Chapter Text
IV.
Being a Methos Watcher, Amy Thomas had thought more than once, was a vastly
overrated profession. For one thing, she had to share her assignment with three
colleagues, all older than her, since the Organisation wanted to make sure the
only recently identified Methos did not give them the slip again. This meant
endless coordination and placating of egos instead of independent work. For
another, there was the problem of her frustrating subject. Having been a Watcher
himself, he always found all the devices they bugged his flat and car with, and
never let them get close enough to listen when he talked to someone... except
for her, now and then, and this had nothing to do with her aptitude at Watching.
She explained it away to the others by airily confessing that he was a pal of
her first supervisor, Joe Dawson, and thus was inclined to indulge her now and
then.
Actually, there was no real reason why she shouldn't tell the whole story, but
it started with Joe being her father, and she had only recently come to terms
with this herself. No need to tell everyone and risk being questioned about it
by fellow Watchers who still wondered how she got this important assignment in
the first place. Incidentally, so did Joe, but that wouldn't stop the others
from screaming nepotism. As for Joe, he assumed that she had somehow identified
Benjamin Adams with Adam Pierson, former Watcher, and that this had been the
reason for her promotion. It wasn't totally wrong, but the more important reason
involved some shameless emotional blackmail on her part she'd rather have Joe
not know about. She was just learning what she had gotten herself into with
Methos. He seemed to enjoy playing games with her, letting her listen to
conversations that gave her all kind of contradictory information, making a
conspicuous trip with every imaginable precaution which caused her to call for
back-up, only to have them find themselves watching The Rocky Horror Picture
Show with him. *Twice.* There were times when she wanted to kill him.
Not this time, though. When Joe called her and told her Cassandra was in town
and had arranged a meeting with Methos, Amy had to restrain herself from
whistling. This was definitely one for the chronicles. Besides, she could
satisfy her own curiosity about Cassandra, which had first been awakened when
reading the ancient woman's files and had become much more personal after Amy
had been charged with investigating Andrew Lanart, Cassandra's former Watcher.
After Lanart, the Watchers had lost track of Cassandra, and the fact that she,
Amy, would now be able to bring her into the fold once more just about made her
day. So she was for a while blithely oblivious to the worried tone in Joe's
voice, until he reminded her for the third time in a row to be careful, just in
case Cassandra had laid a trap with some murderously inclined mortals as back-
up, which could endanger not only Methos but Amy herself.
"I don't think so," Amy replied with a touch of impatience. "She recently
managed to live a year with him without resorting to such means, which is more
than I could do."
It was only when she took in the stunned silence on the other end of the line
that Amy remembered she had never told Joe about finding out where Methos had
been before returning to Paris. And why she had never told him. Unfortunately,
it was connected with her first attempt at blackmail and manipulation of an
immortal. She bit her lips, while the silence ended in a verbal explosion.
"What? You mean that was where he... son of a bitch. Why didn't one of them
tell me? Wait a minute," Joe went on, now in full steam. "How do you know? And
why didn't *you* tell me?"
Amy resorted to a dignified retreat. She would face the music later. "Sorry,
Joe, my second is here, and Methos is on the move. I'll talk to you later."
"Now don't you dare..."
She pressed the button. Ah well. It wasn't a complete lie; Giorgio Falcone,
whom she had called and who would later follow Cassandra, was already there, but
distracted by watching Methos through his binoculars. With any luck, she would
think of some solid arguments before facing Joe again. Such as the fact that he
didn't deign to tell her all about his dealings with his immortal, either, but
somehow she didn't believe that would cut the mustard.
Since they did not want to alert Cassandra, neither she nor Giorgio even
attempted to get close enough to the two immortals to understand something of
their conversation, consigning themselves to watching and trying to interpret
their body language. At least it didn't look like a challenge, which undoubtedly
would make Joe and MacLeod happy. To be honest, Amy couldn't decide what it did
look like. It was both thrilling and sad to watch the two of them. Sad, because
thanks to Lanart she knew something of the painful history this pair shared.
Thrilling, because she was young and fascinated enough by both immortals and
history in general to see this as a wondrous opportunity. After all, how often
did you get to watch two relicts of ancient times interact with one another?
