Snapshots, Kodak Ghosts
Fandom: Highlander, Maloney, The Burning Zone
Category/Rated: R, Slash
Year/Length: ~14,000 words
Pairing: Methos/Philip Padgett/Ansons Greene
Disclaimer: None of these boys are mine, and that makes me really sad. At one time, some of them actually were Jennie's and realitycek's. None of us were ever paid.
Warning: More peefic!
Summary: The three boys have formed an uneasy alliance. Philip Paget has become immortal, though Anson is your regular human at present. Philips immortality was the result of alien experimentation rather than the true immortality that Methos and Cory share, but although Anson has the latent potential to make that leap, they havent yet discovered how to enable the chip he has in his neck. Philip has stayed with Anson and Methos, who became lovers during the course of the game, because he needs to learn about how to handle his immortality, however, he doesnt like or trust Methos. At the start of this part of the story, they are in Seacouver, having just arrived back from DC. It's between Christmas and New Year, and there will be tears before bedtime...
Author's Notes: Way back when the Zone was younger than it is now, the NickZone Role Playing Game sometimes generated as many as 100 messages a day. Sadly, its gone quiet now, but one set of boys were so fascinating to me that I couldnt leave them where they were. Those boys were Anson Greene, Philip Paget, and Methos. This story is the first of many that will attempt to follow them on their adventures after they left the game.
Beta: Beta and thanks to Sebastian.
Snapshot One
Young man on the phone, face agonized as he pleads with whomever he's called. Work boots scuffed and dirty, faded jeans and plaid lumberjack shirt don't give you any indication that it's a holiday. Anguished face and over-bright eyes show that he's distressed, but no more than that.
"C'mon, Roxy. She's my daughter. I've served my time. It's not like I'm turning up on your doorstep. All I want to do is wish her a Merry Christmas and ask her if she liked the game I sent."
He pauses, husky voice still for a moment, and you can see that he's listening intently. His face flushes, and at first it seems as though he's furious, but then it becomes obvious that he's been dealt some sort of emotional blow.
"But Roxy… How could you do that? She would've… Please, Roxy? Oh, for heavens…"
He sinks into a huddle, phone still at his ear, but now it's obvious that he's distressed. A tear is slowly working its way from beneath tightly closed eyelids, and again he whispers, "Please."
He's still for a very long time, crouched in a corner beside the phone. The disconnected tone is coming from the receiver that is still held tightly in his hand, but he shows no sign of hearing it. All we can hear from him are the heavy, halting breaths that indicate that he is holding back sobs.
"Hey, Anson?"
The young man that enters the hallway is tall and elegant from his sleekly coiffed head to his hand-made Italian shoes.
A casual glance might reveal little in common between the two men, but a closer look reveals a similarity between them that isn't immediately apparent. As the man called Anson raises his agonized face to look at the newcomer, two identical pairs of eyes meet, and the newcomer frowns.
"She didn't give Annabel the Aibo I bought her. She won't let me talk to her." Anson's voice is harsh with pain. His breathing hitches and stutters, and at last he lets the phone drop to swing on its coiled cable.
The newcomer frowns, makes a slight sound that could be sympathetic or maybe just impatient, and you see a haunted spasm of misery pass over Anson's features, reflected in the eyes of the man who stands over him.
For a moment, they resonate, then the newcomer holds out his hand to Anson, pulling him to his feet as he takes it.
"It's okay, kid. I know that it hurts, but it will fade. It will pass." Anson falls into the other man's embrace, and it becomes obvious that he's finally given in to the distress he feels. His shoulders shake as he's pulled into a rough hug; shadows flicker over the other man's face as he makes soothing sounds and rubs Anson's back.
Snapshot Two
Dark hair, cropped short, revealing a clever, narrow face with intelligent eyes that have a perpetual look of amusement. This man's face isn't handsome, but somehow the overall effect is that of beauty. The man is tall and wiry, and he's got muscles that are usually hidden beneath oversized sweaters, but which today bulge beneath a tight, white T-shirt.
He's cleaning - his movements steady and graceful as he wields the vacuum cleaner, polishes the furniture and generally puts stray items where they are meant to go. His expression as usual gives away little or nothing of how he is feeling. His small apartment has always been jealously guarded from outsiders; not even McLeod has visited him there more than a handful of times, and now there are outsiders actually living with him, usurping his space. He's pondering this, no doubt, as he returns the living area to its normal, orderly fashion.
He's just put the vacuum cleaner away and flopped down onto the couch in a boneless sprawl to peruse a tome on Mesopotamian archaeology, when the two men that have somehow intruded themselves into his orderly lifestyle enter, and his peace, for the time being at least, is gone.
"What's the matter?" Methos can see that Anson is terribly distressed. Philip's agitation is muted by comparison, but the emotions resonate through the room and set up a keening, irresistible feedback loop that destroys all ability to think calmly.
"His wife is being a bitch, as if we couldn't have predicted as much." Philip's voice is rough, his delivery brusque, and it's hard to tell whether he's annoyed at the situation, or merely that he has been involved. Anson stumbles forward to sink into a chair leaving Philip to stand above them, antsy as usual, a frown on his face that suggests irritation.
Methos reaches for Anson, and Philip steps back as if to avoid any physical contact with the dark man. As Anson moves into the circle of his embrace, it seems as though Methos is brooding on something that is deeper, darker than the problem of Anson's ex-wife and her meanness. His eyes flick to Philip once, and then return to stare into the middle distance as he veils his thoughts.
"I prescribe an evening of merriment," says Methos, hands petting Anson's back. "We haven't been to Joe's yet. We haven't had time since we got here, but I think that tonight's the night. C'mon, Anson-love. Put your glad-rags on, and let's go out and be festive. It's Christmas, after all."
As Philip moves backwards, edging away from the old man and his grieving protégé, Methos looks up and skewers him with a cold, hard glance. "You too," is all he says, but Philip's face says it all. ‘Busted!'
Snapshot Three
Joe Dawson is a merry soul. His hair is iron grey, his face is seamed with laugh-lines, and where he's been in his life has taught him to sing the blues.
As the three men approach the door of Joe's bar, Methos and Philip both stop for a moment as the edgy, strident brush of another immortal causes their hackles to rise. Philip looks over Anson to Methos, one eyebrow delicately raised in inquiry, and Methos shrugs, looks around and then puts a hand on the long coat he's wearing, beneath which his sword is always ready.
"I think it's all right. I believe it's merely a friend, but it won't hurt to go carefully." Methos leads, and there's a sardonic smile on his face as he goes. "Is this me? I feel like a mother duck with her ducklings," he murmurs.
"Complete dick, more like," returns Philip, who brings up the rear of the little procession, and then the door is open, and there is Joe, sitting on a barstool on the low stage, teasing his guitar into funky bliss as the notes cascade from him.
As they move through the room towards someone that Methos has spotted near the bar, Joe starts to sing, and his rough, hurting voice puts a justification to the way that Anson's feeling right now. His face was shut down, but you can see that this fits his mood perfectly in the way that it relaxes enough to reveal his own pain.
He turns to Methos, but Methos is away, talking to a tall, good looking guy in designer silks, and doesn't seem to realize that Anson needs him, needs to talk this out, wants at last to put his misery into words.
Philip Paget can be many things he's been cruel and callous in his time - but one thing is beyond him now. One look at Anson's face and you see that he will give his double whatever it is that he needs. Sighing, he moves forward, takes a seat beside Anson, and when the pitcher of beer comes to the table, courtesy of Methos, he pours a glass for Anson and settles back to be the recipient of his confidences, whether or not they will gladden his own heart. Only the single black look he darts at Methos reveals his inner anger, and that, mercifully, is lost for now.
Snapshot Four
Methos and the fashion plate are standing at the bar, well away from the two with whom he arrived. He's deep in conversation, face intense and eyes looking somewhere that isn't here, isn't now.
"So, Methos," says poster boy. "You've acquired a student. That's not like you. Tell me about him and the other one. They could be twins, but the one is immortal and the other not. How come?"
"There were more of them a whole tribe of them that looked alike. Anson was the one that came to me first, and then Philip. Then, Philip became immortal and somehow I managed to feel responsible for him. I don't quite know how that happened, and I don't know what to do about it all, McLeod. I'm not good at this stuff." His voice has a whine to it that makes his companion grin offensively.
