Methos pushed the air filter off of his face, rubbing at the itchy sweat and stubble
under his nose and around his chin. He hated the damn thing. He would toss it into
the nearest rubbish pile if he had his druthers, but going without would mark him as
different. Or suicidal. Either would draw attention to himself, and he tried to avoid
doing that as much as possible. Attention was bad for survival.
Right now he was alone, though, so he let the damn thing dangle around his neck while
he started in on the drop shipment. The heavy crates descended like clockwork every
Tuesday, usually within the designated radius. This one had gone a bit astray, however.
He had drawn the short straw to retrieve it.
The large plasteel crate was half-buried in a pool of rancid water. Methos wrinkled
his nose; he might lose a pair of boots over this. He grabbed his crowbar and levered
the box open. It was usually easiest to unload them on site rather than cart the whole
damn crate around. It wasn't like leaving the thing where it landed made a damn bit of
difference, anyway.
He got the first smaller box out and onto the power mule. He had the second halfway out
when his fingers slipped. The box hit the ground with a messy splash and a crack like a
melon bursting open.
Methos swore. He wasn't sure how many languages he wound up using, because they all seemed
appropriate to the situation. Finally he trailed off, then took stock of the mess he would
have to clean up.
Giggles rose up, slightly hysterical. His life was a lesson in irony.
Bottles of fresh water had spilled out of the box. Some of them were lying on the muddy
ground, but most of them had ended up in the puddle. The Blue Sun label winked up at him,
proclaiming the contents to be the best tasting water since Earth-that-was.
With a snarl he reached for a bottle, ripping at the label with his fingernails. The puddle
water stung his skin, but he was glad of its presence. The acidity softened the glue that
sealed the hated logo in place.
He was on his third bottle when MacLeod arrived. Methos didn't look up, didn't pause in his
task. Duncan could buzz at him all day for all he cared. It wouldn't change the fact that
the only potable water on the planet came from outer space.
"Methos."
A warm hand closed around his own chilled and frantic ones. He stopped, staring at the bottle
in his hands.
"Methos, what are you doing?"
He looked up into warm brown eyes, eyes that cared so much. Duncan wanted to fix everything,
but he couldn't fix this.
"I don't know," he said. He giggled again. "What are we doing, MacLeod? This is crazy.
Abso-fucking-lutely crazy. She's dead, Mac. The Earth is dead. My world is dead!"
His voice had risen out of control. Duncan only looked back at him, calm as ever, always
understanding.
Duncan finally sighed. "I know you don't want to hear it, Methos, but I think it's time."
Methos closed his eyes. He clenched his jaw, grinding teeth together with the force of
his anger. "I am not leaving," he hissed. "You know that."
A sudden loud splash made him open his eyes, just in time to see Duncan hurl a second bottle.
The motion was full of impotent fury.
"Do you think I want to leave?" Duncan asked, his voice soft and deep. And angry. "This
is my home, just as much as it is yours. It breaks my heart to see it this way."
Methos stood, dropping the bottle he was still clutching. He stepped forward so he was face
to face with Duncan.
"It must not mean that much if you're willing to leave forever," he spat. "Do you have any
idea what this world is, Mac? She is Mother. The bones we are built from, the blood that
runs through our veins. She's in me, MacLeod. Everything I've done, everything I've seen,
everyone I've known, has been birthed and swallowed by her."
He drifted off, unable to find words for the connection he felt. He stepped back, but
Duncan grabbed his arm.
"I know, Methos," he said sadly. "I know. Do you think my soul doesn't feel the burden
when I think of Loch Shiel? When I think that the places I wandered as a child are nothing
but mud and burnt stone? I ache, Methos, I do, but that doesn't change anything."
They stared at each other for a long minute. Ice cracked inside of him, the truth finally
pushing its way through delusion. He shook his head, but it was too late. A sob tried to
claw out of his throat, but he choked it back down. He stepped forward into the surety of
Duncan's arms.
"I'm scared," he confessed against the warmth of Duncan's neck. "What if immortality is tied
to the planet?"
The warmth of Duncan's hand rested between his shoulder blades, drawing the pain from him.
"Living off world hasn't seemed to hurt any of the others," Duncan said. His voice was a
warm rumble. "Amanda's been out there for a century. She's been doing just fine."
Methos smiled despite himself. "Who would notice with her anyway?" Duncan snorted. "Besides,
a hundred years is nothing in the measure of immortal-kind."
"Now you're just making excuses, old man."
Methos sighed and stepped back. "It's strange. For so much of my life, I never thought of
any place as home. There was no single spot I claimed for my own. But now I realize that's
because it's all the same, Mac. It's just been me and her for over five thousand years. How
do I say goodbye to that?"
Duncan grasped his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm.
"I don't know," he said. "But I'll be with you when you do."