Wingfic update...
Jan. 22nd, 2008 07:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mogwai_doOkay, I have to own up to a small boo-boo with this. I was writing some of the more recent parts and suddenly realised - hang on, I've missed a bit somewhere and it was kind of important. Sure enough, looking back through my books I found the section in question that I had somehow neglected to type up when it should have fit into the story. I have now remedied that and the story below replaces and adds to the ficlet formerly known as Messages - so it's the way it should originally have been if I'd been more organised. My bad - sorry. I'll post the revised sequence/timeline/thingy of Wingfics soon.
Disclaimer: Not mine: woe is me. The plot is though – that’s mine all mine.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Pairing: Methos/Duncan implied
Notes: Wingfic. Story-wise this should be read after Legacies, and chronologically it fits between Methos leaving for China and Duncan following him. Thanks to Lferion and Sidhe_woman for beta duties.
Summary: There’s no such thing as old news.
Between the Lines
Copyright Margaret Turner
9th February 2005
"A little light reading, MacLeod?" Joe's voice drew him from his thoughts and Duncan glanced up from his work. He looked around at the piles of books and papers on the table and then up again at Joe.
"Just... keeping busy," it sounded lame, but it had the virtue of being mostly true.
Joe gave him a sympathetic look that said he knew why – it was the same look he had given each of them separately when he had been told that Duncan and Methos had become ‘Duncan and Methos’. Duncan sat back and gestured to the other side of the booth with an air of resignation. Joe slid awkwardly into the seat and studied Duncan for a few moments before shifting his gaze to the contents of the table. He lifted a few covers, glanced at titles, but made no comment, like a doctor examining the symptoms prior to making a diagnosis.
Duncan poured himself more coffee from the almost-empty carafe while he waited for his friend’s prognosis. It was bottom of the pot stuff, thick enough to spread on toast; he was used to it now and could only be grateful for Immortal digestion. He had drunk far too much coffee over the last week or so and had nowhere near enough sleep. He would go to bed with Darius' words echoing in his head and wake up at odd hours with some new thought on the translation or strange suppositions. The half-remembered dreams were the worst: barely there echoes of the dream that had come to him in Agordat. The substance never lingered, but the sense of old pain, tattered hopes and wrenched hearts meant that those mornings started with something rather stronger than coffee.
The whole translation process was intricate, slow going and tedious; he barely had the patience for it - wouldn't have if it had been any other subject. As it was, Duncan was simply astonished that Methos had the patience to do it for a living, but then they had long since realised that their interests had little in common. On second thought, it probably didn't require that much patience from the old Immortal: Methos was fluent in all too many dead languages and had once even joked that he’d killed some of them off himself. Methos had picked his moment well, when Duncan had had just enough to drink that he had taken it at surface value and nearly laughed himself sick. Now, in his frustration, Duncan wasn’t so sure it had been a joke at all: he could certainly understand the desire. What sort of language changed a person’s name just because it took a different position in the sentence?
He had finally completed a rough translation yesterday and then spent a sleepless night struggling with the questions it had raised. It needed refining: out of context it made no sense at all, but taken with everything Duncan had learned about and from his lover...
He had left the parchment safely tucked away in the loft, out of sight, but not out of mind. Duncan might not have been able to face Darius' words, but he'd been equally unable to leave them alone, nor did they seem to want to leave him. The words, both modern and arcane, rattled around his head endlessly. He'd visited the university library as soon as it had opened and used up both his and Methos' library allowances. Trying to refine his rough and ready translation was like trying to find the statue within the block of stone as Tessa had once shown him. So far, the true meaning of the words he had strung together was as impenetrable as any block of stone and he ruefully acknowledged that it appeared he had as little aptitude for translation as he did for art.
When he had returned from the library the air of the loft had been thick with loneliness, burnt coffee and a kind of heavy expectancy, as if the bricks and mortar had absorbed his need and now reflected it back to him. Duncan hadn’t been able to face it for more than the few minutes it had taken to gather up his things. He’d brought his haul to Joe’s and settled himself into a corner of the still-closed bar; Joe had let him in and then returned to his accounts, surprisingly it had taken a few hours before his friend's curiosity had brought Joe over. To be honest, Duncan needed the break: too many obscure monographs were giving him a headache of appropriately biblical proportions.
Perhaps he was going about this backwards – he wasn’t a researcher, so it wouldn’t surprise him if he were. He considered the Watcher for a moment. Joe and Methos had known each other longer than he had known either of them; they had more in common with each other too. On bad days he sometimes felt insecure about their friendship, but the one time Methos had caught him out he had offered up the undeniable logic that if he and Joe had been so inclined they would have done something about it years ago.
