The Tale of the Scorpion, part 7
Title: Tale of the Scorpion (7 of 9)
Authors: mackiedockie and adabsolutely
Characters/Pairings: Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson, El Alacrán, various OCs. D/M and other pairings.
Rating: Mostly M, with occasional spikes into R+ territory.
Fandom: Highlander
Author's Notes: We owe huge thanks to many hardworking betas See Zero Post and for warnings.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Tale of the Scorpion
*****
Methos was concluding a story about trading mules for unknown seeds and had his audience laughing and/or snorting with amusement and disbelief. They were also drunk, though Methos not so much, having consumed only one for every three shots that MacLeod and Montoya had. As he finished his tale he stretched out on his section of the huge couch and closed his eyes. "You children go on, play quietly." And promptly fell asleep.
"How he do that?" Montoya demanded to know.
"I think he has cat DNA." MacLeod's joke produced more laughter than it deserved; even the world's best mezcal does not raise the discretion level.
"You cherish him!"
"I do. Every chance -"
"He's snoring!"
"I'll fix that!" MacLeod wobbled to his feet like a fresh colt and stumbled over to Methos. He rolled him onto his side, and the snoring stopped.
"There."
Montoya found a thin blanket and tossed it to MacLeod, who picked it up from where it fell then spread it over Methos. "There ya go old sod."
"Come, let me show you my swords."
"No etchings?" MacLeod chortled loudly.
"Shh! Come on, Duncan."
The two inebriates walked with exaggerated precision into the master bedroom.
"Did you loot Toledo?" MacLeod exclaimed at the sight of the sword covered walls. "Now just exactly how do you explain this to a lover?"
"My padre was a collector, of course."
"Of course. He certainly was. Some of these might have been made by Ramirez himself." MacLeod's demeanor turned sad, and serious, as only the deeply drunk can manage. "I have a sword you might like to add to your collection. I kept Kronos' last blade. I offered it to Methos, but he refused to take it."
"Methos was there when you fought El Gato? Kronos?"
"Yes."
"You should keep it, Duncan. He may change his mind and want it someday. I have only bad memories of that sword. Your friend has a longer view...thinking about Methos' age makes me feel very young."
"You are!" MacLeod grabbed the younger Immortal and gave him a hug. It was not romantic, more of a bear hug between drunk friends, but then MacLeod kissed him, and with the clarity of mezcal, Montoya allowed it to continue until the memory of the man sleeping in the other room popped into his pickled thoughts. "Methos!"
"Shh. Let him sleep. I will have you to myself. Remember Gila?"
"As long as I live."
They kissed again. This time not so brotherly. Tongues demanding. Leaning into each other, swaying, but holding anchor together. Instinctively both knew that frottage best suited their present space, so clothing removal fumbled apace as rapidly as possible.
Strong body molding to strong body, their scents mingled, and they relived memories of another time, another bonding, a century ago. Touching each other boldly, they proved that they both more than survived; they seized life beyond the violence of the Game. Pushing out of mind the grimness of the day as they thrust against each other, each plunge centering, vitalizing, sobering.
After they cried out their last, fell still, and were holding each other up right, they heard from the doorway, "Beautiful."
Grasping each other for balance, they turned to see Methos leaning casually, a warm smile showing his appreciation. "The two of you are a work of art."
"Come share the bed," Montoya, bravely.
"Oh, no, thank you. You two get some sleep. I'll watch over you."
"Stay with us, please." MacLeod's voice was soft, his eyes trusting.
"Alright, till you fall asleep. Tuck you in." And he did, claiming only the edge of the bed, staying guard beside them. Not quite dozing, never so free with his trust. Too old for that.
*****
It was after midnight when an out-of-place noise roused Methos. Moving softly, smoothly, so as not to wake his companions, he slid from under the sheet and silently fetched his sword from under the bed. Standing to the side of the window, staying out of the moonlight, he searched the patio and hacienda wall beyond. The noise was repeated - a splashing, a low murmur, a lower growl that resonated in the lizardy part of Methos' mind. He lowered his sword.
"A midnight swim?" Montoya's amused whisper floated from the bed.
"Joe's skinnydipping under the full moon. What is he, twelve?"
Montoya cocked his head, listening. "Eighteen. At least. A very mature eighteen. Do not worry, my Mary will watch over Joe like a falcon over its chick." His teeth gleamed in the dappled light as he laughed.
"Like a hawk over a chicken," Methos murmured under his breath.
"Come to bed, Methos," MacLeod summoned. "We need a mature influence here, too."
Methos sighed, and abandoned the window. "Better late than never."
*****
Joe woke slowly in the first rays of the Sonoran sun, warm within and without. He took a deep, happy breath, and watched Mary's arm rise and fall where it lay on his chest. Her fingers possessively twirled a hank of silvering fur, making him laugh and catch her hand.
"Hello, darlin'," he rumbled.
"Hola, hombre," she responded with a lazy smile that made him even happier. "Are you hungry?"
"Starving," he growled, and rolled over to pull her close, and proved just how hungry he was.
After their second rising, Joe escorted Mary into the kitchen arm in arm, making a virtue of a necessity, since he'd somehow lost his cane during his first riding lesson the previous day. He made a grinning nuisance of himself as he stirred the beans and nabbed bits of chorizo from the frying pans. Unfortunately, after he made a face at the menudo, he had to retreat under the assault of the hacienda cook, who demanded in rapid-fire Spanish he be exiled to his proper place at the table with the rest of the troublesome men before she quit. Reluctantly, Joe folded his colors and let Mary guide him out to safe haven on the patio near the pool. He focussed fully on Mary and Mary alone until she disappeared within.
Therefore, when he turned his attention to the morning coffee, he was unprepared to see the Immortals grinning at him like Hugh Fitzcairn reincarnated. "What?" he challenged.
"You're looking better this morning," MacLeod observed carefully, only partially successful at toning down his smile.
"I'm fine," Joe allowed just as cautiously. "Good as new. Just needed a little sleep."
"Come on, show me," Methos said brusquely. As Joe reluctantly extended his arm, he prodded Joe's hand, checking the warmth and circulation. The only sign of injury that remained was a curious darkening and discoloration of Joe's tattoo, where the dart had penetrated. Joe flinched as Methos probed the circle, and pulled back.
"Watch it, bub."
"The injection site will probably be sensitive for a while. But otherwise, you look better than you deserve," Methos grudgingly decided.
"Mary has excellent medical skills," Montoya affirmed, not even bothering to hide his beaming approval.
"I'm sure she was gratified to bring such a challenging case to such a satisfactory climax," Methos chimed in, earning himself a murderous look from Joe, who had blushed to his chest hairs. There was no response he could make that wouldn't compromise his own firm sense of gallantry.
MacLeod took pity on him. "Hungry?"