Why, the anthropological aspects alone were worth a study. Amy wondered whether
they spoke English or another language, and whether she would ever get to make a
recording of those two talking in dead languages which the philologists still
quarrelled about.
When Cassandra took off, Falcone followed her and Amy went after Methos. For
the next week, he shut himself up in his apartment, sitting, as far as Amy and
her relief could make out, in front of his computer.
"You don't think he is trying to hack into our database again, do you?" Annette
Darneau asked, frowning.
Amy shook her head, declining to add he would do this from Joe's computer.
During her breaks, she had a heated argument with Joe which ended with both
sides conceding that there was still much to be learned about openness and
privacy when they had the same job. Fortunately, relating to him what she had
learned through investigating Lanart had Joe so occupied that he forgot to ask
why she hadn't told him much sooner, and so Amy still didn't have to confess the
blackmail. Besides, when she questioned whether he would tell MacLeod, Joe
confessed he wouldn't, yet.
"Mac has a way of... well, stirring things up. Demanding explanations. If he
stormed in now, it might ruin this reconciliation attempt or whatever it is, and
as long as they play by the rules, they have a right to their privacy, in my
book."
Amy thought of making her point by asking whether this meant that Joe believed
withholding information from people who would deem it important was justified
now and then, but swallowed the comment, after all. No need to push her luck.
From Falcone and his newly assigned Cassandra back up, she heard that Cassandra
had taken up residence in a Parisian suburb and didn't go out, either. After six
days, while it was again Amy's turn to watch, her cell phone rang. "Come up,
Amy," said the voice of the world's most irritating immortal. "No doubt it's a
lovely Parisian day, but you must be hot. Oh, and bring something cool to drink
with you, will you? My fridge is empty."
"You," Amy hissed later while practically dumping the basket with cold plastic
bottles on his feet, "seem to think the Watchers are your personal valet
service."
"Close. You'll find out exactly what I think of them in time, no doubt, but I'm
in good company. MacLeod thinks they're his personal detection agency." He
picked up a bottle of coke, disapprovingly. "What, no beer?"
"No!" Amy all but yelled.
"All right, all right, calm down. Coke will do. I need the caffeine anyway."
She took a closer look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed. He had taken the time
to shower and to bath, obviously, since there were no stubbles and his hair was
still wet. But otherwise, he looked like something the cat had dragged in, and
she said so.
"No doubt. You look lovely, by the way, although you could improve on those
brown shoes. Tell me, did your Italian friend have time to make a move before
you dumped him on Cassandra?"
Amy leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Darkly, she muttered: "What
have I done to deserve this?"
"It's called interference," Methos returned smugly, and opened his coke.
Judging by the sound, he slummed down in that strange chair which looked as if
someone had designed it to break bones. Mortal bones, at least. While he drank,
Amy glanced around again and noticed the room was in a terrible state. She
didn't understand why he couldn't hire someone; Paris was full of unemployed
bonnes who would jump on the chance. Must be his paranoia about being
discovered. Just because the dust-gathering socks and dirty plates offended her
sense of order, she proceeded to clean up a bit while endeavouring to conduct
something like a sensible conversation with her subject.
"I don't suppose you could tell Cassandra about Lanart?"
"No. However," his eyes followed her with a speculative gaze while Amy threw
the socks in the basket she had used to carry the bottles, and stored the plates
in the kitchen sink, "I might. You see, Amy, we've spent the last days deciding
whether we would have the courage to do what we must. Go to Scotland, visit
Becky's grave together. I'm not promising anything, but that might be the right
moment to speak about Lanart. Who knows, perhaps it will help Cassandra as
well."
Amy stopped letting some dishwater in the sink and stared at him. This was the
first time he had dropped his facade after that trip to see Andrew Lanart she
had cajoled him into with a mixture of manipulation and open blackmail. Looking
at her very seriously, he gave the impression of being exhausted, too tired for
pretence and above all, completely honest.
