Counting Coup

Methos is coming. Sean hangs up the phone and smiles to himself with a kind of dark, masturbatory joy. Methos, the oldest of them all. Not just Adam, after all, not at all the regular guy who's been buying swords from him for the last fifty years. Coming to buy one of Sean's beautiful, one of a kind, hand-tooled blades. Imagine that, Methos likes his swords. There are advantages to being the best.

And Sean is the best, without a word of a lie. He's been banging, bending, folding and sharpening steel all his Immortal and most of his mortal, life. But sometimes, he gets a little tired out whoring out his skills to an unappreciative Immortal public. Sometimes, he'd like a little something for himself.

Something like a 5000-year-old Quickening might do nicely in terms of compensation.

Adam. Methos. He'd always known the skinny little bastard was hiding something. He'd just never imagined it was something this...big. And he's been counting coup on him all these years, slouching in and out of Sean's life and his shop, banging him on the head with his tasty Quickening and wandering off again to add to it with one of Sean's own blades.

It just doesn't seem quite fair. And if Sean's old man had taught him nothing else (and as a matter of fact he had) it was that a man who stood by and let another man put one over on him was no kind of man at all. In good conscience there really wasn't anything else he could do.

Being the swordmaker to good portion of the Immortal world sure had its advantages. Who'd have thought that skanky bitch with the nice rack would've let something as juicy as this slip? Good thing she did though. For him, anyway. Not so good for that chump Methos.

Sean smiles to himself as he locks his front door and heads for the truck. Adam -- Methos -- is meeting him at Charley's soon and he'll have to haul ass to get there before him.

***

Charley's is a little place, nondescript and dim. Sean likes it that way. He blends in here with all the other working stiffs who make up the crowd. Just one of the guys. Yeah. He smiles to himself again and catches it in the smoke-yellowed mirror behind the bar. The grin's a little too feral for the aw-shucks image he's going for, so he cans it in favor of sucking down half the beer in his mug.

And then presence is scratching beneath his skin, itching in that weird unreachable part of his brain that makes his heart race and sweat prickle in his armpits. He constructs a new smile out of wishes and Quickening dreams and waves Adam over to him, grinning like the fool he's being taken for.

"Ey, Adam!"

Adam lopes in, looking nervous at first, dressed as always in ratty old jeans and a t-shirt that's seen better days. It's costuming -- as fake as everything else about the guy -- and it only makes the anger inside him ratchet higher.

"Hey," Adam says as he plops down next to him on one of the overused stools, its padding long pressed down to nothing. The drinker on the other side of him belches and tells the bartender to put on the hockey game, though not in such a polite fashion. Adam's still nervous; Sean doesn't need psychic powers to see that. There's tension running through him, pulling him taut as a steel hawser close to breaking point.

He's swordless. Vulnerable. The temptation to lure him out back to the alley and whack him right now is damn nigh irresistible. But seriously, realistically, that's never been his thing. He's never taken a head outside of a fair fight. He guesses he's not about to start now. So he'll wait.

Let the bastard have one more drink at least.

Adam edges closer to Sean and mutters under his breath, "What the hell do they drink here?"

Sean chuckles and orders him an Iron City. The first sip makes him grimace. Sean chuckles, mostly to himself. Just because it's a last drink, doesn't mean it has to be a good one.

"You need to relax, Adam." Yeah, that's a good one, telling a cagey guy like this to relax when he's sitting here with someone who knows just how stupid he can be sometimes. Hell, if he was all that smart, he'd never've had to stash his Ivanhoe in that dumpster in Paris while running, naked mind you, after a thieving pizza delivery wench. A guy that dumb deserves to lose his head. He's clearly had it too long.

"You relax when you're in my position," Adam mumbles into his beer head, "then get back to me." The TV screeches as Lemiux scores, and the bar crowd echoes it. The man next to Adam orders a shot of Jagermeister, slamming the flat of his hand down and demanding "a hat trick".

Adam drinks the rest of his crappy beer, and his eyes are the only things that give away how antsy he still is. Sean orders him another drink, and it's less kind, more cruel really. What will his face look like at the end, he wonders, when he realizes he's spent the some of the last moments of his life drinking shitty beer? Sean drinks his own and watches him in silence.

***

They're heading back to the steel mill now; that's where Sean does his business, whether it's swords or heads. Sometimes, but not often, it's both. Like today.

