Doubled Edge 1/10

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• Previous message: KC Solano: "Doubled Edge 0/10"

Title: Doubled Edge 1/10
Author: Kat Solano
Discliamers, explainations & further hoopla in part 0
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
New York City, USA...

Puzzled at his companion’s silence, Methos lent Duncan a sidelong glance.
“What, no sermons of the evils of breaking and entering?”

Duncan’s lips curled into what a chronic optimist on a rainbow of chemical
uppers might have called a smile. Methos thought it looked more like a
baring of teeth-- more specifically, the grimace one gets when one steps
barefoot on a slug. “What’s a little misdemeanour between kinsmen, eh?”

“Hrmph.” Methos hunched back to concentrate on his work. New York nights in
June were sticky, muggy affairs, more than enough to drive people to the
streets to loot and pillage if only to have the excuse to run around and
feel a breeze. The dratted long coats he had to wear didn’t help any.

>From the neighbourhood the building was in and the state of disrepair it had
dwindled to, Methos was amazed that it was taking him so long to pick a
lousy deadbolt in bloody Nash’s bloody Antiques. Granted the door had five
of them and probably a chain lock, not to mention a top of the line
electronic security system. It was an understatement to say that Connor
MacLeod was a lot less easygoing than his younger kinsman.

He was wrong about the locks. There was a bar not a chain lock. With a tired
sigh, Methos glared at the offending inch of brass visible through the crack
in the door. ::I can manage to solve this the hard was or the easy way and
since I’ve sworn off masochism this century.::

>From one of the many hidden pockets in his coat, he drew out a lovely hidden
weapon. The silencer kept things relatively inconspicuous as shot the lock
off. ::At least the electronic security isn’t as high-tech as I thought.
Immortals can’t really have police barging in on every sword wielding
intruder, now can they?::

With Duncan shutting the door after them, they walked cautiously up the
stairs. The whole place was covered in drop cloths, a good two years’ worth
of dust stirring into clouds as the two Immortals disturbed their beds, dust
bunnies the size of kittens skittering away from life. Methos had the sudden
urge to speak in a Carpathian accent. “Vould you lahk to come vor dinner?”

Duncan threw him a glare that Dracula would have been proud of.
Unfortunately, since Vlad had been dispatched of a good two centuries ago,
Methos was left to appreciate the expression alone. With a sigh, the elder
Immortal jerked his head towards a second set of stairs, signalling that he
would go there. Duncan nodded in agreement. He drew his katana.

Since they hadn’t felt so much as a peep from any Quickenings (other than
that nasty fellow yesterday with the broadsword and the buckteeth and that
was two hours east), the chances of Connor being here was now nil. Methos
didn’t see a point in revealing his archaic hardware. The .38 felt quite
comfortable in his hands, thank you very much. He ascended the steel steps,
his light feet never making a sound.

::An address would be nice.:: Methos thought as he roamed the lone upstairs
bedroom, ::’Dear Duncan, head-hunting in Timbuktu. Wish you were here. All
my love and snuggles, Cousin Connor.’ Or something along those lines.::
Unfortunately, all the bedroom yielded was a well-sprung bed and choice
linen sheets. Even the waste can sported nothing but dust bunnies. These
ones rivalled their downstairs cousins in size.

“Anything?” Duncan called out.

“Nada,” replied Methos. He leaned over the balustrade. “I have a feeling
your kinsman doesn’t want to be found. Not that I blame him of course. Being
connected to you does tend to get insurance premiums rocketing through the
roof.”

Duncan didn’t reply. He hardly ever did these days. Methos missed the easy
camaraderie they’d once had: he’d make a sly remark, Duncan would riposte
with his own which would then be deflected, and so on and so forth. Of
course, he, Methos, would always win--there was no doubt about that-- but
the sport was nice to play in any case. Duncan tended to brood at best;
these days, he was down right dour. Perhaps this was how Connor got started.

::Long-Lived Highlanders and Their Manic-Depressive Tendencies. I think
it’ll make a good paper in my next incarnation.:: Methos slid the rest of
the way down the railing. “Any more bright ideas?”

Duncan grunted, hefting his black knapsack. Methos eyed the bag with
distaste. That damned pearl had gotten them into as much trouble as the
Hunters, Kalas or Kronos ever had. Maybe more. At least with those three,
once their heads got cut off, they stayed down. The Caelum were impossible.
Cut their heads off and the damned things crawled back to their bodies and
reattached themselves

“I can’t believe he never told me where he was moving,” Duncan muttered,
running a hand through his hair. The short strands sat up in pikes. Methos
would never get used to that; he’d rather liked the way the Scotsman looked
the part of a barbarian but acted like a boy scout. “Not a single call...
not even the Watchers knows where he is!”

