Disclaimers and other CYA stuff: Rysher, Panzer and Davis, etc. are the lucky ones. I'm just an innocent bystander with an overactive imagination who also happens to like writing about Methos. This is sort of a sequel to 'Just Another Day in Paradise', a short vignette I wrote between Comes a Horseman and Revelations 6:8. You probably don't need to read it first, but why not do it anyway? :) It was most definitely of the ADULT header type. Thanks as usual to Dail, who keeps me honest and is my Joe consultant.
Rated more R than anything else... m/m relationship implied and since the prequel is most definitely NC-17, I thought I'd use an Adult header on this one too. References to Methos' little side trip to Italy after Rev. 6:8 is from Torch's piece posted to the Adult list.
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Why the hell had he come back to Seacouver anyway? It wasn't like he'd expected to be in this part of the world again. Now here he was, driving around like it was the good old days, headed for Joe's like his world just hadn't been shattered into ten thousand shards of cutting, aching, burning bits of shit. Like he and Duncan were still... still. He turned a corner and caught the sob before it could actually express itself. Slowly he drove by the TV station were they'd spent part of their last day together. Before he was kicked out of paradise.
With renewed willpower and a hint of the old hardness which made most people think he didn't give a rat's ass what happened, he gripped the steering wheel and sped up. He'd have to get used to not caring again. It really did make life so much easier. Sitting at a red light he decided he'd had about enough of the maudlin sounds of the Queen tape which was now playing Pain and Pleasure. He knew the songs by heart, but all they did now was remind him of the pain which he should have known always followed the pleasure. He punched the eject button and threw the tape over his shoulder onto the back seat. Digging around in the tape case under the seat he pulled out the first one his fingers could get a grip on, popped open the case and rammed it in the dash. The light turned green and he was speeding down the boulevard before he realized what he'd grabbed. Geez, he didn't even think he still had that tape.
"Nothing's good the news is bad.
The heat goes on and it drives you mad.
Scornful thoughts that fly your way,
You should turn away,
Cause there's nothing more to say."Great! Just bloody great. Even the Alan Parson's Project was reminding him of the odds he'd played with MacLeod. Only thing was, he thought the odds had been in his favor this time.
"You gave the best you had to give.
You only have one life to live.
You fought so hard you were a slave.
After all you gave
There was nothing left to say."He hit the stop button on the stereo with a vengeance and turned into the parking lot of Joe's. It was still early enough that the cars were few. In little more than an hour, however, you wouldn't be able to find a place to park within a block. He was glad Joe had built up a loyal clientele. Something ought to go right for one of them...and he didn't envy the man being Duncan's watcher. He slid long legs out of the truck and, hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, strolled into the dark interior of the bar.
Joe was on the wrong side of the bar, sitting on a stool signing some liquor invoices. He looked up when the sun shown through the opened door, and recognized the silhouette of the man who'd caused quite a stir in his circles over the last week. He also noted the slumped shoulders and sprawled legs as he flopped into a chair in the far corner. Joel motioned for a beer and a scotch for himself and served his latest customer himself.
"I'll be damned. Sure didn't expect to see you for awhile."
He tried to make his voice sound friendly and at ease. This man looked like he needed a friend and a drink, not necessarily in that order, in the worst way. And the last thing Joe wanted to do was put him on the defensive right off the bat. With a simple gesture he asked if he could join the lone occupant of the table. A nod was all the answer he got and for the first time the young looking man tilted his head up to peer a Joe. Even in this darkened corner of the bar, Joe could see the questions, the decisions to be made...but no answers.
"You come back alone?" Joe knew the answer, but he didn't really know how to start a conversation with this lost looking creature before him. He saw the jaw clench and set. So, he doesn't want me to think he cares. So be it.
"Just came back to tie up a few loose ends I left last week. I'll be gone tomorrow."
"Where ya goin'?" Joe didn't really expect him to say.
"Maybe I'll go back to the land of Yak butter...or Bora Bora." The weak attempt at humor didn't warrant the big grin that split Joe's face.
"Yeah. I hear it's nice this time of year." They were playing word games and Joe wasn't sure what had prompted this visit or where his part came in. He decided to take the plunge. Joe Dawson knew he didn't have to be shy around the man facing him.
"I tried to explain the way things were to Mac," he waited to see if he'd read things right. A flicker of interest in hazel eyes assured him he was on the right path.
