Snapshots
by Dr. Ruthless
Author's Notes: Way back when the Zone was younger than it is now, the NickZone Role Playing Game sometimes generated as many as 100 messages a day. Sadly, its gone quiet now, but one set of boys were so fascinating to me that I couldnt leave them where they were. Those boys were Anson Greene, Philip Paget, and Methos. This story is the first of many that will attempt to follow them on their adventures after they left the game.
Rated: M
Beta: Beta and thanks to Sebastian.
Disclaimer: None of these boys are mine, and that makes me really sad. At one time, some of them actually were Jennie's and realitycek's. None of us were ever paid.
Summary: The three boys have formed an uneasy alliance. Philip Paget has become immortal, though Anson is your regular human at present. Philips immortality was the result of alien experimentation rather than the true immortality that Methos and Cory share, but although Anson has the latent potential to make that leap, they havent yet discovered how to enable the chip he has in his neck. Philip has stayed with Anson and Methos, who became lovers during the course of the game, because he needs to learn about how to handle his immortality, however, he doesnt like or trust Methos. At the start of this part of the story, they are in Seacouver, having just arrived back from DC. It's between Christmas and New Year, and there will be tears before bedtime...
Warning: More peefic!
Series: Sequel follows, Kodak Ghosts.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot One
Young man on the phone, face agonized as he pleads with whomever he's called. Work boots scuffed and dirty, faded jeans and plaid lumberjack shirt don't give you any indication that it's a holiday. Anguished face and over-bright eyes show that he's distressed, but no more than that.
"C'mon, Roxy. She's my daughter. I've served my time. It's not like I'm turning up on your doorstep. All I want to do is wish her a Merry Christmas and ask her if she liked the game I sent."
He pauses, husky voice still for a moment, and you can see that he's listening intently. His face flushes, and at first it seems as though he's furious, but then it becomes obvious that he's been dealt some sort of emotional blow.
"But Roxy… How could you do that? She would've… Please, Roxy? Oh, for heavens…"
He sinks into a huddle, phone still at his ear, but now it's obvious that he's distressed. A tear is slowly working its way from beneath tightly closed eyelids, and again he whispers, "Please."
He's still for a very long time, crouched in a corner beside the phone. The disconnected tone is coming from the receiver that is still held tightly in his hand, but he shows no sign of hearing it. All we can hear from him are the heavy, halting breaths that indicate that he is holding back sobs.
"Hey, Anson?"
The young man that enters the hallway is tall and elegant from his sleekly coiffed head to his hand-made Italian shoes.
A casual glance might reveal little in common between the two men, but a closer look reveals a similarity between them that isn't immediately apparent. As the man called Anson raises his agonized face to look at the newcomer, two identical pairs of eyes meet, and the newcomer frowns.
"She didn't give Annabel the Aibo I bought her. She won't let me talk to her." Anson's voice is harsh with pain. His breathing hitches and stutters, and at last he lets the phone drop to swing on its coiled cable.
The newcomer frowns, makes a slight sound that could be sympathetic or maybe just impatient, and you see a haunted spasm of misery pass over Anson's features, reflected in the eyes of the man who stands over him.
For a moment, they resonate, then the newcomer holds out his hand to Anson, pulling him to his feet as he takes it.
"It's okay, kid. I know that it hurts, but it will fade. It will pass." Anson falls into the other man's embrace, and it becomes obvious that he's finally given in to the distress he feels. His shoulders shake as he's pulled into a rough hug; shadows flicker over the other man's face as he makes soothing sounds and rubs Anson's back.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot Two
Dark hair, cropped short, revealing a clever, narrow face with intelligent eyes that have a perpetual look of amusement. This man's face isn't handsome, but somehow the overall effect is that of beauty. The man is tall and wiry, and he's got muscles that are usually hidden beneath oversized sweaters, but which today bulge beneath a tight, white T-shirt.
He's cleaning - his movements steady and graceful as he wields the vacuum cleaner, polishes the furniture and generally puts stray items where they are meant to go. His expression as usual gives away little or nothing of how he is feeling. His small apartment has always been jealously guarded from outsiders; not even McLeod has visited him there more than a handful of times, and now there are outsiders actually living with him, usurping his space. He's pondering this, no doubt, as he returns the living area to its normal, orderly fashion.