"Of course you are, old man. You're just fishing for compliments." The man called McLeod has a slightly Scottish burr to his voice, and he appears to relish Methos' discomfort. Methos knows it too. You can see from his face that he's not too happy about any of this. He takes a swig from his tankard and then glances over to where Anson and Philip are deep in conversation.
"Don't be like that, McLeod. You know how hard it is to build trust between us at the best of times. Philip over there thinks that somehow I engineered all of this. He doesn't like me, trust me or believe me. He's going to get himself killed someday soon, and I don't think that I'll be able to stop it." Methos returns his gaze to McLeod's face, his expression one of soulful outrage, quite spoiled by the flash of irritation that shows itself when McLeod gives a snort of laughter.
"Come on, Methos. He's your responsibility. You were there when he died; he obviously thinks enough of you to tag along after you. What more do you need? You owe it to him to help him through the transition." McLeod has obviously had a conversation like this before. The words trip from his tongue, and one can almost see Methos wilt beneath the weight of them.
Behind them, Joe launches into "I Got it Bad," and Methos winces.
Snapshot Five
"Don't you have any kids, Philip?" Anson has reached the maudlin stage of inebriation. He's miserable, and misery loves company. Philip looks hunted but somehow he stays at Anson's side, soaking up the great chunks of self-pity and self-blame that come his way.
"Kids? Hell no. I spent my youth sowing my wild oats and praying for a lousy harvest. Too bad I never knew that immortals don't breed. Think of the fun I could have had." Philip is looking around him, his eyes pouring scorn on Methos as his glance skates over him on its circuit of the room. "You're worrying too much, Anson. She's safe and well, and some day you'll see her again. That woman can't keep her from you forever."
"But she can poison her against me. Annabel's my daughter, Philip. She's all I've ever managed to get right in my life." Anson raises huge, dark eyes to meet Philip's, and Phil rolls his own eyes in that ‘am I ever gonna exact payment for this one,' kind of expression that he does so well.
"You've found someone that loves you," says Philip huskily, after a few moments thought. "Some people go through the whole of life and never know what that's like." He leans forward to take Anson's hand briefly. "The old guy over there loves you; you know that." It's plain that Philip likes the somewhat drunken young man he's with, but equally plain that he isn't comfortable here. "He's worth something, isn't he?"
"I guess," responds Anson, slowly. "It's just that…"
On the stage, Joe Dawson launches into "If I Ever Cried," and Philip ruffles Anson's hair, glares daggers at Methos, and orders another pitcher of beer.
Snapshot Six
"Damn it, McLeod. You don't know what it's like." Methos' voice rises suddenly above the hubbub, his ordinarily soft tone suddenly shrill as he reacts to something that he'd obviously rather not have heard.
Philip, hearing the protest, half rises from his seat, but the bar is crowded now and Anson is telling him about Annabel's third birthday party. Sighing, he sinks back into his chair, and turns half an ear to Anson's increasingly disjointed ramblings. Methos will just have to wait until Philip can spare him the time to tear him off a strip or two. For now, he's here with Anson, the healer in him unwilling to leave the sad young man while he's still hurting so badly, so he merely curses a little and wishes that there were two of him so that he could send one to stalk over and slap the thin, arrogant face; break the strong beak of a nose.
A lull ensues. Anson is apparently a little more emotionally settled. Now Philip has time to listen to Joe Dawson, who is a virtuoso on the guitar, it turns out. As he listens to Joe winding up his performance with a rendering of "Shake Your Money Maker," he decides that the evening isn't quite lost after all, and when Anson begins to sing along, in a voice that is actually quite tuneful, he almost begins to enjoy himself.
Joe finishes his set and goes to the bar, where he's soon deep in conversation with Methos and poster-boy. Philip watches them for a brief while, lamenting the loss of something more than merely the music, then settles back to be charming and supportive for his fragile companion.
Snapshot Seven
Methos is annoyed. He's a little more than annoyed a fact that makes him feel really pissy. He's so used to being blasé remaining in control and utterly insouciant, that the fact that he's worked up about this whole scenario is making him want to punch holes in Joe's bar… or in McLeod's face.
It's only the fact that he knows McLeod wouldn't let him come close to planting him a good old-fashioned punch on the nose that prevents him from trying. He is, after all, a pragmatist.
"I think you've got yourself involved," Mac was saying. "I think that you care about the two of them, or you wouldn't have any difficulties at all in deciding what to do. You'd have your rucksack packed and be on your way to Outer Mongolia before they could turn around."
"Oh, do shut up, McLeod." The irritation is alive in Methos' voice. "You think you know everything about everyone, when all you really know is how to annoy me."
"What I know is that you're hooked. What I think is that you've got it bad for Cory Raines otherwise, why would you be collecting his look-alikes so industriously?" McLeod speaks without thinking, but at Methos' change of expression it suddenly dawns on him that this might just be the truth that he's hit on. His own eyes open wide, and he gives a snort of amusement. "Oh, my God, That's exactly it, isn't it? Cory Raines? Whoever would have thought it?"
McLeod's derisive laughter is loud, resonating even in the packed bar. For a moment, Philip looks up, enjoying Methos' discomfort as he squirms at McLeod's words, and then forgets about him temporarily. He totally misses Methos' curse as he drinks the last part of his beer, throws some coins on the counter, and strides out of the bar.
When he finally looks for the other man, Methos is long gone.
Snapshot Eight
Joe has his guitar out again, but now he's sitting at the table with Anson and Philip. The man McLeod has come to join them too, and of course anything that annoys Methos is worth a second glance, so while Anson and Joe duet on some old blues standards, Philip is sharing and growing closer to Duncan McLeod of the Clan McLeod, or at least enjoying a fine old single malt he keeps behind the bar.
When Joe finally lays aside his guitar and yawns, Philip's a little amazed to find that it's past midnight and the rest of the patrons have gone, leaving only the little group around their table. Anson is grinning foolishly; Philip can tell that he's feeling no pain whatsoever, and hopes that the anesthetic will continue to hold.
He's resigned to being the designated walker.
"Guess we'd better head out." Philip's voice doesn't betray the third of a bottle of whisky he's shared. There are perks to everything, he decides. Even this immortality gig. "C'mon, Anson. We should get back and find out what that senile delinquent of yours has been up to."
Anson looks reluctantly, longingly at Joe and his guitar, and then rises somewhat unsteadily to his feet to hold out his hand. Joe shakes it gravely, and the two of them depart on a chorus of ‘So long, it's Been Good to Know Ya." Grinning a goodbye at McLeod, Philip follows Anson to the door and raises a hand before turning to face the night.
Snapshot Nine
Out in the street, Anson is suddenly quiet again, but his temper seems good to Philip. They begin to walk the few blocks back to the apartment, when suddenly Anson tucks his arm into Philip's.
The gesture is endearing. Philip smiles a little lopsidedly at Anson, who is obviously feeling the alcohol that he's consumed. Methos has told him that one of the perks to immortality is an immunity to germs and to drugs too. Reluctantly, he is forced to conclude that this also means any beer buzz he gets will be fleeting, and that makes him regret his lost mortality yet again. Potentially the whole of eternity is there ahead of him, where it looms, hangover free. He sighs, then plods on, Anson beside him, towards their current residence.
The streets are empty. The post-Christmas lull is in force, and city streets are devoid of traffic, the fairy lights sparkling on wet sidewalks that are slick after rain earlier in the evening. The air has a bite to it and, now that the clouds have cleared, the stars above look down on the two identical men as though passing judgment. It's not too cold yet, but by morning there will be a frost, that's a given.
It looks as though Philip's having dark thoughts now, thoughts that match the weather, cold and frosty; there's a frown on his face as the two of them approach their home, a frown that contrasts with the contentment that Anson seems to have discovered during the course of the evening.
Anson, singing little snippets of remembered songs, doesn't notice the gradual downward slide that Philip's mood is taking, and it's only when they reach the front door that he suddenly looks up and asks where Methos is.
Philip avoids the answer, instead fumbling for his key and locating the lock, making a production about opening the door to the apartment. It gets forgotten in the business of entering the hallway, hanging up coats and removing shoes. Anson is a little unsteady on his feet and almost takes a tumble over Methos' shoes, which are lying squarely in the middle of the mat. Their presence reassures him, even though they cause Philip to growl.
