Chapter Seventeen

Methos left the dream behind with the sensation of bursting up from the bottom of a dark pool. He gasped for air, almost surprised when it flowed into his starving lungs. The fear he'd felt was slipping away with the remnants of the dream, leaving him just with the sweat itching on his unshaven face. He rubbed his hand over it, puzzled for a second when his arm brushed across a broad chest.

The night before came flooding back. Oh gods, like they needed more complications right now. Not smart at all. Methos rolled his eyes at himself as he realized he was still wound around Duncan like monkey vine around a tree.

He slipped out of Duncan's arms, before the touch and the warmth and the sheer presence of the man could seduce him into staying, and sat up beside him, stretching the stiffness out of his muscles. Duncan frowned in his sleep, then blinked -- finally opening his eyes and fixing them on him. "Methos?" he asked, his voice still husky with sleep. "Are you all right?"

Methos stood and constructed a reasonably authentic smile. "I'm fine, Mac. Just need to go empty the bilge." He was out of there, jumping down from the tailgate and going out the church door, before Duncan could say anything else. He'd been so damn needy last night he could barely stand to think about it. His resistance to Duncan was shaky at the best of times, and these were hardly the best of times. The ground was damp and slick beneath his feet and he negotiated it carefully in the gray dawn light.

He ran into Mac's sidekick just outside the church, heading in as he was heading out. "How you doing, Doc?" Mpande asked cheerfully.

Methos nodded and smiled and kept on going around the corner. He saw Mpande shrug as he passed, but he gave no other comment as he went back into the church. While Methos felt vastly improved on what he had been the night before; he still didn't want to engage in a bunch of small-talk; everything that had happened was still far too fresh and raw. He pissed long and gratefully against a bush at the side of the church, zipped up and went back inside.

Duncan was up when he walked back in, sitting by the fire with Mpande while water steamed in a pot in front of them. Mpande was pushing buttons on what looked like a satellite phone. They had a satellite phone? His day was looking up already, until he noticed the disgusted look on Mpande's face. Apparently they had one of the non-working variety...just his luck.

Mpande gave the phone a shake and swore at it fairly creatively in Zulu, then shoved it in his pack as Methos reached the fireside. Yep, definitely not working. Damn. Then Duncan was looking up at him and Methos found himself the target of one of his brilliant smiles. He found himself returning it, because...well, just because. Because Duncan was beautiful and looking at him as if he really meant it and because Methos was a hopeless old fool.

"Good morning," Duncan said as he sat down. "You're looking a lot more human this morning."

"As opposed to...?"

Duncan grinned wider. "Well, last night you looked like a ghost and smelled like a water buffalo... Of course, you still do smell like a water buffalo -- but at least you look better."

"Well, thank you so much," Methos sniped. "I suppose it'd be childish to point out that you smell even worse?"

"Very."

"Too late."

"This is what I missed most about you, MacLeod -- the sparkling repartee." He peered at the pot, now bubbling and steaming and asked wistfully, "Is someone going to turn that hot water into coffee anytime soon?"

Duncan set to work pouring the hot water over (sadly instant, but fragrant all the same) coffee and doling it out into mugs. Mpande reached into his pack and passed around long strips of biltong. Methos' mouth watered as he smelt the faint, savory aroma of the meat. It still felt as if he hadn't eaten in a week. He looked around while he was chewing the first bite; he couldn't see Kumari. Just as he was about to ask after her, she drifted into view from the other end of the building.

"Morning," Mpande said brightly, taking his mug from Duncan.

Methos watched her nod silently and sit down, as cold and shuttered as he had ever seen her. He wasn't surprised, not after last night -- in fact, the only surprising thing was how well she was holding together, considering...well considering. He was saved from having to complete the thought by Duncan sticking a coffee in front of him and by Mpande wondering out loud if anyone was actually going to speak to him today.

Duncan laughed, but he was the only one. "Did you get a chance to check out the fuel tank yet?" he asked Mpande.