"Like I haven't eaten in days," Joe admitted. And when Mary and the cook brought out the tortillas and rice and beans and huevos and many long links of chorizo, they all fell on the food like starving lions.
Joe slowed down before the Immortals, mindful that he no longer had the metabolism of a teenager, the evidence of the previous few hours notwithstanding. He folded his servilleta politely and pushed away the plate, avoiding MacLeod's inquisitive gaze, and Methos' more penetrating assessment. He searched the clear desert air for words as the silence stretched between them.
"I owe you an apology, MacLeod. To Señor Montoya, also. I've brought my troubles into your house."
"What about me?" Methos asked, deliberately spiking Joe's grave sincerity. "Trampled, remember? Knifed? Shot? Poisoned?"
"All of which you would have avoided if you'd gone to Val d'Isere with Mac like I asked," Joe pointed out with impeccable logic. "Mac fired me, not you," he added with a strangely indulgent smile.
"I swear, you spoil the Highland sonofa..."
"Temper, temper, Methos," Duncan cautioned.
"What? I'm not the one that blew up at Joe just because some jumped up juvenile delinquent made up a story about beheading me."
MacLeod dropped his eyes, and his smile. "I should be apologizing to you, Joe. I let my emotions cloud my judgment. I was angry, and you were standing there in the line of fire. I overreacted."
Joe glanced away, embarrassed. "Not your fault. I never saw the guy coming. That's my job, and I didn't come through for you."
"It is not your job to play doorman for the Highlander's challenges. Or mine!" Methos tried one last appeal to reason. "Joe, you can't afford another Tribunal. Three times and you are crowbait."
"Tribunal?" MacLeod tensed, his hand twitching closed around the arm of his chair. "You didn't tell me..."
"There was no Tribunal," Joe snapped, glaring at Methos. "It was a fitness hearing," he admitted with considerably more embarrassment. "Now leave Mac out of it, willya? Dealing with the bureaucracy is my own damn lookout."
Methos appealed to their host. "See, Montoya? MacLeod could drop Joe into the seventh circle of hell, and Joe would end up forgiving him and apologizing for the inconvenience."
"Ninth circle of hell. It's in the fine print in my contract," Joe shot back. "It's my job."
If looks were knives, both the Highlander and the Watcher would have been skewered by Methos' finely sharpened glower. "Just like it's your job to get yourself killed?"
Joe met and held his gaze, his own temper subsiding as fast as it flared. "Taking one for the team to keep the Immortal secret has always been part of the job description. You knew that from the start. Hell, you probably slipped it into the bylaws. Mac's finally figuring it out. It's the way it goes."
"Really, Methos. Don't growl at Joe. He wasn't trying to get himself killed. He just wanted to do it his way, on his own two feet as it were - sorry Joe."
"No hay problema, Mac. I'm glad you understand. Unlike some people we know." Now firmly allied on philosophic principles, if not actual fact, Joe and MacLeod beamed at each other just to spite their elder.
Eventually, even Methos' glower ran out of kilowatts. "Kids! See, Mano? See what I put up with! Some how it always ends up my fault!" Methos put on a pretty fair mask of righteous discontent.
Manolito glanced between his guests, sensing the unresolved tensions as well as the unspoken affection. "It is very rare to meet a mortal who understands us so well," he observed softly. "Even rarer to find one who understands himself. It must be very lonely for you, amigo, to live in such shadows."
Joe colored, and looked away, toward Mary, watching them all from the kitchen. His blush deepened.
Methos nodded once, at Manolito's words, but didn't lose his frown. "Let that be a lesson to you, Joe. Gather ye rosebuds, and all that. Survival is much more fun than dying. Take that from the experts."
Mary's smile took on a primness as she brought another pot of coffee and some fruit and dulces to the table, and sat down between Joe and Montoya, stifling a laugh. "Silly men! To speak of shadows on such a fine and sunny day. Eat! Live!"
"Yes, Señora!" Joe replied. A welcoming smile spread across his face. "Sorry to bring our arguing to your table. It's been a rough couple days. Has it only been two? You know I been thinking here, I may need to make a little reconnaisance trip looking for my cane."
"Yes, eat! You have to keep up your strength for those midnight swims, bucko," Methos muttered in an undertone, earning himself a jab under the table from both Joe and MacLeod.
"Behave yourself in front of a lady, or I'll behead you myself," Joe hissed.
Montoya, who had found early in his career that selective deafness was a boon to a good host, chose to ignore the exchange, beyond a rather improper wink to his daughter-in-law. "Ah, canes! Joseph you are in luck. It would please me a great deal if you would accept a cane from my father's collection. As a young man he had a bad fall from a ill behaved horse, after which he sometimes required the use of a cane. Over the years my sister and I competed to gift him with many handsome specimens, for he was a proud man, and often insisted he only used them to appease us. And I know just the one!" Montoya jumped up in apparent delight, "Con permiso, uno momento!" He scrambled from the room, huge smile on his face, obviously amused with his idea.
"Oh, dear." Mary said, but then had to laugh. "I bet I know which one it will be!"
Joe smiled to please her, but with just a touch of strained sincerity. "I don't want to impose more on your hospitality than I already have," he said carefully, fully aware of the generosity of the gesture. "I can get by with any old stick..."
"Nonsense!" Montoya announced, as he strode back into the room, holding a masterfully carved ironwood cane, topped with a wrought silver head. "You must have this. It signifies to any in our ejido that you are under my protection. And it has extra features..." Montoya grinned and twisted the head. With a slithering hiss, a thin flashing blade slide from the cane sheathe. Montoya brandished it proudly. "With this very sword, my father fought a duel with the tax collector from Juárez!"
MacLeod burst out laughing. Methos reflexively ducked and swore.
Montoya resheathed the sword and presented it with a bow to Joe, who was now quite speechless.
"Just say 'thank you,' MacLeod suggested to his stunned friend.
"Thank you!"
Joe hefted the cane, which fit his large hand as if tailored. The cane was surprisingly heavy, but very well balanced. The forged silver head depicted a detailed body of a scorpion.
"The blade is true Toledo steel. The trigger to release the sword is hidden under the stinger," Montoya said helpfully, "Recessed to prevent accidents."
"Heaven forfend we have any accidents," Methos murmured testily. "I suppose I'm going to have to show you some parries, now. And ripostes. This is going to make horsemanship look easy."
Joe smiled faintly and rubbed his beard, not really taking him seriously. "Not quite so far to fall. Piece of cake."
MacLeod lost his grin as the implications sunk in. "Owning a weapon is one thing. Being trained in its use another, entirely."
Montoya nodded. "Feel free to use my practice salle. It is in the second barn disguised as the cattle breeding shed."
"Who do you practice with, Fernando the Bull?" Methos asked, as if truly interested.
"No, Zorro," Manolito shot back, instinctively matching Methos' sarcasm.
