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Methos dropped the phone back in its cradle and stared at it with resignation. A self-serving community, the Watchers. Joe Dawson had called in with a red alert that Kalas was trying to track him down, but was his advice to the young Adam Pierson a very sensible and savvy flight plan? No, it was stay put because Duncan MacLeod was on his way and he'd probably be there well in advance of Kalas, so as an enormous favor he should forget those sacred oaths sworn on what was supposedly the most important day of his young life and tell MacLeod anything he wanted to know. For a good cause.
The best course of action was simply not be here. Adam, in way over his head, panicked and tried to run, and was thereafter never seen again. Tragic.
Instead, Methos sprawled on his bed, an exhausted ache in his bones and a nagging sense that was perilously close to boredom with the entire concept. He'd had a nice thing going on here. Adam Pierson was a pleasant man to play, with abundant reading material to hand, a carefully cultivated social circle and a full calendar of snipe hunts to go on in the name of "research." He'd been planning to fly to America to hunt himself across the pacific northwest; then, unsuccessful and in great need of beer and sympathy, to check out Joe's new digs. They'd met a handful of times over the years but with never a hint of hidden passion for the blues and it made Methos curious.
Then again, Joe had always been something of a problem child with the Watchers. He'd disguised himself with Donald Salzer's clothes, trying to fit the model, but opening a blues bar made it sound like he'd thrown in that particular towel. Methos had thought Joe's reputation came from his insistence on taking fieldwork over a more "suitable" research role, but now he suspected that Joe was a maverick at heart, changeable as the breeze.
A Watcher befriending his assignment. It had been known to happen.
It was tempting to stay. Watch the story play out, preferably a safe distance from Kalas—and MacLeod. After all, while MacLeod's Chronicles made for enjoyable reading, it wasn't always the best idea to meet one's favored celebrities.
He really should leave. Besides, if the right man won, there was no reason Adam Pierson couldn't resurface. MacLeod was pretty good, he'd defeated Grayson—albeit in a calmer frame of mind than he was likely to be in these days. If he bested Kalas quickly enough, Adam could be back for Don's funeral.
Or he could stick around short term, collect a little more information, make up his mind afterward. He wanted to sleep on it, which wasn't much of a solution.
Run it by Darius: Even less.
A thousand years of friendship was a hard habit to break. Darius had only seemed to grow more sane through the centuries, even as he receded from reach behind the walls of his church. The Watchers had held vigil for Darius, not that Adam Pierson had been with them that evening. He'd gone straight to Rebecca, to grieve more honestly.
Methos rolled off the bed and pulled a gun from his cabinet. Hadn't seen any recent use, but a handy thing. He loaded a fresh clip, jacked a round in the chamber and slipped it into easy hidden reach beneath the skirts of the bed. That was for Kalas. Being burgled was a very frightening experience, so he'd heard.
Next he went to the fridge and frowned. MacLeod sounded like a fine wine, cheese and opera lover (to judge a consistent trend from his Chronicles, and one which would merit at least a chef's kiss from Kristin before the inevitable happened) so Methos pulled the remains of a six pack from the bottom shelf to sort of split the difference. Had he known he'd be having company he might have gone shopping. Maybe.
He glanced at the radiator and thought about turning it up. Don had often complained about that. He'd thought Adam was cheap. It had been more about deterring repeat visitors, but the free lunches had been a bonus. He left the rooms cold and settled on the floor with his journal and his headphones, as though nothing had changed from this morning.
It was a shame about Don.
Joe had promised MacLeod was in transit, and in a very few minutes (sooner than he would have liked), the rushing sensation of an Immortal came over him. He held still, headphones lifted until the safely rich tone of inquiry floated toward him. "Adam? Adam Pierson?"
Methos settled back in place and wished the whole thing felt more interesting than it did. He wished for that right up until the second MacLeod's dark eyes widened with shock and understanding.
"Methos?"
The name he'd granted to Darius within the confessional, had gifted Rebecca in ancient penance, knowing she would recognize its history. His name now locked away in academic study, a red carpet rolled out with indifference.
It did have a nice ring to it.
* * *
The younger MacLeod was sweetly earnest and alarmed, bundling Methos out the door as though Kalas were minutes away and Methos wholly lacking in resourcefulness to solve his own predicament.
It was a stroke of fortune that MacLeod had never come across the copycat; an argument about authenticity would have started them off on the wrong foot. One con seen through made a man inclined to trust what he was seeing, where two created a belief in the exact opposite. No need to sow confusion here. All he needed was to convince MacLeod he was harmless and better forgotten, and be on the breeze tomorrow—which was hardly a challenge. MacLeod was starstruck, half expecting miraculous powers to sprout with old age. It was almost a shame to disappoint him.
There was still a shadow clinging to their interview, a chill not accounted for by the early spring weather. It wasn't Kalas, specifically, only what he had done: To Don, of course, but also to gentle Brother Paul and to Fitzcairn, purveyor of what was perhaps the most entertaining of all the Chronicles, page for page. Kalas was getting to be a destructive bastard.
