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McCormick was just climbing out of his car when he sensed another Immortal. That put a quick end to grabbing something to eat before he headed out of town. He shut the door slowly, hand going inside his coat to the hilt of his sword.
"McCormick," MacLeod greeted coolly. McCormick nodded back, cautious but open. The last time they'd run into each other hadn't exactly gone well, but they'd put their differences aside.
"On a case?" MacLeod asked.
"A beheading," McCormick told him. "But it's not one of ours."
There had been two bodies so far, but only one decapitation. The second body had been torn apart in a way that McCormick would have associated with an animal attack except that it happened in a locked apartment on the fifth floor.
"So you're just leaving?" MacLeod asked, incredulous as he gestured at the duffle bag on the back seat. McCormick narrowed his eyes and squared his shoulders.
"There's a team more suited to this kind of perpetrator," McCormick told him. "They'll be taking over."
"Of course," MacLeod said agreeably, seeming to realise he'd overstepped his boundaries.
"There is an Immortal on the team," McCormick told him. "But he has little interest in the Game."
Despite their inauspicious introduction, McCormick didn't wish Baines harm. Baines and his team did good work, even if most of it seemed to be utterly insane. Whatever their methods, murders and violent crimes ceased when they investigated. For the most part, Baines seemed to be out of the Game. There were perhaps less than a handful of Immortal deaths McCormick could ascribe to Baines and all of them had been on McCormick's list as hunters. He'd hate to have another disagreement with MacLeod.
"I appreciate the warning," MacLeod said and he nodded at McCormick before turning and leaving.
...
Joe was just coming out of the corner cafe when he glanced across the street to see Methos's distinctive profile. Joe didn't know what to make of seeing him again years after the last time in Paris. The old man was across the road, walking with purpose and rolling his eyes at the shorter man at his side. Joe followed them with his gaze, even as he instinctively stepped back into the shadows.
The two men climbed into a car, Methos taking the passenger seat, leaning back and closing his eyes. His companion elbowed him, making Methos give him the finger without opening his eyes. A moment later they were driving away.
Mac had mentioned bumping into McCormick, but it seemed a strange coincidence for Methos to appear so soon after. Joe hesitated a moment before crossing the street and entering the building the two men had come from; an old dry cleaner's that really had seen better days. Joe had never had much cause to go there. Besides, there was something about it that set him on edge. The woman at the counter glared at him as he entered.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
"Those two men who were just here," Joe said. "Who are they?"
She muttered something about people prying into things they shouldn't and her glare intensified. Joe held his ground.
"Federal agents," she told him, then flung a crumpled up card at him that he had to fumble to catch before it dropped to the ground. "If you're interested in them then you go bother them."
Joe murmured his thanks and fled as quickly as his prosthetics would allow. Twenty minutes later he was ensconced in the back room of his bar and researching the name Dean Winchester.
What he found he could hardly believe. He could well imagine Methos pretending to be an agent for any number of reasons, but by all accounts Methos actually was an agent and had been for years. Joe wondered what Mac would say about that. Or Amanda.
He picked up his phone and dialed Mac's number. The Scotsman picked up on the third ring.
"I've found him," Joe said impatiently, not even waiting for Mac to speak. "I've found Methos."
...
Joe watched Methos through the crowd. He and his team were standing outside a crime scene, slightly away from the officers securing the scene. He looked engaged with the people around him in a way Joe hadn't seen before or after Alexa. There was no sitting on the sidelines, in the shadows, for this version of the Old Man. Joe wondered if MacLeod saw the difference. From the vaguely wistful look on his features, Joe thought he just might.
They were waiting for a moment to get him alone, to try to have a word with him, find out what had happened to make him disappear from their lives so thoroughly, but Joe was beginning to realise that, as comfortable as Methos seemed to be with these people, they weren't going to get that chance.
"We should go," Joe said. "Try another time."
It was growing cold and Joe wasn't as young as he used to be, but that wasn't what made Joe hesitate. It seemed unfair to suddenly spring themselves on him without warning.
"We can't just leave without talking to him," MacLeod insisted, stepping forward just enough. Joe could tell the instant they sensed each other in the way MacLeod stiffened and Methos looked unerringly in their direction. Methos's companions followed his gaze and Joe wondered if they knew what he was. Joe gave discretion up for lost and started forward. Methos hunched, his entire posture shifting to something resembling Adam Pierson, someone harmless. If nothing else had told him their relationship had changed, that did.
