, but he was a sucker for dramatic emphasis.
'Hollywood blockbusters aren't exactly high-class cinema fare, MacLeod.' Methos carefully dislodged one of the jacks from under the case and looked at it thoughtfully. 'Do you think it still counts?'
Duncan sighed and shifted his stance, taking in the odd tableau. He'd scavenged a somewhat bizarre clue Methos had left in the barge the last time he visited (Indiana Jones? Did Methos enjoy it in an ironic kind of way?) , flown thousands of miles to Jordan's ancient city of Petra, only to find him cross-legged, in the middle of an amphitheatre, playing Jacks with what looked like several small bones and a rubber ball emblazoned with a Pokemon logo.
He had to be honest with himself. It wasn't exactly what he was expecting.
'You didn't ask me here to discuss the finer points of playground games, Methos.'
'Didn't I?'
'No.' He found himself taking a seat on hot dusty ground. 'And what's with the Last Crusade?'
Methos shrugged. 'It's a classic.'
Duncan caught himself before he began to pinch the bridge of his nose. 'Do you know how many times I had to go through passport control to get here from Paris?'
'Oh, eight, at the very least.' Methos idly started to tidy away the game, slipping the jacks into a jean pocket. 'But you got the correct reference.' He looked at his watch and frowned. 'Eventually.'
Duncan continued. 'And do you know how many different countries he visits in that damn movie? I almost didn't think I did 'get it'.' His fingers were itching. It's not that he wanted to hit Methos, per se, but he certainly wouldn't have minded giving him a good shake. 'Why bring me here? What can we only talk about here that we can't at the barge or Seacouver?' He raised a warning finger. 'And don't you dare say Indiana Jones.'
'You've never been here before. I thought you'd enjoy the view.'
There he went again. Brushing off a real question with glib comments, sarcasm, the occasional half-truth perhaps. Why did it seem impossible to get a straight answer out of the man? It was like nailing jelly to a wall whilst wearing boxing gloves. Drunk.
'And the real reason?'
Methos smiled. 'I recommend the Treasury. I know, I know, it's touristy, and the Grail is long gone,' Duncan took the extended hand with a roll of his eyes, and watched as Methos rose and dusted off his jeans, slipping the video into a well-worn rucksack and slinging it over a shoulder. 'But it's still an impressive bit of architecture. For the time, of course.' Methos began to walk in the opposite direction, toward the various alcoves dotted into the caramel-coloured rock. 'I'm off to visit an old comrade, I'll catch you later.'
Watching his friend (Friend? Not quite travelling companion? All-purpose pain in the ass?) turn into a black dot on the horizon, Duncan shook his head, tempted to run after him and demand a real explanation, but something made him stop and head back in the direction of the massive building built into the rock. It was too hot, and he convinced himself that he needed the shelter. Methos had to come back that way eventually, and then he'd corner him and finally extract some sort of answer, just for a change. Yes, that made good sense. So why was he feeling a decided lack of conviction?
As he rested in the shade of one of the giant supporting pillars Duncan finally noticed the odd-shaped lump tucked into the back pocket of his pack. Tugging it free, he opened a small canvas bag to reveal a cigar. A Cuban cigar, from Varadero, to be exact. He hadn't smoked a good cigar in a long time, and smiled, enjoying its comfortable weight and distinctive smell. But why had Methos planted it?
Four hours later, and Methos had still not returned. Guides were attempting to herd the last of the tourists out to the rumbling buses, and Duncan had to admit defeat. He ran a finger over the band of the cigar and frowned. Cuba it was then.
+++
It didn't take him long to find him: Duncan simply headed for the nearest beach by the most expensive hotel.
Bingo. Just look for the pale guy in the swimming trunks with the five thousand year-old Buzz. Jesus, that wasn't a copy of 'The Da Vinci Code' he was reading, was it?
