The Gathering Dark

They'd been in New York exactly two hours when the lights went out.

One minute Methos was riding in the tiny, subtly lit hotel lift, listening to Duncan's plans for rebuilding Connor's old place as they traveled down from their suite on the thirtieth floor, still not sure any of this was a good idea, the next minute he was jolted almost right off his feet and everything was silent except for the thudding of adrenaline in his ears. Definitely a not a good idea. The older he got, the more often he was right. It was getting a little tedious.

"The lift's stuck," Duncan said, his voice floating out from the pitch dark of the opposite corner.

"No-o-o..." Methos sniped.

"Fine, then, be that way." Methos could hear the shrug in Duncan's voice. A metallic click followed, then a flat, tuneless beeping. Engaged signal.

"Emergency phone's engaged," Duncan said. "Must be a blackout."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious." Okay, so the sarcasm probably wasn't terribly productive, but it made him feel better. What use was the bloody emergency phone if it was engaged in a bloody emergency anyway?

Duncan snorted quietly and his voice held no trace of irritation as he replied, "At least it's warmer here than outside. Must be close to freezing out there." A soft crumple and slide of fabric whispered in the darkness -- making himself comfortable, no doubt. "Take a load off and sit down, Methos, we might be here a while."

Duncan's equanimity was bloody irritating. "Aren't you going to climb out the trapdoor or something equally heroic?" So, he was being a pain in the arse. Big deal. After all these years, Duncan was used to it.

"Nope."

Disgusting, that Zen-like calm in the face of Methos' irritation. "Fine," he grumbled, shrugging his coat off his shoulders and settling on the floor with a petulant wriggle. Useless, of course, in the dark when Duncan couldn't see it to appreciate the petulance, but anyway... "Why not?"

"It doesn't open from the inside."

Oh. Right. No point in asking how Duncan knew that. It would turn out to be true and then Methos would feel like a prat for asking. One of those annoying Highlander things. He wriggled again. Damn it, something was sticking into him. A shuffle and a tug had it shifted and relatively comfortable flatness restored beneath his bum.

"Methos? What are you doing over there?"

Brief homicidal urges flashed over him, the intensity in direct correlation to the amusement in Duncan's voice. "Put it this way, MacLeod -- I know where my sword is now."

Duncan, damn him, just chuckled. "You were sitting on it."

"Doesn't make it any less sharp," Methos shot back, well aware how bloody juvenile he sounded.

"Blah, blah, blah..."

"Or me any less likely to use it," Methos added before he could think. Then the words were out there, mined with tripwires in the space between them.

"Would you?" No amusement now in the soft, burred voice.

"No!" Methos answered quickly before this could all get way out of hand, banter segueing into life and death in the space of a word. The same as it ever was. "Don't be stupid."

"We are who we are, Methos. Even you can't deny that. We've both killed friends, lovers...brothers. Can you honestly say it could never happen again?"

And there they were, knee-deep in the crap that would always divide them, no matter what...no matter what. Deflection was always easier than a straight answer. "The way you put your head on the line time after time I won't have to." And maybe that was what it was all about, after all. If Duncan died in a fair fight with some random Immortal then it would be The Will of The Universe and no one he loved would ever have to take his head. The way he'd been forced to, time and again. And somehow, it was easier in the dark to come straight out and say, "That's it, isn't it?" into the musty silence than it would have been if he had to look into Duncan's face. "If some stranger -- some enemy -- kills you, it lets the rest of us off the hook."

"No." The calm in Duncan's voice was still there and someone who knew him less well might have missed the underscored tension. "I fight because I have to." A shuffle of movement and a long exhalation of breath. "Because there are things worth fighting for."

"And if you die for no damn reason?"

"Reason or not, Methos, I'd still be dead."

The careful calm was really starting to get on Methos' nerves. "Well, if that's what you want," he sniped icily.

"Want?!" Duncan shot back, the calm splintering at last. "When has what I wanted ever mattered a damn? What would you have me do? What goddamn choice did--do I have?" Boots thudded on the floor and Methos could feel Duncan pacing around.

Easier now in the face of his anger to keep his voice low and steady. "There are always choices. Sometimes they suck, but they're there all the same."

"And they're mine to make," Duncan answered without heat as the movement stilled. "Mine, Methos."

"Yes. And Connor's choices were his."

"Yes. They were," Duncan replied simply, though the hurt was plain now. "Do we have to rehash this all now?" There was a small snick and then the drone of the engaged signal again. Methos heard him snort impatiently. But he didn't sit down again; prowling instead about their suspended prison, a caged lion in Armani.

"Does that help?" Methos asked mildly.

The pacing stopped. "Not really." Duncan's voice was still tight with the remains of their argument. Fabric brushed against the elegantly covered wall and Methos thought he was probably leaning against it. He could well imagine the look on Duncan's face. Another silence, longer this time, then: "I don't want to fight with you."

"I know you don't."

"Then let's not."

"All right." And with anyone else it would have been as simple as that. But nothing with Duncan was ever, ever simple.

"Methos? Do you ever think about the Gathering?"

"No," Methos answered as if was nothing at all.

"Come on, Methos. You can't tell me you never think about it."

"Mac, the Gathering's been coming for as long as I can remember. I keep expecting to see a little old Immortal on a street corner carrying a sign that says, 'The End is Nigh! Repent!' But I'm still waiting...."

"Ha-ha." Duncan wasn't laughing. "So you don't believe the time is near?"

