Carson Kearns' Story

'Jealousy' - that Green Eyed Monster......did Methos set up the
situation with another just to test Duncan??  And how should/would
our Scot react???



“Didn’t go the way you expected did it?”

Methos took another drink.  It still wasn’t quite enough to dull the ache - but it helped.  He didn’t bother to lift his eyes from the next unopened bottle on the table when he replied.  “No – it didn’t.  And if you’re thinking of giving me some homespun advice don’t bother. I’ve heard all the “…being too clever for my own good…” or ‘playing with fire’….or   “…be careful what you wish for – you might get it…” aphorisms that I care to hear, thank you very much.”

Joe’s music finally worked its magic – and Methos turned into the siren song and looked up at the master musician, deciding to shock both himself and Dawson with the truth.  “It felt so good when MacLeod got so jealous.”

Joe’s lack of any reaction only served to entice more admissions from the man whose entire five thousand years of life revolved around his verbal gifts.  As Joe laid down the mournful musical layers, Methos added the seeming guilt-ridden counterpoint.  “Do you know how long I’ve waited to see him look at me like that?  Possessive.  Angry.  Territorial.”  He stopped while the music continued to pick up the refrain. “Did I mention possessive?  Do you know, Joe, how long it’s been since anyone cared enough to be possessive?”  To Joe’s raised eyebrows he merely raised his glass in defiance before adding, “ - and I liked it!”

The silence that followed finally drew a reaction out of Joe.  “You know how obsessive Mac can be.  You’ve read his Chronicles from cover to cover.  You’re sitting there feeling like shit because you set up another one of your own and you did it for MacLeod.  Again.”

Methos poured another round and conceded this Movement to Joe. “I like playing with fire.  It’s what attracted me to MacLeod in the first place.”

Joe shook his head in disgust.  “Well give yourself an award, buddy because you just scored the jackpot.  You played Byron and you played Mac.”  His voice betrayed anger and frustration.  “And poor Mike Palatino wasn’t even a blip on your fucking radar was he?”

Methos didn’t dignify that with an answer. He didn’t feel like lying and Joe did seem to have a silly attachment to the idiotic youngster. The Palatinos of the world never lasted long – but no one ever believed him. The mortal elders always were arrogant enough to think that they could save them.

Joe stopped playing, cast aside the guitar and sat down at the table. “Jesus Christ Methos!  Blind Freddy could have seen what was going to happen between Byron and MacLeod.  You could have stopped it all -  right at the beginning, couldn’t you?  What was the matter?  Enjoying their pissing competitions too much!”

“Yes– I did.  You have to admit it was entertaining!” 

“And you’re so easily amused - “

Methos looked up and stared directly into Joe Dawson’s eyes. “I didn’t think that MacLeod was going to kill the fucking lunatic!  I mean, who could conceive of anyone killing Lord George Bloody Byron? Who?”

“Duncan MacLeod of the fucking clan MacLeod – that’s who, you damn idiot!”

Methos pushed himself to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process.  “Is there anyone in this ridiculous world that MacLeod is in awe of?  Anyone who he doesn’t think he has a god-damn right to eliminate if he or she doesn’t meet his high moral standards?”

“That’s unfair Methos and you know it.  Mac always offers them a chance to walk away, which is more than ninety percent of most Immortals do.  And is he in awe of anyone?  I can think of one person.”

“Lucky me,” Methos whispered, before picking up the chair and letting himself fall into it again.

Joe was relentless.  “So tell me Methos – do you have any regrets at all?  Anything that the master strategist might have done differently?”

“Just one – I wonder if MacLeod would have spared Byron if I’d asked him to -  as a personal favor to me?  But I’ll always have to wonder that because if I don’t ask, then I can pretend what the answer might be.”

Joe shook his head.  “You two will be the death of me.  Why don’t you try a really novel approach with each other? How about just talking – honestly – about this tango you’ve been doing around each other for years?”

Methos took a last sip and rose from his seat.  ““Talk honestly with each other? I don’t think either of us knows how. Come on Joe – time to go home.” 

“Methos - Take some advice, for once in your life.  Stay away from Mac for a few days.  It’s only a matter of time before he starts beating himself up about his real motives for killing Byron – “

Methos raised his brow, tucked his hands deep into his pockets and looked away.  “ – Well you can rest assured that the x-rated memories he got in the Quickening aren’t going to help if it really was jealousy that triggered it all in the first place.  Even if it was just his usual protectiveness, he’s going to be feeling pretty sullied right now.”

Joe paused at the car door, buttoning his thick coat and pulling his scarf more tightly around his throat.  “He’ll really start in on himself if he thinks that his judgment was affected by an emotional attachment to you.  In case you haven’t noticed, Mac doesn’t exactly swing both ways.  He’s got to be feeling pretty confused right now.”