Duncan strolled purposefully towards his target, teetering back and forth between amusement and anger as he began to anticipate The Explanation. Another sightseeing trip? A sudden need for a tan? Maybe the old man just needed a damn cabana boy. He plucked the cigar from his pocket and tossed it skywards.
Methos picked the still-untouched cigar from his lap and produced a passable Groucho Marx impression, waggling it between his fingers.
'You didn't even smoke it?' he queried in disbelief, eyebrow arched above sunglass level.
'Maybe I wanted to keep the memento,' Duncan replied drily, snatching it back and slipping it into a pocket. He slid onto the nearest sun chair and cocked his head, waiting, whilst Methos returned to his battered paperback and a frosted brown bottle.
Being led a merry dance across continents did not imbue Duncan MacLeod with a great deal of patience. Especially when customs took a particular interest in what a man might possibly store within various body cavities. Methos calmly enjoying a cold one in the middle of a beach definitely wasn't helping his feelings of frustration, but him lounging there reading Dan-bloody-Brown of all things was what he felt legitimately tipped him over the edge.
With one hand Duncan seized the book from his companion, whilst the other took the beer hostage. Drastic times and all that.
'Hey!'
Duncan began to tip the bottle sandwards.
'Alright alright,' Methos hastily raised his palms in a conciliatory gesture, muttering about the lack of need to be so malicious. He drew his sunglasses above his head and gave Duncan a hard stare. 'You want to know why I left the cigar, yes?'
'Bright boy.'
'I'm dying.' Methos stated dramatically, and flicked the sunglasses back on.
'You're immortal.'
Methos scowled. 'You really know how to ruin the moment, don't you MacLeod?'
Duncan snorted and allowed the bottle to be recovered to its former owner. 'Yeah, the obvious is such a downer.'
Methos ignored him. 'Anyway, I hadn't finished speaking. I'm metaphorically dying.' He took a sip of the released hostage. 'Maybe.'
Maybe it was the jet-lag, the fact that he hasn't got any sleep for the last seventy two hours, or maybe it was just the fact that he was so damn tired in general, but Duncan MacLeod was no longer in the mood for this.
'What?'
'I'm old, MacLeod. Tired. Maybe I want to move on, explore the last great unknown, impart some sort of wisdom to a small child, write a will. Maybe I've had enough of life.'
Duncan nodded gravely. 'Or maybe,' he leaned forward conspiratorially, and whispered, 'just maybe you're full of shit.'
Methos swiftly alighted the chair and tossed Duncan the book and the mostly empty bottle. 'You're right. Maybe a cigar is just a cigar.'
The older Immortal disappeared into a crowd as Duncan wrung out the last remnants of the local brew. By the time he reached main reception and found Methos' room, it was too late. The only thing left was a small crude plaster model of the Colosseum sitting on the bed, daring him to pick it up.
+++
Rome was hot, overcrowded and filled with too many locals riding Vespas. Duncan's mood was not on the up.
'I thought Joe could do with the holiday,' Methos explained as he sipped his espresso.
'Son-of-a-bitch. You really think he enjoys all that walking? You think he sees it as a holiday?' But for the grace of teeming public spaces, otherwise Duncan would have been producing what could be most diplomatically described as a scene.
'It's on his gig list, Mac. I believe he's even acquiring groupies.'
Duncan rose from his seat and slammed the small crumbling model by Methos' cup, making the table shake. 'I'm not playing this game any more.'
'I never said it was a game, Duncan.' Methos' voice softened as he watched the Highlander part crowds with a swiftness that would have left Moses envious.
+++
Duncan MacLeod decided he needed his head checked. He was crazy. There was no other explanation for this... madness!
He couldn't let it go. And so the global scavenger hunt continued. And the worst part of it all was that he was starting to enjoy it.
The somewhat obscure 'clue' of a Rubik's cube lead him to Budapest and another excuse, and then on to Prague, Versailles and then York. The final clue was a golf ball. A blue golf ball with the cross of St Andrew adorning it. The Saltire. Home.
