by C.L. Finn
Maurice's Club was nearly empty when a dark cloud by the name of Methos blew in. Joe could see the tension radiating off the ancient Immortal as he crossed the room to the table. The fact that he was alone made Joe even more curious about what had transpired at the concert arena.
"Where's Mac?" Joe asked.
"Waiting in the wings, I suppose," Methos answered bitterly.
"What?"
"He intends to challenge Byron." Methos looked at the clock on the wall behind the bar. The bar was nearly deserted, only the last few stragglers waiting to be shooed out. "Actually, the concert should be over. They're probably fighting now. Stupid son of a bitch." The last was muttered under his breath as he tossed his coat down on a chair and flopped into the one across from Joe.
"I take it you don't approve."
"Approve? Why shouldn't I approve? Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod is the arbiter of what's good and right. Apparently, I'd forgotten that fact." Methos snorted in an angry laugh. "Byron transgressed MacLeod's code of behavior, so he deserves to die. Never mind the fact that the man is a brilliant artist... that he's contributed something important to this world. And never mind the fact that he's my friend."
Methos ran his hands over his face and through his hair, then let out a deep breath of frustration. Joe just sat quietly and watched him, allowing him to let off steam.
"I don't understand it, Joe. I thought he was getting over this urge to judge. After Ingrid, the Horsemen, Keane... and me... I thought he was getting beyond the black and white."
Joe stared at Methos for several seconds, and then chuckled, shaking his head. "You really don't get it, do you?"
"Get what, Joe?"
"I've been Duncan MacLeod's Watcher for about 17 years now... and I've been watching the two of you for the past two years. He is starting to see your point of view... but he's not going to change. He will always be a protector... a champion of good, if you will. But that's not what this is about."
"You want to tell me what it's about then, oh expert on Duncan MacLeod?"
"I don't really need to, do I?" Joe asked quietly. Methos stared at him with narrowed eyes, making Joe feel suddenly like a bug under a microscope. Clearly, he'd hit a nerve. A grunt of annoyance was all the reaction Joe got before Methos jumped up and began to pace nervously.
"Can I ask you something?" Joe broke the silence after a few minutes.
"What?"
"Well, you obviously disagree with Mac challenging Byron.... so what I'm wondering is, why didn't you stop him?"
"Stop him? Duncan MacLeod when he's on a mission? Yeah, right." Methos snorted.
"True, most people couldn't stop him. I sure couldn't. But you, Methos... you could if you tried." Joe put his hand up when Methos started to argue. "I've seen you manipulate him... and you're just as, if not more, stubborn than him when you want to be. We both know it wouldn't have come to swords if you'd truly put your foot down. So, why didn't you?"
Deflated by the question, Methos slid back down into his chair.
"Because, I knew that ultimately that's what Byron wanted. He wanted to die. And because... because if it came down to a choice between MacLeod and Byron... well, let's just say that I made that choice a while ago."
Both men lapsed into silence at the raw honesty of the answer. Joe watched Maurice usher the last few patrons out of the bar and put up the closed sign on the front door. He said goodnight to Joe and Methos, who responded with barely a wave of acknowledgment, and left after telling Joe to stay as long as he wanted and lock up when he left.
Joe was about to venture back into the subject when he saw Methos shudder and grip the table, his face flushing pink.
"Methos!" Joe exclaimed, reaching across the table to get his attention. "What's wrong?"
The ancient Immortal visibly shook off whatever had gripped him and stood up stiffly. "Byron's dead," he said flatly.
"How do you know that?"
"Because MacLeod just took a Quickening." He moved to pace restlessly across the bar again, looking not unlike a caged tiger. "I can feel it."
"You can feel Mac's Quickening? How Methos?" Joe asked, intrigued by this new information, and its implications.
It quickly became obvious that Methos was through talking. All Joe got in response to his queries was a dark glare, and Methos moved his pacing farther away from the mortal. Knowing when to give up, Joe moved back to the stage and picked up his guitar. If Methos was going to do his imitation of a stone wall, he intended to fill the silence with something else. Eventually, Methos wore himself out pacing and moved to the bar, helping himself to a bottle of whiskey and a glass, then flopping down on one of the bar's couches.
