Merry X-Mas, Blah Blah Blah Amand-r Rating: PG-13 Characters: M DM J A Alexa Byron R Kronos Summary: It's Christmas time, and Methos gets a case of the gringhies. Mac goes insane with a candy cane, and well..... ------------------------------------------------------------------- Ddddddddd-Disclaimer!: I do not own Methos, MacLeod, Joe, Richie, Byron, Alexa, Kronos, or any of the Immortals, or this concept of Immortality. I do not own Santa Claus, or the idea of him. They (the immortals) belong to Rysher: Davis/Panzer, and those people over there. I merely BORROW the characters because I think they're darn amusing. Any feedback can be sent to deparsons@earthlink.net. This is for the betas: Dana, Alice, Jessalyn and the rest, at hlbeta, and to Carin Lamontagne, Cathy Butterfield and Mike Vickery cause they consented to beta it without knowing what they were getting into, and never did get the second half, 'cause I'm always in a rush, the poor fools. For jam-wired, who did get the whole thing, and talked me out of trashing it like seven million times. Betas are our saviors, here in the fanfic realm, and they make wicked mixed drinks, too. To Dana and Alice: in the words of Ray Charles: "What would I do, without you, to see me through?" Happy Holidays! Heh. Santa. I've been really good this year... -------------------------------------------------------------------- Merry Christmas, Blah Blah Blah. by Amand-r, princess of Spam bunnies "What you fear in the night in the day comes to call anyway." -----Counting Crows "I hate Christmas," Methos muttered, his neck tucked into the collar of his coat as far as it would go. "Oh really, Methos?" Mac asked, raising an eyebrow. They were ambling through the plaza shops down the main strip of Seacouver's "downtown", and Mac had only one ear on their conversation. There was a sweater he wanted to find for Joe for Christmas. It was here somewhere... "I would have thought," he added to the other man. "That you of all people would like any excuse to watch people party. Let alone party yourself." Methos snorted at him. "I don't 'party,' Mac. I revel. I celebrate. I-" "Yak yak, yak," Mac moaned. "Besides it's not like that anymore!" the older Immortal whined, flailing his hands and almost hitting a Salvation Army Santa with one long arm. Santa's bell went flying, and Methos grunted. "Christmas was much better when everyone got wonked on egg nog and wassail and passed out on the benches of the town halls," he concluded, stooping to pick up the bell, and thrust it back at Santa. "Here." "Methos," Mac said warmly. "You, who danced with the girls in that terrible Greek catastrophe at the University, you who were the great God Pan, you who were the acolyte to Byron, the party man himself-" "Don't," Methos warned. "I'm serious. I hate this capitalist Christmas spiel." "Well, when you put it that way-" Mac knitted his brows. "Oh! The travesty! People buying gifts for each other! No no no!" Methos gave him a glare that could have melted the concrete they were standing on, and quickened his pace. "What I think is irrelevant," he told the Highlander when he caught up to the long legged man's walk. "People do whatever they want. Seasons, holidays, traditions come and go, and I just watch them change. Maybe the fact that people are nice to each other one day out of the year pisses me off. I'm old." He rolled his eyes, frowning. "Pay no attention to the ancient behind the curtain." Mac watched the old man sigh at a little girl in a shop window, dressed like a princess. "Methos, what do you want for Christmas this year?" Mac asked. The old immortal's face twisted into surprise, then wry amusement. "How about world peace?" Duncan chuckled. "Okay, I'll see what I can do about that one." "Seriously Mac, don't buy me anything. I outdate the concept of presents." Methos stopped to stare at a bookstore display window. "Ooohh, look at that, they uncovered more mosaics at Pompeii. Hey!" He pointed to the fresco on the cover. "I think that's from my villa! I wonder if I still have the ownership papers..." Mac shook his head. "Oh, Methos, you never grow out of presents." "Yes, I do. I grew out of lots of things. This is one I never actually grew into, MacLeod." Duncan watched Methos. The old man's face was twisted into a look of remembrance, one he had donned many times in Mac's presence. What was the old man thinking of now? "Methos, what are you doing for the holidays?" Mac tried to make his voice sound innocent. "I'm going to re-read the existentialist writers. You know, Camus, Hemingway," Methos grinned as Mac stuck his finger down his throat. "Sartre. Nothing like nihilism during the season of love." "You are a total grinch. How ever do you get along in the presence of mortals?" Duncan pulled Methos away from the bookstore window. "Well, usually, I go someplace where no one else is, and then I enjoy myself," Methos replied, haughty. Mac rolled his eyes. "Aw, Methos, I think you need a drink," Mac muttered. The old man's eyes brightened. "Why yes, yes I do. Off!" He pointed to the directing of the city where Joe's was located, and grinned. "To the town hall!" Mac rolled his eyes, and noticed that Methos was snickering and singing under his breath. Was that...? Jingle Bells?? *** Three days later... Mac walked into the bar, expecting to find Methos. He was in luck. Or perhaps just not surprised. Methos looked decidedly unhappy, and altogether grumpy. His hair was mussed though only those used to him would be able to tell, his face was drawn, and he wasn't drinking his beer. Instead, his frame was draped across the bar chair, and he had stuck his face into a copy of Jean Paul Sartre's "Nausea." Mac mused. He adjusted his costume, and called Adam's name. The world's oldest Immortal looked up into the face of Duncan MacLeod, known right now to the world as Santa Claus. Methos gave him the once over before grimacing and trying desperately to bury his face further into the book. "Aaaaaadam," Mac leaned into the older immortal's line of sight, and pulled down the book. "I know it's you, MacLeod, I'm trying very hard to tell myself you are not dressed in red. Better yet, I'm trying very hard to convince myself that you are not here." He pulled the book back up to his face. "Nope, no insane Highlanders here." "Adam, I have to do that whole 'Santa thing' for the Hospital today, remember?" "Oh, how could I forget?" Methos rolled his eyes. Mac smiled sweetly. "I promised Anne. Want to come?" Methos looked up at Mac, then giggled once, twice, then exploded into a wild high-pitched laugh and fell off his seat, Sartre flying through the air and hitting the bar. Mac rolled his eyes, and set the beard and hat on the table, sitting down on the chair that was across from Methos. Or more appropriately, where Methos *had* been. "I don't see what's so funny-" his only response was a loud nasal cackle/sob, as if the old man were struggling for air. One hand flew up on the table and groped the top, presumably for beer, but knocked the bottle over, spilling its contents all over the table and onto the floor. Mac righted the mess, and wondered if Methos even noticed he'd just been drenched with his own alcoholic beverage. "Meeeethooooos," he called. The laughing abruptly stopped, and the top of his head came into view, followed by two, very wide, boyish eyes. Duncan chuckled. Methos however raised an eyebrow and felt the approach of doom. The last time Mac had used this tone of voice with him Gina de Valincourt had ended up chasing him around the barge a few times. Mac reached behind himself, and shook a cloth bag, wagging his eyebrows at the older immortal. Methos heard the jangle of bells. "Ohhhh no." *** "I can't believe I lost. How could I lose 'Rock Scissors Paper?'" Methos grumbled, adjusting his green felt tunic for the umpteenth time. The hat with the bells slid down in his face, and he pushed it back annoyedly. "It's a simple matter or probability." He handed a candy cane to the little girl who had just left Duncan's lap. "All the Gods that were ever worshipped are making fun of me now. I can feel it." "Methos?" Duncan ventured. "Yes, MacLeod?" "Shut up and pass out the candy, old man." "Hmph." Duncan's eyes twinkled. "You could have left any time. You chose to stay, and you chose to bet. You lost, and you're still here because this will give you perfect fodder to gripe at me for the next fifty years," Duncan said between pictures. "'Remember the time, Mac, when you made me dress up like an elf and hand out candy?'" A grubby faced child hugged Methos and his face softened. "There you go, sweetheart," the older immortal whispered in her ear, and Mac was sure he had him, until Methos noticed him watching. "You know Mac," he said too jovially. "Any court of law would hold up my plea of insanity if I were to kill you." "Yeah, but these kids wouldn't," Duncan whispered, holding his arms out for the next child, a cherub-faced boy. "We won't be here forever," Methos hissed. "And I know where you live." Duncan laughed. "So, how long is this thing? These shoes are uncomfortable!" Methos gestured with his pointed felt foot, forest green, and jangling with bells. Duncan couldn't resist a chuckle at the older man's expense. "That costume was probably made for a much smaller person. If you weren't so tall it wouldn't be so tight. It's only been fifteen minutes, Adam." His only response was a long-suffering sigh. Twenty Minutes later... "I think you rigged this whole thing just to irk me." Methos muttered. "What, Christmas?" Mac joked between camera flashes. "You're right, I rescheduled the birth of Christ just for you, Adam." Methos wondered just how much the camera flashes impaired Duncan's vision, and if he could somehow take his head while no one was looking. "Well," he said under his breath. "It wouldn't be the first time. In 648, a parish changed Christmas so they could execute me when it wasn't a holy day." "Methos..." Duncan warned, and pointed to the kids. The older Immortal smirked, and adjusted his pointy hat. Bells jangled annoyingly. "A joke, Highlander. Here-" he thrust a candy cane into the Scotsman's mouth. "Merry freakin' Christmas." Mac yanked the candy from his mouth and watched the tall elf with suspicion. He threw it at Methos. "Stop it. I mean it this time. The kids-" he whispered. Methos grinned from ear to ear. "Ah yes, the kids. You know," Methos shrugged, and raised an eyebrow. "You ever notice how much children resemble little monkeys?" All the children and adults in line watched as Santa picked up one of the life sized plastic candy canes from the side of his "throne," and gave his rather tall elf a good solid THWACK on the head. Methos fell over with a grunt. Mac turned to the sea of dumbfounded faces and shrugged. "That's what happens when you're naughty," was the first thing he could think of to say. A good half of the children ran from the line, screaming and crying in terror. *** "Hee hee hee...ha ha ha ha hee hee hee he WHAT?" Joe chuckled, and leaned on his cane. He *had* to hear this again. Methos smirked into his beer, a very self-satisfied look on his face. "He smacked me on the head with one of those hideous plastic candy cane thingies, and hospital security escorted him from the building. Oh, what a Kodak moment!" Methos laughed as he waved a bunch of Polaroid's. "The kid taking the pictures got the whole thing on film!" He let Joe examine the photographic proof. Sure enough, there it was like time-lapsed photography: Mac standing, Mac hitting Adam, turning to the kids, approached by security, the wounded look on his face when he was escorted away." Joe laughed so hard he wasn't sure if it was a laugh and not a giggle. "I'm sure you had something to do with provoking him, elf man." Methos had traded his outfit for normal