"It's cracked, Mac. She not gonna hold anything we put in there for long."

"Think we can patch it?" Duncan asked around a mouthful of biltong.

"Maybe, if we find something to use."

Duncan frowned, clearly thinking. Methos refrained from making a joke about that. "Some kind of tape would work -- at least temporarily..." Duncan said. "Something like duct tape, maybe? How bad is the crack?"

"That crack's not too big, Mac. You wanna come see?" Mpande asked, standing up.

Duncan smiled again at Methos, stood and followed Mpande to the truck. Methos watched them go, then turned his attention to the woman sitting silently across the campfire from him. "How are you this morning, Kumari?" he asked quietly.

"I am fine, thank you, Doctor," she answered, her voice coolly formal, telling him nothing.

Methos nodded and went back to finishing his breakfast. Her mental health was her concern -- not his -- and if she was going to insist she was okay, then who was he to say otherwise? Maybe she was and he was the only one finding it hard to banish everything that had happened from his mind. He would -- eventually, of course -- it was just going to take some time. Not keen to follow that particular train of thought, Methos lay down his empty mug and headed over to Duncan and Mpande at the truck.

Two pairs of feet stuck out from underneath the chassis, both booted, one large though narrow, the other shorter and wider. He could hear an erudite discussion filtering out on the best way to fix the fuel tank.

"We just need something sticky to seal it," he heard Duncan insist.

Mpande sighed as if he'd heard it before. "I know...you wanna wait here 'til I go to the hardware store in Luanda? 'Cos we don't got nothing like that."

Despite his preoccupation, Methos cracked a grin at the sarcasm. "Might I make a suggestion?"

The larger feet kicked and Duncan slithered out from beneath the truck. "You've got an idea?" Duncan asked as he straightened.

Methos lounged against the side of the truck. "Well...sort of.... Has anyone searched the truck yet? There might be something we can use."

"Good idea," Duncan said warmly. "You wanna take care of that?"

He reached out as if to touch Methos' arm. Just in time, Methos stepped back and around him. "No time like the present and all that..." Methos said distractedly as he climbed into the truck and immediately began to sort through the mess in the glovebox.

"Mac?" Methos heard Mpande call.

Methos glanced up at the sound and saw Duncan turn back from where he'd been standing at the open truck door and go in the direction of the voice. Methos closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and letting it go. He really had to get a hold of himself.

He soon found there was nothing in the glovebox but a vast amount of paper. What was it about modern warfare and paperwork anyway? They just couldn't seem to do anything without generating reams and reams of paper about it. The cab was a complete bust as far as finding something to fix the fuel tank with, so he climbed back out and went around the back. He stepped over the feet sticking out from underneath -- Duncan and Mpande were arguing again -- and pulled himself up into the back of the truck. Now it was lighter than it had been when he'd last been here, Methos could see there was stuff stored at the front end: a couple of wooden crates, two jerrycans and what looked like the toolbox.

Well, that looked more promising.

It wasn't, though; after he'd rummaged through all the boxes -- including the toolbox -- he could find nothing at all that would help them patch the crack. There was a lot of other potentially useful stuff, but nothing that would help them right now. Methos tossed the crap back into the crates and shoved them back into place a little harder than he really needed to. One crate slammed into the one behind it, sending it bouncing off the back wall of the cab.

He was about to stalk off in disgust when something he hadn't noticed before caught his eye, revealed by the movement of the crates. There in the corner, sticking out from behind one box, was an ancient canvas sneaker, the upper ripped from the toe backwards. But it wasn't the upper he was interested in. He snatched it up and went out of the truck, a spring in his step as he jumped down from the tailgate and walked over to the fire. They were going to get out of this godforsaken country after all.

Kumari was still sitting by the fire when he came back. "Kumari?" Methos called as she turned towards him. "Can you please see if you can find a clean pot in one of the packs?"

