XOVER: Changing of the Guard 4: The Road To Hammelcar [PG13] 18/19
ecolea (ecolea@WT.NET)
Tue, 25 Dec 2001 09:29:29 -0600
Notes and disclaimers in part 0/19
Chapter 19
It was early evening when they landed in London. They hadn't done much
talking, except about inconsequential things. Methos had deliberately
steered the conversation away from anything remotely sensitive, trying to
ease Jack back into a more relaxed frame of mind.
He'd thought he'd succeeded until the omnipresent Christmas cheer of the
city's streets seemed to leach the joy out of O'Neill. Methos wondered
nervously if this had really been such a good idea.
The house was dark as he pulled into the drive, and O'Neill far too quiet.
But it was too late to change their plans, unless he claimed a sudden urge
to visit the tropics. Methos led the way up the front stairs, ushering his
guest in first as he held his breath. There was no telling what kind of
mischief his "special favor" might have wrought.
"Wow!" he heard O'Neill gasp as he gazed down the length of the hall and to
the side, where the doors to the great room stood open. Beside him, Methos
could only nod in astonishment. He'd asked for a little Christmas cheer, but
this?!
A long carpet of red, green and gold had been laid down the marble entryway.
And not in the loud, artificial Christmas colors he so despised. But in rich
muted tones that offered comfort and warmth. On the curving stair rail the
theme had been continued, but with silk damask bunting that ran the length
of the stairs, offset by silver frosted wreaths interspersed with heavy
ribbons set with mistletoe and fresh holly. Winter blooms and scented
candles of every shape and size burned on decorative stands or in wall
niches. And everything had been trimmed in colored lace and crystal
hangings. To their right, the great room glowed with the warmth of a fire
that looked to have just been laid and the light of an eleven-foot spruce
topped by a pair of silver filigree doves.
It was all so beautifully decorated, Methos had to wonder with a touch of
chagrin, if they'd raided Martha Stewart's new place.
Finally, he reached out and turned on the lights. They were softer then he
remembered, because he generally liked it very bright, but the dimmer effect
made the rooms seem cozy and warm.
"Incredible," Methos murmured as they paused at the great room doors just to
stare.
The room was just as richly festooned as the corridor, but the furniture had
been changed to include big, solid pieces covered with cushions that
beckoned one to sit comfortably. And the plain sideboard where he'd kept a
few pieces of decorative pottery was now draped in a tapestry that held a
feast large enough to feed twenty. Roasts and birds and all the trimmings --
which in somebody's world apparently included truffles in cognac, if his
nose wasn't lying.
"Whatever you're paying the maid," O'Neill finally commented, "it ain't
enough."
Methos nodded absently and wandered in, surprised at just how much care had
been taken. What had they been told? Go forth and decorate? Surely soldiers
had better things to do than go through magazines looking for decorating
tips? Asking for a team to come by and get a few things ready shouldn't have
evoked a response like this! Yet, here it was. And he was just as bowled
over by it as Jack appeared to be.
O'Neill shook his head and glanced down at his clothes. "You, uh, got
something I can change into?" he asked casually.
"Oh! Yeah," Methos nodded, remembering his manners. "I'll show you where
your room is. Plenty of clothes there. Use anything you like."
There was a little less decoration upstairs, but all the rooms had been
aired out and the bedding changed to something more festive. Methos couldn't
help grinning when he went into his own bath and found towels laid out on
the warmer, along with a tray of frankincense and myrrh scented bath oils
and soaps ready and waiting. How utterly charming, he thought dazedly.
Whoever these people were he'd have to find some way to thank them.
A while later he came downstairs, feeling relaxed and rejuvenated after his
hedonistic self-indulgence in the bath. He found O'Neill already waiting in
the great room, dressed similarly in jeans and a sweater, examining the
Christmas tree.
"Don't forget to thank the big man for me," the colonel smiled.
"Santa?" Methos asked as he noticed dozens of nicely wrapped presents under
the tree. He'd made a list, but someone had obviously checked it more than
twice. There were at least three times as many items as he'd requested--all
ready and waiting to be unwrapped.
