by
Lisa Y. Drexel

Gods, how he despised that word and all its connotations.

Even after 5000 years, it still ruled him. Whether it be the love of life, himself, another person, an ideal, a place or a dream. Love still compelled him into making choices and decisions, whether they be right or wrong, good or evil. It ruled him and, like most intelligent beings, Methos hated being a slave to anything.

Yet, it gave him immense pleasure to be a recipient of it...in all its forms. Brotherhood, comrades, mates, children, mentors, knowledge and even fear. It was a drug that soothed his soul and whispered erotic promises to his heart. It sent him running from that straw cottage and the broken bodies of his family and into the arms of Heric—the ageless demon-vampire/sorcerer that held Methos for nearly a century, ninety-nine years after Methos' blood finally enslaved the slave-owner.

Broken and haunted by the thrumming link stretched between Immortal and vampire, Methos was easy prey for the up-and-coming sociopath warlord, Kronos.

But as the years melted away into decades, it was love that kept Methos with the Horseman, long after the bonds of captivity had withered away. And it was love that sent the Immortal scurrying away in the middle of the night with only his sword and horse in his company.

It was love that drew him to Lucius, his grandchilde of sorts, as the vampire slaughtered his way through Gaul and Britannia...

And it was love that sent him to that monastery in Ireland before Methos could become Death once again...and it was love that eventually led him to the New World.

Every significant act that the 5000 year old Immortal had done was instigated by love.

Love owned him, ruled him and was and always had been his keeper for all his Immortal life and, most likely, his mortal one as well.

And as he stood there, outside of Wolf's Bane, nearly 12 years after he had vanished off the face of the earth, Methos realized it was love that once again was going to push him into doing something that he had swore over 3000 years before never to do again: entangle himself in the incestuous affairs of vampires.

No matter how many times he told himself that he should just run...forget her...forget the vampire that she had 'sired'—forget that she was following his footsteps more poignantly that either of them would ever had dreamt of—he couldn't. His heart would dredge up an endless bounty of memories of her...the softness of her hair, the feel of her lips as they brushed across his...the warm smile she gave him when he would make some cynical offhand remark...the gentleness of her soul as it soothed away so many years of ache and regret that, at times, he thought he would suffocate under its weight as they made love.

She was his salvation, and his heart.

He couldn't turn away from her.

Straightening his shoulders and masking the need he was sure had been plastered all over his face, he approached the huge vampire that stood guard at the entrance.

"Five bucks," the brute said softly, holding out his hand for the paper bill.

Methos handed him the money and stepped up the door, when a tingle of recognition tickled his senses. One of Lucien's... Methos thought to himself as he gave the vampire one more look-over before disappearing inside the club.

How many of them were there? He asked himself as he stood at the top of the stairs and looked down at the writhing bodies on the dance floor. How many Souled-Ones carried the ghost of his Quickening in their long dead bodies? How many childer had Lucien sired over the years—passing that bit of Methos' Quickening to another childe of the darkness? What would happen if Methos really did lose his head? Would all those Souled-Ones revert back to the demon-vampires that they loathed with a red hot fire that ran through their useless veins? Or would they begin to recognize the Immortal that took Methos' head as 'father,' instead of Methos himself? Or, even worse, what would happen if Methos' Quickening would be lost—like Darius' had been? Would it search the Earth for a familiar home—zapping errant vampires—filling them with all that Methos was—as they sleeping in their homes? Or would those same vampires disappear into a pile of ash—meeting True Death just as their 'father' did.

Scolding himself for pondering questions better left alone, Methos began his descent down the stairs, feeling the familiar thrum of Lucien's presence swimming in his mind. It had been a long time since he had allowed the General to drink from him, so the connection was barely discernible above the thrum of the thousands of Quickenings that resided in Methos' body. But it was still there.

That was something that Methos needed to tell Mike and Spike as they embarked on a similar, yet totally different journey than the one he had already taken. His student's link with the vampire was one of love, trust and respect. The one Methos had, had been forged in hatred and contempt.

It was a wonder Methos didn't destroy the lot of them when he had the chance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

LaCroix felt him first.