"Whoa, guys. Watcher here, not Zorro. I'm a lov... -er- peace loving fellow." Joe succeeded in making himself blush again when Mary knowingly nodded in agreement.
"Says the man who took out an armed, trained assassin with a palm frond."
Joe shrugged. "Once a Marine... "
"...always a jarhead," Methos spit out with feeling. "I'm sure that Hunter you met up on the hill would testify to that - if he could."
"Don't worry, Señor Montoya. I'll treat your gift with respect. I'm not going to be denting it in a dojo."
"You know as well as the rest of us, Joe, that if you own a weapon, you must know how to use it," MacLeod warned.
"Your policy with me doesn't cover falling on your sword," Methos added blackly.
"Methos, you're hauling around some kind of attitude this morning," Joe warned.
"Well, seeing as how I'm the only one who didn't have an 'eventful' night, I can't imagine why!"
MacLeod whispered, "You had your chance. It's not like we threw you out of bed for eating crackers."
Mary tried to pretend deafness to that exchange, desperately suppressing laughter.
Joe looked at Montoya, then stared at MacLeod. Finally his eyes moved to Methos, who was carefully looking at no one in particular. "And you tell me to gather my rosebuds," he reproved, not bothering to suppress his grin at all.
"Still," Joe continued, unwilted by Methos' glare, "I think it's probably a bad idea for Watchers and Immortals to cross train. Too many misunderstandings could arise." Joe ran his hand over the silver head, and released the trigger with a 'snick'. The blade jumped free, held firmly in his right hand, the sheath held along his forearm, ready to block. This time, all three Immortals subtly flinched.
"Point taken, Joe," MacLeod said softly.
"How long have you watched Immortals fight, Joe?" Montoya asked curiously.
"Long enough to know my limitations," Joe answered back honestly. "My best chance comes with sheer surprise. My opponent will fall over laughing." He didn't mention his normal equalizer was a Glock. That would spoil the surprise. He resheathed the sword with a snap.
"Surprise and guile," Mary added, placing her hand over his. "You do not play by their rules, Joe. Ever. Do we understand each other?"
"Oh, Mary, you don't need to worry about that! They have their rules, and I have mine." He smiled at her, momentarily forgetting the presence of the Immortals.
Remembering, he turned to his host, "I thank you very much for this gift. I will cherish it always. Though I think I'll need my old one going through the airport!"
Mano laughed. "¡Si! We wouldn't want you arrested and disappeared by the airport 'security.' The Americans are so unreasonable, no? I will locate yours on the hill today while looking into my own security shortfalls. Perhaps the three of you would care to have a restful day at our private beach while I discover how my borders were so easily invaded."
"Just ask, if we can help." MacLeod promised for all of them.
Montoya nodded. "I respect your advice, my friend, though it is my responsibility."
Methos leaned back in his chair, contemplating the problem. "Your security cameras were exploited wirelessly. I can help you look into improvements later. But maybe we can go through your videos ourselves and use them to identify the third Hunter."
Joe frowned. "Most Watcher field teams work in groups of four. The Hunters kept that tradition. The fourth one is mine."
"Well, let me see," Methos muttered, "Justine as leader of the pack, Dog Food's rider with the palm frond over the hill, patio bleeder ...hmm...who else would belong to this nice little quartet? And more important, do you think they are even still on this continent by now?"
MacLeod made a growly noise in his throat. "I'm not counting four sets of hoofprints. Mano?"
"My men found just two more, besides your Dog Food. They didn't ride local ponies. No IDs. No phones. Only the tracks of the three, no more, between the hacienda and the oasis." His eyes burned with an old anger. "There were four who trapped my son. Horton, and three others."
"Perhaps the fourth doesn't feel the need to get close enough to gloat in person," Methos said. "The assassins may have been expected to use your own phone, Joe, to relay proof of mission accomplished. That way, there was no lead back from the team to the leader."
"The guy in the oasis was hired talent," Joe frowned as he worked out more implications than he was willing to voice in mixed company. "Not a Watcher. Maybe the hunters are running out of recruits in house."
"How do you know?" Montoya asked curiously.
"No tattoo. And no...measure of respect for the calling," he added thoughtfully. "Even the Hunters had a calling, warped as it was - this guy was just a hired gun."
"So your efforts to clean up the Watchers are working," MacLeod offered.
Methos didn't say 'dream on,' but he thought it so hard that Joe sighed. "Even one is too many." He looked over at Methos. "Did you get photos of the guy you all killed out front? I can check personnel files, find out who mentored him."
"You mean the one your angel of mercy Mary killed?" Methos corrected, which did not earn him points with either Montoya or Joe, and made Mary bite her lip in dismay.
"Don't give me that," Joe said sharply, instinctively reaching out to her. "You would have done the same. And Mary's feeling bad enough as it is."
Methos looked only the smallest bit chagrined, and that was mostly for Joe's sake. "My way would have been slower, and messier, and brought us more answers. But as for pictures, well, I wiped my phone memory up on the hill after I sent a photo of Mano to Amy. After that, I forgot to watch and record. My Watcher skills are a little rusty, these days."
"Indeed." Mano observed. "Why do you play amongst the Watchers? This is a very dangerous game for an Immortal. Surely they would be most offended if they caught you?"
"Theoretically, they take a dim view. But practically? Using Joe as an example, their sense of fascination tends to outweigh their homicidal proclivities, at least among the true archivists. And so far, only Joe and the head of the Methos Chronicles are supposed to know. I - ah - take it that you have been enjoying my journals?"
"Oh, si! Very illuminating. I can't help but be fascinated by the workings of ancient minds! I suppose you will be wanting your journals back?" Mano teased.
"That would be nice." Methos sighed, knowing what was coming next.
"Perhaps you can tell me a few more stories from your past?"
Joe snickered like a teenager. "That's what you get for pulling the 'old and wise' routine. You know you love it."
"If you are the Watcher, Joe, do the chronicles truly belong to you?" Montoya asked. "I will return them immediately, if you wish."
Joe shook his head, a shadow passing over his features. "Methos writes his own, so they go back to him. And they took Mac's away from me. As a field agent, I just take notes for your chronicle, now. And I pass them on to the archivist. You don't have a Watcher."
"Then I name you my Watcher," El Alacrán stated, as if passing a law.
"Hey, wait..." MacLeod protested belatedly. "Joe's my Watcher, Mano. Or will be again once they realize Justine's gone AWOL." Mac said reasonably.
Joe traded a swift glance with Methos. Silently, they agreed not to point out the flaws in MacLeod's assumptions.
"But," MacLeod continued generously, "I could spare him for a couple weeks while he works on sneaking pictures of you."
Mano returned the smile then turned to look at Mary. "How do you feel about a house guest daughter?"
"Hmm...I might be able to put up with him for a time. Be sure that he is completely healed."
"I would be happy to contribute to your experiments," Joe managed to say with a straight face.