"I told him that you shouldn't be held accountable for things you did 3000 years ago. How times were different and so were you. Hell, I even tried to explain how it was for me in 'Nam. I did my share of destroying innocence and peace, ya know."
Joe finished the scotch and motioned for Mike to bring another round. The beer mug in front of his guest had been empty within 90 seconds of its appearance. For the first time, the immortal made a show of actually participating in what Joe was beginning to think was a decidedly one-sided conversation.
"Yeah...well, he couldn't forgive. I knew it couldn't. He can't help what he is or how he feels. But I knew I could rely on him to help me beat Kronos in France....even if he didn't know he was working with me." A smirk of sarcastic humor didn't quite cover the raw pain showing clearly in his eyes.
"He'll come around, Methos." Joe looked up as their drinks arrived and he sipped from his glass, waiting for his friend to continue.
"I don't think he'll ever get over the shock that his lover was a marauding killer who enjoyed striking fear in the hearts of innocent villagers across two continents." There was that smirk again. As usual, hiding behind the irony.
"You know, at the end, when we were both fighting Kronos and Silas, we stopped, and for an instant I saw hope in his eyes. But later, at the church, he still questioned me...still doubted. He thinks I betrayed his trust...and his love."
"He just needs some time. " Joe leaned closer to the dark head. "I've seen Duncan do some pretty bad things in my years of watching him. He'll realize that we all change...and we all do things we aren't always proud of later." Then abruptly, "Does he know you're here?"
The chiseled features of a classic face turned on Joe. "No and I'd prefer it stay that way. He doesn't need to know and we don't need to see each other right now. You're right. He needs time and I need space. Last thing I want right now is more guilt piled on top of the regrets already there. Besides, I'm not sure if I'm over being angry at him."
Joe looked a little surprised, but recovered quickly as understanding dawned. He knew the history of the two men he'd come to care a great deal about over the years. He'd read the look in Methos' eyes when he looked at the Highlander. And he thought he understood how happy the elder immortal had been when they had finally come together only five short weeks ago. For the first time since he'd met him, the man, now slumped once more before him, seemed at peace. He'd been a little less sarcastic, a little more playful, a lot more satisfied with him long life. Then history had snuck up behind him and bit him on the ass. Joe shook his head sadly at the irony of life...even one over 5000 years long.
"Yeah. You probably need some time apart. He'll be back in awhile. You want to keep me informed where you go so I can let you know when he deigns to grace us with his appearance again." Methos smiled at the image that conjured. MacLeod, stomping into Joe's bar, demanding to know where he'd gone...but only when he was ready to forgive him. Methos didn't know if he wanted to be forgiven.
"Nope. I'm outta here tomorrow and don't know when I'll be back. That's all you need to tell him."
With that the visitor stood, downed the rest of his beer, jammed his hands back into their home in his jeans and headed for the door.
"Hey," Joe stopped him as he reached the entrance. "You know you can always come back here. No questions, no judgments. A guy needs a place where he can get a cold beer and relax." Joe smiled at the departing figure.
"I know, Joe. Thanks."
After he'd walked out, not much better off than when he'd arrived, Joe noticed the twenty dollar bill laying on the table. He hefted himself up and headed back to the bar. Things would start hopping soon and he didn't have time right now to dwell on the unfairness of everything he'd witnessed between the two men he felt were meant to be together.
*****
The 4x4 swung into the parking area directly in front of the liquor store next to his hotel. He felt like he needed something to see him through the rest of the time he had to spend in this city of memories. Last week it had been his Mecca...his Shangri La. Today it was just another tack on the mental map he kept updated with places he didn't want to return to. Heading up front to the checkout with his two six-packs, Methos grabbed a bottle of Jose Cuervo on impulse. It'd been a long time since he'd shot tequila, but if memory served him correctly, it was a good tool to use for the purposes he had in mind. A disposable salt dispenser and two fresh limes completed his purchases and he tossed the bag in the passenger seat, wincing at the tinkle of glass against glass. Better get to the hotel soon before he wrecked the truck.
The television was showing the X-Files, a series he'd found mildly amusing in an esoteric sort of way. Now it was background noise to the voice inside his head which wouldn't let him find any peace, no matter how many shooters of good ole Jose he downed. Another bottle cap was thrown at the images of Mulder and Scully, the container upended till half its contents were safely ensconced in his stomach. He let his head fall back against the overstuffed hotel chair, eyes closed as his mind took him on a tour of hell.