He's just put the vacuum cleaner away and flopped down onto the couch in a boneless sprawl to peruse a tome on Mesopotamian archaeology, when the two men that have somehow intruded themselves into his orderly lifestyle enter, and his peace, for the time being at least, is gone.
"What's the matter?" Methos can see that Anson is terribly distressed. Philip's agitation is muted by comparison, but the emotions resonate through the room and set up a keening, irresistible feedback loop that destroys all ability to think calmly.
"His wife is being a bitch, as if we couldn't have predicted as much." Philip's voice is rough, his delivery brusque, and it's hard to tell whether he's annoyed at the situation, or merely that he has been involved. Anson stumbles forward to sink into a chair leaving Philip to stand above them, antsy as usual, a frown on his face that suggests irritation.
Methos reaches for Anson, and Philip steps back as if to avoid any physical contact with the dark man. As Anson moves into the circle of his embrace, it seems as though Methos is brooding on something that is deeper, darker than the problem of Anson's ex-wife and her meanness. His eyes flick to Philip once, and then return to stare into the middle distance as he veils his thoughts.
"I prescribe an evening of merriment," says Methos, hands petting Anson's back. "We haven't been to Joe's yet. We haven't had time since we got here, but I think that tonight's the night. C'mon, Anson-love. Put your glad-rags on, and let's go out and be festive. It's Christmas, after all."
As Philip moves backwards, edging away from the old man and his grieving protégé, Methos looks up and skewers him with a cold, hard glance. "You too," is all he says, but Philip's face says it all. ‘Busted!'
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot Three
Joe Dawson is a merry soul. His hair is iron grey, his face is seamed with laugh-lines, and where he's been in his life has taught him to sing the blues.
As the three men approach the door of Joe's bar, Methos and Philip both stop for a moment as the edgy, strident brush of another immortal causes their hackles to rise. Philip looks over Anson to Methos, one eyebrow delicately raised in inquiry, and Methos shrugs, looks around and then puts a hand on the long coat he's wearing, beneath which his sword is always ready.
"I think it's all right. I believe it's merely a friend, but it won't hurt to go carefully." Methos leads, and there's a sardonic smile on his face as he goes. "Is this me? I feel like a mother duck with her ducklings," he murmurs.
"Complete dick, more like," returns Philip, who brings up the rear of the little procession, and then the door is open, and there is Joe, sitting on a barstool on the low stage, teasing his guitar into funky bliss as the notes cascade from him.
As they move through the room towards someone that Methos has spotted near the bar, Joe starts to sing, and his rough, hurting voice puts a justification to the way that Anson's feeling right now. His face was shut down, but you can see that this fits his mood perfectly in the way that it relaxes enough to reveal his own pain.
He turns to Methos, but Methos is away, talking to a tall, good looking guy in designer silks, and doesn't seem to realize that Anson needs him, needs to talk this out, wants at last to put his misery into words.
Philip Paget can be many things he's been cruel and callous in his time - but one thing is beyond him now. One look at Anson's face and you see that he will give his double whatever it is that he needs. Sighing, he moves forward, takes a seat beside Anson, and when the pitcher of beer comes to the table, courtesy of Methos, he pours a glass for Anson and settles back to be the recipient of his confidences, whether or not they will gladden his own heart. Only the single black look he darts at Methos reveals his inner anger, and that, mercifully, is lost for now.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot Four
Methos and the fashion plate are standing at the bar, well away from the two with whom he arrived. He's deep in conversation, face intense and eyes looking somewhere that isn't here, isn't now.
"So, Methos," says poster boy. "You've acquired a student. That's not like you. Tell me about him and the other one. They could be twins, but the one is immortal and the other not. How come?"
"There were more of them a whole tribe of them that looked alike. Anson was the one that came to me first, and then Philip. Then, Philip became immortal and somehow I managed to feel responsible for him. I don't quite know how that happened, and I don't know what to do about it all, McLeod. I'm not good at this stuff." His voice has a whine to it that makes his companion grin offensively.