"Naturally, you all are welcome to stay as long as you wish," Mary concluded smoothly,
"I'm afraid Mac will need to take off rather soon," Methos explained, "To keep up appearances he needs to leave separately, as he came, before more Watchers who could tell tales show up. And I should be on my way in a day or two as well to check on a few loose ends. But I have a dandy tale about MacLeod and the Pyrenees sheep-shearing festival..."
"Be polite, buddy," Joe interrupted, knowing the ending to that one, while sending an apologetic glance to Mary.
"You wouldn't..." MacLeod warned. "Or I'll tell Joe the real story behind the yurt."
"I have many tales about el Señor MacLeod myself," boasted Montoya, who grinned with anticipation.
"Hey, wait a minute!" MacLeod protested in his best thwarted clan chieftain voice.
"Behave, Papá," Mary reproved the Lion of Sonora, who bowed, wearing a little boy caught in the sugar bowl smile.
Joe grinned, thinking it would be vast entertainment indeed to eavesdrop on the Scorpion and the Horseman. To a respectable point, that is. Not that respectability ever stopped him in the past.
Then a thought occurred to him. He turned to Methos and asked, "You said you sent a photo to Amy? Of what? What did she say?"
"Say? Oh, shit! Lo siento, Mary. It was just a picture of Manolito Montoya, at the gates. I wanted her to know, well, just in case I didn't make it back, I wanted her to know her Dad had succeeded. I better call her and tell her everything is all right. Or my name will be Dog Food too."
"Great. Just when I thought I had her convinced I really was on vacation," Joe grumbled, but there was a note of genuine worry underlying his complaint.
Montoya looked thoughtful. "So you thought I might win a challenge with you?"
Methos grinned devilishly. "No, but I doubted your men would let me live! I'm a rather dirty fighter if you must know. If the young must fight, well...anyway too much philosophizing at breakfast."
"Indeed." Montoya concurred, not looking young in the least. Or surprised. "But I will have you know that my men have orders not to interfere in challenges. I would not have them risk their lives over my dead body. That would be a pointless and evil waste."
"You would be wise to keep that fact to yourself. They enhance your reputation as a dangerous man to challenge," Methos pointed out, before returning to the problem at hand. "My cell phone is rather dead. Would you mind if I made a call to Amy before she sends out the marines?"
Mary frowned at them all, displeased with the turn in the conversation. Joe frowned, too, though for different reasons.
"You mentioned Amy before. Your daughter?" Mary asked, clearly curious.
"My daughter," Joe said uneasily, "though our relationship was...unacknowledged, and for her safety, I'd like to keep it secret beyond this room. He traced a pattern on the tablecloth. "She thinks I'm on vacation. Maybe the picture won't mean anything. It was just a long shot of the ranch, right?" Joe asked. "Methos, tell me you didn't take a picture of Señor Montoya and..."
"...You. Yes. A nice closeup, really." Methos thought about it. "I guess, in retrospect, that might excite her a little bit. Since you forgot to tell her the part of the vacation plan where you caroused with restricted Immortals. Though I missed the really good part where you cold-cocked El Alacrán."
Joe drummed his fingers on the new cane, feeling decidedly murderous. "That was your fault."
"You were being held hostage, Joe."
"I was not going to stand around being bait while you channelled MacLeod!" Joe shot back. MacLeod stared at them both as if they'd grown antennae, while Montoya rubbed his jaw and seemed pleased at the memory.
"And what of her mother? Will she not be worried?" Mary asked with deceptive calm, pointedly derailing the escalating argument.
Methos took a deep breath and pointed toward the hacienda, looking at Montoya for direction. "I better go make that call!"
"Indeed! I know how daughters worry. This way, please." Montoya led Methos out of the room.
This left Joe and Mary to face each other, while MacLeod seemed to be forgotten. "One child? Or children? Is there a wife?"
"No, Mary." Joe shrugged, with a deprecating smile. "No one has been foolish enough to marry me." He let the words sink in, letting Mary have time to judge them.
"Amy is a Watcher, like you?"
"Most Watchers are born into the organization. Her mother came from a long line," he admitted. "We met when I was first being trained."
"I see. Hmm. So what is she like? Stubborn and adventurous like her father?"
"Me? Stubborn?" Joe protested weakly. "She is very beautiful, most unlike her father, fortunately," he said. "Her mother married another," he added simply, not willing to go into the painful details.
"Then she was a foolish woman," Mary snapped.
"Foolish, indeed," MacLeod said softly, reminding them of his presence. The look he gave Mary held both warning and promise.
Joe waved him off. "Old news, MacLeod." He shot MacLeod a stern look. The last thing he wanted was the Highlander expounding on his highly checkered love life. Not that the Highlander knew even the half of it.
At that moment Methos and Montoya returned, apparently in good spirits. "Well, Joe you will be glad to know that you are back in Amy's good graces, just for being alive! Fancy that. Me on the other hand, well, I'm still - never mind. You had better call her later. I promised to be back where I belong under her wing day after tomorrow. I might make it in a week. In the mean time, our gracious host here insists that we should spend Duncan's last few hours in Mexico on his beach."
"Yes, I think you could all use the rest and enjoyment of the sea while I take care of a few details needing my attention," Mano said.
MacLeod started to protest, "Mano, are you sure you don't want me to..."
"...Not at all, MacLeod," Montoya smoothly interjected. "You must enjoy my hospitality, for that would please me most of all. There should be a splendid sunset this evening. Do not waste the opportunity to celebrate a peaceful friendship regained."
Methos peered at their host. It was rare that the modern Immortals so completely understood the hospitality of the ancient tents and fires of his youth, as well as the difficulties in maintaining Immortal friends and allies over decades and centuries. He would bear Watching, indeed.
"We will go to the beach, Joe. These ones can argue where they will," Mary announced with a certainty that knew only the immediate needs of the moment.
Joe clearly agreed, Methos noted, and so their mortal wisdom carried the day.
"Hey, we wanta go too!" Methos protested, suddenly shaving about 4,988 years off his age. "I get the hammock. You bring the cervezas, MacLeod. Don't forget the ice! And chips. And dip. Better bring towels, too, we'll go swimming."
"I didn't bring trunks," MacLeod said mournfully, mindful of mixed company.
Mary just laughed, and poked Joe, whispering and smiling at MacLeod's expense. "What's the matter, afraid of the competition?"
Joe and Montoya chose to go selectively deaf.
Methos' gaze raked MacLeod's Levis with a look that could have scorched them to the fork of his superbly conditioned thighs. "Luckily, you won't shrink if exposed to water. I hope that you haven't resurrected more unnaturally Puritan thoughts from your youth in my absence."
"I'll give you unnatural, and show you the pride of Loch Shiel...and more besides," MacLeod promised, dragging Methos away from the table and into the hacienda to provision the party. "I'll get the food, you get the beer. And ice. Mano, do you have any Tabasco? No, don't ask why..."
