Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Boston, now

“What I don’t understand is why anyone would want to steal Damien Moreau’s body.”

Eliot was through the door and up in Hardison’s personal space, glaring at the bank of computer screens, before he’d consciously processed what he’d heard. “What do you mean, body?”

“Body. As in, I have alerts for any mention of his name, and he died. Poison, apparently.”

“He’s not dead.”

Hardison gave him the why does nobody ever trust my systems? look. “OK, I know you’ve got this Thing about Moreau, but he is. There was even an autopsy, with pictures, which I assure you I only looked at long enough to be sure it was him.”

Eliot glowered. “I’ve come back from worse.”

“From— from an autopsy? Dude, like, I know you, okay, but what the hell?”

The part of Eliot that never lost track of his surroundings noted that Nate and Sophie had drifted into the room, attracted by all the commotion, and Parker had appeared the way Parker did. The overall feel of the room was polite disbelief.

“Yeah.” Fuck, he’d have to do the knife thing, and not just a simple cut for this crew. He lifted Hardison’s utility knife from his pocket — his own would never do — and flipped it open. Before Hardison could even begin to sputter indignantly, his other hand was flat on the table with the blade slammed all the way through his palm.

“Eliot!” Sophie said, her usually well controlled voice laced with disbelief. Nate leaned back, eyebrows raised, in what would look like his usual I assume this is a con and you will explain it pose to someone who didn’t know him well. Hardison was past sputtering to outright shock.

Only Parker seemed unperturbed. She reached out a curious finger. Eliot yanked the knife out before she could touch it and handed it to her — just because it would heal, didn’t mean that wouldn’t hurt.

Parker turned the blade this way and that, sniffing it but not — thankfully — tasting it. “It’s real,” she said. 

Sophie shook her head, fighting to regain her composure. “I know at least three ways of faking that…” she said uncertainly. 

“Yeah, so do I, but this isn’t one of them,” Eliot said, pulling off his bandanna to wipe the blood off his hand and then hold it up for inspection. Hole that deep, wasn’t going to heal instantly, giving it enough time to be obvious even to a pack of grifters. And he’d bet none of them knew any way to fake the Quickening sparks, although he wouldn’t put it past Hardison to find one.  “Like I said, I’ve survived worse. So has Moreau.”

Roman Germania, 261 AD

He knows by now the enemy is toying with him. The bodies of his entire centuria lie strewn around him; there’s no reason why he isn’t lying there with them.

And there aren’t any of the enemy among the dead, even though he’s certain he’s dealt more than a few fatal blows. Nobody’s even bleeding. Maybe he is dead. He’s heard the barbarians believe they’ll spend the afterlife fighting; he really can’t see the appeal.

As if they know he’s hit his limits, the men surrounding him all suddenly step back. It’s not a retreat; they’re waiting for something. The circle breaks, and there’s a man standing there, obviously their leader. The world seems slightly unreal, the way it does just before a lightning strike.

He stands, unmoving, his sword dangling at his side, as the leader approaches. It’s not just that he’s too tired to do anything else — he wants to try, but there’s something mesmerizing about him. He looks up as the man rests a hand on his shoulder, smiles indulgently, and then stabs him in the heart.

“And I came to in their camp. Damien — he wasn’t Damien then, said I should call him Deimos — said he’d chosen me. Said I could join him, or I could find out how many times he could bring me back. It was a lie, the bringing back part. He had nothing to do with it, but I didn’t know that till a lot later. So, yeah. I was a Roman centurion, I believed in the gods, and he was convincing.” Eventually. They didn’t need to know how many ways he’d died those first months.

“So how do you come back?” Hardison asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. None of us know.”

Hardison started to ask another question, but Nate spoke up for the first time. “I think we’re getting away from the point. It’s not like we haven’t faked a dead body before. Whether Eliot’s story checks out or not,” — Eliot glared, but Nate ignored him — “Damien Moreau is no longer in prison, so we should assume he’s alive and free.”

“And out to get us. All of us,” Eliot emphasized. “And he’ll save me for last. Make me watch, if he can. It’s what we did.” He could see the various looks around him shift as everyone considered just what he’d begged them not to ask. “He knows who we are, we don’t know who he is or where he’ll be. He’d have several new identities set up for him to just step into. We all do. So what you all have to do is hide. There are rules, but they don’t apply to you.”

Nate had that look on his face that said he’d already worked his way to Plan M and was still spinning threads in all directions. “I agree about the hiding,” he said, “but not the rest. You need a better plan than that.”

Sophie nodded. “Yes. We’ve split up before and it didn’t work out. We’re better as a team. You need us. And if we’re in danger, we need you.”

Hardison was next. "Oh, right, and you're going to track him down? You and what computer skills? When’s the last time you had to do something like this, huh? Back before he could be anywhere in the world in under a day?”

Eliot shot a pointed glance at Parker, who merely raised her eyebrows and shrugged. He glared at all of them, but there was no heat in it. They were right, he really was in immediate hide and regroup mode. First time he’d had to run from Moreau with a team at his back, so yeah, maybe he needed some time to adjust. 

“Right,” Nate said. “Hardison…”

“Search for Moreau’s potential new identities, on it.”

“Eliot, work with Hardison. You know Moreau’s history, what places he likes, what kind of aliases he prefers.”

Eliot nodded, noting that while Nate was finally taking it seriously, he was still thinking in terms of mortals, with aliases layered on top of real identities.

“Parker, Sophie, with me. I know you both have hideouts you’ve never revealed to anyone. We need to determine which ones will work for all of us. We don’t have any idea how long it’ll take before Moreau comes after us, but I’m assuming that between us and Eliot we’re pretty high up his list of priorities.”

Eliot wasn’t sure what Nate expected him to do, other than keep the hacker from freaking out. Hardison, Elliot noted, was very carefully not looking at his knife, the hole Eliot had made in the desk, or Eliot’s hand— so much so that it was distracting him more than if he’d just given in and stared. Which wasn’t good for his hacking, or even more importantly, Hardison himself.

Right. Time to get it all out. Giving Hardison his best I am totally fucking with you grin, he gave the knife a light push. “Want this back?”

“What? No. No I do not.” Hardison pretended to ignore him and focus on his computer, but Eliot knew all his tells and just waited him out. Finally he cracked. “Damn, man, how can you do that to yourself? Doesn’t it hurt?”

Eliot thought of saying he’d had worse, but he’d messed with Hardison’s head enough today. “Yeah. It does. I usually wouldn’t be so dramatic, but like Sophie said, you all know different ways to fake that.”

“Not me, man. I leave that to the experts. No blood for me, not even fake. Unless, like, it’s digitally added. That I can do.”

“Yeah, I get it. I mean, it’s not just my job to keep you away from all that, you know? And look, I know I rib you about it, but you’re right. I have no idea how to go about changing identities these days or tracking someone down with computers. It was a lot easier last time I did it. Slower, though.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Hardison said, loosening up as he did when given a new puzzle to think about. “What, you’d just go away, turn up a few years later going ‘yeah, that was my granddad?’”

“Some of us did. I kept moving. There’s always work for a hitter“ — he’d nearly said someone with my skills, but he didn’t want Hardison to go down the rabbit hole of just what those skills might be — “and nobody ever asks too many questions.”

“Well, that ain’t gonna work now,” he said, sounding more confident as they got back into his area of expertise. “Everything’s online, unless you go somewhere so off grid they don’t even know what a grid is, and ain’t too many of those left, and none of them is a place Moreau could just disappear. Not that I can see him leaving behind his harem and his luxuries. Guessing San Lorenzo was about as isolated as he could stand.”

“Yeah, pretty much. So,” he asked, with no trace of the usual teasing mockery he might have used on an ordinary day, “you’re gonna search every computer on the planet?” 

Hardison nodded, his face lighting up as he launched into the kind of tech babble that Eliot usually ignored. Not this time. “That is exactly what I’m doing. Facial recognition on every database on the planet, and I do mean every. I got automated systems going through all the public databases, but there’s a lot of them that need my personal attention. Gonna take some time, but there ain’t no hiding from me. Age of the geek, baby.”

Equilibrium regained, Hardison turned his full focus on his computer. Eliot watched, catching a few words as they flickered by — missing person requests, most-wanted lists, DMV records — but otherwise he was as out of his depth as he ever was. But it did spark an idea. “Can you find someone else for me? Went by Adam Pierson in the 90s, might be someone else by now. More of a hide in plain sight kind of guy, so he should have public records.”

“90s? Yeah, I’ll see what I can do. Friend of yours?”

“You could say that.”

Magna Germania, 315 AD

Methos reins in his horse at the riverbank. The town to the north of him is said to have a bridge, but there’s a plume of smoke rising over the forest, and Methos has seen enough towns put to the torch to recognize it.

South it is, then.

The wisdom of his decision is confirmed when he spots a corpse floating face down in the river. A familiar feeling causes him to give the body a second look. Not dead, not quite; a new Immortal, who hasn’t yet learned that the trick to not drowning is to resist the body’s desire to inhale. He sighs and looks down the river, judging that the currents will bring the body close to the bank on his side at the next bend. No sense in getting wetter than he needs to, and it’s not like the young Immortal can get any more dead.

Once ashore, the man turns out to be a mass of contradictions. He’s wearing the trousers and tunic of the local tribes, under Roman armor that appears to have taken a good number of decades of hard use. Possibly spoils of war, but Methos doubts it — it fits him too well. And then there’s the gladius — not a sword meant for dueling, which matches the feeling that this Immortal has yet to go through his first Quickening.

He sets the stage carefully, placing both their swords out of easy reach, but still easily spotted, and waits.

When the man revives, he’s examining his surroundings almost before he finishes coughing up a lungful of river water. Again, the contradictions — he notes the position of the swords but doesn’t seem concerned enough about the distance. Young Immortals who know the Game tend to be rather twitchy when their weapon isn’t on their body. He looks at Methos, and his eyes furrow — yes, he knows how to sense another Immortal.

“What are you?” he asks in the local dialect, with just a trace of an accent. “You feel like my— like the others, but I don’t know you.”

On a whim, Methos switches to Latin. “We’re Immortals, although I suspect that means nothing to you.” The man nods, confirming both his theories. 

Methos has been through the introduction to immortality so many times that he can do it by rote, letting him concentrate on analyzing the man’s reaction to the information. It’s obvious some of it is familiar, while some of it is a surprise.

At the end the young Immortal shakes his head, not quite in acceptance, but not full disbelief either. “It does make more sense than what my— than what I was told. That Deimos had chosen us, granted us immortality. And that he could take it any time he wanted.”

It’s not the first time an Immortal has tried that con, but that isn’t what catches his attention. “Deimos?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

Far too well. “He has a reputation.” Leave it at that.

He nods thoughtfully. “And if he asks how I know this, who should I say told me?”

“Call me Nemo,” Methos says. Deimos will know it’s an alias, but not who’s behind it.

His eyes crinkle in genuine amusement. “Οὖτις ἐμοί γ᾽ ὄνομα?” He grins at Methos’ reaction. “Yeah, I’m no barbarian, I know my classics.”

“Oh?” Methos raises his eyebrows pointedly as he looks up and down at his mismatched attire.

He glances away briefly in embarrassment. “Yeah, maybe I am. Hadn’t realized how long it’s been since I gave up trying to run. S’pose you’re going to say I could just not go back now, but...”

Methos shakes his head. “He’ll come after you. He’s very attached to his possessions.”

The man nods and rises to leave, collecting his sword with a look that indicates a new understanding of the careful positioning. Methos calls out to him. “If you don’t survive,” he says, with a lilt that implies he expects the opposite, “what name should I remember you by?”

He pauses and looks back. “Deimos calls me Catellus. But my name was Quintus Marcius.”

It’s only been a few days since he was last in the camp. He expects it to feel different, to bow under the weight of new knowledge. He expects the change he feels in himself to be obvious — that they will look at him and see Marcius. Not that he quite feels like Marcius, after so long being Deimos’ faithful dog.

He doesn’t even attempt stealth as he enters Deimos’ tent — why should he, when Deimos can feel him arrive? Deimos, as usual, is a bright beacon; the stranger who called himself Nobody has explained why. The Game, for which Deimos had sent him out unprepared.

It’s a shock, to realize his immortality has limits.

Deimos looks him over, pausing at the hilt of his sword, where his hand is a bit too close, a bit too ready. Deimos raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to draw, whelp, or are you going to just stand there?”

He shakes his head. “I think I know what would happen if I tried.”

“Do you?”

He’d thought he was prepared, but Deimos is faster than he could have expected. He’s on the ground, a sword pointed at his neck, before he has time to blink. But Deimos is smiling at him, the same smile he remembers from the first time he’d died. They stay there for a long moment, then Deimos sheathes his sword and pulls him to his feet.

“I was waiting for you to start asking questions, I knew you were clever enough to start wondering. But I take it you’ve already found answers.”

“Yeah. And what if I hadn’t been lucky? What if the first other Immortal I met hadn’t been so curious? The man I met said it was your duty to train me.”

“And it is. You’ve no idea what a catch you are. We do love having the chance to train a new Immortal, especially one with such potential. It’s why I worked so hard to acquire you once I realized what you were. I saw you with your soldiers. Should I let such talents go to waste? Can you deny that I taught you well? How to use them, how to lead?”

There’s some echo of the centurion he was, so young and eager to prove himself, that’s responding to the praise.

“But you were on the wrong side, and so very loyal — another talent I desired. You would never have agreed without some … let us say, encouragement.”

He shudders, remembering, but he knows there’s no point in protesting the term. Move on. “And? Why play that game with all of us?”

Deimos shrugs dismissively. "Just look at them, your so-called brothers. They’re thugs, barbarians. Barely worthy of the gift of immortality. If they knew the truth, how could I keep them in line? They hated you because you were a Roman, and yet I’d given you the same gift I’d given them.” There’s an eyebrow raise, a look that says the two of them were both on the same side, keepers of a greater knowledge. “I had to treat you the same until you’d earned their respect. And you have, as I knew you would.”

He shakes his head, sorting through everything Deimos has said. There’s truth to it, but there’s also something deeper that he just can’t place.

Deimos wraps an arm around his shoulders. “You’re special, you’ve always known it. And your Empire is dying; I know the signs well. They’re playing the tribes against each other now, sabotaging any leader who stands out, but when that ends? I will need you to help me bring order to the chaos.”

Chapter Text

Chicago, now

“This,” Sophie said, in the voice she used to show a mark their greatest desire, with a sweep of her arm like a game show hostess, “is our new hideout.”

Hardison looked around in awe. “Is… is this an actual Chicago speakeasy? You have got to be kidding me. When you said we were going to rent a private club, I thought, y’know, something like Nate’s place only smaller. This is a full size speakeasy, with a dance floor and everything. It’s gotta be a replica, right?”