Jesus. When was this bloody lift going to start moving again? "You're assuming I believe in it all," Methos deflected again, rubbing his hand over his face. There wasn't a breath of air in the damn place.

"You don't believe in the Gathering?"

"And you do?"

"Doesn't everyone? It was one of the first things Connor taught me. The rules, Quickenings, the Game, and one day the Gathering."

Sometimes he sounded so goddamned young. "Duncan," Methos said as gently as he could. "Has it occurred to you that there may have been one or two things Connor was wrong about?"

A long silence stretched out in the dark. Then finally Duncan answered, "So you think it's all bull."

Methos could hear his own cynicism in Duncan's voice. He sighed. Weighed his options. Made a decision.

He hated having to make decisions.

"Yes, I think it's all bull," he said, hoping that was all there was to it. And when was the bloody lift going to move anyway?

Of course, that wasn't all there was to it. Bloody MacLeod. He should have known the next words out of his mouth would be: "But how do you know?"

"Well, it's stupid, for one thing," Methos answered. How did he get himself into these conversations anyway? "Can you imagine all of us jetting into one place, swords in hand, ready to die like lemmings? You know how hard it is to fly a sword anywhere these days. And what about all the Immortals in prisons and nuthouses?"

"But what about the Prize?"

"What prize? Does anyone even know what it is? Living forever? Forever's a bloody long time -- I should know. You can have it too. All you have to do is not lose your head." Easier said than done for some people. "Which is exactly what I've been telling you all these years."

"Someone made it all up."

Methos had forgotten, or tried to forget, the odd flashes of intuition Duncan was given to. He wasn't perfect after all. He was just a guy, just a flawed human being, just a very old, very fucked-up--

"Was it you?"

"Now you're just being ridiculous," Methos spat. Hollowness rang as clear as a bell in the echoing space. "If it was made up, then it wasn't by me." Closer to the truth than he usually skated, but perhaps Duncan wouldn't notice.

"But you know who did." Bloody MacLeod was like a dog with a bone.

"It doesn't matter now, does it?" Methos sighed, avoiding the question. "It didn't do my doppelganger any good to go around telling all and sundry the Game wasn't real. Look what happened to him." Methos paused and sighed deeply. "Almost every Immortal in the world believes in the damned thing and even if they were told it was a lie, they wouldn't change their minds. It's out there now. For all intents and purposes it is true. It's true because enough of us believe it's true."

"Except for one thing -- there is no prize," Duncan put in, somber as a judge.

"One day that may not matter." He didn't need to say all of it. He knew Duncan knew what he meant. If there ever was a last Immortal, then he or she was going to be really pissed. But of course if Methos wasn't the last, then he wouldn't be around to care anyway. And if he was the last, well then he wouldn't be expecting anything. It was win-win. Mostly. Well, not for the guy who actually invented it, but he then he was long gone.

There was a rush of movement, a flurry of cloth sounding like the wings of an eagle, and he was hauled to his feet and slammed up against the wall so hard his head rang.

"How can you be so calm about this?" Duncan demanded. "What about all the thousands of people who've died because of what you did?"

Methos let the anger wash over him. "I didn't do it."

"But you knew it was a lie and thousands have died."

He'd been here before. "Ten thousand?" he asked quietly, pointedly. "We've had this conversation already, Mac. You can't hang this one on me and it was a long time ago. It can't be undone." He plucked Duncan's hands from his coat, but held onto them, his fingers curled around strong wrists practically vibrating with tension.

"It was Kronos, wasn't it?"

"Actually, no, it wasn't." He still held Duncan's wrists, and that was odd and surprising. "This was much, much earlier. Let it go, Mac. There's nothing to be gained from it."

"Except the truth."

"Hmm...the truth..." Methos dared a small circular motion of his thumbs, rubbing over Duncan's wrists. "Tell me this, Mac, would you have done anything differently if you'd known this before?"

Suddenly the lift shuddered and the lights flickered back into life. Methos blinked as his eyes stung. Duncan's face was all he could see, pale and set. "I've never wanted to play the Game and I've never wanted the Prize," Duncan ground out.

"So, it doesn't matter, does it?" The floor beneath his feet was moving.

"Yes, Methos, it matters. The truth always matters," Duncan snapped, tugging his hands free and stepping back.

Methos glared at him, anger flickering at the base of his skull. "Why? Who cares if a bunch of power-hungry cretins cut each other's heads off in their quest for some mythical power? It seems to be the only sort of natural selection we have. And we bloody well need one. Darwin sure didn't figure Immortals into the equation. The only thing that's changed now is that you know you were right not to play along."

Duncan opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. He shook his head. Methos could see the desolation in his eyes. The look of a man who'd just had the metaphorical rug pulled out from under him. He felt like the world's biggest shit. Goddamnit.

The doors slid open at last. The hallway that led to their suite yawned before him, long and empty. Great, they were back where they started from. "Or," he said with utterly false brightness as he picked his coat up from the floor. "Maybe I'm lying my arse off..." He strolled out the door in front of Duncan, glanced back over his shoulder and grinned. "You never know. Maybe I'm trying to lull you into a false sense of security."

Duncan's hand landed on his shoulder and spun him around. Intense brown eyes searched his face. He made himself meet them and smile.

"No, Methos," Duncan said finally, "You could never do that." And then he walked away, hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

Methos watched him go, wondering if he'd just received reassurance -- or a warning.

the end

Thanks to MacGeorge and Tritorella for the beta.

Back to Menu Back to Contents