"I don't know what you see in this city," Adam grumbles as Sean speeds his pickup truck down the Tri-Boro at a fair clip that Adam still manages to find fault with nonetheless. Sean gestures to the neon signs long gone dead and hollowed out churches gone silent, bells waiting to teased into announcing morning mass.

Sean chuckles, and Adam looks over at him. "Adam," he drawls, "you don't see the big picture." His hand leaves the steering wheel in a circular motion, and the truck swerves onto Braddock Avenue. The big picture, yeah, that's one way of putting it all right.

Adam closes his eyes and presses his head to the window. "What is the big picture?" he asks.

Sean's voice is rough in his throat, his words catching on something unpolished, splintered, like this town. "Steel is something special. These people have it in their veins." He sighed. "When I was a boy, my father taught me to fold the steel to make things. But they were always small things, you know?" He makes his voice wistful while he's misdirecting like crazy, talking about anything except the thing that's really on his mind.

And he's still talking. "We never made anything big, though," he continues, "just small stuff like swords, fences, horseshoes. Here, I made the beams that hold up half of this country." He grins with real feeling for a moment, remembering. "Can you say that, Adam?"

Even if he could say that, they both knew he wouldn't. It might lead to some mighty inconvenient questions about his old pal Adam's past. Sean's not surprised at all when he answers with just a shake of his head.

Adam's eyes close for a second and right at that moment he looks so much like the guy Sean's always believed him to be that he's overwhelmed with the need to explain this thing to him, this thing he's about to do.

"I don't hardly know you, Adam," Sean says loudly, his hand leaving the steering wheel dangerously. "I mean, I know what you like to feel in your hand, but that's all we do, business."

It's a feeble fucking excuse and he's sure Adam knows it. It's nowhere near the real reason. For a moment, he almost feels guilty, almost like they're friends. But they're not and they never will be. Adam's just a guy who happens to be sitting on the Holy Grail of all Quickenings and it's time he handed it over.

All Adam manages to say is, "I never really thought you'd be interested in me, Sean."

It's not enough. "No," Sean answers, scoffing with a little of the anger leaking through. "None of you ever do."

***

Adam's face gives it all away once he sees the swords. This is all he's here for. He hasn't even considered that Sean might be a threat to him and that makes even worse somehow. Like he's some kind of schmuck that doesn't even deserve the courtesy of a little standard Immortal caution. But, on the other hand, why complain? It's gonna get him what he wants.

Sean's put five swords out on display for Adam, but he already knows which one Adam will pick. Like he said, he knows what Adam likes to feel in his hand and the longsword is perfect for him. The lanky, casual guy is gone the second he picks it up, and in his place is a fighter, hard and cold and calculating. It's easy to spot, he thinks, once you know what you're looking for.

The longsword's probably his finest work ever, beautifully balanced, meticulously finished, flawless from pommel to tip. It's fitting in a weird kind of way, that Methos will be holding it when he gives up his Quickening. Only the best will do and all that happy horseshit.

"You like what you see?" Sean asks. He knows that he doesn't even need to ask it. Methos wants that blade; he's looking at with lust written all over him, like he never wants to set it down. The rest will be easy.

Enjoy it, pal, it'll be the last sword you'll ever hold.

Methos pulls a half-hearted arc in the middle of his office, stopping short of the filing cabinet. Sean just watches him patiently, waiting for the idea to come from him. There's no room in the office to try the sword properly, which is why he shows them here. He may not be the sharpest tool in the box, but he's no fool either.

"Shall we try it out then?" Methos asks. His thumb is caressing the sword's hilt over and over, like he can't stop touching it. He's in love with it already.

Sean nods, feeling just a little self-satisfied at the way this is all working out. He grabs his broadsword as he walks by. It's almost too easy.

***

Sean knows the moment Methos realizes what's going on, the second their blades touch across the space between them. It's in his eyes; the sudden knowledge that he's been played for a fool by a guy he was taking for one. It's worth the price of admission just to see it. It's fucking sweet.

"Sean," Methos says warningly, hefting the blade in his hand.

Sean smiles, but it feels phoney, too much like one of Methos' own. No matter. The time for tricks is gone. He lets Methos see the anger at last. Sean brings his heavier blade up into a down swing that makes the perfect blade in Methos' hand sing.

"Time to pay up, Adam." Maybe not his best line, but it's true nonetheless. And then it's on for real. He's got Methos' blade locked up tight, muscles straining with the effort of holding him there. It's a battle of wills now, and the first to waver will be the one to die.

