Visitations By Kiristeen ke Alaya Disclaimer: Rysher and Davis et al own the characters of the highlander series and this particular incarnation of immortality, not me. I intend no copyright infringement and will make no money from this story. Warnings: This story contains m/m romantic content. It is adult in nature. If you aren't an adult yet, I'll have to ask you to come back when you are. If the idea of two men together squicks you, or just isn't your cup a tea, I've got lots of Het stories that might interest you. Click here for my main page. Rating: Rated PG-15 for some implied violence and implied m/m. Methos slammed the door to his apartment shut.  A perfectly wonderful day, despite not knowing who the bloody hell Chubby Checkers was, ruined, just because the blasted Highland child acted like Immortal presence was a siren call!   /I like to know who's in town./   **Of all the lame excuses!**  Now, he'd have to worry about whether MacLeod had managed to keep his head today.  Methos sighed in frustrated agitation.  He *might* have actually stayed to see the outcome of the meeting, but he'd figured -- a quiz show, public place, very public, he wouldn't need his sword.  Consequently, he was unarmed and wasn't about to stick around to be easy pickings for some strange Immortal.  Yeah, he could go to the car and get it, then come back, but what the hell for? Seacouver was getting as bad as Paris for Immortal to mortal ratio.  He'd put off leaving long enough.  It was definitely time to go.  Unfortunately he didn't really want to leave.   **Blast it all!  You'd think after 5,000 years I'd *know* better.**  "The moment you relax your guard, the moment you get sloppy, *that's* when shit happens," Methos muttered, continuing his disgusted thoughts aloud.  "And that's when it's time to leave."   Stripping off the far the coat, far too inadequate to hide a sword, and tossing it onto the couch, he headed directly for his phone.  Knowing himself as well as he did, he *knew* he wouldn't relax until he discovered whether the unknown Immortal was a friendly one or not, and if not, whether MacLeod had come through the encounter with his head intact. Dialing the number by memory, he waited impatiently as the phone rang, once, twice, three times. //You have reached the residence of Duncan MacLeod.  I'm out right now.  If you want me to--//   "Yadda yadda yadda," Methos muttered, ignoring the rest of the message as he impatiently waited for the beep.  "Call me when you get back, MacLeod." Methos slammed the receiver down and stalked toward the bathroom.  A shower -- that would help.  It had been bloody hot under those stage lights, and the burst of adrenaline outside the studio certain hadn't helped.  He felt sticky. ***** Wrapping a towel around his waist, Methos headed directly for his answering machine.  As soon as he saw the message light flashing he punched the retrieve button. //I'm home, *Mom*, and I'm safe.  Koren took off, but then I ran into a second Immortal.  In fact, she's here with me now.// Methos rolled his eyes, a woman -- it figured. //I'd like for the two of you to meet.  Saves on...mistakes, later on.  Ca--" Immortal presence swept over Methos and he hastily cut off the message, heading for his sword.  He immediately vetoed his first thought that it might be MacLeod.  **Mac never shows up here.  Even if he *does* want me to meet the friend of his.**  Fast on the heels of that thought was that MacLeod's friend might have come here on her own.  Just because Mac knew her, didn't mean she wasn't in town because of Methos, or Adam Pierson for that matter. He frowned, his body tensing automatically.  He debated ducking out the back way for all of about two seconds.  A flash of memory of the last time he'd done that sent a shudder of distaste through him.  This time he was going to go out the front door.  It certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd had to talk his way around a challenge.  If all else failed he could set up a time, and simply head out of town.  That often worked quite well. He waited silently.  And he *might* simply be paranoid.  It could easily be coincidence -- an Immortal meeting someone in another apartment.  Three knocks sounded on the door.   Of course, he never had believed in such things as coincidence. "Adam, it's me, Richie." Methos lowered his sword, letting out a sigh that was half relief, half exasperation.  Now was not a good time.  Stepping forward he unlocked the door and swung it open.  Without waiting for Richie to step through, he turned and headed for the Kitchen.  He'd found a guest tended to overlook a host's bad mood if the beer was cold, good, and offered freely.  