Parker, who had been wandering around and poking at things, shook her head. “Nope. It’s real.”

“Damn, really? I mean, just look at it, all this art deco glass, like, do you know how rare it is to find that in good condition, and the bar, and…”

The bar which was fully stocked, rows and rows of bottles along the brick wall. Everyone carefully didn’t look at Nate, except for Parker, who merely wasn’t looking at him.

“Where are we, exactly?” Eliot asked, to break the tension. Sophie had directed them through the maze of Chicago’s underground service roads with a list of hand-written instructions, which Hardison had scoffed at until he’d discovered there was no GPS down here. Which meant no tracking, either. They’d parked next to a basement level that had the very distinctive smell of a restaurant service entrance, and from there through a short tunnel and down a flight of stairs to here, wherever here was.

“Two stories below Rusterman’s restaurant. Their kitchen is just above us.”

Eliot’s jaw dropped. “Wait, Rusterman’s? We’re under Rusterman’s?” he said, as Hardison exclaimed, “Wait, this is the lost speakeasy?”

They exchanged looks. “Rusterman’s, one of the finest restaurants in Chicago, they say one day under Chef Brenner is worth a month in any culinary school—“

“Rusterman’s Back Room, said to have been demolished when they remodeled in the late 40s—“

Sophie looked like the cat that had brought home the cream. “Actually it was closed off and almost forgotten until the 90s, when it became a very exclusive club for the owners and their guests, since the kitchen renovation made public access impossible. The doors through the kitchen can only be opened from the inside, just as they were during Prohibition. No locks to pick,” she added, which got an approving look from Parker.

Hardison nodded. “Even Elliot Ness never made it inside, although there are rumors he did visit once Prohibition ended.”

Eliot looked at him askance. “I had no idea you were such a speakeasy fan.”

“Look, you’ve got your craft cocktails, your nostalgia, the whole underground secret hideout thing…”

Eliot would’ve said something snarky about what the ‘whole underground secret hideout thing’ was really like, but Sophie was giving them a fondly exasperated look as she moved on with her sales pitch. “Some of the offices and storage rooms were converted to very nice bedrooms for especially exclusive guests. There are also some empty rooms that they used for liquor storage,” she said, with a tip of her head towards Eliot. No mention of why he’d need it, no. “It was too inconvenient to use once it didn’t need to be hidden. All of this only takes up about a third of the space on this level, another reason it was never discovered in the 20s.”

Parker looked smug. “Nobody ever pays attention to room dimensions.”

“Oh, and Eliot — there’s a kitchen, and an arrangement for room and concierge service from the hotel above the restaurant, if there’s anything we need that we can’t risk going outside to get. And the best part: Tara called in favors to get us here, so there’s no connection to any of my aliases.”

Eliot still had a few concerns. “But people know this is here, know someone is using it. There’s not going to be any, y’know, staff gossip? She didn’t tell anyone why she wanted it?”

Sophie smiled fondly. “Eliot, darling, it’s Tara. She doesn’t have to explain. All she has to do is ask.”

Hardison managed to tamp down his awe enough to express his own concerns. “OK, but what about my computers? Vintage is nice, but, y’know, age of the geek, and I got a search to run.”

Sophie smiled. “I did say remodeled in the 90s, you know. The people who get invited to places like this tend to be the sort who can never be far from high-speed internet. There’s a conference room that is very much not vintage, and Tara says it should have everything you need.”

“OK, great, I’m gonna go get the rest of my gear, start setting things up. Parker, wanna come with?”

“Yeah, I want to check out those tunnels,” Parker said, with the anticipatory gleam she usually used for bank vaults. “I’ve heard that Al Capone used to use them to hide things from the feds.”

“Dammit, Parker, no! They were freight tunnels. They’re older than that! They’re not safe…”

“Escape routes!” Parker tossed over her shoulder as she followed Hardison back the way they’d come in.

“… Fine,” Eliot grumbled, not that she was listening.

“And I,” Nate said, speaking up for the first time, “am going to… not check out the bar.” He waited just long enough for things to get awkward, then made his exit. Eliot could relate to his frustration; of all of them, he’d have the least to do while they waited. And there was no one better than Nate at harboring guilt for a con that had gone wrong.

Eliot stayed behind with Sophie. “You’re upset, I can tell,” he said. At her questioning look he clarified. “You were using your mark voice.”

Sophie frowned. “Oh, was I? But I really do think this is a lovely place for a hideout.”

“Yeah, it’s far better than I’d hoped for. But you’re trying to convince us and yourself that things are ok, and it’s not, I get it. I’ve had to go through this before, explaining the whole… Immortal thing, and it’s hard enough to cope with without me having put everyone in danger.”

“You didn’t,” Sophie said, in the authentic version of her reassuring voice. “We all made the decision to go along with Nate’s plans, although I admit he could have been more forthcoming about the pressure he was under. But we agreed.”

“When Nate wanted to go to San Lorenzo to finish the job I thought, y’know, whatever the team did to him, it would only be a minor setback. Moreau plays the long game, he’d brush that off. But trapped like that? Underground, life sentence, no way out?” He barely suppressed a shudder. "That’s one of our worst nightmares.”

Sophie shook her head. “We could have been in danger even without the...“ She waved her hand to take in all that Immortal stuff. “If he’d gotten away some ordinary way, if he’d been an ordinary man, he still might have wanted revenge. It’s one of the risks we take.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my job to keep those risks away from you, not make them worse.”

Sophie didn’t try to argue; they’d had this discussion before. After giving the silence enough time to settle into a more comfortable one, she looked around thoughtfully. “You worked in a place like this, didn’t you? Back then? You seem more than usually familiar with it.”

He grinned. “Heh. You’d have had a hard time finding anyone who wasn’t connected to the speakeasies back then, but yeah. Started out as a bouncer, moved on to other things.”

Sophie relaxed into one of her genuine smiles. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Hardison.”

Chicago, 1922

He moved through the crowd of revelers, nodding politely and exchanging greetings with the regulars. Everyone was sharply dressed, even him; Frankie’s Place was a high-class joint, and standards needed to be maintained. If his cut was just a little looser than was stylish, nobody said a word; they knew who he was, and knew he’d be the one standing between them and the cops if they ever got raided.

One of the waiters waved him over. “Boss wants to see you, soon as you have time.”

“He say why?”

“Something about changing suppliers. Heard there’s a new guy in town, promises he can get the good stuff.”

“Yeah? I hope so. We had to dip into the reserves tonight. Whatever they gave us in that last batch, it sure as hell wasn’t whiskey.” Watered down paint thinner, maybe, or something even worse.

Up on the stage, the band was about to start another set. They’d arrived from New Orleans a few weeks ago and were already making a name for themselves. Another reason a good supplier was essential — if Frankie’s couldn’t draw a crowd, another speakeasy would snap up their performers.

He felt the presence of another Immortal as he approached the door, and frowned briefly. Before he had time for second thoughts, the door opened and his boss — Frank Delvecchio, the Frankie of Frankie’s Place — called him inside.

“Eli, this is Etienne Darrieux from Quebec. Darrieux, my head of security, Eli Marcos.”

Deimos. Darrieux. Of course it’s him. Where there’s chaos, he’s involved. Nothing of that showed on his face as he took the outstretched hand.

“I’ve heard good things about you,” Darrieux said. “You keep things under control, even when confronted with these trigger-happy mobsters. I need someone like that. I’ve lost three shipments to hijackers in the past few months, and that’s damaging my reputation.”

It was a lie blended with truth — Eli would bet that Darrieux cared as much about pulling him back in as he did about his reputation. But he couldn’t exactly turn it down; Frankie’s Place also had a reputation, and the reserves were very limited.

“I told him that I couldn’t afford to lose you,” his boss said, “but that won’t be a problem, the boats only go out during the new moon.”

Eli knew there was absolutely no reason to turn down an opportunity like that, but what could he say, with his boss looking at him like that?

Darrieux could read it on his face — he knew him too well — and turned to Delvecchio. “Perhaps we could have a few minutes alone, so that I can try to convince him.”

Delvecchio shrugged, as if he couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t leap at such a lucrative offer, but nodded and left.

As soon as the door closed, Eli snapped. “I told you before, I don’t want any part of your dirty work.”

Darrieux smiled, the charming one that Eli had learned the hard way was a lie. “I know. That’s why I need you, because I’m trying to avoid that kind of publicity. It’s bad for business.”

“Since when did you care about that?”

“Since the world changed so that even being in the shadows isn’t enough. Now there are newsreels and photographs to draw the kind of attention we don’t want. And this? This is a mess. These mobsters haven’t the brains to hold on to what they have once this ridiculous American law is overturned. They’re merely fighting the old way on new battlefields, squabbling like those tribal chiefs who thought they were kings.”

“You were one of those tribal chiefs.”

Darrieux’ facade cracked. “You have no idea what I was, pup, but yes, I was a barbarian, and together we slaughtered entire villages. Don’t tell me the Romans weren’t doing the same; you were one of them. But that’s all in the past. We’re both more civilized now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. This petty war on street corners will end, and when it does, I expect to come out with an empire of my own once again.”

“And if I turn you down?”

“Then a year from now, when this town has gone completely mad, you will be somewhere far away, watching the newsreels and wondering what you could have done to change things.”

“So, I see the job requirements haven’t changed since my time.”

There were a dozen men gathered on the dock, all Immortal, setting Eli’s nerves alight. Only one face was familiar: Chapman, who’d been a young Immortal when Darrieux first hired him in Florence and had worked his way up the ranks since. There was an anticipatory look to his face that said he remembered those days rather more fondly than Eli did. He opened his duffel bag and started distributing handguns and rifles to the men.

“Not me,” Eli said. “I don’t like guns.”

“Sorry, old man, didn’t bring any extra swords today,” Chapman said. A ripple of laughter passed through the men.

Eli left them to it, turning his attention to the boat pulling up to the dock. At first glance it looked like a barge, low and flat with only a small cockpit, but it was built for speed, powered by surplus aircraft engines, and could outrun anything that the law had to offer. But it wasn’t the law they had to worry about; everyone in the rum running trade had similar boats, and some had turned to piracy. The usual practice was to surrender. This run was going to be different.

The mission started out entirely as expected: meet the steamer, pick up the cargo, and head back to Chicago. Just when Eli was thinking the trip would be uneventful, he heard the sound of more speedboats — at least two, maybe more.

Their boat tried to escape, but the hijackers had the advantage of not being laden with cargo. The distinctive sound of machine gun fire rattled across the bow, and the captain cut the engines, standard procedure in such a situation. The boat might be carrying a fortune, but there would be another one at the next new moon.

Piracy hadn’t changed much since the days of sail; the next few minutes were filled with the sound of grappling hooks and the thump as the two boats came together, followed by the sound of men boarding the boat on the port side. Searchlights from both boats lit up the cargo area, and the hijackers spread out to collect their high-proof loot.

Once they were fully occupied, Eli’s sniper quickly took care of the searchlights. A burst of returning gunfire was cut off with a shouted “Stop! You’ll hit our men!”

Eli grinned. Darkness would be an advantage for his crew; Immortals didn’t need to see the details of a shadowy figure to tell friend from foe. He quickly dispatched the nearest hijacker, then went in search of more. The air was filled with the sounds of gunfire and hijackers yelling at each other to retreat.

Off to the left, one of his men was engaged in a shootout with a hijacker, the sound of his Remington a distinctive contrast to the Immortal’s Colt. The muzzle flash from the guns gave them each a target to aim at.

Suddenly the Colt went silent, followed by an outraged “I’m shot!” The Remington ceased firing.

“So?” came a very disinterested voice from one of Eli’s men.

“So I lost my gun!”

The sound of laughter came from several directions. After a startled moment, the Remington started firing again, then came the sound of a scuffle as the hijacker yelled “What the hell, why won’t you go down?”, shortly followed by a loud splash.

Eli found himself close to a hijacker who’d made the foolish decision to try to grab a crate on his way out. Some sense of danger caused him to drop it and fumble for his gun. Eli’s feral grin went unseen in the darkness, but his voice was full of the promise of mayhem. “Yeah, I’d bet your guy just went over, and mine is still standing. Now, you could try to shoot me, but for all you know that’s just gonna make me mad. Or you could make the smart choice and run.”

Smart choice it was; the hijacker turned and headed for the dark outline of his own boat.

Eli felt an Immortal presence beside him. “I’d have shot him,” Chapman said, and then after a calculated pause added, “Oh, I forgot, you don’t like guns.”

“Yeah, and what do you think’s gonna happen when he gets back to his boss and tells this story? Worse’n anything we could do to him.”

“Heh. I forgot how dirty you used to fight.”

Chicago, 1926

Eli had seen many places descend into anarchy, but never quite so quickly as this.

There had been gangs before Prohibition, but they were small, making not much more than a living off whatever was currently declared to be a sin, the way gangs had operated for as long as there had been cities and sins. Then Prohibition had kicked in. What had started as relatively minor lawbreaking to get around a law that absolutely nobody wanted had turned into a maelstrom of vast amounts of money combined with equally vast amounts of corruption.

The small gangs were nearly all gone now, absorbed into the two main rivals, North Side and South Side, with Darrieux a shadowy presence behind them both. Eli had drifted back into working for him as a messenger and occasional enforcer; the Coast Guard had finally gotten ships that could keep up with the rumrunners, completely changing the rules of the game, his crew already transformed into legends only told after multiple rounds of bootleg hooch.

And Chicago just adapted and moved on. A few months ago, one mobster with a Tommy gun had caused a sensation, now Chicagoans would look out of their windows curiously whenever bullets started to fly, trusting in the knowledge that the gangs were using it primarily for intimidation; they hadn’t yet hit any civilians, and only a few of their rivals.

Eli looked up, realizing he’d seen a distinctive black salon car coming towards him and slowing suspiciously. He looked around — yes, that was one of Capone’s businesses barely a half block ahead of him. The other pedestrians were coming to the same conclusion, hurriedly moving away from the car’s apparent target.

The rear door opened, a man stepped onto the running board, face obscured by his hat, and fired into the building until the Tommy gun clicked on empty. He swung back into the car as it sped off, but not so quickly that Eli couldn’t make out the face staring out at him as they passed. Chapman.

Eli burst into Darrieux’ office fuming, Chapman trailing in his wake.

“Since when are we getting directly involved in gang wars?”

Darrieux turned to Chapman and gave him an inquiring look. “He insisted. Saw the drive-by.” He shrugged. “You know how he is.”

“Eli,” he said, spreading his hands out placatingly. “You didn’t want to know about that side of things, so I indulged you, I left you out of such assignments. But you do not get to pass judgement on how I conduct my business.”