Her brows drew down, but she began to sort through the packs as he had asked. Meanwhile he picked up one of the machetes that were lying nearby and began to cut the upper from the sneaker and peel out the insole.

"I found one," she said after a minute or so.

Methos looked up and saw she had a small, army issue cooking pot in her hand -- exactly what he needed. "Thanks. Can you build up the fire a bit?"

She stood, but paused. "Doctor...what are you doing?"

He paused, still holding the sole and the blade in his hands, and smiled. "Ever melt your tackies on a city road in summer when you were a little girl, Kumari?"

Understanding showed in her eyes and she nodded, almost cracking a smile, before she went out through the space where most of the fourth wall had once been.

"Didn't I feed you enough at breakfast?" Duncan asked as he came back over from the truck, trailed by Mpande. "I've heard of men doing desperate things when they're hungry, but cooking your shoes...?"

"Oh, ha-ha," Methos said blithely, starting to cut up the sole into little pieces so they'd melt easier. "Rubber soles...? Which when melted turn into a spreadable goo which can be used to...?"

"Patch the tank!" Duncan shouted. "Methos, you're brilliant."

"Of course," he said, feigning modesty. "Now, if you're done admiring me, has anyone thought about what we're going to put in the tank when it doesn't leak anymore?"

"I'll head out and scout around -- see what I can find," Mpande said.

"Good idea," Duncan said. "I'll come with you."

Mpande shook his head. "Not a good idea, Mac. Folks 'round here gonna notice a white man -- you don't get too many this neck of the woods."

"But you can't just go off by yourself--" Duncan began.

Kumari, surprisingly, cut him off, standing just inside the hole in the wall with an armful of firewood. "I will go."

Methos almost dropped the machete. "Kumari, are you sure?"

Her chin lifted stubbornly. "I think you know I can take care of myself, Doctor," she answered, looking at him meaningfully.

She had a point. And an African couple would not stand out the way he and Duncan would; though the local people -- if there were any -- would no doubt recognize them as strangers, at least up close, their presence would be a lot less suspicious than his or Duncan's. "Be careful out there," was all Methos said as he went back to his work. "The tank should be done by the time you get back."

***

So Kumari and Mpande left, taking the two empty jerrycans with them. Duncan watched them go, still not one hundred percent certain they should be going off without him. But there was work to be done here and plenty of it. He looked over at Methos by the fire; he was frowning into the pot he held.

"Problems?" he asked as he walked over.

"It's not hot enough, the rubber's not melting." Methos shook the pan, but aside from the edges softening and a noxious odor filtering into the air, Duncan could see there was not much else happening.

"It needs to be closed in, to concentrate the heat like a forge."

Methos nodded. "That would work."

There was a tumble of fallen bricks around the outside of the crumbling church, Duncan remembered. He went outside, squinting into the bright sunlight. The day was heating up fast. He tried to ignore it and concentrated on gathering up as large an armful of bricks as he could carry. Coming back inside, he dumped the bricks by the fire. "Think these'll do?" he asked Methos.

Methos glanced at them. "Probably."

Duncan went to work stacking the bricks around the fire, making a low wall around all four sides. Methos was quiet while Duncan worked, his eyes very far away. "You never said," Duncan began, "what was happening last night when we got to the village."

"Didn't I?" Methos answered and shifted so that Duncan could not see his face. It might not have been deliberate, then again, this was Methos....

"No, you didn't. Who were those guys?"

"UNITA."

Methos clearly didn't want to talk about it and Duncan was out of bricks. He let it go for the moment while he went and picked up more from outside.  God knew Methos was never easy to read, but Duncan wanted to know what had happened in the camp. Of course, whether Methos would ever actually tell him about it was a matter for debate, but....

He'd never know if he didn't try.

Duncan found more bricks, the hand-formed edges crumbling as he stacked them into the crook of his arm, and lugged them back into the church. Methos looked up from the fire as Duncan came in; the old man was sweaty and flushed and way too thin, but he was still by far the most wonderful thing Duncan had seen for years.

