Archive of Our Own ^beta

London, 1950—Outside the Claremont Club (formerly Dirty Dick’s)

In Methos’s opinion, all one needed to know about Bernie Crimmins was that he’d been Immortal before he’d been a headsman, and not the other way around. Along with that blatantly vindictive and cruel nature, Crimmins possessed an extremely canny and suspicious mind and an utter lack of scruples—the combination of which explained why no one had thus far managed to kill the bastard. He rarely left the safety of his club.

As Methos himself was a sensible man with a reasonable desire to keep his head where it belonged, the last thing he wanted to be doing was what he was doing, which was planning to break into the snake’s den to steal something.

The afternoon Christmas shopping crowds bustled past as he stood tucked out of sight in a doorway, watching the club across the street. Behind him, the shop windows flickered with half a dozen television screens showing a cheerful montage of holiday preparations, as an announcer enthused about the abundance of post-War shopping opportunities.

“But Christmas isn't just about having things. There's lots of fun in going ‘round and seeing the exciting things inside!"

The irony wasn’t wasted on Methos. Those ‘exciting things inside’ had escalated his predicament with Crimmins from a troubling but tolerable risk to a serious problem. Crimmins happened to—through an unfortunate set of circumstances—own a particularly clear photo of Methos from the American Civil War. Meanwhile, in a few short years, the television had gone from novelty to household staple, with millions of them in homes already, spreading news and images across the globe at an unprecedented rate.

The Watchers had started a new department to track how the television would affect the habits and movements of Immortals, and Methos did not intend to be a cautionary tale in those particular annals. The problem was, how to get inside without alerting Crimmins or his lackeys? He'd hoped, now that Crimmins had wormed his way into a title, that some lavish dinner or upper crust Christmas fête would have lured the beast from his lair, but in two days of watching, nothing. He'd even considered hiring a professional, but Crimmins’s track record was impressively bloody and brutal even by Immortal standards, and few survived crossing him. The matter had to be handled with some not-inconsiderable skill and care, and Methos couldn’t afford any avoidable margin of error.

It was at that precise moment that Methos felt a faint frisson of Presence. He took a step backward, further out of sight, and watched as a cab pulled up in front of the club. One shapely leg emerged, and then a second. A tall, dark-haired woman in a fur coat and beret exited the cab, already on alert and scanning the area.

“What are the odds?” Methos murmured under his breath, watching Amanda search for the source of his buzz. Was her arrival serendipitous, or the worst kind of luck? On a good day, Amanda meant trouble—but in this case, she just might provide the missing opportunity he needed.

Methos was a cautious man, it was true, but he also acted on impulse when instinct dictated; the unpredictable combination had kept him alive this long. This time, it urged him to take a chance, and he stepped out of his hiding spot, letting Amanda’s searching gaze find him from the other side of the street. Her arched-brow look of surprise was almost worth the price of admission.

Ensconced in a quiet corner booth at a posh hotel bar two doors down, Amanda leaned across the table, her curiosity in full force. “You are the last person I would have expected to see anywhere near Bernie’s place. And lurking about in doorways cloak-and-dagger style? That’s not like you.”

“How would you know? We haven’t seen each other in, what, a century, give or take? Maybe I turned to a life of crime.”

She laughed. “If only!” A speculative glint came into her eyes. “You haven’t, have you? I always thought we would make a great team.”

He grimaced and took a sip of his whiskey. “Unfortunately, no. Which is why I was ‘lurking,’ as you succinctly put it.” He glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to hear their conversation, and added in a lowered voice, “But I might be interested in engaging your services.”

Her expression lit up. “Are you serious? Well, this is my lucky day, in more ways than one. What’s the score?”

“Don’t get too excited. It’s nothing expensive. Just something that’s worth a lot to me, personally.”

“Now I am intrigued. What could Bernie have that you could possibly—” She stopped. “Oh, no. Tell me he doesn’t have something on you.” Crimmins’s business practices relied heavily on a combination of blackmail, bribery, and even less savory methods—all with the promise of swift and violent retribution for anyone who crossed him. “That’s it, isn’t it. Tsk, Methos, I thought you were smarter than that.”

“It’s Michael, if you don’t mind. And you’re one to talk.”

She shrugged, and took a sip of her cocktail, feigning innocence. “Just a little business deal, that’s all. Bernie’s not so bad if you handle him right.”

“So does that mean you’re interested?”

“For the right price, I’m always interested. But tell me the details, first.”