A slight tugging of his being...a flash of recognition...and the silent entreaty that whispered in his mind...

Lucien...I'm home.

Just as he stood up from behind his desk, Nicolas stiffened in his seat as his eyes widened in a confused recognition.

Natalie just frowned. "Who is it?" she whispered as she stood up and walked over to stand behind her sire.

LaCroix chuckled, a slight grin tugging at his lips, and turned around to face Nick and Natalie.

"It's Methos...Father," he said watching as both of them stood there, stunned at the implications. He opened the door just as Methos was lifting his hand up to knock on it.

"LaCroix," the Immortal said, brushing past the three vampires as he stepped inside the room. He headed straight over to the bar and yanked open the small refrigerator, groaning at its contents. "What? No beer?"

LaCroix bristled, nodded at Natalie and turned to the Immortal, the father of their bloodline as he leaned against the office wall. "My apologies, Methos. If you'd bothered to call before coming, I would've made sure that it would have been stocked accordingly."

Face impassive, the Immortal just nodded as he strolled over to the couch and fell on it. LaCroix shook his head at the Immortal—feeling both grateful and resentful of his presence—and opened the office door in time for Natalie to enter, clasping a six-pack of Samuel Adams in her hand. She pulled out a bottle, handed it to Methos and went behind the wet bar to slide the rest in the refrigerator. Then she grabbed a bottle of bloodwine and three glasses, setting them down before filling them with the substance that kept the vampires alive.

LaCroix took the offered glass and sighed when he realized that the Immortal wanted to speak to him alone. "If you two would excuse us...I'll be more than happy to answer any questions later on?"

Natalie rolled her eyes, obviously a bit irritated at being put-off, but complied. Nick glared knowingly at LaCroix as their link flickered...you will tell me...

LaCroix reluctantly nodded, somehow knowing that this was one thing that he couldn't keep from his children any longer.

The circle, which had begun with his grandsire over 4000 years ago, had finally been finished...

At the beginning and ending...at LaCroix and Methos' feet.

"It's been a long time," LaCroix said after nearly five minutes of deafening silence as he watched the Immortal methodically drink his beverage.

Methos snorted, nearly spitting his beer out of his nose, as he glared at the vampire. "Not long enough," he muttered, wiping his face. "You bring out the worst in me, Lucien," he whispered, remembering how close Methos came to resurrecting Death in the midst of LaCroix' own ruthless desire for bloodshed. The link, passed down from sire to childe, ended up in Lucien's body—drawing the Immortal into the dark world that had been the former Roman general's for over 500 years.

And the irony of it all was that Methos knew that Lucien was the calmest, most sedate of the three. Heric, the demon-vampire that had enslaved Methos for a century, was an evil bastard. It had only taken one year out of the century that Heric held the Immortal for Methos' blood to change him. But, he had been so old to begin with that a soul mattered not—he was darkness incarnate—a slave to the magic he wielded as well as the bloodlust that flowed through his dead veins. And Divia, well...Methos could only thank his lucky stars that he hadn't had the misfortune of meeting that devil-child of LaCroix's—it would've been too soon after he left Death and his own evil behind, not to be enticed in her vicious web.

As it stood, thirteen hundred years was barely enough time for Methos to withstand the darker desires of both LaCroix's and his own soul.

LaCroix leaned forward, resting his elbows on the surface of the desk, and arched an eyebrow at the Immortal. "Would it help to tell you that I too, have mellowed with age?"

Laughing softly, Methos looked up to meet the ice blue eyes of LaCroix's and shrugged slightly. "I suppose so. You know, I'm the last one alive...out of the Horseman. Other than you and Cassandra...all the reminders of what I was...have gone the way of Rome and Greece..."

"So melancholic, my friend."

Methos sat up and placed his beer bottle on the floor. After running his fingers through his hair, he grunted in agreement. "I'm a damn fool...even after all these years."

"I take it the headhunters are no longer a worry?"

Methos shook his head. "It's been over seven years since I've taken a head...over five since Mike has. In a perfect world, I would have stayed underground for another thirty, forty years but..."

