LIBERTY
What had been only half a year seemed like decades. How time soared swiftly when it did not matter where you were going or who you were to see, but when something or someone was missing, the time crept along as if it were afraid of passing on into the unknown.
But as he stood in the cold night air of Paris, he knew that time would play a frustrating role in his life of already 5,000 years and more. His life was not the only one to be caught up in the ordeal. Just across the street, the neon lights flickered their last of the night as the bar was closing down. His timing was perfect. A cold beer and the nearness of a friend was what he had longed for. After he had just disappeared not long after the ordeal, a warm welcome was not expected, but he had experienced much worse.
Approaching the door, that ever bone chilling awareness swept over him. Could it be...but no. He would have known after the trials and tribulations they had shared. One hand beneath his coat, the other on the door, he eased inside, careful as not to expose his neck too far ahead of the rest of him.
The graying owner of the bar was in his usual spot behind the counter, his chin resting in one hand as his attention was centered on the patron before him. Funny, he could feel the immortal yet the patron refused to acknowledge him, failing to alert the owner of his entry into the establishment. Time to announce his presence.
"Are you closed for the night?" he asked in his ancient accent. That caused both heads to turn and the identity of the other to be known.
Corners of a mouth turned up. "Well, well. Look what we have here Joe. A runaway immortal." The raven-haired Amanda was on her feet in an instant and suddenly and suprisingly in Methos' arms. "Where have you been?" she demanded from his shoulder.
Not at all expecting this type of welcome, Methos was reluctant to put his arms around his friend. Slowly, he relented. There were times that he forgot he was not the only one who was suffering.
Joe cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling, pretending to be elsewhere. The act struck an odd cord inside him, one he was not too sure sounded quite in tune.
When Amanda pulled away, she ducked her head so as not to meet the older immortal's eyes. Methos knew the gesture had been unexpected and had thrown both of them off guard. "Around," he responded and sauntered to the bar. "How 'bout a cold one?"
Joe was already pouring the drink. "Heard anything?" His voice was hopeful.
What Methos thought odd was the fact that this man was a Watcher, in the field following probably the greatest immortal on earth. But a little over six months ago, he had lost track. Not because he had been sloppy, but because they had said goodbye, for good. "No, I was thinking of asking you the same."
The graying bartender shook his head, casting his gaze back to Amanda. "Nothing here, either," she responded. "But I suppose if he wants to be found, he'll let us find him."
After a long gulp of the cold brew, Methos nodded. "You're right. We have to respect his wishes, as hard as that might be. I'd want the same."
Resuming her position at the bar, Amanda tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She had been in Paris for a couple of months now, keeping a close watch on the barge. Inhabiting it had not been hard to do at first, but after the first couple of days, the silence screamed to her heart in mutual loneliness. A daily routine had been set; starting off with a stroll through the parks and by the Eiffel Tower in hopes of catching site of her beloved, and then spending her evenings here in Joe's bar keeping another lonely soul company. Today was no different except that a long, thought lost, friend had reappeared.
"Exactly where have you been keeping yourself, Methos?" she rephrased the question.
There was no weaseling his way out of this one. A part of him knew he owed them that much knowledge, in light of the other knowledge he lacked. "Well, I've made a few investments and came into some money. So I decided to buy a piece of an art gallery in the States. I've been in Philadelphia overseeing paperwork on the deal and giving my two cents on the latest exhibit."
Joe's eyebrows shot up. "Turning to the arts are you? What's gotten into you? I thought museums were Constantine's cup of tea. When he was alive, that is."
A slow grin eased across his features. "I thought it was high time that I gave back to society. Man, I sound like MacLeod."
The female immortal hid a smile. They were all hopeless. Everything that they did or said reminded them of the best friend they had let walk away. But some of these things were quite surprising, as it was with Methos. Most of the time, he was mysterious and did not give much insight to his thoughts or even his past. Usually he covered them up with his sarcasm, which at times irritated her. Yet here he was, doing something that Mac would do, and actually admitting it. "It's not so bad, is it?"