"Of course you are, old man. You're just fishing for compliments." The man called McLeod has a slightly Scottish burr to his voice, and he appears to relish Methos' discomfort. Methos knows it too. You can see from his face that he's not too happy about any of this. He takes a swig from his tankard and then glances over to where Anson and Philip are deep in conversation.
"Don't be like that, McLeod. You know how hard it is to build trust between us at the best of times. Philip over there thinks that somehow I engineered all of this. He doesn't like me, trust me or believe me. He's going to get himself killed someday soon, and I don't think that I'll be able to stop it." Methos returns his gaze to McLeod's face, his expression one of soulful outrage, quite spoiled by the flash of irritation that shows itself when McLeod gives a snort of laughter.
"Come on, Methos. He's your responsibility. You were there when he died; he obviously thinks enough of you to tag along after you. What more do you need? You owe it to him to help him through the transition." McLeod has obviously had a conversation like this before. The words trip from his tongue, and one can almost see Methos wilt beneath the weight of them.
Behind them, Joe launches into "I Got it Bad," and Methos winces.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot Five
"Don't you have any kids, Philip?" Anson has reached the maudlin stage of inebriation. He's miserable, and misery loves company. Philip looks hunted but somehow he stays at Anson's side, soaking up the great chunks of self-pity and self-blame that come his way.
"Kids? Hell no. I spent my youth sowing my wild oats and praying for a lousy harvest. Too bad I never knew that immortals don't breed. Think of the fun I could have had." Philip is looking around him, his eyes pouring scorn on Methos as his glance skates over him on its circuit of the room. "You're worrying too much, Anson. She's safe and well, and some day you'll see her again. That woman can't keep her from you forever."
"But she can poison her against me. Annabel's my daughter, Philip. She's all I've ever managed to get right in my life." Anson raises huge, dark eyes to meet Philip's, and Phil rolls his own eyes in that ‘am I ever gonna exact payment for this one,' kind of expression that he does so well.
"You've found someone that loves you," says Philip huskily, after a few moments thought. "Some people go through the whole of life and never know what that's like." He leans forward to take Anson's hand briefly. "The old guy over there loves you; you know that." It's plain that Philip likes the somewhat drunken young man he's with, but equally plain that he isn't comfortable here. "He's worth something, isn't he?"
"I guess," responds Anson, slowly. "It's just that…"
On the stage, Joe Dawson launches into "If I Ever Cried," and Philip ruffles Anson's hair, glares daggers at Methos, and orders another pitcher of beer.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot Six
"Damn it, McLeod. You don't know what it's like." Methos' voice rises suddenly above the hubbub, his ordinarily soft tone suddenly shrill as he reacts to something that he'd obviously rather not have heard.
Philip, hearing the protest, half rises from his seat, but the bar is crowded now and Anson is telling him about Annabel's third birthday party. Sighing, he sinks back into his chair, and turns half an ear to Anson's increasingly disjointed ramblings. Methos will just have to wait until Philip can spare him the time to tear him off a strip or two. For now, he's here with Anson, the healer in him unwilling to leave the sad young man while he's still hurting so badly, so he merely curses a little and wishes that there were two of him so that he could send one to stalk over and slap the thin, arrogant face; break the strong beak of a nose.
A lull ensues. Anson is apparently a little more emotionally settled. Now Philip has time to listen to Joe Dawson, who is a virtuoso on the guitar, it turns out. As he listens to Joe winding up his performance with a rendering of "Shake Your Money Maker," he decides that the evening isn't quite lost after all, and when Anson begins to sing along, in a voice that is actually quite tuneful, he almost begins to enjoy himself.
Joe finishes his set and goes to the bar, where he's soon deep in conversation with Methos and poster-boy. Philip watches them for a brief while, lamenting the loss of something more than merely the music, then settles back to be charming and supportive for his fragile companion.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot Seven
Methos is annoyed. He's a little more than annoyed a fact that makes him feel really pissy. He's so used to being blasé remaining in control and utterly insouciant, that the fact that he's worked up about this whole scenario is making him want to punch holes in Joe's bar… or in McLeod's face.