"Is it her?" LaCroix asked quietly.

Sighing dramatically, he looked up and nodded his head. "And others...or other...Joe Dawson...he's mortal and already past 50...he's my friend and he knows who I am. I can't stay away any longer...for myself, for Joe, for Mike."

"What about William?"

For a moment Methos didn't know who LaCroix was talking about and then he remembered hearing that Spike's given name had been William. "You mean Spike?"

The vampire nodded.

Sighing again, Methos fell back against the couch, sprawling precariously on its edge and thought of what he was going to say to the vampire. He hadn't even wanted to come to St. Louis. He had been studiously avoiding any personal contact with his 'family' for nearly 1500 years. Any contact between the two had been in written form. And by phone for the last 60 years or so. Methos had no personal grudge against LaCroix; he just feared the vampire's influence on the-then shaky-control of the Immortal.

But both Joe and MacLeod had insisted that, if he wanted to approach Mike, Methos needed to first speak to Vachon or Cassandra. Of course neither of them knew of the relationship between LaCroix and Methos, only of their friendship. Wouldn't that blow MacLeod away? Methos thought to himself. To find out that I too, had a bloodlink with a vampire and the vampire's entire clan?

And despite all that, he knew that LaCroix was the lesser of two evils. It had been over 2800 years since he rode with the Horseman and 1500 years since he wandered Europe with LaCroix, and Methos knew enough time had passed for him to remain in control of his darker side. If Silas' Quickening and the Double-Quickening he and MacLeod shared weren't enough to push him over, not much else could...

Except maybe love...

On the other hand, he could go and see Cassandra. Yeah right, he thought to himself. And I'm sure that would go over well. He wasn't too sure that Cassandra wouldn't say the hell with it all and challenge him anyway—MacLeod and Mike be damned. And if she did that, Methos wasn't sure if he could take her head.

He just didn't have it in him.

The Immortal looked up and met LaCroix's intense stare. "That's why I'm here. I need to talk with Vachon." Methos looked down at his clasped hands, wondering if LaCroix would tell him what he needed to know. Sure, he had heard about Vachon and how he had taken care of Mike all those years ago, but no one explained to the Immortal why the vampire had done such a thing. And that was the gist of the matter...Methos needed to know why, so he could decide whether or not he could trust Vachon to tell him the truth. If Vachon were in love with Mike, then anything that came out of the vampire's mouth would be suspect.

"Tell me about him...tell me why," Methos asked as he watched LaCroix dip his head in concession to the Immortal.

"Always the strategist, Methos." He sighed dramatically as he stood up and glided across the room, stopping at the darkened window that looked out into the bar. "The Spaniard. You know, when I first met him, I nearly did away with him. Sireless, wild...independent. His closest friend was a Carouche," LaCroix shuddered in disgust.

Methos snickered underneath his breath, knowing first hand how much the vampire hated Carouches—those unfortunate few vampires that were forced to live off of animal blood instead of human. If Methos hadn't met a few Carouches himself, he would have never understood the vampire's reaction. But the ancient Immortal had and was in complete agreement with LaCroix. Carouches, by their very nature, became what they consumed. If they fed on dogs as a first meal, nothing else really sustained them and with time, they slowly took on characteristics of a dog.

"What was his preference?"

"Rats," LaCroix spat out. "But in Screed's defense, he was probably the most civilized Carouche I had ever met. He could carry on a decent conversation and, believe it or not, there had been intelligence lurking behind his unkempt appearance." LaCroix sighed. "May I continue?"

"By all means," Methos said, laughing softly.

"Where was I? Oh yes, Vachon...his childe was literally a mess. A suicidal vampire is not a pretty sight. He consorted with a mortal...my son's partner in Toronto. Ms. Vetter knew what Vachon was..."

"And yet?"