A few seconds after that, Duncan MacLeod walked through the door.
Duncan stopped in the doorway, as if waiting to be congratulated for winning. Methos stared back at him, annoyed that he should have a moment of relief at having tangible proof that Duncan was still alive. But it also meant that Byron was dead. He should have known, he thought, turning away from Duncan to pour himself a full glass of whiskey. He should have known the second Byron walked into the bar that these two men could not occupy the same time and space.
"Matter and anti-matter," Methos said, for lack of anything better. "Byron knew that too." At least, Methos thought, his friend had gotten what he craved in the end. "His life had become one long tragedy," he said as Duncan sat down next to him and helped himself to his bottle.
"We all know how those end."
He turned away from Duncan, putting his knee up on the couch, and took a drink of his whiskey. Both men sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts while Joe went back to playing his guitar. Methos was trying hard to contain his anger at Duncan. His earlier discussion with Joe had begun to cool him off, but it didn't lessen the arrogance and flippancy of Duncan's words now. Because of that, he knew there was no use in trying to say any more. Sticking around would only tempt him to say things that shouldn't be said.
Finishing off his drink, Methos set his glass on the table and stood up.
"Well, I'm going home," he said, and grabbed his coat, starting toward the door. "Night, Joe."
"Later, Methos," Joe answered without breaking his tune.
Duncan stared in surprise at Methos' quick exit. He looked at Joe and then at Methos' back just as he headed up the steps to the door, sliding into his coat.
"Wait," Duncan called, standing up to follow, feeling unreasonably panicked. "I had to do it, Methos. You understand that?"
"I understand your reasoning just fine," Methos said coldly.
"Then what are you so angry about? I know he was an old friend, but Methos, he was too dangerous."
Methos stared down at Duncan for a few seconds, considering him carefully. The younger Immortal was standing there, waiting for absolution-- to be told that he'd done the right thing and that all was forgiven. Methos had to fight not to laugh out loud at the irony of the situation. Duncan had found it near impossible to get past what Methos had done three-thousand years ago, but he was suddenly desperate for Methos' acceptance. For a brief moment, he reveled in the acknowledgment of power over the Highlander, but it passed quickly. He wasn't about to point the situation out to Duncan or to hold it over him, but he also wasn't going to give Duncan what he wanted.
"Mac, you made your choice and you did what you thought you had to do, but I'm not going to pat you on the head and say good boy. We all have to rationalize our own choices. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go mourn the death of my friend." And with that he turned and walked out the door, leaving Duncan speechless in his wake.
Duncan stood frozen, staring at the door Methos had departed through for several seconds. It was the sudden silence as Joe stopped playing that snapped him out of his shock.
"What the hell was that?!" he asked, turning around to face Joe, but the question was clearly rhetorical. Grabbing his coat, Mac turned and stormed out of the bar before Joe could say a word.
The cold air was soothing when Duncan first stepped outside the bar, but it didn't last long. The Quickening was still racing through his body, skittering across his nerve endings with heat and electricity. But this particular Quickening was different, more intense in some ways. His skin was crawling with an itch that felt like something clawing its way out, and there was an aching emptiness settling deep under his sternum. The assault on his senses and Methos' cold departure fueled a growing rage inside him as he started down the sidewalk in the direction Methos had gone.
Two blocks later he spotted the old Immortal walking briskly, hunched into his coat. His shoulders stiffened briefly when Duncan came into range, but kept moving, forcing Duncan to jog to catch up to him.
"Hey!" Duncan called. "Wait."
"What do you want, MacLeod?" Methos asked flatly when Duncan had caught up and fallen into stride next to him.
"I..." he stammered, trying to figure out exactly what it was he did want, but Methos just kept moving. The old man couldn't even be bothered to look at him-- he just kept walking at an Olympic pace. It just made Duncan angrier. "I want you to slow down, dammit!"