It's only the fact that he knows McLeod wouldn't let him come close to planting him a good old-fashioned punch on the nose that prevents him from trying. He is, after all, a pragmatist.
"I think you've got yourself involved," Mac was saying. "I think that you care about the two of them, or you wouldn't have any difficulties at all in deciding what to do. You'd have your rucksack packed and be on your way to Outer Mongolia before they could turn around."
"Oh, do shut up, McLeod." The irritation is alive in Methos' voice. "You think you know everything about everyone, when all you really know is how to annoy me."
"What I know is that you're hooked. What I think is that you've got it bad for Cory Raines otherwise, why would you be collecting his look-alikes so industriously?" McLeod speaks without thinking, but at Methos' change of expression it suddenly dawns on him that this might just be the truth that he's hit on. His own eyes open wide, and he gives a snort of amusement. "Oh, my God, That's exactly it, isn't it? Cory Raines? Whoever would have thought it?"
McLeod's derisive laughter is loud, resonating even in the packed bar. For a moment, Philip looks up, enjoying Methos' discomfort as he squirms at McLeod's words, and then forgets about him temporarily. He totally misses Methos' curse as he drinks the last part of his beer, throws some coins on the counter, and strides out of the bar.
When he finally looks for the other man, Methos is long gone.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot Eight
Joe has his guitar out again, but now he's sitting at the table with Anson and Philip. The man McLeod has come to join them too, and of course anything that annoys Methos is worth a second glance, so while Anson and Joe duet on some old blues standards, Philip is sharing and growing closer to Duncan McLeod of the Clan McLeod, or at least enjoying a fine old single malt he keeps behind the bar.
When Joe finally lays aside his guitar and yawns, Philip's a little amazed to find that it's past midnight and the rest of the patrons have gone, leaving only the little group around their table. Anson is grinning foolishly; Philip can tell that he's feeling no pain whatsoever, and hopes that the anesthetic will continue to hold.
He's resigned to being the designated walker.
"Guess we'd better head out." Philip's voice doesn't betray the third of a bottle of whisky he's shared. There are perks to everything, he decides. Even this immortality gig. "C'mon, Anson. We should get back and find out what that senile delinquent of yours has been up to."
Anson looks reluctantly, longingly at Joe and his guitar, and then rises somewhat unsteadily to his feet to hold out his hand. Joe shakes it gravely, and the two of them depart on a chorus of ‘So long, it's Been Good to Know Ya." Grinning a goodbye at McLeod, Philip follows Anson to the door and raises a hand before turning to face the night.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot Nine
Out in the street, Anson is suddenly quiet again, but his temper seems good to Philip. They begin to walk the few blocks back to the apartment, when suddenly Anson tucks his arm into Philip's.
The gesture is endearing. Philip smiles a little lopsidedly at Anson, who is obviously feeling the alcohol that he's consumed. Methos has told him that one of the perks to immortality is an immunity to germs and to drugs too. Reluctantly, he is forced to conclude that this also means any beer buzz he gets will be fleeting, and that makes him regret his lost mortality yet again. Potentially the whole of eternity is there ahead of him, where it looms, hangover free. He sighs, then plods on, Anson beside him, towards their current residence.
The streets are empty. The post-Christmas lull is in force, and city streets are devoid of traffic, the fairy lights sparkling on wet sidewalks that are slick after rain earlier in the evening. The air has a bite to it and, now that the clouds have cleared, the stars above look down on the two identical men as though passing judgment. It's not too cold yet, but by morning there will be a frost, that's a given.
It looks as though Philip's having dark thoughts now, thoughts that match the weather, cold and frosty; there's a frown on his face as the two of them approach their home, a frown that contrasts with the contentment that Anson seems to have discovered during the course of the evening.
Anson, singing little snippets of remembered songs, doesn't notice the gradual downward slide that Philip's mood is taking, and it's only when they reach the front door that he suddenly looks up and asks where Methos is.
Philip avoids the answer, instead fumbling for his key and locating the lock, making a production about opening the door to the apartment. It gets forgotten in the business of entering the hallway, hanging up coats and removing shoes. Anson is a little unsteady on his feet and almost takes a tumble over Methos' shoes, which are lying squarely in the middle of the mat. Their presence reassures him, even though they cause Philip to growl.