It wasn't a long or complicated story. Crimmins was a loathsome creature, but he was also a man of considerable resources, and necessity was sometimes a cruel mistress; due to the aforementioned series of unfortunate events, Methos had found himself in a tight spot in London during the first Great War, and he’d made a choice to deal with Crimmins against his better judgment. What he hadn’t counted on was Crimmins’s thoroughness in obtaining leverage against those he dealt with—particularly other Immortals. “The short version,” Methos concluded, “is that he happens to be in possession of a photograph of me that I would very much like back.”

“Ouch. You’re right, that is unfortunate.” She tapped one slender fingertip against her lips, considering. “Tell you what. Since it’s you, I’ll do it.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “We’re not that close.”

“For Rebecca’s sake,” she countered, with her best sincere look. Then she smiled like the proverbial cat. “And besides, you haven’t heard my price yet.”

“How much?”

“Oh, not money, darling. In a few days, I’ll be swimming in it, and I want something much more valuable from you. The deal is, I help you get the photograph, and the glass plate, and you owe me…a favor to be named later. Deal?”

He sighed. “I’m going to live to regret this, aren’t I?” But she had him over a barrel, and they both knew it. He extended his hand, and she took it with a firm, business-like grip. “Deal.”

Amanda signaled the waiter, and ordered a bottle of champagne to celebrate.

“So, what’s your plan?” Methos asked. “He’s not going to just let you into the vault.”

“Not me, silly. I know you well enough to know you’ll have no trouble with the combination. What you need is a distraction.”

“And that’s where you come in?”

She gave him a dazzling smile. “See? I told you we’d make a great team.”

He drained his glass, regretting it already. But he really did need that photograph, and at least with Amanda’s help, he stood a chance. “Fine. But if he kills me, I’m haunting you for eternity.”

Despite a few harrowing moments, Amanda’s plan worked. She kept Crimmins distracted by whatever means necessary while Methos stealthed his way into the hidden file room in the club's basement. He'd expected to find a treasure trove of sensitive information on Immortals and influential mortals alike, and he wasn't disappointed. The Watchers would have given their eyeteeth for even half the material Crimmins had collected; fortunately for Methos, there was so much of it that Crimmins kept it thoroughly organized. He was able to find what he was looking for within ten minutes, and to abscond with that and a good deal more.

With the goods safely obtained and Crimmins none the wiser, they reconvened later that evening at a tavern in Aldwych. Amanda removed her hat as she sat down, and fluffed her hair with the air of a woman who needed a drink and a bath, not necessarily in that order.

“Well, that was unpleasant.”

“I can only imagine,” Methos said, not without sympathy.

“But it worked?”

“Success. My predicament is no more, and I am in your debt.” He slid a glass of whiskey across the table, and she took it gratefully.

Her eyes coy over the rim, she said. “And don’t think I’ll forget that.” She took a sip, then considered him. “How can you be sure it’s the only copy?”

"Crimmins is a disgusting lowlife, but he's too smart and self-serving to risk exposing us all. He'd never leave extra copies lying around."

"Good point. I assume you destroyed it?”

“The second I was in the clear. Along with nearly a dozen others, I might add.” He didn’t mention the other thing he’d taken; what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

She gave a low whistle. “He’s been busy. But that was smart—when he finds someone’s been raiding his larder, he won’t know it was you.”

“Exactly.”

She batted her eyelashes, turning on the flirtatious charm as easily as breathing. “You sure you won’t consider a partnership?”

He chuckled. “No, thank you, Amanda. My life is very boring—present circumstances excepted—and I like it that way.”

She pouted. “Pity. But never mind. I’ve got a partner at the moment, and my dance card is rather full.”

“Yes, you never did say why you were there to see Crimmins in the first place.”

“I could tell you, but like you said, you’re not cut out for a life of crime.”

“Does your new partner know you made a deal with Crimmins?”

“No, and he doesn’t have to know.”

“Poor bastard.” He raised his glass. “In a world that changes faster every day, I'm glad to see you haven't.”

“Likewise.” She smiled, speculative. “You'd like him, come to think of it. He's your type.”

“I doubt that, if he’s playing Clyde to your Bonnie.”

“More like Lancelot to my Guinevere. It’s Duncan MacLeod.” A note of teasing entered her voice, and she eyed him with a different kind of partnership implied in her expression. “Have you met him? I could introduce you.”

Methos hesitated for a second, intrigued despite himself. He and MacLeod had yet to cross paths, but he had to admit he was curious. Darius was downright effusive any time the man’s name came up, and MacLeod’s chronicles made for an entertaining read. Rebecca had sung the man’s praises, too. But Methos had lived dangerously enough for one day, and he said only, “Tempting, but I’ll leave you to it. And him.”