The vampire's face darkened as he turned around to face Methos. "He lost everything—and nearly his life—because of my family. We—the proper ones...the ones that maybe danced around the Code, but still adhered to it," he spat out, his voice cold and harsh. "Divia...my dear sweet daughter and sire, managed to resurrect herself from the dark, harsh grave I left her in. And she wanted revenge—against me—by killing all those close to me. Her first victim was Ursula...Vachon's troubled childe. Then came Vachon, and finally Nicholas. Vachon, in a fit of bloodfever, threw himself on a stake held by the mortal woman...Tracy. Tracy buried him by Screed, the Carouche, who had died a week before. Nicholas managed to kill Divia. For good, this time. Her ashes were spread across the lake.

"A week later, Tracy, Nick's partner, was killed in a shooting...that same night Nick and Natalie nearly killed themselves. I brought Natalie across and saved Nicholas. We fled Toronto within a week.

"Six months later, Vachon had dug himself out of the grave. You see, Ms. Vetter took the stake out before she had buried him, and you know how resilient we vampires are...he healed himself. Once above ground, he found that all that he had known and loved was gone. Because of me. He contacted Aristotle and my old friend sent Vachon to me. He's been, literally, my right-hand-man since."

LaCroix's eyes flashed as he finished his drink. "Mike gave him something to live for. Something that had been missing since Toronto. She gave him a purpose. Your absence saved his life. He looks at her as his childe. He stuck by her when the link nearly killed her and her depression almost finished her off. He taught her how to fight. He held her when she needed to be held. He did everything a sire should do. Everything that he didn't do with his own children."

Methos sighed, feeling strangely relieved about what LaCroix had just told him. Although Vachon's motives were far from altruistic, they were acceptable all the same. No one had to tell Methos what it was like when you to find something that gave you a purpose and hope. In some ways, that's what Kronos had given him. After spending over a century in Heric's lair, most of the time being treated as nothing more than a whipping boy slash fuck-toy, the power promised by Kronos was the light Methos needed to pull himself out of the dark, black depression he had been in since he lost his family the night of his capture by Heric.

There was one important difference...the light Mike promised to Vachon was so much better for all concerned than the hope Kronos had given the Immortal.

"Do you trust him?"

LaCroix nodded. "And do you want to know why?"

"Why?"

"Because after all that has happened, he still believes it wasn't my fault..."

Methos groaned and shook his head as he stood up. After grabbing another beer, he joined LaCroix at the window and looked at his friend...grandchilde...reflection and wondered what had happened to both of them to cause such guilt...

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vachon opened the front door and waved the Immortal inside. Once the door was closed and locked, he turned and openly studied Methos, his eyebrow arching in amusement. "After all this time, I was beginning to wonder if you were actually real."

Snickering, Methos nodded at the vampire. "Javier Vachon, I presume?"

Vachon rolled his eyes and began walking past the Immortal. "Well you better hope so...you're the one that came looking for me."

Methos stopped, his mouth dropping in amazement as the vampire's words wound their way through his mind. It was Mike...he heard Mike in him.

"What?" the vampire asked once he realized Methos was no longer behind him.

"You sound so much like her," Methos whispered.

The vampire blinked at Methos, expressionless, and finally just shrugged slightly. "Well, after the amount of blood I drank from her and the time I spent with her, it's no wonder. Mike-ism's are pretty catchy, if you understand the humor behind them." Vachon said, turning around again and heading for the back of the apartment. "This was Mike's place first. Actually, I should probably thank you for my home," Vachon said as he pulled out a bottle of bloodwine and a beer from the refrigerator.

The vampire tossed the beer across the room and Methos caught it automatically, as he wondered why Vachon was thanking him. "Huh?"

The vampire pulled the cork out of the bottle and tipped it, taking a deep, long drink. After licking his lips, he grinned at the Immortal. "It was your money that paid the original lease."

Methos nodded, suddenly remembering the credit card bills that he received right after Mike had left Paris. Two plane tickets to the states: one to Seacouver, one to St. Louis...a six-month lease on somesort of sports utility vehicle...automated metal blinds that covered every window...a down payment and six months rent for an apartment (which was obviously the same place where Vachon lived presently)...furniture and clothes purchases and so many other little things that Methos just groaned, cursing in various dead languages, paid the bill and prayed that her anger would dim with time.

And it did.

"So, why are you here?"