“Well, you _did_ tell him about them,” Methos said lightly, “And he’s a lot
more protective of his privacy than you are.” ::Thus a great deal smarter::
he added silently.

Duncan glared at him again, as though he’d heard the words. Their strange
Double Quickening probably let him in on some of Methos’ emotions but not
his thoughts. And in this case, Methos was quite happy to let the bloody
Highlander know what he thought of this quest.

“If ye dinna like it, why are ye following?” demanded Duncan.

Methos rolled his eyes. “Because you need a babysitter, MacLeod. Because
even though I resigned from the Watchers, I still have friends there who
tell me what it’s like to have to follow Immortals around. Because if one of
those Caelum got a hold of a mortal, it’ll be another excuse for those idiot
Hunter wanna-bes to gang up again. And, last but not least, because Joe paid
me to.”

“He _what_?!?” Duncan looked shell shocked.

“Paid me,” Methos repeated, “Said he couldn’t spare any Watchers since
they’re still busy re-organizing and recruiting after the general
pink-slipping that went on last year while you were traipsing through the
tulips. I asked for the money, by the way. You’re hell on my wardrobe.”

By now, Duncan was making a sound similar to a growl of a cornered wolf.
Methos decided to ease up on him. “If he’s moved only the in the past two
years, maybe he’s just lying low until his identity’s firmly established.
You know how long it takes to break in a new place. And he _did_ just get
married. Relatively speaking.”

Another aggravated huff from MacLeod. He stalked to the wall of acrylic
windowpanes that over looked the city, such as it was. It was a double-edged
architectural choice: while he could see everything that went on, everyone
could see him as well. Perhaps once upon a time it had been a quaint view.

“Then there’s only one other place to check. Come on.” Duncan hitched the
knapsack again, as though taking comfort from the thing. “We’ve a plane to
catch.”

“Where to?” Methos inquired, his pique and weariness barely masked.

“Scotland.”

“I was afraid of that.” He beat the Highlander to the door, not bothering to
wait for him to enter the Land Rover, shut the door and blasted on the A/C.
“MacLeod, one night won’t make a difference. Lay back, relax--“

“Wait for the Caelum to catch us up?” Duncan said caustically.

“We haven’t heard from them in twenty days and--“ Methos looked at the LED
blinking on the dashboard, --“four hours. Maybe they’ve moved on to bigger
and better things. I say, drop that blasted ball off in the nearest holy
place, grab a place ticket to wherever you were going to run away befo--“

“I _wasn’t_ running away,” Duncan gritted out, “That’s your job.”

Wincing inwardly, Methos said, “Score one to the Highlander,” in a harsh
whisper. “I may make a cynic out of you yet.”

*  *  *  *  *

Hilo, Hawaii Island...

His fists clenched in their wrappings, his chest heaving with laboured
breaths, John MacLeod stood in tense concentration. His entire body was
wired, ready to move at the slightest indication.

“Hai!” Connor bellowed.

With a charged yell, John and his classmates began the third round of katas.
Connor moved among them. Well, ‘prowled’ was a better word.

While these twelve students were all dedicated and skilled, Connor knew it
wasn’t just fatherly affection that made him think John was the best of
them. The boy had a genuine talent: his body _wanted_ to move, _wanted_ to
work, wanted to exert its strength and flexibility. He moved with grace.
Connor knew that after a few years of weight training and more of his
martial arts, the boy would give Duncan a good workout.

He stopped one college kid in mid-kick, adjusting the angle of his leg and
emphasising the muscles that had to be used, then eased back into his study.
The second best after John was Zilla. The girl used to just hang around the
dojo after school, not leaving until almost closing. At times, he would even
see her, still in her uniform, hanging around when lights were out, sitting
with her head buried in her knees. He still didn’t know why she’d hung
around nor had he ever met her parents or guardians. After a month of
watching her, he’d persuaded Chris Takemoto to offer her a job at
less-than-minimum wage but with free lessons thrown in. She’d accepted on
the spot. That had been almost a year ago.

The dojo echoed with the final shouts of the class as they ended the kata.
Connor nodded with satisfaction. “Good job.” He bowed to them, low and curt.
They bowed deeply in return. “Dismissed.”