Stretching out a hand to steady Anson, Philip seems to be a little surprised at the rush of affection that Anson directs his way. He stands, taken aback as Anson hugs him. They've been casual lovers from time to time, but Philip knows that Anson and Methos are an item, he hasn't really bothered to seek a place in the pecking order. A smack in the face often offends, right?
"Stay with me?" Anson's eyes are big in the halflight afforded by the doorway through to the living room. He's jittery, jumpy, not precisely drunk but definitely less than sober. Philip eyes him dubiously.
"What about…?" He doesn't name Methos, merely jerks his head towards the shoes that lie on the mat still, mute testament to that third, disturbing presence in the household.
"He left without me," is the response, and although Philip peers at him, trying to see bitterness in the simple words, Anson actually seems to be content. "You've been there for me tonight. Thanks."
"It was nothing, kid. A pleasure," Philip lies. "Okay. You go up and get started. I'll be there in a few minutes, okay?"
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot Ten
Angry, with a cold, stone fury that's festered for months, Philip's searching for Methos.
It's not hard to find him; he's not got too many places to search. The apartment has a living room and a kitchen. There's no sign of him there. A peek around the door of the room that Methos and Anson usually use reveals a trail of discarded clothing, and that in itself is interesting because Methos is usually a tidy person.
The ensuite bathroom door is closed, from behind come the splashing, wet sounds that indicate someone at their ablutions. Philip is in no mood to respect privacy here. He rattles the handle, apparently expecting to have to break down the door or perform some other, equally grandiose gesture, and almost falls into the room with an expression of extreme astonishment on his face.
Methos is in the tub. He's got a book, and there are bubbles, lots of them, from which his chest and shoulders rise, pale, lean and well-muscled. There's no spare fat on his frame. Five thousand years have pared away any excess there once might have been, leaving the finely sculpted body that currently lounges in the water.
For a minute, neither of them says a word. All that hangs between them is the subtle vibration that speaks of immortality the quickenings that buzz like low-grade static as the two men face each other.
Methos had jumped a little at Philip's entry, but now he relaxes back into his bath and raises a single eyebrow in inquiry, his amber eyes utterly bland as he surveys the newcomer.
Philip is obviously furious. His face, once he realizes that Methos has apparently no idea what he's mad about, achieves a thunderous frown. He towers over the frothy tub, for the moment silent as he gathers his thoughts, and Methos merely waits, the same secretive smile on his small mouth.
"That kid in there… you just walked out on him." Philip's eyes are wide and snapping with the pent up fury he's harbored for the past months. It's all coming out now at last, poison and repressed anger, petty irritations and all, it pours in the scorn from Philip's eyes, shines in the twist of his lips and radiates from the man's posture as he stands before the tub, shaking with rage.
"Anson? He seemed happy enough when I left." The words contain no expression at all, and the maddening smile doesn't falter. Philip cranks up his ire quite visibly, and when he speaks, it's a hiss.
"He loves you, you bastard, and you're supposed to love him. I didn't see much of that tonight. How come you pissed off to play with your little friend when he needed you?"
"I didn't ‘piss off,' as you put it," it seems that Methos is beginning to show a little crack in his façade of unfeeling disdain. "He was doing perfectly well without me. Now, if you'd be kind enough to piss off yourself, I can finish my bath."
Philip stands there, mouth open for a second as he gapes at Methos. The fucker's brushed him off, and he's visibly hopping with rage. It's only for a second though, before he explodes into action.
Opening the front of his jeans, he extracts his penis, plump and proud with urine, and turns to the tub. Methos has only a second to realize precisely what Philip's going to do, before the first droplets of hot, yellow piss strike him squarely in the chest.
"You bastard!" Methos half rises from the water, but as Philip begins to shake his dick, the stream splashes randomly over him and he sinks back into the water, apparently resigned to his fate.
"You like beer, don't you?" Philip's voice is laden with sarcasm. "Good job you don't buy it, you only rent it. I've got lots of it to pass on." He makes the flow of urine waver, sending droplets to wet Methos' hair, drip down his face and neck, and finally to splash over his shoulders. "There, you fucker. My treat."