"He killed a good friend," Methos said, staring at the gravel beneath his feet. Don had deserved a better end. Quiescent years of retirement, a warm bed, his wife's hand in his when he passed.
"And now he'll be coming for Adam Pierson."
Concern. That was cute enough to merit a smile, even on a day with so little cause for it. MacLeod's questionnaire changed course in awkward directions from there.
"How long has it been since you faced anyone?"
Methos brought a bit of comic relief into play. "Where are we, sixth of march..." and he hemmed and hawed his way into an admittance that maybe he had lost track of time. He'd perfected the art of running away. Why innovate when it wasn't necessary?
"Oh, that's good."
"Hey, I may be a bit rusty but I'm still here."
"Well, let's keep it that way. I'll stay close."
And the cute kept right on coming. Small wonder Joe was breaking his oath all over the place. This was too easy. "You cannot fight my battles for me, MacLeod," he said with dignity. Then he wrapped his coat around himself, a trifle aloof, a little bit vulnerable to the cold, and departed with the last word—one the honor-bound Highlander would be bound to respect.
There was even some truth in it, with a squint. Methos never had to foist a battle on to someone else, because it stood to reason if an Immortal was a problem for Methos, they'd be equally irritating for others as well. In fact, if Methos did get around to fighting Kalas, he'd be the one cutting in line.
Probably it wouldn't come to that.
* * *
It was when he hit the river that Methos knew he had miscalculated. He sank down through the cold, dirty water of the Seine (not the first time he'd made the dip, but always preferable to the Thames) and his reflexes were almost instantaneous. Maintain sword, adjust for weight of clothes and current, and there you were. Simple, really. Automatic. He felt nothing one way or the other.
Even when Kalas had taken the upper hand, there'd been no rush of self-preservation, no perfect improv coming to mind. They'd fought on a bridge of an enjoyably postmodern design, easy enough to scale, and Kalas hadn't even noticed him constantly backing towards it. All broad strokes aggression, led by the nose. Then stopping to gloat, which was always a plus. Body mass, apply pressure, take a swim, no more Kalas. No more Methos, either. Nepal was nice this time of year.
Running away again. Miscalculated? He'd over-calculated, that was the problem. Innovation was key to survival, yet he'd allowed himself to coast on the old stratagems for far too long and as a result he'd gone stale. Before today, it had barely mattered. Immortal history had moved on without him, and most stood still and shrugged at the young coward's retreat.
Unfortunately, Kalas had taken an interest. It was very possible he'd nearly died.
Adrift in the current, Methos couldn't summon the necessary alarm. He could clear out of Europe for a hundred years without consequence. Start over again, somewhere else. As much as he liked Adam Pierson, the role didn't outweigh the newfound baggage that went with it.
Nearing the surface, a prayer in a dead language on his lips, thankfully unspoken though matched by the sudden perverse longing for a hand on his shoulder and a knife in his own ribs. "See brother, at last I outwaited you."
His face broke the surface and his pursuer had gone. He spat out the Seine's latest flavors and said nothing. 'May you live in interesting times' was the curse, not his brother's prophecy of boredom. If it was an old high he was after, he might just as well find out where Byron was on tour and hit him up for whatever the good stuff was these days, but chasing old highs never worked out. He needed something new.
"I'll stay close." Nothing like a promise from the Highlander, and he kicked for land.
I'll hold you to that, MacLeod.
* * *
In most of the important ways, Paris was still a small town and it didn't prove difficult to locate MacLeod. Methos came within sensing range and stared in dismay, momentarily forgetting how he was dripping all over the concrete. With Kalas on the warpath, what was MacLeod doing? Walking alone, reading a book. Genius.
"Methos. Kalas found you?"
Methos continued his sodden, Creature-from-the-Black-Lagoon approach, sword at the ready, while MacLeod stood there acting concerned, book in hand. Come on, MacLeod, you know this part. An Immortal, two minutes past a stranger, walks up to you, sword drawn, and you're going to defend yourself with Sartre? How have you lived this long?
Also, Sartre? Really, MacLeod?
"Is he dead?"
Methos paused for a moment and considered the problems if this went awry, but MacLeod's Chronicles were a sterling character reference. MacLeod rarely took a head at first meeting, and had let Immortals walk away who'd done far more to provoke him than Methos was about to. It wouldn't happen.
And if you're wrong?
He'd know soon enough.
"No," he said and took the first swing. There was always the chance that MacLeod's reputation was the result of his many Watchers and their sentimentality, but the swordfight settled it. MacLeod fought defensively, scurrying to the side, trying for those first pivotal seconds not to retaliate. He didn't want Methos' head and cried aloud for a reason—as if Methos needed one, as if this was already from the single meeting a friend who had turned on him. It wasn't the Watchers who were sentimental.
Sword now at the ready, MacLeod ceased retreating. He fought when challenged, he was good and Methos was, truth be told, a little rusty, not to mention weighted down from his recent swim. Brilliant idea, hindering himself like that—what was wrong with him today?
The last opening came up, and Methos froze an instant, electrified by the thought, the energy it would require to close with an opponent after so many decades in avoidance—a dagger to the ribs or forever hold your peace—and he knew, with all the stubbornness of a student of human nature, that MacLeod would not take his head, so the second slipped away.