"Look who's talking," the older immortal mumbled. "What's been keeping you?" It was obvious he wanted to change the subject.
"Oh, same old thing. Staying here in Paris for a while, just to get away from it all."
Get away was the last thing you could do in Paris, Methos thought. The Game was everywhere, and it seemed that Paris was a hot spot for the most devious of the players. If it weren't for business, he probably would have stayed State-side. Keeping himself busy with the affairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art was his way of keeping his thoughts from MacLeod. That old saying was true, he mused, you never know what you've got until it's gone.
"So how long are you here for?" Joe wanted to know. Methos had suddenly popped up, as was his style, so he figured that he would just as suddenly pop out.
The older man shrugged. "I arrived earlier today to work out some business with the Grand Palais. I'll be needing to head back to Philadelphia tomorrow."
Amanda sat up straighter. "You're serious about this art museum, aren't you?" Her voice was full of doubt.
Voice dripping with sarcasm, Methos replied, "Art in the states is dry so I thought it was time to spice it up. Yes I'm serious. It's a living now that I can't be the grad student anymore. Beats breaking safes."
Tension filled the space between the two immortals. This was not what Mac would have wanted, Joe thought. The three of them were the best friends he had left, and even though he decided to leave, he could not want them to be at odds with each other. "Cool it you two. What has gotten into you?"
Methos pointed to himself, and his eyes grew to the size of quarters. "Me?" he asked incredulously. "Is this the welcome I get? You know, I think I'll just leave. I have other business I can attend to."
"Leave," Amanda spat at him, her voice growing louder, "it's what you're best at."
Joe slammed his cane on top of the bar. He wondered where this came from all of a sudden. Never had he seen those two so angry. "Stop it! This is ridiculous!"
"You've got that right Joe," Methos agreed. He took one last drink of his beer, slammed it down, and turned to his gray-haired
friend. "I'll look you up the next time I'm in town." With that, he turned and stormed out of the bar.
Amanda was still fuming, but she did not dare face Joe. Their quarrelling had been childish, but the man absolutely infuriated her. Let him run off again. It was not like she needed him.
She quickly dabbed at her eye to stop the tear that had unexpectantly formed. Of late, she had been getting too emotional. That would not do for a lady, especially one of her stature. This just was not like her. "I should get home." The simple statement was enough, and Joe did not stop her.
The barge was cold and empty when she arrived, but that was not new. She sought out the comfort of the soft bed that MacLeod had left behind. All the moments they had shared together crossed her mind, and the tears began to flow freely.
What a sap she had become, and surely Joe thought as much of her. Her heart swelled when she thought of what had unfolded at Joe's. How could she have been so insensitive? she asked herself. Surely Methos was going through the same difficulties of living each day as she and Joe were, but she had just more or less let him belive she thought he was lying about his newfound interest.
But of course he had to be so pig headed at the same time. There was something about him that kept rubbing her wrong, and it seemed that he took delight in agitating it more.
"Duncan, why did you have to leave?" It was a question she voiced out loud nearly every night, but she still received no answer.
Burying her face into the pillow, Amanda cried herself to sleep for what she promised herself would be the last time. Tomorrow, she would begin anew, getting out of the barge and away from the painful memories. Only one thing could bring back the spark in her life that had been gone for so long. And she would seek it out first thing in the morning.
The main concern on his mind now was the museum. When he staked his claim into the gallery, the Delacroix show had been underway. Having been shown earlier in the year at the Grand Palais in Paris, word had spread quickly at how magnificient the exhibit was. Methos had not had the chance to browse the collection himself, but he decided to make a point to do so when he returned. That would be sooner than he had previously expected.
Appreciating the fine things that art provided had long been a passion of his, but as he pondered over his life the past decade, his passion had taken a leave of absence. Of course many tradgedies and mishaps had occured that kept him occupied, and this thought led him back to Duncan. There was no skirt-tailing this memory.