Still, Duncan found himself envious of the way the two could talk so easily about anything and everything; they could argue for hours over trivialities and yet never lose their tempers. It was rare that Methos spoke seriously of his past to anyone; even with Duncan he stuck to the history that Duncan himself had lived through. He did the same with everyone: he would happily chat with Amanda about the Crusades, while Richie had got nothing more than the last two decades. In retrospect, given the lack of Immortals that old, it wasn’t really surprising that Methos hadn’t spoken of the Horsemen before Kronos’ arrival. Methos tailored his history to his audience, and Duncan had noticed that the only one he seemed willing to break that rule for was Joe.
Duncan envied the Watcher his privileged position, but he suspected Methos was trying to make up for his friend’s mortality in some strange way. Duncan could live with the lack of ancient history if it meant he got to share his Immortality with the Ancient - at least he'd always thought he'd be able to.
Duncan was aware he’d royally screwed his chances of Methos talking openly about his life the day Kronos had come to town. He’d spent months afterwards trying to regain Methos’ trust and months more believing it impossible. Since they had become lovers he had had a change of perspective and he realised that his original assumption had been wrong - Methos never had trusted him, not the way Duncan had believed he had. Trust and openness were synonymous for Duncan, not so for Methos, and it had taken him far too long to accept that. Now he had been given the chance to learn something of his lover’s earliest life – the no man’s land of history of which he had only recently been made aware – and it felt like he was failing.
Unless Methos’ odd code of revelation meant that Joe held the key Duncan seemed to be missing, whether the Watcher was aware of it or not. There was only one way to find out: “Do the Watchers have any records on Immortal origins?”
If Joe was thrown by the unexpected question he didn’t show it. “We have theories, but nothing solid. None of *us* were around when it started.” It was meant as a friendly joke, yet Duncan couldn’t help but feel how close it came to striking home. “You probably know more than we do – you have the stories that have been passed from teacher to student and us Watchers don’t talk to you Immortals.” He gave a wry grin that Duncan acknowledged with a smile; it was a ridiculous situation sometimes.
“What about Darius?”
Joe blinked, taking a moment to follow the thread of Duncan’s thinking. “His Chronicle is fairly complete as they go, but it’s not exactly a thrill a minute read.”
Duncan shook his head, feeling the acid burn of anger for a moment at the role the Watchers had played in his friend’s death. He swallowed it down with another mouthful of coffee. “What about when Darius took the Light Quickening – anything on that? Or the Immortal he killed?”
Joe leaned forward, obviously sensing a serious pursuit. “I can check the records if you like, but from what I remember we didn’t even know the guy *was* Immortal until Darius came along. Afterwards there was an investigation just for the sake of completeness. I think near as anyone found out, the guy had lived there as long as anyone could remember, kept a really low profile. Even though he was well-known in the town, they didn’t spread it around. Jealously guarded secret I think.”
Duncan nodded, even when he’d been born, over a thousand years later, villages had kept their advantages secret from their neighbours. “What happened to his body?”
Joe gave no sign that he thought it an odd question, “No record, probably the townsfolk took it for burial – or Darius himself did it after his conversion.”
“What about Darius’ own journals?”
Joe looked thoughtful for a moment, “We have as many as we found after… Adam actually got the job of translating them – he’d know better what was there.”
Duncan’s expression must have given something away because the Watcher’s eyes sharpened. “Where is the Old Man anyway?”
Duncan shifted uncomfortably, “Away - personal business.”
Joe raised an eyebrow sceptically, “Do you not know or are you just not telling me?”
Duncan winced, as approving as Joe was of their relationship, being friends of both he did have a tendency to haul them up if he thought either was being stupid or inconsiderate of the other. So far the honours were fairly even, but Duncan knew Joe would most definitely hit the roof if he thought Methos had just cut and run. The last thing Methos needed now was an irate Watcher trying to track him down to give him a piece of his mind.
Lying to Joe was a thing of necessity only, but he couldn’t think of anything convincing enough for the perceptive man, so it would have to be the truth – or a shade of it at least. “Adam had something he needed to do, Joe. I wasn’t going to stop him.” He hoped his tone conveyed that it had been his decision to let Methos go, and truthfully, it had. Of course he’d been fully aware that if he had tried to stop his lover the consequences would have been far worse than this temporary loneliness and the nights of quiet worry.
Joe’s eyes narrowed and Duncan spoke up quickly, “He did tell me, Joe.”
The Watcher seemed to settle somewhat though obviously still not happy at being kept in the dark. “I can have a look at the records – see what we’ve got – I guess you’re looking for the early stuff then.”
Duncan nodded, relieved, “Yeah, around the time of Darius’ conversion – after more than before, though if you have any info on the other Immortal that would be useful.”
Joe nodded, “And are you going to tell me why?”
Duncan shrugged, making it as casual as he could, “Adam gave me an old letter of Darius’ - it made me wonder about a few things.”
“Must have been some letter to send you to the books.”
Duncan didn’t bother to hide his expression, whatever it was, “You could say that.”
