Disclaimer: I don't own the concept of the Highlander series,
Methos, or Duncan MacLeod. I just write what the little voices in
my head tell me to, so please don't sue me.
Special thanks to Jessica for letting me use her poem.
Fall Away
Inevitably comes the day
When all your secrets fall away,
When you before your judgment stand
And fear the cruelest reprimand:
That those you trust will turn from you,
And sever bonds so tenuously new.
Fear not! Our love is yours forever.
Turn away? No, love, never.
-Jessica Miles
Methos glared at the beer bottle, willing it full again. Of course it didn't oblige him, and he realized disgustedly that there was no more alcohol anywhere in the apartment. In the achingly empty apartment. He was nowhere near drunk enough to sleep. After all, he could still think and still realize why it hurt so much to be alone. It wasn't the isolation. If he wanted company he could have it. It was who was missing that twisted like a bitterly cold knife in his gut. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, damn him. It only intensified the pain to know that the exalted Highlander had no idea how much Methos wanted him. If I wasn't such a damned good actor, Methos thought miserably. If I didn't rather grind the knife in than risk losing him. If he turned away from me, I don't think I could stand it. Five thousand years and I fall apart because of an insensitive Scottish child!
The thought made him angry, and with a bitten off curse he stormed out of the apartment. The chill wind cut though him, but the physical misery was welcome after the ache of loss. His coat would warm him, but it was back in his apartment with his sword. The though of wandering through the city streets unarmed should have been alarming, but he simply didn't care. So what if an Immortal found him? He stomped down the street, trying to use his anger to keep back the black depression and failing more completely the longer he stayed out in the streets with his unceasing thoughts. I can't forget him here, I can't forget him back there, what the hell am I going to do? I need to be somewhere louder than my thoughts, he realized, somewhere I can forget.
Raven's Blood had a nasty reputation among the night clubs in Seacouver,
which was why Methos chose it. The bouncers didn't want to let him
in. He was a normal, young looking grad student, wearing jeans and
a cream sweater. He didn't look like he belonged with the gothic,
pierced, tattooed punks moving in and out. He smiled at them, but
there was no humor in the expression. It was a chill, dead look that
shook the two tough men more than any of the rough, wild crowd they usually
admitted.
"Let me pass," he commanded levelly, and they moved aside. The fear in their eyes was gratifying. This, at least, I still have control over.
The club was crowded, the music smothering. Smoke and pot hung thick in the air. It was exactly where Methos wanted to be, killing his pain with violent aggression. It had worked so well before. He thrust the memory of Kronos far from his mind, and lived in the pulsing, writhing present. He found himself dancing up against a diminutive, gold haired girl as the dark, living music drove them together. Her face flashed with her piercings, two in one eyebrow, one in her nose, seven up her ear and one in her tongue when she kissed him. The black around her eyes and the vivid gold on her lips, a match for her dyed hair, marred her face, disguised her. He wished for war paint of his own. She passed a drop of acid to him. He shrugged, why not? Alcohol hadn't worked and it wasn't like it could kill him. He took the first with the same ease he took the next, and the next. He floated in a swirling chaos of sound and shadow, soul numb and high on the LSD in his blood and the pot in his lungs. He washed down the bitter taste of loneliness with hard liquor and drove any thoughts of why he was here behind walls of churning sound and mist as impenetrable as stone.
He vaguely noticed collapsing on the floor, and his dance partner's panicked expression. He watched, apathetic, as she and another dragged him out to a car.
"Don't die," she begged him as she got behind the wheel. He laughed, but the bitter void was overwhelming him again. He tried to tell her he couldn't die, but couldn't force the words past his lips. The city swung by him, blurring and dodging in sickening attacks. He blacked out, or maybe he died, because when he opened his eyes he was in the ER under the anxious eyes of a nurse.
"Mr. Pierson," she said urgently, "stay with us. Is there anyone we can call to help you?"
"Call Duncan fucking MacLeod," he snarled. It was the first name that came to mind, the one he wanted to see more than anything. He regretted it as soon as he said it, but she wouldn't listen to him when he tried to call her back. He cursed her, unaware that he wasn't speaking English anymore, and waited for the shining knight to ride in with his damning judgments and his almighty code of honor.
"Adam?" Duncan's voice floated through the echoes in his head. He was hurt, Methos could hear it in that one word. Hurt, confused, and judging. Once again, Methos had failed, hadn't measured up, hadn't been good enough.