Scotland.
+++
Methos was waiting for him on the steps by the eighteenth green.
It was time to dispense with diplomacy, Duncan had decided.
'This is it, Adam,' he hissed, ignoring the withering looks shot by the other spectators. 'No more scavenger hunts, no more Carmen Sandiego, no - '
Methos clapped politely as the ball dropped neatly into the last hole.
'Carmen who?'
'Not important.' Duncan edged closer, his sense of personal space evaporated into the chilly Scottish mist. 'I'm asking you one last time: Why?'
Methos shot him a weary smile. 'I told you from the beginning, Duncan. I wanted you to see the sights.' His expression softened even more, and he looked away for a moment. 'I want you to live, Highlander, and you haven't been doing that for a very long time. You didn't even smoke the damn cigar.'
'And you decided to tell me that by making me run after you all over the globe?'
'I didn't make you do anything: you did that all by yourself.' Methos' grin was annoyingly infectious, if somewhat smug.
The next ball silently slipped into the hole, and they dutifully clapped.
Methos stood and stretched, taking Duncan's extended hand to help him up, and said nothing when he didn't let go.
'Remind me,' Duncan's voice softened. 'Do you always screw around the people you care for, or am I an exception?'
'Yes.' Methos smiled briefly again and nodded towards the hotel. 'It's bloody freezing out here, Mac, and there's a sixteen year-old bottle of Lagavulin waiting in there with our names on it. What do you say?'
Duncan stopped and took in his surroundings. Scotland, Methos, a local in a denim jacket and kilt walking his dog, the smell of damp grass. He was home, more or less. There were only three words left in him.
'I say yes.'
+++
End.
Author: The Abominable Snowman Who Just Wants To Be Loved aka silvercobwebs
Written for: hafital
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1,850
Author's Notes: Set several years after the finale, and cheerfully ignoring the movies.
Summary: 'Being led a merry dance across continents did not imbue Duncan MacLeod with a great deal of patience. Especially when customs took a particular interest in what a man might possibly store within various body cavities...'
Just where in the world is Adam Pierson?
Compassing
The plastic video case landed on the sandy rock with a mild clatter, ending the impromptu game.
'I didn't figure you for a movie buff.' Duncan knew he shouldn't have bothered bringing the damn thing along with him, but he was a sucker for dramatic emphasis.
'Hollywood blockbusters aren't exactly high-class cinema fare, MacLeod.' Methos carefully dislodged one of the jacks from under the case and looked at it thoughtfully. 'Do you think it still counts?'
Duncan sighed and shifted his stance, taking in the odd tableau. He'd scavenged a somewhat bizarre clue Methos had left in the barge the last time he visited (Indiana Jones? Did Methos enjoy it in an ironic kind of way?) , flown thousands of miles to Jordan's ancient city of Petra, only to find him cross-legged, in the middle of an amphitheatre, playing Jacks with what looked like several small bones and a rubber ball emblazoned with a Pokemon logo.
He had to be honest with himself. It wasn't exactly what he was expecting.
'You didn't ask me here to discuss the finer points of playground games, Methos.'
'Didn't I?'
'No.' He found himself taking a seat on hot dusty ground. 'And what's with the Last Crusade?'
Methos shrugged. 'It's a classic.'
Duncan caught himself before he began to pinch the bridge of his nose. 'Do you know how many times I had to go through passport control to get here from Paris?'
'Oh, eight, at the very least.' Methos idly started to tidy away the game, slipping the jacks into a jean pocket. 'But you got the correct reference.' He looked at his watch and frowned. 'Eventually.'
Duncan continued. 'And do you know how many different countries he visits in that damn movie? I almost didn't think I did 'get it'.' His fingers were itching. It's not that he wanted to hit Methos, per se, but he certainly wouldn't have minded giving him a good shake. 'Why bring me here? What can we only talk about here that we can't at the barge or Seacouver?' He raised a warning finger. 'And don't you dare say Indiana Jones.'