Of course, he was the most accomplished liar she had ever met. After all, he
had fooled the whole Organisation for a decade with his Adam Pierson facade. On
the other hand, she couldn't believe he would use something like his grief for
the child he had killed to fool her. She had seen that emotion break through,
when he told her the truth about Becky, and later, when he talked to Lanart. No,
Amy decided, he wouldn't lie about that.
"I have a request," Methos continued, still sounding painfully sincere. "Of
course, you can decline, but it would mean very much to both Cassandra and
myself. We have resigned ourselves to being watched, but this time, just for the
few days we would need to get this behind us, we would treasure our privacy.
Never being completely alone is hard, Amy. It's hell when you can't hold
yourself together anymore, when you have to face some of the most terrible
events in your life."
She was bright enough, Methos decided when he noticed how she bit her lip in
understanding what he was going to ask of her. But then, he knew that.
"If I don't follow you," Amy said slowly, "and make sure none of the others do
as well, and you don't return, it would cost me my job. It could even get me
kicked out of the Organisation for good. At the very least, I won't get another
field assignment for decades."
He gave her his best Adam Pierson look. "I know. But it won't happen. Just a
few days, Amy." Then he went for the jugular. "I know it's difficult for you,
but it was more than difficult for me to see Andrew Lanart again when you asked
me."
That did it. This unexpected offspring of Joe's was clever, entertaining and in
her adolescent way surprisingly apt at using the emotional thumbscrews, but she
was no match against someone who had played that particular game for millennia.
Still, he felt a pang of guilt. He liked her in his own way, and when she
realised what he had just done he would have another person on the list of
people wanting to kill him. But priorities had to be set. He and Cassandra could
have gotten rid of their Watchers the usual way, but then Amy, trying to find
him again, would have told Joe they had vanished, Joe would have told MacLeod,
and thus they would have had the full cavalry at their heels when discretion was
of the utmost importance. And even if Cassandra didn't have to rest herself, he
still couldn't have permitted her to use her powers on Amy. In that case, the
cavalry would have had the additional incentive of an outraged father. Mortal
relations, Methos concluded resignedly. What endless complications they are.
Amy gave in, as he knew she would. He made his promise and saw her go in a
hurry, obviously afraid that if she stayed and thought this through she wouldn't
be able to do it. Well, in a few days she would be after him with a vengeance
and a score to settle. As a matter of fact, he counted on it. But he needed
those days. Cassandra had been right. Project Lazarus, Methos thought with a
grimace. Some people just didn't have any imagination.
Depressed, relaxed or in high spirits, the miracle of flying never ceased to
amaze Cassandra. It had been her oldest dream, which had accompagnied her from
childhood through death through all the centuries of her immortality. To equal
the birds, to be able to move through the sky. In bad times, it had symbolised a
last hope of escape; in good times, an expression of happiness. Once, in a
particular bad time, she had been desperate enough to jump from a cliff into a
canyon. It had been a more than averagely painful death, but for one thing, it
had cured her of her desperation, and for another, those short minutes before
the impact had been wonderful. Bless the twentieth century, she thought, for its
ability to make flying possible for everyone, finally.
They could have afforded first or business class tickets, but the life-long
cautionary principle of not drawing unnecessary attention confined them to
economy class. Not very comfortable for a 12-hour-flight, though Methos had
charmed the lady at the check-in counter into giving them seats next to an
emergency exit, which meant there was enough room to stretch their legs. Having
spent the last week nearly without sleep, he was now trying to catch up, while
Cassandra looked out of the round glass to contemplate the clouds which quickly
fell below them. Further down, there was another airplane, which seemed to move
infinitely slower. An illusion, she knew. Still, it reminded her of a bird of
prey, gliding, not flapping its wings as the smaller birds did. A falcon...
Something struck her, another poem her memory dragged up. It fitted the
occasion, but it made her shiver.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
"More Yeats?" Methos asked. She had not noticed she had spoken aloud.
"I'm sorry I woke you."
"You didn't. I was just drowsing. It's very difficult to sleep in these seats.
Besides, you are right. *Things fall apart.*" He was silent for a while, and
they listened to the hum of the machines, which by some process they still did
not really understand kept this heavy thing in the air.