The corner of Methos' mouth twitched up in a half-smile for a moment before he looked back down into the fire. Duncan said nothing, but went about piling the bricks up until the wall rose to just above the small fire. The heat was building already, and sweat began to pour from his skin. He looked over into the pot; the rubber appeared to be melting at last. But Methos was still silent.

Duncan poked some more wood into the fire and looked up at the sky and the small column of smoke rising from the blaze. "Should we be worried about that, you think?" he asked, gesturing up at the smoke.

"It's a risk we'll have to take, I think and we can put it out soon. Besides, we don't exactly have a lot of other options, do we?" Methos gave the pot a shake. "It could be any villager's cooking fire -- they can't investigate every puff of smoke they see."

Not a great opening, but Duncan took it anyway. "But who are they, Methos?"

"I told you already: UNITA," Methos answered a little sharply.

"Was she a prisoner too?"

Methos sighed and looked away. "You aren't going to let this go, are you?"

"I just want to know what happened to you," Duncan said as gently as he could.

"It isn't very interesting."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of...." Duncan trailed off and shook his head when he saw the look on Methos' face. "Forget it -- forget I asked. I'm sorry."

Methos looked at him, his eyes gone unreadable again. "Hold this," he said, getting up. "I want to get something from the toolbox to spread this on the tank."

Duncan took the pot from him; the rubber was almost all melted now and he watched Methos walk across the church and climb into the back of the truck. He could see some of the tension returning to Methos' body in the stiffening of his shoulders and the stubborn set of his chin. Damn. He'd really blown it.

He'd lost Methos' trust, that much was clear. Maybe there was only so much he could forgive. Duncan couldn't blame him for it.

He glanced down at the pot he was holding; the rubber was liquid now, bubbling languidly in the bottom. He stood and went over to the truck just as Methos was coming out. "It's ready," Duncan said.

Methos peered at it. "Looks like it. Let's get moving then." He brushed past Duncan without waiting for an answer and Duncan followed him. Methos had an odd collection of things in his hands, but Duncan didn't ask what he intended to do with them. He'd just wait and see. And speaking of seeing...they were going to need light under there. Duncan set the pot down on the floor near the truck and went to get the torch.

Methos got down on the ground and slid under the truck, taking the pot with him. "You helping or not, MacLeod?" he called.

"Hold on." Duncan picked up the torch and strode back to the truck, shimmying quickly under the chassis and aiming the torch at the fuel tank. "Better? Can you see where the crack runs?" He ran his finger along it. "Just over here."

"Yeah, I see it." Methos began to work, cleaning the surface with a scrap of sandpaper, then spreading the liquid rubber over the tank in thin layers, waiting for each one to dry, before adding another. They worked in silence for perhaps half an hour, until Methos said out of the blue, "Do you really want to know?"

"Only if you want to tell me," Duncan said, far more casually than he felt.

Methos sighed. "Not especially." He muttered something about letting the rubber set and slid out from under the truck. Duncan went with him to sit in the shaded entrance of the old church, picking up two canteens of water as he passed. It was stinking hot, even in the shade, but the occasional puff of breeze reached them. Duncan handed one canteen to Methos and waited patiently while he drank deeply. "Thanks." He looked out at the abandoned village for an extended moment, then began. "The crash came out of nowhere...one minute we were flying, the next we hit some turbulence and...."

And Methos went on, telling the story dispassionately as if it had happened to someone else. Duncan listened to him describe the crash, and the aftermath and the arrival of his captors, his imagination filling in the details Methos skimmed over. Duncan didn't miss the fact that there were plenty of those.

Methos paused for a moment, took another long drink then continued, "Then the captain, Allessandro -- that little bastard you plugged, thanks for that, by the way -- pulled Djube's head up and slit his throat."