Joe nodded, “I’ll see what I can do then. Catch you later, MacLeod.”
Duncan watched his friend get to his feet awkwardly and head for the bar’s back room; sometimes he wondered what he’d done to deserve a friend like Joe, at other times, like now, he very much feared that their friendship was a gift – one whose eventual price he’d be paying for a very long time.
*****
Joe sat heavily at his desk; once he’d have just hooked up to the Watcher network, but a few instances of recreational hacking had resulted in the Council sealing the database. Access was now available only in person, or, for more immediate needs, via a fully trained and vetted crew of Watcher Operatives. Neither route really appealed, but one at least had a possible benefit. Reluctantly, Joe picked up the phone and dialled.
“International Asset Holdings: Customer Service. How may we help you?”
“Hey, Amy.”
“Joe. Is there a reason for this call or is this more father-daughter bonding?”
Joe winced; Methos had said to give it time, but the jabs still hurt. “No worries there, Amy. This is Watcher business.” He tried to keep his voice as brusque and business-like as she did, but he doubted he succeeded.
“Alright then, what can I do for you?”
Joe couldn’t help a small twinge of pride at his daughter’s professionalism. She may have been bumped off the assignment roster due to her disastrous run-in with Morgan Walker, but she’d made the most of it. He suspected, though he doubted she’d ever say so, that she was happier at Watcher HQ heading up the Watcher equivalent of a Helpline, than she’d ever been in the field.
It was a new role that had come in the wake of Jack Shapiro’s witch hunt, possibly the only good thing to come out of it. She’d told him once that the idea had been floated past the Council years ago by a young researcher after the Kalas problem, an offshoot of the database that had caused so many problems. They hadn’t really taken it seriously until Amy had made the case for it in the wake of the third hacking incident in as many weeks.
Amy had tackled the project with a will and led it on her own merits. Watchers no longer operated without a safety net: Amy and her team were the first point of contact if a Watcher got arrested (usually Amanda’s), got caught (more often that they would like) or simply had an information request or urgent addition to the records. Her small team had already proven its worth, getting Watchers out of danger, providing backup or information when needed, and it was quickly becoming indispensable. Joe was as proud as a father could be, though he knew better than to tell Amy that yet.
“Information mostly - I’m looking for some of the old records, anything related to Darius and the Light Quickening.”
“Okay.”
He could hear her tapping away at her keyboard for a few minutes, keeping him updated as she worked. “The most reliable records we have for that time period are Marcus Constantine, Grace, Darius and Grayson. We also have the Methos Chronicles of course and Cassandra’s, but they’re both a bit hit and miss for coverage.”
Joe considered, “Anything come up in the cross-reference?”
More tapping, then, “Not a lot really, they didn’t network in those days the way your Highlander does.”
Joe couldn’t help a small smile at the phrase, he was fairly sure Duncan didn’t see what he did as ‘networking’, though Methos might. He’d have to wait for an opportune moment to spring that one on him. “What have you got then?”
“A few: Grayson’s Watcher was there and documented it, but he wasn’t really close enough to get any detail. Constantine’s mainly refers to the power vacuum in Rome after Darius left, nothing on the actual event because he was in Tripoli at the time. Similarly, Grace was out of the loop in Asia then. The Methos Chronicles don’t really start for another century or so, though obviously there are references to him earlier than that, there’s nothing to suggest he was in the vicinity at the time. There are a couple of links made by the researchers to other entries in Cassandra’s and Rebecca’s Chronicles too. I can forward the relevant stuff to your email, if you like.”
“Yeah, please.” A suspicious thought crossed his mind; the name had been mentioned in passing so it wasn’t completely unrelated and his curiosity had already been piqued by Methos’ current absence. It might have been tempting fate, but he wanted to put his mind at rest. It was hard to make it sound casual but he tried his best, “What is Cassandra up to now anyway?”
He heard a faint snort, then, “Not a lot. She was killed in Ireland by a guy called N’bisi.”
“What? When?” Shit. Duncan obviously hadn’t heard that. Maybe Methos had though - maybe that was why he’d left.
Oblivious to Joe’s panic, Amy’s shrug was almost audible over the phone line, “It happened over a year ago – old news now.”
Joe bit back his impatience; Amy had no idea what this news could do to his circle of friends if they let it. The best he could hope for was damage control and the first step in that was finding out exactly what had happened. He forced his voice to a semblance of casual calm, “What happened to this N’bisi then? I’ve never heard of him.”
Tapping again before Amy’s voice came back on the line, “Born in Kinchassa in the Congo, before it became Leopoldville, then reverted to Kinshasa. Rough estimates put his age at about 120, but he’s made a couple of impressive kills back in Africa.” Joe heard a faint tremor in Amy’s voice then. “He was killed by Morgan Walker in Monte Carlo two weeks before Walker lost his own head.”