jeans and sweater, but someone had given him Santa's hat, the long tip of it with the white pom pom tassel flopping over to the side of his head. He grinned around a mass of white faux fur trimming. He made a face, then smirked the smile of the knowing. Joe considered the old immortal. He looked so...boyish...well, elfin. "Moi? Noooooo," Methos drawled. Lipstick kisses smeared on his cheek. Joe noticed and pointed it out. "You get molested by Santa's other little helper?" he asked. Methos' grin was wicked. "Let's just say that Mrs. Claus was very sympathetic to my plight." He sipped his beer. "Joe, you gotta do something for me." Joe laughed over his drink. "I'm afraid. What?" "Put this in MacLeod's Chronicle. For posterity's sake. Call it, your Christmas present to me." Well," Joe chuckled as Methos emptied his beer glass, and went around the bar to the tap. "It *would* be the Watcher-ly thing to do." Methos sipped the head off his beer. The bell in the tip of his hat jingled, and he grinned with private amusement, eyes centered on the counter. His head jolted up with the face that Joe had come to secretly call the "another immortal nearby" look. Joe turned his face to the door. It was Mac. He snickered and watched Methos's face transform into one of innocence. This was gonna be good. The older immortal backed away from the bar, his hands spread wide. Joe shoved the poloroids in his pocket. These would be safer with him for now. "Now Mac-" the old immortal began. "You! I can't believe you, you-" Mac stammered, rounding tables and upturned chairs, his face was in shock. The red Santa jacket hung open, though the slacks had been changed and he no longer had the telltale white facial hair. "MacLeod, now, I know you're angry, but-" Methos edged to the back room, then turned and bolted into the office, and presumably the back door. The Highlander sprinted after him, and Joe chuckled, picking up his glass of whiskey. "Ah children and the holidays," he muttered. There was a yelp, and a very old cranky Methos yelled. "Nonononono! Not that! Aw, stop! Let GO OF MY NOBZE!" Joe laughed. "Merry Christmas." *** Later that night... Methos turned in his bed, tossing and trying to make the darkness in the room even darker by squeezing his eyes shut tighter. He slammed his fist into the pillow. He flipped over on his side. Then on his back. He buried his face under the pillow, and moaned into the heat of his own breath beating back at him. Instead of sleeping, he played the rest of the evening: Mac grabbing him by the nose and giving his that "wounded Highland Puppy" look, Joe being *totally* unsympathetic to his plight. Mac sulked for the rest of the evening, and Joe ignored him to play with the house band. No one understood the humor of the situation...Methos sighed. It was some time before he even felt the approach of sleep. It was a game that he had yet to master, this falling into the realm of the opiate like slumber of the truly tired. When it did come at all he was besieged with images he didn't want to see, images of old friends long dead, of new friends soon to be or recently demised. Images of rotting corpses and himself dressed as death, taking the heads of immortals whose demises he wasn't responsible for. he thought as he caught the tail end of the dream webbing, and towing himself into the watery depths of it. "Methos," The old Immortal roused from sleep, slowly. There was no buzz, no hum of a Presence to jolt him. The voice continued. "Aw, Methos, you aren't that drunk, come on, get up!" That voice was familiar, young, male, it was... His eyes flew open. "Ryan?" "Finally! I thought you were dead from alcohol poisoning." The tow-headed boy/man perched on the edge of Methos's bed. "It would not be cool if the maid service were to find your sorry dead ass." Richie surveyed the room with raised eyebrows. "Then again, in this dump, is there maid service?" Methos sat up, and let his jaw unhinge. "Richie?" "That *would* be my name," Richie said, and winked. "Don't wear it out, or I'll make you buy me a new one." He shrugged then, very Richie like. "Then again, you are staying in a Motel 6-" "Oh shut up about the motel!" Methos snapped, totally forgetting that he was yelling at a dead person. He sobered. "Ryan, you're um, well-" "Dead?" Richie offered up jovially. "Pushing up the daisies? Demised? Deceased? Bereft of life?" He shrugged again. "Yup, bingo. Very observant for a five thousand year old man." Before Methos could mutter a word, Richie, or rather, ghost-Richie silenced him with his hands. "Don't-- ask. Yes, I'm dead. Yes, a ghost, kinda. No, I can't tell you anything. I'm not allowed." Methos snorted. "Figures." Richie scowled, his lower lip jutting into a bit of a pout. "Afterlife uncertainty is all part and parcel to being alive, bub." "Oh," Methos said, disappointed. "Waitaminute! This is absurd! I am *talking* to myself. You can't be here." Richie folded his arms, raised his brows, and let Methos continue his rant. "This is a hallucination brought on by too much Camus, and Bailey's with coffee at the bar. Yeah, and you, well you, I picked you because you're well, you're, uh..." "Got you there, didn't I" Richie grinned then shook his head slowly and made a tsking noise. "I'm as real as someone's who's dead can be." The 'ghost' frowned. "That didn't sound right. Anyway, look, I'd love to stay and yak with you all night, but I got a time limit here. So, listen up." Methos figured he was totally wonked on caffeine and booze, so he sat back, folded his arms, and resigned himself to his 'hallucination', leaning against the headboard. "Oh, by all means, Richard." Richie sighed. "You're heading down a dark road, man." "Oh?" Methos answered testily. "Thank you for that gem of wisdom." Richie gave him the finger and he smiled. "It really is you. Come to rattle your chains? You do know that Mac's loft is just right over the city. I would think you'd prefer to haunt that place." Richie smiled. "Nope. Yours." Methos stiffened, and the younger (and dead) immortal plowed on. "The way I see it Methos, you're kinda in a rut. You know? You got used to the Clan MacLeod. Hell, we all did. You and Mac and me and Joe and Amanda, it was like an extended family. "Then Joe hurt you with that Shapiro thing, and don't even pretend you weren't just a little bit disappointed that he accused you of wanting to hunt Walker." Richie grinned. Methos nodded. "Point?" The younger immortal ignored him and continued. "And well, now, Amanda's never here, and Mac is still a little traumatized, and me, well..." Richie spread his hands wide in apology. "Hey, I didn't ask for this," Methos whined. "I know, Kalas yanked you out of your grad school life," Richie rolled his eyes. "It would have happened one way or another. If not Kalas, then someone else. The point is, Methos, that you need to rethink some of the major things in your life. You really hurt Mac today. If you don't do this, the future is bleak." "Bleak, how ominous," Methos muttered. "You must be prime proof that there is truly enlightenment after death." Richie gave him the finger again. "Call it whatever, Methos, but you haven't been making the most of what you were given lately. You value your head so much, and you don't do anything with it." Methos rolled his eyes. "Lessons on life, from a ghost. And this is the part where you take me to my past, and the future and show me what will come if I don't change my misanthropic ways. Or perhaps I'll lose Susu's petals, and then a bell will ring and you'll get your wings, right?" Richie grinned, and Methos didn't like it. "Not my job, you'll see." "See what?" Methos stared as Richie became rather translucent. "Is this supposed to scare me? Come on, Ryan! This is pathetic." "Uh uh, old man," Richie sang and held up three almost invisible fingers. "You obviously know the drill. Three. Count 'em and weep." "No," Methos said, rubbing his eyes. But Richie was gone. He stared at his surroundings. All was silent but the ice machine in the hallway. "Aw hell," he moaned. "What have you told yourself about hot alcoholic drinks? From now on Methos, beer! Beer! Stick to the beer!" Methos rolled over and stuffed his head under the pillow. *** He was dreaming of the sun, blinding and hot in the winter solstice. But it wasn't the solstice, at least he didn't know that yet. He was in his tent, packing a small leather bag, and gathering water in a wineskin. He was feeling for the Presences of his Brothers, and stopped like a frightened rabbit every time one of them stirred in their sleep. "Doc." The voice was ominous and made the old man shiver in his slumber. There was a voice outside his tent, but the noise it made wasn't the guttural ancient Sumerian of Silas, or the clipped Domitic trade jargon Kronos used when speaking to only him. "Come on, Doc, wake up!" Methos jolted awake as a cane hit him with a solid connect to his ribs. The sun shrank to a pinpoint of light from under the hotel room door. He shot bolt upright in the hotel bed, eyes searching the darkness with the abuser. "Whuzzat? What the bloody fu- oh, shit," he whispered, as his eyes centered on the intruder. He must be hallucinating. "Doc, you always did have a way with words," Byron said jovially, too jovially, Methos thought for someone who was dead. Byron sat down on the edge of the bed, and surveyed the room with obvious distaste. "Doc, I know you sometimes forget about the finer things in life, but a Motel 6? It's horrendous." He picked at the comforter. "Byron?" Methos whispered, rubbing his eyes. he thought. Byron toyed with his ascot. "This takes a lot to get used to again," he mumbled and gestured to his clothing. "Here I had just stripped Jean Harlowe down and there was this knock on the door." Byron pointed up. Methos followed his finger and stared at the ceiling lamp fixture as the dead poet continued. "Anyway, they say 'quick job chap, come on then, you'll be back in no time.'" "Byron, you're-" Methos pointed up. His old friend laughed. "In abstract. You see in reality--oof!" The ghost of Lord Byron flew forward and hit the floor without a sound. He was silent for a moment, as if listening to something, then got up shakily. "Well then, sorry about that, seems there's this 'no revelations' clause, so we're going to have to pass on *that* subject" the ghost muttered, rubbing his nose. "That really narrows down topics for us, so why don't we just leave the Introitus behind, and get to the meaty innards of this situation, as it were?" Methos wondered if Immortals could die of spontaneous cardiac arrest. If his heart had any more shocks like this he very well might be a surprise for maid service. Methos sat up in his boxers as a very real Byron jerked the covers off the bed, flinging them aside. The poet raised an eyebrow. "Boxers, I understand. But Doc, flowers? Orange flowers?" Methos dug through his sarcastic retort filing system in his head, choosing a doozy to throw at the ghost. Byron took his hand to help him up. "Uh." was the first thing he thought of to say. Byron tilted his head. "Eloquent. Very eloquent. Come then," Methos paused at the foot of his bed when it was obvious they were going out the front door. Byron rolled his eyes at the uncertainty and grinned. "Richard Ryan said you knew the drill," he trilled. "Behind on your pop culture? You're invisible, old friend, clothing optional and all that. Come on then." Byron walked to the door, not opening it. He yanked on Methos's arm, and the live immortal realized they were going to go through it. "Byron, we aren't going through-" *** "-the door...oh..." Methos finished. They had gone through the door, literally. And this was not the hotel hallway. Methos squinted in the bright sun and tried to orient himself to his new surroundings. Lots of sand, and