The students’ stances eased back into relaxation, some of then letting out
relieved sighs as they brushed back sweaty locks of hair. John grinned as he
walked to the front of the class to pick up his bag. “You trying to kill us,
Dad?”

“Heh.” Connor reached out to ruffle up his son’s hair. “Just you, Johnny.”
>From the corner of his eye, he saw Zilla collecting her things which were
stashed in a far corner. “You’re doing great, Zilla.”

She nodded shyly in response. “Thank you, Mr. Montgomery.” She picked up her
bag. “I’ll come early tomorrow to fix your files.”

“I don’t want you missing school for a job,” Connor protested.

But Zilla just shook her head, walking backwards to the showers. “It’s early
dismissal tomorrow.” And she turned and left before Connor could get another
word in.

Shrugging philosophically, Connor placed his attention back on his son. Who
was staring after Zilla like a starved man stared at a banquet. “Hey.” He
smacked the boy lightly upside the head. “Put your tongue back in your
mouth. Your drool’s ruining the finish.”

Reddening like a pomegranate, John ducked his head down between his
shoulders and muttered, “I can’t help it.” His smile, when it came back, was
on the ridiculous side of goofy. “She’s _such_ a babe.”

“Heh, heh. You sure you weren’t supposed to be Duncan’s son?” Connor leaned
down, stretching muscles that were now unused to being up all day long.
“I’ll be glad when Chris comes back from Tokyo and I can ditch this place.”

“Oh, come on, Dad,” scoffed John as wiped his face and neck with a towel.
“You love yelling at people and bossing us around, admit it.”

“Smart-ass punk. Should’ve thrashed you more.”

“You keep saying that but you _never_ ‘thrash’ me.”

“Well, tonight’s a good night to start, eh?” Casually so that Johnny
wouldn’t suspect a thing, Connor handed the boy a packaged wrapped in brown
paper. “Here, might as well enjoy that before I take it away.”

John’s eyes widened. With the same enthusiasm he had for karate and surfing,
he tore the wrapping. “Oh, wow, Dad!” His voice cracked both from emotion
and that pesky side effect of puberty. “Oh, wow, I can’t believe you
actually got it for me.” With reverence, he ran a finger down the sheathed
weapons, first the wakizashi then the tanto, almost exact copies of Connor’s
katana. The ebony and bone gleamed dully, vying the shine of the forest
green silk in which they were cushioned.

“You know it won’t move if you don’t pink it up,” Connor said with amused
sarcasm.

Despite the fact that he’d been practicing with wooden swords for a few
years, John picked up the wakizashi cautiously, shakily. His hand traced the
samurai scenes carved on the bone tsuka, stroked the dragon whose head made
up the pommel then, with a fortifying breath, slipped the blade from the
ebony saya. It made a satisfying _shhhhnikt_ as it left its sheath, the same
sound John had loved ever since he’d first seen his father doing his katas
back in Marrakech. He tested its weight and swung it tentatively.

“Oh, _wow_!” He swung again, more confidently now.

“Happy birthday,” Conner said gruffly, “And if you tell your mom I got you
these, I’m taking them away again and you’ll have to satisfy your
blood-thirst with blunt objects from here unto eternity.”

“Too late.” Alex leaned against the doorway of the dojo, car keys dangling
from her long, slim fingers. “Connor...” She began in a warning tone.

Johnny started chuckling. “You are _so_ dead, Dad.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Now it was Connor’s turn to duck his head, rubbing his nape
sheepishly. “They’re short swords though, sweetness; they won’t hurt him.”

“Uh-huh.” One tawny eyebrow lifted in disbelief. “Pull the other one; it
plays ‘Scotland the Brave.’”

“Well, it won’t hurt often.” Deciding that he’d better soften his sweet wife
up, Connor ambled to Alex’s side, wrapping his lean, muscled arms around her
tiny waist once he got close. Burying his head in her neck, he murmured, “I
couldn’t say ‘no’ to him on his birthday, sweetness.”

“Hah.” Alex, relenting, put her own arms around his shoulders to pull him
tighter against her body. “So the big, tough, Connor MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod is nothing but a fuzzy, little teddy bear.” One hand snuck down to
pinch a sweet spot. Connor let out a sound somewhere between a tickled
squeal and a moan of ecstasy.

John groaned in profound disgust. “_Gaaad_, I am going to be severely
traumatised by things like that! You two are going through some weird middle
age thing, right?”