'You've never been here before. I thought you'd enjoy the view.'
There he went again. Brushing off a real question with glib comments, sarcasm, the occasional half-truth perhaps. Why did it seem impossible to get a straight answer out of the man? It was like nailing jelly to a wall whilst wearing boxing gloves. Drunk.
'And the real reason?'
Methos smiled. 'I recommend the Treasury. I know, I know, it's touristy, and the Grail is long gone,' Duncan took the extended hand with a roll of his eyes, and watched as Methos rose and dusted off his jeans, slipping the video into a well-worn rucksack and slinging it over a shoulder. 'But it's still an impressive bit of architecture. For the time, of course.' Methos began to walk in the opposite direction, toward the various alcoves dotted into the caramel-coloured rock. 'I'm off to visit an old comrade, I'll catch you later.'
Watching his friend (Friend? Not quite travelling companion? All-purpose pain in the ass?) turn into a black dot on the horizon, Duncan shook his head, tempted to run after him and demand a real explanation, but something made him stop and head back in the direction of the massive building built into the rock. It was too hot, and he convinced himself that he needed the shelter. Methos had to come back that way eventually, and then he'd corner him and finally extract some sort of answer, just for a change. Yes, that made good sense. So why was he feeling a decided lack of conviction?
As he rested in the shade of one of the giant supporting pillars Duncan finally noticed the odd-shaped lump tucked into the back pocket of his pack. Tugging it free, he opened a small canvas bag to reveal a cigar. A Cuban cigar, from Varadero, to be exact. He hadn't smoked a good cigar in a long time, and smiled, enjoying its comfortable weight and distinctive smell. But why had Methos planted it?
Four hours later, and Methos had still not returned. Guides were attempting to herd the last of the tourists out to the rumbling buses, and Duncan had to admit defeat. He ran a finger over the band of the cigar and frowned. Cuba it was then.
+++
It didn't take him long to find him: Duncan simply headed for the nearest beach by the most expensive hotel.
Bingo. Just look for the pale guy in the swimming trunks with the five thousand year-old Buzz. Jesus, that wasn't a copy of 'The Da Vinci Code' he was reading, was it?
Duncan strolled purposefully towards his target, teetering back and forth between amusement and anger as he began to anticipate The Explanation. Another sightseeing trip? A sudden need for a tan? Maybe the old man just needed a damn cabana boy. He plucked the cigar from his pocket and tossed it skywards.
Methos picked the still-untouched cigar from his lap and produced a passable Groucho Marx impression, waggling it between his fingers.
'You didn't even smoke it?' he queried in disbelief, eyebrow arched above sunglass level.
'Maybe I wanted to keep the memento,' Duncan replied drily, snatching it back and slipping it into a pocket. He slid onto the nearest sun chair and cocked his head, waiting, whilst Methos returned to his battered paperback and a frosted brown bottle.
Being led a merry dance across continents did not imbue Duncan MacLeod with a great deal of patience. Especially when customs took a particular interest in what a man might possibly store within various body cavities. Methos calmly enjoying a cold one in the middle of a beach definitely wasn't helping his feelings of frustration, but him lounging there reading Dan-bloody-Brown of all things was what he felt legitimately tipped him over the edge.
With one hand Duncan seized the book from his companion, whilst the other took the beer hostage. Drastic times and all that.
'Hey!'
Duncan began to tip the bottle sandwards.
'Alright alright,' Methos hastily raised his palms in a conciliatory gesture, muttering about the lack of need to be so malicious. He drew his sunglasses above his head and gave Duncan a hard stare. 'You want to know why I left the cigar, yes?'
'Bright boy.'
'I'm dying.' Methos stated dramatically, and flicked the sunglasses back on.
'You're immortal.'
Methos scowled. 'You really know how to ruin the moment, don't you MacLeod?'
Duncan snorted and allowed the bottle to be recovered to its former owner. 'Yeah, the obvious is such a downer.'
