Title: Pearl of Great Price Author: Kat Solano Email: orchydd@hotmail.com Rating: PG-13 Keywords: Action, Clan Denial admirer Characters: DM, M, J, RR, lots of OFC's Summary & Disclaimer in Part 0/5 **************************************** Flip G-11: Seacouver, USA... Joe Dawson jiggled the padlock on the doors of Joe’s Bar. Secured. With a sigh, he hefted his cane for a better grip and began the seemingly long limp home. His stumps throbbed more than usual tonight; his bartender’s wife had sprung into labour early and Jake couldn’t speak coherently last time Joe talked to him. He’d had to take up the slack. It was a good thing it was Tuesday. His place wasn’t that far and the apartment was on the ground floor. God, he was starting to feel as old as Mac. As soon as he unlocked the door, Joe fell into the sofa, un-snapped his legs and fell asleep. Duncan peered into the windows of Joe’s place. He’d been knocking the door and ringing the bell for the past five minutes. Granted, it was almost dawn, but with their history, Duncan could never be too paranoid. “Let me try, MacLeod.” Methos slipped a hand into his pocket, taking out two thin lengths of steel. Crouching at the knob, he inserted his instruments and began to root around the guts of the lock. The sharp click of tumblers releasing sounded better than floor seats at a Bare Naked Ladies concert. With exaggerated flourish, Methos waved the younger immortal in. The sight of Joe out cold on the sofa sent Duncan’s blood pressure spiking. He rushed to his old friend’s side, feeling for a pulse. “Joe? Joe, are you okay?” The Watcher muttered something about canteens and stubble as he sleepy swatted Duncan’s hand away. “Take it easy, Mac,” Methos said as he rummaged through Joe’s sparse refrigerator, “He probably just had a long night at the bar.” “Yeah.” Duncan moved away but remained close-by. “Maybe we should have waited until morning.” “You said yourself it was pretty urgent.” Methos, a beer in hand, leaned against the back of the couch. He leaned down to nudge Joe ever so softly. “Psst. Joe! Watcher Newsflash!” Joe muttered again for a while before he said, his eyes still closed, “It’s better be reporting that the Gathering’s over and you and Mac are gonna fight it out. My money’s on Methos.” “Gee, thanks, Joe!” Now that he was more or less awake, Joe sat up, rubbing his hands through his hair. “What is it, Mac?” “I need to have a look through the Watcher files for an immortal,’ Duncan said, his brows furrowed. Methos let out a short laugh. “It’s just killing Mac that we met an Immortal he hasn’t seen or slept with in a past life.” Duncan threw his best friend a sharp look that promised a beating when next they sparred but Methos didn’t take it too seriously. So he’d let MacLeod break a few bones; he could handle it. “Is it serious?” Joe wanted to know. “Well...” “MacLeod.” There was a warning tone in his voice. “Look, Joe, it may be nothing.” Duncan stood up to pace. “It’s just... something about him rubbed me the wrong way.” * * * * * Earlier that day... Methos inhaled the steam coming from the cappuccino with the concentration and pleasure usually copyrighted by expert vintners. He observed the finely frothed foam so thick that it barely moved yet so light it didn’t sink and allow the dark liquid underneath to show. His sensitive nostrils picked out the aroma of vanilla, cured for the perfect amount of time and at the perfect temperature, blending harmoniously with the roasted coffee beans. He allowed all his senses to converge on that one moment. Then he leaned over to take that vital first sip... “You need a woman,” Duncan said with a smirk. His eyes still closed, his lips mere millimetres from the rim, Methos told his best friend, “You’re ruining the mood, MacLeod.” “The day you have a ‘mood’ with a cup of dirty water and stiff milk is the day you know you have to get out more.” Taking a generous glug of his own café latte, Duncan leaned back and continued to laugh silently at the older immortal. Finally, after the ecstasy of The First Sip, Methos opened his eyes. “I keep forgetting what an uncouth pup you are at times, MacLeod. Perhaps you still have some learning to do.” “And you’re going to teach me?” “Who better? Bloody hell, MacLeod, look at the way you’re drinking your coffee!” Duncan snorted then took another barbaric gulp. Methos moaned as though he had witnessed an act of cannibalism. “I cannot believe I’m friends with the likes of you!” declared the ancient, “You take all the women, you don’t have any music post-dating the mid-nineteenth century, you have no respect for coffee, and--gods above preserve me-- you buy American beer!” When Duncan would have laughed out a retort but at that moment he felt the presence of another Immortal, that quickening of all his senses and the fist-soft song his head. Methos, too, straightened imperceptibly, his gaze furtively watching Duncan’s back and knowing that Duncan was doing the same. The man, a boy really, who entered the coffee shop seemed completely unaffected by the buzz. He strolled up to the counter, speaking politely but a bit coldly at the server and waited his turn by the pastry display. Methos and Duncan exchanged puzzled, wary looks. Duncan was sure that Methos could sense the difference in the song, as though it were played on a different scale. Sensing a pre-Immortal had the same concept; a piece that was an “octave” lower than normal with a background “static” of his or her current mortality. This man seemed to be in the high scales, a faint tinkling that was just barely perceptible and grated a bit on the nerves. He took his coffee-- an ordinary