And since the last week or so, barring the fun he'd had on that show, had been one sort of upheaval or another, all culminating in his currently *very* sour mood, Methos figured he'd just start this conversation with beer.  It was safer that way, and he liked playing it safe.    "Beer, Richie?" he asked as he crossed back toward the younger Immortal. Richie shook his head, wearing a bemused grin, but he accepted the bottle.  He dropped onto the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table.  "So," he asked, taking a swallow of his beer, "when does this show you were in air?" Methos rolled his eyes.  "How do you find out about it?" Eyes sparkling, Richie eyed Methos speculatively before responding. Methos stilled, his beer about an inch from his mouth.  "What?" "Nothing," Richie denied, then answered Methos' original question.  "I heard about it from Mac." "He was with an old *friend*," Richie continued, laughing.  "Is there *any* female Immortal Mac *hasn't* met?" "Over the age of a hundred?" Methos asked with a smirk that had somehow worked its way past his glower.  "I doubt it.  There might be a couple of recent Immortals, though.  Not even Mac is that good." Richie chuckled as he dropped onto the couch, setting his backpack beside him. "Listen, Rich, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm really not in the mood for company right now.   "I figured as much when Mac told me what happened outside the studio, how miffed you were about the other Immortal." "If you 'figured' that, as you say, then why exactly are you here?" Methos snapped, the logic of knowing someone wanted to be alone and showing up anyway completely escaping him. "What you *want* is for me to leave, so you can pack up the things you really don't want to live without, and hightail it out of town, never to be heard from again, and I wanted to get here before you managed to do just that." "Oh really?"  Methos drawled, irritation coursing through him that this...child, had read him so right.   "Actually, it surprises me that you're still here.  For the last three days, I've been waiting for you to bolt.  I figured it was just a matter of time." "You think you know me, do you?"   //You're surprised at this,// a voice inside Methos asked, //when he's seen so much more of you than anyone else in a very long time?// Turning away abruptly, he ignored the snide voice, and headed for his bedroom.  He wasn't having this conversation wearing nothing but a blasted towel that seemed half the size it had earlier.  Slamming the door behind him he stomped across his room, tossing the towel to the floor and rifling through his drawer for clothes. Several long moments later, the silence from the other side of the door filtered through his irritation and he began to wonder exactly what Richie was doing.  Had Richie left?  Maybe he would be spared this conversation.  **Good,** he tried to tell himself, and opened the door, striding out into the living room. Richie looked up from the backpack he was digging through.  "No, I don't know you," Richie said as if Methos hadn't stormed out of the room. Methos stopped in surprise.  **Persistant brat!**   "You hide too much of yourself for that, but I do know *part* of you." **Oh, you know me far better than you think you do, Brat!** "There's really only one thing that I know for certain," Richie said quietly. "And what's that?" Methos asked warily.  Curious, despite his suspicion, he moved closer toward Richie.   "When I heard about the 'mysterious' Immortal today, following so closely after what happened to you, I figured you'd feel you'd had enough of Seacouver and I wanted to make sure that..."  Richie's voice trailed off painfully and Methos couldn't help but take another step forward. "Go on," he said, contrary to what his brain was screaming at him.  "...When I saw that asshole holding a sword to your neck, without *any* comprehension of what he was doing, I felt like my guts were being ripped out with a spoon -- a dull spoon.  I was *so* sure it was the end."  Richie glanced down, then snapped his head back up, something undefinable hardening his gaze.  "I...didn't want you to leave before I got a chance to tell you that." Methos stared at the young Immortal who was standing before him and baring his soul.  It was only long practice that kept his jaw from growing slack.  **How can he *do* that?** "And that I *knew* I would do anything," Richie continued, straightening to his full height, his voice going husky with emotion, "and I do mean anything, to get you out of there." Methos unfroze, launching himself at a very surprised Richie, propelling him backwards and pinning him against the wall.  He used his body weight, and a painfully tight grip on Richie's wrists to keep him there.  "I meant what I said back there," Methos hissed, his eyes hooded and his voice dangerously low.  "Don't you *ever* do *anything* like that again, do you hear me?" Richie nodded, then a sly look entered his eyes, and Methos almost pulled back, wondering just what corner he'd managed to maneuver himself into.  He seemed to be doing that an awful lot lately. "On one condition." "Condition?" Methos asked incredulously, releasing Richie, and dropping back in shock. "Yes," Richie replied.  "If you disappear on me, all bets are off." "Fine," Methos replied, turning abruptly and heading for the kitchen. **Let him stew on *that* for a bit.**  Methos grinned as he pulled out two more beers from the fridge.  Now, that was ambiguity at its finest, he thought smugly.  **Let him wonder whether it means I agree or that I'm outta here.**  Besides, the kid would get over his disappearance, and since he wouldn't be here, Richie couldn't possibly do anything stupid to 'try and save him'.  He turned abruptly as a door slammed shut behind him. Not bothering to set the bottles down, he dashed toward the door, fully intending to find out what was going on in Richie's convoluted mind, conveniently forgetting that Richie's departure was exactly what he'd wanted in the first place.  He stopped short.  His current journal lay out on the coffee table.  **What the hell? That wasn't there a minute ago.**  He shook that off as unimportant and started moving again.  Three quick strides and he was at the door.  He jerked it open, and nearly dropped the beer bottles in surprise, as a stranger jumped backwards in equal startlement. "What do you want?"  Methos snarled, in no mood for pleasantries.  He threw a quick glance down the hallway. "I...I..." "Well, spit it out, man!" "A..are you Mr. Adam Pierson?" Methos did another quick survey, this time down both directions of the hallway before answering cautiously, "Yes, that's me." The young mortal swallowed nervously.  "I'm the new handyman here in the building, and this," he said, holding out a small package, "was left for you about 20 minutes ago." Methos eyed the package suspiciously. "I found it when I came in this morning.  I...I didn't know if it might be important to you.  I figured I'd bring it up, just in case." Methos sighed.  There was no way he was going to catch up with Richie now.  "Thank-you," he said, pulling out what little courtesy he had left in him, then taking the package. "No problem," the young man replied, and obviously relieved to have the encounter over with, he abruptly turned to leave. Methos shook his head, watching the retreating form.  "Wait," he called out suddenly.  "What's your name?" "Matthew, Matthew Barken," he replied over his shoulder.  "Have a good day, Mr. Pierson." Not bloody likely, Methos thought as he closed the door, leaning against it in frustrated weariness.  He stared at the package he held in his hands as if it were some poisonous insect ready to inject its vile toxin into him. He almost tossed it across the room, to be ignored -- forgotten, but curiosity got the better of him.  Crossing to his couch, he dropped down onto it, setting one of the beers down and opening the other.  After taking a long swallow, he once again turned his attention back to the small, unadorned, cardboard box. He pulled the top off, and was surprised to find only a folded slip of paper inside.  Opening it, he froze, the words jumping out at him.   You're Mine! Methos stared at the offensive slip of paper, stunned.  "What NOW?"  For a long moment his lungs locked up and he couldn't breathe through the sudden panic, then it gave way to a weary, dull-edge of fear that settled into his bones.  His hand shook as he lay the offending note onto the coffee table.  That was it then.  He had no choice.  He had no clue as to who was after him this time, and with that contract out on him, it could literally be *anyone*.  It didn't even have to be an Immortal.  It could be mortals again -- mortals who could approach him without his being the wiser until it was far too late.   He rose and quickly took stock of everything around him.  There really wasn't much here he couldn't leave behind, and thirty minutes later he was staring at seven full boxes, one overstuffed duffel bag and a backpack.  Grabbing the first load he was out the door. ***** Methos was just outside his building, on his third trip, when he felt it, the call of another Immortal, and with all that had happened in the last week he couldn't will his body to ignore it.  "MacLeod?" he called out as he glanced over his shoulder, and at that moment felt a blinding pain blossom in his chest.  