She sighed, but didn’t look surprised. “And on that note, I have to run—I’ve got to see a man about a stone.” She leaned over unexpectedly and kissed him on the cheek, and he breathed a whiff of Chanel No. 5. “Merry Christmas, darling. May your days be merry and bright.” As she slid from the booth, she said cheekily, “And remember, you owe me one.”

“How could I forget?” he said to her departing shapely form.

Something to wash down the bird

Methos enjoyed his drink in peace for the better part of ten minutes before another Immortal signature resonated in his bones. His stomach tightened. Blast, he really needed to get out of England. Since the War, their kind were thick on the ground. He downed the last swig and slipped out of the booth, heading down the back hall to the alley exit.

No sooner had he stepped into the alley than a voice called out, “Whoever you are, I’m warning you, I’ve had a terrible day.”

Methos peered into the darkness, making out a familiar shape, short stature, a mop of curly hair, and a familiar cup-hilt rapier silhouetted by the street lamps. “Fitzcairn?”

There was a brief pause. “Ben?” Methos drew closer, and as he stepped into the cone of light from the street, Fitzcairn let his sword down in a posture of exaggerated relief. “Thank the gods. I really was not in the mood for a fight.”

“Believe me, that makes two of us.” Methos drew closer, waiting for Fitzcairn to put his sword away before extending a hand. Fitz was generally harmless, but he was no slouch with a sword, and it had been a while.

Fitz didn’t hesitate, though, gripping his arm and greeting Methos with a quick clap on the back. “Good to see you, old chap. How long have you been in London?”

“Too long, if I’m honest. What brings you here?”

“Well, that’s a long story. But let's not stand out here in the street like unsightly riff raff, what do you say? Buy me a drink?”

Back inside, Fitz leaned across the small table and clinked his beer glass against Methos’s, then quaffed half of his in a single swig. His resulting foam mustache reminded Methos of a Fitz from another century. With a sigh of appreciation, Fitz leaned back in his rickety wooden chair. “That’s more like it. What a day I’ve had.”

“Tell me about it. Should I even ask?”

“I just came to London for the Christmas Eve ball at Kastagir's. Or at least, that was the plan. Till I had the bright idea to make a bet with Amanda.”

Methos winced in sympathy, making a conscious effort not to glance toward the door, and potential escape. “You didn't.”

“Oh, I did. But it gets worse.” He cast a glance toward the bar. “I think I might need something stronger. Be a good lad, will you?”

Apparently, Amanda wasn’t the only player in this story. Fitzcairn continued to drink steadily on Methos’s tab as he regaled Methos with his tale of woe. It involved a centuries-old grudge match of golf, hijinks at the Tower of London, Amanda’s penchant for causing trouble wherever she went (naturally), and somehow, nonsensically, the Stone of Scone. Methos didn’t pretend to understand all the nuance, but Fitz required little of him beyond a steady supply of spirits and the occasional sympathetic murmur, which were easy enough to provide.

Glumly, Fitzcairn wound down at last. “I’m afraid he’s never going to speak to me again. I’ve ruined it, Ben. Three hundred years of friendship, and I’ve ruined it.”

“Well, that hardly seems likely.” Methos wished he could politely make himself scarce. Based on Amanda’s parting line and Fitzcairn’s meandering tale of misunderstandings and misguided break-ins, he had a sneaking suspicion about where all this was going.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve not met the man, but he seems like the thick-and-thin, friends-for-life sort of guy according to everyone who’s told me about him. Darius says he’s as loyal as they come.”

“True, true.” But Fitzcairn looked truly crestfallen as he considered that. “You didn’t see his face, though. I think I broke his heart.”

Fitz’s dramatic tendencies were undeniable, but it was difficult not to sympathize with his obvious torment. “You said it yourself,” Methos tried. “You’ve been friends for three centuries. Just go talk to him,” he urged. “I’m sure he’ll forgive you if you just give him the chance.” He of course knew nothing of the sort, but it was worth a try. And more importantly, it would give him a chance to get out of here before he could get even more embroiled in this comedy of errors.

“You think?” Fitz said, bleary from the drink.

“Unquestionably,” Methos said. “I’m certain of it.”

Fitz polished off what was left in his glass. Methos had lost count at this point.

“You’re right,” Fitz proclaimed, getting unsteadily to his feet. “You’re right. I just need to confess, that’s all.”

“Exactly. Confess. That’s the spirit.” Methos felt a little remorseful about sending the man out into the night in this state, but Hugh Fitzcairn had the lives of a cat; he’d probably be all right. Most likely.

“It’s Christmas!" Fitz proclaimed. "He has to forgive me.” He picked up the bottle and tucked it under his arm, sticking the empty glass in his coat pocket. He raised the bottle to Methos in a drunken gesture that might have been gratitude, or a request for validation. “He has to. Right?”