lots of sun. Lots of glare, too. He shielded his eyes from the solar flare. It was almost a wasteland, this place, flat, dry, not even a breeze. He scanned the flatness for signs of life. Just a few nomadic tents, some horses, and a lot of- Skulls. The Horsemen? Methos wanted to be damn sure he was really invisible before he went another step. "My God, Doc, how could you stand this?" Byron joked, fanning himself. Methos choked back the comment that ghosts weren't supposed to sweat, and instead wondered what "immortal platitude" he was supposed to be thinking at this moment. "So, this is that 'Horseman thing' everyone was talking about. I see." Byron started for the tents, and looked back to Methos in query. "Well? You know? Walking? Come on, if I don't get back to Jean, she'll leave me for Shelley, and I'll be so pissed." He made a face. "Or that John Donne fellow. I thought holy men weren't supposed to be interested in the pleasures of the flesh, but the man is an Adonis." Methos smiled and trotted to catch up with his friend's loping walk. "What is all this anyway?" Methos muttered as they sauntered (Byron never did anything else. It was always a saunter, or an amble) to the tents. Byron smiled into the sun, not even squinting. "Oh, you know, standard holiday visit. Scare the fear of life into you, the standard holy kind of thing." Byron said flippantly. "I wonder if you people have ever heard of postcards? Visions? Voices from the sky?" Methos asked, realizing that he was whispering. They were to the tents now, and the Horseman's camp was alive with the bustle of slaves preparing things for their masters. It was like a normal day. But the sun was way overhead, and none of the Masters had arisen yet. That was odd. Kronos usually rose with the sun. That meant this was the day that he... "Yes," Byron answered his thoughts. "This is the day you left. You drugged your brothers and bolted before they could wake. I believe you had already insinuated yourself into a Bedouin tribe by this time. Interesting, that you chose this day of all days to leave, isn't it?" Methos rolled his eyes. "It's not like people were big into Christianity at this time, you know. This was just another of thousands of holidays. The Horsemen didn't celebrate holidays." He watched one of his slaves, a girl-child he had named Tamar, carry water to Silas's tent. "I know that Doc," Byron moaned. "What I *meant* was that this was still the solstice, you know. A lucky day for starting anew." His eyes twinkled. "But you really did mean to start anew, didn't you?" Methos waited as Tamar passed them without a glance before answering. "Yes, that is what you want to hear. I wanted to start again. I wanted out." He stared at his old friend, angry at the whole conversation. What could this man blame him for, anyway? Really? This was the man MacLeod had recently killed, when the Scotsman couldn't bring himself to end Methos's life for something he had done that was ten times more sinister than letting a young musician overdose on drugs and alcohol. Byron snorted. "And did you?" Methos cut a glance at him, standing on the crest of a small rise, crevat undone, long sleeves billowing around his fine-boned hands. His hair ruffled in the slightest of breezes, so that he looked very alive indeed. Methos was vaguely aware that he was dressed rather badly for the occasion, the orange flowers on his boxers became garish in the bright sunlight. "Yeah," he told the ghost. "Yeah, I changed it. If you're supposed to be imparting some wisdom here, then you're on the wrong track." He watched Silas rise, and stretch as he left his tent. "I don't care if this occurred on some great cosmic High Holy Day, I did it because I did it. And it made me glad. I was free, and I was blessedly happy." Byron sneezed what sounded like "bullshit" and he glared at him. The man smiled. "Sorry, all this sand-" "Is there a point? Let me guess," Methos tapped his index finger against his chin, pretending to think. "'Methos, what did you do with yourself? Methos, for five thousand years, you have done nothing but look out for number one. Methos, you need to learn the true meaning of love and sharing and giving back to society-' sorry, I was born before kindergarten was instituted," he glanced at Byron, who was looking into the camp with mild interest. Methos followed his gaze to Tamar, trapped in Silas's arms by the well. The man had his hand in her dress, and she was trying to do her best to pull it out. She cried Methos's name, her eyes frantic towards his tent, but the flap did not open. It never would again, at least, not by his hand. "Kronos killed her later that night, you know," Byron said mildly. Methos stared at the frightened slave girl, wide chocolate eyes, and tangled masses of curls on her damp forehead. Tamar, 'palm tree,' an oasis in the desert...what did he do to his slaves that made them think he would protect them? Cassandra had been so sure he wouldn't let Kronos have her... "You treat them like humans," Byron offered. "Did you ever stop to consider that you were never like your brothers?" Methos stared at Tamar as her eyes watered, and she screamed his name. Kronos shot out of his tent demanding what was going on. All this was like a bizarre documentary as Byron continued in the manner of a detached audio book narrator. "You don't mean that I was better than them, do you?" he asked the ghost with thinned and taut lips. "I could hardly agree with you on that. Silas was the best of us, in those days." Byron coughed. "Ah, yes, you do miss that bastard, don't you? Here I thought you were past the habit of idealizing the past. Silas would skin his girls, didn't he? Did you forget that?" Methos watched Silas rough-handle the girl, and sighed. "No, I haven't forgotten, and I'm sick of having to defend all of us to someone who wasn't there," Methos griped, clenching fists and glaring at Byron, who shrugged. "You mean there is a defense, Doc? Oh well, you have to live with it, not me." he answered. "Just make sure that you *live* with it, old man. This is something that may not be cast aside, and you know that." The poet watched Silas maul the girl with detached interest. It was all in the past, there was nothing either of them could do to change it, Methos knew, and so he watched with resigned chagrin. Why did Tamar matter to him anyway? She certainly wasn't beautiful, except for those eyes, and her hair, if it was ever combed out. She was too young for sex, at least to be any good, and she had been a terrible cook. But her eyes, those terrible lamb-like eyes. Oh, he was not going to be upset over this. This was not going to hurt him. "Perhaps that made you more cruel," Byron offered cheerfully. "You may not have been the most vicious, but you knew where it hurt the most and you caused it. Maybe not even intentionally, with your little conversations about what they did in the camp, or when you told them about your day. There was no 'come here' 'go there', no 'lay still' while you raped them, you know that don't you? "So very very cruel, 'Master Methos.'" Methos cringed as his companion sneered and mocked him, drawling the words in the ancient Greek, drawing them out, and making them a curse. "To seem to offer hope, and then deny it of them, your captives. "I suppose that you have thought that you were the only one of the four of you to change. Methos, you didn't change, you know, you never have, Doc." Methos widened his eyes at the poet, who laughed. "Yet another secret of the universe, Doc. Technically, you aren't the person you were five seconds ago, but you are never really changing. What has the popular writer, Rice called it? Ah," Byron gestured with his hands. "Yes. Becoming more fully who you are. Like when you told Kronos that you had passed this, all of it, your 'angry adolescence' as it were. Call it, growing into yourself, fleshing yourself out. Like," the poet paused. "Filling up a balloon, swirling jam into pudding..." Now Methos rolled his eyes. "Byron, you have to get new material." The ghost frowned. "Fuck off." "Oh, that's new," Methos muttered. "So, you dragged me out here to show me that I'm not a bad person?" Byron smirked. "Oh no, you're a bad person, because you deny your potential. Just because you have progressed past this point doesn't mean that you don't have more to go. I don't think you're a candidate for Satori yet, old friend. That's why MacLeod is good for you." Methos snorted. "Great, you've joined the 'Make Methos a Boy Scout' campaign. Et tu, Gordon?" Byron shrugged, his eyes on Methos for a long moment. "No, Doc, just curious and wondering how in five thousand years --which, by the way, you chose not to tell me about, I'm hurt-- you could not learn that there are times you have to bite the bullet and do something, regardless of how you feel about it." Methos stared at his dead friend. "You are deluded," he decided aloud. He cast a glance at Silas, who had left Tamar weeping at the well, and watched him go in search of food, tossing about slaves and yelling in his full voice. "No," Byron said simply. His eyes sparkled with mischief. "Doc, when will you learn that it's perfectly fine to want to stay alive, but that sometimes if you don't do something dangerous, you aren't really alive? Likewise, if you don't have friends you're willing to die for, life is booooooooring." Methos snorted at the irony. "And thus the wedded bliss of the MacLeod/Byron philosophies. Doesn't anyone consider my philosophy?" Byron was moving to the tents now. To his tent. Methos took a split second to debate whether Byron was joking about being invisible and decided that for once the poet was being truthful. He sprinted to catch up. "Your philosophy," Byron muttered as he walked, nonchalant, finally reaching the tent that had once been Methos's, and pulling the flap aside. "I wouldn't call that a philosophy. It's an external locus of blame." Methos watched him gesture to the tent opening. He shook his head. "Oh no. If this is another little segue to a different event in my life, I'll pass, Byron." He crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly in the sand. The poet rolled his eyes and sighed. "If I tried to take you to all the important little crossroads in your life, Jean Harlowe would be leaving me for Joe's unborn grandchildren in the afterlife." He stopped, examining Methos's defensive stance. "You can stop that, you know. Besides, if you don't come with me, you'll be stuck here." Methos cocked his head at Byron. Would he really be stuck here? "You're bluffing," he said. "It won't work, youngling." He re-crossed his arms, and snorted. Byron let his shoulders sag, and sighed. "Dammit, Doc," Byron said as if Methos were a child. "Does everything have to be so difficult! Just get in the damn tent! I swear, this is half of your problem!" With that, Byron reached out and pulled one of Methos's arms, hard towards himself. Methos tried to ground his stance, but he was surprised and off kilter. He tumbled forward into the poet, and through the tent- *** And awoke in his hotel room with a start. It was dark, and Byron was nowhere in sight. Methos suppressed a yawn, and checked the clock. Three-thirty. Had he imagined it all? Had it all been a sick hallucination-like dream? Was it some sort of lucid vision? Methos sat up, and pondered in the darkness. Was he losing it? Maybe he'd watched "It's A Wonderful Life" a little too close to bedtime. Maybe he was really bothered by something, or maybe... Methos reached under the covers to grab one of his feet. It was covered in sand. "Oh, shit," Methos muttered, and threw himself back into the bed, but hitting his head on the headboard, he passed out. *** There was a soft dappled light this time. There was a time, Methos thought in his dreaming, that