Duncan MacLeod was perhaps the greatest immortal to ever live, and Methos hoped that he still breathed. Since having said goodbye some six months ago, nothing had been seen or heard of him, how he fared, if he lived. Somehow he had eluded the Game because there was no record of him having offed anyone. And of course Joe had seen to it that the Chronicles had been checked. Methos left that to him due to the last run in the two had had over the immortal life history database.
Methos found himself thinking back to the time when the world had almost found out about the immortals, when he had offered his head to MacLeod in hopes that his ancient knowledge would aid him in defeating Kalas. But MacLeod refused to take it. Maybe he owed his life to the Scot. He sure could not have made it out sane and alive from the ordeal with Kronos and his "brothers" if it were not for MacLeod.
The blinking light overhead finally ceased as the attendant appeared at his side with a rather nicely plumped pillow. He accepted it with a smile and decided to think no more. Sleep won out in the end, and Methos gave in to the luxury, one he had not often been given the chance to take.
Golden, green eyes jerked open when the loudspeaker announced that the plane would be landing in New York in a few minutes. Methos craned his neck around to both sides to relieve the stiffness. New York was one place he did not care for and wanted quickly to board his connecting flight to Philadelphia. Like Paris, New York was a magnet for attracting immortals.
As soon as he exited the plane and gate, he immediately felt the presence of another, but he neither stiffened nor looked about as if searching for the other so as to not give his identity away. It had taken many years to train his body not to react so obviously to the awareness, and many times this had saved his head.
Checking his ticket, he sought out the gate for the Philadelphia flight. All the way, the presence seemed to grow stronger. Damn, he thought. Please don't let the brute be on the same flight.
Keeping his head straight ahead, Methos' eyes darted from side to side in hopes of detecting the other immortal. With a crowd of people, it was difficult to point out the enemy. This was the first time he had had an encounter at the airport, and so often he had visited this place. Perhaps he forgot to knock on wood upon leaving Paris.
A TV screen ahead revealed that he had approached the gate, and he settled down in the waiting area. The flight would not board for another half an hour. He cursed his luck.
People milled about in search of their own gates or a place to eat. The hairs on the back of his neck still tingled with the awareness, and he wished the pesky immortal would just leave. And then he spotted the culprit.
Approaching the gate was a young man with neatly cropped blond hair. Could not have been over sixteen years old when he died, Methos judged. He wore black pants and a black sweater covered by a trench coat. From the way his head flited about, it was obvious he was searching for the cause of his panicked state. The youth paused at the Philadelphia gate, and Methos watched as he approached a man. Lightly, he tapped the stranger on the shoulder and voiced a question, to which the stranger shook his head, and the immortal left him alone.
Again, the youth glanced around frantically. Methos slouched in the plastic chair, rested his head on one hand, and closed his eyes. Maybe the boy would go away. His wish did not come true.
"I'm sorry," came a shaky voice, "but don't I know you from somewhere?"
Methos opened one eye to inspect the intruder. Damn but if it wasn't the boy. "Excusez-moi?" he feigned a French accent. "Je ne comprend pas."
The young immortal's eyes squinted in confusion. "Don't I know you?" he repeated much slower. Then he patted his coat. "Are you one of us?"
Apparently, the boy was new to the Game and was paranoid about everyone who wore a trench coat. Methos acted as if he was thinking hard about what to say, and in very broken English replied, "I speak not well English."
Holding up one finger, he reached into his bag and removed a book which he thumbed through until he found what he was looking for. He held it up to the boy to read. After studying it for a moment, the boy shook his head, "Never mind," and took off.
Releasing a sigh of relief, Methos closed his eyes once again. Perhaps he would make it out of there unscathed afterall. The boy did not appear to be very knowledgable of what he was, but it never hurt to be careful because there were some con artists in the world. A few minutes later, the presence deminished, and he began to relax even more.
By the time he boarded the plane, his stomach was beginning to growl in protest to his missed meals the past two days. There would be no inflight meal since it would take no time to reach Philadelphia, so he decided to hit up a flight attendant for a snack.