"You know who," O'Neill grinned. "Unless your maid is in the habit of
hanging the occasional silver bullet on your Christmas tree." He held up the
incongruous, but nevertheless rather pretty cartridge for Methos to see.
The Immortal chuckled. "Seemed fair," he finally admitted. "Though how we're
going to eat all this..." he glanced at the table and shook his head.
"Leftovers, minion," O'Neill slapped him on the shoulder cheerfully, going
over to grab a plate. "Who says we have to eat fish for two weeks?"
"So you really don't mind?" he asked quietly.
Jack shook his head. "Nah. It's a pretty neat way of saying all is
forgiven."
"There was never anything to forgive," Methos told him honestly. "You did
what was needed. And I'd be a poorer man today if I discarded a friendship
over it."
O'Neill stared at him thoughtfully and finally nodded.
***
A wonderful evening, Methos thought as he climbed into bed. Their meal had
ended with a visit from a well-dressed, suspiciously fit group of carolers,
who sang all the old tunes punctuated by a few uniquely American ones. And
in one of those 'I know that you know that we know, but no one is telling
anybody' moments, Jack had joined in, giving Methos a chance to run down to
the wine cellars and pick out a few of his better vintages to give as gifts.
It was the thought that counted, he supposed, shaking his head as he
ruefully recalled bringing the plates into the kitchen only to find that
someone had been there ahead of him -- to leave hot cocoa and a tray of warm
pastries on the sideboard.
O'Neill had laughed at Methos' shock. What had he expected after all? This
wasn't just light duty they'd been assigned, but a chance to have some fun.
Did Methos think everyone who specialized in Black Ops was gung-ho, grim,
and determined to make the world a better place whether the world liked it
or not?
He hadn't actually thought about it, Methos silently admitted as he punched
up his pillow. But the world had changed and its inhabitants with it. He
could just imagine what Caesar or Napoleon might have said if he'd advised
them to train some of their most gifted fighters as interior design
specialists.
With a sigh, Methos sank back against the pillows, finally able to sleep in
a bed that felt the way a bed should and with a belly full of food that was
both familiar and hearty. True, he liked to travel, but what he liked more
was coming home to safety and comfort. And yes, he'd grown soft in the two
millennia since he'd rode with the Horsemen -- but at the moment, he was
damn proud of it.
Sleep came easily once he closed his eyes, and with it pleasant dreams. What
woke him might have been a small sound, or maybe it was the stench. If it
wasn't that, it was certainly the swish of the heavy fire axe that swung
past his head to land with a thud in the thick wood of the headboard above
him.
Methos eyes snapped open to darkness as he rolled off the bed, hurriedly
reaching for his sword. There was a hint of a buzz -- more than
pre-Immortal, but not Immortal -- and it tickled his senses, both familiar
and disconcerting. Still, whatever it was, the thing making it was huge.
Standing in the shadows of the moonlit windows a gigantic figure loomed, axe
in hand, waiting.
Waiting? Methos wondered as he leapt to his feet, sword at the ready. And
with as easy a target as he'd just been, why was he still alive?
"What do you want?" he growled.
No answer was forthcoming as the giant finally lifted his weapon and Methos
suddenly charged.
The fight was mercifully brief. The axe, wielded without skill, glanced off
his blade in the first parry leaving his attacker wide open. He went low for
the soft flesh of the bowels, stabbing deep and slicing high as the giant
howled and fell to his knees. Keeping his eyes on the man before him, Methos
darted in, easily making the final swing for the beheading. It wasn't clean
or pretty, but it got the job done and he turned away, finally feeling the
shock of the moment as he turned on the light. Behind him, the Quickening
rose and with it the familiar sense of presence which had previously been
lacking.
Thank you, brother.
"Quinta?!" Methos stared suspiciously at the corpse on the floor. The man
had been big and powerful, and from the foul smell of it, the body hadn't
been functioning properly at all.
Still, the voice in his head was tiny and held more than a hint of
embarrassment.
I made a mistake. I thought...
Methos suddenly started laughing. "You thought you'd take a shortcut."
He felt her mentally flushing. A warm, tingling sensation in the back of his
mind.
