NEW FANFIC: THE MEETING III 5/6
Vi Moreau (vi@moreaufamily.us)
Tue, 18 Mar 2003 21:15:19 -0600
THE MEETING III by Vi Moreau et al
vi@moreaufamily.us
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MacLeod dojo, Seacouver
====================
The ringing phone startled Duncan MacLeod enough that he missed the nail
with the hammer. Well, at least hitting his brick wall wouldn't cause any
visible damage. He put the nail and hammer down, picked up the receiver and
moved over to sit on the kitchen stool. "MacLeod," he announced.
"Tell me in ten words or less how to call off your clansman."
"Methos?"
"Connor is here in Texas, at the Renaissance Festival with John. I'm here
in Texas, at the Renaissance Festival with Alexa. How do I calm him down?"
Duncan thought quickly. "John's with him? Damn! He'll think you used the
Watchers to find him and follow him there."
"Yes he does, and by the way, thanks for giving him that little piece of
information. How many other Immortals have you handed my head to?" Methos
hissed.
"I told Connor because he's my clansman, but I know you didn't follow him,"
Duncan said. "But he may think--"
"How can he possibly think I'm hunting him with Alexa by my side? What is
she, my front man? How paranoid is he, anyway?"
At a loss for words, Duncan shook his head. "More than me," he finally
simply said.
"Well, I can't very well run away, can I?"
"No, don't; that will make him chase you."
"I know that. So what are the magic words? 'Down, boy'?"
"Don't be a fool. Connor will figure it out. He won't put John in danger.
Or Alexa, either. Just give him a minute to think and don't.don't push him.
I mean, don't antagonize him in that inimitable way of yours."
"Right. I got that."
Duncan considered. "Maybe if I talked to him." At that instant Duncan's
cell phone began to ring.
"No," Methos answered immediately. "All right; he'll be back anytime."
"What--?"
Methos hung up just as Duncan got to his cell phone. He put the receiver
down and picked up the phone.
"Duncan."
"Connor?"
"I'm in Texas with John at a fair."
Duncan decided right away to play it ignorant. The little thrill he'd get
from letting Connor know he knew might cause more problems for both Connor
and Methos in the long run, so he simply said, "Yeah, I meant to call John
tomorrow and wish him a happy birthday. Did he get my present?"
"Yes. Your friend Methos, the Watcher, is here with a woman."
"That would be Alexa. He's taking her on a multi-country trip."
"Why?"
For someone who could be extremely sentimental when it came to women, Connor
wasn't seeing what was in front of his face. But Duncan also knew Connor
was facing a centuries-old Immortal and was also worried for John, so he put
aside their usual mine-is-bigger-than-yours-banter. "Because he wants to
spend the rest of her.shortened.life with her, showing her the world."
"Then there's no chance he's after me or John? He found me before,
remember?"
"No chance. Besides, you've been in New York for centuries, Connor. You're
not exactly hiding. And--"
"Never mind. I'll take care of it."
"Wait, Connor-- "
Dial tone. It required all of Duncan's considerable will power to resist
redialing. Which one would he call, anyway? What would he say? He
decided, <It's their problem. They're reasonable men. They can solve it
without bloodshed. Right.> Duncan took several deep breaths. Then he put
down the cell phone, picked up the Degas again, and reconsidered where to
hang it. After a few moments of holding the painting and looking around
aimlessly, he propped it up on one of the shelves, then poured himself a
glass of Glenmorangie, neat. And then he poured himself another.
=================================
Renaissance Festival in Plantersville, Texas
=================================
The MacLeods walked back to the shady tree and Connor handed the pewter
tankard to Alexa. Pierson had to help her take it to her lips, but within
minutes the wine had brought a little color to her cheeks. She was dying,
however, and both she and Methos knew it; Duncan had confirmed it. Connor
waited, squatting beside the couple. The grass felt cold against his bare
legs and thighs. Nearby, John was climbing a tree that looked "cool."