With that he grabbed Methos by the arm and pulled him into a narrow alleyway they were passing and pushed him up against a wall. Methos offered little resistance other than a protest of surprise.
"Now stay put," Duncan ground out and stepped back, leaving Methos standing against the wall and glaring.
"I'm not a dog, MacLeod. What the hell do you want?"
At that moment, staring into Methos' hard, gold eyes that gleamed in the dark alley like a cat, Duncan knew what it was he wanted. Moving in again, he placed a hand on the wall on either side of Methos' head and smiled when the gold eyes narrowed further.
"Maybe I want you, Doc," he whispered just before swooping in to claim the older Immortal's mouth in a harsh, demanding kiss. Methos seemed to give in for a second, relaxing into the kiss, but then he tensed and struck like a cobra. A knee came up hard into Duncan's groin just as Methos pushed against Duncan's chest with his hands, causing the Highlander to stumble back and fall. Before Duncan even realized he was on the ground, there was a sword at his throat.
Duncan chuckled and tried to push the sword away, but Methos wouldn't budge. "Cut it out, Methos. I'm sorry."
Methos took a deep breath and moved the sword away from Duncan's neck, but kept it at ready. "I'm going home now," he spoke as if speaking to a small child. "See if you can control yourself enough to not follow me. In fact, don't call me... I'll call you. And if you ever," he said more forcefully, "touch me like that again, I will take your bloody head. Do you hear me?"
"Yeah, Methos, I'm not deaf," Duncan answered with annoyance.
"Good." Methos slid his sword back into his coat and then pointed a finger at Duncan and said in a commanding voice, "Stay!" With that, he turned quickly and strode out of the alley.
Duncan actually stayed put for nearly a full minute before he realized what he was doing. Angry at Methos and disgusted with himself, he picked up the bottle he'd landed on and propelled it across the alley to explode against the brick wall. It gave him only a small amount of satisfaction. His skin was still crawling and he was still hungry for some nameless thing, but now he also felt like a fool.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered and pulled himself up off the ground. Brushing himself off, he walked out of the alley and started down the street, intent on going home and sleeping it off.
But the crawling itch under his skin wouldn't let go of him, so he walked. He wandered aimlessly, moved at a brisk pace, trying to tire himself out, or sweat out the thing inside him that made his gut ache and his skin hot. And he tried desperately to blank his mind, to turn off all thoughts but keeping one foot in front of another.
Four hours later, as the city was coming to life, Duncan let himself into the barge and dropped his coat on the steps before making a beeline for the shower. He peeled his clothes off and turned the shower to an almost unbearable heat. He scrubbed off the sweat of battle and the ozone scent of Quickening. And he scrubbed the smell of that alley off his skin, letting his own guilt and disgust at himself wash down the drain.
The Quickening wasn't entirely settled within him, but he was considerably calmer and didn't feel like a complete stranger inside his own skin. He'd had difficult Quickenings before-- souls who fought harder than others against being integrated-- but short of Kronos, none had been this disturbing. What was it about Methos that drew such strong personalities to him?
Duncan pushed aside the thought, not wanting to travel down any mental path with so many potential landmines right now. He was exhausted-- mentally and physically-- and wished for nothing more than to sleep for the next twelve hours.
As it turned out, he got one of his wishes, but not the other. He slept deep and hard for the next twelve hours, his body replenishing and repairing itself from the adrenaline of battle and sex. His mind, however, refused to find respite in the void. Instead, it supplied memories from Byron's life-- of Methos, of the Shelley's, of Byron's other numerous lovers over the past two-hundred years.
And of the never-ending search for art-- for the perfect words to express his own soul, for the music or image of perfect beauty, perfect passion. And of the heartbreaking, soul-deep disappointment of always feeling just short of the mark, of never being happy with the final expression. And with the desperate search to find other ways to assuage the hunger-- fame, drugs, sex, other things that the mind of Duncan MacLeod shied away from-- a hunger he had been forced to live with for two centuries.
The same hunger Methos had tried to tell him about.