Stretching out a hand to steady Anson, Philip seems to be a little surprised at the rush of affection that Anson directs his way. He stands, taken aback as Anson hugs him. They've been casual lovers from time to time, but Philip knows that Anson and Methos are an item, he hasn't really bothered to seek a place in the pecking order. A smack in the face often offends, right?
"Stay with me?" Anson's eyes are big in the halflight afforded by the doorway through to the living room. He's jittery, jumpy, not precisely drunk but definitely less than sober. Philip eyes him dubiously.
"What about…?" He doesn't name Methos, merely jerks his head towards the shoes that lie on the mat still, mute testament to that third, disturbing presence in the household.
"He left without me," is the response, and although Philip peers at him, trying to see bitterness in the simple words, Anson actually seems to be content. "You've been there for me tonight. Thanks."
"It was nothing, kid. A pleasure," Philip lies. "Okay. You go up and get started. I'll be there in a few minutes, okay?"
Snapshot Ten
Angry, with a cold, stone fury that's festered for months, Philip's searching for Methos.
It's not hard to find him; he's not got too many places to search. The apartment has a living room and a kitchen. There's no sign of him there. A peek around the door of the room that Methos and Anson usually use reveals a trail of discarded clothing, and that in itself is interesting because Methos is usually a tidy person.
The ensuite bathroom door is closed, from behind come the splashing, wet sounds that indicate someone at their ablutions. Philip is in no mood to respect privacy here. He rattles the handle, apparently expecting to have to break down the door or perform some other, equally grandiose gesture, and almost falls into the room with an expression of extreme astonishment on his face.
Methos is in the tub. He's got a book, and there are bubbles, lots of them, from which his chest and shoulders rise, pale, lean and well-muscled. There's no spare fat on his frame. Five thousand years have pared away any excess there once might have been, leaving the finely sculpted body that currently lounges in the water.
For a minute, neither of them says a word. All that hangs between them is the subtle vibration that speaks of immortality the quickenings that buzz like low-grade static as the two men face each other.
Methos had jumped a little at Philip's entry, but now he relaxes back into his bath and raises a single eyebrow in inquiry, his amber eyes utterly bland as he surveys the newcomer.
Philip is obviously furious. His face, once he realizes that Methos has apparently no idea what he's mad about, achieves a thunderous frown. He towers over the frothy tub, for the moment silent as he gathers his thoughts, and Methos merely waits, the same secretive smile on his small mouth.
"That kid in there… you just walked out on him." Philip's eyes are wide and snapping with the pent up fury he's harbored for the past months. It's all coming out now at last, poison and repressed anger, petty irritations and all, it pours in the scorn from Philip's eyes, shines in the twist of his lips and radiates from the man's posture as he stands before the tub, shaking with rage.
"Anson? He seemed happy enough when I left." The words contain no expression at all, and the maddening smile doesn't falter. Philip cranks up his ire quite visibly, and when he speaks, it's a hiss.
"He loves you, you bastard, and you're supposed to love him. I didn't see much of that tonight. How come you pissed off to play with your little friend when he needed you?"
"I didn't ‘piss off,' as you put it," it seems that Methos is beginning to show a little crack in his façade of unfeeling disdain. "He was doing perfectly well without me. Now, if you'd be kind enough to piss off yourself, I can finish my bath."
Philip stands there, mouth open for a second as he gapes at Methos. The fucker's brushed him off, and he's visibly hopping with rage. It's only for a second though, before he explodes into action.
Opening the front of his jeans, he extracts his penis, plump and proud with urine, and turns to the tub. Methos has only a second to realize precisely what Philip's going to do, before the first droplets of hot, yellow piss strike him squarely in the chest.
"You bastard!" Methos half rises from the water, but as Philip begins to shake his dick, the stream splashes randomly over him and he sinks back into the water, apparently resigned to his fate.
"You like beer, don't you?" Philip's voice is laden with sarcasm. "Good job you don't buy it, you only rent it. I've got lots of it to pass on." He makes the flow of urine waver, sending droplets to wet Methos' hair, drip down his face and neck, and finally to splash over his shoulders. "There, you fucker. My treat."
"Oh, that was adult. You'll make a fine immortal, won't you? For the few months you manage to retain your head." Methos seems to be determined not to lose face now. He's sitting there, piss still dripping from his face, and he's mad, his normally pale skin flushed with the force of his emotions.
The upper hand firmly in his possession, Philip is now tucking himself away, ignoring the bluster as he refastens the fly of his jeans. "So nice to have had this conversation, prick," he murmurs, face now delicately expressing his triumph as he turns to go.
"I may even take your head myself, you dirty little piece of shit," grits Methos, and Philip smiles at him, the kind of smile he once smiled at people who tried to cheat him out of money a smile that has razor blades tucked away in it.
"You need a bath, Methos, you're disgusting; look at you." Philip shakes his head, making the kind of clucking sounds associated with fake sympathy, and Methos looks around for something to hurl, finds only the soap, and decides against it.
"Well, you pathetic little clone…" he begins, but Philip is done. He's made his point, emptied his bladder, and now he's finished. He turns and opens the door, passing through it, to cut off whatever words Methos might be going to say.
Snapshot Eleven
Closing the door behind him somewhat ungently, Philip stalks off to the room that he's been using since he came here. Time was, when Adam Pierson lived alone and the world was less complicated, this had been Methos' study. It still contains a vast array of books, a computer and stacks of notes on a desk in a corner. It also contains Philip's bed, which apparently, tonight, contains Anson Greene.
Anson's under the covers, and looking wide eyed, though he's obviously made his decision about where he wants to spend the night.
"Is he all right?" is all Anson says, and Philip feels the rage go out of himself, suddenly tender towards this damaged other self of his. He drops smoothly to sit on the edge of the bed and lays a hand on Anson's cheek, the urge to make things right for him superseding all the petty squabbles he and Methos have going.
"Yeah, he's fine. He's just confused, kid. You have to look at things from his point of view. McLeod says that all he's wanted to do for the past God-knows-how-many centuries is survive. Now, all of a sudden, he's got us fuck-ups on his hands and his pain is great." He ruffles the short hair that's cut in the same fashion as his own, and sees the cloud of anxiety roll back from Anson's eyes.
Saying the right thing doesn't come easy to Philip, some of the time. He's always pursued his own ends, not sparing those in his path - and who better to understand Methos in that way? but even so, he's remained true to himself in a way that he doesn't think Methos has. This time though, looking at the deprivation that radiates from Anson, he knows that there's no way he can hurt the kid; it would be like kicking a puppy or something.
Philip bends to take off his socks, and then pulls his shirt and sweater off over his head before standing to shuck the remainder of his clothing. He notes a tidy pile of folded garments on the chair, and adds his own, comfortable in his own skin as he walks about the room putting things away. He's got every right to be comfortable. He's lean and deep chested, his long legs have knotted muscles sliding beneath sleek skin, and his butt is tight, swelling below the long back. Anson watches him, wordlessly.
When he's ready, he turns towards the bed, and it's obvious that he's more than a little aware that he's been putting on a show. He's starting to become aroused, the thick, blunt instrument most lately used as a weapon with which to chastise Methos is now anticipating other activities and has begun to fill, swinging heavily between his legs as he turns out the overhead light and approaches the bed.
Pulling back the comforter, Philip slides in beneath it and is instantly enveloped by Anson, who plasters himself to Philip's side, arms around him, body tight and hot against him. You can see Philip reflecting that this comforting thing isn't all bad. Warm arms, and an eager body that seems to find him attractive. What's to lose? Sighing contentedly, he snaps off the lamp and turns into Anson's embrace, obviously ready to give back as good as he gets.
Soon, there are only gasps and moans in the darkness, secret rustling, and soft, sticky sounds. As time passes, identical voices give low cries and then there is panting, followed by silence.
Snapshot Twelve
Methos is in the tub, watching, incredulous as Philip walks out on him. He's frozen in time briefly, and then suddenly comes to himself. The expression on his face says it all. Disgust at himself, and an unwilling admiration in his eyes as he raises his finger to touch the rapidly cooling urine that drips from his face and hair.
"Little bugger!" he murmurs fondly, and sinks beneath the water of the tub to rinse away the evidence of Philip's anger.
Emerging, seal sleek and dripping, from his tub, Methos hooks the plug out with his toe and lets the water drain away, moving instead to the shower and running the water until it's warm. He steps beneath the spray, applies shampoo to his hands and begins to rid himself of all vestiges of Philip's disdain.