Methos nodded, already thinking about the fastest route out of the country. “Absolutely.”

When Fitz was gone, Methos left cash on the table and slipped out into the night. He’d never been so glad to leave a pub in his life.

The silence of Christmas morning was shattered by the sounds of sirens as Westminster Abbey, spiritual heart of the Commonwealth, lost one of its most precious relics when persons, so far unknown, broke in and stole the Stone of Scone. The thieves left the initials J. F. S, Justice for Scotland. Other priceless relics were untouched, as they dragged the ancient Stone of Destiny, upon which Scottish Kings were crowned, and vanished into the night through this door. The honor of the nation is at stake. If you scoundrels are listening to this broadcast, know you will be found.

All the flights were booked, of course. Which ordinarily would not have been enough to prevent Methos from leaving England, but that night a storm rolled in, putting a stop to the channel ferry and all other boat traffic for the duration. As a result, Boxing Day found him still in London, watching the news broadcast in the lobby of his hotel and reading an all-hands communiqué from Watcher headquarters. The sketch of Amanda in the papers wasn’t terribly accurate, but according to the Watcher bulletin, Scotland Yard had the license plate of the getaway car—and if Methos was trapped in Britain, so were Amanda, MacLeod, and Fitzcairn.

Worse, Westminster had announced a reward, which had Bernard Crimmins written all over it. A quick telephone call to the Assistant Regional Coordinator confirmed that not only was Crimmins after the reward; he had also discovered the break-in at his club, and had every mole, rat, and attack dog at his disposal hunting the streets for Amanda and MacLeod.

Methos would have liked to be able to talk himself out of getting involved. The boats would be running again by the morning, and it wasn’t technically his problem any more. Crimmins was hunting Amanda, not him. But Amanda couldn’t be trusted to keep his name out of it, and while he’d be long gone by the time that came to light, he didn’t like the idea of being on Crimmins’s hit list.

Aside from that selfish reason, he did owe her one—and because of what he’d taken, now it was personal. Crimmins was vicious, and he wouldn’t just kill Amanda, he’d make her suffer. Methos didn’t want to think about what Rebecca would say if she knew he’d put Amanda in that position, never mind MacLeod.

Developing a conscience and caring what people thought were, it turned out, a real pain in the ass.

The day after Boxing Day

Methos learned from MacLeod's Watcher that MacLeod had gone to Scotland. It didn’t take a genius to know immediately where he would have gone with the Stone.

“Predictable, Highlander,” Methos murmured under his breath. “It's a wonder you've lived this long.”

If he could figure it out, Crimmins almost certainly could, and he'd probably already sent his mooks to Glenfinnan. Not that MacLeod couldn’t take care of himself, but—

Methos paused. MacLeod could almost certainly handle the goons. But what about Crimmins? Amanda had reportedly let herself get caught by the cops, which was a good move in general. As long as she was in custody, she was theoretically safe from Crimmins, but Crimmins was connected. He had means and motive to get to her that she probably wasn’t aware of, and she wouldn’t be in his vindictive sights if it weren’t for Methos.

Methos sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and fetched his coat, checking his sword in the lining. "I really hate having to get my hands dirty."

A member of the House of Lords has vanished under suspicious circumstances. Scotland Yard is seeking any information leading to the whereabouts of Lord Crimmins, knight of the realm, who was last seen leaving the Claremont Club Tuesday evening...

Paris, New Year’s Eve 1950

Methos sat in the opulent bar of the Hotel Ritz, reading an English newspaper. According to the story, the Stone of Scone had been returned in exchange for the release of the two ‘pranksters,’ which was the spin the Brits had apparently put on the whole mess. Impressed, he murmured, “Not bad, MacLeod. It's good to have friends in high places.” Regarding the mysterious disappearance of Lord Crimmins, no further information had been reported.

As he turned the page to read about developments in South Korea, the deep, singing chord of an approaching Immortal sang through his bones. He looked up, and was delighted to see Rebecca, as beautiful and serene as he remembered her.

He stood. “My lady. I’ve missed you.” They embraced and kissed one another on both cheeks.

"It's been too long," she said, clasping his hands in hers. "What brings you to Paris?"

“Like I said, I've missed you. And, a little bird told me you'd be here."

She smiled, knowing. "And how is Amanda?"

"As troublesome as ever."

"Glad to hear it." She raised an intrigued eyebrow. "Sounds like you have a story to tell."

"One you'd have to know Amanda to believe."

They sat down to catch up, two old friends (and sometimes more), in the cozy warmth, pleasant company, and festive atmosphere of the turning of the year.