Joe breathed again, that would have made it Amy’s first witnessed Challenge - that one always stuck with you. At least it headed off any ideas of vengeance Duncan might have had if he heard about Cassandra, even kept it in the family so to speak, given what had happened to Walker.
“Joe?” Amy’s voice sounded hesitant and he braced himself, she hadn’t wanted his help after Walker, but he’d been worried that she’d bottled it up. He’d done a crappy job as a father so far, but he’d be there for her if he could. He was no psychiatrist, but he was a barman and that was almost as good sometimes. He softened his voice, “Yeah Amy?”
“It lists Walker’s killer as unknown – I filed my report – why isn’t it listing Adam’s first Challenge? Only Regional Heads and higher have permission to change records like that.”
Joe blinked, okay, not what he’d thought at all. “I dunno Amy, maybe they’re looking for verification first?”
“Joe – there was no-one there but you, me and Adam. What sort of confirmation do they need beyond what we gave them?”
Joe stifled a sigh, he hated to voice it, but, “Since you were kidnapped they probably consider you an unreliable witness. Plus you’re my daughter and they’re never going to trust me not to get involved where my friends are concerned. Walker was well-known as a ruthless fighter; they probably doubt that a new Immortal could take his head, despite all the evidence we have in the Chronicles of just that. I guess they think one of us interfered in the Challenge – that would have to go in the records.” Of course they hadn’t interfered, maybe if Adam had been the new Immortal he claimed to be Joe would have, but Methos tended not to need too much help as a rule.
“Maybe,” Amy didn’t sound happy, but it was hard to tell if it was with him for his rebellion reflecting on her or with the Council that doubted her professionalism. Joe hoped it was the Council. His email pinged and he saw Amy’s address as sender, several attachments were listed, “I’ve got the files, thanks Amy.”
He could hear the professional veneer slide into place again, “No problem, it’s what we’re here for.”
“Yeah, well, thanks.” Joe sighed as he heard her hang up and slowly returned the phone to its cradle. It was hard to imagine a time when Amy didn’t give him such a frosty reception, but the hope of it was all he had. He clicked on the first attachment and waited as it fired up the appropriate program. Well, he could hardly let Duncan see Watcher files, maybe this way he’d have some idea of what had the Highlander so knotted up. And if that Old Man was responsible again, Joe would give Methos a piece of his mind big enough to choke him.
*****
Methos’ voice was hoarse and cracked. "Duncan... Talk to me. I'm losing myself and I can't... I don't... I need to hear... Tell me what you made for dinner. Tell me what Joe played in his last gig. Tell me if that woman in accounts is still screwing up your tax code. Just... talk to me. I... There's too much here - too much hate, too much anger, too much fear - so much fear. I can't... I want... I'm losing myself, Duncan. I can't... I can't hear you and I... I need... Talk to me, Duncan - please."
Duncan tossed back the last of his whiskey, but he barely felt the burn - his throat numb after so much. In the darkness of the loft, it didn't matter that his vision was blurred with tears and drink. The answering machine crackled and made the voice sound even more distant and broken.
"I'm sorry, Duncan. I'm sorry for worrying you; I'm sorry for calling when I knew you'd be out; I'm sorry I still can't come home and I'm sorry I promised I would when I know I won't be worth anything when I do. I'm just... Sorry. Duncan – love - I'm sorry."
He didn't smash the glass this time when the final beep sounded, but it still felt as though the shards had embedded themselves deep in his chest. He'd listened to the message too many times, but he couldn't seem to stop. It had been waiting for him two nights ago when he'd got in from Joe’s. At first the sound of his lover's voice had made his heart soar; Methos' few weeks of absence had become a month with no word. In the next breath his soaring heart had crashed to earth. He'd never heard the Ancient sound so... broken - he didn't want to use that word, but he couldn't think what else would suit. He hadn't composed a reply, wasn't sure it would reach his lover if he did, but every time he tried to find the words they just seemed inadequate in the face of what he heard in Methos' voice and the silences between.
Duncan stood abruptly, fighting the surge and tilt of the room. Clarity was there when he needed it to punch the numbers for Methos' international messaging service.
"Methos," barely a whisper, voice hoarse with drink, lost in the hiss and crackle of a poor international line. "I'm sorry too - I don't know what you need or how to give it to you. I don't know how to... to make it better. I'm sorry. I miss you. I... I think I know where you are - more or less. I'll find you, I promise. I... I love you - hold on."
It was a long moment before he could bring himself to hang up and the loft seemed emptier somehow without that tenuous connection. For once Duncan was glad he'd never got around to updating his answering machine as he popped the tape out and tucked it into his breast pocket for safekeeping. He wouldn't be able to play it, but he hardly needed to - he knew every word, every inflection, every hitch of breath by heart. His bag took no time to pack, there wasn't a lot he needed, he could withdraw cash on the way and travelling light was his best option. He would find a flight when he got to the airport, anything that was going in the right direction. He couldn't fly direct any more, but he could get close enough to take a boat. After that... finding his lover... he rather feared it might be all too easy.