"The rebel captain did that?" Duncan asked before he could think.

Methos looked puzzled. "Yes. Who'd you think?"

"I didn't...they said--" Duncan babbled, caught off balance and realizing his mistake a second too late. Idiot. He could have kicked himself when he saw the look on Methos' face. That day in the gardens all over again.

"Who said what?" Methos asked coldly.

"Nothing -- forget I mentioned it. And then what happened?"

"I don't think so, MacLeod. Who. Said. What?" Methos' knuckles were white as he grasped the canteen.

Duncan took a deep breath and hoped the words came out right this time. "There were some questions about how the pilot died. But--"

Methos cut him off. "Great," he snarled, tossing down the empty canteen as he leapt up and stalked away.

Duncan went after him. "Hold on a minute, Methos!" Duncan caught up to him just outside the church, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him around to face him. Duncan's temper flared. "There's nowhere to run away to now." Methos arched one eyebrow at him, his mouth thin and tight, but silent. "What I was going to say, before you threw a tantrum, was that I didn't believe it for a second. I know you would never do that. I told them that." Methos opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, managing to look pissy and lost all at once. Duncan's temper bled away as if it had never been and he reached out and stroked one finger down the side of Methos' face. "I trust you, Methos," he said softly. "I believe in you."

Methos leaned into the touch for half a heartbeat, then pulled away. "I'm five thousand years old, MacLeod," he said quietly. "I don't throw tantrums."

Duncan smiled. "My mistake."

"Hmmm...." Methos narrowed his eyes at him. "We should check on the truck."

They went back into the church and climbed under the truck again. Duncan touched a finger to the patch but it was still tacky. "Gonna take a bit longer," he said. "Come on and I'll make you something to eat while we wait." He grinned broadly at Methos.

"Trying to fatten me up?" Methos shot back as he wriggled out from under the chassis.

Duncan poked a fingertip into Methos' bony ribs. "You saying you don't need it?"

Methos let that pass without comment, but Duncan caught a glimpse of the smile he was hiding. They went back to the fire, which was still burning, but lower now and Duncan busied himself sorting through the remaining supplies. Depending on how long they took to get back across the border, they could run low with four mouths to feed. But he was hoping they could make it out quickly. Now that he had Methos back, he was itching to get back to normality.

He heated up some more vacuum-packed meals, chilli this time, and watched with pleasure as Methos ate his ravenously. When they had finished, he took Methos' plate from him and asked, "So what happened next?"

"They took me to the camp..." He talked in spurts, jumping back and forth in time, describing the camp and the people, describing his strange patient -- the brother of the man Duncan had killed as it turned out. No great loss at all, he decided as Methos spoke of the captain's madness, the beatings, the escape attempts -- his imprisonment. God only knew he hated killing mortals but very occasionally he felt as if he done the world a favor. Like now. No wonder Methos had looked more like shit on a stick than death on a horse when they had found him.

But Methos' story was far from over. He went on, telling him how the woman, Kumari, had arrived in the camp.

"She's a witch?" Duncan interrupted.

Methos sighed and rolled his eyes. "A Sangoma, Mac. Sort of a traditional healer. She'd known Allessandro for a long time -- was on her way to see him, as a matter of fact, when she ran into Serao outside a nearby village and he raped her. Pretty viciously by the sounds of things -- she's got some wounds that...well...never mind. She took her revenge by cursing him -- and poisoning him with something from her bag of tricks."

"And that's how he ended up like that?" Duncan asked disbelievingly. "From a curse?"

"And the poison. But faith's a powerful thing, MacLeod."

Duncan looked up and met Methos' eyes squarely. "Yeah, I noticed."

Methos looked back searchingly but didn't reply. "After a few weeks she got a message from Allessandro to come to the camp -- his brother was sick and he needed her help." Duncan couldn't hold back the surprised noise he made at that. "Yeah, some coincidence, I know. But they were old friends..." he shrugged.