“Yeah,” Chapman added, slouching against the wall by the door, his usual faux casual position when he was pretending not to be a bodyguard. Eli wasn’t fooled; he’d taught him that trick. “He sends you. And if that doesn’t work?” Another shrug. “He sends me.”

Eli tossed a glare back at Chapman. “You could send me back to be more persuasive. You’ve done it before.” Half the time he didn’t even have to get violent.

Darrieux tsked. “I use you for the quiet threats, and you’re very effective at that. But the world has changed. Even you couldn’t go up against a dozen bodyguards with Tommy guns, at least not without raising too many questions.”

Chapman sighed. “I like those guns. Lots of noise and attention. Almost as good as the old days, when we’d burn the place down with them inside.”

Darrieux shot him a quelling look. “This way is better. All the noise and attention, yes, and we get the people on our side. They’re actually proud of the chaos. And why not? The law is just as destructive, but they go after the liquor. We only go after the troublemakers. But if you want to leave, I can’t stop you.” He cast the smallest flick of his eyes towards Chapman, as if to draw attention to what the alternative would be if Eli left.

And really, where could he go? He had a very specific set of skills that would be in high demand just about anywhere, but until the world came back to its senses, most of them would be far less understanding than Darrieux.

Chapter Text

Washington, DC, eight months ago

Nate and The Italian run. Eliot knows Nate thinks he’s just going to provide covering fire, just enough for them to slip past, and then he’ll join them. But he won’t. He can’t. Taking down Nate would just be a bonus; Damien wants him, and his men know that they can only take him if he’s dead first. The only way he’s getting out of here is if everyone in this room is dead — or at least, dead enough to give him a head start.

He fires without looking, knowing where everyone is, the way he did with all the ones before them, Immortal brothers in arms. Deimos’ unstoppable army, burning their way through the wreckage of the Roman Empire. The Ghost Ship of the Great Lakes, crewed by demons who couldn’t die, who fought in pitch darkness as if it were brightest day.

He can feel the flicker of Immortal presence behind him, the ones he shot first already starting to revive. Desperate measures, then; the explosion is enough to keep everyone occupied.

One last Immortal presence, a familiar one.

“You said you don't like guns.”

“I don’t,” he says. He doesn’t. He fires. “Never said I couldn’t use ’em.”

Chicago, now

It was one thing to be stuck in a place for a known amount of time; a week until the blizzard blows over, a month until the manhunt moves on to another place. Even the years of a prison sentence could be endured. It was another to be trapped without an end to aim for; being tossed into a cell to wait for a ransom that might or might not come was unfortunately common in his line of work.

Waiting for an enemy to find you… yeah, that was way up there.

At least he had something to do… no, he forced himself to admit, he was just killing time. Practicing sword drills by himself all day was not going to help him against Moreau; he needed a partner, someone who could push him. But it did make a good excuse to avoid his team.

Right. Time to check on them. From experience, he knew they were just about at the point where the excitement of a new place was going to run into the frustration of not knowing how long they’d have to stay there and, with one exception, not being able to do anything to change that.

As he headed towards the main room, he heard Sophie’s voice drifting out from the conference room, causing him to change course; he hadn’t wanted to interrupt if Hardison was in deep hacker mode. “Ooh, I want this one!”

“I don’t know,” Hardison replied, “that seems more of a Caroline look, and this is for Daisy.”

“Mmm, you’re right. Pity.”

Eliot looked in to see them intent on the big screen, which was covered in webpages from what looked like very high end department stores. Curious, he asked, “You’re shopping?”

“No, no,” Hardison said, eyes not leaving the screens as he tapped away. “Daisy is shopping, in Dubai, and Caroline is shopping in Paris.”

Sophie nodded. “We’re leaving false trails, and of course they have to be in character.”

Which was what he’d figured, and the trails needed to be just as carefully obscured as anything Hardison ever did. He nodded. “Seen Parker lately?”

“Yeah, she popped in to update the map.” Hardison waved a hand behind him in the general direction of the whiteboard, now covered with the results of Parker’s exploration of the tunnels. The map even had a legend: a smiley face for good routes, a frown for bad, and a dollar sign with the label “treasure!” Unsurprisingly, only the first two appeared on the map. “You gonna check in on Nate next?” he added. Sophie looked back at Eliot with undisguised concern.

“Am I that obvious? Don’t answer that. Usual spot?” Sitting at the bar, nursing a mug that fooled nobody into thinking it contained anything more potent than coffee. Because Nate wasn’t the kind of person to merely avoid alcohol, no, he had to actively defy it.

“Usual spot.”

Nate looked down at the glass of whiskey that had silently appeared in front of him, then up at Eliot. “Really?”

“Up to you,” Eliot said, leaning in from the other side of the bar. If that made them look like characters in a film noir bar confession scene, well, Eliot knew how to set the stage as well as Sophie did. “Drink it, or don’t. Whichever one means you’re going to talk to me.”

“We have nothing to talk about.”

“Yeah? You’re pissed at me for not telling you everything you needed to know to make a plan that didn’t end up here, and I’m pissed at you for not telling me what I needed to know about your plan so I’d tell you enough to get you to stop it.” And Nate was also pissed that he was stuck in waiting mode, with nothing to fuel his plan-making process, but Eliot wasn’t going to go there.

Nate blinked. “I’m not drunk enough to parse that sentence. And as I recall, I made it perfectly clear that following Moreau had to be unanimous.”

“I agreed to go to San Lorenzo because—”

“Because you didn’t think we could win?” he snapped, in the sharp rising tone that meant he was really pissed.

“Because I didn’t think—” Eliot snarled, then got his voice under control. “No, not that we couldn’t win, but— I don’t know, that you’d clear out all the money that ‘Damien Moreau’ had, that he’d take the loss and then come back with a new identity after enough time passed, which I can assure you he’s done more times than you imagine.”

“We take down people like Damien Moreau.”

“We do not take down people like Damien Moreau. We take down the rich and powerful and mortal.”

“Fine. You take down people like him.”

“No, I don’t. From the moment he— that he found me, I’ve spent my life either following him or running away.” It wasn’t something he was proud of, but hiding his past was what had gotten them into this mess.

Nate cocked his head, the you have just provided the information I’m after look that, yeah, normally wasn’t the greatest thing to be on the receiving end of, but right now was a relief. Even when it shifted to and I’ve just figured out things you don’t even know about yourself. Eliot was not going to ask. “So, what’s your plan?”

A minute ago the question would have been an accusation. Eliot could have handled that, tossed it back at Nate in another round of the mutual sniping game. But the soft curiosity was enough to break him, the question he’d been trying to avoid laid bare.

“Plan? I don’t have a plan. Either Hardison finds the guy I’m looking for and I get enough training to take Moreau’s head, or I don’t, and I go to him and promise anything as long as he leaves you all alone. And if I’m lucky he’ll only want my head.”

“Eliot…” and that was a lot like Nate’s client voice, but different somehow. “You wouldn’t have to do that.”

Oh. Not the client voice, but the family one.

Didn’t matter. “Yeah, I would. I trade a few years of my very long life for the rest of everyone else’s. You live, and I get to live with myself.”

Chapter Text

Voice message from an unknown number: “It’s Eliot Spencer - Marcius. Need your help. I’m in Chicago, can’t leave. Deimos was Damien Moreau, check the news.” 

Methos arrived at the designated spot, a Chicago alley, in the wee hours of the morning. If he were someone else, he might be questioning why he’d dropped everything to drive halfway across the country based on nothing more than a short text exchange. But he knew better than to try lying to himself. 

Denial, however, he was very good at.

He felt the unmistakable presence of another Immortal as Spencer stepped out, far enough away not to be a threat, in the distinctive stance that said he carried a sword under his long coat and was not quite reaccustomed to it. He walked forward until he was close enough for a civilized conversation, conveniently backlit by a street light.

And here Methos thought he’d left such dramatic posturing behind with the MacLeods. 

“Life sentence in an underground prison? You’re an idiot, you know that? Have you considered joining a monastery for the next hundred years? Maybe by then he might forgive you.”

“Not this time. He’s going after my team.” 

A team? Interesting. Enough that the former centurion was finally desperate enough to make this worth his time? Perhaps. “Since when have you worked with a team? Not counting Deimos, of course.”

“Yeah, well, I have a team, okay?” he growled. “They’re not part of this. Not that that’s gonna stop Damien.”

“No, it never did. Or you, Catellus Deimi.” Twist the knife, yes.

Spencer glanced aside for a moment. “I haven’t been that person in a long time. I hate it that you even know that name.”

And now a small concession to reel him in. “Spencer, then. What exactly is it you want from me?” 

“Last time I fought him, the only reason I kept my head is because he thought — knew — I’d come back. He knows that won’t happen again. You taught him. Teach me.”

“Guys, this is… wait, I forgot what name you’re using.”

“Matthew Adams,” came a voice, before Methos could answer. “Got to tell you, reusing variations of your name is not the best way to make an alias.”

“And you must be Hardison,” he said. “In my defense, I wasn’t trying to hide from anyone, just moving on. There’s only so long you can hide the fact that you’re not aging. It’s worse when you look young to start with,” he added, putting words to what he knew everyone was thinking. Not just he’s very young but he can’t possibly be experienced enough to help. They’d learn.

He identified Sophie and Nate from the descriptions, which left only one missing. He felt a presence behind him; just an ordinary one, fortunately, because if an Immortal ever got that close to him unnoticed it would be time to find a nice piece of holy ground and retire. 

“You’re like Eliot, only older. Lots older.” And that was Parker.

Intriguing. It could just be that she was using what Eliot had told her to try to unnerve him, but he didn’t think so. He’d met more than a few people, mortal and Immortal, with uncanny abilities. “I am, yes, but how can you tell?” 

She stepped in front of him, glaring, then moved on to stand next to Hardison without taking her eyes off him.

“Yeah, that’s Parker,” Spencer said. “It’s just what she does. And that’s Nate, and Sophie. My team,” he added, a bit defensively.

Sophie smiled. “Delighted to meet you.” Nate merely nodded.

He leaned over to Spencer, and in a sotto voce deliberately pitched to be overheard asked “Why do I feel like the parents have stayed up late waiting for us to get home?” 

And that got a startled chuckle out of Nate. Sophie gave him a fond sideways glance, then said, “Yes, it is late, and Eliot said you drove all night to get here? Let’s let you get settled in, then, and we can all get better acquainted tomorrow.”

Methos’ quest for breakfast — well, good coffee; anything else was optional — was more than satisfied when he found the kitchen, which was everything he expected from a place like this: expensive, but also modern and functional. As he waited for the espresso machine to come to life, he idly considered modifying his latest cover identity to be the kind of person who’d have the home version of all this gear; he’d had quite enough of the poor researcher’s life with Adam. 

He’d stayed up late talking to Eliot. Not about anything important; that could wait until the training room. But enough to make a good guess about which team member would be the one to sound him out this morning.

It wasn’t long until his guess was proven correct. “Good morning, Sophie. I put the kettle on, it’s just begun to boil.”

“Oh, lovely! Thank you. I love my team, I do, but they just do not understand tea. Oh! And Eliot made croissants.” 

“I’d wondered about those,” he said. Eliot had explained the room service arrangement, but the pastries were still too warm to have been delivered. “He bakes?” 

“Yes. Well, stress baking, especially when he’s worried about us. Unless it’s for a con.”

The next few minutes were full of a comfortable silence while Sophie went through the traditional British tea ritual and Methos convinced the espresso machine to dispense its life-giving elixir. Once their respective obeisances to the gods of caffeine had been made, she turned to him with a deceptively casual smile. “So tell me, how did you meet our Eliot?”

Pulled him out of a river, downstream from a town that he’d just helped put to the torch. No. Definitely not a good place to start. 

He didn’t think he’d let any of that show on his face, but she pursed her lips thoughtfully and drew back just a fraction. “Hmm, no? Perhaps a more open ended one… how well do you know him?”

And that was also fraught. He could play this game, but it would be frustrating for both of them. Cut to the chase. “You’re trying to read me, to decide if I’m the right person for the job.”

Sophie gave a little moue of frustration. “Is it that obvious?”

“No, you’re very good. It’s just that I know you’re the team grifter, and that means you can read people. And I’ve managed to live this long by also being very good at reading people and being what they want to see.”

“Hmm, yes. It appears we’re at an impasse.” She took a sip of her tea. “Perhaps… yes. You knew Moreau long before he was Damien. When he was, oh, what was it Eliot called him?”

And that was a loaded question; she knew the answer, oh yes. “Deimos.”

“Yes. An interesting name, that.” She didn’t ask. She knew she didn’t have to. 

And oh, he did not want to answer that. But there wasn’t a choice, was there? “It’s a very easy trap to fall into, to believe you’re a god. To believe you have power over those lesser than you. That it’s your right.”

“That’s—” She paused, frowning.

“You were going to say that it’s something even mortal humans do. And it is. But it’s different for us. We don’t just see the rise and fall of empires, we see the rise and fall of civilizations. Sometimes, we cause them. And now you want to ask if I’ve ever thought I was a god. And—” And he was Methos now, not Matthew, not Adam, not any of the mortal faces he’d put on to cover up his past, and she could see it, see the change in him. Not quite a Horseman, never again, but close, so close.

She reached out softly, almost touching him, waiting for permission. “And Eliot once said to us, begged us, ‘don’t ask me what I did, because then I’ll tell you.’” Then she covered that last distance, her hand on his arm as she held his gaze. “And he had the same look on his face as you do now.”

She deserved to know. The only question was how to explain, without saying what neither of them wanted said. After a very long pause, he began. “There are rules amongst my kind, and there are customs. And one of the latter is that you don’t leave a new Immortal ignorant of the Rules. You take them in. You teach them. Not just because they’re likely to lose their head to the first Immortal who challenges them, but, well, let’s just say we don’t want another Pompeii.”

She raised her eyebrows at that, but waited for him to continue.

“I taught Damien.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Read into that what you will. And when I met Eliot, he had no idea what he was. I told him what he needed to know, and then… I let him go back.”

She looked at him like a puzzle that was resolving itself before her eyes. “And you feel guilty.”

“I find that my past is full of people I’m not able to kill even though it has to be done,” he said, a bitter laugh trying very hard to escape. “I’m not going to teach your friend how to fight. I know he can. I’m going to teach him what I do best. I survive.”

Chapter Text

Chicago, now

The storage room had the air of a space that was abandoned except for occasional cleanings to keep the dust from being overwhelming. The floor was the original oak, waxed and polished to highlight the scuff marks from its days as a bootleg storeroom, but smooth and solid enough to be the envy of any salle d’armes. There were a few whisky crates near the door that would fetch a nice price on the antiques market, if someone ever bothered to drag them out. One of them looked a bit less dusty than the others; Methos looked inside to find an odd assortment of items, mostly new, that looked like someone had raided a home goods store.

