Highlander Fanfiction

Conversation Over Beer - G - Spoilers for Methos, Finale I & II - Joe Dawson tries to feel out the 'young' Watcher who is possibly not so young.

Eulogy to the Living - G - No Spoilers - Humor. Duncan MacLeod gives a eulogy, but things are not what they seem.

Meeting the Family - PG - No Spoilers - D/M. Duncan worries about his 'friend' to his kinsman. He shouldn't have bothered.

Opposites - PG - No Spoilers - Joe wonders about the friendship between Duncan and Methos.

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"…and I don't see why I have to be the one to get dragged up this bloody crag just because you can't find a normal physical outlet for your monthly rites of caveman-like physical anachronisms! What's next? You'll insist that I accompany you on another one of your harebrained adventures to rescue some maiden in distress - oh wait, that's already happened -"

Duncan MacLeod winced again at the vituperative exposition coming from behind him. The sarcastic castigation had been running for almost an hour now, starting out with a few laconic statements about his intelligence and his parentage punctuated by austere glares burning into the back of his head, before plunging down into a full-blown harangue in a mix of Gaelic, English, and Greek.

He supposed that he hadn't helped his friend's irascible temper with his inattentively perfunctory grunts and nods in response to the ranting. Methos never did like being ignored while he was on a verbal roll. Duncan stopped walking as he came to the remains of a desiccated streambed, and finally turned around to face the music.

"Methos." He patiently waited until the 5000-year-old Immortal paused for breath. "Come on, Methos. It's only hiking. I'm sure you've climbed plenty of mountains in your life."

"They invented the bloody airplane so I wouldn't have to anymore!" Methos snapped, "but gods forbid that you ever join the twentieth century -"

"It's good for you. You need a break from being buried under piles of archaic tomes." Duncan sighed, wincing again at how lame his explanation sounded. Then he stubbornly inhaled the rarefied mountain air in demonstration.

"We're Immortal, you idiot child!" There was an uncharacteristic sneer on Methos' face. "We don't bloody need to engage in this barbaric example of masochism in order to maintain a salubrious physical state!"

"Methos!" There was almost a pleading note in Duncan's voice as he held up his hands to halt his friend's tirade. "Look, can we just finish this in peace? I'm sure you can get back at me for it later." He resigned himself to spending the rest of the month, and maybe the year, in paranoia.

"Oh yes." The cold smile on Methos' face sent a shiver down Duncan's spine. "That has been a given from the beginning, Highlander." With that, Methos strode past Duncan on his long legs. The silence that came from him now was even more eerie than the previous verbal outpouring.

Duncan wondered if he needed to get a new identity made up. His current one might not last the month.

Joe Dawson eyed the seemingly young and innocuous man lounging on the barstool across from him, searching for a felicitous moment to launch his interro - that is, questions. The aforementioned young man seemed to be ignorant of the piercing gaze, looking every inch the cogent picture of a carefree grad student as he assiduously finished off his seventh beer that night.

Finally, looking around one last time to make sure that no one else was in the now-closed bar, Joe decided to dive in.

"So. You're Methos."

The 'young' man smiled at him; it wasn't quite the shy, innocent smile that he'd seen the few times he'd met 'Adam Pierson'.

"Hmm… I guess it's too late to prevaricate. So I guess I am." Methos studied his almost-empty beer bottle as if it held all the secrets of the universe. Maybe it did.

"You're not going to deny it?" Somehow, that took Joe by surprise. He'd expected a lot more paranoia and obfuscation from the real Methos if he ever met the man. He was still only half sure that 'Adam Pierson' was who MacLeod said he was.

"You're not an idiot, Joe," replied Methos affably. "I leave willful intransigence in the face of futility to stolid Highlanders better suited to it."

"That 'willful intransigence' saved your life," Joe pointed out, a bit miffed at the aspersions being cast upon his Immortal. "As I recall, Mac said something about you offering him your head?"

Rather than reacting to the implied accusation of weakness, Methos simply flashed an amused smile. Secrets sparkled in those hazel eyes.

"Call it a moment of insanity in the face of childish truculence." Methos shrugged. "Why should only the youngsters have fun in their ostentatious melodrama?"

Joe blinked. That was certainly not what he expected. The man was confusing him with his non-replies. "So… you do still consider yourself in the running for the Prize?"

Methos snorted. "I'd rather play no part at all in the coda of Immortality, if it exists at all."

"You don't believe in the Game?" Joe asked incredulously.