"But they still kidnapped you?"

"Allessandro's idea of holistic care," Methos answered dryly.

There was something more, something that Methos wasn't telling him about that, but Duncan wasn't going to push it, not when Methos seemed to be opening up at last. "So, she got there and...?"

"She went through the motions, pretending to perform the ceremonies, but instead of trying to cure him, she was torturing him instead. She wanted Serao dead -- but she wanted him to suffer first. She got what she wanted."

"Kumari killed him? How? When?" Duncan couldn't hide his shock.

"Don't you ever get tired of asking so many questions?" Methos chided mildly, but there was a tension in his face that hadn't been there before.

Duncan inclined his head to one side but said nothing as Methos went on.

"Yes, she killed him. Last night, after the ceremony...." Methos' voice faltered for a moment, but he recovered, though his eyes grew bleak and hard. "We had a deal, you see. I turned a blind eye to what she was doing and she would help me to escape if I took her with me."

Words formed a logjam at the back of Duncan's throat, but he left them there. He got no impression Methos needed to know what he was thinking.

"I needed to get out of there, before that little psychopath killed me for good. They were never going to let me go and I couldn't take the chance they wouldn't leave me in bite-sized chunks when they had no more use for me. She stole some guns from Allessandro -- you'll have to ask her how she managed that -- and after she 'treated' Comrade Serao at the ceremony, she had him brought back to the hut and then...and then she cut off his dick and stuffed it in his mouth. I'm not sure whether he choked or bled to death."

Somewhere vaguely at the back of his mind, Duncan knew he should have been sickened and outraged by such a horrible revenge, but all he could hear was Methos admitting how close he'd been to death and it terrified him. "But he died?" he asked a little shakily.

"Oh yes."

"There wasn't anything else you could do," Duncan said quietly. Intellectually, he knew revenge was no solution to anything but, deep inside, in the place where his younger, simpler self still lurked, he was glad to know the bastard had got what he deserved.

Methos looked straight at him. "He didn't do anything I haven't done and worse."

"But that's not who you are now." Absolute certainty in his voice. He was never more sure of anything in his life.

"You'd have killed me if you knew me then." It wasn't a question.

"Will you understand if I say I'm glad I didn't?" Duncan said evenly, not letting his eyes move from Methos'.

Methos closed his eyes and said, almost to himself, "I am too."

The intensity of the conversation was making him sweat and he wasn't the only one; Methos was looking more than a little ragged too. Duncan backed off a little. "What happened next?" he asked.

Methos sighed and dropped his head back to gaze up at the sky. "Stupid really... we were almost out of there, almost home free, when there was this noise behind us. I looked around and there was one of the camp kids -- silly little bugger had probably only come out to piss -- and there he was looking straight at us. I went 'shush' at him and turned around to get the hell out of there and bloody Kumari had her gun aimed at him." He sighed and looked annoyed. "I grabbed her, tried to pull the gun out of her hand, but it went off. Missed him, thankfully. Not that she had much chance of hitting him -- she'd never even picked up a gun before. But all hell broke loose. And the rest you know."

"What the hell did she think she was doing pointing a gun at a child?" And what the hell kind of trouble had they invited bringing her along with them?

"Mac...she was terrified -- still is for all that frosty veneer. I don't think she was thinking, just reacting."

That Duncan could understand. And it was over now. "I'm glad you're okay," he said, meaning it far more than the words could express. He reached out and took Methos' hand in his, squeezing it gently. "And I'm glad I have another chance to make things all right." He leaned across and closed the distance between them, cupping a hand behind Methos' neck and angling him so their lips could meet perfectly. And Christ it was perfect; Methos' mouth was hot with spices and opening freely under his own. Connection and homecoming and inescapable rightness in the smooth, slick slip of lips against his. The hungry little noise Methos made against his mouth almost brought him undone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Continued in Chapter Eighteen          Back to Main Page          Back to Contents