It seemed to work...at first. But I couldn't complete the regeneration
process...
"The higher brain functions consume most of our energy," he nodded slowly.
"We can't have it both ways, Ninta. We can't retain the memories in an adult
body. Our Quickenings just aren't powerful enough."
There was more than a hint of irritation in her response.
I know that now! But once the process started, I couldn't stop it. I was
stuck in there.
"But why come at me like this?" he asked, confused and angry.
Well somebody had to kill that body! It was disgusting!
Methos grimaced wryly. "And because I couldn't do it before, you thought I'd
be unable to take this thing's head." Quinta was silent as he felt the pang
of her shame.
"Foolish girl," he finally sighed. "Would you like to try again? Properly
this time?"
Yes...
Her thoughts became a sad, disjointed and somewhat hopeless whisper against
his mind.
Afraid...
"Of what?"
Babies... Weak... Tired now... Don't know how to choose..."
Methos nodded slowly as he finally understood. "A family," he smiled sadly.
"Well, of course you don't, Ninta. You haven't had any good examples for
that, have you? But why here?" he suddenly wondered. "Why not among the
Ishri? Surely you could have found a safe haven there?"
There was silence for a moment then the whispering came again.
Wanted to be near you... Feared the Game... Needed to be strong... Like
Silas. You liked Silas... Like me, too?
Methos rubbed his eyes. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry.
"Poor, Ninta. You really don't have a clue, do you?" He felt her dejection
and sighed. "All right, little girl," he told her gently. "Let's see if we
can fix this, shall we?"
He took a moment to pull on his clothes and wipe clean his sword, laying out
a plan of action in his mind. The brightness of her Quickening followed him
out into the hall and Methos paused to consider this as well. With a sigh,
he opened his arms.
"You'd better come inside, darling. It won't do to have you in that form
where we're going."
Why not?
Methos rolled his eyes. "You'll scare the natives for one."
Ah! she laughed, reaching out to twine her Quickening with his. I had
wondered about that...
It was easier to hear her now, and Methos chuckled as he closed his eyes,
feeling her gently become a part of him. This was what taking a Quickening
should be, he thought. Get past the fear and the anger of a sudden violent
death, and you had nothing more than two beings congenially sharing the same
space for a brief time.
He felt a soft sigh from Quinta as she wrapped her thoughts around his.
There was still the terrible emptiness and longing, but it was offset now by
a new and bright sense of curiosity.
Is seeing an angel such a terrible thing? she wondered as he quietly opened
the door to Jack's room.
Methos smiled. If she'd been roaming around in that form at this time of
year, no wonder she had evoked such a tame response.
"Depends on the culture," he told her mind to mind, surprised when he found
the room empty. "Where's O'Neill?" he asked tersely. Quinta sounded
reasonably sane, but Jack had killed her and there was no telling what she
might have done.
He felt her frown internally.
That one... Asleep in the pretty room downstairs. She sent him a mental
image of Jack sacked out on the couch in front of the fireplace.
I was angry at first, Quinta admitted. But... He was crying, and then I
wasn't angry anymore. Why not?
Methos sighed. "I'm afraid that's something you'll have to figure out for
yourself, my dear. Emotions are complicated things. Even I don't have all
the answers there."
He found O'Neill just where Quinta had shown him and Methos had to smile. If
he were going to give Jack a gift, this one simple thing probably outranked
all the others.
"Jack," he whispered softly, gently touching the other man's shoulder. He
came awake quickly and sat up.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Fine," Methos nodded. "But I really need your help with something."
"Panty raid on Santa's while he's out?" O'Neill asked brightly.
Methos grinned. "I can't explain it right now. But... Will you trust me?"
"Don't I always?"
"Yes," Methos nodded as O'Neill stood up. "And I've been meaning to warn you
about that."
"Won't help," Jack said, following Methos to a side hall where the Immortal
found them each a coat. "Hasn't anyone told you? I'm not too bright."
"Right," Methos grinned, shrugging into his long coat and sheathing his
sword. "They mentioned that. But then I'm not too bright either, so I never
listened."
Somewhere inside him, Methos could feel Quinta laughing.