Methos shrugged. "My beliefs hardly matter. The Game will still go on as long as others believe, and as it does, I much prefer the less strenuous role of playing the malingerer, and occasionally to delineate the story of Immortality within a certain group of historians." A wicked smirk now appeared on the man's face.

"Hence the Watchers…" Joe whispered, mind whirling in awe and confusion. Did Methos - if this was indeed Methos - just imply that he'd ensconced himself in the Watchers more than once? How far and for how long had their security been compromised?

"Hence the Watchers," came the calm agreement. The smirk remained on that youthful face - no longer wicked, but also no longer innocent.

"…He was a man of astounding intelligence, pouncing with great alacrity on the unwary with scraps of esoteric wisdom or teasing chicanery gleamed from stolid tomes in dead languages. His sharp wit was often mistaken for an irascible temper, but his truculence lay only in words. He was also a generous soul, who never stinted in providing support for his friends. For that, above all else, he was an invaluable friend."

Duncan MacLeod quietly left the small funeral gathering after delivering the eulogy. Meandering along the levee of the Seine, he looked up when the 5000-year-old Immortal he'd been sensing all day drew near.

"MacLeod, the next time I switch identities, you are hereby proscribed from attending my funeral."

Duncan idly pushed unfamiliar bits of food around on his plate, wondering how in the world he had been talked into this. By 'this', he meant sitting in an unassuming little restaurant in a rarely traveled part of New York City, picking at a plate of some unpronounceable foodstuff randomly chosen from a list of iconoclastic items composed of a eclectic concoction of several ingredients from disparate cultural backgrounds. Well, at least the end results were palatable, as long as one did not give excess thought to its constituents.

"Do you have another Challenge on your dance-card, MacLeod, or is the food making you abstemious?"

Oh yes. He remembered now. That was the reason he was here - because a certain 5000-year-old degenerate had taken advantage of his preoccupied ambivalence at bringing the aforementioned reprobate to New York to meet his equally irascible kinsman, and chose the place for dinner tonight.

"The food's edible, Adam," Duncan replied laconically, making sure to use Methos' current identity while they were in public, "and I haven't taken a Challenge in over a month, since…"

…Since that rainy night when, contradictorily enervated and inflamed by the powerful Quickening he had just taken, Duncan had - his mind tried to shy away from the memory - kissed his friend. They progressed no further than that, and neither had mentioned the incident since then, which was both relief and torture for Duncan's peace of mind. There were times when Duncan just wished that Methos would put his oft-mendacious tongue to work - whichever way he meant it - and put him out of his misery.

"Then what's wrong?" came the uncharacteristically direct question.

"There's nothing wrong…" Duncan tried to gainsay.

"Oh please," Methos drawled as he leaned back into his chair. "You can't dissemble to save your life, MacLeod. So why don't you save me the trouble of delineating every possible scenario and tell me why you've cajoled me into accompany with you to New York? Without any more specious excuses, mind."

Duncan bristled at the slur on his acting ability and was about to return a similar sarcastic retort when the thrumming buzz of an Immortal Quickening washed over them both. Both Immortals stiffened in their seats, their eyes fixed onto the door of the establishment as it swung open to admit a familiar figure clad in trench coat and tennis shoes.

Duncan relaxed as he recognized the man. "Connor!" He called, rising to his feet. So much for finding some way to tell Methos that he wanted to introduce him to his kinsman. There wasn't much choice for him now but to introduce the two to each other, and so he did. Then, he waited in anxious consternation as two similarly recondite stares sizzled across the table. As time dragged on and neither Immortal showed any signs of conceding the impromptu staring match, Duncan began to worry that the night was going to end in bloodshed.

Suddenly, Methos relaxed, quirking his lips in a way that Duncan recognized as amusement. "Russel."

Connor returned a sardonic grin, his version of a welcoming smile. "Matthew."

In unison, the two Immortals reached across the table to clasp their hands in a friendly - and familiar - greeting. Duncan blinked, suspicion creeping across his mind. Two pairs of eyes turned to regard him, one glittering with laughter and the other utterly ingenuous.

"You… you…" he sputtered and glared, "You know each other! Why didn't either of you ever tell me?"

Two wicked smirks accompanied two voices replying in unison. "You never asked."

Joe Dawson stared through his binoculars and wondered. One, whose artless probity belied his truculence when defending his friends, incurred countless desultory exigencies. One, with a tongue both vituperative and mendacious at need, was a felicitous survivor. How they cohabited without one necessitating an elegy remained a mystery to him.