(no subject)
Title: Museum Piece
Author: Hontownlaw
Takes place shortly after the events of Finale I and II. MacLeod waits for Methos. And waits. And waits. I would rate this G. Slash only if you squint REALLY hard. If you like it, let me know. Let me know even if you don't like it.
Museum Piece
Duncan MacLeod set his cup of coffee down on the steps and looked again at his watch.
Well, this is familiar, he thought. Some things never change. Seems like I always end up waiting for Methos.
He had been surprised and almost ridiculously pleased to get the phone call the day before.
*******
"Methos! How did you know I was in London?"
"Used my ancient wisdom, of course. That and the telephone to ask Dawson where you were."
MacLeod hesitated a moment before responding. So Methos had made an effort to find him? This was a good sign. "Well, I'm glad you called. You never even said goodbye in Paris. I wasn't sure... when I would hear from you. I wasn't sure-"
"Yeah, well I always show up again. Eventually. The perpetual bad penny. How long are you in town?"
"Just through tomorrow. I'm finishing up the estate I'm appraising and my flight leaves at six. But what about you? Are you living here? Any plans to return-"
"I'm just passing through." Methos paused a moment. "But I would like to see you. How about a late lunch? There's an old text of mine I want to have a look at, but I could meet you afterward. Say about three o'clock? Outside the British Museum."
"Sure, that sounds wonderful. I'll meet you on the steps. Methos, I'm really looking forward to-"
But Methos had already hung up the phone.
*******
As he went over the last pieces from the posh Mayfair estate, MacLeod found his thoughts wandering. It would be good to simply see Methos again, but he was also hoping to persuade him to return to Seacouver. Or Paris. Any place where the ancient Immortal would feel comfortable enough to stick around. Feel safe.
MacLeod shook his head and signed off on the final appraisal sheet. He needed to get back to his hotel and check out if he wanted to make it to the British Museum by three.
*******
So, here I am, 3:45 and no Methos.
MacLeod took another sip of his Starbucks coffee as he sat on the museum steps. He felt a twinge of conscience about patronizing the ubiquitous chain, but they really did have some of the best coffee in London.
Why is everything involving Methos so complicated? There's so much about him I don't know and I can't pin him down long enough to get past the façade he's thrown up around himself.
Ironic, but the one thing he wanted with the old man was the one thing they both had in such abundance - time. He needed the time to get to know Methos, someone who was certainly more than his present persona of perpetual grad student Adam Pierson.
There had been a few occasions when the door of the façade had cracked open for a brief instant and he had seen flashes of things truly ancient in those eyes.
Methos reminded him of the lochs of his homeland. Their smooth surfaces hid incalculable, black depths - cold and filled with secrets both magical and terrifying.
When he was young, MacLeod had believed that kelpies lived in the depths of the lochs. If you became entranced by one of the beautiful creatures, they would drag you down beneath the water and you could never return to the world you knew.
He no longer believed in kelpies, but it crossed his mind that Methos might harbor secrets that were just as dangerous as the mythical beasts.
Still, he wanted to know. Methos never spoke about his past. Oh, he would spin ridiculous stories for Joe Dawson about riding with Butch and Sundance, but he never shared anything real. Anything that would shed light on a man who had walked the earth for five thousand years. Had he met Christ? Seen Rome burn? Watched them build the pyramids? Every time MacLeod tried to steer a conversation toward events Methos might have experienced, the old man managed to twist things so that before MacLeod knew it, the train of talk had been shifted into an entirely different direction. The man should have been a lawyer. Probably had been. More than once.
He glanced again at his watch. 4:20.
He's in some dusty old Charing Cross bookstore. Probably located something he wrote hundreds of years ago and he's trying to pick it up for a song. Or he started reading some obscure, old book and he's lost track of time.
MacLeod looked out over the crowds milling about in the large courtyard in front of the museum and squinted up at the sun.
We won't have time for lunch now. Not if I'm going to catch my flight. Maybe it's not even a bookstore that sucked him in. He might be in some pub right now, trying out a new ale from the currently trendy microbrewery. Or maybe he just plain forgot...
MacLeod slowly set the coffee cup down on the steps. He could tell from its feel that the coffee inside had grown cold. The early spring sun also seemed to have lost what little warmth it had been putting out. He drew his coat tighter around himself. The shadows of the buildings on Great Russell Street were now deep and long. It was time to go.
He stood and pulled the strap of his small carry-on over his shoulder. He turned to glance back at the museum before starting slowly down the stairs.
Why did he even suggest this as a meeting spot? Did he have some reason to be here...?
He stopped abruptly. The couple behind him with their arms entwined around each other nearly ran into him. They gave him an annoyed look as they continued down the stairs, but MacLeod had already turned and was racing back up.
He passed through the massive doors and made an immediate left past the bookshop, then turned right after the display of Assyrian sculpture. There it was. The Plexiglas case containing the flat, tilted slab. A crowd surrounded it, all pressing and pushing for a better vantage point. To get a closer look at the dark object inside. The Rosetta Stone.
The tall man in the long, dark coat stood on the edge of the crowd, his back to MacLeod. MacLeod knew that Methos had sensed him long before he quietly slipped up behind him, but Methos didn't turn to acknowledge him. MacLeod waited silently. After a few seconds, Methos softly spoke, still staring at the case and its contents.
"Did I ever tell you that I was once a scribe...?"