Part 8
Authors: mackiedockie and adabsolutely
Characters/Pairings: Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson, El Alacrán, various OCs. D/M and other pairings.
Rating: Mostly M, with occasional spikes into R+ territory.
Fandom: Highlander
Author's Notes: We owe huge thanks to many hardworking betas See Zero Post and for warnings.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Tale of the Scorpion
*****
Methos was concluding a story about trading mules for unknown seeds and had his audience laughing and/or snorting with amusement and disbelief. They were also drunk, though Methos not so much, having consumed only one for every three shots that MacLeod and Montoya had. As he finished his tale he stretched out on his section of the huge couch and closed his eyes. "You children go on, play quietly." And promptly fell asleep.
"How he do that?" Montoya demanded to know.
"I think he has cat DNA." MacLeod's joke produced more laughter than it deserved; even the world's best mezcal does not raise the discretion level.
"You cherish him!"
"I do. Every chance -"
"He's snoring!"
"I'll fix that!" MacLeod wobbled to his feet like a fresh colt and stumbled over to Methos. He rolled him onto his side, and the snoring stopped.
"There."
Montoya found a thin blanket and tossed it to MacLeod, who picked it up from where it fell then spread it over Methos. "There ya go old sod."
"Come, let me show you my swords."
"No etchings?" MacLeod chortled loudly.
"Shh! Come on, Duncan."
The two inebriates walked with exaggerated precision into the master bedroom.
"Did you loot Toledo?" MacLeod exclaimed at the sight of the sword covered walls. "Now just exactly how do you explain this to a lover?"
"My padre was a collector, of course."
"Of course. He certainly was. Some of these might have been made by Ramirez himself." MacLeod's demeanor turned sad, and serious, as only the deeply drunk can manage. "I have a sword you might like to add to your collection. I kept Kronos' last blade. I offered it to Methos, but he refused to take it."
"Methos was there when you fought El Gato? Kronos?"
"Yes."
"You should keep it, Duncan. He may change his mind and want it someday. I have only bad memories of that sword. Your friend has a longer view...thinking about Methos' age makes me feel very young."
"You are!" MacLeod grabbed the younger Immortal and gave him a hug. It was not romantic, more of a bear hug between drunk friends, but then MacLeod kissed him, and with the clarity of mezcal, Montoya allowed it to continue until the memory of the man sleeping in the other room popped into his pickled thoughts. "Methos!"
"Shh. Let him sleep. I will have you to myself. Remember Gila?"
"As long as I live."
They kissed again. This time not so brotherly. Tongues demanding. Leaning into each other, swaying, but holding anchor together. Instinctively both knew that frottage best suited their present space, so clothing removal fumbled apace as rapidly as possible.
Strong body molding to strong body, their scents mingled, and they relived memories of another time, another bonding, a century ago. Touching each other boldly, they proved that they both more than survived; they seized life beyond the violence of the Game. Pushing out of mind the grimness of the day as they thrust against each other, each plunge centering, vitalizing, sobering.
After they cried out their last, fell still, and were holding each other up right, they heard from the doorway, "Beautiful."
Grasping each other for balance, they turned to see Methos leaning casually, a warm smile showing his appreciation. "The two of you are a work of art."
"Come share the bed," Montoya, bravely.
"Oh, no, thank you. You two get some sleep. I'll watch over you."
"Stay with us, please." MacLeod's voice was soft, his eyes trusting.
"Alright, till you fall asleep. Tuck you in." And he did, claiming only the edge of the bed, staying guard beside them. Not quite dozing, never so free with his trust. Too old for that.
*****
It was after midnight when an out-of-place noise roused Methos. Moving softly, smoothly, so as not to wake his companions, he slid from under the sheet and silently fetched his sword from under the bed. Standing to the side of the window, staying out of the moonlight, he searched the patio and hacienda wall beyond. The noise was repeated - a splashing, a low murmur, a lower growl that resonated in the lizardy part of Methos' mind. He lowered his sword.
"A midnight swim?" Montoya's amused whisper floated from the bed.
"Joe's skinnydipping under the full moon. What is he, twelve?"
Montoya cocked his head, listening. "Eighteen. At least. A very mature eighteen. Do not worry, my Mary will watch over Joe like a falcon over its chick." His teeth gleamed in the dappled light as he laughed.
"Like a hawk over a chicken," Methos murmured under his breath.
"Come to bed, Methos," MacLeod summoned. "We need a mature influence here, too."
Methos sighed, and abandoned the window. "Better late than never."
*****
Joe woke slowly in the first rays of the Sonoran sun, warm within and without. He took a deep, happy breath, and watched Mary's arm rise and fall where it lay on his chest. Her fingers possessively twirled a hank of silvering fur, making him laugh and catch her hand.
"Hello, darlin'," he rumbled.
"Hola, hombre," she responded with a lazy smile that made him even happier. "Are you hungry?"
"Starving," he growled, and rolled over to pull her close, and proved just how hungry he was.
After their second rising, Joe escorted Mary into the kitchen arm in arm, making a virtue of a necessity, since he'd somehow lost his cane during his first riding lesson the previous day. He made a grinning nuisance of himself as he stirred the beans and nabbed bits of chorizo from the frying pans. Unfortunately, after he made a face at the menudo, he had to retreat under the assault of the hacienda cook, who demanded in rapid-fire Spanish he be exiled to his proper place at the table with the rest of the troublesome men before she quit. Reluctantly, Joe folded his colors and let Mary guide him out to safe haven on the patio near the pool. He focussed fully on Mary and Mary alone until she disappeared within.
Therefore, when he turned his attention to the morning coffee, he was unprepared to see the Immortals grinning at him like Hugh Fitzcairn reincarnated. "What?" he challenged.
"You're looking better this morning," MacLeod observed carefully, only partially successful at toning down his smile.
"I'm fine," Joe allowed just as cautiously. "Good as new. Just needed a little sleep."
"Come on, show me," Methos said brusquely. As Joe reluctantly extended his arm, he prodded Joe's hand, checking the warmth and circulation. The only sign of injury that remained was a curious darkening and discoloration of Joe's tattoo, where the dart had penetrated. Joe flinched as Methos probed the circle, and pulled back.
"Watch it, bub."
"The injection site will probably be sensitive for a while. But otherwise, you look better than you deserve," Methos grudgingly decided.
"Mary has excellent medical skills," Montoya affirmed, not even bothering to hide his beaming approval.
"I'm sure she was gratified to bring such a challenging case to such a satisfactory climax," Methos chimed in, earning himself a murderous look from Joe, who had blushed to his chest hairs. There was no response he could make that wouldn't compromise his own firm sense of gallantry.
MacLeod took pity on him. "Hungry?"
"Like I haven't eaten in days," Joe admitted. And when Mary and the cook brought out the tortillas and rice and beans and huevos and many long links of chorizo, they all fell on the food like starving lions.