Joe could see Methos was tense. It was there in the corners of his eyes, the tense curve of his perpetual smirk, the way he rested on the balls of his feet even if his hands were shoved deep into his pockets, in easy reach of a weapon. It was obvious to Joe, but clearly not to Mac who elbowed his way through the crowd of onlookers. Joe followed more sedately. Given the research that he'd done on Methos's current companions, Joe wanted them to be sure that he wasn't a threat.
"MacLeod, Joe," Methos greeted.
"Adam," Joe greeted back, glad that he'd kept the more familiar name so they were less likely to slip up.
"It's been a while," MacLeod said, unable to entirely hide the accusation in his voice.
"I didn't exactly have a way to contact you," Methos said and Joe winced. He'd stuck around Paris for a few more years, running his bar, and eventually MacLeod had returned when he'd sorted out his own head. But Methos had been long gone by then and the only information Joe got was from the Watchers of the occasional Immortals Methos crossed paths with. Of course, Methos hadn't really been hiding from Joe, just taking his cues from MacLeod a little too well.
"Friends of yours?" one of Methos's teammates asked. He was tall and handsome, with laugh lines around his eyes. Anthony DiNozzo, Joe thought from his research. Which left the other two men, one in a plaid shirt and leather jacket, the other in a suit and tie, to be Winchester and McDonald.
"They are," Methos said and Joe was surprised that he didn't obfiscate. It was usually impossible to get a straight answer out of him.
"Friends or friends?" Winchester asked, eyeing them suspiciously. Methos snorted. Joe wondered if they'd encountered any of Methos's old acquaintances.
"They fight on the side of angels," Methos said, eyes alight with humour that the men matched.
"Angels or angels," McDonald asked, glancing sidelong at Joe and Mac.
"Relax," Methos told them. "They're mostly harmless."
MacLeod rankled at the casual dismissal, Joe could tell. He put a restraining hand on Mac's arm before the Scot could do or say anything impulsive.
"Agents," one of the officers said, approaching them. Joe watched Methos shift effortlessly from Adam Pierson, grad student, to Adam Baines, federal agent. The officer looked curiously at Joe and Mac before turning to DiNozzo. "There's a witness."
DiNozzo just had to give McDonald and Winchester a look before they were following the officer. DiNozzo folded his arms and turned back to Joe and Mac.
"Maybe we can pick this up another time," Joe suggested, though he was reluctant to go and give Methos the chance to leave. Methos smiled faintly.
"Sure," he conceded. "I'm assuming you know how to contact me."
Joe smiled back and admitted nothing.
...
Joe called Methos's cell the next day and was still a little surprised when it hadn't been disconnected and Methos actually answered. MacLeod watched him impatiently. The Scot wanted answers from Methos that Joe wasn't sure he deserved.
"Hey Joe," Methos said by way of greeting. He sounded a little out of breath. Joe held the phone away from his ear when he heard a scream and then profuse swearing. He thought he recognised the voice of the woman from the dry cleaner.
"You okay?" Joe asked, not sure if he should be amused or concerned.
"We've got it under control."
"Sure you do," Joe said just as he heard McDonald shouting something in a language he didn't recognise. There was a loud rending sound and then a splatter.
"Gross," Winchester yelled. "Join the FBI and I still get covered in... What is this?"
"You might want to shower," Methos said. "It looks like it's corrosive."
Joe blinked, wondering what on Earth Methos was doing these days.
"We'll be by your bar when we're finished here," Methos told him. He said a quick good-bye and hung up.
"He'll see us this evening," Joe told Mac. "I think."
Adam Pierson had been predictable, even after the Horsemen, but now Joe had no idea how Methos would react to things. Joe realised he'd have to learn Methos anew.
"He give you any answers?" MacLeod asked.
Joe shrugged.
"A few," he said but, like everything about Methos, nothing obvious.
...
The team wandered in several hours later, just before closing time. DiNozzo was bruised, McDonald had a brace around his wrist and Winchester looked pink, like he'd spent too much time in the sun. Methos was grinning unrepentantly, clearly at the fact that any injuries he might have sustained didn't last long.
Methos nodded in Joe's direction and settled down at a table with his team. Mac watched them joke around with each other, eyes intense. Joe wondered what he was feeling at seeing the camaraderie that had been so easy in the early days and so difficult as more and more of Methos had been revealed and Mac hadn't been able to reconcile the complexities.