FIN
21st January 2008
Comments appreciated.
Disclaimer: Not mine: woe is me. The plot is though – that’s mine all mine.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Pairing: Methos/Duncan implied
Notes: Wingfic. Story-wise this should be read after Legacies, and chronologically it fits between Methos leaving for China and Duncan following him. Thanks to Lferion and Sidhe_woman for beta duties.
Summary: There’s no such thing as old news.
Between the Lines
Copyright Margaret Turner
9th February 2005
"A little light reading, MacLeod?" Joe's voice drew him from his thoughts and Duncan glanced up from his work. He looked around at the piles of books and papers on the table and then up again at Joe.
"Just... keeping busy," it sounded lame, but it had the virtue of being mostly true.
Joe gave him a sympathetic look that said he knew why – it was the same look he had given each of them separately when he had been told that Duncan and Methos had become ‘Duncan and Methos’. Duncan sat back and gestured to the other side of the booth with an air of resignation. Joe slid awkwardly into the seat and studied Duncan for a few moments before shifting his gaze to the contents of the table. He lifted a few covers, glanced at titles, but made no comment, like a doctor examining the symptoms prior to making a diagnosis.
Duncan poured himself more coffee from the almost-empty carafe while he waited for his friend’s prognosis. It was bottom of the pot stuff, thick enough to spread on toast; he was used to it now and could only be grateful for Immortal digestion. He had drunk far too much coffee over the last week or so and had nowhere near enough sleep. He would go to bed with Darius' words echoing in his head and wake up at odd hours with some new thought on the translation or strange suppositions. The half-remembered dreams were the worst: barely there echoes of the dream that had come to him in Agordat. The substance never lingered, but the sense of old pain, tattered hopes and wrenched hearts meant that those mornings started with something rather stronger than coffee.
The whole translation process was intricate, slow going and tedious; he barely had the patience for it - wouldn't have if it had been any other subject. As it was, Duncan was simply astonished that Methos had the patience to do it for a living, but then they had long since realised that their interests had little in common. On second thought, it probably didn't require that much patience from the old Immortal: Methos was fluent in all too many dead languages and had once even joked that he’d killed some of them off himself. Methos had picked his moment well, when Duncan had had just enough to drink that he had taken it at surface value and nearly laughed himself sick. Now, in his frustration, Duncan wasn’t so sure it had been a joke at all: he could certainly understand the desire. What sort of language changed a person’s name just because it took a different position in the sentence?
He had finally completed a rough translation yesterday and then spent a sleepless night struggling with the questions it had raised. It needed refining: out of context it made no sense at all, but taken with everything Duncan had learned about and from his lover...
He had left the parchment safely tucked away in the loft, out of sight, but not out of mind. Duncan might not have been able to face Darius' words, but he'd been equally unable to leave them alone, nor did they seem to want to leave him. The words, both modern and arcane, rattled around his head endlessly. He'd visited the university library as soon as it had opened and used up both his and Methos' library allowances. Trying to refine his rough and ready translation was like trying to find the statue within the block of stone as Tessa had once shown him. So far, the true meaning of the words he had strung together was as impenetrable as any block of stone and he ruefully acknowledged that it appeared he had as little aptitude for translation as he did for art.
When he had returned from the library the air of the loft had been thick with loneliness, burnt coffee and a kind of heavy expectancy, as if the bricks and mortar had absorbed his need and now reflected it back to him. Duncan hadn’t been able to face it for more than the few minutes it had taken to gather up his things. He’d brought his haul to Joe’s and settled himself into a corner of the still-closed bar; Joe had let him in and then returned to his accounts, surprisingly it had taken a few hours before his friend's curiosity had brought Joe over. To be honest, Duncan needed the break: too many obscure monographs were giving him a headache of appropriately biblical proportions.
Perhaps he was going about this backwards – he wasn’t a researcher, so it wouldn’t surprise him if he were. He considered the Watcher for a moment. Joe and Methos had known each other longer than he had known either of them; they had more in common with each other too. On bad days he sometimes felt insecure about their friendship, but the one time Methos had caught him out he had offered up the undeniable logic that if he and Joe had been so inclined they would have done something about it years ago.
Still, Duncan found himself envious of the way the two could talk so easily about anything and everything; they could argue for hours over trivialities and yet never lose their tempers. It was rare that Methos spoke seriously of his past to anyone; even with Duncan he stuck to the history that Duncan himself had lived through. He did the same with everyone: he would happily chat with Amanda about the Crusades, while Richie had got nothing more than the last two decades. In retrospect, given the lack of Immortals that old, it wasn’t really surprising that Methos hadn’t spoken of the Horsemen before Kronos’ arrival. Methos tailored his history to his audience, and Duncan had noticed that the only one he seemed willing to break that rule for was Joe.