This was getting to be a *really* bad habit, he thought as he focused his eyes in the direction from which the deadly knife throw had originated. "Greetings, Brother." Methos gasped as he slid down the wall. "Kronos!" "I missed you too." Once again, just outside the relative safety of his home, the black well of death consumed Methos. *************** Later that day Without taking the time to shut the door to his apartment, Methos grabbed the box closest to him, and headed back down to the Jimmy.  **Bloody fucking Cassandra!** Wishing heartily he'd listened to all of MacLeod's message, certain in his hindsight that the younger Immortal had been about to mention his 'friend' by name.  The bitch was crazy.  He was fully willing to admit she had every right to hate him, loathe him even, but she'd started a fight *inside* MacLeod's home.  That was *not* the reaction of a sane woman. He paused at the vehicle long enough to carelessly toss in the box he carried and hurried back up.  Packing neatly wasn't high on his list of priorities right now.  In fact, if his things hadn't already been packed, he'd have stuffed his duffel bag with clothes, grabbed his laptop and his journal and left everything else behind. **Kronos!  Kronos *and* Cassandra!**  "Bloody hell!" Methos ranted, as he carried another box down. They both wanted him.  One of them wanted him dead, the other wanted him Death.  He knew how Kronos had found him.  In his carelessness, he'd forgotten law one of long term survival -- keep a low profile.  Appearing on a television show, even a daytime quiz show was *not* low profile.  In fact, it was idiotic. What he didn't know was how Cassandra came to be in the picture.  While it was obvious from her reaction at the dojo, she hadn't expected to find *him*, she *had* tracked Kronos here.  Methos could only wonder how many other nightmares from his past were going to suddenly come creeping out of the woodwork.  There was very little about his distant past that was anything remotely resembling civilized, and although natural attrition had long ago taken care of most of the immortals he could even remotely call 'contemporaries', he hadn't been able to account for the whereabouts of some of them. Of course, that wasn't counting the two remaining members of the Horsemen -- they were the ace up his sleeve.  He shuddered to think how this situation might go down if it came to using that ace.  He wasn't sure even he could control the fallout.  He knew he didn't want to have to try.  And MacLeod -- *Gods, MacLeod!*  He sincerely hoped that with his disappearance, MacLeod just might be kept out of this mess.  Not only would the idiot lose his head if he rushed in where sensible, sane Immortals feared to tread, he would endanger everyone else around him.   Methos shuddered to think what would happen to Richie should he fall into Kronos' hands.  Immediate death would be the most favorable outcome of *that*.  He knew Richie had already survived a lot of betrayal and pain, but it would be nothing compared to what he'd *could* go through. Maybe he should go to Richie, suggest an extended vacation -- somewhere warm and very, very far from here. No, he couldn't do that.  Methos knew full well what that offer would sound like, and he'd already burned *that* bridge.  It simply wasn't a good idea.  Kronos' sudden return was ample proof of that! He shook his head emphatically.  He had to believe that Richie wouldn't be stupid enough to go chasing after a 3,000 yo Immortal.  Now if only he could convince himself that MacLeod had the same sense.  He snorted, rolling his eyes in disbelief at his own foolish hope.  The boy scout would be smack dab in the middle of it if *Cassandra* had anything to say about it -- and she would.  Another tremor passed through him as he wondered just what Cassandra was telling the Highlander, and how much Mac would believe at face value.  Methos certainly wasn't willing to risk everything on the basis that friendship alone would keep this from coming to swords.   The Highlander may be a staunch supporter of his friends, but when both sides of the horrific story came from friends, and one of those was female, Methos had absolutely no doubts where the man's sympathies would rest -- especially given that no matter what Cassandra told him, it wouldn't be worse than the truth.   Cassandra's meddling was bad enough, but if Kronos had even the slightest hint of how much his friends really meant to him, they were all doomed, and so was he.  Kronos would be certain Methos had 'gone soft', not just suspect it.  If he found out that Methos was actually attached to Richie... Methos shook his head as his gut tightened painfully. **No!  Kronos *won't* find out!  I won't let him find out.**  As it was, Kronos knew he and MacLeod were close and had already ordered him to kill the younger Immortal as proof of his sincerity.  