one of the best sights in the world was that of children playing in the shade of trees in the forest. There had been a time, in the recent past, when he would have moved heaven and hell for a little bit of love. he knew. "Adam," a small hand caressed his face. "Adam, wake up." This voice, light, airy, breathy, and sweet, it penetrated his senses like holy incense. He felt a light brushing on his hair. Then that scent seemed to swallow him, like burying his face in a bouquet of roses. He opened his eyes, and his heart broke. "Oh no Alexa, not you." The ghost tossed her hair back and smiled. "I missed you too, Adam." Methos groaned, and pressed his face into that hand on his cheek. he thought. "Adam," Alexa crooned. "What's wrong?" Methos surged upright suddenly to take her in his arms and crush her to him desperately. Gods, but he missed this woman! It wasn't fair that they (whoever they were) send her to do this to him. Alexa was pliant in his arms, grasping his back and shoulders and squeezing, he had to remind himself that she was so fragile before. Alexa had bruised too easily. Now...he held on for dear life. "Adam, it's all right," she whispered. "Adam, let go." Alexa pushed him away, and held his face in her hands. "We have something to discuss." He sighed, and his shoulders sagged. "I don't suppose this couldn't just be a nice little pastiche cooked up by some supernatural force that thinks I deserve a visit from you?" Alexa laughed, shaking back her hair. She was clothed in a loose gold gown that made her eyes deeper in definition; Methos stared at them as if he had never seen them before. She entranced him with her voice, like she had the first time they had ever met. "I am sorry, sweetie. At least you know it's real and not some 'alcohol induced hallucination." Methos let her draw him to his feet, both his hands in hers. He towered over her tiny frame and smiled. "I could never hallucinate you. My subconscious wouldn't allow it. Besides," he waved a hand, marveling internally at his composure. "Byron just yanked me through a door. I suppose we're off to someplace where I will be taught an extremely important lesson in the art of human relations?" he asked bitterly, regretting the sarcasm in his voice. Alexa was unperturbed. She cocked her head, and smiled. "Adam. I won't yank you through a door. I have more tact." She reached out and placed a hand over his eyes. He flinched at the action, even though her body pressed to his and he felt the warmth radiating from her. When she removed her hand, they were standing in an entirely different place. A small apartment, with sparse furnishings. An old battered guitar was thrown on the sofa of the living room, and a half-consumed glass of bourbon rested on the table next to it. The room was empty. He turned to Alexa, whose eyes glinted in merriment. "Like I said," she murmured as she shrugged. "I'm a woman, we have more style, even more than poets." Methos stared at the guitar. "We're at Joe's," he whispered. Alexa nodded, and pointed to the bedroom. "Oh yes, and this is earlier today. Around ten in the morning, in fact. In there," she said simply, and Methos approached the half-open door with apprehension. Alexa followed him, as if watching him for a reaction to what he was about to see. Her eyes glowed in the dim incandescent light. Methos heard a voice from inside the room. "...No, I understand, I just wanted to say hello, and Merry Christmas...uh, okay, bye." Joe hung up the phone and sat down on the edge of the bed. He stared at the phone, his hand tapping a rhythm on the side of his leg. Methos crossed his arms and watched with idle interest. It was Joe. "That was Amy on the phone." Alexa placed a hand on his shoulder, and he leaned into her form behind him. "She still doesn't want to talk to him." "She'll get over it," Methos muttered. "They always do." "No they don't," Alexa answered, moving away from him abruptly. "You do realize that Joe has very little in the way of companionship? Amy may not get over her anger in time, you know. Joe doesn't have many people, aside from you and Duncan, and the little 'clan MacLeod,' weak as it is now." She cocked her head at the blues man. "I wonder, sometimes, if by opening the door to Immortals, he didn't close one on mortals." Methos snorted, and she glanced at him, eyebrows raised. "Oh?" she asked. "You disagree? Have you seen him date? How about friends, ones that aren't mild Watcher acquaintances? I mean, after the Watchers had that debacle with Shapiro, even though Joe was allowed back in, he never did treat others of his organization the same way." She sighed. "So hard to trust once you've been betrayed." Methos listened to her sing the words, and closed his eyes. "Lex," he whispered. "Lex, I don't need to see this." Joe had risen and walked past them to the bedroom door. He trundled to the sofa and lowered himself down on it with a sigh. He picked up the battered guitar and strummed a few experimental chords, then began to play. "Yes, you do Adam," Alexa shooed him into the living room the rest of the way, and held him in place with an arm around his waist. Methos shivered, despite the warmth of the apartment, and the fact that his clothing (or lack thereof) wasn't supposed to make a difference, in his present incarnation. He was chilled, and not just from the temperature. Joe closed his eyes and began to sing. "It brings a tear, into my eye, When I begin to realize, I cried so much since you been gone, I guess I'll drown in my own tears..." "Adam, he's lonely," Alexa whispered into his ear, the voice of sift and sweet accusation. "He'll pine away if he doesn't have more human contact. I should know," she added. "I would have if you hadn't come along." Methos frowned at the Watcher. "How am I supposed to do that? Set him up with a dating service? Buy him a prostitute?" Alexa hit his arm. "You are a complete bastard. No," she said, her eyes angry. "Joe isn't immortal, you know. You can't just disappear for months at a time, and then just reappear. Mortals don't work like that, you know. And it's inconsiderate for you to expect him to forgive you when you leave and don't even tell him why. You have all the time in the world, Adam, he only has so long." Methos stopped to consider her words. "I see," he drawled, listening to Joe sing, and trying to make sense of the fact that he was in Joe's apartment, and that Joe couldn't see him, and that Alexa was chewing him out royally for being...well, for being a bastard. "I see," he repeated. "I never thought of it that way before," he admitted. Alexa made a delicate snort, and reached around him to cover his eyes. "Now that you do, phase two, Adam." *** Methos stared at Duncan's loft, then at Alexa. "That is totally unnerving. I think I preferred when Byron pulled me through the door." Alexa shrugged. "It's a matter of taste, I suppose." She gestured to their surroundings. "You do know where we are?" Methos rolled his eyes. Alexa was being sarcastic as hell, and he was a little taken aback by this side of her. She had been playful when she had been alive, but a great deal of the time her sense of humor had been suppressed by the ordeal of dying. He had always been the one to make the jokes, and she the one to laugh. Now, it was as if he was seeing a side of her that only death could bring out. Or was it just the real Alexa? Was she more now than she had been before? Or was he? Had he become more fully himself in the past few moments than he had been before, as Byron had said? he filed the observation in his thoughts and saved it for later, when he wasn't supposed to be concentrating on other matters. "Yes, Lex. I know where we are. I believe you are going to tell me when we are?" She faked shooting a gun at him. "You're catching on, Adam. It's about midnight. Just after Duncan left the bar. He should be arriving riiiiiight," the lift activated, and she smiled. "Now." Methos waiting with drawn breath for the sense of Presence to hit his head and it never did. Duncan strode into the room, tossed the Santa coat on the counter and sighed. Alexa coughed. "I should have told you, you're totally invisible, darling. That means all the senses, even the super-natural ones." he thought. Why hadn't he thought of that? Methos strolled around the Scotsman, examining the doleful eyes, and the tired posture. "He looks so beaten." "Oh, he is, and you know that," Alexa crossed her arms and shifted her weight. "But Amanda is planning on changing that," she sang and watched Duncan's face change from exhaustion to wariness as he felt another immortal. The side door to the loft burst open, and Amanda tumbled in, a flurry of bags and snowflakes. "Duncan! You're here! Finally!" Amanda tossed the bags on the floor next to the counter, and wrapped her arms about the Highlander. "I called and called, but I didn't get an answer. I made a late dinner, and I thought you might-what's wrong?" Methos watched Duncan sigh more than heard it. "Oh," The Scotsman sighed. "I don't know. Christmas blues?" he offered. "Birthday depression? Maybe a certain five thousand year old immortal getting me into trouble?" Amanda chuckled into his chest. "And he's always complaining that you're getting him into trouble. What is it with you two boys that always leads to mishaps?" She raised an eyebrow, and smiled. "Joe showed me the photos," she added. "I just missed you at the bar." "Joe has photos?" Duncan spluttered. "What the hell?" Methos laughed and Alexa smiled. Amanda patted the Highlander's head. "Yes, here they are," she held out the pictures with two fingertips. "I lifted them for you, since I figured you don't want them in your Chronicle. Joe is recording the whole thing, you know, something about Methos and the holiday spirit." Duncan choked and examined the photos with the look of one who has just been hit by a brick. "I'll kill the little conniving bastard, I will-" Amanda took the photos from his hands, and laid them on the counter. Duncan stared at them over her shoulder as she pressed herself into him, massaging his back. "You can kill him tomorrow, I have plans for tonight," the immortal woman murmured coyly. Duncan's eyes flashed dark with amusement and desire. "Oh, do you now?" He and Methos said simultaneously. Alexa and Amanda laughed together, twin nymphs from different worlds. "Yes," Amanda answered. "I was thinking I could..." she leaned in to whispered into Duncan's ear, and the Scotsman grinned from ear to ear. "What? Oh, yes, uh huh....oh, well, Merry Yule to you too," he grabbed Amanda by the waist and twirled her around, and she laughed again. "What?" Methos asked Alexa. "She'll do what? Why does she whisper when they're the only ones here?" Methos and Alexa watched as Duncan tangoed Amanda to the bed, and the tumbled onto the covers giggling. Methos smirked, and Alexa grabbed his arm. "Time to go elsewhere, this is private." She pulled Methos towards the side door. He craned his neck around to catch a glimpse of Duncan peeling Amanda's blouse off in one motion. "But, but..." he protested. Alexa chuckled and pushed him out the door in front of herself. *** A minute or two later they were firmly ensconced in the shadows of the Stanley Park Tessa Noel sculpture exhibition. Methos rested his head against the wrought iron curves of Tessa's conception, and pondered his ghostly companion. "I loved you, you know," he said bitterly. "I knew better, but I loved you anyway." Alexa cocked her head. "And there's a problem with all of that? The love? You would rather it have never happened?" Alexa ran a hand through her hair, perching on the edge of the cradle of the statue, like a woman sitting in the crescent moon, and folded her hands over one propped up knee. Methos shook his head. "No, that's not what I meant. What I wanted to say was that-" "You wanted to say that you hurt when you lost me. I know that," Alexa answered and leaned in somewhat to his face, so that the illumination for the sculptures caught the edge of her jaw, and drew heavy circles around the dark hollows of her eyes. Methos caught his breath. She was ethereal. "Byron told you about the actualization stuff, didn't he?" she asked him, the barest of smiles on her face. He nodded. "It's tough to swallow, I know." Methos turned his hands over to stare at his palms in the moonlight. He was still focussed on them, tracing the patterns and lines etched in their callused familiarity, when Alexa's hands slid into them, gathering them up, and raising them to her face. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into his hand, he cupped that softness and wondered when the Gods had decided that he deserved the utmost cruelty in this manner. "A thousand, maybe two hundred years ago you might have been all right, Adam," Alexa whispered into his hand. He traced the outline of her jaw with one thumb. "But now, now, oh, I fear for you." He laughed. "Me? Me? Of all people, I should not be the one you fear for, Lex. Dawson, surely, and if you knew him, you'd definitely worry about Mac. But me? You are wasting your ghostly energies." Alexa stopped any further commentary he might have made when she gave him a long searching look. She was eerily silent, her expression telling him that she knew better, and that she wasn't going to take his bullshit. There were several minutes of long hardened silence before he lowered his head, and even more silence that descended like hardened wet sheets around them, instead of the warming soothing sensual feeling he would have expected when he was with Alexa. "Adam." Alexa set his hands back in his lap, and knelt in front of him in the snow and grass. "Look at me." Methos raised his head slightly, and opened his eyes wide, a facial expression he knew from experience was one that women loved. Why he might even remotely be interested in seducing or pleasing a ghost barely crossed his mind. Alexa snorted and rolled her eyes. "I knew you were going to be difficult. I just knew it. Richie and Byron warned me, but I just didn't believe them. You are persistent, aren't you?" she murmured. She raised his whole head with the crook of one finger, and mock frowned. "Big bad Methos," she said in a baby voice. "When will you ever learn that you are loved and can love?" "And when will everyone learn that pointing out the obvious doesn't help one learn?" he spat back. "What, this little tale of love, devotion, and a few domestic scenes are supposed to make me somehow turn into a reformed Ebenezer Scrooge?" He shoved Alexa away, and stood, crossing his arms. Alexa seemed so far far below him. "Let me see," he said to her. "I get a glimpse into the past, a day, which, as far as I am concerned, was a milestone of that century, but nothing more, and then you show up, obviously to play on my heartstrings, and show me a lonely Joe and the sex life of MacLeod and crew. What, am I supposed to be so overcome with emotion or something?" He rolled his eyes. "Well then, if I was moved to change my way every time I was pushed to the emotional brink, I would be schizophrenic." Alexa bit her lip, and her brows knitted. She let him rant, as Richie had, and waited a full minute or two after he finished before replying, her voice so low, he wondered if it was really she. "You little bastard," she mewled. "You think it was you who let you live so long? Really? It was all you?" Methos uncrossed his arms as Alexa rose, one fluid boneless movement that confirmed her placement in the other realm of being, and pressed her hands, suddenly so hot, on the sides of his head, pulling him down to meet her face. "You are here, you are still alive, because you have a purpose. Everyone does, you know. I had a purpose, and I fulfilled it, despite my shortened years. MacLeod has a purpose, Joe has a purpose, hell even Silas and Kronos, and Horton had a purpose. "Listen to me now, because our time is frightfully short. Everyone's time will always be short, and you are wasting yours, Me-thos," Alexa's ghost whispered, altogether terrifying in her voice and blazing eyes. "Do you think you can escape unscathed? Oh no, you embroiled yourself into the lives of these people, you made a commitment to them, and now it is your turn again to take the watch as they falter. "MacLeod is still reeling from the past five years' events, and Joe is slipping into a silent world of his own. You swore once on a bloody sword that you would defend and protect a band of rapists and murders, and now you question your own self-preservation when you could give something better of yourself?" Alexa released his face, stepping back. An invisible wall seemed to slip in-between them both, her glass shield going down, and she tilted her head upward to catch the starlight in her face. "Good bye, Adam," she whispered. Methos started. "No, 'Lex, not like this..." he moaned. The ghost of Alexa seemed to flicker for a second, as if she had been in the process of fading out and his words called her back. "Like what, then? Do you even understand what you are being told? Do you even realize the promise you give, as a friend, as a companion?" Alexa shifted her weight from one foot to the other, an action that seemed to signify impatience. He coughed. "No, I don't. You're telling me that I can save my friends from tragedy and loneliness, right?" Alexa laughed, her head thrown back, her hair shining in the light. "Oh, no, Adam, not entirely. I am worried for you because I see your own urge for self-survival eclipsing your enjoyment of life. What is the point of living if you don't enjoy it?" "Well," he said haughtily. "Don't expect me to start saving babies from burning buildings or go on skydiving trips or anything. Not gonna happen." Alexa's ghost wavered. "I would never presume to, Adam. Remember when we first met, and you had nothing good to say about all of the cities I mentioned?" "Yeah," he answered. She grinned at him, and he had to smile. She had always made him smile. "Venice still stinks, you know." "You didn't seem to think so when you had me in the gondola," Alexa shot back, reaching out to punch his shoulder lightly. He rocked a bit under it, and grabbed her hand, holding it in his. It was ice cold. "I miss you," he told her. "There was so much I wanted to tell you. So much I couldn't tell you-" "Hush. Let's just say that's that," Alexa said, smiling with the kindness that seemed to be her basic nature. "If you had told me then, I might have reacted rather badly. I was a little jealous of those who were healthy, I wonder what I would have thought of an immortal." "There was that," he admitted. "I am sorry, though." "For what, Adam? For calling me out of my gloom and misery? For being you? For trying everything in your power to save me? Ah, love," Alexa sang, pressing herself against him suddenly, pulling his face down to hers. "You don't need my forgiveness, you need my thanks, and you need my love." "Alexa," he groaned, just before she brushed his lips with hers. "Adam, What is the price we pay for life?" she asked him, her breath a sweet wind, voice the lilt of the nightingale. She answered for him. "Action, love. Action." He tried to follow her but his brain was dizzy with the nearness of her, the feather lightness of her touch. "Hunnnh?" he murmured, closing his eyes and burying his face in her hair. She ran delicate hands up his chest, and he felt like laughing and spinning her in his arms. But when her raised his arms to pick her up, she was gone. And he was standing in the middle of his motel room, a light dusting of snow on the tops of his feet. *** Methos waited for the third ghost. He was awake and ready. Seeing as how the first two (three, he told himself, three) had been fairly real, he would just lay in wait for the next one. And if this were all some elaborate dream he had cooked up in the stewing recesses of his subconscious, then well, certainly it wouldn't come while he was awake. No harm done then. And if not, then well, he'd be prepared. This ghost wouldn't rock him. he thought. His mind meandered through all the possible merit badges he would have earned in the past few years, had he gone "Boy Scout" with Mac. He pulled a knife out from under the mattress of the bed and picked at his nails, his knees propped up in front of him. He'd had the foresight to put on a t-shirt, even though it probably wasn't going to be necessary, seeing as how he had been in the snow, and hadn't gotten chilled. he figured. He stuck his tongue out at the imaginary Duncan he had somehow placed in the corner of the room as he wondered away, as if he could start a conversation at any time. But, he wouldn't be talking to Duncan, he knew. Duncan was at the loft, in the arms of the lovely and talented Amanda. And Joe was in the arms of sleep, hopefully. And he would never say any of this to Duncan, why? Because it wasn't good joke fodder, the Boy Scout jokes? Or because in a secret sort of way he was...jealous? Of Duncan? he thought. <*That* is interesting.> Methos paused in cleaning his nails to stare at an old stain on the wall. He pressed the knife to his lip, and felt the cut when it bit in too deep. Methos licked blood from his mouth, and pointed the knife handle at the stain on the wall, then threw it, hitting the dead center. he told himself dryly. "I am not, *not* jealous of Duncan! Look where all that fucking Boy Scout shit got him!" He shouted at the stain on the wall, his new focus for frustration, despite that he had no idea how it had gotten there, and he was very sure he didn't want to know. "Dead fiancée, dead friends, dead dead dead...oh, did I mention the dead student? The one he killed? Ooooh," she said in a high pitched mocking voice. "I want to be just like MacLeoooooood!" He snorted and threw up his hands. "The man has a merit badge in brooding," he told the spot. "Hell, he created the damn thing! I don't want any of that, thank *you* very much. I'll stick to the 'conniving sonovabitch' role, ya huh. Amen." Methos forgot all about the third ghostly visit. He was in the middle of a series of lists about all of MacLeod's dooming altruistic traits when he noticed the slow collection of shadows on the floor that had nothing to do with shading from the light. The shadows pooled to tether to flesh themselves into a tar-like mass that rose, writhing like an animal in a sack. The dark mass spread itself out and up, forming limbs and the like, finally coloring itself other hues, lightening the skin and such, until Methos could recognize his final visitor. Why had he thrown the knife? "Greetings, brother," molten Kronos purred. Methos shrank slightly into the bed, thinking to grab his sword, but knowing it was a useless gesture. "Kronos," he whispered. Then remembering that Kronos wouldn't be allowed to kill him, the story wouldn't end that way, he knew, he drew himself up, and smiled a little bit. "How apropos, don't you think?" "Oh Methos," Kronos sneered. "I have the best intentions of showing you what is going to happen. And I do mean what is going to happen, because we all know you'll never change." Kronos reached out to grab Methos by the arm, but he sprang up before the ghost could touch him. "Never say never," Methos sang. Kronos narrowed his eyes. "I was wrong about you once. I am not wrong about this. It's easy to manipulate things so that MacLeod could do your killing that one time, but this has nothing and everything to do with your pet Highlander. There are some things even he can't affect, your 'chosen one'." Methos clenched his fists and smiled brightly. "Kronos, why don't we make this as brief as possible?" The ghost smiled. "Oh