Duncan envied the Watcher his privileged position, but he suspected Methos was trying to make up for his friend’s mortality in some strange way. Duncan could live with the lack of ancient history if it meant he got to share his Immortality with the Ancient - at least he'd always thought he'd be able to.
Duncan was aware he’d royally screwed his chances of Methos talking openly about his life the day Kronos had come to town. He’d spent months afterwards trying to regain Methos’ trust and months more believing it impossible. Since they had become lovers he had had a change of perspective and he realised that his original assumption had been wrong - Methos never had trusted him, not the way Duncan had believed he had. Trust and openness were synonymous for Duncan, not so for Methos, and it had taken him far too long to accept that. Now he had been given the chance to learn something of his lover’s earliest life – the no man’s land of history of which he had only recently been made aware – and it felt like he was failing.
Unless Methos’ odd code of revelation meant that Joe held the key Duncan seemed to be missing, whether the Watcher was aware of it or not. There was only one way to find out: “Do the Watchers have any records on Immortal origins?”
If Joe was thrown by the unexpected question he didn’t show it. “We have theories, but nothing solid. None of *us* were around when it started.” It was meant as a friendly joke, yet Duncan couldn’t help but feel how close it came to striking home. “You probably know more than we do – you have the stories that have been passed from teacher to student and us Watchers don’t talk to you Immortals.” He gave a wry grin that Duncan acknowledged with a smile; it was a ridiculous situation sometimes.
“What about Darius?”
Joe blinked, taking a moment to follow the thread of Duncan’s thinking. “His Chronicle is fairly complete as they go, but it’s not exactly a thrill a minute read.”
Duncan shook his head, feeling the acid burn of anger for a moment at the role the Watchers had played in his friend’s death. He swallowed it down with another mouthful of coffee. “What about when Darius took the Light Quickening – anything on that? Or the Immortal he killed?”
Joe leaned forward, obviously sensing a serious pursuit. “I can check the records if you like, but from what I remember we didn’t even know the guy *was* Immortal until Darius came along. Afterwards there was an investigation just for the sake of completeness. I think near as anyone found out, the guy had lived there as long as anyone could remember, kept a really low profile. Even though he was well-known in the town, they didn’t spread it around. Jealously guarded secret I think.”
Duncan nodded, even when he’d been born, over a thousand years later, villages had kept their advantages secret from their neighbours. “What happened to his body?”
Joe gave no sign that he thought it an odd question, “No record, probably the townsfolk took it for burial – or Darius himself did it after his conversion.”
“What about Darius’ own journals?”
Joe looked thoughtful for a moment, “We have as many as we found after… Adam actually got the job of translating them – he’d know better what was there.”
Duncan’s expression must have given something away because the Watcher’s eyes sharpened. “Where is the Old Man anyway?”
Duncan shifted uncomfortably, “Away - personal business.”
Joe raised an eyebrow sceptically, “Do you not know or are you just not telling me?”
Duncan winced, as approving as Joe was of their relationship, being friends of both he did have a tendency to haul them up if he thought either was being stupid or inconsiderate of the other. So far the honours were fairly even, but Duncan knew Joe would most definitely hit the roof if he thought Methos had just cut and run. The last thing Methos needed now was an irate Watcher trying to track him down to give him a piece of his mind.
Lying to Joe was a thing of necessity only, but he couldn’t think of anything convincing enough for the perceptive man, so it would have to be the truth – or a shade of it at least. “Adam had something he needed to do, Joe. I wasn’t going to stop him.” He hoped his tone conveyed that it had been his decision to let Methos go, and truthfully, it had. Of course he’d been fully aware that if he had tried to stop his lover the consequences would have been far worse than this temporary loneliness and the nights of quiet worry.
Joe’s eyes narrowed and Duncan spoke up quickly, “He did tell me, Joe.”
The Watcher seemed to settle somewhat though obviously still not happy at being kept in the dark. “I can have a look at the records – see what we’ve got – I guess you’re looking for the early stuff then.”
Duncan nodded, relieved, “Yeah, around the time of Darius’ conversion – after more than before, though if you have any info on the other Immortal that would be useful.”
Joe nodded, “And are you going to tell me why?”
Duncan shrugged, making it as casual as he could, “Adam gave me an old letter of Darius’ - it made me wonder about a few things.”
“Must have been some letter to send you to the books.”
Duncan didn’t bother to hide his expression, whatever it was, “You could say that.”
Joe nodded, “I’ll see what I can do then. Catch you later, MacLeod.”
Duncan watched his friend get to his feet awkwardly and head for the bar’s back room; sometimes he wondered what he’d done to deserve a friend like Joe, at other times, like now, he very much feared that their friendship was a gift – one whose eventual price he’d be paying for a very long time.