Just as he had flagged one down, the presence returned. Behind the woman coming toward him was the youth. Methos cursed his luck once again under his breath. When the attendant asked if she could assist him, he held up his finger to tell her to wait, and he pulled out his French book once again. He would have to keep the charade up if he did not want to give away his identity to the other immortal, who was once again scanning the crowd.
The attendant read the sentence he pointed out, nodded, and went on her way to assist him. The boy was nearing his seat, and to his horror sat right next to him after checking his ticket. "Hello again," he called.
Methos nodded, and was thankful at least he was on the outside. Having to sit by the window would have made him feel trapped, even though he was certain the lad could not have been able to hurt him.
The flight attendant returned with a bag of peanuts and smiled. "There you are, Mr. Pierson. If there is anything else I can assist you with, just let me know."
Methos smiled faintly. "Merci."
"So, your name is Mr. Pierson? Mine's Cain Driscoll."
The boy had turned toward him, invading his personal space, but Methos did not inch away. He merely ignored him, sticking with his rude French act. Opening up his snack, he proceeded to pop peanuts into his mouth.
Moving closer, the boy repeated slower and louder. "My name is Cain Driscoll."
Methos sighed. Nothing would drive him away, he decided, except the truth. Of course, the boy could have already figured out that he was hiding his true self. "Do you always talk to strangers?"
Cain's eyes grew wide. "You're not French! I knew it!"
"Shh," Methos warned. "You are not ten feet away from me. No, I'm not. But one does have to conceal oneself sometime, which I recommend you do more often. Do you know how many of us wander around this city looking for prime suspects such as yourself?"
That caused the youth to sit back and frown. "You know, you don't have to lecture me. I've been in New York for a while, and I'm still alive."
"It's a wonder," Methos mummbled. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like some privacy."
Cain did not hear him, or else he did not want to hear him. "How old are you? Where are you from?"
"Slow down." Methos held his hand up. Never had he seen another immortal so excited to meet one of his own kind. "Don't you know how dangerous it is to associate with our kind? Or have you learned the rules of the Game yet?"
Again he frowned. "Of course I know about the Game. How do you think I know about what I am? But I asked you a question first."
"Which I decline to answer. And if you please, let me have some peace and quiet." Methos turned his shoulder on him and closed his eyes. Maybe the kid would take a hint.
Cain did not speak for the duration of the flight, to Methos' delight. Although the peanuts did not appease his appetite, he was allowed to rest without disturbance. His hope to rid the young immortal once they landed all but shattered when Cain followed him through the airport.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Methos demanded. "Somewhere other than where I'm going?"
Cain smiled. "I've never been in Philadelphia before. I was hoping you could show me around."
Halting outside the automatic door leading into the airport, Methos dropped his luggage and turned to his annoying trailer. "What is your game? Are you wanting a challenge?"
Horror filled Cain's pale features. "No, that's not what I want. It's just...just that I don't know nobody and I thought..."
"You thought what?" Methos demanded. It frightened him how angry he had suddenly become. Taking several deep breaths, he attempted to calm down.
"It's just that you seem so much older," Cain started again but failed to finish.
Methos nodded, understanding the kid's reasoning. "I see. You think that I might take you under my wing and protect you? Well, I don't have time for that. I'm a very busy man."
Cain began to stammer, "I, I understand that. Do you have someplace I could stay? I promise I won't bother you, I won't give you no trouble."
Something in the back of his mind told him to refuse, but then something else came to the surface. Oddly, the situation reminded him of another pair; one of a teacher and his student. Before he knew what he was doing, Methos replied, "Get your bag."
A smile of triumph glittered Cain's face. "You won't regret this," he promised and snatched up his bag and followed the older immortal to hail a cab.
Thirty thousand feet above her, Methos lounged in his plane seat, waiting for the attendant to return with his pillow. All thoughts of the incident at Joe's had been pushed into the recesses of his mind, where he kept all memories he did not wish to have resurface. Once again, he was on his way to the States and could not be happier.