no, I want to savor this." Methos sighed, and missed the backhand Kronos slammed into the side of his head. *** "I am taking a lot of abuse tonight," Methos muttered to himself, as he rose from the floor. Kronos was sitting on the edge of the bed, picking his nails with the knife he had retrieved from the wall. But the hole and the stain that had been on the wall previously were gone. Methos turned slightly, examining the contents of the room. His books were there, but the Santa hat he'd thrown over the rabbit ears on the television was missing. He only noticed because it had been the only splash of vibrant color in the room. "Come now brother," Kronos slurred and smiled viper-like. "Don't tell me you still think we're in the same place?" The ghost threw the knife into the floor, and Methos declined to remark about the damage clause in the rental agreement. "Well, then this would be the future, though I still think I prefer Byron's method of transfer," he told himself more than Kronos. "But not just any random future, Brother, *your* future," Kronos told him, smirking. "We could have ruled the world, and instead you choose this." The ghost gestured to the inside of the hotel. Methos crossed his arms, a gesture he was getting used to performing. "Oh, you need new material too. Isn't this just the probable future? And aren't you supposed to be trying to get me to change my ways?" he asked Kronos in a fit if exasperation. "I mean, that's the point here, isn't it?" Kronos turned to him fully, so that Methos could see the glint of fire in his eyes, and the smile that slid across his face in the manner of a demented grin. Like the angel of truth, Kronos braced his shoulders back as if they were wings, and inched himself up higher than his frame should have been able to. Methos didn't remember him being so tall to begin with. "Brother, I have no interests in this ending well. I am waiting for you to burn with me," Kronos whispered. "This is purely for my own enjoyment. I have thought of nothing but you for months, you know." The Ghost examined his hand, and then his fingernails. "Silas says hello, and he can't wait to see you." Kronos grinned. "I think he may be a little hurt at how you treated him the last time you saw him." Methos swallowed. "There is no hell. That's a Christian conception," he murmured. Kronos's eyes flamed in the small light from the nightstand. "Don't feed me your denial. We both know better. Christ has nothing to do with this place," he told Methos. "But we should get on with this. I can't wait to see your face." Methos was loath to touch any part of this ghost. It seemed as if Kronos knew this, and reached out to wrap one arm around his "brother's" shoulders, pulling him close. To Methos it was like leaning against a furnace, and he flinched with the sear of heat that radiated from Kronos. "Come Methos," Kronos sang. "Let me show you your precious life now." *** Kronos hadn't hit him again, and that was a blessing. Instead, Methos watched as the world bled away, like the times he had dropped a little too much acid in the sixties, or accidentally chewed ergot in Salem, and seen lots of trippy things. Just as the old room ran down the walls of reality, and another bled into its place, he could only think about getting away from Kronos as quickly as possible. That hand pressed against his shoulder like a vice, and held him firmly so that he was ensconced in the ghost's grip. The motel room drained away to the floor of another room, what looked very familiar. Ratty couch in the corner, battered guitar...Joe's, again. He glanced in the bedroom. Joe was sitting on the edge of the bed. Methos's view was partially obstructed by the door, so he couldn't quite see what was going on, but her heard the terminal click of metal, and furrowed his brows. "Joe?" he wondered aloud, knowing that the Bluesman couldn't hear him. Kronos chuckled, and leered. "He can't hear you," the ghost told him, as if to remind him further. He released Methos, and let him wander to the door of the bedroom. "Nothing like despair to bring out the coward in all of us, right Methos?" Kronos said dryly. Another click, and clinking. Methos slipped in the partially open doorway, and found himself in the bedroom with his friend. Kronos walked through the door and leaned against a far wall, crossing his arms and sneering. Methos watched Joe load the rest of the bullets into the revolver, and cocked his head. He couldn't possibly mean to...no, there was trouble with the Watchers, or another Immortal. There had to be. "No trouble with the Watchers, Methos," Kronos sang. "What you see is what you get." Methos watched Joe click the gun shut and hold it in his hands. "Oh, no Joe, you can't be that lonely. You can't possibly be..." he trailed off as Joe turned the weapon over and over in his hands. "Think about this," he said to the Watcher, kneeling down beside the man and the bed. Joe tilted his head as if he had heard him, and then held the gun up to the light. "Mac," he murmured. "Methos, all of you. Damn. It's all speeding to oblivion now," he said enigmatically. Methos frowned, and waved his hands in frustration. "What the hell is he blathering about? Oh, come on Joe, think about Amy! Think about blues! Well, maybe not the blues exactly," he amended. "Think about music, and about the bar, and those late night talks! Oh come on, Joe!" He backpedaled from the bed, falling backwards. He scrambled away from Joe, running into Kronos's legs. The Watcher tapped the gun against his teeth, contemplating something that was solely in his head. He rattled the gun along the edges of his teeth sliding the muzzle in and out slightly, as if unsure about the entire thing. Methos swallowed, and felt ill. "But, Joe is so well put together. H wouldn't kill himself unless it was so terribly bad," Methos turned to Kronos. "This isn't real." Kronos tilted his head. "You know that, it's the future. It's not real *yet*," the dead Horseman told him. "But if you want to get picky, no, it's not real." Methos heard the pulling back of the hammer on the gun, and turned to Joe. "Joe," he whispered. "What would make you do this, Joe?" Joe closed his eyes and tuned his head a bit to the side, so that it lolled like a doll's. Kronos snorted and put his arm around Methos again. "I thought you'd never ask," he drawled to Methos, as the room began to bleed. "But first, first, first, this is my favorite part," he said delightedly, his eyes lighting up. Methos tried to break the grasp, then reconsidered, seeing as how they were in transitas from one place to another. Kronos turned him to face Joe, grinning. "This is gonna be great" he said cheerfully. "Watch, these guns make huge holes." Methos shut his eyes, as Kronos continued his narration. "And watch the arc on this gray matter, riiiiiiiiight about---Methos! Open your eyes and see this!" He didn't want to see this. Joe was making tiny whimpering noises, as if he was pained, and Kronos was laughing, laughing. The sounds deafened his ears, he resisted the urge to cover his ears with his hands. It was sudden, as if he wasn't even aware of it happening, the sounds of the cork like popping, and his brother of darkness giggling at the noise and the spray. Methos felt light, detached, as if this wasn't happening to him. Thousand of years ago he was forced to watch this kind of death, hell, thousands of years ago he made others watch this kind of death. But now, oh now, this wasn't real. Joe would never kill himself. He would never do this. He had friends, he had music, so very much talent. Methos watched Joe fall down off the bed, onto the floor, his image pooling in the fading room, that was sliding away to be replaced by a darker scene. The new place literally was darker, as in there was barely any light. Kronos let loose his shoulder, eerily silent. His eyes were wide, gleaming outside of their depths, capturing Methos's. "And here is...?" Methos said, upset and frightened for the first time in the evening. Byron had been amusing, Richie had been irritating. Alexa's ghost had been both spectacular and terrible, but this, well, this was frightening. Kronos smiled. Methos rolled his eyes. "Ah, I see," he said dryly to the ghost. "We have gone non-verbal in the true sense of Dickens's classic Christmas character. Kronos, you were never the silent type. Give it up. What's going on? The sooner you get this over with, the sooner we can both go back to where we belong." Kronos just pointed, a smile painted on his face. Methos thought to himself in the part of his brain that wasn't trying furiously to find the loophole in this situation that would take him back to his warm bed. He just kept seeing Joe and that dark gunmetal... Methos allowed himself to be drawn to the direction of Kronos's attention. The darkness was not all encompassing, and he could make out shapes. His heart froze when he recognized marble and granite monoliths, and the slight breeze that tickled his legs as being indicative of the outdoors. He closed his eyes, lowering his head. When he spoke, it took several tried, but his voice was strong. "We are not in a graveyard. I can't believe you have the temerity to-" Kronos just pointed and smiled that evil sneer. Methos threw up his hands. "Oooooh," he murmured. "Scary. Which one is Mac's?" Methos took several steps to the first of the stones. He ran his fingers along the top of the stone. Perhaps if her made light of the situation, he wouldn't feel rising panic. "'Here lies our friend Fred. Alas a great big rock fell on his head'," he chuckled. Kronos was silent, but his eyes, were like Byron's had been. They said "bullshit". he thought. True enough. But if Kronos was showing him the future it was bound to come true he realized with a start. BELOVED WARRIOR AND FRIEND Methos knelt in front of the stone and dug his fingers into the etching on the granite stone. This was a sick hallucination. He could rub this off with his fingers...he scratched the grooves, and bent his nail back with the force of it. Real. "Oh yes, real brother," Kronos mewled. Methos felt the iron brand of the ghost's hand on his shoulder and flinched. He leaned forward and rested his head on the stone. "I suppose here is the part where you say this is all my fault," he groaned. The ghost laughed. "Of course not brother. This was all MacLeod's doing. He wasn't strong enough this time. The Game. Been there, you know," Kronos said bitterly, and Methos could only nod mutely. "But you, ah, this is where you come in," Kronos continued. "What is the worst thing in all f creation?" Methos started at his "brother," wondering just how much more of this he was going to be able to take. Duncan dead, Joe dead. Dead dead, dead... He chose levity in the face of pain. "Oh I dunno, Kronos. Frozen television dinners?" Kronos shrugged. "You think you fear death, Methos?" He grinned. Methos stood, and put his hands on his hips. He was tired, so tired. "No, Kronos, I don't fear death." When the other Horseman raised an eyebrow, he shrugged. "Okay okay, I fear death! Which one of these stones is mine?" He turned to the cemetery, and took a few hesitant steps into the halls of marble. Kronos cleared his ghostly throat. "Not that easy, brother. I never said you were here," he called after the older man. Methos froze, and sighed. "Then do make this fast. Believe it or not, some of us sleep." Kronos strode forward to grasp his shoulder in one hand. "Ah, fighting to the last, yes, I know your kind of struggle. You run, but when you are trapped, you snipe and cut until there is no one but," he stopped and grasped the shoulder tighter. "You, brother." "I don't know what the hell-" Methos began. He was losing patience, and he was a little alarmed at Kronos newfound insight into his character. He had barely