The palm of Methos' hand itched where he'd sliced it opened in a sworn blood-oath to kill his Highland friend. He couldn't do that, not and remain the man he'd become.  He'd be one step closer to becoming the man he'd left behind when he'd deserted the Horsemen's camp so many centuries ago.  And Kronos knew that, damn him.  It was part of the reason for the order, a bigger part even than proving himself to the Horseman, despite Kronos' words.  Both of them knew it; neither of them said it. Kronos knew Methos had changed, despite the lead Horseman's protestations that inside Methos was the same, and knew just as well what was necessary to take him figuratively back in time.  It was impossible to live so closely to someone for 1,000 years and *not* know what their triggers were.  Methos' were buried far more deeply these days, but that didn't mean they couldn't be tripped.   Taking a deep breath, Methos strode from room to room, double checking he'd left nothing vitally important.  He wanted nothing left behind that would give a single clue as to his identity or where he'd gone.  This would be a clean, permanent cut.  Methos would once again cease to exist as anything except a myth and as a memory to a few very special people -- a good memory, he hoped.   Nodding in satisfaction, Methos picked up the last box, and resisting the temptation to check one last time, strode out of the apartment, firmly shoving out of his mind the suspicion that he was making a very big mistake, that he'd never again have a chance like the one he could see might be possible with Richie.  **No!** he told himself firmly.  **Immortals together just don't work long term.**  He knew that.  It had been proven time and time again.  Even if he hadn't seen it personally with other Immortal couples over the years, the chronicles he'd read confirmed it. Just as he reached the Jimmy he again felt an Immortal presence.  He was *really* beginning to hate these deja vu-like scenes!  Quickly placing the box inside, he turned and scanned for the source.  He nearly groaned aloud.  **MacLeod!** ***** Methos dropped his head back against the seat, baring his throat.  His eyes closed, he heaved a deep, shaky sigh that spoke of an abiding pain that tears, no matter how many, could not ease.  His world was falling to pieces utterly, and there wasn't a bloody thing he could do about it. He'd purposely alienated MacLeod, and with as big a mouth as MacLeod had, Richie was certain to find out *all* about this mess. No matter that he'd been planning to leave, pretty much permanently, he hadn't intended to burn all his bridges behind him.  Now it was a moot point.  MacLeod with over 400 years of having lived through vast changes in society and attitudes, having lived through the violence he, himself, was capable of *still* couldn't handle what Methos had been.  How could an Immortal who was still young enough to be far more mortal than anything else come even close to accepting it?  Answer: he couldn't.  Richie would hate him now.  It was as inevitable as the next challenge. For one mind numbing moment he considered simply killing Kronos -- with or without a formal challenge.  Then shuddered as a tremor of age-old superstitious fear skittered down his spine.  No, he couldn't kill Kronos, his brother.  Too many eons of conditioning had gone into his soul -- you didn't kill your brothers.  It simply wasn't done. Now, Methos knew that wasn't the only thing that held him back.  He wasn't one to force a fight.  He much preferred other methods of survival, running for example.  Unfortunately he was certain, beyond any shadow of doubt, that option was now closed to him.  **I threw a gods-be-damned temper tantrum, and virtually guaranteed MacLeod will get himself involved.**  Angrily dashing away the tears stubbornly remaining on his lashes, Methos brought down the heel of his hand on the steering wheel, wincing when both the wheel and the bones in his hand cracked ominously, sending spikes of pain up his arm. MacLeod had come farther than he'd expected really.  He hadn't wanted to believe what Cassandra had told him.  The first words hadn't been "why?" they'd been, "Is it true?"  Then it hit him, flashing through his body as if he'd been electrocuted.  MacLeod hadn't brought his sword.  Methos dropped back against the seat again, closing his eyes against the world, wondering, for just one heartfelt moment, whether a denial would have brought MacLeod's belief, or even greater enmity.  Would it have made a difference in how MacLeod told the story? Reluctantly opening his eyes, Methos drew another deep breath, centering himself.  "Okay, so I royally misread MacLeod.  It's not like it's the first time I've done something like that.  I can't run; if I do, MacLeod's dead, because I've virtually guaranteed he'll go after Kronos."  