"Oh, that was adult. You'll make a fine immortal, won't you? For the few months you manage to retain your head." Methos seems to be determined not to lose face now. He's sitting there, piss still dripping from his face, and he's mad, his normally pale skin flushed with the force of his emotions.
The upper hand firmly in his possession, Philip is now tucking himself away, ignoring the bluster as he refastens the fly of his jeans. "So nice to have had this conversation, prick," he murmurs, face now delicately expressing his triumph as he turns to go.
"I may even take your head myself, you dirty little piece of shit," grits Methos, and Philip smiles at him, the kind of smile he once smiled at people who tried to cheat him out of money a smile that has razor blades tucked away in it.
"You need a bath, Methos, you're disgusting; look at you." Philip shakes his head, making the kind of clucking sounds associated with fake sympathy, and Methos looks around for something to hurl, finds only the soap, and decides against it.
"Well, you pathetic little clone…" he begins, but Philip is done. He's made his point, emptied his bladder, and now he's finished. He turns and opens the door, passing through it, to cut off whatever words Methos might be going to say.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot Eleven
Closing the door behind him somewhat ungently, Philip stalks off to the room that he's been using since he came here. Time was, when Adam Pierson lived alone and the world was less complicated, this had been Methos' study. It still contains a vast array of books, a computer and stacks of notes on a desk in a corner. It also contains Philip's bed, which apparently, tonight, contains Anson Greene.
Anson's under the covers, and looking wide eyed, though he's obviously made his decision about where he wants to spend the night.
"Is he all right?" is all Anson says, and Philip feels the rage go out of himself, suddenly tender towards this damaged other self of his. He drops smoothly to sit on the edge of the bed and lays a hand on Anson's cheek, the urge to make things right for him superseding all the petty squabbles he and Methos have going.
"Yeah, he's fine. He's just confused, kid. You have to look at things from his point of view. McLeod says that all he's wanted to do for the past God-knows-how-many centuries is survive. Now, all of a sudden, he's got us fuck-ups on his hands and his pain is great." He ruffles the short hair that's cut in the same fashion as his own, and sees the cloud of anxiety roll back from Anson's eyes.
Saying the right thing doesn't come easy to Philip, some of the time. He's always pursued his own ends, not sparing those in his path - and who better to understand Methos in that way? but even so, he's remained true to himself in a way that he doesn't think Methos has. This time though, looking at the deprivation that radiates from Anson, he knows that there's no way he can hurt the kid; it would be like kicking a puppy or something.
Philip bends to take off his socks, and then pulls his shirt and sweater off over his head before standing to shuck the remainder of his clothing. He notes a tidy pile of folded garments on the chair, and adds his own, comfortable in his own skin as he walks about the room putting things away. He's got every right to be comfortable. He's lean and deep chested, his long legs have knotted muscles sliding beneath sleek skin, and his butt is tight, swelling below the long back. Anson watches him, wordlessly.
When he's ready, he turns towards the bed, and it's obvious that he's more than a little aware that he's been putting on a show. He's starting to become aroused, the thick, blunt instrument most lately used as a weapon with which to chastise Methos is now anticipating other activities and has begun to fill, swinging heavily between his legs as he turns out the overhead light and approaches the bed.
Pulling back the comforter, Philip slides in beneath it and is instantly enveloped by Anson, who plasters himself to Philip's side, arms around him, body tight and hot against him. You can see Philip reflecting that this comforting thing isn't all bad. Warm arms, and an eager body that seems to find him attractive. What's to lose? Sighing contentedly, he snaps off the lamp and turns into Anson's embrace, obviously ready to give back as good as he gets.
Soon, there are only gasps and moans in the darkness, secret rustling, and soft, sticky sounds. As time passes, identical voices give low cries and then there is panting, followed by silence.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot Twelve
Methos is in the tub, watching, incredulous as Philip walks out on him. He's frozen in time briefly, and then suddenly comes to himself. The expression on his face says it all. Disgust at himself, and an unwilling admiration in his eyes as he raises his finger to touch the rapidly cooling urine that drips from his face and hair.
