Inquiring Minds
Taselby challenged with the title. I was tempted by the empty spaces in canon. We see the vacant apartment at the end of "Methos" but never find out what happened between that last shot and the sudden appearance of Joe Dawson and Adam Pierson on the barge in "Finale".As usual, they aren't mine, I didn't get paid and feedback would be welcome.
The dream woke him again. God, he was safe here, no one knew who he was. He owned the building this flat was in, bought it ten years ago in setting up an alternative to his Adam Pierson identity
As it turned out, another immortal took out his stalker and he'd returned to Adam Pierson's apartment with a sigh of relief.
This place was "leased" in J. B. Anderson's name. Anderson was a Canadian businessman who preferred a pied a terre to hotels and visited Paris to check on his various electronics ventures when he got bored with Manitoba.
So, he should have been sleeping like a baby. He wandered out to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. What was causing these nightmares?
Grief took him unawares, Don was dead. Don, lover of old books. Don, who had sheltered Adam Pierson even knowing what he really was. Don, talking about philosophy and history as though they were just friends sharing a research project... Watchers.
He'd given the police a statement; Kalas was in prison for the foreseeable future.
And, oh, yes - he'd finally met Duncan MacLeod.
He could still feel the incipient panic in the pit of his stomach and that powerful buzz hitting him as his door was opened and a quiet baritone called his name. How in hell had the man known him?
He'd been playing his "mostly harmless" alter ego to the hilt. The walkman turned up to keep him from hearing and the six-pack of cheap beer, all pieces of a puzzle he was sure would add up to a new Immortal afraid to admit what he was to the Watchers.
He wanted time to assess this Highlander. The man's Chronicles told nothing about his genuine attitudes and Methos hated having unknowns in his equations.
He stood there for a long time while the coffee finished and the dawn light began to chase the stars from the sky. The man was unbelievable. For that matter, what had possessed him to admit to being Methos? Instead of looking confused and a little frightened, he'd given the man a look full of appraisal and nodded agreement.
He poured a cup of coffee and walked over to the window. The spires of Notre Dame were shimmering gold with the new morning. If he moved just a little further, he could see the Seine and MacLeod's barge. Was it Fate that he'd bought this place?
In the growing light, he looked around the flat. He had more leeway furnishing this place. Anderson was wealthy and he'd indulged his love of beautiful things, colors and textures.
Pierson's flat was all sharp angles, modern styles, grad student chic, black and white, almost cold. After creating so many identities over so many years he'd learned to keep them separate. For a moment he wished he could have met MacLeod here, surrounded by fine wood, oriental carpets and raw silk draperies.
And just why was that, old fool? Inquiring minds want to know. Now that was a more interesting question. What was going on in that twisting maze he used for a mind? He walked down the wide hallway to his den. Here the woods were darker, ebony, walnut and deep greens and maroons in the leather of the desk and big chairs. The computer set ups and other electronics were state of the art. He called to notify his Watcher supervisor that he was taking some vacation time and that he would probably be following possible lead to Methos in an old German village after that. Anderson's travel agent took care of plane tickets and set up hotel accommodations as a gift to a research fellow he'd befriended before, one Adam Pierson.
He checked the mail he'd brought along. Hum, Pierson's accounts were getting a little low. Well, he had a book on the development of languages in Ancient Mycenae ready for publication.
It was afternoon before he finished all the paperwork but Adam Pierson would return to find a nice contract complete with a fat direct deposit to his accounts. At least he'd be able to buy something better than the tasteless canned beer he'd tossed to MacLeod.
MacLeod. Everything seemed to remind him of the Scot. Damn. He leaned back in the chair. His coffee was cold and he was suddenly hungry. Did he have anything fit to cook? He wandered back to the kitchen. Not much here. It had been a while since he'd used the place and, he needed to get perishables, salad stuff... beer. He made a list. Damn. He couldn't really go out anywhere right now. Adamson could afford delivery. He spent the rest of the day working on the Watcher database. He owed Don the courtesy of finishing it. Not to mention that it was an easy way to avoid unexpected meetings.
He watched some TV, boring...ate, drank and in general, loafed. Finally, he put an old Queen album on the fancy stereo and wandered out to the kitchen again to choose something for dinner. He found himself looking out at the barge again. What was it about the man that fascinated him? Certainly, the first impression had been a surprise. The sense of great power, he'd expected but the intelligence and the offer of protection... That had been startling. Immortals didn't protect each other. The only exception to that rule had been his brothers, many years ago.