Methos sighed and took a sip of his beer, idly wondering how the Spaniard knew of his propensity of drinking the beverage. The blood-sharing or maybe it had been Mike's way of letting the Immortal know that he would always be welcomed whenever he decided to show up. Shaking his head, he found himself studying the décor and could almost feel her presence.

He recognized various knick-knacks from her old apartment-the one that she abandoned right after her First Death. He remembered her hiring a company that packed and stored her things when they had returned to St. Louis, during their search for the Immortal that killed her father.

"Methos?"

"Um?"

"Why are you here?" the vampire asked again.

"Mike...and Spike."

Vachon snorted, his eyes twinkling in barely masked amusement. "So, are we going to play 50 questions, or are you just going to get over it and ask?" He asked as he nearly floated over to the kitchen table and sat down. Methos watched him, once again amazed at how ethereal Souled-Ones became after a time.

Almost ghost-like.

All because of a Quickening.

"How 'bout I start," the vampire said as he picked at the white label adorning the bottle. "You want to know how bad it was for Mike when she was separated from Spike and whether or not you can, in a right mind, ask her to leave with you?"

Stunned by the vampire's intuitiveness, Methos just stared at him as he felt that mask of passivity cover his face.

Was he that transparent?

The vampire shook his head. "No, it's just the question I would've asked if I were in your shoes," he answered, almost as if he were reading Methos mind. "Sit. Take a load off," Vachon said softly.

Methos did, all the while listening to that child-like voice in him that usually spouted off sarcastic remarks...

He had decided before he stepped on to the plane to St. Louis, that he would bite his pride and shove down his natural instinct to lash out while he was seeking answers. Although being humble wasn't natural to him, he had done it before and most likely would again.

After all, he was a survivor, wasn't he?

"So, what should I do?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two hours later, Methos found himself lying down on Vachon's futon as his mind went over everything he had learned that evening.

Although he knew first-hand how bloodlinks worked, his experience had been totally different than Mike's. Whereas Methos did everything he could to put as much distance between him and Heric, loathing the times—especially after a Quickening—when their minds touched, it hadn't been that way with Mike.

She loved Spike.

And Spike loved Mike. Their link—as impossible as it sounded—hadn't been one forged in hatred and abuse...something so intrinsic with demon-vamps that Methos hadn't known it was possible for one of those creatures to even know how to love, much less be in love with a human...

It had nearly killed her to be apart from Spike. And apparently, Spike hadn't been much better off, although it helped that Spike was in love with Buffy.

But Mike's reaction really didn't surprise the Immortal. He could remember first hand how taken aback Methos had been by the strange mixture of strength and feelings that resided in Mike's heart. She was one of those rare people who felt everything and still managed to be strong as steel

It was that rare combination that attracted Methos to her and from what Vachon had said, the Spanaird as well.

And most likely Spike too.

But the gist of everything he had learned was now that Spike and Mike were back together, neither of them ever wanted to experience the hell again that they had gone through before. So, if Methos wanted Mike in his bed, he was going to have to sleep with Spike as well. While the idea of a menage a trois didn't bother the ancient Immortal, being intimate with a vampire again did. Even if he did like Spike and remembered the electricity that flowed between the two of them when he had met the vampire in Sunnydale all those years before.

There would be no happily ever after for Mike and Methos.

Methos destroyed that possibility 12 years before in Paris...

But he loved her and, even more importantly, Methos needed her. Twelve years of hiding...twelve years of being invisible in a world that he had just learned to live in again, had taken too much out of him.

His secret was no longer that...Morden had seen to that.

Faceless men and women that had shared his bed for all those years, did nothing to take away the yearning he felt his heart...the pull of not only Mike, but of Duncan as well.

Methos had returned first to Duncan and for the first time since he went underground, felt his Quickening calm...almost as if it knew that he was now home. But after six months, Methos realized that wasn't enough. At least not right then.

His heart and soul needed to be soothed as well. And the only person who could do that was Mike.

As his eyes shut, Methos realized it was time...no more running...it was time to go Sunnydale...to go home.

If you have any comments or like what you've read, drop me a line!

©2000 Lisa Y. Drexel