"Damn you!" he screamed. Duncan flinched, and hesitated before
coming the rest of the way in. He closed the door firmly,
trapping Methos in. Trapping himself it. "Damn you," Methos
repeated, a broken whisper.
"Methos, what's wrong?" All that concern, that hurt, that unwanted sympathy!
"I hate you," he spat, glaring at the man he called friend. MacLeod shook his head, denying the words.
"You don't hate me. You hate yourself." There was no denying the truth of those words. Methos turned away, hiding his face as his drugged mind tried to stop the burning, humiliating tears. He didn't hear Duncan move, the arm was simply there, comforting, loving. It wasn't enough. Friendship wasn't enough, no matter how hard he tried to force it to be. The almost embrace emphasized how alone he was, and he shrunk from Duncan.
"Why, Methos? What's wrong? Talk to me. Please, Methos, don't shut me out."
Methos closed his eyes grimly on his friend's urgent words, trying to hold up his internal walls, trying to protect himself. He wanted that comfort so badly, that love, but he could no more grab it than he could the stars. The tears traced down faster at the hollowness of that thought, and silent sobs shook his slender frame. He wished the drug haze wasn't slipping away. As humiliating as it was for Duncan to see him stoned, it was easier than facing him sober.
Duncan pulled him closer and he didn't have the strength to resist his distressed friend. It was where he wanted to be, needed to be, but all the more terrible because he knew Mac didn't offer what he wanted so badly.
"Please, Methos," Duncan whispered. "We'll work this out. I'll help you, I swear."
"You can't help me, Highlander," Methos admitted dully, "There is no help."
"There is," Duncan said firmly, certainty in his voice. If only . . . Methos crushed that thought ruthlessly, cursing this glorious man for sparking the tremulous hope.
"There's no cure for love," he said, voice expressionless.
"Love?" MacLeod questioned, puzzled. "You're in love?"
"Yes," he snapped, hating that he had actually made the admission.
"With who?" Duncan pried gently.
"Guess," he answered sarcastically.
"Methos," Duncan said, exasperated. "I want to help you, but you're not making this easy."
"It's not meant to be," Methos said harshly. "Life is not easy. I don't want your help, Highlander. I'm not your precious clan. Go away." He pulled away, cruelly wanting to return the pain he felt.
"Whether you want my help or not, you need it."
"I've lived five thousand years without you, I think I can manage now."
"Obviously you can't, or you wouldn't have ended up in the ER, stoned, drunk and unarmed. Do you want to lose your head?"
Methos didn't answer, and the scot's eyes widened in realization.
"You do," he said softly. Methos flinched away, unable to stand
that penetrating gaze anymore. "You want to die. Am I
wrong, Methos?" The old man stayed silent, but as before that
was answer enough.
"She doesn't love you?" Duncan surmised, watching his friend closely for any sign he was right.
"He doesn't love me," Methos corrected, just barely loud enough for his friend to hear. Duncan stared at him, shocked. This he was not expecting. His thoughts spun furiously. The old man was expecting judgment, condemnation, that was easy to read in his desolate expression. He was afraid to come to Duncan, afraid of rejection, afraid his closest friend wouldn't accept him as his was. But who had scorned him? Duncan's brow furrowed in confusion. 'Guess.' Oh. Ohhhh. The stunning inspiration came: he's in love with me. Oh God, my best friend's in love with me.
He felt terribly uncertain suddenly. Methos loved him, the idea was terrifying. But . . . not necessarily unwelcome. He examined the unhappy man he held, the fascinating features, the eyes closed, braced against an attack, the pain that for once he wasn't trying to hide. He expected revulsion, rejection, but to Duncan that was as unacceptable as letting go of the hurting man in his arms. He circled Methos more firmly with his arms, pulling the man close and finding encouragement by the lack of a struggle. His uncertainty left him. He knew what he would do, unfamiliar as it was. Losing Methos was unthinkable.
He leaned closer, his warm breath caressing the ancient man's cheek. "It's me, isn't it?" he said gently. "It's me you love."
"Yes," Methos whimpered.
"Open your eyes, Methos. Believe me." The intensity of Duncan's voice convinced Methos to do as he asked. He saw nothing he had feared, only kindness, urgency . . . love? Dared he hope for love?
"I don't know if I can love you like you want." It was painfully honest, in it's own way worse than the rejection Methos had feared. "I do know I can try. I want to try. I don't want to live with out you," Duncan's voice was slightly sad. "I don't want to lose you."
"Duncan . . ." Methos faltered, but was cut off as Duncan leaned over to kiss him.
"We can work this out," he promised.
~Finis~