Duncan woke late that afternoon, his body rested and at ease again, Byron's Quickening having finally given up its resistance and integrated, but his mind still in turmoil. His glimpses into Byron's soul had brought with them a measure of understanding, and a kernel of sympathy for the man. But they'd also brought him more questions than he wanted about Methos, about his past, and about his role in both Duncan and Byron's lives.
Determinedly pushing the questions aside, Duncan made himself a quick meal of pasta and a small steak. He cleaned up the mess he'd left the night before and cleaned and sharpened his sword. But the questions refused to be pushed from his mind, and he sought to find answers in the kind of clarity that only physical meditation could bring.
Methos loved to meditate. He could fold his legs up and sit in one spot for hours, lost in his own mind, seeking peace in stillness. The few times Methos had done it in Duncan's home, he'd been amazed, and not a little turned on by the old man's stillness. Duncan had never been able to find peace in that kind of meditation. He was a physical man, and found clarity of mind and spirit only at the center of physical exertion.
His peace was found in the kata.
And he did find a measure of peace as he moved through the forms, reveling in the gradual burn in his muscles and lungs, cleansing his system of the last vestiges of Byron's Quickening. He didn't find answers to all his questions-- as he'd told Methos before, there were simply some things he would never be able to understand about the ancient Immortal. And perhaps, there were some things that he'd never truly understand about himself.
What he did know-- what he'd sorted out in his mind-- was that he'd hated Byron from the second he walked into Maurice's. Not because of his arrogance, though that certainly helped, but because of what he meant to Methos. He'd been jealous. Not necessarily of any attraction Methos still held to Byron, but for the fact that Byron had known a different Methos. Byron had been a part of a happier, freer time in Methos' life. It was so very different from the past that had been revealed by Kronos' return, and so very different from the present dynamic between the two of them. He envied that.
He envied Byron that piece of Methos. It wasn't a very pretty picture. It wasn't an insight that made him terribly proud of himself. But it was a new lens through which to view the last several days, and through which to view his friendship with Methos. And maybe with that insight, he could begin to repair the damage that had been done not just by Byron, but by the Horsemen as well. Because he wanted more than just the Methos he'd known the past few years-- he wanted to know all of Methos, all five thousand years of him. They'd begun that process that long night after Keane, but they hadn't even begun to scratch the surface yet. Maybe it was time for him to reach out once again.
Methos woke to the incessant ringing of his phone and considered ignoring it all together. He opened his eyes to find the apartment dark, sunset having come and gone while he'd slept away the evening. It was the first sleep he'd had since leaving Duncan sitting in a filthy Paris alley the night before. Instead of going home and sleeping, he wandered the city lost in memories of his friend, and of the times he'd spent with Byron and the other brilliant artists that seemed to flock to the poet.
When his legs were exhausted, he came home and pulled out some old favorite volumes of the poet's works. He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to take a chance on having to share any of MacLeod's post-Quickening dreams. It was unclear whether the strange connection that had been formed after Bordeaux had faded or not, but he was unwilling to take the chance. Losing Byron was painful enough-- having to share any of that loss with MacLeod would have been unbearable.
His answering machine finally kicked on when the ringing didn't stop and he listened to his voice as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
"Hi, it's MacLeod," an ever-familiar voice said after the beep. "I know I'm probably the last person you want to talk to right now, but if you're there, please pick up the phone. I want... I want to... Look, I know..."
With an exasperated growl, Methos reached over and picked up the phone, cutting off MacLeod's babbling. "What do you want, MacLeod?"
"Methos?"
"That is the number you dialed isn't it?" Methos snapped, crawling out of bed and heading for the fridge. He had a feeling he was going to need a beer.
"Yeah, I guess it is," Duncan chuckled. "Methos, I just wanted to apologize for last night. I acted like a real..." he paused looking for the right word.
"Self-righteous, pig-headed jack-ass?" Methos supplied, flicking his beer cap onto the counter and taking a long drink of the cold liquid.
"That works. I was a real jack-ass, and I had no right to act the way I did in that alley. That Quickening... it was... I don't know, out of control or something."