Joe slowed down before the Immortals, mindful that he no longer had the metabolism of a teenager, the evidence of the previous few hours notwithstanding. He folded his servilleta politely and pushed away the plate, avoiding MacLeod's inquisitive gaze, and Methos' more penetrating assessment. He searched the clear desert air for words as the silence stretched between them.
"I owe you an apology, MacLeod. To Señor Montoya, also. I've brought my troubles into your house."
"What about me?" Methos asked, deliberately spiking Joe's grave sincerity. "Trampled, remember? Knifed? Shot? Poisoned?"
"All of which you would have avoided if you'd gone to Val d'Isere with Mac like I asked," Joe pointed out with impeccable logic. "Mac fired me, not you," he added with a strangely indulgent smile.
"I swear, you spoil the Highland sonofa..."
"Temper, temper, Methos," Duncan cautioned.
"What? I'm not the one that blew up at Joe just because some jumped up juvenile delinquent made up a story about beheading me."
MacLeod dropped his eyes, and his smile. "I should be apologizing to you, Joe. I let my emotions cloud my judgment. I was angry, and you were standing there in the line of fire. I overreacted."
Joe glanced away, embarrassed. "Not your fault. I never saw the guy coming. That's my job, and I didn't come through for you."
"It is not your job to play doorman for the Highlander's challenges. Or mine!" Methos tried one last appeal to reason. "Joe, you can't afford another Tribunal. Three times and you are crowbait."
"Tribunal?" MacLeod tensed, his hand twitching closed around the arm of his chair. "You didn't tell me..."
"There was no Tribunal," Joe snapped, glaring at Methos. "It was a fitness hearing," he admitted with considerably more embarrassment. "Now leave Mac out of it, willya? Dealing with the bureaucracy is my own damn lookout."
Methos appealed to their host. "See, Montoya? MacLeod could drop Joe into the seventh circle of hell, and Joe would end up forgiving him and apologizing for the inconvenience."
"Ninth circle of hell. It's in the fine print in my contract," Joe shot back. "It's my job."
If looks were knives, both the Highlander and the Watcher would have been skewered by Methos' finely sharpened glower. "Just like it's your job to get yourself killed?"
Joe met and held his gaze, his own temper subsiding as fast as it flared. "Taking one for the team to keep the Immortal secret has always been part of the job description. You knew that from the start. Hell, you probably slipped it into the bylaws. Mac's finally figuring it out. It's the way it goes."
"Really, Methos. Don't growl at Joe. He wasn't trying to get himself killed. He just wanted to do it his way, on his own two feet as it were - sorry Joe."
"No hay problema, Mac. I'm glad you understand. Unlike some people we know." Now firmly allied on philosophic principles, if not actual fact, Joe and MacLeod beamed at each other just to spite their elder.
Eventually, even Methos' glower ran out of kilowatts. "Kids! See, Mano? See what I put up with! Some how it always ends up my fault!" Methos put on a pretty fair mask of righteous discontent.
Manolito glanced between his guests, sensing the unresolved tensions as well as the unspoken affection. "It is very rare to meet a mortal who understands us so well," he observed softly. "Even rarer to find one who understands himself. It must be very lonely for you, amigo, to live in such shadows."
Joe colored, and looked away, toward Mary, watching them all from the kitchen. His blush deepened.
Methos nodded once, at Manolito's words, but didn't lose his frown. "Let that be a lesson to you, Joe. Gather ye rosebuds, and all that. Survival is much more fun than dying. Take that from the experts."
Mary's smile took on a primness as she brought another pot of coffee and some fruit and dulces to the table, and sat down between Joe and Montoya, stifling a laugh. "Silly men! To speak of shadows on such a fine and sunny day. Eat! Live!"
"Yes, Señora!" Joe replied. A welcoming smile spread across his face. "Sorry to bring our arguing to your table. It's been a rough couple days. Has it only been two? You know I been thinking here, I may need to make a little reconnaisance trip looking for my cane."
"Yes, eat! You have to keep up your strength for those midnight swims, bucko," Methos muttered in an undertone, earning himself a jab under the table from both Joe and MacLeod.
"Behave yourself in front of a lady, or I'll behead you myself," Joe hissed.
Montoya, who had found early in his career that selective deafness was a boon to a good host, chose to ignore the exchange, beyond a rather improper wink to his daughter-in-law. "Ah, canes! Joseph you are in luck. It would please me a great deal if you would accept a cane from my father's collection. As a young man he had a bad fall from a ill behaved horse, after which he sometimes required the use of a cane. Over the years my sister and I competed to gift him with many handsome specimens, for he was a proud man, and often insisted he only used them to appease us. And I know just the one!" Montoya jumped up in apparent delight, "Con permiso, uno momento!" He scrambled from the room, huge smile on his face, obviously amused with his idea.
"Oh, dear." Mary said, but then had to laugh. "I bet I know which one it will be!"
Joe smiled to please her, but with just a touch of strained sincerity. "I don't want to impose more on your hospitality than I already have," he said carefully, fully aware of the generosity of the gesture. "I can get by with any old stick..."
"Nonsense!" Montoya announced, as he strode back into the room, holding a masterfully carved ironwood cane, topped with a wrought silver head. "You must have this. It signifies to any in our ejido that you are under my protection. And it has extra features..." Montoya grinned and twisted the head. With a slithering hiss, a thin flashing blade slide from the cane sheathe. Montoya brandished it proudly. "With this very sword, my father fought a duel with the tax collector from Juárez!"
MacLeod burst out laughing. Methos reflexively ducked and swore.
Montoya resheathed the sword and presented it with a bow to Joe, who was now quite speechless.
"Just say 'thank you,' MacLeod suggested to his stunned friend.
"Thank you!"
Joe hefted the cane, which fit his large hand as if tailored. The cane was surprisingly heavy, but very well balanced. The forged silver head depicted a detailed body of a scorpion.
"The blade is true Toledo steel. The trigger to release the sword is hidden under the stinger," Montoya said helpfully, "Recessed to prevent accidents."
"Heaven forfend we have any accidents," Methos murmured testily. "I suppose I'm going to have to show you some parries, now. And ripostes. This is going to make horsemanship look easy."
Joe smiled faintly and rubbed his beard, not really taking him seriously. "Not quite so far to fall. Piece of cake."
MacLeod lost his grin as the implications sunk in. "Owning a weapon is one thing. Being trained in its use another, entirely."
Montoya nodded. "Feel free to use my practice salle. It is in the second barn disguised as the cattle breeding shed."
"Who do you practice with, Fernando the Bull?" Methos asked, as if truly interested.
"No, Zorro," Manolito shot back, instinctively matching Methos' sarcasm.
"Whoa, guys. Watcher here, not Zorro. I'm a lov... -er- peace loving fellow." Joe succeeded in making himself blush again when Mary knowingly nodded in agreement.