drip, Methos observed with a sniff-- with a smile and proceeded to murder it with too much cream and sugar. As the strange Immortal sat back to “enjoy” that tasteless brew, Duncan leaned over and asked of his companion, “Are you getting a headache?” Methos nodded, sipping at his beverage with a distracted air. “I don’t like the way this feels.” Like listening to a bad soprano singer doing a complicated aria. The newcomer finished off his newspaper and his drink, leaving a buck for a tip. He slid off of his stool with the grace of a cat which was when Duncan realised yet another inconsistency in the man. He wasn’t wearing a trench coat. Where was he keeping his sword? In silent agreement, Duncan and Methos finished their drinks quickly, their eyes still glued on the man who was now strolling down the damp Seacouver streets towards the busier side of the strip. Duncan stood first, following a discrete twelve feet behind. Methos crossed the street and walked parallel to him. The stranger didn’t look as if he noticed them; he almost seemed to be sightseeing, peering into display windows, occasionally entering a store but never leaving with any packages. Duncan’s ears continued to ring with the discordant tone. He frowned with the discomfort. It began to drizzle At that moment, a mob of passengers exited their bus. Duncan was pushed aside roughly by people caught unaware by the light rain and in a hurry to keep their clothing and hairstyles intact. By the time he had righted himself, the strange song was gone. His eyes shot to Methos. The older Immortal had a similar expression of frustration as he shrugged his shoulders. * * * * * Present time... “So his buzz was off,” Joe mumbled sleepily, “What’s the big deal?” “Call it gut instinct,” Duncan said, “This guy, if he’s a new Immortal, is going to be a big problem. ~*~*~ Elsewhere in Seacouver... It was dawn by the time Jean finally got home. His empathy didn’t sense those two Immortals who’d stalked him, hadn’t sensed them for several hours in fact, but considering he was by far the weakest of the Triplets, there was no such thing as too careful. He’d wound around all over old Seacouver. Kay had liked this place; she said it was so generic it was easy to get lost. Apparently, such was not the case for her middle child. Jean had been followed for sixteen hours straight. His head ached with the constant mental touches. When he inserted the key into the lock of the wrought iron gate, it didn’t give right away. He had to wriggle it around several times and mutter the spell phrase to release the safety triggers that kept the bad guys away. As soon as he stepped up to the condo, the door opened. Noel batted his eyelashes at him and puckered his lips. “An’ where have ye been, lad? Yer ma an’ I were sore worried—" “Someone’s onto us,” Jean interrupted, in no mood for the endless joking that went on in the Xeno Core. “I’ve been followed by three different groups since yesterday.” “We’ve got the first two recorded,” Mikala said as she entered the living room. Her ever-present vidrod was tucked under her arm and her eyepiece was flipped back. “Who was the third?” Jean shrugged. “They felt like normal humans to me,” he replied, “It may have simply been muggers looking for an easy mark.” “But?” “But ever since I’ve joined you people, I’ve learned to be a bit paranoid.” He smiled to take the sting off. Only Noel noted that it never reached his eyes; Mikala laughed as Jean intended her to. “Would ye like a bit o’ time tae rest afore--” began the Scotsman, but Jean cut him off with a sharp gesture of his hand. “We discuss now,” he said as he slumped into the sofa, “With Remy and everything, I’d like to get home as soon as possible.” “I’d like if ye slept more than two hours a night,” Noel said as he went off into the kitchen, presumably to find food for his friend. “Yes, Mommy,” Jean managed to quip. His eyes were getting gritty but he’d get over that soon. He opened them again when he heard the clattering of a ceramic plate on the plywood coffee table. Four sausages rolled about with scrambled eggs, toast and sliced tomatoes. “I don’t eat meat,” he reminded Noel. “Bull,” Noel scoffed, “Ye’re a quarter rishi; they’re completely carnivorous. Stop trying tae kill yerself over some ugly, obese, four-legged beasties that’re no good fer anything but consumption anyway. And dinna be telling me ye can handle it. Ye’ve lost muscle mass since ye decided tae become a vegetarian.” “I don’t like blood,” Jean said stubbornly. “Look, if it’ll make ye feel better, the damn pig attacked me and I had to kill it tae save myself and my children. I didn’t want to waste the meat sae I turned it into sausages to feed my anorexic friend. Yuir lucky I didna make ye glue. Now eat!” Jean reluctantly swallowed a bite, trying not to show how wonderful the taste of meat was to him after several months of abstinence. He blinked and his food was all gone. Noel stood over him grinning. “Sae, ye dinna like meat, eh, mo caraid?” Without waiting for an answer, he went to the microwave to heat up more food. “You are a cocky, swill-mucking, piss drinking sheep-lover, MacLeod.” “And dinna ye forget it, pup.” Minutes later, sated and a bit sleepy, Jean recited everything that he’d done the night before. Mikala had turned the vidrod into oral mode for the reports but she reiterated the stalkers for clarity. “So the first two felt like Ethos agents like we expected.” She chewed on a fingernail as she spoke. “This could be good. At least we know that we’re on the right track.” “Lord save me from optimists,” Noel said just quietly enough for her to hear. “Shut up, MacLeod.” She