Chapter Text
A hangover would have been a kindness. Instead Methos woke to depressing sobriety and a flat that felt more like January than early April. The combination was merciless enough to bring the dream with him whole cloth into waking awareness; for long moments it was more real than memory, and he had some trouble placing century and city. When memory came, it was no comfort.
It had been temperate enough in the flat last night, or at least as well as he could remember before he'd switched to the serious intoxicants; a cold front must have come in overnight, winter's last little jab at him and his fellow Parisians. And of course he'd been in no shape to set the thermostat. He hadn't even managed to crawl under the duvet, just passed out in his shorts on top of the bed. No wonder he was freezing and dreaming of the Arctic.
The problem with sleeping so much was that it left plenty of REM time for the psyche to come up with really creative forms of sabotage. Throw a great deal of very old whisky into the mix, and you were asking for trouble. This one, he had to admit, took the prize. Eighty years it must have been since he'd read that particular story, if it was a day, and the subconscious still remembered. Thank God Mac would never know—but wouldn't Cassandra have laughed, to know the wonderfully twisted forms of penance Methos' own brain could dream up, left to its own devices?
Come to think of it, he didn't know if Cassandra laughed. Probably too busy sharpening her fangs.
Giving in to base necessity, Methos got up and relieved himself, then went and turned on the heat before returning to the bed and bundling up in the layers of bedclothes. He knew perfectly well that he'd been sleeping far too much of the time lately, and why, but the animal comfort of a warm, rumpled bed was too compelling on a morning this cold. God knew his little bender last night hadn't been an answer. He really ought to know better by now, but somehow, it had just seemed the appropriate response to the events of the past few days.
At least he and Mac were speaking to each other again, more or less, even if it had taken all of Amanda's cajoling and wheedling to make it happen. Too bad drinking himself into unconsciousness hadn't made him feel any less jealous of her easy, obvious certainty of her place in Mac's life. Not her fault, he knew, and he hated feeling that way. It was just hard not to want what she was given so freely.
What would Mac be doing on a morning like this?
Stop it, he told himself wearily, pulling the pillow over his head. Stop driving yourself crazy, stop feeling sorry for yourself, stop lying about like a sloth and get up, for God's sake. Go find a new place to live, a job, a new life somewhere. What the hell are you waiting for?
He toyed idly with thoughts of alternate identities, careers, continents.
Out running, probably, the insufferable bastard. Or maybe he only wants people to think he's that disciplined. Maybe he's curled up in bed right this minute, drinking cocoa, eating peanut butter from a jar, and watching cartoons.
On the other hand, maybe Amanda's still in town.
He groaned, disgusted with himself, and socked a fist into the other pillow.
Wished he didn't still feel the dream-pressure of that soft mouth against his, lips cool at first, but warming with his kiss.
God, you're pathetic.
Tell me something I don't know, he snarled at his incessant inner commentator, and threw the covers back savagely, swinging his feet to the floor.
It took the better part of the day, but by the time afternoon was wearing on toward evening, he'd managed to get most of the flat packed up. The majority of the books he'd stacked in boxes to be put into storage, and the rest had been easy enough; most of his art and furniture was still in storage, anyway, and he'd made up his mind to let what was left go with the flat. Tired, but feeling better than he had in a long time, he grabbed a beer and sat down on a crate in the middle of the room, surveying his progress.
The afternoon had turned gray while he'd worked, the sky heavy with threatening snow clouds, and the light outside already felt like dusk, though it was barely after four. If he was going to get out of the city tonight, it would have to be soon. Probably, the wise thing to do would be to wait out the storm—but it felt so good to be doing something finally, after so many months of hiding, that he thought it best to let momentum carry the day. He didn't want to spend another night in his flat; he'd seen too much of it these past months. He'd stay in a hotel if he had to.
Besides, he thought maybe he'd had enough sleep for a while. This morning's nightmare, if one could call it a nightmare, had stayed with him all day, the images too vivid to forget easily. He wasn't eager to revisit the strange country of his subconscious any time soon. Not that he was above a little revisionist history now and then—but revisionist history mixed with Hans Christian Andersen was a bit much to take.