MacLeod had the advance, and the will to win. His energy couldn't be mimicked. One either had the fire or did without. How long had it been since his last good sparring match? Long before Byron, whose handicap might have been low on the list of reasons he'd taken him for a student, yet still a significant attraction. Rebecca, yes. Rebecca, with whom there had always been such compensations for defeat, compensations which Methos had eagerly repaid in kind, never entirely sure whether his desire had been to win or to lose with her. There'd be none of that here, sadly, yet the cunning, the immediacy, the storm surge beneath the skin, all were shockingly familiar yet fresh on the page. If this was it, this might actually be how he wanted to go—
MacLeod's swing came to a perfect stop, halted directly at his throat. Gods above, this was being alive again, this was the perfect improv, and here was a holy fool, worthy of trust, far in excess of his glowing reputation.
"What are you waiting for, MacLeod?"
His sword was struck down with a shouted refusal and the exultation deserted Methos, leaving him a king dressed in rags which stuck unpleasantly to his skin, legs shaken by a day of compound worries and dubious decisions, the heaviness returning to his limbs. He probably looked like a wharf rat.
"I'd have killed you."
Two minutes ago, that might have been absolutely true. Now there was nothing he wanted less and MacLeod clearly didn't believe him either way, all but accusing him of attempted suicide. Which, granted, was behavior he'd be recently familiar with.
"You think I want to die?" Methos asked, genuinely curious.
Had she?
"You think it's easier after thousands of years?"
"Then why?"
"Because if you don't kill me, Kalas will."
"Not unless I get him first," MacLeod muttered.
"And if you don't? I cannot beat him. I have tried."
Adam Pierson had tried, anyway. Next time (if there had to be a next time, spring trek with the sherpas notwithstanding) Kalas would be facing a very different opponent, but that wasn't the argument Methos was keen to make. MacLeod had the protective instinct in spades, and there was no shame in playing to it. Especially since Methos was starting to suspect they both needed it.
"He will take my head and then he will have the strength to take yours."
"So after five thousand years, your only solution is that I kill you?" MacLeod asked, incredulous. Which, admittedly...
"He can beat me. He might beat you. He can't beat both of us."
Link them together, the lonely Highlander and the oldest man. MacLeod wasn't buying it, and Methos didn't entirely want him to buy it, or he'd have to strike the "holy" part of the equation and be left with something far less enticing. "If it's that simple, why don't you take my head?"
"Because it's not just a matter of who's the best fighter." MacLeod was on the verge of noticing that slip, and Methos hurried on emphatically, complimenting the Highlander, stoking the furnace that was already red hot. "It is about passion and hate. I don't have the fire. You do. You want Kalas."
There was truth in the statement. Grudges weren't healthy and if Kalas would only give up the idea of trophy hunting, Methos didn't give much of a damn how or when he died. It was bound to happen eventually and was a problem he could happily outwait.
Yet Kalas might defeat MacLeod. The fire might betray the Highlander, burn him out and leave too little behind, broken by his own grief and rage. To lose so many friends in succession was to skirt the edge of madness and Methos didn't fancy an insane MacLeod.
The safe bet would be to put Kalas on ice, force his skills to atrophy. It was feasible, even while amongst the Watchers. But first Methos needed the guarantee he had come here to acquire, and he edged closer, guiding MacLeod's wrist. The pièce de résistance, the self-sacrificial offer only a pure soul could make, neck bared to a blade he knew would never strike. He had created companions for himself before, and it had always begun with the first lesson, from which all others stemmed.
"Live, Highlander. Grow stronger. Fight another day."
* * *
The high already wearing off, Methos stood a safe distance away from the duel between MacLeod and Kalas (which neither man was winning), trying not to rub his throat while waiting for the police to arrive. Once Kalas was in prison, Methos could start edging his way toward an insanity plea, alerting the right people to the case, getting him the way he got Caspian. The Watchers complicated the process, but given a few extra months, it should be possible to maneuver Kalas into a living tomb without it being traced to him and then Adam Pierson could come and go as he pleased.
He'd go, for the moment. Methos had won the Highlander's trust, but lost his own, crossing lines of name and neck too quickly. Haste was for mortal affairs, time always of the essence, not for their own.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and kept them there, feeling drained.
Rebecca has seemed so tired after Darius, her own fire mere embers and now her legacy all but erased, because she'd laid down her life in the most pointless, unbefitting manner a distant part of Methos still raged against. Had she fallen victim to the same exhaustion which had dogged him today? Or had it only been a final act of what she called grace? The very futility of buying a handful of mortal years for an unworthy recipient somehow proof that dying on her knees for Luther had placed her forever above him. Another holy fool.
With any luck, MacLeod was still young enough to learn better, to never attempt any such thing.
Sirens wailed in the distance, rapidly approaching. It still wasn't clear whether MacLeod had any real advantage in the duel. Methos shuffled forward, ready to bring the curtain down on the entire mess.
He'd saved Adam Pierson. He had options, doors left open for later, if he wanted to walk through them. He might very well.