*****
Joe sat heavily at his desk; once he’d have just hooked up to the Watcher network, but a few instances of recreational hacking had resulted in the Council sealing the database. Access was now available only in person, or, for more immediate needs, via a fully trained and vetted crew of Watcher Operatives. Neither route really appealed, but one at least had a possible benefit. Reluctantly, Joe picked up the phone and dialled.
“International Asset Holdings: Customer Service. How may we help you?”
“Hey, Amy.”
“Joe. Is there a reason for this call or is this more father-daughter bonding?”
Joe winced; Methos had said to give it time, but the jabs still hurt. “No worries there, Amy. This is Watcher business.” He tried to keep his voice as brusque and business-like as she did, but he doubted he succeeded.
“Alright then, what can I do for you?”
Joe couldn’t help a small twinge of pride at his daughter’s professionalism. She may have been bumped off the assignment roster due to her disastrous run-in with Morgan Walker, but she’d made the most of it. He suspected, though he doubted she’d ever say so, that she was happier at Watcher HQ heading up the Watcher equivalent of a Helpline, than she’d ever been in the field.
It was a new role that had come in the wake of Jack Shapiro’s witch hunt, possibly the only good thing to come out of it. She’d told him once that the idea had been floated past the Council years ago by a young researcher after the Kalas problem, an offshoot of the database that had caused so many problems. They hadn’t really taken it seriously until Amy had made the case for it in the wake of the third hacking incident in as many weeks.
Amy had tackled the project with a will and led it on her own merits. Watchers no longer operated without a safety net: Amy and her team were the first point of contact if a Watcher got arrested (usually Amanda’s), got caught (more often that they would like) or simply had an information request or urgent addition to the records. Her small team had already proven its worth, getting Watchers out of danger, providing backup or information when needed, and it was quickly becoming indispensable. Joe was as proud as a father could be, though he knew better than to tell Amy that yet.
“Information mostly - I’m looking for some of the old records, anything related to Darius and the Light Quickening.”
“Okay.”
He could hear her tapping away at her keyboard for a few minutes, keeping him updated as she worked. “The most reliable records we have for that time period are Marcus Constantine, Grace, Darius and Grayson. We also have the Methos Chronicles of course and Cassandra’s, but they’re both a bit hit and miss for coverage.”
Joe considered, “Anything come up in the cross-reference?”
More tapping, then, “Not a lot really, they didn’t network in those days the way your Highlander does.”
Joe couldn’t help a small smile at the phrase, he was fairly sure Duncan didn’t see what he did as ‘networking’, though Methos might. He’d have to wait for an opportune moment to spring that one on him. “What have you got then?”
“A few: Grayson’s Watcher was there and documented it, but he wasn’t really close enough to get any detail. Constantine’s mainly refers to the power vacuum in Rome after Darius left, nothing on the actual event because he was in Tripoli at the time. Similarly, Grace was out of the loop in Asia then. The Methos Chronicles don’t really start for another century or so, though obviously there are references to him earlier than that, there’s nothing to suggest he was in the vicinity at the time. There are a couple of links made by the researchers to other entries in Cassandra’s and Rebecca’s Chronicles too. I can forward the relevant stuff to your email, if you like.”
“Yeah, please.” A suspicious thought crossed his mind; the name had been mentioned in passing so it wasn’t completely unrelated and his curiosity had already been piqued by Methos’ current absence. It might have been tempting fate, but he wanted to put his mind at rest. It was hard to make it sound casual but he tried his best, “What is Cassandra up to now anyway?”
He heard a faint snort, then, “Not a lot. She was killed in Ireland by a guy called N’bisi.”
“What? When?” Shit. Duncan obviously hadn’t heard that. Maybe Methos had though - maybe that was why he’d left.
Oblivious to Joe’s panic, Amy’s shrug was almost audible over the phone line, “It happened over a year ago – old news now.”
Joe bit back his impatience; Amy had no idea what this news could do to his circle of friends if they let it. The best he could hope for was damage control and the first step in that was finding out exactly what had happened. He forced his voice to a semblance of casual calm, “What happened to this N’bisi then? I’ve never heard of him.”
Tapping again before Amy’s voice came back on the line, “Born in Kinchassa in the Congo, before it became Leopoldville, then reverted to Kinshasa. Rough estimates put his age at about 120, but he’s made a couple of impressive kills back in Africa.” Joe heard a faint tremor in Amy’s voice then. “He was killed by Morgan Walker in Monte Carlo two weeks before Walker lost his own head.”
Joe breathed again, that would have made it Amy’s first witnessed Challenge - that one always stuck with you. At least it headed off any ideas of vengeance Duncan might have had if he heard about Cassandra, even kept it in the family so to speak, given what had happened to Walker.
“Joe?” Amy’s voice sounded hesitant and he braced himself, she hadn’t wanted his help after Walker, but he’d been worried that she’d bottled it up. He’d done a crappy job as a father so far, but he’d be there for her if he could. He was no psychiatrist, but he was a barman and that was almost as good sometimes. He softened his voice, “Yeah Amy?”