"You do realise," he said, "that we can only postpone things. With all this
modern technology which turns life increasingly into an existence in a goldfish
bowl for everyone, they *will* discover us, sooner or later. Especially with the
Gathering gaining pace. They'll find us and ultimately destroy us if we haven't
managed to destroy ourselves by then."
"I thought you were the ultimate survivor," she returned while not denying his
conclusion. "Doesn't this mean you are supposed to be more optimistic?"
"Forgive me. Irish poets always make me gloomy. The Irish in general, I should
say, since they all have a poetic streak. I should know, I once spent weeks
confined with a bunch of them on a ship across the Atlantic."
"They must have been monks."
"They were, but how do you know?"
"Only Christian monks trained in the most dire of medieval circumstances,"
Cassandra replied, switching to the bastardised Latin they had spoken after the
fall of the Roman empire, "would be capable of enduring you in a boat for weeks.
The strength of the Irish has never ceased to amaze me."
"Which undoubtedly means," Methos said, acknowledging to himself he had missed
to spar with her, "you had the occasion to test it? I always suspected that you
were the model of a Celtic goddess or two. Since so many of them ended up as
witches when the Christians arrived."
A shadow fell on her face. "For queens and witches, maybe. But I was never a
goddess," she ended, the teasing tone completely gone from her voice. He nearly
asked why, before he remembered. Having worshipped him as a living god, which
admittedly had been his idea, obviously had served to keep her from any
pretensions of divinity. *This is what I have been most afraid of. Not dying.
Not even falling into your hands again. Going mad and becoming what you were.*
Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to push reality away for a while longer.
Better to talk about anything but this. "Not a single one?" he asked, keeping
his voice even. "Not even a muse? Speaking of Yeats, there is at least one poem
which sounds like it was inspired by you."
He was distracting again, Cassandra saw that, but she wanted to keep the
immediate future at bay just as much as he did. So she played along and asked
him which poem he meant, fully expecting him to reply 'Crazy Jane' or any of the
witch poems. However, even Methos had his limits when tired to the point of
complete exhaustion. He couldn't think of any amusing reply, or even a quip
about there being too many poems to count. So instead he quoted the first one
that did come to him:
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
Cassandra looked at him, stunned. She felt warmth rising into her cheeks and
couldn't believe he was able to make her blush. Desperately, she waited for the
obligatory final remark which would turn this into irony or a joke, but it
didn't come. He was truly too tired for something like this. When the silence
between them kept the poetry echoing in her, she searched for a clever put-down
of her own. Or a suitable hurtful memory, of the first time he raped her, of the
various ways an immortal could die he had demonstrated on her, the numerous
instances when he had made her trust him only to grow violent again, and
ultimately, to betray her by handing her over to Kronos. But even that image,
sharp and painful as it was, had lost some of its original power. She couldn't
decide whether it was their year together, Becky's death or the knowledge that
her own death could soon be approaching which had lowered her defenses.
"Try to sleep," she finally said when she felt reasonably sure of her voice
again. "There won't be much time left once we are in America, and you need to."
He shrugged, but followed her advice. It was a mark of the true extent of his
exhaustion that after a while, she could tell from his regular breathing and the
occasional snore that he had indeed managed to fall asleep. When the stewardess
came, offering headphones for the internal radio program and the two movies,
Cassandra silently shook her head and motioned her away. Later, she opened the
plastic wrap of the covers that had waited for them at their seats. Thanks to
the extensive air-conditioning, it had grown cold enough for her to grow
goosebumps, dressed for a summer day as she was. When she carefully tucked
Methos in as well, he shifted his weight and she froze. If he awakened now, she
would feel as embarrassed as a young mortal. Fortunately, the regular breathing
went on, and she relaxed a bit, then found his head had come to rest on her
shoulder. For a moment, she considered pulling away, or awakening him with a
sharp remark about not being his slave anymore. It would certainly make things
easier. But what would be the point, ultimately? If she survived all of this
with her sanity intact, she could go away and be free of all these unwanted
complications anyway. In the much more likely event of her death, he would
experience all her emotions at once and probably be unable to discern anything
about such a minor event like this. So she stayed where she was, and
contemplated the nature of poetry.