been this observant while he was alive. Wisdom from Richie, humor from Alexa, what was next? Cassandra would show up with some hot oils and a gourmet cheese sampler? "Brother, just how long do you think your precious Highlander will stand for your verbal wounds?" Kronos asked him. "How long can you expect a friend to listen to your griping, your uncaring remarks, your bitter commentary on the universe as a whole?" Methos looked over Kronos's shoulder so he wouldn't have to meet the face directly in front of him. The graveyard was silent, as it should be; all seemed more muffled by the light covering of snow on the ground, and the temporal state of their astral selves. If this was some sort of "astral" thing. "In the future, you shall see what your sickness, what your black and bitter soul can do to others," Kronos whispered, so close he might have kissed Methos. ""I know you have changed, and so your sickness does not show. But you are sick, you are evil and ill, and you shall never, never be whole," the ghost told Methos. "Never. You shall never atone. You shall always be alone, like this-" Methos closed his eyes, preparing for the bleeding walls of reality, anything that might signify that they were once again in motion. There was no such feeling. He opened them again to discover that they had moved indoors, and Kronos was giving him a wry grin. "I can be gentle too, Methos," he said simply. "And even I feel sorry for the wretch you have become." Methos craned his neck out to see the room, despite his better judgment. He studied the low lighting, and the filthy bar tables. It was obvious the bar had been deserted for some time. Though most of the tables and chairs were gone, and there was no liquor or glasses, someone hunched over something at the barm and turned the pages of an old book. "Ah, I see," he told the ghost sardonically. "This is Joe's and that's me, and there's no one here, because Joe and Mac are dead, and aren't I lonely? Blah blah blah, Kronos, everyone here is like some sick broken record." Methos kicked at a chair, and it scraped on the floor. The other him didn't seem to notice. He stepped closer to see what he was reading. "You are reading Sartre," Kronos told him. "You do it every time there's something joyous or happy going on around you." "Yeah, well," Methos muttered, examining himself as he rounded the bar. The might-be Methos sighed into his hand and leaned into the counter, turning the page. "Nothing like depression to remind you of-" Of what? Methos couldn't answer. "Mind you," Kronos said, coming to stand beside him, and stare at the might be Methos. "I like Sartre. Once you get past the terrible style, he's really rather quite depressing. And pointless. But the existentialists, ah! They knew how to party! Too bad they didn't have the vision to cause mass destruction," he added appreciatively. Kronos flipped the might be Methos's hair on the top, and the man paid him no notice. "You're gonna need a haircut in the future," he finished, smirking. Methos stepped away from the other men, wrapping his arms around himself. Was it true? Was it all pointless? Screw Sartre, he was only the tip of the matter. Then there was the blackness in him. Could he just be feeding that darkness with terror, and on purpose? Why did he run from Duncan and the Highlander's sense of peace and delight, almost childish delight in some things? Oh, it could be a million things. Methos didn't remember his mother. Methos didn't remember his childhood. He didn't even particularly care for forming families when he married. Methos stared at a familiar stain on the wall in the bar and sighed. "Ah, I see," Kronos sidled next to him again, always the Iago on his Othellian arm. "I have finally arrested your heart, brother." "You have not, you just made me...think," Methos shot back. If anyone was making him think, it sure as hell wasn't Kronos. And if it was, then he wasn't going to admit it without a fight. he thought. "You fear being alone, because it is tiresome and because even you, Death, and wither and cease to exist if you are not loved," Kronos told him. "Or being loved. Yet another way for you to die, Methos the Horseman, will pine away!" Kronos laughed and backed away, spreading his hands and shouting to the ceiling. Methos shook his head. "I've been lonely before. It's not anything new." Kronos didn't seem to buy it. Instead, the ghost turned to the might-be Methos and spoke to him. "You may have been lonely before, but now it's different. The damage is done brother. You opened yourself to MacLeod and his group of merry makers, and if they were to totally disappear, it would kill you. You *did* go soft, so soft, and now you can't go back." Methos started at himself, as might-be Methos turned a page and muttered something under his breath. "So this is it," he asked himself. "You sit here and read the existentialists, and do nothing?" Kronos was eerily silent on that issue. Methos flashed back to earlier in the day. <...MacLeod in the bar, in red. He was...reading...> <"...you're kinda in a rut. You got used to the "Clan MacLeod"...> <"When will you learn that you are loved and can love?"> <"You are sick and you are evil and you are ill, and you shall never be whole...> <...You can love and be loved...> <...sick and evil and never be whole...> <"Meeeeethos, come on, rock scissors, paper. Best two out of three, old man."> <..."you are a total grinch. How ever do you get along in the presence of mortals?"> Methos shut his eyes, and Kronos complied the silence of the room with his own loss of voice. The world sharpened into the stab of words, of memories played off each other in his head. All the turns and tricks of phrases seemed to grow pale and dull when the game of subtlety was pulled back, and phrases just became exactly what they meant. <"The point is Methos, you need to rethink some major things in your life. You really hurt Mac today."> <"You value your head so much, and you don't do anything with it."> <"You swore once on a bloody sword that you would defend and protect a band of rapists and murders, and now you question your own self-preservation when you could give something better of yourself?"> "STOP IT!" Methos shouted into dead space. Kronos's head turned to him from where he had been reading over the might-be Methos's shoulder. Methos clenched his hands into fists, and faced the ghost. "Problems?" Kronos asked sweetly. "Problems, my ass," Methos said darkly. "Kronos, I hate to tell you this, but you're dead." Kronos looked at himself, and the up at Methos. "Wonderful, I see this is the great revelation I have been preparing you for. Not what I had in mind." Methos grimaced. "I have been harassed, ridiculed, taunted, teased, mocked, and traumatized all that I am going to be tonight," he said to Kronos. "This is it. Take me back." Kronos raised his eyebrows. "Oh?" he mocked. "But you haven't even recited the true meaning of Christmas! This is the part where you fall to your knees and clutch my clothing and bury your face in my-" "Kronos," Methos growled. "If this is all you have to say, then this is over. Merry Christmas, bite me." He cut a glance at himself at the bar. "That is not me. We both know better. Five thousand years. I may be lonely, but I'm alive, and you aren't." He smiled at Kronos. "No wonder I remember you being shorter. The last time I saw you, you were, by a foot or so." Kronos applauded him. "Bravo, brother!" Methos watched warily as the other Horseman circled him. "On that note, it's time to say good-bye." "It's about fucking time," Methos groaned. Kronos reached out with one hand, clasped his shoulder, and pulled Methos to him as if to hug him. He brought his lips close to the other man's face, then off to the side of the cheek, until his breath was the harshest of whispers in Methos's ear. "And this, is how we say farewell, *brother*." The blade in Kronos's hand pierced him in the chest, and he sucked in a breath. *** Methos woke up with a thrust of air and his whole front end rising with the shock of it. "God DAMN!" he screamed when he could breathe again. He pounded the covers of the bed with his fists, staring at the ceiling, making his face and chest rigid-stiff until the pain ceased. The phone rang. Methos rolled to his side and made to ignore the phone then decided to get it anyway. He ignored the little voice in his head that said he was an idiot for moving at all, and drew the entire mess of cords and wires onto the bed with him. "Pierson," he moaned into the receiver. "Hey dipshit," Joe chirped. Methos moaned again. Joe had taken to calling him that since their little "trip" together in France, where he had waxed loquacious to the Watcher about being "buddies". "Oh Gods, I had the worst nightmare, Joe," he said tiredly. "I don't even think I slept last night. You were there and Mac and Richie-" "Lemme guess," Joe shot back. "The tin man, and the scarecrow, and the cowardly lion, right? Maybe the Wizard." "Joe-" Methos began, rubbing his head, and sitting up. His shirt, now that he got a good look at it, was very stained, and there was a lovely slit in the front...Methos glanced around the room, reaching for his sword, but nothing was disturbed, and no one was in sight. And no one could be hiding, since there was no where to hide in the miniscule hotel room. "Ooh, I know," Joe drawled. Methos heard the smile in his voice. He was enjoying himself. Methos thought to himself. "Lemme guess again, you looked behind the curtain, and they sent you to that Munchkin place?" Methos groaned. "All the Gods save me from those damn munchkins," he replied, pacing while staring at his shirt. Really bloody. Really ripped. "Well," Joe continued. "Get your sorry ass over here. It's past lunchtime, and I saved a plate for you. Mike made Mac and Cheese with Spam chunks." Methos grinned and rolled his eyes. "I see. So, I bring Chinese again?" Joe laughed. Methos dragged the phone into the bathroom. The mirror in front of him provided him with a better view to see just how much he looked like utter shit. "Methos, no more Chinese. Naw, we got the traditional Christmas Polish thing going on here. Come have some Hlupke." Methos started the shower. "Yah," he muttered, raking his face with one hand. "I will, I gotta wake up, and get some things first." Joe laughed, and Methos felt lightened. Joe was in a really good mood. That was wonderful. "Don't tell me, you are starting your holiday shopping at two in the afternoon before Christmas?" Methos shrugged, even though he knew the Watcher couldn't see him. "Save the best stuff for last." *** When Duncan walked into the bar that evening, the place was a mix of crowded and deserted. True, there were like fifteen people there, but half of them were clustered around a table and arguing loudly about "fanfic" and "canon", whatever that was. The others were playing a very rowdy game of darts in the far corner, and calling each other "Brother," despite that they were almost all female. One of them had wild red hair, and someone had just screamed at her to put the pointed darts back on the table, lest she hurt herself. Odd. The only exceptions to the tight cluster were Joe and Methos, both hunched at the bar, watching the television. Methos slouched, though his attention was caught by the screen. Mac tossed his coat on the bar, ignoring the thunk of a sword and other things in the pockets. "What's going on, guys?" he asked, plopping down in the stool chair next to Methos and reaching for a bowl of pretzels. Methos didn't remove his eyes from the screen, though he knew the old man had not only felt his presence, but had known it was him. Mac glanced at the television. A girl with blonde hair was beating the seven bells out of some other guy. "Shhhhhh," Methos muttered. "This is really