"Says the man who took out an armed, trained assassin with a palm frond."
Joe shrugged. "Once a Marine... "
"...always a jarhead," Methos spit out with feeling. "I'm sure that Hunter you met up on the hill would testify to that - if he could."
"Don't worry, Señor Montoya. I'll treat your gift with respect. I'm not going to be denting it in a dojo."
"You know as well as the rest of us, Joe, that if you own a weapon, you must know how to use it," MacLeod warned.
"Your policy with me doesn't cover falling on your sword," Methos added blackly.
"Methos, you're hauling around some kind of attitude this morning," Joe warned.
"Well, seeing as how I'm the only one who didn't have an 'eventful' night, I can't imagine why!"
MacLeod whispered, "You had your chance. It's not like we threw you out of bed for eating crackers."
Mary tried to pretend deafness to that exchange, desperately suppressing laughter.
Joe looked at Montoya, then stared at MacLeod. Finally his eyes moved to Methos, who was carefully looking at no one in particular. "And you tell me to gather my rosebuds," he reproved, not bothering to suppress his grin at all.
"Still," Joe continued, unwilted by Methos' glare, "I think it's probably a bad idea for Watchers and Immortals to cross train. Too many misunderstandings could arise." Joe ran his hand over the silver head, and released the trigger with a 'snick'. The blade jumped free, held firmly in his right hand, the sheath held along his forearm, ready to block. This time, all three Immortals subtly flinched.
"Point taken, Joe," MacLeod said softly.
"How long have you watched Immortals fight, Joe?" Montoya asked curiously.
"Long enough to know my limitations," Joe answered back honestly. "My best chance comes with sheer surprise. My opponent will fall over laughing." He didn't mention his normal equalizer was a Glock. That would spoil the surprise. He resheathed the sword with a snap.
"Surprise and guile," Mary added, placing her hand over his. "You do not play by their rules, Joe. Ever. Do we understand each other?"
"Oh, Mary, you don't need to worry about that! They have their rules, and I have mine." He smiled at her, momentarily forgetting the presence of the Immortals.
Remembering, he turned to his host, "I thank you very much for this gift. I will cherish it always. Though I think I'll need my old one going through the airport!"
Mano laughed. "¡Si! We wouldn't want you arrested and disappeared by the airport 'security.' The Americans are so unreasonable, no? I will locate yours on the hill today while looking into my own security shortfalls. Perhaps the three of you would care to have a restful day at our private beach while I discover how my borders were so easily invaded."
"Just ask, if we can help." MacLeod promised for all of them.
Montoya nodded. "I respect your advice, my friend, though it is my responsibility."
Methos leaned back in his chair, contemplating the problem. "Your security cameras were exploited wirelessly. I can help you look into improvements later. But maybe we can go through your videos ourselves and use them to identify the third Hunter."
Joe frowned. "Most Watcher field teams work in groups of four. The Hunters kept that tradition. The fourth one is mine."
"Well, let me see," Methos muttered, "Justine as leader of the pack, Dog Food's rider with the palm frond over the hill, patio bleeder ...hmm...who else would belong to this nice little quartet? And more important, do you think they are even still on this continent by now?"
MacLeod made a growly noise in his throat. "I'm not counting four sets of hoofprints. Mano?"
"My men found just two more, besides your Dog Food. They didn't ride local ponies. No IDs. No phones. Only the tracks of the three, no more, between the hacienda and the oasis." His eyes burned with an old anger. "There were four who trapped my son. Horton, and three others."
"Perhaps the fourth doesn't feel the need to get close enough to gloat in person," Methos said. "The assassins may have been expected to use your own phone, Joe, to relay proof of mission accomplished. That way, there was no lead back from the team to the leader."
"The guy in the oasis was hired talent," Joe frowned as he worked out more implications than he was willing to voice in mixed company. "Not a Watcher. Maybe the hunters are running out of recruits in house."
"How do you know?" Montoya asked curiously.
"No tattoo. And no...measure of respect for the calling," he added thoughtfully. "Even the Hunters had a calling, warped as it was - this guy was just a hired gun."
"So your efforts to clean up the Watchers are working," MacLeod offered.
Methos didn't say 'dream on,' but he thought it so hard that Joe sighed. "Even one is too many." He looked over at Methos. "Did you get photos of the guy you all killed out front? I can check personnel files, find out who mentored him."
"You mean the one your angel of mercy Mary killed?" Methos corrected, which did not earn him points with either Montoya or Joe, and made Mary bite her lip in dismay.
"Don't give me that," Joe said sharply, instinctively reaching out to her. "You would have done the same. And Mary's feeling bad enough as it is."
Methos looked only the smallest bit chagrined, and that was mostly for Joe's sake. "My way would have been slower, and messier, and brought us more answers. But as for pictures, well, I wiped my phone memory up on the hill after I sent a photo of Mano to Amy. After that, I forgot to watch and record. My Watcher skills are a little rusty, these days."
"Indeed." Mano observed. "Why do you play amongst the Watchers? This is a very dangerous game for an Immortal. Surely they would be most offended if they caught you?"
"Theoretically, they take a dim view. But practically? Using Joe as an example, their sense of fascination tends to outweigh their homicidal proclivities, at least among the true archivists. And so far, only Joe and the head of the Methos Chronicles are supposed to know. I - ah - take it that you have been enjoying my journals?"
"Oh, si! Very illuminating. I can't help but be fascinated by the workings of ancient minds! I suppose you will be wanting your journals back?" Mano teased.
"That would be nice." Methos sighed, knowing what was coming next.
"Perhaps you can tell me a few more stories from your past?"
Joe snickered like a teenager. "That's what you get for pulling the 'old and wise' routine. You know you love it."
"If you are the Watcher, Joe, do the chronicles truly belong to you?" Montoya asked. "I will return them immediately, if you wish."
Joe shook his head, a shadow passing over his features. "Methos writes his own, so they go back to him. And they took Mac's away from me. As a field agent, I just take notes for your chronicle, now. And I pass them on to the archivist. You don't have a Watcher."
"Then I name you my Watcher," El Alacrán stated, as if passing a law.
"Hey, wait..." MacLeod protested belatedly. "Joe's my Watcher, Mano. Or will be again once they realize Justine's gone AWOL." Mac said reasonably.
Joe traded a swift glance with Methos. Silently, they agreed not to point out the flaws in MacLeod's assumptions.
"But," MacLeod continued generously, "I could spare him for a couple weeks while he works on sneaking pictures of you."
Mano returned the smile then turned to look at Mary. "How do you feel about a house guest daughter?"
"Hmm...I might be able to put up with him for a time. Be sure that he is completely healed."
"I would be happy to contribute to your experiments," Joe managed to say with a straight face.