Methos is tall and lean, whipcord strong, and built for speed. His body moves with the ease and co-ordination of a thoroughbred as he sluices himself down, dries himself, and then heads for his bed, where he hopes that he will be able to make it up to Anson, to comfort him somehow.
He gathers his clothing as he goes, folds it, puts it away neatly as he does so, and then finally turns and heads for the bed.
The empty bed.
Methos is agitated now, his face blank but for the flicker of fear in his amber eyes. He's catlike, and not used to displaying his emotions to others, but alone as he is right now, the fear and loss bleeds into his face.
Maybe he was harsh. Maybe he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to see how needy Anson had been. Maybe he really was a shit, and two thousand years of trying to atone for his bloody past were dispersing like feathers on the wind of change.
Maybe he should just suck it up and go find out where his lover is.
All these thoughts, and more, crowd through Methos' light eyes, washing over the lean, cunning face like ripples on still water. He frowns and turns towards the bed, obviously deliberating what he will do, then, with an audible curse, he strides to the closet and extracts a robe.
His course decided on, he doesn't immediately go to seek Anson. One suspects of course that he's afraid that he'll be interrupting something that will upset him or at least upset the smooth dynamic of the household.
"If I don't see it," he muses, aloud. "It doesn't exist. If I shoot a mime, do I have to use a silencer?" Shaking his head, he smiles ruefully. "You're a senile old fool, and those two would probably be far happier without you hanging around them. Let them go."
Shaking his head at his own folly, he slips his arms into the robe, fastens it around his waist, and pads away to the kitchen, there to make himself a cup of hot chocolate laced with rum.
Snapshot Thirteen
Chocolate all drunk, there's no reason no reason at all for Methos to remain at the table, but he does so for what seems an inordinately long time, moodily swirling the dregs around in the bottom of his mug.
"Do I want to know?" he asks himself, and the fact that he's still talking out loud is a testament to his inner turmoil. Methos is old and wily. He's been around and survived for millennia. He's a fixture on the scarred face of the globe, and that he should be stressing about a pair of babies one of whom is doomed to die in the space of a handful of years is surprising even to himself.
At last he sighs, stands up, takes his mug to the dishwasher and files it on the top rack amongst the rest of the day's dishes, puts away the paper he's been pretending to read, and turns, set faced, to go and find out the worst.
He moves slowly, deliberately, his bare feet making no sound on the thick carpet of the hallway. Every pace he takes moves him towards something he really doesn't want to see, but still he goes, being far too old to lie to himself these days.
The door to Philip's room is pushed to, but not in fact closed, and for a moment, Methos perks up. Not closed is good, isn't it? Not closed almost implies an invitation.
"Well, well," he breathes, and pushes the door open.
Light from the hallway spills in on the room, lovingly painting the tableau in the bed with mellow color. Anson and Philip are asleep now, curled together in a tangle of limbs, and as Methos looks down on them, he's put in mind of little baby cats.
Anson for a moment he can't tell, but then he spots the tattoo on the forearm is half on his back, surprisingly he's the solid presence that holds Philip, arms around his spitting image in a protective, somehow endearing way. Philip is snoring softly, face pillowed against Anson's firm chest, a forearm flung over Anson to lie along the hollow of his neck in curiously defenseless gesture, one that recalls the child he once was, the freckled, golden brown of his skin contrasting with the white torso beneath.
He lies, a comma to Anson's exclamation point, arms and legs tangled comfortably together as they sleep, and Methos can see no place for him in the contentment and tranquility that surrounds them, and for a moment, his throat closes.
"Old fool," he murmurs again, and pulls the bedclothes up to cover the two men, tucking them around the sleeping bodies. Kissing his finger, he touches each man lightly with it, then shakes his head at his own folly, and withdraws.
Kodak Ghosts
Beta: Thank you to Pic, Kozha and Frankie, all of whom helped to make this a far better story than it might have been.
Author's Notes:Following the demise of the NickZone's RPG, I wanted to follow this particular group of boys to where they might be heading. I love the way they interact.
"I want to do that; teach me?"
Shrewd, fathomless eyes bored into Anson's, piercing through or so it seemed to the insecure little boy that lived within.
"Why d'you want to learn?" The deep voice sounded mildly amused, as usual. Methos was naked, having just stepped from the shower in McLeod's dojo, and although his face remained enigmatic, his body had recognized Anson at a cellular level and was rising to salute its lover.
"It looks so… polished," said Anson after a moment's pause to choose the word that he wanted, remembering the intricate movements as Methos had fenced with McLeod. "It's beautiful to see. I always wanted to do it as a kid. Please, Methos?"
Unfair! Anson stepped in, hands on the wiry, timeless body, and soft, warm lips persuading traitor flesh. Hot breath tickled against Methos' ear, and fingers that knew just where to linger and where to leave only a fleeting caress moved on his skin.
When McLeod peered around the door to find out what precisely was holding Methos up, the two of them were locked together, mouths joined. Rolling his eyes, McLeod departed, closing the door behind him with as little sound as he could manage.
Later much, much later when the three of them were sitting, comfortably ensconced in McLeod's kitchen, beer in hand, two looking well exercised, Methos laid aside his bottle and walked to stand behind Anson's chair. Smiling down fondly at him, he massaged Anson's shoulders.
"I'll teach you, love, but you have to promise that you won't get reckless, and that you'll wear a mask. You're not like me, more's the pity, so you won't heal from a serious wound."
A momentary shadow veiled the eager green eyes, before they lit up as Anson smiled brilliantly. His breath catching, Methos' heart thumped painfully as he gazed at his ephemeral love and tried to feel blessed instead of cursed.
A desultory discussion of swords and choices ensued. Methos had an Ivanhoe whilst McLeod favored the katana that he carried everywhere with him. With much good-natured wrangling, McLeod took Anson down into the dojo to give him his first lesson, leaving Methos to sit and stare, unseeing, and contemplate differences. Anson was never cold, mercurial in his changing passions but always vital, ever ensuring that there was a connection between them. Philip, the antithesis, was cold - distant and disturbing in his dealings with Methos, at least. Philip stayed with them, though Methos had no idea what it was that still held him, now that the compulsion that had gathered all the clones in the first place was gone. The mere fact of Methos' existence seemed to be a direct insult to the man, and Philip made no bones about showing it.
Sighing, Methos rose to join his mortal lover and his friend, but his thoughts remained with Philip. "Which of us is the bigger fool, Fate? He for behaving like a child, or I for caring?"
A day later presented them with a sunny, golden afternoon. Drowsy bees tasted the clover that studded the lawn in the back yard. Anson, newly returned from work and eager for a lesson, was learning stances, adapting to them with grace, as though somehow the ability to fence had been programmed into his makeup. "He must have Douglas Fairbanks' genes," Methos mused silently.
Into this scene sauntered Philip, all silk and sarcasm. He walked up the path past the sparring men, wandered into the kitchen to dump his bulging briefcase next to the groceries and returned to stand on the patio, holding a bottle of Evian water straight from the fridge. The cold glass began to frost with condensation as he placed it primly on the table. Removing his jacket and bestowing it tidily over the chair back, he rolled up his sleeves and seated himself elegantly to observe the lesson, his face inscrutable as he raised the bottle of water to his lips.
There was breathless laughter from Anson, and amused, low conversation from Methos, who demonstrated his art with safely buttoned foils, showing how a sixte flowed into a quinte, and inviting his protégé to follow his movements.
Anson did, very creditably, over and over, until the two of them flowed side by side, bodies in harmony. Their movements flickered, held, and faded, twin candles to Philip's eyes.
As they finished, Methos dropped to the grass and lay spread-eagled, apparently pinned down by the weight of the sunshine. Anson pulled on a sweater and collapsed into a seat beside Philip, sweaty and glowing with happiness.
"Looking pretty good, man," said Philip, mostly because he knew it was expected, although it was plain that he cared for his double.
"Thanks, Phil. You should try it too. That would be neat." Anson reached for Philip's half empty water bottle and chugged it, gasping his satisfaction and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Are you kidding?" Incredulous amusement colored Philip's voice. "That's too Diana Ross and the Supremes for words. God, I can see it now." Philip shook his head. "There he'll be, front and center, with you and I for the girlie chorus. Thanks, but no thanks."