There's fear naked in Methos' eyes. Sean takes a moment to revel in it. The surge of power feels good, better than good, better than sex even.

Then without a flicker of an eyelid, Methos is slipping his blade around Sean's, enveloping it, pushing it up and away while he backs off a step or two. Sean lunges for him, but it's too late, Methos turns on his heels and takes off like a motherfucker.

It's the last thing Sean expects.

Methos is damn quick, he's got to give him that. Sean takes off after him, but Methos dodges and ducks like a weasel and he disappears between a couple of big vats. Now there's only his buzz to tell Sean that he's even here at all.

But he is still here.

Gravel crunches beneath his feet no matter where he puts them. But that works both ways. He stops and listens, makes his breathing slow and quiet while he filters out the noise of the mill with his head cocked like a hound dog. There! Off to the right, somewhere close, there's the quiet crackle of a foot shifting on the rough ground. He's not far away at all.

Sean rounds a corner and then, Christ, there's about a foot of virgin blade in his gut. He throws himself backwards, feels it slip free with a sucking noise that sickens him almost as much as the pain. But his blood's up and the pain doesn't slow him down for long. He's in the other place now, the place where the pain doesn't matter, the place where all that matters is the Quickening he knows is going to be his real soon. He just needs a moment or two to heal this canyon in his belly.

He doesn't even notice at first, but Methos is talking to him.

"Sean, really, you don't want to do this," he says, like words are going to make one bit of difference now. Heh, good luck, pal.

"You really expect me to let you out of here?" Sean growls.

Methos shrugs, his eyes a little too wide and innocent looking. He's up to something. Sean widens his stance and lifts the tip of his blade to neck height.

"I said I'd pay you," Methos says. "Why do you have to do this now?"

Sean smiles. "Change of heart. Change of plans. Change of initiative." Especially that last one. A five thousand year old Quickening is a hell of a powerful incentive.

Methos doesn't answer him, just lunges forward with a great hacking slash that Sean has to scramble to parry. The blow jars all the way up his arm. Damn, the bastard's stronger than he looks. He turns the parry into a backwards cut, aiming for Methos' gut, but Methos' sword is there first, blocking him. There's a slash, coming at him almost faster than he can see, taking him fair in the thigh, making him stumble.

He's still in this with a chance, but Methos isn't giving him a second to recover, he's pushing him hard, moving in fast with a wicked combination that seems to strike at his leg, shoulder and head all at the same time. Fuck, he's fast.

It occurs to Sean, in some strange, calm part of his brain, that this might have been a really bad idea. Methos isn't counting coup on him now, if he ever was. This is the real deal.

But it's too late to turn back now, even if he could. Maybe he wouldn't anyway. Maybe this is meant to be and a few minutes from now he'll be sitting pretty with Methos' Quickening making his head spin and his dick get hard.

And he's doing okay now, getting in a couple of good hits. Methos bleeds real well, especially when you hit him in the face. Course, a coupla inches lower and he'd be thinking about a beer and a whore about now, but he'll just keep plugging away. Banging on anvils for a hundred years has given him power in his arms that this guy will never have.

He's feeling good now, strong all of a sudden, charged with some new energy that makes him dance just out of the reach of Methos' flashing blade. This is a long way from over.

The knowledge makes him cocky, makes him want to rub his old 'friend's' nose in it. "Think I could charge more for that sword the next time I sell it?" he snarls. "Once owned by the legendary Methos. Pretty good advertising spiel, doncha think?"

That gets him. There's just the smallest falter in the hard, set look on Methos' face. He smiles, but it's as cold as Sean's ever seen.

"Cassandra." He rolls his eyes. "I'm really going to have to do something about her," Methos says as he slashes fast and low, ripping Sean open across his waist. "Later."

The pain's unbelievable and he's sure that's his innards he can feel slipping hot and slimy between his fingers. It's not over...it's not. He hits out, overhead and optimistic, aiming for Methos' neck in a single blow, but it's weak; he can't even keep his blade straight.

His knees hit the floor -- he's not even sure how he got there or why and it's all gone wrong, so terribly wrong, and he'd take it back if he could only there's no going back, nothing left for him but pain and the soft singing hum of his best work coming for his neck in slow motion.

It's beautiful and it's terrible, even more terrible because it's made by his own hand.

All of it.

end

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Many thanks to Amand-r for writing the original story from which this was remixed. Blades Talk  is a wonderful, insightful story with a brilliant sense of place and history, which you should definitely read.