Methos ran his hand through his hair and looked up at the stars.  He envied the cosmos its slow pace of change. His life, pre Duncan MacLeod, used to be like that.  Slow and predictable.  Now he suffered constant windburn as the bodies of friends and foe fell about his feet. He felt himself harden at the images of Duncan in battle mode – a swirling dervish of death.  Dark, passionate, avenging – wilful. He liked that image and the feelings it evoked – both physical and emotional.  Indeed, he’d worked hard to get to just this point and he wasn’t going to waste that effort by being too eager.

“On that, Joe, we are both agreed.  I’ll stay out of his way for a while.  Anyway,” he groaned, “Richie’s arriving any day and if anyone can irritate MacLeod out of a brood it’ll be him. I’d give Richie - mmmm -  two days to stop talking  -  by which time MacLeod should have started to surface.”

Five minutes later the dying sounds of two cars disappeared into the bitter Parisian evening.  One continued on its intended route while Methos' made an unexpected turn toward the Quai.  He stopped the car, walked to the edge of the wall lining the Seine and took in the sight of the darkened Barge.  The night was clear enough to see a huddled form on the deck.  He pushed his hands further into the silk-lining of his pockets and took some deep breaths, centering himself.  It would be so easy – so easy - to go down to Duncan and pull him up into his arms.  So easy – with all that Byronic fire combined with Duncan’s own passion and heat.  

So tempting -   

So easy –

But that assumed that Duncan MacLeod wasn’t already so wired from the Quickening, and the altercation with Methos in the bar afterwards, that he mightn’t go for his sword.  Better to take Joe’s advice and leave Duncan to brood alone - despite his instincts telling him otherwise.

Things would settle down – eventually.  In the meantime, some real progress had been made with the Scot.  Next time he decided to fan the fires of jealousy, however, he’d have to ensure that there was less collateral damage. Still, one didn’t make an omelet without breaking eggs, he reminded himself.  He turned his collar up against the cold now misting across his neck.  It felt like the kiss of a betrayed lover, and heaven and hell knew that he had more than enough of those lining up their Judas kisses for him whenever he let down his guard.

And in the way that only a five thousand year old Immortal could, he gazed again at the heavens and saluted the departing stars of Lord Byron and Mike Palatino, whose parts in the earthly melodrama had come to an end.  “As was written -,” he reminded himself.  In a millennium or two he just might teach the Highlander these survival tricks – that whatever happened was ordained long before Methos or Duncan MacLeod took decisions.  It saved a lot of guilt, believing that.

He watched as, in the distance, Duncan rose to his feet, stood looking out over Notre Dame for some minutes, and turned and went inside the Barge.  Satisfied that the Scot was safe, he quietly whistled to himself and walked back to his car. 

His dreams tonight would be pleasant, cocooned in memories of the Highlander’s predatory scent.  He let his hand go to his crotch, and gently pressed his impatient cock.  He felt intense pleasure flow through him and saw again Duncan’s fierce eyes as he stared Byron down that very first night.  Ever the warrior, Duncan had moved to protect his back and ensure that it was not exposed to the prancing poet. 

Methos sniggered as he realised, perhaps, that was all that was behind Duncan’s moving to sit beside him that night?  He set that thought aside as five thousand years of experience came to the fore.  He knew the difference between adrenalin and musk and he’d smelt musk that night - and every time they had been together with Byron. The Scot had, publicly, marked out his territory and challenged Byron to enter it at his peril. Byron had crossed the line and the Scot had torn him limb from limb. Just as he said he would.

Ah well - he’d tried to warn the lunatic. What the magnetic attraction to a tombstone was in some Immortals he would never know.

All in all, these last few days had been most revealing.  He now had no doubt at all of his ability to nurture and fan this need of Duncan’s to protect and possess.  The child would go far, with Methos to guide him.  And with such a fiercely passionate being as Duncan, it wouldn’t be long before the coolness of Methos’ bed was replaced with Celtic fire.  The Highlander was indeed a most worthy, passionately beautiful shield, behind which Methos could hide from those who still thought that they could own him – or kill him.

He gave one final smile, before heading for his home.  Looking towards the stars, once again, he saluted his cleverness. The double Quickening was calibrating nicely just as intended that it would.  Just as it had always done in the past when he had managed to bring one off and when he took the time to nurture it, tame it, direct it -.

And if he hadn’t intended to find himself falling in love with the Highlander, then it was a small price to pay.  It had been so long since he’d fallen in love with anyone, this intensely, that he almost couldn’t remember the deadly repercussions for others that invariably followed.

“Jealous lovers – a rare delicacy indeed.  If you think that MacLeod is a jealous lover, Dawson, meet Death.”  On that he had no doubt – he would destroy without a minute’s thought, anyone who came between him and his intended long-time lover.

In MacLeod there was a feast to be had.  

And he intended having it – soon.


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