Methos was sprawled on the grass, apparently oblivious, eyes closed in an attitude of complete relaxation. He didn't stir as Philip got to his feet, collected his things and went into the house. Only after he'd disappeared from view did the soft, English voice float to where Anson sat, still gaping after Philip.
"Actually, love, I saw us more as Gladys Knight and the Pips."
Later, as dusk was dabbing away at the view, painting murky shadows, Philip emerged from his room and descended the wide, oak stair. Entering the kitchen, he found his room-mates bickering amicably over who would make what for dinner.
With a saturnine grin, Philip rummaged in the fridge for the groceries he'd brought home earlier, and set to work preparing a meal. With neat precision, he chopped onions, tomatoes, cilantro and garlic, sliced steak and threw it into the skillet to brown.
Methos and Anson gradually became aware of Philip's actions, the aroma of seared red meat, wine and garlic tickling their nostrils.
"What is it?" Anson asked, his predatory gaze studying the concoction that Philip was stirring.
"Wait," said Philip, rapping Anson's fingers with his wooden spoon as they stole out to filch a small but tasty piece of steak.
"Bastard," grinned Anson, grabbing a spatula and menacing his double. "On guard!"
Laughing, Philip assumed a creditable fencing stance, and they began to fight, both bodies taut and studied as they battled. Methos watched, missing nothing, only seeming to be lost in thought. With a flurry of motion and a yelp of surprise, the spatula flew away as Philip pressed Anson back against the counter.
"You've been holding out on me!" whispered Anson, suddenly yielding, arms slipping around Philip's neck. His voice turned intimate and smoky while his body slid seductively, his manner calculated to entice.
Philip laughed. He was well aware of the way Anson operated but rose to it anyway, the slight flush and sudden brightness of his eyes telling the tale of his arousal.
"There's no law that says I have to tell you everything," he rejoined, voice equally throaty, honey poured over gravel. His smile hinted of things untold, and Methos, very still and alert, willed himself invisible as he watched.
"Aww, c'mon. Don't be a killjoy…" Anson pressed warm lips to Philip's face, sliding over the rough cheek towards a mouth that was smiling wider.
"Pack it in, unless you want charcoal for dinner," said Philip, disengaging himself from his double and turning back to his cooking.
Warm arms slipped around Philip's waist, moist lips brushed the back of his neck, hot breath tickled his ear, and Anson's sultry voice pleaded, "Tell…" as fingers moved towards Philip's groin.
Laughing, exasperated, Philip dumped pasta into boiling water, added a little ground black pepper to his sauce and turned, suddenly embracing Anson.
"You're asking for it. Bed without supper is what you deserve."
"Sure, if you come with me," grinned Anson, unabashed. "Tell me where you learned to fence, and I'll leave you in peace."
Philip darted a look to where Methos was apparently lost in study of the tome he had with him. "I've been getting lessons from McLeod," he finally admitted. "Now, unless you want to go to bed hungry tonight, you'd better stop grabbing at my dick and let me get this finished."
With a final kiss, grope and pat, Anson relinquished his hold on Philip, moving instead to the fridge to find salad and wash it for their meal.
As they sat down to eat, Methos emerged from his extended reverie and joined the conversation, savoring the food and complimenting Philip on his culinary excellence. Philip merely nodded his acceptance of the praise, and once the meal was done, disappeared before Anson could corner him for any further amorous play.
When Methos later pulled Anson into his lap and began to stroke and kiss him, Anson seemed to have forgotten the interlude with Philip, turning to Methos to give as good as he got in the exchange of increasingly passionate caresses. Later still, glowing and sated, they made their way to bed, and neither man saw the single brooding glance that the other bent on Philip's closed door.
Days melted into one another. Late in June, Anson took the examinations for which he'd been studying along with fencing after work, and having done so was to be found underfoot. His usual sunny nature was subsumed by anxiety about whether he was good enough, and of course he knew that he wasn't could never be, as Philip's presence constantly reminded him - no matter how many pieces of paper he might collect to prove his worth. He was mortal and would grow old while his two housemates remained the same, and that was made more cutting by the resemblance between himself and Philip.
Despite everything, Anson was fencing well, and Methos had promoted him from foil to saber, delighting in the apparent ferocity his brooding young lover brought to the game.
That morning, Methos had gone with McLeod to collect some timber for renovations. Anson, clad in tattered T-shirt and cut-offs, was outside on the grass, working through some forms in an effort to stave off anxiety about the future an anxiety that he knew was meaningless to his two immortal roommates.
When Philip took a stance beside him and matched his movements, Anson didn't immediately comment, bound up as he was with the execution of his kata, but as they concluded the form, he turned to Philip, face lit from within by joy.
"Whoohoo!" he whooped. "Are we hot or what?"
Philip, elegant as ever despite his casual attire and recent exertions, aimed an affectionate punch at Anson's shoulder. "Looking good, bro."
"I'm glad you decided to learn. Methos was worried about you not being able to defend yourself if anyone came for your head." Still high on the rush, Anson prattled happily, seeing too late the shadow that had fallen over Philip, darkening his eyes and tightening his mouth.
"Guess that's it then," he said, obscurely.
"What do you mean?" Suddenly nervous, knowing he'd said the wrong thing, Anson resorted as he so often did to belligerence. "I wish you'd grow the fuck up and quit with this stupid bitching. He cares for you; he loves you."
Philip was grinning as he faced Anson, and it was not a kind expression. "Think so, huh? Too bad for him! He'd sell me out if it suited him you too, if it came to that. He's got no morals and no humanity in him."
"You don't know him. He's…" Whatever Anson was going to say was cut off by Philip.
"I don't want to know him. I don't want to please him, and I certainly don't want to put myself out for him."
Anson flared, his body bristling with fury, shoving into Philip's personal space until they were chest to chest, face to face. "What the fuck is your problem? He hasn't done anything except look out for you, and try to take care of you. He loves you; I love you."
Philip held his ground, arrogant and maddening, superior smile plastered to his face.
"Thanks, but no thanks," he said, with the air of someone refusing a candy or similar trifling gift.
Anson's color deepened, and he was drawing breath to say something that would take them into a quarrel from which their relationship might never recover, when they were saved, as it were, by the bell.
A tingle in the air caused Philip to lift his head and listen, gesturing for quiet. Somewhere at hand was another immortal, and Philip forgot the petty squabble instantly.
"Where's Methos?" Philip hissed.
"He went with McLeod over to Spokane said he'd be back later. He took the truck." Anson frowned. "Why? What's the matter?"
"Hush." Philip stooped, picked up his sword, the jangling, tin-foil-in-a-microwave sensation of an approaching immortal setting his nerves on edge. "There's someone hovering around; it's another of them; I can feel them."
A dark haired man, short and heavy set, appeared at the gate, and from Philip's expression it was plain that this was the disturbing presence he could feel. The newcomer was nondescript the sort of man that would pass one in a crowd without notice, save for disturbingly bright eyes that glittered in deep sockets. Anson smiled inquiringly, stepped forward to stand between the newcomer and Philip, well aware of where the visitor's attention would be focused.
"Looking for a Mr. Pierson," he said, his voice a heavily accented growl. "My name is Dafoe."
"Adam isn't here. He'll be back around seven this evening if you'd care to come back then." Anson stood beside his sword, point still driven into the grass, and Dafoe smiled with his mouth only.
"That's fine, mon ami. Tell Pierson that his friend his *old* friend Gervais Dafoe came to call." He studied Anson intently and then looked past him to Philip, who was standing cool and disdainful, sword in hand." "I will see you again," said Dafoe, "And it will be my pleasure. A bientot." He left, and it seemed to Anson that the sun was a little darker and the warmth had fled from the day.
"He was one of them," muttered Philip. "I could feel him coming."
"Methos thinks they'll come after you because you're a new immortal and likely to be an easy target."
Philip snorted. "Nobody does that any more. How many headless bodies have you seen mentioned in the news?" Philip sounded convinced by his own words. "Methos himself might, I guess, though I don't see why he'd bother, except that I believe he doesn't count the cost of anything he does. He's not the mild mannered guy you think he is."
"I wish…" Anson flopped into a chair and hugged himself, misery and strain on his face. "I wish you'd be nice."
Philip laughed, strode over to him and cupped the back of his head, stooping to kiss Anson soundly. "But if I were, we wouldn't need you, would we, little brother?"