Like a video, his mind ran him through the scenes which still had the ability to bring a flush to his body and quicken his breath.
The light began it's slow, easy swirl...just as he remembered. But then an extra spark of essence sent his senses reeling, eliciting a moan of pure ecstasy over which he had no control. The throb of a quickening. The hum in his blood. It led the way, leaving him little choice but to follow. The pain/pleasure of an electrical current pulsing through his limbs in the steady cadence of a heartbeat. He could only hear the static flying through the air, the lightning ripping across time and space, for his eyes were clinched against what he knew would follow.
Methos felt his shoulders flex, wiry muscles rippling against the shock. He leaned into the feeling, like a lover pressing against the body of his partner, ready to receive that which was his due. The current which passed from MacLeod to him sent him reeling, flung to his knees on the wet pavement, his sword clattering uselessly beside him. He was ready to simply lay there while his body tried to regain its sense of control, yet wanting to just fall forward against the coolness of the floor. Great wracking sobs burst forth and he didn't try to stop them. Then he heard the booted feet running toward him and felt death breathe down his neck. He tried to rise, but only got as far as all fours. This was it then...all the fighting, all the scheming...and this is where it ended. If he'd been able, he would have struck at her with his own sword. He'd paid the debt owed when he'd killed Silas. Now she owed him...a lifetime of love. He felt his heart rending for that which was lost.
Then he heard a similar anguish. "Yes, I want him to live." Had he misunderstood the words he could only barely make out over his gasping breath? No, he said it again. "I want him to live." Very clear that time. And then he collapsed.
Methos rubbed a piece of lime on the soft pad of his hand, sprinkled salt on it and downed a gulp of tequila (he was long past the glass stage), sucking on the side of his thumb afterward. His stomach rumbled its protest of the harsh liquor with no food to absorb it, but he ignored it stubbornly.
He knew Duncan would go back to the church. Back to where they'd last talked, where they could speak again...safely. When had it come to that? Oh, he knew the answer to that one. Their relationship had irrevocably changed that afternoon at the truck when he'd forced MacLeod to listen to a confession of sins he knew could not be forgiven. It was all his fault and he was ready to take the responsibility. His penance would be a life without the Highlander, which, if it had happened two months ago would not have been the most desirable of outcomes, but one he could live with. Now he wasn't so sure. He'd held the man in his arms, felt the hard muscles of his back under his hands, tasted the soft warmth of his mouth...and the hardness of his cock. He'd foolishly allowed himself to believe that he could start again and forget the past which he'd avoided thinking about for centuries. But though his kind could, and often would, outlive friends and lovers, it wasn't always possible to outlive your past. Or to outrun it. And his had caught up with him.
But at the church he was prepared to face his. After all, it couldn't be undone...as much as Duncan may wish it. The younger immortal still didn't understand. Still didn't get it. If somehow the fates brought them together again, Methos knew he daren't tell the Highlander that for a brief instant in time, for a wink of the eternal eye, he'd been caught up in the rush of power again. Sitting at the base, he'd actually pictured the world with the horsemen ruling once more. MacLeod the Boy Scout would never understand, just as he would never understand the reasons which had driven Methos and the others across centuries and continents of terror. He wouldn't even try to explain.
Tired. He was so very tired of explaining. When he and MacLeod had spoken last, it hadn't been the exhaustion of a quickening or the days he'd gone without sleep. It had been the weary lethargy of time which had weighted him down and taken the fight out of him. He'd walked away from Duncan, down the steps. He didn't even feel like making the effort to be courteous and wait up for him. And when he'd asked about Cassandra, the bitterness has risen in his throat like bile. She was the reason he wasn't with his lover now. She caused this. No. That wasn't entirely true. If he'd never done those horrible things 3000 years ago, he'd have nothing to hide...nothing to fear. But it didn't stop him from resenting the woman who had come between them and turned MacLeod away from his love. But what he'd said belied that...one of a thousand regrets. True. He regretted the day he let her escape.
He popped another bottle of beer and dumped a good quantity of the Cuervo into the cheap hotel tumbler. He really did prefer to drink out of a glass rather than guzzling from a fifth. The beer bottle was empty before he allowed his thoughts to continue along their treacherous path.