Shaking his head, Methos finished his beer and got to his feet, checking the labels on the boxes and crates one last time before slinging his carry-all over his shoulder; he left the beer bottle on the table by the door, turned off the light, and locked the door behind him.
* * *
He really couldn't have said what made him tell the cabby to turn toward Notre Dame rather than the airport. It wasn't on the way. It certainly wasn't likely to turn out to be the wisest thing he'd ever done. But the words were out before he knew it, and taking them back would have been...he didn't know. Some kind of admission.
So, all right. He'd say goodbye to MacLeod. It wasn't like it could make things any worse, and the burnt remains of their friendship deserved some sort of acknowledgment, he supposed, before they both moved on.
Traffic was worse than he'd hoped, everyone hurrying to get home before the snow, and it quickly became obvious that he should have taken the Metro. By the time the first feathery white flakes began to blow across the windscreen, they were at a standstill, still almost a mile from the river. Methos leaned forward and paid the driver, saying that he'd get another cab on the next block. The bastard laughed good-naturedly. "Bonne chance," he warned, but Methos ignored him and climbed out of the warm, dry car and into the snowy twilight.
Of course, the cabby had been right, and there wasn't a taxi to be had between Saint-Honoré and the Louvre. Construction at the museum stop of the Metro forced him out of his way by three blocks, and even the wind seemed to be trying to make him turn back, gusting north off the river and stinging his eyes with snow.
Some small, not entirely rational part of him was beginning to entertain the superstitious idea that if he stopped moving for too long, the fabric of reality would shift slightly around him, and he'd arrive at the quay to find that no barge was moored there, and that no one remembered anyone by the name of Duncan MacLeod. It wasn't the first time it had snowed in Paris in April, not by a long shot. The previous year, there'd been snow on the ground into the first week of May, he remembered. So why did it feel as though the forces of the universe were arrayed against him?
The snow was falling thick and fast by the time he emerged from the Metro station and turned toward the river, turning his collar up against the cold. It did little good; he was already wet through. At least he still had his boots, he thought a little crazily. Thank goodness for small mercies. Now as long as he didn't meet up with any wolves or giants, he'd be doing fine.
In spite of his apparently slipping hold on reality, the barge was right where he'd left it. He couldn't help the relief he felt, the knot in his stomach unclenching a little at the sight of its familiar silhouette, the lights of Notre Dame ghostly behind it. But by the time he reached the bottom of the steps, he could see there were no lights at the portholes, and Duncan's car was nowhere in evidence. He jogged to the edge of the quay anyway, but no Immortal buzz rewarded his persistence; Duncan wasn't home.
At a loss, Methos stood there for a moment, hands in his pockets, shivering a little and fighting an unexpectedly intense pang of disappointment. For a while there he'd thought.... Well, never mind what he'd thought. Life sure as hell wasn't a fairy tale. If anyone ought to know that, it was him.
The temperature was dropping. For a fleeting instant he toyed with the idea of going inside anyway, waiting for Duncan to come home...but he pushed the thought away, irritated with himself. It had been an impulse, and a poorly conceived one at that. Better just to go. It wasn't as though anything he might say could change anything. He permitted himself one last look, then hoisted his carryall higher on his shoulder and turned back toward the steps.
Once more back on the street level, he hurried through the ever-thickening snowfall, head lowered and hands buried in his pockets; still, for no reason he could have explained, he passed the entrance to the Metro and kept going on foot, numb to the miserable weather. He felt disjointed and equally numb on the inside, as if a weight were being lifted from him with each step, but one that left an ache of infinite, cold grayness in its place. He should have been glad to be freed at last from the ties that had held him so long. Should have been grateful for the twist of fate that had saved him from suffering one last unpleasant scene. He let his feet carry him back across the bridge to the mainland, feeling nothing but the soft, glistening layer of snow crunching under his boots.