Eliot gave the box a quick glance. “Oh. Parker.”

Methos shot him a questioning look.

“That’s, um, things I’ve picked up in the middle of fights.” He picked up a soup ladle and twirled it around, flipping between defensive and offensive grips. Methos’ mind filled with questions, which he tamped down before they could get too distracting. “Didn’t think she’d kept track.”

“Oh? Which one would you choose, then?” Eliot’s Watcher Chronicles merely said he was good with improvised weapons, without any useful details.

“I don’t usually choose ‘em, I take them off other people. But if it got to that I’d grab whatever came first, because I wouldn’t have time to be picky.”

Methos considered the options. He wanted to get a sense for how Eliot fought before risking his own skin, but throwing improvised weapons into the mix was too much of a wild card. “Hmm. Let’s leave them out, then. I have a feeling this will be interesting enough without them.”

Besides, a good unarmed brawl would be just the thing to bury the memories Sophie had inadvertently resurrected. 

Methos hated to admit it, but he was out of practice. Oh, not in fighting, but in playing the long game. He preferred to do what Mac would consider cheating whenever possible; if he’d been fighting Eliot for real, he’d have shot him and run hours ago. 

Their unarmed sparring sessions had been enlightening; the two of them had similar attitudes, borne of an age when the only rule was survival, but different approaches. Eliot had studied more disciplines than both MacLeods combined, merging it into one that was uniquely his own, fast and unpredictable. Methos was used to doing whatever it took to either escape or get to his sword, which put him at a disadvantage when neither of those were an option.

But now they were fighting like Immortals; live steel, no stopping until one of them surrendered, nothing intentionally fatal. Other than that, anything was on the table. Both of them were marked with evidence of every cut that had made it through, Methos more so than Eliot. If they’d been playing for points, Eliot would be winning, but in this game only the final stroke counted.

He felt the sting of another cut; his clothing would be blood-soaked rags at this rate…  Methos cursed himself silently for not realizing. He let himself slow, just enough that Eliot wouldn’t consciously notice, feigning fatigue as if the cuts were wearing away at him. It wasn’t long until Eliot took the bait, pressing Methos as if he was on his last legs. Methos switched to what appeared to be a final desperate attack, taking every opening he was given with everything he had, fists and feet and sword. Eliot’s startled defense was equally unrestrained.

Finally Methos found the opportunity he was looking for. A quick twist and he’d disarmed Eliot, bringing him to his knees. Eliot’s sword landed just behind Methos, off to his right, as Methos held his sword to Eliot’s throat at an angle that meant he’d have to go through it if he tried to rearm himself. 

“Surrender?” he asked, not expecting a yes. The leg sweep was not unexpected either, but what did catch him off guard was the tumble in the opposite direction and the swing from a dark blur which he blocked instinctively.

Not quite well enough. Something smashed down on his hand, crushing it against the hilt. His sword clattered to the floor and was quickly snatched up and held to his throat.

“No,” Eliot said. “Do you?” His other hand was down at his side, loosely holding a tire iron.

“Fuck,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut as the pain asserted itself over the shock of the impact. The instinct to curl up around the damaged hand to protect it warred with the hard-earned knowledge that doing so would only make things worse in the long run; he could already feel the Quickening sparking through the damage, trying to connect fragments that shouldn’t be connected. He’d have to straighten them out very soon, or he’d just have to break them again later. Either way, it was going to suck. “And that’s a yes.”

“Let me see your hand,” Eliot said, pulling gently at the arm Methos was cradling. Methos nodded — or winced, he wasn’t sure which — and Eliot went to work, pulling his fingers back into position with a smooth efficiency borne of experience. The pain ebbed as the bones began to knit together properly, though Eliot was still looking distressed. “I didn’t mean to do that…”

“Not your fault,” Methos said, recalling the comment about grabbing whatever came to hand. “If I’d blocked it properly, I don’t think my sword would have survived it, and at least I heal. Tell me,” he said, switching topics abruptly, because he’d be a fool not to take advantage of Eliot’s distraction, “what were you thinking at the end there?”

“I was wearing you down, and then…” He looked up, startled, as the penny visibly dropped. “Son of a bitch. You—”

“No. Not what really happened. What you thought while you were doing it.”

“I was going for whatever cut I could, trying to wear you down from pain and blood loss. It was working; you rallied, but I knew that wouldn’t last.”

“And…?”

“And those cuts were healing as fast as you were getting them.” The chagrin was palpable. “Hell, I’ve done that, let them hit me until they’d wear themselves out.”

Methos nodded approvingly. “Yes. It’s one of the differences you have to remember. That move at the end, though… you surprised me, and not many people are alive to claim that. I should have remembered; the first time we met, I knew something was off when you didn’t care enough about where your sword was.”

“I didn’t? I don’t remember that part.” From the self-directed scowl, he did remember other parts of that day, and not particularly fondly.

Methos flexed his fingers, which were now solidly back in position, although the echoes of pain meant he wouldn’t want to stress them for a while. “Right, that’s enough for today. I need to talk to your hacker. You… find something to do that isn’t here.”

“What? No, I need to practice.”

“No, you don’t. You need to think. Go do something to clear your head.”

Hardison had the put-upon look of every techie ever called in to give a presentation to tech-ignorant upper management. “So if I said that I was using VPNs and digging into sub-networks within networks, looking for the weak spots, like that one server that got walled up but it’s still running, or the network printer that the CEO just has to have in his office… and your eyes are not glazing over.”

Methos cocked his head, with the innocent look that had fooled many a Watcher. “I’d ask you what your approach would be once you’ve infiltrated the network. SQL injection? Or Trojans, that’s a classic.” A smirk to hint that he might know that firsthand.

Hardison stared for a moment longer, then shook his head in stunned disbelief. “… uh, yeah. I mean no, not this time. Little Bobby Tables is being a good boy today. All I got to go on is his photo, so I’m using some scripts I wrote for my white hat consulting gig, pen testing proof — pull some photos from their internal directory to prove I got in, without getting near the sensitive stuff. Already had the facial recognition built in, ‘cause I used my own face as a reference, and the farther they got from a match, the more I added to the idiot tax. And how is it you know this? Eliot would be all ‘Dammit Hardison’ before I even got going.”

“Different backgrounds. I prefer research and obfuscation to fighting, whenever civilization is stable enough to allow it. Paranoia is how I survive. You didn't think I’d trust someone else to create my new identity, did you?”

“Well, I did, but now… you really did? I went looking and everything checks out, and I do mean everything. Right down to the birth certificate.”

“It helps to know you’re going to need one about thirty years before you do.”

Hardison paused for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah, makes sense, didn’t think about that. I retcon people into existence, you build them up naturally.”

“Interesting way to put it, but yes. I have occasionally had to improvise; all the planning in the world can’t stand up to the chaotic force of … well, certain friends of mine.“ Amanda, often, and very definitely Mac. ”I am curious, though… just how did you find me?”

Hardison pulled up a terminal window with a long list of .gov addresses slowly scrolling by. “Driver’s license photos. Found your old one, used that for comparison.”

Methos shook his head in reluctant approval. “It was easier before the Internet.” He shrugged it off. “Like I said, I wasn’t hiding. Damien is.”

“Yeah, about that.” A few keyclicks brought up windows full of passport screenshots. “I found what looks like valid passports, but they’re the sort of thing I’d make for a con — just enough other records to keep the local officials from getting suspicious, falls apart if you dig. Don’t look like they’ve ever been used, either.”

“They wouldn’t be. One can never have too many passports.”

Hardison grinned and held his hand up for a fist bump, which Methos provided. “Man after my own heart. I do have alerts set if they ever get used.”

“Yes, he’ll probably have to use some of them, since he wouldn’t have been expecting to change identities so soon, but if it doesn’t stand up to a deeper inspection, there’s no point in digging.”

“So much for the easy approach,” he muttered, flipping between screens faster than Methos could read them. “OK, so what else am I missing? Eliot didn’t see any problems.”

“Eliot… no, he wouldn’t. There are two kinds of Immortals: rich ones, and poor ones. The poor ones start over every time they have to move on, the rich ones plan ahead to transfer their wealth. Designating your new identity as the heir to the old one is the traditional path, but that has always had its risks and is getting harder to pull off. The other way is to build the next one with no connection to the old. No inheritance taxes, no people who knew your old identity wondering why they’d never seen your ‘nephew’ before. Eliot wouldn’t think of this, because when he works for mortals, they’re the kind who don’t care whether his paperwork checks out. They’d be more suspicious of him if it did.”

Hardison had the distant look of someone re-evaluating all his plans.

“And it’s not always money — there’s a reason so many of us end up in the antiques business. Easy to ‘find’ a lost cache if you’re the one who buried it. I’ve got a few friends that, if I lost them, I’d look for new owners of antiques shops. I’ve built academic careers off books I happened to ‘find’ in old bookshops, when they came from my own collection.”

“Moreau got his start smuggling antiquities.”

Methos nodded. “Not one to take the slow route of a shop, no.”

Something beeped, drawing Hardison’s attention to one of the windows. After a few minutes, he looked up with a devious grin on his face. “You actually a hacker, or you just know the terms? ‘Cause if you ever wanted to hack the TSA, now’s your chance.”

“Not all my aliases were made the slow way. Try me.”

“When you said pizza,” Methos commented as he and Hardison joined the rest of the team for dinner, “I was expecting delivery.”

“In Chicago? No. Do not mention Chicago pizza where Eliot can hear you, not unless you like rants about deep dish not being pizza at all. Nah, Eliot cooks for us whenever he can. Not that we always appreciate it.”

Methos, who had spent a large percentage of his life eating the kind of meals that were scooped out of a common pot, firmly believed that pizza was the modern equivalent; a meal that encouraged people to gather together in a way very few things did at this point in history. Informal and friendly, sharing food and stories; even plates were optional. He wondered if Eliot had chosen it for that reason. It also meant Eliot would be making frequent trips back to the kitchen to work on the next round of pizzas, and Methos didn’t think that was a coincidence either.

They’d pulled together a few of the small tables that had been scattered around the edges of the dance floor. Nate and Sophie were already there, sharing a small sofa. Parker was sitting crosslegged on another sofa across from them. When Hardison joined her there, she wriggled into a slightly more contorted position that fit them snugly together. Methos took the overstuffed armchair next to Sophie that was perfect for sprawling — he still considered chairs that forced their occupants to sit upright to be a modern aberration, and he suspected Parker would agree— leaving the remaining seat opposite him for Eliot.

There were also a few bottles of wine that had been sitting out to breathe, but when Eliot appeared with two bottles of a local beer and offered one to Methos with a diffident “Didn’t know what you’d like” he’d eagerly accepted.

Sophie had apparently spread the word about which topics were off limits, because there were no questions about his or Eliot’s past or how they knew each other, even though that had to be at the top of their thoughts. Instead they’d decided to share stories about their exploits as a team. Eliot had talked about them that first night, but despite hanging around with that overgrown Boy Scout of a Scot for so long, Methos didn’t believe in people who did good things just because they were good things. But retribution, the opportunity to use well-honed skills, and enough money to rent a place like this as an indeterminate-stay hideout without even blinking, that he could understand.

Parker and Hardison talked over and around each other, telling the stories from their perspectives and arguing over the details. Occasionally there was an awkward silence where they were expecting Eliot to add his part. Nate would come in then, filling in the blanks and giving the big picture perspective. Sophie turned her parts of the stories into a one-woman play, switching between her role and that of the marks or her teammates, changing accents and body language at the drop of a hat.

Methos found it fascinating how Eliot was presented in their stories. Not so much about how well he fought; it wasn’t that they took it for granted, it was more that they found it far more interesting that he could pick up new skills for cons in no time at all, which gave Eliot an odd proud-but-embarrassed look. Seriously, had nobody else ever looked at him as anything more than a living weapon?

When their stories hit a lull, around the time that the last of the pizza was just a few stray crusts, Sophie turned to Methos. “Come, we’ve been leaving you out. Surely you have stories you could tell.” Not a request, just an opening, and not even a glance at Eliot, who by this point had drifted to the very fringe of the group, standing against the wall and nursing another beer. “We know Eliot worked in a place like this once, but what about you?”

He grimaced. “Oh, no. That part of American history had two things I despise: personal danger and puritanism. I saw the signs coming and left before it got started, split my time between Berlin and Paris until I saw different signs coming and escaped to the UK.”

“You must have a very interesting perspective on history.”

He could tell what she was doing; even though the team knew she’d already vetted him, she was giving him openings to let them find out more about him for themselves. So he treated the question as far more open than it looked. “What’s the phrase, history doesn’t repeat but it rhymes? Yes, I’ve seen a lot of things, met a lot of people. You’re looking at someone who’s shared the stage with the Rolling Stones and Will Shakespeare.”

Sophie, as expected, lit up at the mention of Shakespeare. “You’ve done Shakespeare with Shakespeare? Tell me, were there really more scenes in the beginning of Macbeth? It seems to have, I don’t know, escalated rather quickly.”

“Oh yes, it did, but after the first few performances the audiences started getting restless, because they’d been promised blood and wanted us to get on with it.”

“I’ve played Lady Macbeth,” she said, with an expression that Methos couldn’t quite identify. Shy? Surely not.

“I’m sure you were brilliant… no?” Because everyone, even Sophie and Eliot, had a very clear I’m not going to say it look.

“I don’t know! I’m good in auditions and rehearsal, but then once I’m on stage and I have to make it real… what I need just isn’t there.”

She had to be exaggerating. “I just watched you switch through over a dozen characters, and they were all flawless.”

Hardison gave the tiniest shake of his head with a look that screamed We know, and we simply don’t understand it.

“Yes, because I was being them. Not just, I don’t know, trying to fake it.”

He leaned in, with words for her alone. “Hmm. I think I see the problem. Try this: You aren’t Sophie Devereaux playing Lady M, you are Lady M, trying to convince a dear friend to go against his nature and kill the king he once followed with all his heart.”

Sophie side-eyed him. “I see what you’re doing there.”

“And?” In one move, he stood up and dropped into a courtly bow, the perfect obsequious messenger. “Act one, scene five: ‘The king comes here to-night.’”

Startled, Sophie followed the cue automatically. “‘Thou'rt mad to say it.’”

Methos cocked his head encouragingly. She finished her line, and he followed with his own, then stepped aside, pulling on his vast experience at making himself unnoticeable to fade out of the scene.

She rose to her feet, already caught up in her role; her body angled towards Eliot, so that it was obvious who she was playing against, but she only gave him one glance before her gaze turned to the distance. Alone with her thoughts, all outward calm barely containing a simmering rage at a world that would have her send someone she loved off to do something she’d gladly do in his place but couldn’t, for reasons beyond her control. Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, indeed. It wasn’t quite what young Will had had in mind, but here and now… it was brilliant.