"Maybe we'll put off the wedding for another day," Pierson suggested.
Alexa had been leaning against the tree, eyes closed. She slowly opened
them and leaned forward, sitting up a little. "Good idea," she agreed.
"Plus, we've already imposed too much on Mr. MacLeod."
"Call me Connor," he answered. "And it is not an imposition."
"I told you he wouldn't disappoint," Pierson commented.
Even while complimenting him, Pierson had reminded Connor once again,
deliberately, that he was a Watcher and knew all about Connor. He took a
deep breath for calmness. The man was arrogant, and someone someday would
have to take him down a peg or two. But maybe not Connor, and maybe not
today, if only for John's sake. And yes, for Alexa's sake, too.
"Highlanders are traditionally men of honor," Pierson continued.
Connor studied the other Immortal closely. He could see not a trace of
humor, sarcasm or falseness, although he realized Methos was probably an
excellent actor and knew exactly what to say. He could also be shamelessly
flattering Connor, hoping Connor wouldn't insist on a duel. And of course,
appealing to Connor's mercy, not for Methos, but for the girl. Manipulating
him.
But then Methos rose smoothly and said something that surprised Connor.
"John," Methos called to the boy, who swung down from the tree with a grunt
then loped over. "Would you mind sitting with Alexa for a moment? I
believe your Dad and I have some unfinished private business." When MacLeod
didn't object, Methos continued, "We'll be over there." He noted John's
suddenly worried expression. <The boy knows, or he's guessed; or perhaps
his father has told him, to prepare him.> With his kindliest expression,
Methos smiled and winked at John as he pointed vaguely toward the next group
of buildings.
"Dad--," John began.
MacLeod put a hand on his son's shoulder. "It's all right, John. I'll be
right back."
Two of Methos' daughters had once watched him fight an unexpected, very
public and particularly brutal duel. Methos had known at the time that if
he lost his opponent would kill both little girls. He decided not to
mention that incident to MacLeod at this moment, but he absolutely
remembered how it felt.
This time Methos let the Highlander lead the way, but MacLeod walked beside
him, not in front of him. Methos used the opportunity to study his possible
opponent closely. A lot could be learned about a man's fencing ability by
the way he walked. MacLeod's stride was long, easy and confident; like his
cousin, he was very physical and would be a formidable, relentless opponent
with plenty of endurance. He was a shade shorter than Methos, but the
Kurgan had been a giant, ancient and powerful, and Connor MacLeod had
defeated him. Kane had also been a serious challenge. And MacLeod also had
Ramirez's Quickening, and Nakano's. In fact, taking this head might very
well make it easier for Methos to "live, grow stronger, and fight another
day."
But that thought faded as soon as it came. Methos wasn't hunting heads at
this time. He was fairly sure that, for MacLeod, this confrontation was
about Methos being a Watcher, not the oldest Immortal. They had to end this
meeting without a challenge and without "swords at dawn" if possible.
Methos hoped MacLeod wouldn't insist on a duel now, and that he'd be willing
to part at least not as enemies. Sincerity, with an undercurrent of
strength--that was the way to go.
MacLeod took them to stand just in front of the blacksmith's hut. The smith
worked unendingly, clanking loudly and happily away, filling the air with
brilliant sparks. MacLeod glanced in that direction for a moment before
settling on a spot where they could keep an eye on their companions. They
were too close to the flame in Methos' opinion, but then he remembered that
this MacLeod had started off his Immortal life as a smithy and felt very
much at home near a forge. Methos was glad it was MacLeod who had chosen
this spot and couldn't accuse Methos of using his knowledge of MacLeod's
background to lead them here. Because that was where MacLeod felt
vulnerable and needed to be reassured. If reassurance were possible.
"I used the Watchers to keep track of the Kurgan so I could stay the bloody
hell out of his way," Methos began.