The steady rhythm of his long stride helped some, and after a while he began to feel a little better. Thoughts of the South Pacific cheered him. Time for some sunshine, far away from Paris and its unrelenting concentration of Immortals. Just thinking of it made him aware once more of the wind and the penetrating cold; he hurried towards the next block, spotting an entrance to the Metro across the street.
So intent was he on his destination that he never saw the slow, inevitably disastrous spin of the lorry that had taken the corner too fast for the road conditions; so thick was the snow that he didn't see the car headed straight for him until it was already well into its slide.
The tires made no sound on the wet pavement. He had time only to notice the oddness of that before he felt the blunt smack of impact, bone against steel.
* * *
"Unbelievable," said a familiar voice, the buzz heavy and sweet as opium. It made him sit up too fast. "Hey, easy. Easy. You all right?"
Duncan swam into focus, crouching over him with a half-worried, half-bemused expression. He smelled of wool and woodsmoke, and he had snow in his hair.
Methos tried to move, then thought better of it as his head throbbed, and blinding pain shot through his wrist. When the worst of it passed and he could breathe again, he was sitting on the cold, wet sidewalk, clutching at Duncan's coat, his broken wrist cradled in his lap. Duncan's gloved hand gripped his arm. "Yeah," he managed, grimacing and trying not to pass out. "What the hell happened?"
"You got hit by a car," Duncan informed him solemnly.
"Thanks for the news flash. I meant, what the hell are you doing here?"
He looked apologetic. "It was my car."
Methos blinked. "You're not serious."
"Well, you shouldn't have been crossing where you were, you know. Especially not in this weather."
Methos closed his eyes and just shook his head mutely, at a loss for anything coherent to say to that. Other complaints besides his wrist were making themselves known: bruises and cuts, nothing serious. "Anyone else hurt?" he asked at last, flexing his wrist as the bones started to knit themselves back together.
"Just shaken up. The driver of the truck said something about taking you to the hospital, but I think I talked him out of it."
"Remind me to thank you later."
They spent several minutes persuading the small crowd of onlookers that Methos was fine and would be sure to get himself seen to by a doctor. MacLeod gave a convincing performance as the Good Samaritan and concerned citizen—aided, no doubt, by his considerable experience in that role. It didn't hurt that no one particularly wanted to stand about arguing the point in the snow; in a remarkably short time, they were alone on the sidewalk.
Duncan's gloved hand was warm on Methos' arm as they waited for the fractures to heal, and Methos wondered if he realized he hadn't removed it. He probed the lump at the back of his head gingerly.
"Bad?" Duncan said, and the apology was real this time.
Methos shook his head, fighting the temptation to lean against his solid strength. "Another minute, that's all." The awkwardness was back. It hadn't changed, not in four months, and Methos knew he shouldn't have expected anything to be different now, just because strange forces were at work. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about the odds involved in this particularly unlikely set of circumstances, or what it might mean.
When the healing was finished, he pulled his gloves back on and let Duncan lever him to his feet; they stood there for a moment, the awkwardness acute.
"Can I give you a lift somewhere?" Duncan asked finally.
"The way you drive?" Methos said, an attempt at lightness he didn't feel. "You've got to be joking."
Duncan smiled a little, but it was forced. He'd noticed the carryall. "Airport, maybe?" he said quietly, watching Methos' expression.
And Methos found he couldn't maintain the effort at casual bravado any more. He was cold, and sore, and shaken up, and the snow was still falling mercilessly, the flakes coming down in thick, wet clumps that dusted Duncan's hair and broad shoulders and clung to his eyelashes in a way that hurt to look at. "I'll manage, thanks," he said, and took more satisfaction than he should have at the little flare of hurt in the other man's eyes.
"Okay," Duncan said at last, nodding slowly, his face too controlled. "If that's what you want."
Something let go in Methos' chest, like a rose unfurling. He blinked. "You know it isn't," he said. Then blinked again, fiercely, because there was something in his eyes, and it wasn't snow. Mortified, he pulled away and averted his face.