Joe could admit that he'd struggled too, but he didn't share Mac's black and white view of the world and, as a Watcher, he'd learned not to put people in boxes.
Joe handed Mac four beer bottles and grabbed another two before heading to the table. Mac followed in what Joe would describe as a sullen manner even as he knew Mac would object to the description. He could see Mac wanted to ask Methos any number of questions, but restrained himself because of the company.
“Your case finished?” Joe asked to fill the sudden silence.
“After a fashion,” Methos told him, glancing at his colleagues while badly concealing a smirk.
His colleagues grumbled, but Joe could see the bond between them; brothers in arms. Whatever relationship Mac was trying to reforge wouldn't be on his terms this time. Methos had found something else to fill the gap left by the Scot's departure. The Old Man looked less like Adam Pierson and like the flashes Joe had seen of something old and unfathomable. These men, whether they knew what Methos was or not, had accepted him in a way the Scot never could.
“Law enforcement?” Mac asked finally, dissecting Methos with his eyes. For all that they were both Immortal, Mac had always had trouble figuring Methos out. Mac had only seen Methos's reluctance to get involved in Immortal affairs because he saw them as unimportant. He hadn't seen Methos infiltrate the Watchers.
“Someone needs to know what measures are being introduced that might detect us,” Methos told him. Mac's gaze cut to the other agents but Joe wasn't surprised that they knew the truth.
It seemed exactly the sort of thing the Old Man would do; infiltrating an organisation to learn its secrets and what threat it might pose to him. Joe was just surprised that Methos seemed to enjoy it so much. Still, he supposed, someone sa old as Methos would inevitably involve himself in new ventures just to keep things interesting.
“You play?” McDonald asked, nodding toward the stage where the instruments were still set up.
“A little,” Joe said with a self-effacing smile. Methos snorted but didn't elaborate.
“Mind if I?” McDonald asked, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the stage. Joe hesitated. He didn't let just anyone touch his instruments, but Methos nodded subtly and Joe was curious about what these friends of Methos's could do.
“Sure,” he conceded eventually.
Lindsey went over and sat on the stool, picking up the guitar resting against it. He plucked at the strings for a few moments before he settled on a simple tune. A few minutes later, DiNozzo sat at the piano and joined him.
“They're not bad,” Joe told Methos. “If they ever want a change in career...”
“Not likely,” Methos told him with a roll of his eyes. “They want to make a difference.”
“And you don't?”
“You know me Joe,” Methos said, drinking from his bottle. “I don't like to get involved.”
“Sure,” Joe said, even though they both knew it was a lie. “It is good to see you.”
“You getting sentimental on me?”
“Now you can pay your outstanding bar tab,” Joe said with a shake of his head. Methos laughed. “But, just so you know, you're not the only one he left.”
“I know, Joe,” Methos said, looking down at the beer bottle in his hands and then to the two men on stage.
“You left me, too,” Joe told him, without rancour. He'd long accepted that Methos wasn't like most people and expecting him to follow the same rules wasn't fair to either of them.
“I didn't intend to disappear for quite so long,” Methos admitted, gaze not shifting from the stage. “I got a bit caught up in things.”
“I can see that,” Joe said and he really could. Methos seemed to fit with this group far better than he had with Joe and Mac. For all that MacLeod gathered people to him and drew them in, it was always on his terms. Methos had tried to fit himself to that mould and succeeded, because Methos could make himself fit any shape like he'd never been anything else, but it wasn't the same as what the Old Man had now. This Methos didn't seem to have set boundaries at all.
“They're not just federal agents, are they?” Joe asked. Methos smiled grimly.
“No.”
“They're your Brothers.”
Methos looked surprised at the assertion and Joe hadn't forgotten what he'd overheard during the phone call, but that was a secondary mystery.
“That's... a complicated word for me, Joe.”
Joe shrugged and refrained from pointing out that Methos wasn't denying it. At least federal agents were better than psychopaths.
…
Mac didn't know what to make of these men that Methos had gathered to himself. They seemed like good men, but Mac couldn't shake the feeling that there was something dark lurking beneath the surface of the commaraderie, something they were hiding.
“So your team has been together several years?” Mac asked.
He looked across at where Joe and Methos were talking. Methos's gaze instinctively sought out each of his colleagues as he was talking and Mac doubted he was even aware of it. Especially since the same seemed to be true of all the men; their eyes roving of the room, constantly seeking each other out. It told him everything he needed to know about just how close these men were to Methos. He just couldn't imagine how they'd forged such a bond.