“Middle age!” Alex screeched in mock anger while her husband laughed.

The small family piled into their SUV, stowed their bags in the back,
squabbled over the radio station (Alex won by pointing out that she had
endured Johnny’s heavy metal and rap and Connor’s classic rock and big band
for two days without complaint, to which Connor responded by saying that all
R&B songs sounded the same anyway but relented when Alex threatened to hog
all the mosquito net), and finally started to drive away from the centre of
the town. Their place was a bit remote by Big Island standards but busy
according to the rest of the little islands. As dedicated as she was during
digs, Alex had no love for roughing it if it was unnecessary and Johnny had
to have his daily intake of mindless drivel via MTV and the cartoon
networks. Connor, too, wanted a place where he would be relatively unknown.
The beachside property was perfect.

“Do I have time to surf?” Johnny yelled even as he ran for the gate to the
backyard.

“Homework!” Connor and Alex yelled back simultaneously. The fifteen year-old
visibly wilted, the picture of abject misery as he dragged his feet at a
snail’s pace the rest of the way to the house.

“It’s just math,” he spat out, “Honestly, when am I suppose to use algebra
and geometry in real life, anyway?”

“That’s what I said back in 1590 when someone told me to learn to read and
write.” Connor unlocked the doors and let Alex slip through to disarm the
security.

“That’s not the same! I mean, like, that’s why people invented calculators!”

“John, get a move on!” Alex’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Dinner’s in an
hour.”

With a martyred sigh, John trudged into his room. Connor followed the smell
of tomato sauce to his wife’s side. Again, his arms wrapped around her waist
and he nuzzled her neck.

“Where were we before the brat interrupted us?”

Alex ducked out under him somehow keeping the tomato sauce all in the pan.
“We were at why-did-you-buy-John-sharp-objects-to-run-around-with?”

“Oh.” Connor deflated.

“But I’ve decided to forget that--“

He perked up.

“--in favour of the ‘isn’t-it-about-time-you-called-Duncan’ argument.”

And he slouched again. Slapping a hand to his forehead, Connor slid into the
nearest chair. “I’ve tried, Alex. He hasn’t been answering his machine in
Seacouver _or_ Paris.”

“Maybe he just moved.”

“He hasn’t told me about it.” Connor shrugged. Holding his arms out, he
silently invited Alex to slip into them. Thankfully, his dawn star obliged
and he breathed in her fresh, lilies-of-the-valley scent. “I know how you
feel about family, sweetness, but my kinsman is a big boy. He can take care
of himself. And if he doesn’t want to be found just yet, I’m not going to
push him.”

“Hmmm.” Now it was Alex’s turn to nuzzle _him_. “I know you know him better
than I do, but I can’t help but feel worried. From what you tell me he
attracts more trouble than _you_ do. Now that’s beyond my wildest
imaginings.” Connor chuckled at that. “And I know if... if anything happens
to him...”

“Shhh, _mo cridhe_.” Connor placed a kiss on her forehead. “Believe you me,
if anything happens to Duncan I would know.”

*  *  *  *  *

New York City, USA...

Duncan writhed in his bed, kicking the hotel’s sheets from his body. In the
bed across the side table, Methos slept like a dead man, his soft snores
muffled by his pillows. That man’s dreams were further from the surface and
far darker but after millennia he’d managed to control even his body’s
subconscious reactions. The Highlander was not as disciplined. His dreams
reached out and tore his body to shreds, filled his ears with cacophony,
etched its smells in his bones.

He did not sense the darkness crawling into the room, creeping to the foot
of his bed; his body didn’t react to the sudden drop in temperature. Methos
did. His eyes snapped open just as the darkness enveloped his head.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Got anymore time to waste? Visit my world o' X-Men, Gargoyles and Highlander
fics & pics at http://xeno3kattz.tripod.com/index.htm

Rogue: What am I going to do with you, Remy LeBeau?
Remy: I have a list, but I left it in my other pants.
         ~Astonishing X-Men #1

Goliath: I never realized when you were human just how beautiful you were.
Elisa (with a smile): You mean you thought I was ugly?
Goliath: Uh... careful! Updraft!!
             ~Gargoyles: The Mirror

Methos: It's got such a nice ring to it. Yeah, no more fighting, no more
killing. Peace and harmony. Don't tell me you never fantasized about that?
Some young sucker's always gonna fall for it.
Duncan: Richie has.
Methos: Voilà.
                    Highlander the Series: The Messenger


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