"Well, that would be Byron," Methos smiled at the idea of his friend being a pain in the ass to the very last. When Duncan didn't seem to have anything else to say, Methos sighed. He wandered over to the windows and sat down on the floor, his back against the cool glass. "So, no apology for killing him, just for the way you acted afterwards."
"Methos, he was dangerous. You know that."
"No, Mac... I don't know that. What I know is that he was a great artist. He contributed something important to this world."
"And Mike didn't?"
"Mike made his own choices. And let me tell you something MacLeod, he probably wouldn't have made it in the business anyway. If it wasn't Byron, someone else would have come along and convinced him to do something stupid. Like I told Joe, sometimes the music is stronger than the man. I'm sorry the kid died, Mac, but he made an informed choice to put that needle into his arm. He took the gamble and he lost."
"So Byron's life is more valuable than Mike's?" Duncan asked angrily.
"To me, yes," he said emphatically. "To you, obviously not. We have very different priorities, Mac. You see only the individual, the mortal lamb in trouble. I see the bigger picture, the value to the whole flock. Byron was a genius-- the words he gave us are invaluable... more valuable than one mortal's life."
"That's a hell of a judgment, Methos. And fairly hypocritical of the guy who criticizes me for judging right and wrong," Duncan spat.
Methos rolled his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. It was a losing battle, they were on totally different pages. They'd been down this road before more than once. It wasn't unlike the Jakob Galati mess-- Duncan could never understand how Methos would sacrifice Galati to protect Duncan. But it all came down to the fact that some people were more important than others in the grand scheme of things, and to Methos personally. That was a concept that Duncan MacLeod had a very hard time with.
"Mac, we're never going to agree on this. We're just smashing our heads up against a wall over and over again," he said with exasperation, running a hand through his hair.
"Yeah, I guess we are," Duncan sighed. An uncomfortable silence fell between them over the phone, neither sure of where to go from there. Methos turned, pulling his legs up and looking out the window at the early evening pedestrians below. "So," Duncan finally said softly, "what now? We just give up on the wall and cut our losses?"
"No," Methos answered too quickly, then sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. "I don't know. I'm tired of this, MacLeod. I'm tired of going over the same territory again and again, tearing each other apart in the process."
"Matter and anti-matter?" Duncan asked. "You said that last night... were you talking about us?"
"Not at the time, no. I meant you and Byron, or Immortality and art... both I suppose. But maybe it applies to us as well." Methos watched his breath fog the window as he spoke, letting the cold seep into him at the thought.
"No," Duncan said forcefully. "I don't buy it. I don't." Methos had to smile, picturing Duncan moving into stubborn-Scot mode, shaking his head as he spoke. "Maybe more like magnetic poles."
Methos had to laugh. "What? Repelling and attracting at the same time?"
"Yeah, maybe," Duncan said, warming up to his idea. "Yin and Yang, always in conflict, but essential to the whole. Look, I know it hasn't been easy lately. And we've never agreed on much. Hell, I think you disagree with me half the time just on principle. But I'm not stupid, Methos. I know you do it for a reason, and I've come to rely on it. Your so-called big picture... I... I find I need it."
Methos smiled against his better judgment and reached for his beer, taking a long swig before responding. "You really think this is worth it?"
"Yes," Duncan said, with all the assuredness of someone who deals in moral absolutes. "Yes, I do."
Sometimes, Methos thought, the very thing that irritates you can also comfort. If Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod pronounced it to be so, well, maybe it was so.
"The Clan Chieftain has spoken," Methos joked, standing up suddenly unable to sit still. He knew what Duncan wanted to hear, but he wasn't sure if he was able to give it. He wasn't sure if he was strong enough to stick around and wait for the next moral judgment to be aimed at him or someone he cared about. On the other hand, he wasn't quite sure he could walk away. If MacLeod needed his big picture, he surely benefited from the man's sense of moral responsibility... if it didn't end up getting him killed.
"Look, Methos," Duncan broke the silence when Methos had said nothing else, "I can't promise that I won't piss you off again. I can't promise you that we won't disagree drastically again. Hell," Duncan chuckled humorlessly, "I can't even promise you that we won't try to kill each other."