"Naturally, you all are welcome to stay as long as you wish," Mary concluded smoothly,
"I'm afraid Mac will need to take off rather soon," Methos explained, "To keep up appearances he needs to leave separately, as he came, before more Watchers who could tell tales show up. And I should be on my way in a day or two as well to check on a few loose ends. But I have a dandy tale about MacLeod and the Pyrenees sheep-shearing festival..."
"Be polite, buddy," Joe interrupted, knowing the ending to that one, while sending an apologetic glance to Mary.
"You wouldn't..." MacLeod warned. "Or I'll tell Joe the real story behind the yurt."
"I have many tales about el Señor MacLeod myself," boasted Montoya, who grinned with anticipation.
"Hey, wait a minute!" MacLeod protested in his best thwarted clan chieftain voice.
"Behave, Papá," Mary reproved the Lion of Sonora, who bowed, wearing a little boy caught in the sugar bowl smile.
Joe grinned, thinking it would be vast entertainment indeed to eavesdrop on the Scorpion and the Horseman. To a respectable point, that is. Not that respectability ever stopped him in the past.
Then a thought occurred to him. He turned to Methos and asked, "You said you sent a photo to Amy? Of what? What did she say?"
"Say? Oh, shit! Lo siento, Mary. It was just a picture of Manolito Montoya, at the gates. I wanted her to know, well, just in case I didn't make it back, I wanted her to know her Dad had succeeded. I better call her and tell her everything is all right. Or my name will be Dog Food too."
"Great. Just when I thought I had her convinced I really was on vacation," Joe grumbled, but there was a note of genuine worry underlying his complaint.
Montoya looked thoughtful. "So you thought I might win a challenge with you?"
Methos grinned devilishly. "No, but I doubted your men would let me live! I'm a rather dirty fighter if you must know. If the young must fight, well...anyway too much philosophizing at breakfast."
"Indeed." Montoya concurred, not looking young in the least. Or surprised. "But I will have you know that my men have orders not to interfere in challenges. I would not have them risk their lives over my dead body. That would be a pointless and evil waste."
"You would be wise to keep that fact to yourself. They enhance your reputation as a dangerous man to challenge," Methos pointed out, before returning to the problem at hand. "My cell phone is rather dead. Would you mind if I made a call to Amy before she sends out the marines?"
Mary frowned at them all, displeased with the turn in the conversation. Joe frowned, too, though for different reasons.
"You mentioned Amy before. Your daughter?" Mary asked, clearly curious.
"My daughter," Joe said uneasily, "though our relationship was...unacknowledged, and for her safety, I'd like to keep it secret beyond this room. He traced a pattern on the tablecloth. "She thinks I'm on vacation. Maybe the picture won't mean anything. It was just a long shot of the ranch, right?" Joe asked. "Methos, tell me you didn't take a picture of Señor Montoya and..."
"...You. Yes. A nice closeup, really." Methos thought about it. "I guess, in retrospect, that might excite her a little bit. Since you forgot to tell her the part of the vacation plan where you caroused with restricted Immortals. Though I missed the really good part where you cold-cocked El Alacrán."
Joe drummed his fingers on the new cane, feeling decidedly murderous. "That was your fault."
"You were being held hostage, Joe."
"I was not going to stand around being bait while you channelled MacLeod!" Joe shot back. MacLeod stared at them both as if they'd grown antennae, while Montoya rubbed his jaw and seemed pleased at the memory.
"And what of her mother? Will she not be worried?" Mary asked with deceptive calm, pointedly derailing the escalating argument.
Methos took a deep breath and pointed toward the hacienda, looking at Montoya for direction. "I better go make that call!"
"Indeed! I know how daughters worry. This way, please." Montoya led Methos out of the room.
This left Joe and Mary to face each other, while MacLeod seemed to be forgotten. "One child? Or children? Is there a wife?"
"No, Mary." Joe shrugged, with a deprecating smile. "No one has been foolish enough to marry me." He let the words sink in, letting Mary have time to judge them.
"Amy is a Watcher, like you?"
"Most Watchers are born into the organization. Her mother came from a long line," he admitted. "We met when I was first being trained."
"I see. Hmm. So what is she like? Stubborn and adventurous like her father?"
"Me? Stubborn?" Joe protested weakly. "She is very beautiful, most unlike her father, fortunately," he said. "Her mother married another," he added simply, not willing to go into the painful details.
"Then she was a foolish woman," Mary snapped.
"Foolish, indeed," MacLeod said softly, reminding them of his presence. The look he gave Mary held both warning and promise.
Joe waved him off. "Old news, MacLeod." He shot MacLeod a stern look. The last thing he wanted was the Highlander expounding on his highly checkered love life. Not that the Highlander knew even the half of it.
At that moment Methos and Montoya returned, apparently in good spirits. "Well, Joe you will be glad to know that you are back in Amy's good graces, just for being alive! Fancy that. Me on the other hand, well, I'm still - never mind. You had better call her later. I promised to be back where I belong under her wing day after tomorrow. I might make it in a week. In the mean time, our gracious host here insists that we should spend Duncan's last few hours in Mexico on his beach."
"Yes, I think you could all use the rest and enjoyment of the sea while I take care of a few details needing my attention," Mano said.
MacLeod started to protest, "Mano, are you sure you don't want me to..."
"...Not at all, MacLeod," Montoya smoothly interjected. "You must enjoy my hospitality, for that would please me most of all. There should be a splendid sunset this evening. Do not waste the opportunity to celebrate a peaceful friendship regained."
Methos peered at their host. It was rare that the modern Immortals so completely understood the hospitality of the ancient tents and fires of his youth, as well as the difficulties in maintaining Immortal friends and allies over decades and centuries. He would bear Watching, indeed.
"We will go to the beach, Joe. These ones can argue where they will," Mary announced with a certainty that knew only the immediate needs of the moment.
Joe clearly agreed, Methos noted, and so their mortal wisdom carried the day.
"Hey, we wanta go too!" Methos protested, suddenly shaving about 4,988 years off his age. "I get the hammock. You bring the cervezas, MacLeod. Don't forget the ice! And chips. And dip. Better bring towels, too, we'll go swimming."
"I didn't bring trunks," MacLeod said mournfully, mindful of mixed company.
Mary just laughed, and poked Joe, whispering and smiling at MacLeod's expense. "What's the matter, afraid of the competition?"
Joe and Montoya chose to go selectively deaf.
Methos' gaze raked MacLeod's Levis with a look that could have scorched them to the fork of his superbly conditioned thighs. "Luckily, you won't shrink if exposed to water. I hope that you haven't resurrected more unnaturally Puritan thoughts from your youth in my absence."
"I'll give you unnatural, and show you the pride of Loch Shiel...and more besides," MacLeod promised, dragging Methos away from the table and into the hacienda to provision the party. "I'll get the food, you get the beer. And ice. Mano, do you have any Tabasco? No, don't ask why..."
Part 8