Absolute silence reigned when she ended, nobody wanting to be the first to break the spell. It was Sophie who finally did so, clasping her hands together with the tiniest squee, looking at her team as if she couldn’t believe it herself and needed them to confirm it. Nate rose to his feet and took her hands. “You were amazing,” he said, while Parker and Hardison chimed in with their own praise.

It wasn’t until then that he realized Eliot had disappeared.

Eliot had retreated to the kitchen because he knew that would be the first place Sophie would look. If he’d really wanted to be alone, there were other places that he knew the team had silently marked as off limits. That didn’t mean he was quite ready to talk. 

Besides, the dishes needed to be washed.

Sophie came in, picked up a dishrag, and went to work on the ones he’d already put in the rack. They worked together in a comfortable silence, waiting until she was ready to talk.

“I wasn’t conning you.”

He knew that, but he also knew she was working up the courage to continue, so merely nodded.

She didn’t turn her eyes away from the task in front of her, which Eliot understood; sometimes it was easier to talk to someone when you couldn’t see their reactions. “In order to be a good actress, you have to be honest. You have to share part of yourself with the audience. When I’m on a con… I suppose I’m sharing the part of me that’s running the con. But when it’s just me… ‘Sophie’ is a lie, and doesn’t have anything to share. Out there… I wasn’t Sophie, and I wasn’t conning you. Your friend… he gave me advice on how to play Lady M.” And Eliot had a good guess as to what he’d said. “But when I stood there, the words rising in front of me…” She turned to look at him, not asking for anything, just telling him. “They weren’t her words. They were mine. You were my audience, and everything I shared was real. I knew what you had to do, and I was angry that there’s nothing I can do to take that burden away from you.”

“I know that. I didn’t think you were conning me. I just didn’t…”

“Know how much we cared?”

“Yeah.” And he couldn’t think about that, not right now. Change the subject. “Maybe it’s not the name that matters. When you’re acting.”

“Maybe… you must have had other names.” She paused with a rueful look as she realized what she’d said. “Well, obviously…”

“Yeah, not a lot of Eliot Spencers in ancient Rome.” He shared a smile with her. “And people have called me… other names. But the ones I chose? They’re mine. All of them. And your names? They’re what you make of them. Maybe Sophie wasn’t real when we first met, but she’s real now.”

She cocked her head, the very distinctive pose she fell into when she wasn’t hiding that she was reading someone. “And here I came looking for you in order to make you feel better.” 

He smiled, the soft one that he knew he couldn’t afford to keep, not if he was going to protect them. “Glad I could help.”

“Oh, you,” she laughed, lightly swatting him with her dishrag, and then softly, “Come back. Stay with us.”

He shouldn’t, but… “For as long as I can. Yeah.”

After Sophie left to follow Eliot, Parker and Hardison exchanged looks, then in unspoken agreement exited together, leaving Methos alone with Nate, who stared in the direction of his vanishing crew for a few moments, then, without turning his head, said “I thought I understood Eliot. Thought I knew his past. Didn’t approve of it, but understood, well enough to fit him into my plans.” He looked at Methos, then. “Finding out he was a lot older than I thought… I didn’t really get that. Just thought he was the same Eliot with a lot more history, and most of it bad. Then he said something about his relationship with Moreau…”

“The running away and going back?” Methos said, when it became obvious Nate wouldn’t.

“Yeah.” 

A good sign. If Eliot had admitted to that, it increased Methos’ chances of breaking through to him. “That’s been frustrating me from the moment I realized what was happening. Fifth century? Sixth?” Somewhere around the time Damien had established his own minor kingdom, in the days when one didn’t just drop in for the weekend, one stayed for the entire season. “He has an extremely focused skill set. Not a lot of opportunities to use it that aren’t on the dark end of the morality scale. If he wasn’t working for Damien, it was someone a lot like him. Even modern armies that pretend they’re the good guys inevitably put him in black ops. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him because you’re not that.”

“He let us think that he’d been at least somewhat complicit in what he’d done.”

Methos nodded ruefully. “It’s easier to think that of yourself. Makes it feel like you had some control. But then you think, if I had control, then I chose to do that, and I really am that person. You can’t win.”

“Sounds like you know from experience.”

“Mmm. I’m more flexible and a lot older. Let’s just say that’s given me a very wide range of experiences.”

Nate cocked his eyebrows at that, but sensibly chose not to pursue it. “What happened to Eliot… I didn’t think brainwashing worked. Not permanently, anyway, and not without reinforcement.”

“You’ve answered your own question.” Reluctantly, he continued. “You probably think you can imagine what Damien did to him. I really hope you can’t. There are no limits to the damage someone can do to us, because even the things that kill us heal without a trace. Physically, anyway.” 

From the look on his face, Nate was doing a lot of thinking and not liking his conclusions. 

Methos shook his head. “It’s not entirely what you think; from what I can tell, that pretty much stopped after the first few centuries. Damien can be very persuasive, and for all his flaws he does appreciate Eliot’s skills. You must know how Eliot responds to that; I could tell just by watching him tonight.”

Nate had the flummoxed look that mortals got when confronted with time frames like centuries. He stood up, as if to leave. “I think I need to talk to Eliot.”

Methos agreed, but “Just a suggestion? Sleep on it first. You both need the space.”

“Eliot says he only needs to sleep 90 minutes a night. Is that why you’re still up?”

Parker was perched on the end of the sofa, and how had she even gotten into the room without him noticing? “You could give Amanda lessons on stealth,” Methos said. She didn’t move, just sat there waiting for the answer. “No, I just got caught up in my book. I’m not a morning person, and I’m still on west coast time. And we can go without sufficient sleep longer than you could, but eventually we have to pay for it.”

“You care about Eliot the way we do,” she said, with a satisfied nod, and Methos felt like he’d just been granted a rare seal of approval. “But you don’t know each other very well. That’s weird.”

Eliot had warned him that Parker operated on different rules than most people, mortal or otherwise. Bit of an understatement, that. “Weird?” he asked, because he had no idea what she meant by it.

She cocked her head, and Methos had the impression she had no more clue where her conclusions came from than he did, and was trying to figure them out. 

“You didn’t know he cooks,” she said, as if it was something everyone knew. “You both like beer best, and neither of you knew it. You didn’t know how he fights.” And how did she know that? “You watch him like you’re trying to figure him out.”

“Like you’re watching me?”

She nodded. “Sophie’s teaching me how to read people. I thought that was impossible, but she said it’s just like learning to crack a new safe. You…” she narrowed her eyes. “You’re a Steranko.”

“Security system, right? I’ve heard Amanda rant about them.” Something about multiple layers and the ability to adapt to your moves. Methos had never seen the appeal of what she did; far easier to manipulate people into giving you what you wanted.

Parker sat up straight, ticking off points on her fingers. “First layer, you know someone, you’re safe as long as you don’t touch, you don’t admit you care about them. Because once you do, you’re at level two, the defenses kick in, and you’re trapped. No way out. Level three, even your safe spaces turn against you. And if you aren’t careful, you’ll end up at level four, where you’d set the world on fire for them.”

“That’s… surprisingly accurate.” He wondered how much of that applied to her. He was pretty certain it applied to Eliot.

“Why is Eliot avoiding us?” There was the very faintest plaintive note to her voice, the bafflement of having one of the few things she understood change out from under her.

There it was, exactly what he’d suspected. But why…. Oh. He and Eliot were far more alike than he wanted to admit. “He thinks he has to become someone he hasn’t been in a very long time, someone he doesn’t even like. Someone he thinks you’ll hate.” 

She got the faraway look of someone reliving a painful memory. “Yeah. I don’t think I like who I used to be either. Does he? Have to be angry Eliot?”

“No. He needs to be your Eliot, and I need to remind him of that.”

She nodded, as if satisfied that he’d succeed in that and all would be well. He had the oddly protective feeling that he would do whatever it took not to disappoint her. Steranko. Hah.

And as for protecting her: “Parker? Tomorrow, when I’m training him? Don’t watch us.”

Chapter Text

“Today,” Methos said, “we are going to talk.”

To his credit, Eliot’s blade didn’t so much as waver. “I thought we were going to fight.”

His grin promised mayhem. “What makes you think we aren’t?” Without warning, he launched his attack, driving Eliot halfway across the room before continuing the conversation. “Why are you avoiding your team?”

“I need to practice.”

“Wrong answer.” Another flurry of swords, ending with them face to face, swords crossed. Methos’ face was pure challenge.

Eliot glared back. “Fine. I need to become the person I was in order to win. Don’t want them to see that.”

“Still the wrong answer. Have another one. Why don’t you think you’re going to win?” 

No answer. Methos shoved, hard, and Eliot took a few steps back. “Stop thinking and fight,” he said, shifting into a pattern. Left, right, low, high…  “And answer the question.”

“Because he’s better than me.” Eliot settled into the matching defensive moves automatically, waiting for a flaw in the pattern to give him an opening.

Left, right, again… “No.”

“Because…” Holding back, even from himself.

Another time through the pattern, then high and high again, a change that caught Eliot off guard even though he’d known something like that would be coming. “Why did you call me? If all you needed was an Immortal sparring partner to get you back into your old headspace, you had other options.”

He could see the How? form on Eliot’s lips, then get discarded. “You taught him, you know how he fights.”

A high sweep that would have been reckless if Eliot hadn’t been distracted; he took the obvious parry instead of the less obvious lunge. “He only rode with the Horsemen for a few centuries. You served under him longer than that, and far more recently. Try.” Smack. “Again.” Smack.

Eliot shook his hair out of his face and launched a furious attack, reckless and very much something he would normally be too smart to try. Just a bit more of a push then. Methos deflected, sidestepped, and caught him from behind, sword held just below his neck. “How many times,” he asked, in a voice as silky smooth and dangerous as a stiletto between the ribs, “did he have to kill you before he broke you?”

Eliot froze. “What?”

“How many times.”

“I… I lost count. How do you know that?”

He let a touch of the old Methos show through. “Where do you think he picked up that trick?” He sidestepped around until they were face to face again, still keeping his sword in position, just shy of a real threat. Too close if Eliot had been on his game, but he was still caught — in memories, in shock, or both.  Having worked so hard to get him into this state, now it was time to shake him out of it. He had to defeat his past here and now, or he’d never survive.

A frustrated snarl. “What do you want?”

“I want you to win.”

“Then teach me.”

Now was not the time for that line of the conversation. Methos stepped back, giving Eliot a moment — long enough to collect himself and resume the fight, not quite long enough to get settled. He moved in, caught Eliot’s blade in a bind, twisted and disarmed him, all in one smooth motion. Eliot moved towards his sword, but Methos stopped him with a word. “No. You know the rules, you lose it, you pick up a different one.” Ostensibly so Methos could analyze his skills with a variety of weapons. But there were layers upon layers to his plan.

Eliot nodded and headed to the box containing Methos’ collection of blades. Methos waited until he’d started to reach into the box, then said “The katana, this time. Mix things up.”

That got a curious look, but no objection. Did he suspect?

Eliot twirled the blade, testing its weight and balance. “Next time, it’s you who’ll be changing swords,” he said, with a hint of challenge. 

Promising sign. “Of course. Same rules apply — if you can manage it,”  Methos said, casually dismissive. 

As soon as Eliot had returned and they exchanged the formal salutations of their respective disciplines, Methos sprang to attack, giving him no time to get used to the new blade. “You still haven’t answered my first question. Why are you avoiding your family?”

“They’re not—! They’re my team. I mean, I didn’t pick them, we were hired for one job…”

Strike, deflect, thrust. “And you stayed with them. I know your history, when you get away from Damien you work alone.”

“How?”

Sidestep, turn and counter. “Not important. Why are you avoiding the question?”

Eliot rallied; now Methos was on the defensive. The katana seemed better suited to him. Methos silently thanked Duncan for all those years of practice in broadsword against katana; he needed every advantage he could get, even though he still didn’t think Eliot had reached his peak. 

“Nice distraction. Try again.”

“Fine! He’s going after them because I care about them. It’s my fault. Is that what you want? I’ve gone soft?”

He nodded, letting the merest trace of sympathy show. “Yes. And that’s who you need to be if you want to win.”

Eliot stopped, and Methos let him. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s not about who’s the better fighter. It’s about the passion. It’s about why you fight, who you’re fighting for. He turned you into a weapon and you’ve continued it because you think that’s all you are. Keep thinking that, and you’ll lose. But you know better, if you’ll just admit it.”

“And that means… spending time with my team?”

“Reminding yourself of what you have to lose. Yes.” 

Halfway through rolling out the puff pastry, Eliot realized he’d made a mistake.

Not with the pastry; that was going well, the zen of the repetitive steps, the combination of precision and effort, satisfying as always. No, the problem was that choosing a menu that required his full attention for the entire afternoon meant that he couldn’t avoid the team members who kept finding excuses to pass through the kitchen.

Nate had been through a few times to top up his coffee and take a few of the appetizers Eliot had set out to keep nosy teammates out of his prep dishes. Sophie, bless her, had even offered to help. He had her watching a pot, waiting for it to boil. It did free up his attention so he could concentrate on other things. It also gave her plenty of time to watch him, as if he was a mark — or worse, a client.

She’d gone silent when he pulled the pastry out of the fridge; a comfortable one that let him focus on his work, not the one she used when waiting for the mark to make the first move. Eliot had perfected the art of not speaking a long time ago, and even Sophie couldn’t outlast him in that game.

Done with the folding and rolling, he opened the fridge door to let the pastry chill again, only to find an orange soda bottle precisely centered on the shelf. “Dammit, Hardison!” he said reflexively. But it couldn’t have been Hardison, he realized in the same moment, and didn’t need to see Sophie’s laughing eyes to confirm it — of course, she would have seen Parker plant the offending evidence.

And as if on cue — oh, definitely on cue — Hardison strolled into the kitchen. “Hey, thanks,” he said, taking the bottle from Eliot’s unresisting grasp. He reached over to the bowl of fruit waiting to be sliced. “Mmm, what’s this?” 

Eliot tried to slap his fingers away, but Hardison was too fast for him. “It’s for the pavlova, OK? So keep your hands out of it. Since when do you eat fresh fruit anyway?”

Hardison grinned. “I don’t, man. Just like messing with you. Haven’t had the opportunity lately, y’know?”

Sophie had the amused look of an anthropologist making notes on the Bonding Habits of Emotionally Stunted Men. Yeah, he could admit it. Hardison must have sensed it too, because he went briefly serious. “I know what you’re doing for us. We all do. Like, okay, it’s weirder than we ever imagined, and when it’s all done we are going to have words, but we trust you, a’ight?”