Saturday drew on, and the afternoon saw Anson ready to head out to the ballpark to watch the Mariners play. Philip was working, laptop open and papers spread over the table as he ploughed methodically through spreadsheets. He declined Anson's invitation with a smile and a murmur of thanks, watching him leave with an affectionate wave before turning back to his task.
The complexities of the insurance business were something that Philip tolerated for what they could bring him. He was a born salesman, but although he understood people well, he found that most of the time he didn't much like them. Used to being a loner and finding himself sucked into a strange triumvirate, he'd wriggled like a snake pinned down by a forked stick. The analogy amused Philip no end. He liked snakes and missed them, although not enough to go out and buy one.
Laying his pen aside, he lapsed into thought, his mind roaming. He'd been a healer, but even back then, when he healed, he'd done it for the things it brought him. He knew he could still do it if the need arose, and once in a while, when he looked at Anson, watching the behaviors that revealed the wounded soul inhabiting his double's body, he thought that some day, if the time was ever right, he'd lay his hands on Anson. He'd have done it already, save for the fact that it might bind the two of them even tighter together, and Anson didn't come single. As ever, it was the thought of that dark, brooding, quicksilver other that daunted Philip.
Methos. The very name set Philip's teeth on edge and brought an acidic taste to his mouth. Something about Anson's lover made Philip's hackles rise every time they squared off against each other, cat and dog or, more appropriately, snake and mongoose. Philip knew, bone deep, that Methos the very concept of Methos - was wrong. He sensed the violence and cruelty that had lain at Methos' core for an eternity sensed them because they spoke to his own. Philip was cold, but Methos was colder, and somehow both of them had fallen into orbit around Anson, as if the heat he generated might warm them.
"In the beginning," said Philip, out loud, though there was nobody to hear him, "there was Chaos, Eros, and the Earth, and here we are still, bound together to play this silly game." If Methos were Chaos to his Eros, then Anson was the earthy warmth around which they both circled endlessly. He wondered once again what was the compulsion that held him bound to the other two, and how he'd ever be able to break it.
Unable now to complete his work, he laid aside his laptop. Taking his sword, Philip stepped outside to practice, thinking that by doing so he might be making Anson happy, although he wasn't sure why he should bother. He felt disjointed forever unprepared for the way his heart sped up when Anson was near.
Philip had never been in love, not him. That would be a weakness, and Philip didn't do weakness. Still, what he felt for either of his roommates was outside his control. He was fond enough of his vulnerable double, and the compulsion he'd had since those last days in DC showed no sign yet of wearing off. The need to be around Anson had been with him since the final battle had driven the aliens back from earth, and so here he was.
Methos was a different matter altogether. Philip didn't like anything about him. The constant buzz of Methos' presence that played on his skin whenever the immortal approached, affected him like a sickness. He watched Methos watching him, and knew that somehow he was being played. It baffled him, angered him, terrified him that he might somehow be a part of some plan that Methos had, but all the same, he couldn't leave.
In an effort to think no more, he worked out, arms and shoulders glistening with sweat as Philip gave it all he'd got. He was strong and well made more restrained in his movements than Anson, but then Anson threw himself into things body and soul. In contrast, Philip tended to prowl, catlike, around things before deigning to test them.
He paused at last, panting, to sip water, and was considering returning to his work when he again felt the prickling nearness of another immortal.
"Jesus," he snarled. "My fucking spidey sense is tingling!" Looking around warily, painfully aware that he was alone, and that he wasn't completely confident that the things he'd said to Anson earlier were true.
There was a monster under the bed after all. Santa Claus was real, oh, yes, Virginia, and he was carrying a claymore, because he wanted to put Philip's head in his sack of goodies.
Perversely, Philip wished that he'd made love to Anson before he left for the baseball game, rather than treating him like a pleasantly dim-witted younger relative. He resolved that when Anson came home, he would get the surprise of his life.
But first oh, Aesklepios! Philip had company, and he was not in Kansas any more, Toto fuck, no!
Dafoe opened the gate and stepped inside.
"Can I help you?" asked Philip, coldly comforted by the presence of his sword, although he suspected that it wouldn't matter in the end. His senses heightened and the day became a symphony of light and shade - ferns, roses, honeysuckle, hostas and sunlight sparkling on the green of the lawn. His nostrils were tickled by fragrant air and from somewhere within the house he heard a sound, although he had no time to wonder what might have fallen. He was face to face with the monster from beneath the bed, and he had to deal.
"Oh, yes, you can help me." Dafoe smiled, thick lips stretched taut over large teeth.
They look like worms, thought Philip. Those lips look just like worms. This is it. He's going to kill me.
Philip didn't want to die, not this way. He'd imagined that it would be Methos who killed him, finally disproving Anson's fuzzy, feel-good ideas of love and beauty. That would have been fitting, despite his professed dislike of the man, because Philip recognized in Methos the person that he might himself have become with five thousand years of practice. That was, after all, why Philip despised him, and that epiphany would get him precisely nowhere, thought Philip.
This boorish-looking Frenchman was a different kettle of fish. Philip wasn't going to lay down his sword for him. He only wished for a gun instead, and made a note to get one by hook or by crook, if he got out of this alive.
Snarling, Philip murmured a short prayer to Aesklepios, even though his memories were false, and the god was dead. Then he raised his sword.
Dafoe laughed. "Very good, m'sieur. You're a quick study. It's too bad that the pain of learning to wield a sword has been for nothing." He took his stance and waited.
In the beginning, Philip believed that he might stand a chance. His opponent seemed clumsy, and Philip was anything but, yet his difficulty in breaking through Dafoe's guard led him to conclude that Dafoe was toying with him, catlike. Much more accustomed to that role than that of mouse, Philip ground his teeth in anger, increasing his pace in an attempt to rush his assailant.
The strategy didn't work. Dafoe was older, stronger, and far more skilled. Philip was tempted to lay down his weapon and offer his neck just to end it, but something within him screamed that he still had things he'd left undone, and that this was neither the time nor the place.
As Dafoe knocked the sword from his sweat-slick hand, Philip heard a scream that might have come from his own lips. The sword point that pierced him, killing him for a second time, was cold and strangely painless as it took his life.
"Doesn't hurt," he husked, amazed, as bright blood bubbled to his lips, and he fell forward into a void of black velvet that smelled of roses.
Having arrived home after deciding part way through the mediocre game that he wanted to try explaining things to Philip, Anson had heard the sound of steel on steel and tiptoed to take a peek at the ongoing sparring match through the kitchen window. Horrified beyond belief by what was really going down out there on the sunlit lawn, Anson had grabbed his sword and dashed out.
"No! Oh, no you don't!"
Anger blazing white hot, Anson bore down on Dafoe just as he was winding up to take off Phil's head. Off balance, Dafoe turned, attempting to assume his guard, but it was too late. Irresistible force met immovable object; Anson struck once, a strong, clean blow that severed Dafoe's head. A mere blink of an eye later, Philip moaned, coughed and spluttered back to life.
Dafoe's headless trunk gushed blood before, as, and after it fell, drenching Anson and Philip. Anson stood, red and dripping, motionless. It was a baptism, he acknowledged. Anson had killed before, but this was different, necessary, and the blood was somehow an affirmation of that.
"My God, Philip." Anson dropped his sword and fell to his knees to embrace the man on the ground. Philip gasped as he struggled to climb out of the grim certainty that he was dead, dead and gone, all the way dead, just when he'd decided that there might be things about living that he valued.
Someone Philip felt he might truly learn to value had appeared, red and stinking, tears washing runnels down his cheeks. Anson reached out; Philip turned into his embrace. Entwined, they crouched, horrified, shocked and afraid of what had happened, and the quickening hit them. Lightning gathered in the sunlit yard, seethed from the neck of the fallen immortal, whirling, sparkling, seeking out both men as they cling together.
The quickening was beyond their experience. More than a light show, it swirled around Philip, poured into him, through him, making him shriek. Anson cried out too, a low, bubbling scream that seemed to last forever. Memories of lives he'd never lived swamped Philip, shook him loose from truths he'd always held to be self evident. Dafoe was vile, corruption and death had stalked alongside him for over a thousand years. Philip bore witness, taking the filth along with the light, and Anson came along for the ride, rocked and shaken by the soul-wrenching forces that played around them, a symphony of shattering glass and power strong enough to shiver the earth beneath them.