Methos ignored him. 'Anyway, I hadn't finished speaking. I'm metaphorically dying.' He took a sip of the released hostage. 'Maybe.'
Maybe it was the jet-lag, the fact that he hasn't got any sleep for the last seventy two hours, or maybe it was just the fact that he was so damn tired in general, but Duncan MacLeod was no longer in the mood for this.
'What?'
'I'm old, MacLeod. Tired. Maybe I want to move on, explore the last great unknown, impart some sort of wisdom to a small child, write a will. Maybe I've had enough of life.'
Duncan nodded gravely. 'Or maybe,' he leaned forward conspiratorially, and whispered, 'just maybe you're full of shit.'
Methos swiftly alighted the chair and tossed Duncan the book and the mostly empty bottle. 'You're right. Maybe a cigar is just a cigar.'
The older Immortal disappeared into a crowd as Duncan wrung out the last remnants of the local brew. By the time he reached main reception and found Methos' room, it was too late. The only thing left was a small crude plaster model of the Colosseum sitting on the bed, daring him to pick it up.
+++
Rome was hot, overcrowded and filled with too many locals riding Vespas. Duncan's mood was not on the up.
'I thought Joe could do with the holiday,' Methos explained as he sipped his espresso.
'Son-of-a-bitch. You really think he enjoys all that walking? You think he sees it as a holiday?' But for the grace of teeming public spaces, otherwise Duncan would have been producing what could be most diplomatically described as a scene.
'It's on his gig list, Mac. I believe he's even acquiring groupies.'
Duncan rose from his seat and slammed the small crumbling model by Methos' cup, making the table shake. 'I'm not playing this game any more.'
'I never said it was a game, Duncan.' Methos' voice softened as he watched the Highlander part crowds with a swiftness that would have left Moses envious.
+++
Duncan MacLeod decided he needed his head checked. He was crazy. There was no other explanation for this... madness!
He couldn't let it go. And so the global scavenger hunt continued. And the worst part of it all was that he was starting to enjoy it.
The somewhat obscure 'clue' of a Rubik's cube lead him to Budapest and another excuse, and then on to Prague, Versailles and then York. The final clue was a golf ball. A blue golf ball with the cross of St Andrew adorning it. The Saltire. Home.
Scotland.
+++
Methos was waiting for him on the steps by the eighteenth green.
It was time to dispense with diplomacy, Duncan had decided.
'This is it, Adam,' he hissed, ignoring the withering looks shot by the other spectators. 'No more scavenger hunts, no more Carmen Sandiego, no - '
Methos clapped politely as the ball dropped neatly into the last hole.
'Carmen who?'
'Not important.' Duncan edged closer, his sense of personal space evaporated into the chilly Scottish mist. 'I'm asking you one last time: Why?'
Methos shot him a weary smile. 'I told you from the beginning, Duncan. I wanted you to see the sights.' His expression softened even more, and he looked away for a moment. 'I want you to live, Highlander, and you haven't been doing that for a very long time. You didn't even smoke the damn cigar.'
'And you decided to tell me that by making me run after you all over the globe?'
'I didn't make you do anything: you did that all by yourself.' Methos' grin was annoyingly infectious, if somewhat smug.
The next ball silently slipped into the hole, and they dutifully clapped.
Methos stood and stretched, taking Duncan's extended hand to help him up, and said nothing when he didn't let go.
'Remind me,' Duncan's voice softened. 'Do you always screw around the people you care for, or am I an exception?'
'Yes.' Methos smiled briefly again and nodded towards the hotel. 'It's bloody freezing out here, Mac, and there's a sixteen year-old bottle of Lagavulin waiting in there with our names on it. What do you say?'
Duncan stopped and took in his surroundings. Scotland, Methos, a local in a denim jacket and kilt walking his dog, the smell of damp grass. He was home, more or less. There were only three words left in him.
'I say yes.'
+++
End.