Duncan, damn him, took a hesitant step forward, closing the distance between them. "Methos?" His tone was half-disbelieving, half-hopeful, a sweetly vulnerable sound that undermined every attempt Methos was making at recovering his cool, uncaring detachment.
"Don't," he warned, but had to stop because his voice had betrayed him.
"Methos, talk to me," Duncan urged, still too close for comfort. "I thought we were past this."
Methos turned on him. "Why? Because you say so?"
Stung, Duncan paled, then two spots of color appeared on his cheeks, the flush of his own answering anger. The soft lushness of his mouth turned to hard lines. "Damn you," he grated out. "What the hell do you want from me?"
"Nothing! That's the point, don't you get it? I want nothing from you! I just—" he broke off.
"What?" Duncan moved, one quick step closer, his hand flexing as though he would have liked to seize Methos by the arm; apparently he knew better, though, and his hand fell back to his side without making contact. "Tell me."
Methos' control snapped, four months of silence giving way in the face of that irresistible demand. "I want you not to look at me like that any more," he said bluntly. "I want to stop hurting, Mac. I want for none of it ever to have happened." His frustration and despair welled up. "For God's sake, what do you think I want?"
Dark eyes blazed. "You really want to know? I think you want me to make it easy for you. I think you want me to be the bad guy. Because if you convince yourself I'm the one who's not willing to see reason, you can pretend it doesn't matter that you're running away." His expression dared Methos to deny it. "Am I close?" He was without mercy, eyes demanding, revealing a hurt that ran deep and had never healed.
Methos didn't answer. Couldn't answer. A wash of heat rose in his chest, swept through his body with merciless insistence, making his eyes burn and his throat ache with the desperate effort to contain it. Close enough, he would have said if he could.
I never needed anyone before I met you.
He knew he should go now. Knew that if he didn't, the unthinkable was going to happen. The pressure in his chest was unbearable.
"Don't you think I want those things, too?" Duncan asked then, voice harsh with feeling. "Don't you think I've wished things could have been different?"
The wave of heat crested, escaped on a soft breath that betrayed everything. "Oh, Mac."
The lines of Duncan's face altered, a subtle shift that took maybe two seconds—two seconds in which everything between them changed. The dark eyes widened almost imperceptibly...and then lit with a deep, clear-burning flame that Methos felt like the first sweet breath of summer. Methos reached out then and did what he'd been wanting to do since he'd first opened his eyes to find Duncan crouching over him; he brushed the soft snowflakes from the dark silk of his hair. Almost at once, new ones started to take their places.
Duncan caught his hand before it could fall away and took it between his own gloved ones, drawing it close to his chest, an odd little gesture that made Methos' heart turn over, his breath catch. The world shifted, reshaping itself around the unlikely center of their joined hands.
"Do you believe in fate?" Methos asked at last, when he could.
Duncan shook his head, bemused. "Never did before."
Methos was thinking of the glittering facets of a snowflake, dizzyingly infinite. "I never did either," he admitted. "Funny, though, us meeting like this. Maybe someone's trying to tell us something."
Duncan smiled crookedly. "On the other hand, maybe I've been following you around town just waiting for the chance to run you over with my car."
"Either way," Methos shrugged, unfazed.
"Yeah?" Duncan's voice was rough.
And Methos leaned forward and kissed him, long and sweet, Duncan's mouth soft against his, warm enough to thaw the coldest heart.
By the time they broke for air he was breathless, gloved hands wound in the thick hair, pressing himself into the warm opening of the other man's coat; he found he was shivering, the sudden heat almost painful after being cold for so long.
Opening his eyes, Duncan sucked in a breath. His mouth opened, then closed. He cleared his throat. "You never said anything," he said at last.
"You never asked," Methos countered.
The dark eyes questioned him seriously, with an intensity that made his heart beat faster. "And if I'm asking now?"
Methos stroked the back of his neck, feeling the strength of the fine, corded muscles, the faint shudder of response that ran through Duncan's body. "Let's go home," he said, "and you can ask me that question again. Because I think my answer is going to take a while."
Duncan, wisely, didn't argue.
The End