Winchester raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.
“And DiNozzo's your leader?”
Mac's gaze swept to the stage where McDonald was now singing softly, almost to himself, and looking completely comfortable on stage. DiNozzo followed along, improvising here and there, but matching McDonald well. DiNozzo seemed nice enough, easy-going but competent; Methos wouldn't have tolerated anything else in a leader.
“I couldn't imagine Adam following orders,” Mac admitted, shifting his gaze back to Methos, who seemed to have fitted effortlessly back into Joe's life and bar like he'd never left, except for the addition of three men who seemed quite comfortable following Methos into unknown situations.
“Tony doesn't give orders,” Winchester told him and Mac realised Winchester had been watching him while he'd been watching Methos. “He makes suggestions and trusts us to know what we're doing.”
Mac trusted Methos with his life, with the lives of those he loved, but didn't always agree with Methos's pragmatic attitude to morality. He tried to imagine giving Methos free reign over the law and shuddered. He wondered if that made DiNozzo a better man than him.
“You and Adam go way back?” Winchester asked.
“A few years,” Mac said, because he realised with a start that these men had effectively known Methos longer than him.
“Didn't seem to end that well,” Winchester said noncommittally.
“You don't know...” Mac started but cut himself off. Whatever else, he wasn't going to betray Methos's secrets, but he didn't know how to explain his difficulty in fully accepting Methos without explaining the Horsemen or the man's ability to so easily hide such fundamental things about himself.
“You seem to think he owes you something,” Winchester said, voice conversational but eyes sharp.
“You don't know him like I do,” Mac told him, unable to shake the defensive reaction that instinctively rose in him at having his actions and decisions questioned. He'd made the only choice that had been available to him.
“You're probably right,” Winchester said. “I know him better.”
It had taken Cassandra's confession, Kronos's perseverance and Methos's desperation to get any kind of admission from Methos. He had trouble imagining Methos baring his soul to them without the same kind of stressor. But there was a confidence in Winchester's words, an absolute assurance, that made Mac wonder.
“There are things in his past...”
Winchester rolled his eyes.
“Oh please, like there're all that many people left who have any real idea.”
That answered Mac's questions about exactly how much they knew.
“Besides,” Winchester continued. “I've never met anyone who didn't have regrets.”
For a moment he seemed older than his mid-thirties. If Mac hadn't felt the complete lack of a buzz from the other man, he would have suspected he was an Immortal. He couldn't argue with Winchester's point, but he still felt the scale of it meant something. He had his own regrets, many more than he could sometimes deal with, but he hadn't subjugated entire continents. Joe and Methos could say that it was another time, but Mac wasn't sure he actually understood what that meant, not deeply where it mattered.
“Come on kids,” DiNozzo said, standing up. “We've got an early flight tomorrow and I don't want to have to listen to your whining.”
“You're going to have to do that anyway,” Winchester told him looking distinctly unhappy.
“Don't make me stick you next to the annoying kid we're inevitably going to get seated with,” DiNozzo warned.
“I'll take flying over sailing any day,” Methos said with an exaggerated shudder and Mac smiled a little remembering his stories about the Irish monks.
“Aren't you lucky,” Winchester muttered.
“Besides, Cas wouldn't let you crash,” McDonald added. “It would ruin your pretty face.”
“Keep in touch this time,” Joe said, squeezing Methos's shoulder before pulling him into a hug.
“You really are getting sentimental, Joe,” Methos said, but Mac noticed that his arms wrapped just as tightly around Joe's shoulders and didn't let go for a long moment. “You've got my number.”
“Yeah, I do,” Joe said with a smirk.
When Methos turned to him, Mac wasn't entirely sure what to say for a moment. He pulled Methos into a hug but it didn't escape his notice that it took longer for Methos to return the gesture than he had with Joe, but then Joe had never struggled with Methos the way he had.
“Don't be a stranger,” he eventually settled for, releasing him. Methos just smiled a little sadly at him as though the choice wasn't his. Mac nodded solemnly, promising himself he'd try to better understand the other Immortal. He thought he'd reached an epiphany all those years ago in Paris but, as was often the case with Methos, he'd been wrong.
“See you around, MacLeod,” Methos said as he and his team turned to leave the bar.
“Shotgun,” Winchester called.
Mac sighed and ran a hand over his short hair.
“It could have been worse,” Joe said with a faint smile. “At least no one got beheaded.”