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He’s seen rains far, far worse, but still almost regrets being here as he makes his way through it to the house down the road. It’s a simple house, nothing special, surrounded by dozens of similar ones — grey bricks, old roof tiles, warm yellow light in two of the windows.
Macleod is cooking dinner. For two, evidently, unless he’s about to throw out the young woman currently seated on his kitchen counter. She’s Immortal, Methos is close enough to know. They sense him, too: Mac stiffens and makes a brief motion towards where his sword probably is, and the woman peers curiously out of the window, not even slightly bothered. It’s been so easy for some of them, especially the youth, to get used to the changes. Methos only hesitates for a second before opening the door and letting himself in.
The young woman — a girl, really, if she were mortal she’d be nineteen, if that — jumps off the counter and Mac puts down the spatula as Methos struggles to take off his soaked coat.
“Mi casa es su casa,” Mac says. He pronounces the words much more properly than Methos did all those years ago. “Take the shoes off.”
Methos ignores the remark and makes a beeline to the fridge.
“Shoes,” Mac says again.
“Beer,” Methos counters.
There is, indeed, beer in the fridge. He grabs a can. Mac rolls his eyes and hands him a mop which Methos takes and puts promptly in a corner without bothering to wipe the wet floor.
The probably-not-so-young woman clears her throat, smiling.
Mac clears his throat, too, and then says, “Elli, this is my old friend-“
“Matthew Addams,” Methos stretches out his still wet wet hand. “Pleasure. Elli, was it?”
“I’m Eilidh, Eilidh MacLeod,” she says in English, but with a strong Gaelic accent. “Nice to meet you. Any friend of Duncan’s…”
He shakes her hand, smiles his brightest smile and raises a brow at Mac. The insufferable man shrugs and picks up the abandoned spatula. He’s cooking something simple; it smells like lamb stew with potatoes, or rather, potato stew with a tiny note of lamb. Probably not a date, then.
Methos takes a wild guess and opens the cupboard where he thinks the dishes might be. He’s pleased to discover he guessed right and grabs a plate for himself.
Duncan takes the plate from him. “Wash your hands first,” he says and turns to Eilidh. “Need any help?”
“I’ve got it,” she says. She’s peeling apples and cutting them straight into a pan half-full of sponge cake dough. Methos considers educating the ignorant child but settles on letting her learn from her own mistakes. She might be almost as young as she looks, after all.
He washes his hands, changes into some clothes he finds in the master bedroom and then rejoins the MacLeods in the living room. He drinks his beer and complains about the horrible weather in this God-forsaken land as Mac finishes serving the stew — now evenly distributed into three plates — and Eilidh puts her disaster of a pie into the oven. Duncan hands him another beer, but not before getting a soda for Eilidh and pouring something that might be anything — from homemade lemonade to moonshine — from a plain bottle into his own glass. Whatever it is, it has bubbles.
“What brings you here?” Eilidh asks. And isn’t that a sixty-four thousand dollar — pound, whatever — question.
“I was in the neighborhood,” Methos shrugs. “Thought I’d drop by.”
“Uh-uh,” she says, unconvinced.
“Matthew here has a long-standing habit of showing up uninvited once every couple of decades.”
“Not my fault you prefer miserable climates,” he objects to the unspoken ‘and leaving just as suddenly.’ “South Africa is perfect this time of year. Summer. Sunshine.”
“I think I can remember how that feels. Kind of,” Eilidh jokes, glancing at the window. If looks could kill they’d be a hell of a lot colder now for the broken glass.
They make all kinds of small talk. No one insists that he seriously tells them why he’s here. He, in turn, doesn’t pry into their relationship. Not out of politeness, mind, he’s just curious to figure it out by himself.
Eilidh takes a sip of Mac’s cider (evidently, the suspicious liquid is supposed to be cider). So, she’s way too familiar to be just a random MacLeod this country, without a doubt, has in abundance.
Mac glances at her with mock threat but she takes another sip before retreating. He’s patronising, but then again, that’s just Mac on a good day.
“Still gross,” she says.
“Stick to your glass, then,” he parries.
“Here, try my beer,” Methos offers.
Ignoring Mac’s protests, Eilidh takes him up on it. Methos watches as she struggles to restrain herself from making a face. “Good!” She says, obviously lying. She hasn’t acquired the taste yet, has he been keeping her under a rock? Methos motions for her to keep the half-finished can anyway and picks up a fresh one, all just to annoy Mac. Eilidh plays along, making a show of depositing the can right next to her own plate. He likes this girl.
The pie comes out slightly soggy in the middle, with all the apples wet at the top and a thick layer of apple-less sponge cake at the bottom. Still tastes great, though.
“What’d I do wrong?” She asks, clearly expecting a direct answer.
Ah. Student, then.
“The apples are supposed to go first,” Mac explains. “Or in the middle. Not on top.”
She hums and helps herself to another slice. Methos gets himself a third one.
Eilidh’s phone rings a minute later, and just like that, she’s gone like the wind, Mac barely managing to get her to grab her umbrella.
“A date,” Mac explains.
“Oh?”
Mac rolls his eyes for probably the tenth time this evening. “She’s Rachel’s niece. Rach’s sister died in a car crash three years ago.”
“So did Eilidh,” Methos guesses.
Mac nods, grimly.
“And you rushed to the rescue.”
“She’s family.”
“And now you’re bringing up your twelve-year-old cousin.”
“She’s eighteen. Looked older than her age at fifteen, lucky for her.”
Not a matter of survival kind of luck that it was a mere decade ago, Methos thinks, but nods.
“She’s going to college next year,” Mac says.
Methos nods. Puts the dishes in the sink.
“Why are you here, old man?” MacLeod asks with a frown.
He shrugs and doesn’t offer an answer.
“Why now?” Mac doesn’t give up.
“There hasn’t been a Quickening for almost a decade,” he says in lieu of an answer. “I don’t remember it ever lasting this long.”
“And before that, there was only one game player in another decade,” Mac says. “Your point being?”
Methos looks at the rain outside. At the fire slowly burning in the fireplace. At the pile of dirty dishes and the almost finished pie. He closes his eyes.
“When are you leaving?” Mac asks.
“I’m— not?” Methos replies, eyes still closed. He doesn’t really want to look at Duncan and see his expression, whatever it is.
He doesn’t look when he hears Duncan take a step, then another one, nor when a hand softly touches his cheek.
Duncan smells like baked apples and home.
The kiss is only soft for a minute.