Suddenly, the cold in the room had nothing to do with the temperature. Yes, they'd protected each other. They'd killed everyone who dared to stand against them. Well, Silas was still in his mountain forest. Caspian was safely locked away in a Romanian madhouse. None of the current Watchers had reported an Immortal resembling Kronos. That scar had been distinctive enough. For a moment he could see the well again, hear the ring of the metal grating as he sealed it over the entrance. He shook off the icy feeling pouring a generous scotch and turning up the central heating.
There was something about MacLeod that reminded him of Kronos. The charisma was the same. The almost sexual impact of their personalities was too. But where Kronos had been all about madness and an iron control of everything and everyone about him, MacLeod seemed more a defender than a taker. The man's eyes were so warm. There was a grace in him that was only partly the way he moved.
MacLeod's skills as a warrior were legendary. The few desperate moments under the bridge had proven the chronicles true. A man with less ability would have killed him. A man with less integrity would have taken him at his word and taken his head. Afterwards, changing clothes and packing the few things he needed to carry with him, he could hardly believe that he'd done something so completely against his own nature.
The smell of the wet coat and soggy wool sweater came back to him, and he felt the icy edge of MacLeod's katana caress his throat. The fear and the unbelievable arousal that followed it, filled him again. He reached down to ease the suddenly snug jeans. Movement on the barge caught his eye.
MacLeod.... He watched as the late afternoon sun gilded broad shoulders and brightened the dark hair. MacLeod had apparently been painting. Methos watched as he meticulously cleaned his brushes, sealed the can and carefully stowed everything away. He stripped off the tank top and began working through an intricate kata.
Methos watched as MacLeod moved through the steps stretching and leaping with the staff and then his sword. For over an hour the agile man danced through the forms. When he finally shivered in the cool evening breezes and went below, Methos was aching with need. So... That was a partial answer. He was attracted to the man.
Perhaps it would be better to use those plane tickets. A short excursion might be fun. This attraction was dangerous. Immortals very seldom brought out the best in each other. Usually it devolved into power plays and pain. No. He was not going to wander into that particular trap again. Having settled things to his satisfaction, he returned to his desk to check his flight times. He checked his service. Damn, a message from Christine. Don's wife was a somewhat brittle woman with a possessive streak where Don was concerned. It had taken a great deal to disarm her but she'd finally accepted him as a sort of surrogate son. Don had encouraged the idea and for years he'd ignored her comments about the hours he and Don worked at the bookstore and the weekly poker games.
Don's office was much more pleasant than the cubicles at Watcher headquarters and it was normal for a grad student to work in a book store. He had a grant from the Watchers and a Trust fund, enough to cover the necessary expenses. He took great care to be the shy, retiring researcher, particularly around Christine.
Over the last ten years he'd amused himself digging around in the sparse number of old Methos chronicles. Once or twice a year he developed a "lead' on a Methos Chronicle and took off for a few weeks. Most of the time he was filling in as one of his other identities, keeping them current in case he needed them.
The call to Christine was unnerving. The woman sounded seriously disturbed. She had Don's journal, she said. Their hateful games were ended now. She knew all about them. She'd slammed the phone on his ear. This was not good. Christine might be able to stir up quite a bit of trouble with Don's journal. If she talked to the wrong people...
Dawson might be able to handle her. She regarded Adam as a green kid, someone who worked for Don. Dawson was a senior member of the Watchers. If he could get her calmed down and perhaps get the journal... It was worth trying. But, what if MacLeod had told Joe who he was? He went over his earlier talk with his supervisor and the other calls. Nothing out of the ordinary had been there in their voices. Well, either MacLeod had said something or he hadn't. Apparently Joe hadn't talked to anyone official. He took a deep breath. Well, a phone call would settle that, one way or the other. Time to beard the lion in his den.
Joe was his friend. Time to see if he was a friend to Methos as well. And then, perhaps, time to talk again to Duncan MacLeod. What would come of that, he wondered to himself? For just a moment, he wondered if he was making a mistake. Shrugging his shoulders, he picked up the phone.
~Fine~