"Little bugger!" he murmurs fondly, and sinks beneath the water of the tub to rinse away the evidence of Philip's anger.
Emerging, seal sleek and dripping, from his tub, Methos hooks the plug out with his toe and lets the water drain away, moving instead to the shower and running the water until it's warm. He steps beneath the spray, applies shampoo to his hands and begins to rid himself of all vestiges of Philip's disdain.
Methos is tall and lean, whipcord strong, and built for speed. His body moves with the ease and co-ordination of a thoroughbred as he sluices himself down, dries himself, and then heads for his bed, where he hopes that he will be able to make it up to Anson, to comfort him somehow.
He gathers his clothing as he goes, folds it, puts it away neatly as he does so, and then finally turns and heads for the bed.
The empty bed.
Methos is agitated now, his face blank but for the flicker of fear in his amber eyes. He's catlike, and not used to displaying his emotions to others, but alone as he is right now, the fear and loss bleeds into his face.
Maybe he was harsh. Maybe he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to see how needy Anson had been. Maybe he really was a shit, and two thousand years of trying to atone for his bloody past were dispersing like feathers on the wind of change.
Maybe he should just suck it up and go find out where his lover is.
All these thoughts, and more, crowd through Methos' light eyes, washing over the lean, cunning face like ripples on still water. He frowns and turns towards the bed, obviously deliberating what he will do, then, with an audible curse, he strides to the closet and extracts a robe.
His course decided on, he doesn't immediately go to seek Anson. One suspects of course that he's afraid that he'll be interrupting something that will upset him or at least upset the smooth dynamic of the household.
"If I don't see it," he muses, aloud. "It doesn't exist. If I shoot a mime, do I have to use a silencer?" Shaking his head, he smiles ruefully. "You're a senile old fool, and those two would probably be far happier without you hanging around them. Let them go."
Shaking his head at his own folly, he slips his arms into the robe, fastens it around his waist, and pads away to the kitchen, there to make himself a cup of hot chocolate laced with rum.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Snapshot Thirteen
Chocolate all drunk, there's no reason no reason at all for Methos to remain at the table, but he does so for what seems an inordinately long time, moodily swirling the dregs around in the bottom of his mug.
"Do I want to know?" he asks himself, and the fact that he's still talking out loud is a testament to his inner turmoil. Methos is old and wily. He's been around and survived for millennia. He's a fixture on the scarred face of the globe, and that he should be stressing about a pair of babies one of whom is doomed to die in the space of a handful of years is surprising even to himself.
At last he sighs, stands up, takes his mug to the dishwasher and files it on the top rack amongst the rest of the day's dishes, puts away the paper he's been pretending to read, and turns, set faced, to go and find out the worst.
He moves slowly, deliberately, his bare feet making no sound on the thick carpet of the hallway. Every pace he takes moves him towards something he really doesn't want to see, but still he goes, being far too old to lie to himself these days.
The door to Philip's room is pushed to, but not in fact closed, and for a moment, Methos perks up. Not closed is good, isn't it? Not closed almost implies an invitation.
"Well, well," he breathes, and pushes the door open.
Light from the hallway spills in on the room, lovingly painting the tableau in the bed with mellow color. Anson and Philip are asleep now, curled together in a tangle of limbs, and as Methos looks down on them, he's put in mind of little baby cats.
Anson for a moment he can't tell, but then he spots the tattoo on the forearm is half on his back, surprisingly he's the solid presence that holds Philip, arms around his spitting image in a protective, somehow endearing way. Philip is snoring softly, face pillowed against Anson's firm chest, a forearm flung over Anson to lie along the hollow of his neck in curiously defenseless gesture, one that recalls the child he once was, the freckled, golden brown of his skin contrasting with the white torso beneath.
He lies, a comma to Anson's exclamation point, arms and legs tangled comfortably together as they sleep, and Methos can see no place for him in the contentment and tranquility that surrounds them, and for a moment, his throat closes.
"Old fool," he murmurs again, and pulls the bedclothes up to cover the two men, tucking them around the sleeping bodies. Kissing his finger, he touches each man lightly with it, then shakes his head at his own folly, and withdraws.
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