MacLeod nodded. "Did you also use the Watchers to find me?"
MacLeod was direct, suspicious and coldly determined all the way down to his
bones. Methos could feel sweat collecting in his armpits, mostly, but not
all, due to the heat from the forge. "Not today. I had no idea you were
here, believe me. The other times, yes. And I still owe you a glass of
[uisquebeath] from those meetings," he added with a very small smile.
"Why me?" MacLeod asked in a accusing tone, ignoring the smile and the
renewed offer of a whiskey.
Well, maybe Methos would have to mention Ramirez after all. "I knew the
Kurgan and I knew Ramirez. I wanted to know you too. You were the last
piece of the puzzle."
"Oh, yes, I remember. You were Ramirez' great friend." This time his tone
dripped sarcasm.
"Yes."
MacLeod led them further, walking behind the blacksmith's hut where they
could no longer be seen by his son or Alexa. He came to stand very close to
Methos, inside sword range. "Were you at my wife's funeral?" he asked, his
voice a little ragged.
Methos sighed. The absolute truth, or MacLeod would know he was lying.
"Yes. I didn't intend to disturb you there, but you're very.perceptive."
"Well, you did disturb me!" MacLeod moved even closer, inside dagger range.
"And apparently that wasn't enough for you. You followed me to New York.
What about our little meeting there? Was my wife also a piece of the
puzzle?" he snarled.
"I admit I suffer from terminal curiosity."
"Terminal; that's a good choice of words."
Methos shook that off. "MacLeod, I told you then I wanted to know the kind
of man Ramirez had died for; and the best way to.judge a man is when he's."
"Grieving?"
MacLeod was furious, and not bothering to hide it. Methos let some of his
very real nervousness show. He stepped back. MacLeod advanced the same
distance.
"Vulnerable. In distress. Under fire," Methos suggested.
"Maybe I should come judge you when Alexa dies," MacLeod said harshly.
At this, Methos didn't blink. "March or April. The best doctors I know of
are in Geneva." He took a deep breath. "Of course, I'd trust Connor
MacLeod wouldn't come after me when I was vulnerable, while you had no such
guarantee. I see that. But I didn't come after you then, and I never have.
It was a rude--"
"Rude?" MacLeod interrupted calmly.
Too calmly. This time Methos didn't step back, but he wanted to.
"Gossiping is rude," the Scot continued. "Cutting in line is rude.
Intruding at a funeral is--"
"Callous," Methos broke in.
"Despicable," MacLeod corrected.
"And uncivilized," Methos added. He looked down at his shoes, than back up
into granite eyes. "I didn't behave correctly--although I've done worse
things." He thought about some of the 'worse' things he had done. "It was
wrong, MacLeod," he admitted. "I was wrong." Methos had given up feeling
guilty in the twelfth century. He didn't like to apologize more than once
every fifty years or so.
They were silent for a long moment. MacLeod held Methos' gaze until the
Scot asked, "You've used the Watchers to find Immortals and behead them?"
Methos nodded. No denials unless he could make them believable. He shifted
ground, moving to the side, not back, and MacLeod matched him step for step.
"When I hunt, I use every advantage available to me. But I reiterate, I
haven't hunted you or yours. If you thought I had we wouldn't be talking
now, would we?" Methos sighed loudly. "The point is, I've survived five
thousand years primarily by avoiding fights, not looking for them."
A pair of girls dressed like winged forest fairies from Fantasia glanced in
their direction. Methos lowered his voice. "Survival is my first priority,
especially as my head is in more danger than most." He stared straight at
MacLeod, daring him to deny that the thought of taking an ancient Quickening
had crossed his mind.
MacLeod didn't deny it. In Methos' experience, no Immortal had ever denied
it.
"Tell me why I should care," MacLeod said instead.
"You shouldn't. Nor should I care about you." <But Duncan MacLeod cares.
And Ramirez cared. The friend of my friend.>