“Yeah, well, if you’re about to say something soppy…”

“Nah, would I do something like that? Anyway, I gotta get back. Thanks for the soda!”

“I’ll join you,” Sophie said. “I’ve got some more ideas for the false trails.”

And that was odd, because he’d thought she was here for the duration… oh. “Parker?”

“How’d you know?”

“It’s a very distinctive silence,” he said, turning around to catch the fleeting grin on her face.

He went back to work, knowing she’d talk when she was ready; it wasn’t so much that she was good at the silence game as that she didn’t even know it was happening.

“How bad have you ever been hurt for us?”

He stopped chopping and looked at her. “You mean, have I ever died for you?” 

After a thoughtful pause, she nodded. 

“Never, don’t worry. I’m really good at what I do.”

“But you would.”

He wasn’t sure if she meant the temporary kind. Either way… “Yeah. I would.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

“It’s OK, I’ll always come back.”

“But you might not come back this time.”

Right. This was about the permanent kind. “… Parker, I promise. I’ll come back.”

Chapter Text

Mesopotamia, sometime during the Bronze Age

Kronos kicks his way through the pile of bodies, searching for one in particular. “This one,” he says. “He fought well, and died well. He has potential.”

Silas pulls the body from the pile. “He will awaken soon, brother.” Silas always knows.

Caspian grins. Whatever the outcome, he will find it entertaining. 

Methos watches. His brothers lack any curiosity about the process, and he has learned to keep his thoughts to himself.

The raider gasps, opens his eyes, looking around wildly, his mind scrambling to make sense of the Quickening coursing through his body, pushing blood to flow again, wounds to heal. First death is full of denial; he can’t have been dead, his mind tells him, he must have been merely wounded, unconscious.

He looks around, projecting a calm he does not possess, sees the bodies that once were his followers. Sees the Horsemen. “Are you going to kill me?”

Caspian laughs. “Already did. But we could always do it again.”

“Show him, brother,” Kronos says, for the benefit of the prisoner. Caspian always does this. He enjoys it.

Caspian reaches down and grasps the prisoner by the forearm, as if to pull him to his feet. There’s a flash from the knife in his other hand as he slashes deeply across their joined arms. His laugh is wild and delighted as he holds his arm up, showing the spark of the Quickening as it heals, a twin to that of the prisoner.

This is the part where it stops being predictable. Some men refuse to believe it, even when Caspian gives them more proof. Some call them demons, or wizards, or even gods.

This one is a thinker. Shock and denial give way to acceptance: this has happened. It’s real. He looks up at the Horsemen and comes to the next conclusion: this is why they are unstoppable. “So, now what?” His voice is calculating; if he also fears them, it does not show.

Kronos grins. “Now, you choose. Swear to ride faithfully with us, or die the final death.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, which is good. One who swears allegiance too quickly will retract it just as easily. Finally, he nods. “I prefer not to die. I swear.”

“Silas?” asks Kronos.

“He speaks truth, brother.”

Kronos nods, and turns to his other brother. “Methos? This one is yours. Teach him well.”

As Silas drags the prisoner away to join the other captives, the slaves and camp followers valuable enough to keep, Methos turns to Kronos. “Watch your back, brother, for he is ambitious.”

Kronos laughs. “When I have you to watch it for me? I know how to manage men like him. Like you, he is a survivor. Conquest and treasure enough to sate him, and he will keep his vow.”

Chicago, now

Eliot sits seiza near the center of the training room. He’s not meditating, but he’s not thinking of anything either; his entire idea of who he is has been taken out and given a good shake, so he’s focused on the now, patiently waiting for everything to settle.

His katana — his, not the one borrowed from Methos — is positioned on his right, edge in, which for a properly trained samurai would make it inconvenient to reach and draw. Eliot would never limit himself to anything that puts him at a disadvantage, but such things are politely ignored when etiquette demands.

Methos pauses at the doorway, taking in the presentation. For a moment Eliot thinks he might retreat to one of his sardonic quips, but then he shifts to a more formal posture and walks over to stand in front of Eliot, at just the proper respectful distance. Eliot holds his sword out with both hands, student to teacher, presenting it for inspection. “Sensei,” he says, because he doesn’t know the proper etiquette for Immortals — hell, he doesn’t even know if they have any — so he’s doing the best he can.

A brief flash of surprise crosses Methos’ face, so fast Eliot almost thinks he’d imagined it. Methos takes the sword and steps back, completely out of range — more than what tradition requires, but it makes sense that Immortals have their own rules. He inspects the weapon, then resheaths it and gracefully kneels down in front of Eliot, looking just as comfortable in the formal seiza as he does in his usual sprawl. He hands it back to Eliot, who sets it aside respectfully.

“It means a lot to you,” Methos says.

“It was a gift, from Nate and Sophie,” Eliot says. Methos doesn’t react, which speaks volumes. “You knew, yesterday, when you made me pick the katana. How did you know?”

“I had an interesting conversation with Parker.”

Eliot frowns, puzzled. “About swords?”

“About what you couldn’t leave behind when you had to run. The sword you were carrying when I arrived is the one you keep in your go bag.” Of course Parker would know about that. “This is the one you stopped for. She didn’t say what hers was.”

“I think I know.” He recalls a warehouse, full of all the equipment Parker needs to be the best thief in the world. And a stuffed bunny on her bed.

“Yes, she said you would.” He cocks his head, politely curious but not questioning; knowing he won’t be getting any answers now. “This is the one you need to take to the challenge, to remind you of the family you’re fighting for.”

Eliot still twitches internally at the idea of family, but he’s getting used to it. “OK, but we’re just training today, not talking, right? Because I don’t think I could take a repeat of yesterday.” 

“Just training. But you can ask any questions you want.”

Eliot knows the rules of the Game: blades only, no projectile weapons, no interference during the Challenge, but if someone showed up with a second, you’d best have your own to guard your head during the post-Quickening haze. 

But there are a lot of ways to tip the odds in your favor that don’t break those rules, and Methos means for him to learn them all.

“A second blade is allowed. You’ll even find a few of us who still duel that way,” Methos says. “Throwing a knife doesn’t violate the rules, but unless you’re very lucky or very good“ — his free hand slips briefly over his chest, apparently of its own accord — “all you’ve done is hand your opponent a weapon. Nothing says you have to disclose all your weapons up front, either.”

Eliot switches from complicated meals to comfort foods; still showing off his skills (just because it’s mac and cheese, doesn’t mean it can’t be amazing mac and cheese, Hardison), but not giving him an excuse to duck back into the kitchen while everyone is eating.

When his team tries to pull him into the storytelling, he lets them.

Eliot disarms Methos and gets him in a chokehold, forcing him to tap out. As soon as he’s released, Methos dives for his sword and swings around, slapping the back of Eliot’s head with the flat of his blade hard enough to set his head ringing. “Drop your blade like that again and I’ll make sure you regret it. Stop thinking the fight’s over when they’re unconscious. The fight’s not over until you take their head.”

“When you called me your teacher, you meant that, didn’t you? You weren’t just showing respect.”

Eliot nods. “I know I’m too old, but yes, I know what that implies.”

“I forget you were raised by wolves,” Methos says, half to himself, but it’s lightly teasing and not entirely inaccurate so Eliot takes no offense. “Your first teacher is special, yes, and there are certain customs that only apply to new Immortals, mainly to keep their heads attached until they know what they’re doing. There’s no limit, though. If we stop learning, we stop fitting into the world, and that draws attention that isn’t good for any of us.”

Eliot cocks his head. “I feel like there’s a ‘but’ there.”

“But I could’ve challenged him on your behalf, and would have, if I’d only known. I thought he was keeping you ignorant to control you, no more than that. The old ‘I’m your god’ con. That’s often enough to keep new Immortals in line.”

“That’s how it was for the others, yeah.”

“I thought giving you the basics would be enough. I should have known better.”

Eliot frowns. “You did change things. When I went back, once he realized that I knew, he started treating me more like a lieutenant, started trusting me.”

Methos gives him a very pointed look. “Think about what you just said.”

“… oh. He was still conning me. Dammit, when is he going to be out of my head?”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out myself.” Eliot looks up at him in sharp surprise. The look he gets in reply is unmistakably yes and don’t ask. “But enough that you can defeat him? That we can manage. Remember, you promised Parker.”

Sophie cuts him off mid-sentence. “I’ve been talking to your friend. He says that being who you all are, all your families are found families.”

“For the first hundred years or so it was only the four of us. We’d ride in, take what we wanted, kill all the rest. I won’t try to justify it, you know how it was; the world hadn’t changed that much between my time and yours. But I could see the changes coming. Four men on horses, even mortal ones, can terrorize a land of wandering tribes, but tribes come together, build cities and fortresses, walls and armies. And four men, even Immortal ones, can’t stand against an army. I convinced Kronos that we’d need to start building one of our own long before the mortals were even a threat. He always did see the wisdom of my plans.

“But we weren’t fools. Yes, Damien learned that trick from us, but we never pulled it on anyone we expected to bear steel in our presence. Well, bronze, but you get the idea. If we couldn’t trust them with a blade, we took their heads. Safer that way.”

It hadn’t been that long ago that an Immortal in search of a good place for a Challenge would have to wander the run down parts of town, searching for abandoned warehouses or sufficiently secluded alleys. Knowing a hacker who’s up to date on Internet trends makes a difference: Hardison goes directly to websites aimed at so-called urban explorers, with descriptions that could be a real estate pitch for Immortals: “good access, abandoned, fireproof”, and professionally done photos to narrow the choice down even further.

“There’s a reason why we keep using it on each other — because it works. Not forever, but it works. Sometimes intentional, sometimes… you were a Roman, you know how crucifixion works. I think I was already half mad when another Immortal chanced by and realized what was happening. I was very lucky he turned out to be friendly.”

Hardison and Parker pull him into the conference room to watch sports they have absolutely no interest in, snuggling in on either side of him on a sofa that’s barely big enough for the three of them.

Sophie resists the temptation to do any impromptu Shakespeare again, claiming that lightning like that can’t be caught twice.

Nate analyzes the jobs the team has done recently and makes plans for what they’ll do once this is all over.

“You never really played the Game, did you?” Eliot asks.

“Never saw the point. Back then there was no Game, there was only survival, and I don’t believe in rules that can’t be tested. Holy ground, yes. The Gathering? Fizzled out once someone did the math on new Immortals and concluded we were still hitting the replacement rate.” He grins sardonically. “Now we’ve mostly gone back to killing each other for centuries-old grudges.”

In the pause between one kata and the next, Eliot hears a very soft thump behind him — Parker, landing from wherever it is she hides when she watches him practice, making noise intentionally to announce her presence. 

“Teach me that,” she says.

He turns to look at her. “Parker… you don’t need to learn how to fight. Not like this.” Self defense, yes; he’s taught her that, and she’s a natural, as she is with anything that requires precise physical skills.

She shakes her head, the very distinctive one that means she can’t understand why people don’t understand her. “Not fighting. What you were just doing.”

“The… katas?”

She cocks her head, as if writing the new term to memory. “Yes.” The Parker of even a year ago would have stopped there, but she frowns and continues. “I want to know how you feel when you do that, because that’s the part of fighting you like. Not the hitting, but…” She shrugs, frustrated.

He gets her, though. “Like the way you can dance through a room and lift everybody’s wallet. The wallets aren’t what really matters.”

She gives him a delighted nod, and he considers. Of course Methos didn’t bring any practice swords; they’re Immortal, they have no need for them. But Parker, talented as she is, won’t be getting past the basics today, and he can trust her to treat Methos’ katana with the respect it deserves.

They’re going through a basic kata side by side when Eliot hears the door open; he can tell by the footsteps that it’s Hardison, who has no stealth and never will. Parker recognizes it too, but neither of them so much as pause, moving through to the end and sheathing their swords before turning to look.

“Damn,” Hardison says. “The two of you, doing that? That just hit my top ten list of hottest things ever, no lie.” Eliot doesn’t see Parker’s reaction, but Hardison does. “And I mean that in the most platonic way possible, because now? Not the right time, I absolutely get that.” He shakes his head, collecting himself. “Right. That’s not why I came here. Got a hit on a burner passport. Moreau, with one of the guys from the pool. Came in through Boston, caught them on TSA footage. They found our office, found the breadcrumbs I left them.” Computers completely wiped, except for the location Hardison found for the Challenge, and the number of a burner phone to finalize the arrangements.

Chapter Text

Chicago Union Station Power House, now

Damien was waiting for them when they arrived. “Two of you? You know the Rules.” 

“Yes. I do,” Methos said, “and I’m here to make sure they’re followed.” He nodded in the direction of the other Immortal on the catwalk. “And him?”

“Also here to enforce the Rules. I know you too well, my old friend.”

“I was never your friend.”

“Teacher, then.”

“For my sins, yes. I taught you what it meant to be Immortal. You taught him how to be a possession.” And he knew the irony in that, oh yes.

As did Damien. “Do you deny that I learned it from you? How to take and keep what I want? And Eliot had such potential,” he said, with a tone that was unsettling in its fond nostalgia. “The perfect weapon, mine to command, mine to control. What other reason should I need? You of all people should know how it is.”

“Believe me, I have lived to regret that.” But Damien would never understand that. “You saw his potential, yes, but then you hobbled it.”

Damien chuckled. “And you think this team of his has changed him for the better? Ask him about the little job he did for me in Washington.”

Eliot didn’t so much as blink. “Y’know, you’d think a man like Atherton being assassinated would be all over the news.”

Damien directed a pointed look at the catwalk. A few moments later, long enough for a quick web search, an indignant shout came down. “I watched you kill him!”

“Did you check?” Eliot scoffed. “I would have.”

Damien turned to him. “You see why I need you.”

Eliot glared. “Are we gonna get on with this or not?”

“You persist in this foolishness,” Damien said indulgently, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. “I don’t want your head, Eliot. I want you, back at my side where you belong, free of any petty distractions. I’m still willing to forgive you. If you give me their location now, I’ll be lenient. And this time I’ll only make you watch.”

Methos had gotten familiar enough with Eliot to detect the minuscule twitch in his otherwise impassive stance. It probably stood out like a beacon to Damien. He tilted his head in affected curiosity. “That almost sounds like you’re refusing the Challenge. Are you? Because if you do, then I challenge you, as I should have done when he was young and untrained.”

Damien laughed, actually amused. “You? I rode with you when you were Death. That person, I feared. Now? You’ve gone soft.”

“You never did understand the difference between soft and restrained.”

“Was it restrained, when you did whatever your brothers asked? … No, I take it back. You were a coward, even then. When Kronos pushed, you caved.”

Methos shifted, just enough to be menacing, face to face with his former student, his voice dangerously calm in a way that Damien obviously remembered quite well, much as he tried to hide it. “We were brothers for a thousand years. Do not pretend you know how it was between us. You rode with us, but you were never one of us.”