He'd left the church. He'd wandered aimlessly, the streets of Bordeaux. Sometime the next morning he'd made it back to the sub base to gather the few belongings he'd brought with him to France. He was resigned to the inevitable. Another hundred years of living a lie. Hiding behind an identity that could never allow the real man to expose himself again. Maybe he'd go to Italy. He hadn't been there for any length of time since the Renaissance. The weather was amicable and the people friendly for the most part. With something of a plan, he took a cab to the airport and booked a flight to Rome.
Rome hadn't held the appeal he thought it would. He'd found temporary release from the tension that had built from the quickening with a one night stand, but it wasn't his Highlander. The young man with one arm could only bring the forgetfulness he sought for a short while. Once while sitting at a sidewalk cafe in the plaza, sipping coffee and reading the paper, a tall, well-built man with dark hair clubbed back into a ponytail walked away from him toward the fountains in the square. He froze for a moment, eyes squinting in the sun, but swallowed the hot espresso slowly when the slow swagger of hips broke the illusion his mind had conjured. He continued reading but his thoughts were already elsewhere, remember a life he could no longer have. Nights at Joe's, listening to the wailing blues of the band, drinking beer and staggering back to the loft to make slow, exquisite love to the beat of music set to their own arrangement. Joe's...that's where he wanted to be and for the first time since he'd left France, Methos felt a need. The need to be in Seacouver for just a little while. He had left some things in storage, as well as the belongings he'd taken to MacLeod's loft when he'd moved in. He knew Duncan would stay in Paris for awhile, living on the barge and trying to put his life back in some kind of order. The Highlander liked order.
Methos laid a few bills on the table and went back to the hotel to pack. He chuckled as he remembered a line from a favored movie. He was on a mission from god. Five hours later he was on a jet across the Atlantic. By tomorrow afternoon he would be in Seacouver. What exactly he would do when he got there, he didn't know.
So here he was. He'd wanted to be here but, now, for the life of him, couldn't figure out why. Had he thought he would waltz into Joe's and MacLeod would be sitting there at 'their' table, sipping scotch and happy to see him? No, he hadn't really expected that. The only thing or person here he could be sure of was Joe. He knew he could return to the one anchor from that blissful time. The one constant that was still willing to be there for him. But Joe wasn't quite enough to make him stay. Instead, the place had only been full of ghosts he'd just as soon exorcise. And the sooner the better, he figured.
Sometime toward dawn Methos roused himself. He'd fallen asleep in the overstuff, yet springy chair provided by the hotel. A crick in his neck slowly started to heal itself as he massaged the stiff muscles. It was a typical Seacouver day...rainy and dreary. He liked that. It suited him well today.
He checked out, taking the one satchel he'd brought up to the room with him the night before. Everything else was either packed away in storage or loaded in the truck. He climbed into the Chevy and adjusted the seat slightly. He seemed to be a bit shorter today according to the angle of the rear view mirror. He started the engine and headed for the airport. Methos hadn't even thought about a destination. Where wasn't so much the question as how long. He felt like he was starting over. Just like he had so many hundreds of times before. A new life, new identity...new loves. He refused to think that far and threw the truck out of gear while he idled at a light.
Too quiet...without thinking twice he started the stereo, not remembering the taped music which he'd so impatiently halted the day before. The slow rhythm began, the sad melody, the haunting words. His eyes stung as he started rolling away from the intersection. He hadn't even thought about the route he would travel to the airport, forgetting that from the hotel, the most direct way would take him by the loft. He looked up at the windows, covered by blinds. The stark emptiness of the building echoed his heart. He sighed heavily.
"Nothing ventured nothing gained.
No more lingering doubts remained...."The airport was almost empty. Mid-week wasn't a particularly busy time for travelers to or from Seacouver, although there seemed to be some sort of tour group judging by the crowd at the Air France counter. He stood staring at the monitors for fifteen minutes before he realized he still hadn't decided his destination. A young couple walked behind him, pushing a baby stroller, speaking French. The bakery beckoned its patrons inside with the succulent smells of fresh-baked french bread and pastries. He looked up as the screen blinked and reset itself for the new incoming and departing flights for the next hour. At the top of the screen was a flight leaving in 45 minutes...for Paris. He shook his head at his own outlandish thoughts, then remembered the last few lines of the song he'd played in the truck.
"Nothing sacred or profane,
Everything to gain
Cause you've got nothing left to lose."Methos reached down to pick up his bag and let his feet carry him to the international gateway where there was one seat left on the flight to France.
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