turned her attention back to the reports, “The last ones were just humans?” “Yeah,” Jean affirmed, “But... I don’t know. There are plenty of humans who work for organizations, special powers or no. They felt as if they had a firm agenda... like they had something behind them that they followed. Muggers usually have a hint or two of spontaneity in their signatures. Those two were on a mission.” “Ethos?” Noel asked. “I...” Jean bit pursed his lips, looking for the right words. “I have absolutely no idea. They seem to be a notch or two in the Sot’e direction of the Balance but...” He shrugged, hating the uncertainty. “I don’t know.” “Which leaves those two Immortals.” Noel scrolled through his copy of the report. “Too bad ye weren’t able tae get a shot of any of them.” “They were good at hiding,” Jean said, “Like all Immortals.” “Hrmph,” was Noel’s reply. He didn’t think that remark warranted an answer. He’d let his sword do the talking when they sparred tomorrow morning. Right now, it was time for more surveillance. Mikala, coming to the same conclusion, minimised the vidrod, tucking it into a back pocket. They both looked to Jean for the next move. Their silence was noted only after several minutes, during which Mikala contemplated shaking Jean to make sure he was still awake. He opened his eyes, however, when her hands were inches from his shoulders. “Oh, uh... Ffayz, you take north and west. Rydr, you can have the rest. Converge at the stake out in two hours. I’m going to...” “Sleep,” Mikala interrupted. He grinned, his mother’s heart-breaking, all-charming smile. “Sleep,” he conceded. * * * * * That afternoon... Six hundred and fifteen days had passed since Richie died. ::Since I sliced off his head::, Duncan corrected himself bitterly. He hadn’t returned to the dojo yet in the three weeks since he’d come back to Seacouver. The place was surrounded by memories. He and Richie sparring. The first time Richie had knocked him on his ass, taking him completely by surprise. The rush of relief and caution that had pummelled him when Richie first took a head; the argument that had flared when Richie insisted that Felicia was one of the good guys; when he’d returned from the first time Duncan had tried to take his head. The Scot shook his head. Maybe he should have let Richie and Donna go and experience as normal a life as was possible. Or pushed for the boy to be more independent. Said something that would have kept him safe, away from Duncan and the darkness that he could feel at times just under his skin. “Brooding again?” Methos was lounging at what had once been the bar. A glint of sliver caught his eye. Duncan walked to the shelf to pick it up. It was a hair clasp, a silver Celtic knot. Richie had given it to him their first Christmas when Tessa had still been alive. “Maybe you can start a collection,” the boy had quipped. And he had given him a new clasp every Christmas and birthday afterward as a standing joke. Duncan clenched it in his fist. “Just remembering.” He tried to make his gaze unfeeling as he swept it across the loft. “Damn willy Scot.” Methos grabbed Duncan’s arm. “You disappear for a year, probably to some god-forsaken place to meditate on the value of an orange peel. By the time you let me find you, you’re about as easy to talk to as a cactus is easy to hug. Now, when you’ve finally come back home, you sell everything you have, lock, stock and katana.” He shut his trap momentarily, his emotions choking him. “You’re not going to forget the hurt by acting as if it never happened. Nor by selling the place.” “It’s a good enough place to start!” “Oh, so they’re so insignificant that you’re willing to let them go?” Methos’ arms shot up, a plea to gods he’d given up. “Has nothing I’ve been hammering in your head penetrated that whiskey-pickled brain of yours? People die, MacLeod, humans and immortals. You live with that pain, you accept it, and you move on. Trying to forget them would like binding a wound without cleansing it first.” “I’m tired, Methos.” As if to emphasize that point, Duncan’s body sank into the cloth-covered couch. “I’m tired of the Game, I’m tired of seeing my friends die young, and I am sick and tired of people coming after me! I’ve been Duncan MacLeod for than four hundred years. I think it’s about time he died.” Methos snorted. “As much as I applaud that fact that you’ve finally taken my advice, I have a feeling that you’re about to take this name changing at bit too far. You can change your name to Boopsie von Scheinerein for all I care but you couldn’t stop being Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod any more than you could stop the Earth from spinning on its axis.” He had expected anger. What Methos got was silence. A sad, loud silence that scared the living shit out of the five-thousand year old Immortal. “Duncan.” He placed a hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “You want to be my teacher, Methos?” came the ragged whisper, “Teach me how not to feel. Teach me to stop hearing their voices in my nightmares. Teach me how to keep away from the world.” Methos let out a sound, somewhere between a self-derisive snort and a melancholy sigh. “I can’t. I’m afraid you’ve corrupted me as well, MacLeod.” The second the words came from his mouth, Methos knew it had been the wrong thing to say. An angered groan ripped out of Duncan’s chest and he shot to his feet, taking the stairs out of the loft three at a time. “Mac, wait!” Methos ran after him, knowing that he’d never catch up. “Mac! I didn’t mean that like it-- dammit!” _________________________________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com.