good." Joe poured Mac a beer, and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, A Buffy Christmas." "Ah," Duncan said, nonplussed, but wondering who the hell Buffy was and how she had such a mean uppercut. "I see, done with the Sartre?" he asked Methos. The older Immortal looked at him finally. His eyes were a little red, as if he hadn't slept well. "Ever read Maslow? The self actualization guy?" Mac frowned. "Yes, I think. Wasn't Eleanor Roosevelt supposed to be enlightened? Or something," he murmured, and Methos scrolled with his hand. "Yeah yeah yeah, that's not the point. The point is we all work up and down Maslow's scale, starting at the bottom which is needs, like shelter and food. The top is that altruistic, caring, humanitarian thing. Mind you, Maslow probably never really reached it himself, and no one ever stays there, once they're there." He bit into a pretzel, and chewed thoughtfully, staring at the screen. Duncan nodded, wondering if this was all coming from a show that had.... Was that supposed to be a vampire? No way... "I suppose," he said, for lack of anything better. What was Methos up to? "Where is this leading? Where is Buffy on the scale of Maslow? Or Sartre for that matter?" Methos snorted. "I think Buffy might have a step up on Sartre." He glanced at Duncan. "No seriously, I was just thinking that you are much higher on that scale than me. Odd, age doesn't account for anything in this world, does it?" Duncan choked on his pretzel. "Oh, don't. Don't even start that...if this is a lead in to a Boy Scout joke you are both dead meat." Joe laughed, and filled a tray with pints of beer for the "fanfic" table. "Oh no, he's been like this all afternoon, Mac. I don't know what ghost visited Methos last night, but he drilled all this philosophical crap into this head." Methos shrugged and traced figure eights in the water ring from his mug. "I wouldn't say that, I was just pondering." The darts table let out a big cheer, and the red headed girl shouted "Dana! Alice! I was not going to stab him with it! Tap lightly! Tap!" Another girl, yet another red head, rolled her eyes, and answered in a loud New York accent. "Give me the dart Amand-r, give it before I throttle you." The other girl, with blondish hair tried to separate the two, but they began wrestling for the darts, and Joe rolled his eyes. "Ach, there's some sort of writers convention in town, and these are her participants. Excuse me," he said to the two immortals, and left the back of the bar to "keep the peace". Methos turned back to the television, but the credits were rolling, and he sighed. "I suppose she and Angel will make it," he muttered. "I wonder if this is the show's regular time." Mac sipped his beer and reached for his coat. Methos slid a brown paper wrapped parcel over to him without looking. "Happy Kwanzaa, Mac." Duncan surveyed the parcel, wrapped with twine, eyeing it nervously. "Uh, the complete works of Jean Jacques Rousseau?" Methos made a face at the screen, but he knew it was for him. "No, actually, "Sweet Valley High", books one through two hundred," he replied, not missing a beat. Mac made a face this time. The parcel was soft. It was some sort of cloth. "What is it?" he asked. Methos set down his glass, folded his hands and rolled his eyes. "MacLeod, why did I go through all the trouble of wrapping it if I was just going to tell you what it is? Gods," he muttered. "Some people have no common sense. ' Why Duncan, it's a snow cone maker.' Voila!" Duncan snorted. "I see Sartre has done his work." Methos snorted this time. "Huh. You think? I used it as kindling in one of those garbage barrel fires. Just open the damn thing." Joe broke up the girl's squabble, and they had somehow suckered him into a game of darts, the Amand-r girl leaning on his shoulder and cooing in his ear. Joe laughed his harsh laugh and consented when she called him "baby". Duncan toyed with the hem of his coat, and stared at the package. Methos cocked his head at him. "I know you have lots of talents MacLeod, but the last time I checked your Chronicle, telekinesis wasn't one of them," he jibed. Mac untied the twine, and stripped the paper away. Inside, wrapped in a woolen cloth, lay a book. He looked up at the Immortal in shock. "Methos, 'The Blade of the MacLeods'?" Methos grinned. "Check the inside," he said amusedly over the rim of his glass. Mac opened the cover, and read the front page. He grinned. "Aw, you bought me poetry," he lilted. Methos toasted him, and turned back to the television. "'Tis the freaking season." Mac opened the book, turning pages. "Ah, this one. ' Hector the Collector.'" He frowned. "Waitaminute, are these kids' poems?" Methos smirked at the screen. "Heh, read the one about being too sick to go to school." He finished his beer, and stared at the bottom of the glass. "Silverstein reminds me of Richie, you know." Duncan nodded, and read about Hector. Yeah, he did know. There was a silence like the pealing of muted bells, and Methos leaned over the bar to get himself a beer from the tap. Mac grinned and noted that the entire "fanfic" table had just stopped their discussion to watch. He withdrew the weighty thin package Amanda had wrapped for him this morning, and placed it in front of Methos. When the old man sat back down, he started at the sigh of it. "I said you shouldn't-" "Blah blah blah, open it," Mac commanded, edgy and anxious that Methos like what he saw. Methos hummed burlesque striptease music under his breath as he picked at the tape, slowly peeling it back, and making wide innocent surprised eyes every time a piece gave under his ministrations. When he got to the slim box, he did the expected. "Why Mac! A box! Damn! I wanted this all year, and I had no idea where to find it!" Duncan rolled his eyes and sighed as if Zeus had just placed the world on his shoulders. Methos grinned. "Damn, you make it so easy. What am I supposed to do when you make it this fun?" Mac grunted as Methos pulled the lid from the slim box and edged the tissue paper out of the way. His mouth quirked up, but he was silent for once. Blessedly silent. "Oh," came the reply to the gift, breathy and stunned. "Oh, priceless!" Methos took the wrought iron frame out of the box, and turned it into the light to better see the picture of himself being smacked by Duncan with a giant plastic candy cane. He turned the picture to parallel his face, and turned to Mac. "I think this exemplifies our relationship, don't you?" Mac grinned. It was much more than he expected to get from Methos, and Amanda had been in tears of hilarity as she wrapped it, even after it was packaged and ready to go, every time she looked at the box sitting on the kitchen counter, she had snickered. Duncan figured he had lost the battle with dignity. "Oh, I think so," he told the older Immortal, and turned back to his book. Joe won the game of darts, and the girls begged him for another round. He consented, on the grounds that they play teams. Everyone play. Even the "fanfic" table joined in. The Amand-r girl attached herself to Joe, cooing and singing blues in his ear. Methos seemed genuinely pleased with the evening overall, and Mac basked in the glow of the attentions of several ladies, one of them a pretty blonde named Alice, who kept the unruly ones in line. Amanda called to say she would be in later. Methos slouched his way to a losing streak, but then again, his partner, a very uncoordinated redhead Amand-r called "SW" wasn't really into playing as much as she was into getting beer for them all, especially her partner. *** Methos slouched into the chair back, and studied Joe over his glass. The man was smiling, and laughing, his blues voice husky and generally amused over the din of the room. Duncan wasn't brooding, but he was relaxed. Amanda had shown twenty minutes ago and attached herself to his hip in the face of all the females in the room. And Methos, well, Methos was content to sit and drink, and be warm in the heat, and play really bad darts on a Christmas Eve with a girl who kept calling him "Rog," or something like that. There were no more ghosts. They didn't decide to reappear out of no where in the middle of the fun. They didn't creep close and abscond with him to places familiar and unfamiliar. And that was just fine with him. Methos thought about the "fleshing out" of the soul, and about the crisis of changing. He studied the lights of the dim room with slitted eyes, wondering all the while if last night hadn't all been a dream. A bizarre and stressing dream, but a dream nonetheless. And who said he had to change anyway? he mused, turning the brandy glass in his hand. "You're quiet," Amanda purred as she finally detached herself from the Highlander, and sat next to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "More plans to infuriate Duncan?" Methos chuckled, and leaned into her embrace. She smelled of Shalimar. "Actually, I'd be hard pressed to get him into any more trouble than he finds for himself. Today was an exception," he amended to her. "Too true," Amanda agreed. "Joe seems happy." Methos watched the Watcher settle onto the stage with Amand-r and play a blues riff. Ah, the beginning to the 'caroling session' of the evening. Amand-r groaned out the first verse to "White Christmas", and he decided that he could stand the music after all. "Uh hummm," he said to Amanda. The woman tightened her grip a little and put her head on his shoulder. "So, what's up with you? You're usually more vocal. Holiday depression?" He lower lip jutted a little into a pout. He smiled. "No, just thinking. What do you think of ghosts?" he asked. Amanda settled back into her chair, and sipped from her wineglass. "Ah, I see. Visited by the past were we?" He started. She laughed. "Methos they're nothing but dreams, nothing but stuff hidden inside us that come out while we sleep. I believe in miracles, and I believe in magic, sometimes," she dwindled off, remembering. He let her stew in silence waiting for her to continue. "Anyway," she said suddenly. "What did these ghosts tell you?" He sloshed the brandy in the glass, and watched it color the sides of it ever so briefly. "Nothing, I guess, that I didn't already know," he offered finally. "I suppose, as they say, stranger things have happened than to find that you've been influenced by 'A Christmas Carol'." Amanda laughed. "I know. Remind me to tell you of the time I read 'Oliver Twist'." Methos raised an eyebrow, then recalled her "profession". "Ah," he replied. Mac was giving them the eye, the one that said, "what are you two planning over there, and how much will it cost me this time"? "Duncan has the cautious look going on over there," Methos told Amanda, who turned and flashed the Highlander a million-dollar smile. The look vanished to be replaced by one of extreme worry. Methos rolled his eyes, and gave Mac the finger. "So rude," Amanda chirped. He thought about it for another minute. So rude, so very very cynical. Would he ever change? Would he ever become himself, if he wasn't already? And if not, what could anyone do about it? It was useless again, to worry about what might be. It was useless to worry about the past. All that mattered as now, that is what Alexa meant, that is what she had said. Did it matter that his delivery was rough, or that he was a little hesitant with it? Who wasn't? Who else has lived for as long as he has, and hasn't learned to be cautious? he thought. He could do that. FINIS....FINALLY ------------------------------------------------------------------- Author's note: Alice, Amand-r and Dana, aka SW appear, courtesy of Amand-r, who only holds copyrights on herself. The other two will have to come to Pgh to bludgeon her if they want revenge. If you hadn't guessed the plot kernel, it's Dickens. God, I love Scrooge.