"Mac..."
"No... listen. This has been one of the most difficult friendships I've ever had... but..." he paused, obviously fighting to get the sentiment out. "But it's important." Then he finished just above a whisper, "You're too important to lose."
Jesus! The man was merciless, using Methos' own words against him. It was unfair that this man should have so much power over him. If he was smart he'd run as fast and as far as he could. But for some unfathomable reason, he wasn't smart when it came to Duncan MacLeod. In fact, he was becoming downright foolish.
Downing the rest of his beer, and reaching into the fridge for another one, Methos relented. "Well, it's not as if I have that many friends to choose from. But..." he said quickly before Duncan could speak, "I need a little time and space here. I have a friend to mourn, Mac."
A few seconds of silence and he could almost hear Duncan nodding in understanding. "Okay," he said softly. "I can do that. Just... if you decide...," Duncan took a deep breath before going on. "Don't disappear without saying good-bye, huh?"
"Alright Mac," Methos had to chuckle, glad at least to not be alone in his fears. "I'll talk to you in a few days."
"Sure. Goodnight, my friend," Duncan said with a smile in his voice before hanging up, leaving Methos to just stare at the phone in his hand for a few seconds. With a disgusted sigh, he turned it off and tossed it down on the counter, then downed his second beer all at once. Tossing the bottle in the trash, Methos scrubbed at his face with his hands and wondered not for the first time since he'd met Duncan MacLeod where he'd left his sanity and survival instincts.
Three days later, Duncan was returning from his morning run when he felt a familiar presence as he emerged from under the bridge. He grinned at the sight that met him-- Methos was sitting on the roof of his barge cross-legged, facing the river, enjoying the morning's unseasonably warm sun, and drinking from a large coffee cup.
"Had breakfast yet?" the old Immortal asked as Duncan walked up the gangplank. Without waiting for an answer, he tossed a paper bag at Duncan. Catching it easily, Duncan peered inside to find two pieces of still-warm Brioche. Pulling one out, he grinned and bit into it.
"Don't suppose you brought coffee too?" he asked.
Methos grinned back at him, with a familiar twinkle in his hazel eyes and reached behind him on the deck to produce a second large cup. He quickly brushed off the gesture with a wry smirk. "I had to protect my own tea," he shrugged, lifting his cup in a toast.
"Bright boy," Duncan nodded and drank from the warm liquid, feeling ridiculously grateful at the fact the coffee was made exactly as he liked it. He hopped up onto the roof next to Methos and dug into the sweet pastry. "So what brings you out this early in the morning?"
"There's an estate auction out in Chartres, reportedly with a fantastic library collection. There's a few texts I'm interested in.... thought you might like to go along," Methos shrugged and watched some early morning river traffic, pointedly avoiding Mac's expression.
"I've got nothing else on tap today," Duncan said non-chalantly, taking his cue from the old man. "Sounds interesting. Hang out while I take a shower." Duncan licked the last powdered sugar from his fingers and hopped off the roof. "You're welcome to make yourself comfortable inside," he said when Methos didn't move.
"No thanks," Methos said with a casual smile. "I'm enjoying this sun while we have it. Go on... but don't take too long. I want to get a good look at the inventory before the auction."
"You got it," Duncan said and went to duck inside. As an afterthought, he turned back to Methos. "Hey Methos," he said, and waited till the hazel eyes turned to peer at him seriously, "will you tell me about Mary Shelley?"
Surprise, and then a soft half-smile moved across the young-looking face. Methos nodded once, and then turned back to watching the river. "Only if you get your ass in gear, MacLeod. We haven't got all day, you know."
Duncan chuckled and didn't lose the grin on his face all the way through his shower and dressing. It wasn't a full reconciliation-- there were still a whole host of issues between them. But it was a start. And if they could just hold off the next crisis involving a ghost from the past for a while, maybe they could work things out. It was easy to have a little bit of hope on a bright Spring morning, and Duncan was determined to hold on to that, if he couldn't hold on to Methos himself.