“It lists Walker’s killer as unknown – I filed my report – why isn’t it listing Adam’s first Challenge? Only Regional Heads and higher have permission to change records like that.”
Joe blinked, okay, not what he’d thought at all. “I dunno Amy, maybe they’re looking for verification first?”
“Joe – there was no-one there but you, me and Adam. What sort of confirmation do they need beyond what we gave them?”
Joe stifled a sigh, he hated to voice it, but, “Since you were kidnapped they probably consider you an unreliable witness. Plus you’re my daughter and they’re never going to trust me not to get involved where my friends are concerned. Walker was well-known as a ruthless fighter; they probably doubt that a new Immortal could take his head, despite all the evidence we have in the Chronicles of just that. I guess they think one of us interfered in the Challenge – that would have to go in the records.” Of course they hadn’t interfered, maybe if Adam had been the new Immortal he claimed to be Joe would have, but Methos tended not to need too much help as a rule.
“Maybe,” Amy didn’t sound happy, but it was hard to tell if it was with him for his rebellion reflecting on her or with the Council that doubted her professionalism. Joe hoped it was the Council. His email pinged and he saw Amy’s address as sender, several attachments were listed, “I’ve got the files, thanks Amy.”
He could hear the professional veneer slide into place again, “No problem, it’s what we’re here for.”
“Yeah, well, thanks.” Joe sighed as he heard her hang up and slowly returned the phone to its cradle. It was hard to imagine a time when Amy didn’t give him such a frosty reception, but the hope of it was all he had. He clicked on the first attachment and waited as it fired up the appropriate program. Well, he could hardly let Duncan see Watcher files, maybe this way he’d have some idea of what had the Highlander so knotted up. And if that Old Man was responsible again, Joe would give Methos a piece of his mind big enough to choke him.
*****
Methos’ voice was hoarse and cracked. "Duncan... Talk to me. I'm losing myself and I can't... I don't... I need to hear... Tell me what you made for dinner. Tell me what Joe played in his last gig. Tell me if that woman in accounts is still screwing up your tax code. Just... talk to me. I... There's too much here - too much hate, too much anger, too much fear - so much fear. I can't... I want... I'm losing myself, Duncan. I can't... I can't hear you and I... I need... Talk to me, Duncan - please."
Duncan tossed back the last of his whiskey, but he barely felt the burn - his throat numb after so much. In the darkness of the loft, it didn't matter that his vision was blurred with tears and drink. The answering machine crackled and made the voice sound even more distant and broken.
"I'm sorry, Duncan. I'm sorry for worrying you; I'm sorry for calling when I knew you'd be out; I'm sorry I still can't come home and I'm sorry I promised I would when I know I won't be worth anything when I do. I'm just... Sorry. Duncan – love - I'm sorry."
He didn't smash the glass this time when the final beep sounded, but it still felt as though the shards had embedded themselves deep in his chest. He'd listened to the message too many times, but he couldn't seem to stop. It had been waiting for him two nights ago when he'd got in from Joe’s. At first the sound of his lover's voice had made his heart soar; Methos' few weeks of absence had become a month with no word. In the next breath his soaring heart had crashed to earth. He'd never heard the Ancient sound so... broken - he didn't want to use that word, but he couldn't think what else would suit. He hadn't composed a reply, wasn't sure it would reach his lover if he did, but every time he tried to find the words they just seemed inadequate in the face of what he heard in Methos' voice and the silences between.
Duncan stood abruptly, fighting the surge and tilt of the room. Clarity was there when he needed it to punch the numbers for Methos' international messaging service.
"Methos," barely a whisper, voice hoarse with drink, lost in the hiss and crackle of a poor international line. "I'm sorry too - I don't know what you need or how to give it to you. I don't know how to... to make it better. I'm sorry. I miss you. I... I think I know where you are - more or less. I'll find you, I promise. I... I love you - hold on."
It was a long moment before he could bring himself to hang up and the loft seemed emptier somehow without that tenuous connection. For once Duncan was glad he'd never got around to updating his answering machine as he popped the tape out and tucked it into his breast pocket for safekeeping. He wouldn't be able to play it, but he hardly needed to - he knew every word, every inflection, every hitch of breath by heart. His bag took no time to pack, there wasn't a lot he needed, he could withdraw cash on the way and travelling light was his best option. He would find a flight when he got to the airport, anything that was going in the right direction. He couldn't fly direct any more, but he could get close enough to take a boat. After that... finding his lover... he rather feared it might be all too easy.
FIN
21st January 2008
Comments appreciated.
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Date: 2008-01-22 08:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-01-22 09:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2008-01-22 10:12 pm (UTC)*dusts off HL icons*
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Date: 2008-01-22 10:17 pm (UTC)Glad you liked :-)