The End
Author: Hontownlaw
Takes place shortly after the events of Finale I and II. MacLeod waits for Methos. And waits. And waits. I would rate this G. Slash only if you squint REALLY hard. If you like it, let me know. Let me know even if you don't like it.
Museum Piece
Duncan MacLeod set his cup of coffee down on the steps and looked again at his watch.
Well, this is familiar, he thought. Some things never change. Seems like I always end up waiting for Methos.
He had been surprised and almost ridiculously pleased to get the phone call the day before.
*******
"Methos! How did you know I was in London?"
"Used my ancient wisdom, of course. That and the telephone to ask Dawson where you were."
MacLeod hesitated a moment before responding. So Methos had made an effort to find him? This was a good sign. "Well, I'm glad you called. You never even said goodbye in Paris. I wasn't sure... when I would hear from you. I wasn't sure-"
"Yeah, well I always show up again. Eventually. The perpetual bad penny. How long are you in town?"
"Just through tomorrow. I'm finishing up the estate I'm appraising and my flight leaves at six. But what about you? Are you living here? Any plans to return-"
"I'm just passing through." Methos paused a moment. "But I would like to see you. How about a late lunch? There's an old text of mine I want to have a look at, but I could meet you afterward. Say about three o'clock? Outside the British Museum."
"Sure, that sounds wonderful. I'll meet you on the steps. Methos, I'm really looking forward to-"
But Methos had already hung up the phone.
*******
As he went over the last pieces from the posh Mayfair estate, MacLeod found his thoughts wandering. It would be good to simply see Methos again, but he was also hoping to persuade him to return to Seacouver. Or Paris. Any place where the ancient Immortal would feel comfortable enough to stick around. Feel safe.
MacLeod shook his head and signed off on the final appraisal sheet. He needed to get back to his hotel and check out if he wanted to make it to the British Museum by three.
*******
So, here I am, 3:45 and no Methos.
MacLeod took another sip of his Starbucks coffee as he sat on the museum steps. He felt a twinge of conscience about patronizing the ubiquitous chain, but they really did have some of the best coffee in London.
Why is everything involving Methos so complicated? There's so much about him I don't know and I can't pin him down long enough to get past the façade he's thrown up around himself.
Ironic, but the one thing he wanted with the old man was the one thing they both had in such abundance - time. He needed the time to get to know Methos, someone who was certainly more than his present persona of perpetual grad student Adam Pierson.
There had been a few occasions when the door of the façade had cracked open for a brief instant and he had seen flashes of things truly ancient in those eyes.
Methos reminded him of the lochs of his homeland. Their smooth surfaces hid incalculable, black depths - cold and filled with secrets both magical and terrifying.
When he was young, MacLeod had believed that kelpies lived in the depths of the lochs. If you became entranced by one of the beautiful creatures, they would drag you down beneath the water and you could never return to the world you knew.
He no longer believed in kelpies, but it crossed his mind that Methos might harbor secrets that were just as dangerous as the mythical beasts.
Still, he wanted to know. Methos never spoke about his past. Oh, he would spin ridiculous stories for Joe Dawson about riding with Butch and Sundance, but he never shared anything real. Anything that would shed light on a man who had walked the earth for five thousand years. Had he met Christ? Seen Rome burn? Watched them build the pyramids? Every time MacLeod tried to steer a conversation toward events Methos might have experienced, the old man managed to twist things so that before MacLeod knew it, the train of talk had been shifted into an entirely different direction. The man should have been a lawyer. Probably had been. More than once.
He glanced again at his watch. 4:20.
He's in some dusty old Charing Cross bookstore. Probably located something he wrote hundreds of years ago and he's trying to pick it up for a song. Or he started reading some obscure, old book and he's lost track of time.
MacLeod looked out over the crowds milling about in the large courtyard in front of the museum and squinted up at the sun.
We won't have time for lunch now. Not if I'm going to catch my flight. Maybe it's not even a bookstore that sucked him in. He might be in some pub right now, trying out a new ale from the currently trendy microbrewery. Or maybe he just plain forgot...
MacLeod slowly set the coffee cup down on the steps. He could tell from its feel that the coffee inside had grown cold. The early spring sun also seemed to have lost what little warmth it had been putting out. He drew his coat tighter around himself. The shadows of the buildings on Great Russell Street were now deep and long. It was time to go.
He stood and pulled the strap of his small carry-on over his shoulder. He turned to glance back at the museum before starting slowly down the stairs.
Why did he even suggest this as a meeting spot? Did he have some reason to be here...?
He stopped abruptly. The couple behind him with their arms entwined around each other nearly ran into him. They gave him an annoyed look as they continued down the stairs, but MacLeod had already turned and was racing back up.
He passed through the massive doors and made an immediate left past the bookshop, then turned right after the display of Assyrian sculpture. There it was. The Plexiglas case containing the flat, tilted slab. A crowd surrounded it, all pressing and pushing for a better vantage point. To get a closer look at the dark object inside. The Rosetta Stone.
The tall man in the long, dark coat stood on the edge of the crowd, his back to MacLeod. MacLeod knew that Methos had sensed him long before he quietly slipped up behind him, but Methos didn't turn to acknowledge him. MacLeod waited silently. After a few seconds, Methos softly spoke, still staring at the case and its contents.
"Did I ever tell you that I was once a scribe...?"
The End