Damien stood there long enough to pretend he wasn’t being intimidated, then stepped back and turned to Eliot. “Fine, I accept. Just remember how things always ended whenever we sparred.”

By the time the two of them crossed swords, Methos was already up on the catwalk, because dodging Immortals mid-Challenge was not something high on anyone’s list of smart life choices. Plus it would give him an excellent view. That had, after all, been one of the selling points of the place.

Chapman looked pointedly down at the space next to him, then up at Methos: an invitation, a truce, and also a practicality: at that distance, neither could pull a weapon without being stopped by the other. Methos nodded and moved to join him.

“This won’t last long,” Chapman said, leaning casually over the railing to watch as the two continued to test each other.

“Sure of that, are you?”

“Oh, he’s unstoppable against anyone else, but against Moreau? He chokes. Always has.”

“Perhaps.”

Chapman shook his head. “I’ve known him since Florence, back with the Medicis. Moreau hired as many of us as he could find, put Spencer in charge.” He smiled nostalgically.

“I was there, yes,” Methos said dryly. “I remember.” Florence had been the center of banking, culture, and intrigue, and Damien had used his skill at making connections, along with his Immortal condottieri, to establish a silent presence in all of them. Even Methos’ favorite persona of a harmless scholar hadn’t been enough to keep him out of the politics of the moment.

“Anything he asked, Spencer would do.” He turned a curious look on Methos. “The old ones said he’d trained him the way the Horsemen did, that’s how they built their army of Immortals. Unstoppable, totally loyal.”

Fuck. That was never going to stop coming back to haunt him. “Do either of them look like someone brainwashed into eternal loyalty?” he scoffed. “It’s a trick. It doesn’t last, and trust me, when it fails, it fails spectacularly.” 

Damien seemed to be coming to that realization; none of his old tricks were working, his taunts not so much brushed aside as completely ignored. He settled down to actually fight, but Eliot’s unexpected composure was having a bad effect on his own.

He could sense Chapman’s interest perk up, as if finally recognizing what was going on below them. “Spencer’s…”

“Yes.” He spared a glance at the Immortal beside him, noting that Chapman seemed sincerely admiring of Eliot’s skills. An interesting take for Damien’s second. 

“Don’t get me wrong, any tricks from either of you and I will shoot you both—” and at least he had to sense to not say take your head “—but watching Spencer cut loose? It’s a thing of beauty. Even that last time that ended with him shooting me. My fault, really. I gave him an opening, and I know better than that.”

Methos turned back to the duel, and realized he’d never seen Eliot completely unrestrained — training together did not provide the same perspective. Oh, he’d seen Eliot sparring with other Immortals back when he’d been visiting Damien, who did so love to show off his treasures, but he’d been holding back. This was the perfect weapon Damien had desired, and Methos had no shame in his satisfaction at being the one who’d helped Eliot reach that peak.

If Damien hadn’t been very good, the fight would’ve been over in mere minutes. As it was, the final blow came as a surprise. Eliot moved left when even Methos expected him to move right; it left him dangerously exposed, but Methos never had convinced him to have any care for his own skin. The quick slash of the previously hidden dagger caught Damien off guard, his parry against the unexpected weapon leaving his sword too low to block the fatal blow.

Before the first glow had even emerged from Damien’s body, Methos had darted back to the nearest concrete platform, not even pausing as he scruffed Chapman like a kitten and dragged him along. The other Immortal sputtered a bit but didn’t resist. Methos nodded at the catwalks and railings, steel mesh and pipes. “You’re not going to want to be standing near any of that,” he said, just as the first flash of lightning hit.

It was like standing in the eye of a hurricane; lightning chasing through the metal that surrounded them, flaring up in nearly solid sheets. And this was just the overflow; he tried to look at Eliot, but he was lost in the blinding flares of Quickening energy. 

The storm vanished as quickly as it had risen, leaving Eliot on his knees next to Damien’s headless body. Chapman looked down at him, started to say something, and then realized Eliot was in no condition to hear him. He looked at Methos instead. “Rules are rules,” he said. “Tell him there’s nothing left between us.” Methos nodded and headed down the stairs closest to Eliot, while Chapman headed off in the opposite direction.

Methos sat on the ground near Eliot, his back against some rusted piece of machinery that had once controlled lightning nearly as impressive as it had just witnessed, and waited for the younger Immortal to recover.

“Welcome to the club.”

Eliot blinked at him fuzzily. “What? What club?”

“Those of us who’ve survived taking the Quickening of the oldest of us. It’s very exclusive. Far as I know, it’s you, me, and MacLeod.”

“Yeah?” Eliot flopped over onto his back. “Can’t say I’m fond of the initiation rites. Any perks?”

“You have someone to talk to who knows what you’ve been through.”

“Yeah. That’s… there’s a lot. I can see my whole life, from his perspective. Everything he thought about me.”

“Don’t,” Methos said sharply. “Resist the temptation. Put it in a box, seal it away. You can look at it later, once you’re certain of the lines between who you are and who he was. If you blur those lines, it can be very hard to come back.”

“Yeah, I feel… ok, I’ve got it. I think. Now what?”

“We work on that box until you know you have it. But first, we tell your family you survived.”

Chapter Text

Portland, a few weeks ago

Methos walked into Duncan’s flat above the dojo without knocking, toting a duffle bag and heading straight to the storage cabinet where Duncan kept his working collection of swords. “Need as many different kinds of swords as you can spare. Oh, and your car.”

The swords were his for the asking; the car required an explanation. “What’s wrong with your car?”

He grimaced. “Electronics. Also, I don’t think it would make it to Chicago.”

“What’s in Chicago? Or rather, who?” That there would be a Challenge was obvious: his vintage T-bird could withstand the energy surge from a Quickening; modern cars were likely to turn into expensive bricks.

“One of my students, went by Deimos when he rode with us” — a name that prompted memories from all three of the Horsemen remnants, which Methos knew and relied upon, though he’d never admit it — “and one of his. The centurion, I may have mentioned him.” He stopped rummaging in the cabinet and glanced at Duncan, his face carefully expressionless. “One of a thousand regrets.”

And wasn’t that a loaded term between the two of them.

Methos gave the remaining contents of the cabinet a final look and turned back to Duncan. “He’s asked for help, after all this time. I can’t turn him down.”

Duncan nodded. There was only one response to that situation. “You know where the keys are. Call me if there’s anything else you need.”

Methos came back to the dojo a few weeks later, bringing Eliot with him. “You know more about Quickenings gone wrong than anyone I know. Eliot’s having trouble getting everything to settle.”

“I know the basics,” Eliot countered. “Been through this enough times before, but those were strangers. This one’s…”

“Two thousand years of conjoined memories,” Methos drawled, as if he were just a disinterested observer and not someone refusing to deal with the same problem himself.

“Yeah. I don’t need a teacher, more like a spotter. Someone to drag me back when I get lost.”

And there was no need to ask why that couldn’t be Methos. “I can do that, yes.” But he needed more information about what minefields to avoid, and couldn’t exactly ask Eliot without setting them off. “Methos. Office. Now.”

“When a loyal Roman centurion meets a barbarian Germanic warlord…” 

Duncan, well aware of Methos’ use of black humor as a deflection, merely raised his eyebrows.

Methos dropped the act. “Larca, if you want recent history, or Cassandra if you want mine.”

He frowned. What did those two even have in common? “… oh. The ‘I’m your god, I gave you life’ trick.”

“It’s a classic for a reason.” Methos ignored the glare Duncan gave him. “Eliot’s talented. Very talented. Reminds me of you. If I were an amoral avaricious warlord, I’d want him too. And don’t say that I was.”

“I’d have left out the avaricious, actually.”

“But not amoral or warlord?” After a carefully calculated pause, Methos lifted one hand and drew a tally mark in midair. “Point.”

“So what do I have to look out for?”

“First death, first teacher. Last Quickening.” A beat. “All the same person.”

“Oh, so nothing too important, then.” Only the most defining events in a new Immortal’s life, twisted in ways Duncan couldn’t begin to imagine. “Anything more detailed?”

Methos let out a weary sigh. “Some I’ve seen or guessed, some I picked up from other sources.” Watcher Chronicles, which no Immortal was supposed to know existed, and not something that Methos used casually. “And you’ve probably seen the likes of it before, just not on such a scale.”

he stands there, too exhausted to do anything else, even to fall, surrounded by barbarian warriors who seem as untouched as when the battle started / his men sense his Immortal presence and move aside, revealing his prize, the slight buzz of a potential Immortal a sweet lure / their leader approaches him with a smile. something’s wrong, he’d do something about it if he could only lift his sword / and isn’t he amazing, still defiant even when he has nothing left. a stab to the heart (why?), a signal to his men, who pick up the body and follow him back to their encampment ( why? )

(because I want you)

watching the Roman in other battles, in their fortress, leading soldiers that are well disciplined even by Roman standards, training them with skills that are purest perfection / he flashes through any number of ordinary days, but nothing stands out, nothing to show he was being watched. hunted. stalked.

(all that talent would have been wasted without me)

(still lying to me. the talent was already there, and you know it. you wanted to own it)

(why should I deny that? I’m not the only one)

a courtyard in Florence, watching his centurion sparring against multiple opponents, while negotiating ever so obliquely with an incognito Medici for his skills as an assassin

(you’d be flattered by how much he was willing to pay to buy out your contract. he wasn’t the only one)

more memories, more times and places, but nothing changes except the weapons. it’s a flood, and he’s drowning, which is exactly what Damien wants…

Duncan and Eliot sat crosslegged, facing each other in the darkened dojo. They’d discovered that they both felt comfortable in spaces like this — a safe, familiar place, full of memories of pushing themselves to their limits, honing the fighting skills they’d been developing since they were children, clan chieftain’s son and filius eques.

Duncan watched Eliot, alert for any sign of distress, or worse, any of the ways the remnant personality could take over its new vessel. At first Eliot had merely looked like someone experiencing an unpleasant dream, but now Duncan decided it was time to bring him out.

“Eliot,” he said gently, not wanting to startle him. Eliot opened his eyes, but didn’t seem to be seeing any of his surroundings. Not as bad as it could be, then. He watched, waiting for any semblance of awareness to return, repeating the litany of person/place/time. “You’re Eliot Spencer, member of the Leverage team, you’re in Portland, and it’s 2011.” 

Once he was satisfied Eliot was back with him, he asked “Which memory was that?”

“First death, mostly.” Eliot grimaced. “It’s a magnet, I know. Didn’t expect to go there, but one thing led to another.”

Duncan nodded. “Hard to resist, and always traumatic.” He felt his own memory of that event rising, and decided Eliot was settled enough that sharing it wouldn’t be unwelcome. “My clan — we were very superstitious, isolated and primitive. When I came back to life after dying in battle they thought I was a changeling, something demonic. Cast me out. Nearly died, that first winter.” A shrug to indicate that he hadn’t known how impossible that was. “Almost wanted to.”

“My family would’ve been told that I died leading my men into battle, like a good Roman.”

“Don’t remember my first death,” Methos interjected, from where he’d turned the pile of padded targets and spare mats into a soft nest. “Or however many came after. Know it was a lot. Remember the Quickening, though. Do you know how hard it is to behead someone with a flint axe? I didn’t even know what would happen, all I remember is wanting to be very sure that he was dead, or at least would stay that way long enough for me to get very far away... But this isn’t about my trauma dumping, it’s about yours.”

Eliot and Duncan shared a look, both recognizing Methos’ deflection for what it was — an attempt to hide the truth in plain sight. Methos would never admit that he needed help dealing with the remnants of his old brothers, but here he was, like a stray cat hovering in a doorway. “I think it’s about all of us,” Duncan said, but Methos had either turned his phone’s earbuds up for real this time, or was very effectively ignoring them.

Back to Eliot. “You’re going to have to do this intentionally. Control what memories you access. Get to recognize him, his memories, where they aren’t mixed up with yours, so you’ll be able to untangle the ones where you’re together.”

“How am I supposed to do that? Too many of my memories are tied to his.”

“Kronos.”

Eliot’s eyes went wide, and then introspective. Off in the corner, Duncan sensed Methos’ twitch at the name. Well, it was his own damn fault for pretending his earbuds weren’t muted. “You’ve got one? Follow it. Tell me.” 

“I’m… he’s… a new recruit, new Immortal, I know Kronos is watching me, him…” and then more confidently, “him. He knows he’s destined for bigger things, he just has to prove himself.”

Kronos watches the new Immortal. Deimos, he calls himself, after some minor god in a place Kronos has never heard of. Only a few weeks in, and already he’s attracting his own following — not in any way that threatens the Horsemen; quite the opposite. Ingratiating himself with his new companions, joining them in practice, listening attentively as Methos explains how battle tactics change in an Immortal brotherhood. Kronos approves. It’s easy to recruit new Immortal fighters, it’s harder to find any with the skills to be lieutenants, to lead but also accept orders, doing the work Kronos and Methos prefer to avoid, that Caspian and Silas are completely unsuited for.

Duncan had processed the memory in a mere instant; Eliot took longer, but not by much. “That’s progress. You got yourself out.”

“It didn’t feel like he knew I was there, not like the other times.”

“He talks to you?” A nod. “We’ll work on controlling that too. Can’t stop it completely, unfortunately. We’re very hard to kill, even when we’re dead.”

“Is it just me,” Eliot asked, “or has Methos gotten way more prickly lately?”

Duncan wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but he recognized the sentiment. “It’s not you. You know how he said to put everything in a box until you could deal with it? He’s got two of the Horsemen in his head, and as far as I know this is the first time he’s tried to open that box.”

“Two? Wait, he said you had two. Kronos and Caspian. He should only have Silas.” 

From the casual way he dropped the names it hit Duncan again, viscerally, that Eliot had memories of the Horsemen from a different perspective than his own. From Eliot’s own memories, he got Methos in what Duncan knew was at least partially an attempt to work out the guilt from his time as a Horseman. From Damien, Eliot got them all at their worst.

It had taken a long time for Duncan to go through the remnants of the Horsemen, to fully understand just how much of what they were was a result of the times they’d lived in and their history before that. If Methos’ past was anything like theirs, it was a wonder that he’d been able to change himself enough to be the man Duncan had met. Caspian, who Kronos and Silas had found in a cave full of paintings telling the tale of a river demigod whose river had dried up. Trapped and starving to death, over and over, until nothing was left but an eternal hunger and desire for revenge. Even Silas, deceptively simple, had a past that hadn’t been easy for Duncan to integrate; skilled with animals but frightening to mortals, too often seen as a demon who couldn’t die, like Duncan after his first death.