Holding on, Anson was galvanized by the crackling display, terrified that Philip might change or melt away if he let go. Tingling shocks rippled on his skin, prickled the back of his neck, and something inside of him seemed to tear. A door opened, and as the forces subsided and Anson opened his eyes, he knew that somehow he was different.
"I thought that he'd killed you," whispered Anson, when he could speak again.
"He did," replied Philip, still in shock, usual equilibrium gone with the wind.
"He was going to cut your head off. I saw him and I couldn't…"
Anson's distress was too much for Philip. He leant in and kissed him, mouth against mouth, a kiss sealed with Dafoe's blood.
It was the right thing to do. Anson's fear was soothed by the warmth of Philip's body and all the skill that he possessed. Tomorrow might be different, but at that moment Philip belonged to Anson. Anson had killed for him and by doing so had claimed him.
"What can we do with that?" Anson's words broke into Philip's reflections, and the sight of the "that" made him jump. For a moment, he'd forgotten the dead man.
"Find a garbage sack, put him in, then wait for Methos. He's sure to have a contingency plan. What does he do with all the bodies he racks up, anyway?"
"Fucked if I know." They held each other as though to part would hurt. Slowly separating, they studied each other. The blood crusted, blackened, and a halo of flies buzzed around them, drawn by Dafoe's delicious body fluids. "We'd better get that out of sight and clean ourselves up, and my God, I only just put that window in." The window in the back of the garage lay around them on the grass in glittering shards. Anson was suddenly practical, gruff even, as he attempted to avoid facing the images flashing inside his head, brought out of retirement from the deep recesses of his subconscious by the smell of the blood and the taste of it in his mouth.
Mommy!
Cold dead skin and eyes that stare sightless and accusing and mommy you shouldn't have, I never meant…
"Anson?" He stared vacantly at Philip as his double's voice cut in. "Come on, bro. We have to do this."
Together, they forced the body into a sack that was intended for garden refuse. Uncooperative, the body resisted being stuffed inside, but they finally managed and rolled it to the edge of the lawn. Lying beneath the azaleas and rhododendrons, it rapidly became the focus for whatever buzzing insects weren't bothering the two men.
Done, Philip turned to Anson and saw him lapse into that strange fugue state again. Wordlessly, he took Anson's hand and led him to the deck, where he stripped them both, dumping their clothing into a filthy heap. Naked and bloody, Philip led the way to the bathroom, started the shower and stepped under it. Anson watched for a minute, blank eyed, but when Philip held out his hand, Anson took it. He joined Philip under the spray, gasping faintly as the warm water began to cascade over him.
Silently, they washed each other, trying to rid themselves of the taint of Dafoe, each continuing to apply soap long after the overt signs of blood have been swept down the drain.
"I can still smell it," whispered Anson at last. "I'll never be clean." The skin on his hands and face had turned red from scrubbing. Philip turned off the water and reached for him, petting and soothing, weird tingles shooting through his fingers when he stroked the back of Anson's neck.
"I owe you my life, little brother," murmured Philip. "Thank you." The non-sequitur seemed to be what Anson needed, because he lowered his hands and looked to Philip who motioned for them to leave the shower, and the blood, behind.
Anson passed him a towel, took one for himself, and wiped away the droplets of moisture that studded his skin. Philip watched, wanting Anson, needing to exorcise the afternoon's events in his own way.
They'd shared a bed before, these two, but that had been then, and this was now. A buddy thing had become solemn, serious, a pact. Philip felt a little shaky at the thought of what they'd already shared but had no choice but to go forward.
He didn't say anything; he didn't have to; his body said it all for him as it produced a standing ovation for Anson's fine form. Anson seemed remote, lost in a shadowy world of his own, haunted by mothers and blood. Looking at him, Philip knew that it was time.
He stepped forward, removed the towel from unresisting fingers, set it aside and reached to cup Anson's cheek.
"Come on back here with me; you did nothing wrong."
Anson flinched, then focused on Philip, his shocky eyes showing more black than green.
"I killed him," whispered Anson.
"For me." Philip sounded fierce, exultant. "That's gotta mean something. It's symbolic."
"Ya think?" Anson tried a small smile; it was a little loose around the edges at first, but slowly grew to fit the face wearing it, until Philip stepped in to cover it with his unsmiling lips.
Philip felt a faint but definite tingle as their bodies touched a minor fizzing, like, but unlike the immie rush that he got from another of his kind. He knew that Anson was causing it, and by the shudder and gasp from the man in his arms, Anson felt it too. It was emanating from Anson, unless Philip had suddenly become one whole hell of a lot better kisser than he'd ever previously been.
They'd been content with simple frottage on the odd occasion that they'd fucked, but that was no longer enough. Philip wanted more; he was aching for Anson, wanted to feel him with every cell, wanted to possess and be possessed to love him - though he'd never say that word out loud to anyone.
Anson was elsewhere. He could feel Philip, but there was a tingling, jangling something he'd never known before that was getting in the way. He reached for Philip blindly, unspoken need shaking his body.
"It's all right," whispered Philip. Anson's confusion had become palpable; Philip saw the hazy images that flickered around him. Dead woman, crying child, and too much blood. "It's all right, come here."
There were no further words. Their mouths locked together; their bodies strained, tense and fierce as a shared vibration shuddered through them. Philip knew that it was coming from Anson, but he had no idea why.
Anson was slowly beating back the force that seemed to fill him, trying to prevent it from clouding his senses to the exclusion of Philip and everything else. Physical contact with his double seemed to be the only way he could get the other under control.
Pulling Philip with him, Anson went in search of a bed. Oddly, it was Philip's room he chose. Breast to breast, they kissed, passions growing urgent as they sank down on Philip's bed to lie entwined.
Anson took the lead, desperate as he wriggled down, mouth traveling over Philip's body until he could take the other's penis between his lips. Philip gasped as Anson sucked him deep, fingers curling in the cap of velvety hair even as he tried to stop his inner eye from seeing all the things Anson was fighting, the ghosts he was trying to escape.
The god stirred within Philip in a way that it hadn't done since the night he'd healed Denise. He was filled a human Leyden jar crackling with the power to heal, the need to make broken things whole. As his flesh was drawn into Anson's throat, the god sparked in his fingertips, the serpent stirred within him. Embracing something that he thought had gone forever, Philip willed the force to enter Anson, there to heal whatever it might find.
Rolling Anson over, Philip spread him, groping frantically to find the place. Pushing without mercy, Philip drove himself in past serpents and mothers and guilt and pain until it was just Anson and himself, joined in a perfect sweetness that drew up Philip's balls and dragged a moan from him.
Anson's cock was pressed to the bedclothes, but Philip reached for it anyway to grope and squeeze, and heard a hiss of breath that told him Anson was close to finishing.
They were fucking, and it was fucking good teetering on the brink. Philip was waiting for Anson, because to time this just right was a task he'd set himself. He could see into Anson from the strangely remote height that he'd attained the bruised soul, and the things that had been done to him. The sadness, horror and regret were there for Philip's viewing, and then Anson was coming, his ass clasping and dragging around Philip's dick.
It was time.
Philip let himself go, and the serpent left with his ejaculate, pouring into his lover and riding the waves of bliss that radiated from the tip of his cock to flicker along his spine. Orgasm was a starburst, a supernova, a timeless moment. While the world turned gray, he collapsed onto Anson's back.
Done.
They slept both boys gone somewhere pleasant, smiling, still joined. The sky was purple-orange and the sun a mere memory when they began at last to stir.
A sound below, and Philip was suddenly alert, peeling himself away from Anson's bare body. Swiftly pulling on underwear and shorts he descended to face Methos.
In the kitchen, Methos drank the inevitable beer as he thumbed through a pile of take-out menus. As Philip entered the room, he turned and smiled, shrewd eyes cataloguing the bare feet and naked torso.
"A friend of yours came by today."
"Oh?" A single eyebrow arched in inquiry, and it was obvious that Philip was resisting the urge to grind his teeth.
"Yeah. He was sorry to have missed you. We were kind of sorry he missed you, too."
"Is he coming back? Who was it?" Methos appeared interested in a vague way, settling on a Thai menu and reaching for the phone.
"His name was Dafoe, and no, he won't be coming back. We were waiting to ask you what you do with them once you've cut off their heads." Philip's tone was conversational, but Methos whipped around to face him. Take-out was forgotten as he gripped Philip by the arms.