And *Richie*, Richie would be dead also, because he wouldn't let his teacher's death remain unavenged.   //And what happened to looking out for number one?  You stay, you could die.  You can't be what Kronos wants.// "Dammit!" Methos swore, just barely stopping himself before he struck the wheel again.  His newly healed hand inched toward the Ivanhoe secreted beneath his coat.  He fairly itched to use it to put an end to the threat to his current world, but his hand fell away as the real reason he couldn't kill Kronos reared its head.  If he killed the other Immortal, wasn't he saying that he, too, deserved to die.  Was he *really* any better than Kronos. Self-doubt assailed him, shaking what faith he had.  "Yes, dammit!  I am.  I have changed.  I am no longer that man," Methos said firmly.  "I'm not Death anymore.  I haven't been for a very long time." //Just who are you trying to convince?  You're the only one here.// Methos snarled at the snide voice inside his mind, and thrust all such thoughts away.  He really needed to get a grip.  Kronos' arrival, then Cassandra hot on that Immortal's heels, had sent him into a tailspin of a kind he hadn't experienced in millennia.  Now, with the certainty that there was no way to keep those he cared about out of danger's way, he had to put aside the conscious he'd worked so assiduously to develop, and orchestrate this mini-gathering with the finesse of Death. If he succeeded, his brothers would end up dead.  If he failed, it would be his and MacLeod's lives that would end, and quite possibly Cassandra's as well.  He shuddered to think what chaos would result from failure.  The horseman would ride again, albeit minus one member, and he really didn't care to imagine the fates of people like Joe Dawson, or young Immortals like Richie.  No; failure was not an option.  And with several cleansing breaths, Methos shuttered away all those emotions that could spell disaster at a crucial moment, locking them up with all the willpower of a man who'd survived the millennia with his sanity intact. Anyone close enough would have shuddered at the coldness that grew in Methos' eyes as his resolve firmed, and he turned the engine over with a savage twist of his wrist.  Then, pulling out of his parking spot, he drove off without once looking back. *************** Curled into a ball, his knees pressing into the hard, cold concrete beneath him, Methos couldn't stop the sobs wrenched as if from his very soul. Something vital inside him had broken open, releasing age upon age of repressed loneliness. He was alone now. There was no one left to connect him to his roots, to ground him in this ever-changing world -- except for Cassandra, a woman who hated him with every breath she took. He felt hollow, empty, void of anything meaningful. He'd betrayed and killed a man who knew no better, who, if left alone, would have been content raising his animals in the wilds of the Ukraine, a man who had been his friend for longer than most Immortals had been alive. Three thousand years gone in the fatal strike of a sword -- his sword. At that moment in time, Methos almost wished MacLeod had let Cassandra swing the axe. Irony was something he could appreciate, and being killed by the axe of the man he'd just killed, wielded by the woman he'd given first death to so many millennia ago was certainly filled with Irony -- cosmic irony, in fact. Slow movement to the right and behind him half-caught his attention, but he couldn't rouse himself enough to look or even care what MacLeod was doing. Moments later, however, a gentle, tentative touch on his shoulder made him gasp in surprise. A second later it was gone. He raised his head and blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the Highlander's form as the younger Immortal walked slowly away. **What the hell?** Leaning back on his heels, feeling every hour of his 5,000 years, Methos watched until MacLeod disappeared from sight. He continued to stare, unmoving, long after the Highlander disappeared, wondering just what that touch had meant. Rising to stand on legs that didn't really want to support him, he decided it didn't really matter. Since Adam Pierson would not exist after today, and Methos would fade back into an obscure legend, how could the opinions of that man's friends be of concern? Answer -- they couldn't. So, why did that thought carve the hole inside him even bigger? Resolutely shoving the new, only half-acknowledged regrets to the back of his mind, Methos headed out of the base, taking small cautious steps until he was certain he wouldn't lose his balance. Today's work was not yet finished. He still had a resevoir to visit. Return to Highlander Story Index Return to Main Page