“We shared the last two, Silas and Kronos. Don’t ask me how. And with everything he’d done that led up to that — well, we weren’t exactly on speaking terms. Didn’t really understand how different his world was till I had Kronos providing commentary whenever I thought about him, and by then I’d been too much of a sanctimonious prick for him to listen to me.”

“He said he wouldn’t try to justify what he’d done because our worlds weren’t that different.”

“You were a Roman…”

Eliot nodded. “Civilized, by the standards of the time. Not by yours.”

Duncan barely suppressed a bitter laugh. “In my time, the English called my people barbarians. Of course, they also thought the Roman Empire was some kind of Golden Age.” Oh, the mockery he’d received for not knowing Latin, and the scorn for his Scottish brogue. “I’ve come to realize that no matter how civilized we think we are, wait a century or two and they’ll be calling us barbaric and worse.”

Eliot chuckled. “As someone a lot older than you, yes. I’ve seen it happen.”

Parker and Hardison had arrived in Portland a week after Eliot and Methos; even allowing for the way Parker drove, they’d had to take a much more reasonable approach to the long drive than was possible with Immortal endurance. Nate had decided to relocate the entire team to Portland, so he and Sophie had headed back to Boston to take care of the loose ends they’d left behind when they’d gone into hiding. Hardison’s job was to build new identities for them all, and also find new headquarters. 

Hardison had found a nice hotel suite downtown for the two of them. “With windows,” he’d emphasized. “And a spare room for you, if you want it.” 

“That’s fine, I’ll stay with MacLeod for now. Never know when I’ll need a late night workout to settle things.” Parker and Hardison shared a look that Eliot did not want to try to interpret.

Methos cut in. “You need a break. And we haven’t taken you to Joe’s yet. Perfect time, now that your friends are here.”

Eliot and Duncan shared a look that made it very clear who needed a break, but it wasn’t a bad idea for all that.

It was a fairly typical bar in a converted factory within walking distance of the river; a smaller and more well-worn version of the Chicago place. The bartender was a young man who didn’t look old enough to be drinking, much less serving, but had the distinctive presence of an Immortal. At the back of the room was a low stage with an assortment of instruments; an older man was seated on the edge of it, tuning an electric guitar. Other than that they were the only ones here, as there was still an hour to go before opening time.

Hardison was still on a minor rant that had started outside. “We nearly went right past this place. Why’d they say go to Joe’s when this is Rick’s?”

The bartender had the rueful grin of someone who’d had to tell the same story many times. “Because I’m Rick, and I’m the owner — well, part owner — not that any of the old crowd ever remembers.” There was just a trace of emphasis on old crowd, and he flicked a glance at Parker and Hardison as if checking whether they picked up on it. Eliot shot a glance at them too, then looked back at Rick and nodded slightly. They know. Rick’s returning nod was just as subtle. “The guy on stage? That’s Joe, used to own a couple of bars and, um, basically said he was too old to open a new one, and I quote, ‘just because the name Duncan MacLeod has picked up too much baggage in half the Pacific Northwest’.” From the way the phrase rolled off his tongue, he was very used to reciting it, and Eliot suspected there was much more to the story. “So now he’s retired from bartending, but he’s a regular on the stage.”

They collected their drinks — local beers for Eliot and Parker, a soda for Hardison that was a more restrained shade of orange than his usual — and chose a table near the stage. Hardison was looking all around the place, as if taking notes. “You like it, then? I should look for someplace like this?”

Eliot shook his head. “No, this isn’t like McRory’s, people come here for the music, they don’t come here to talk, unless they’re dumping their problems on the bartender. Besides, we need a bigger distance between Nate and temptation.”

Hardison nodded. “There is that.” 

Methos joined Joe on the steps to the stage, leaning back on his elbows, long legs stretched out, a tripping hazard if there’d been any customers. Shamelessly eavesdropping on Eliot and Hardison, and later Rick, as they discussed the pros and cons of opening up a restaurant or bar in Portland. 

Joe caught the direction of his gaze. “That’s your centurion?” Not really a question. Once a Watcher, always a Watcher. “He seems to be doing well.” 

Methos nodded. “His friends are good for him. So’s MacLeod.”

“And for you?”

Of course Joe would notice. Too many bad memories stirred up, and none of them willing to settle. “If you’re saying I should talk to Mac…”

“I didn’t say that, you did.”

“Ha bloody ha.”

Joe quirked a smile that knew far too much. “So you’re just hanging out at the dojo because watching someone commune with his inner demon is more fun than watching paint dry?”

“Pretty much.” Denial, thy name is Methos.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Want? No.”

Joe went back to plucking strings and adjusting their tension, but his attention was not on the guitar.

Methos shook his head. “Bartenders,” he drawled, putting millennia of history behind it, “all the same. Something about having a plank with beer on one side and a customer on the other turns them into philosophers and counselors.”

Joe grinned. “Can’t deny that. So?”

“So I had to break him down and build him up again faster than either of us liked. Stirred up some rather old history.” And Joe was one of the few people alive to understand the emphasis he put on that.

A long pause while Joe played a few guitar riffs, no particular song, just warming up his fingers. “Seen a lot in my life. Enough to know there’s nothing new, there’s just variations on a theme.” And this, Methos recalled sharply, was the man who had defended Methos’ days as a Horseman to an overly sanctimonious MacLeod by pulling up his own regretted past in Vietnam. When we took out a village, we couldn't tell the farmers from the soldiers. You think somehow the bullets managed to miss all the children? Without him, Methos didn’t think he’d have ever given the Highlander another chance.

“Yes, well.” Methos looked off to the side and took a long swallow from his bottle of beer, “I don’t need to look at those memories, I lived them.”

“But you’re looking at them anyway.”

“You ever wonder why I write my own chronicles, when we can all recall anything we want? Some memories are best kept at a distance.”

“Get the feeling you aren’t the only one you’re hiding them from.”

“The thing about an unspoken agreement is you never speak about it.”

“Ah.” Joe’s hands flickered over the strings, producing magic. “Mac’s not just his spotter, he’s yours. Unofficially. But it’s not just your memories you don’t want to stir up, it’s his, and the ones you share.”

And fuck, how did he spot that when Methos himself hadn’t? “Because it was so easy to get past it the last time,” he deflected, dripping sarcasm.

Joe saw through that easily. He did, after all, have a lot of experience watching the Highlander. His eyes flicked to MacLeod and back. “Not easy. But you can’t deny he’s the better for it. You ever notice that something about becoming an Immortal resets a lot of you to teenagers? Reckless, judgmental, pains in the ass?”

Methos waved a hand, brushing aside vast amounts of history. “I’m older than the idea of being a teenager. Unimaginable luxury, that.”  Older, even, than the freedom new Immortals indulged in. “I know what you mean, though. They don’t grow up until they remember they’re mortal, and for us…” He shrugged; complicated didn’t begin to describe it. “And yes, Mac is finally starting to get there, but I still can’t talk to him about it.”

Joe cocked his head, curiously. “But you can talk to me?”

“With you, I don’t have to.”

Methos was saved from the choice between more uncharacteristic honesty and his preferred sarcastic deflection by Parker, who leaned in between them, having arrived on the stage behind them unnoticed. “Eliot misses playing guitars and wants to know if he could borrow one,” she said. Joe looked startled but Methos merely smirked; he’d gotten used to her sudden appearances by now. 

Eliot shot a quick look at the empty seat behind him, a flash of surprise and resigned acceptance. “I did not say that!”

“You were looking at the guitar guy and the guitars, you didn’t have to!” And in a softer voice, just for Joe and Methos, “He never asks. You have to make him.”

Joe chuckled and called out to Eliot, “Sure, grab whichever one you like.”

Eliot, who was heading over to the stage despite his protests, grumbled something to Parker that sounded like “Nate is turning you into a menace.” But there was a fondness behind it.

Methos left the two musicians to work out what they had in common, in what might as well have been a different language for all he was concerned. By the time he’d reached Mac, who’d been watching everyone from his favorite corner, they’d started playing something that didn’t even sound familiar until Joe started singing. Everybody knows the dice are loaded… 

“This one of your retrieval jobs, Eliot?” A ridiculous job for someone with his skills. “Tell me, whose Snoopy lunchbox do I have?”

Eliot’s impassive. “It's not a retrieval. I'm escorting the middleman. I'm contracted to make sure he gets in — and out — with the offer.”

The middleman tries to make a deal, unperturbed despite having just had guns pulled on him and then being cuffed to a chair. Damien finds this amusing. What he doesn’t find amusing is that someone he doesn’t know has heard of the Ram’s Horn. Something is leaking. Amost certainly Atherton, but where does Eliot come in? The middleman is also an enigma — not the man himself, but his presence. It’s very unlike Eliot to just waltz in with a stranger unannounced. Assuming this actually is a stranger…

He kicks the middleman into the pool, chair and all. “I’m sure you told your clients I don't do business with strangers.”

Eliot doesn’t react. Despite what he’d said earlier, it appears the middleman is expendable. It also appears Eliot is more than just an escort, since he continues trying to negotiate, ignoring the thrashing going on under the surface. 

Damien is unimpressed. “What else you got?”

“Look, this deal is leaking all over the place, and I know that’s not your style. Hell, these guys not only found out about it, they found out I could get them in to you. You’ve got a problem. You know I’m good at solutions.”

Ah, this is why he misses Eliot — he understands the problem and what needs to be done just as well as Damien himself. “Atherton. He’s become a liability.”

Eliot doesn’t even blink, doesn’t ask questions. “Understood.”

“He didn’t know. He never even suspected. I brought Hardison — well, the other way around, Hardison was the lead on the con, but he didn’t know—“

Duncan cocked his head at him, a very obvious you’re rambling, settle down.

Eliot took a deep breath and focused. “I confronted Damien while one of my teammates was nearly drowning behind me, because Damien was testing me, and he never suspected a thing. I thought maybe he knew, that he was toying with me. I thought he could always tell when I was lying to him.”

Methos spoke up. “He only had the power over you that you gave him. As I told you more than once over the last thousand years.”

“Progress, then,” Duncan said. “But you know…”

“Yeah. That was the easy one. I’d shut down completely, the only way I could protect him. It’s going to get harder.”

“Yes and no,” Methos said. “Now you know you can do it.”

It was a good thing, Eliot thought, that replaying memories was a lot faster than making them.

It had only taken a week of going through high points of the Horsemen era for him to be confident that he could tell Damien’s memories apart from his own. Progress, yes, but recollection couldn’t be controlled; one event would stir memories of another and the next thing he knew, he was back in the more painful parts of his past. Which was why he wasn’t going to dig into any memories without Mac there as a spotter. At least the two sets wouldn’t be intertwined; he could look at Damien’s perspective as if watching a movie, without pulling his own memories into a tangled and painful mess.

But not tonight. MacLeod had a full evening of classes at the dojo, starting with Parker, who could translate the complex choreography of his sword work into the moving lines of laser tripwires and navigate them just as precisely, making her his new favorite partner in working out stunt routines for the local film studios. Hardison was with her; he could hack from anywhere, although he did get a bit distracted when she was demonstrating her not inconsiderable skills.

Meanwhile he was waiting at Rick’s, watching Joe’s solo act from a corner of the bar where he could see everything and not be noticed. Everything was settling into place: Damien’s Quickening, Hardison’s plans for a new location — Eliot had given up on objecting to a brewpub, and was merely insisting that Hardison have absolutely nothing to do with anything food or beverage related — and the last of the team’s ties to Boston. 

Right on time, the two of them walked up to the bar. Eliot could read the conversation from the body language: Hardison asking Rick if Eliot was in; Rick pointing in his direction. An aborted half-step towards him from Hardison, and a subtle release of tension from Parker, had him on his feet, making his way across the room to them as quickly as he could without drawing attention. A look of concern from Rick, a gesture in the direction of the office, obviously telling the Leverage duo that they could use it for whatever bad news was pending. Methos, who’d been heading back towards Eliot after picking up another round, and whose perception of trouble was even more finely honed than his, only needed a quick glance over his shoulder to reverse course, joining Eliot as he followed the others into the office.

Hardison barely waited for the door to be closed. “Got a message from Sophie. Nate’s dad… he just got killed in a warehouse explosion, in Boston. Nate was just outside, nearly got him too.”

Eliot’s first impulse was to ask what he was doing in Boston when he ought to be in Ireland, but then… “Warehouse explosion…?” Oh, that was far too familiar to be a coincidence. “Son of a bitch. Dubenich.” A glance at Hardison was all he needed to confirm it.

Parker looked puzzled. “He’s supposed to be in prison.”

Hardison nodded. “Yeah, he is. Sophie says Nate’s going there tomorrow to see him, if he can.”

Methos looked at the three of them. “A little background…?”

Eliot was practically growling. “Victor Dubenich set up our first job together. And then he set us up. Tried to kill us all in a warehouse explosion. We brought him down, got him sent to prison for a very long time. Should’a been the end of it.”

“And since then he’s been running operations from inside the prison?” Methos asked. “That’s a very old trick.”

“It’s a trap,” Eliot said. “That’s how he works. He sets up something like this, waits for us to be lured in. And if we don’t bite, he escalates.”

Hardison shook his head. “Not if we get to him first.” All this time Hardison’s fingers had been flying over the keyboard. “OK, I got us on a redeye to Boston, get in early tomorrow.”

Methos leaned over to check the screen. “Room for one more?”

Chapter Text

Somewhere underneath Boston

“We find someone who is not a friend, someone who's not in the game, someone we do not trust. That's what we do.”

Hardison looked around the caves in awe, barely dodging all the rest of the Leverage team and their counterparts. “Y’know, normally I would be thinking, hey, wow, Batcave, totally cool, but I’m a bit over the underground hideout thing right now. Not that I don’t appreciate it, y’know.”

With a perfectly straight face, Methos said “Oh, I don’t know, it reminds me of when I was a child.” Before Hardison could decide whether or not to believe him, he smirked. “No. I’m not really that old.”

Archie gave them a weird look, then visibly decided to ignore it. “These were the old subway lines, sealed up when the new tunnels were built under the bay. I used them myself back in the '60s after a rather spectacular jewelry heist.”

Methos cocked his head. “60s? Jewelry? You wouldn’t happen to know an Amanda, would you?”

Archie smiled knowingly, touching a finger to his lips as he walked away. 

Hardison stared at him, and then at Methos. “Don’t tell me you’ve got history with Parker’s dad too.” He shook his head. “I dunno, man, I could believe it, y’know? Because it just keeps getting weirder. But ‘m glad you came along, because you’re the only hacker I know who’s not in the game, and without you we’d have to go with the ‘not a friend and do not trust’ options, and that is a total dick who calls himself ‘Chaos’. Trust me, you do not want to deal with him. He sent Sophie flowers with a bomb in them, and who even does that?”