"What have you done?" he hissed.
"Take your hands off me, old man," said Philip, silkily, looking pointedly at the offending fingers. Methos relinquished his hold and stepped backward, hands raised and palms out.
"Anson? Tell me Anson's okay." There was pain in the fathomless eyes, anxiety tightening the fine-grained skin and hunching the strong shoulders.
"He's alive and sleeping. Don't know if that makes him okay. He saved my life, you know, but something happened. And there's a dead body in the back yard that we thought you might help us dispose of." Philip was walking away as he spoke, forcing Methos to follow as he led the way through the fragrant twilight to the refuse sack resting ominously among the flowers.
"Are you saying that *Anson* killed Dafoe?" Methos seemed startled, amber eyes narrowed as he pondered the possible implications.
"Yup, Dafoe had bested me. I was dead, and he was about to take my head when Anson charged in like the cavalry in the Wild West. He caught Dafoe off-guard and killed him." Philip reached the dead immortal in two more paces and stopped so abruptly that Methos almost bumped into him, so absorbed in his own thoughts had he become.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here."
"We didn't miss you apart from the info on what to do with the body," responded Philip, unkindly," And you can tell me all about that now."
"You said Anson was sleeping that something happened." Methos was carefully avoiding getting into it with Philip. He chose his words very precisely, and his eyes bled fear for his lover from their dark centers. "Tell me?"
Philip glared, challenge in his stance, and then nodded. Later, perhaps, but not now.
"It was like the wrath of God. Some kind of electrical storm thing seemed to start up just as I was coming to. Anson was kneeling, holding on to me, and it went to ground through the pair of us, or that's what it felt like. I don't know what the fuck happened, but it did something to him. Ever since, he's been giving off this weird kind of vibe. Not only that but…" Philip paused, frowning as he recalled the moment when the world had turned strange. "It filled me charged me up and let me heal him. Fuck, it *made* me heal him. I could see all the emotional pain inside him."
"A quickening," said Methos thoughtfully. "You took a quickening, and it sounds like Anson took it along with you. As a mortal, it shouldn't have had any effect on him. This is strange. You say that he's got some sort of vibration happening around him?"
"That's what it feels like a low level hum like a power station with a bunch of transformers." They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Philip watched Methos narrowly. Much as he disliked the man or whatever the hell he was Philip acknowledged that there were times when Methos proved useful, and right now was one of those particularly golden, Kodak moments. Besides, Philip knew that whoever and whatever the dark being might be, he loved Anson Greene. For Philip, that was his only saving grace.
Moments passed, and each somehow knew when the other was ready. Wordlessly, they stooped to gather the corpse and manhandle the plastic sack over to the pick-up truck that was parked beside the gate.
"I want to check on Anson." Methos turned to go back to the house.
"He's in my bed." Philip watched the wiry body flinch, and smiled savagely, leaning against the truck to survey the motionless shape in its bed. Moments later, Methos returned and hopped into the cab.
"Let's go."
He'd started the engine before Philip realized that he was barefoot. He called out and ran to the house for shoes and a T-shirt. As he climbed hurriedly into the truck to ride shotgun, Methos put away his cell phone.
"Where are you taking it?" The question was dragged out of Philip. His reactions to blood, sex, death and healing were all buzzing within him, and he felt disturbed that he had to leave Anson behind while worried sick about him.
"Oh, I thought that we'd make McLeod a present of it. He's far more used to disposing of bodies than I am these days at any rate," returned Methos, voice silken and eyes half-lidded with lazy amusement. He knew better than actually to smile at Philip. That brooding gentleman didn't rise to the smaller bait, merely nodding and reaching to turn on the stereo, then flinching away as a barrage of thrash metal blasted out.
"How the hell can you listen to that stuff?" Music was a neutral topic, and therefore safe.
"I suppose you're going to tell me that you'd rather listen to Schubert or Chopin?" said Methos, grumpily, ejecting the CD.
"Count Basie, actually or Dave Brubeck. D'you have anything intelligent at all in your collection?" Philip dripped acid with every word, and Methos indicated the case that held his current musical choices. He breathed a sigh of relief when Philip examined the choices, seemingly intrigued by every item. Methos took the opportunity to sink back into that place where he was alone with his thoughts, not reacting when Philip selected Ry Cooder to fill the cab with music.
They drove in silence save for the music and as they drew up outside the dojo, Philip looked up in surprise. "You weren't kidding about bringing it to McLeod?"
"I never kid," says Methos loftily. "Being very old and wise as I am, it would be bad form to jest about something so distasteful." His face was bland, and Philip stared at him for a moment, attempting to read him. Suddenly realizing what the other man was doing, Philip shrugged and turned away, discomfited. It didn't matter what Philip did, or who he was, Methos had been there before him, and did it better with the single exception of the healing touch, and that, thought Philip, was enough.
Fucker's just had more practice, he told himself, as he saw the little half-smile Methos permitted himself. He got a kick out of needling Philip, but the smile broadened into something else, something more genuine, as he caught sight of McLeod striding down the sidewalk.
"McLeod," he yelled through the open window of the truck.
Duncan McLeod raised his eyebrows in inquiry as his friend hopped down from the cab of the truck.
"Good to see you, Mac. I've got a problem only you can solve." Methos clapped an arm around McLeod's shoulders with easy familiarity, and led him over to where Philip was only now opening the passenger door. "Philip has taken his first head, and he's reluctant to leave the remains on our compost heap. We thought that you could give us some pointers. Where do you put yours?"
McLeod blinked, momentarily nonplussed. "Who was it?"
"Dafoe. His name was Dafoe, and I…" Philip began all over again to deny that he'd been the one who killed the man, but paused as McLeod's eyes opened wide and his lips pursed in a soundless whistle.
"You're kidding. That bastard was sniffing around here? I remember back in the seventeenth cent."
"McLeod?" Methos' voice halted the reminiscence and dragged Duncan back to the present. "I'd love to hear your story when I don't have a body in my truck. What do you suggest?"
"Did you bring a shovel?" At Methos' slight nod, McLeod checked his watch. "Come on, then. I'll show you."
A couple of hours later, the pickup backed into their driveway once more. The front of the house was in darkness, but they could see that there was a light shining from the kitchen. Both men were tired and sweaty, covered in the dirt that they'd accumulated during their endeavors, but for once they seemed to be in accord and weren't bickering as they hurried up onto the deck.
There were creatures in the darkness both could feel them. Moths fluttered around the screen door, and as the two men approached it, they noticed the disturbing ‘zing' emanating from within. "That's what I mean," said Philip, and Methos looked at him, utterly stunned.
"Do you know what this is? What you've done?" The questions were asked in tones of wonder, and Philip stopped, caught Methos' shoulder to whirl him around.
"Tell me. What is it? What have I done?" From the tension, Philip could tell that whatever this was, it wasn't small and wouldn't be forgotten lightly. Methos smiled and pulled Philip in against him in a hug that crushed him momentarily. Gaping, astonished, Philip was released before he could draw the breath to protest.
"Somehow, you've turned it on for him. He's going to be one of us. How did you do it?"
"I told you that freaky light show…" He said no more, because Methos had seized his ears, was kissing him, joy in his face that eclipsed any show of annoyance Philip might make. When Methos thrust Philip forward into the kitchen, they found Anson lounging, eating a huge sandwich and beaming at them with his feet up on the table.
"Hi, guys. Where've you been?" mumbled Anson around a mouthful of assorted foodstuffs. Swinging his legs down, he rose, supple and glossy in the warm electric light.
"How do you feel?" Philip was transfixed. Anson was shining, more solid and real than he had ever been. Behind him, he sensed that Methos had stopped breathing, hearing the little catch in his throat as he faced his lover.
It was over in a moment. Anson kissed them both hello, the vibrations tingling off his satin skin as he moved glided sensual and liquid, perfect in his newfound state.
"I feel great," grinned Anson. "That sleep did something for me. Feel better than ever." He wound his arms around Methos, pressing himself against the man, who lifted trembling fingers to touch his face.
"You're one of us, Anson. Do you know?"
"I don't understand." An uneasy light appeared in Anson's eyes.
"You've somehow become a pre-immortal." Methos smiled. Hell, even Philip was smiling.
"Really?" Anson laughed, and then froze. "So all I have to do now is die?"
End
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