PART 3: "People die, Methos. Immortals--die."

Chapter 2
 
 

Stephen smiled grimly as Nick left the tenement building in the dirty, late-morning sunlight, duffel bag in hand. So, he was trying to run out on him.

Loping across the street with his own bag, Steve saw Nick's head come up at the buzz of "presence," but when he saw who it was, he walked away without a word.

"So, where are you going?" Stephen called.

Nick didn't answer.

"Come on, you might as well tell me," he insisted as he caught up to Nick. "I'm going to follow you, no matter where you go, so you might as well just get it over with and tell me."

Nick ignored him.

"Look, I'm not going to risk losing you again. I have to talk to you about this!"

Nick finally stopped and, dropping his bag, faced the tenacious youngster. "What the hell do you want?"

"I want to talk to you!"

"You want to talk to me about those damn dreams, and that's the last thing I want to talk about."

"Why? If it's in--"

"I just don't want to, all right? I don't want to deal with it." Bending, he grabbed the bag and started walking again.

Hurrying after him, Stephen reached out and grabbed his arm. "You don't want to deal with it? Is that why you're in places like that bar I found you? Is that why you drink so much, 'cause you don't want to deal with it?"

Nick stopped again and looked coldly at the hand on his arm. Stephen dropped his hand, but didn't step back. Nick looked up. As their eyes met, Stephen was surprised to notice how tall Nick was. The two men were almost eye to eye.

"Who the hell are you?" Nick asked, annoyance filtering into his otherwise dead voice.

"I'm Stephen Drake--"

"No, no. Who are you that you're so anxious to find me?"

Stephen's eyes narrowed, the soft brown of them growing darker as he thought that through. "You're talking about the dreams, aren't you?" he asked slowly.

"You are being a real pain in the ass. Are you really going to follow me no matter where I go?"

Hope flaring briefly in his chest, Stephen licked his lips. "You bet I am. These dreams have been plaguing me for two years, and you're in all of them, and now I've found you. There's no way I'm gonna let you out of my sight now!"

Nick sighed. Hoisting the duffel bag onto his shoulder, he turned into a nearby waterfront park. "All right," he growled. "Let's get this over with so I can get out of here."

Hanging back, Stephen pointed at the park. "We're going in there?" he asked.

Nick paused to look back. "Yeah. You got a problem with that?"

"Well, it looks kinda dangerous."

"You've got your sword and I don't give a shit. You coming?" Without waiting for an answer, Nick disappeared into the park.

Not wanting to lose him, Stephen followed Nick into the park and to a park bench deep inside.

"It's empty during the day. The dealers and prostitutes won't be here till later."

Stephen sat nervously next to the man he knew so much about but at the same time, so little. Now that he had Nick's undivided attention, he didn't know what to say or where to start.

"So," Nick said gruffly, "talk. I'm not going to stay here long."

"It started about two years ago," Stephen began. "It was only one dream at first, but then there was another one, then another one. First there were weeks in between the dreams, then days, now they're coming every night." He paused.

"Uh-huh."

Stephen bit his lip against the wall of the man's indifference. Gathering his courage, he continued. One after the other, he told Nick about the dreams. He started with the battle dreams. He told Nick about the sword fight in a meadow on a hill that ended with a powerful Quickening, about the battle in an alleyway that looked like it had happened hundreds of years ago, about the fight in ancient Paris. Finally, he told about the fight that went back to the hilltop of the first dream, only this time, there were two fights, two Quickenings, one from a mild-mannered man, the other a woman with wild eyes and wild hair. "You won all the fights. You got the Quickening in all of them."

"Of course I won them," Nick said tightly. "If I hadn't you wouldn't be talking to me, right?"

"That's true," Stephen replied slowly, deciding not to bring up the fact that Nick was acting as if Stephen were talking about actual occurrences, not dreams. He thought about the other dreams. What kind should he talk about next? Some of the other dreams had other people in them, people who may have been immortal, and people who definitely were not. He talked about the ones beyond his experience. He started with the one where there were hundreds of men dancing around Nick in a place with flashing lights and throbbing music. Then he spoke about the dream in a parlor lit by fire as Nick talked to a woman in a red brocade robe, then the one in a park much like this one, only bigger, and more beautiful, colored with autumn leaves. Then he told him about the dream on the rooftop, Nick standing with his back to a strange city, the wind in his hair and great sadness on his face.

"I never understood that one. That was the only thing I ever saw in that one and I never found out why were you so sad. I've always wondered--"

Stephen was interrupted by a noise that was part growl, part whimper. He looked over to find that life had returned to the stone eyes set in that pale face, and there was true emotion there. Unfortunately, that emotion was fury.

"What the hell are you talking about, Stephen Drake?"

"I'm--I'm talking about--"

"I know what you're taking about!" Nick ground out. Getting abruptly to his feet his stood before Stephen, his hands clenched at his sides, his face a mask of rage and something--something else. Stephen was too frightened to know. He had wakened the sleeping demon and he may very well pay the supreme price for it.

"But, Nick--"

"You want to know what happened in those dreams, right? Who I was and how you're involved?" He whirled on his heel and walked a few steps away, his whole body tense and trembling with wrath. Hands clenching and unclenching, he whirled back to face Stephen.

"You want to know why I was so sad?" Nick's voice took the word "sad" and twisted it with such venomous sarcasm, Stephen winced. "You really want to know?" His hazel eyes, full with new depth and ire, were wide with mock candor. "Well, then I'll tell you. I had just betrayed my closest friend. I had just made him do something that almost killed my lover, which would have been very easy, considering that my lover was mortal. How's that? What do you think of that?"

Stephen stared up the raging maniac, his chin quivering.

"Oh, you want more, I see!" Nick continued ruthlessly. "Well, my lover forgave me, even though I almost made him lose his head, but I had no idea at the time whether or not my best friend was ever gong to forgive me, let alone speak to me." Nick paused, coldly regarding the awestruck Stephen.

"And there's more!"

Stephen shook his head rapidly.

"Oh no, no, no. Too late for that! You wanted it, now here it is. It turns out that my best friend did forgive me and did speak to me again, and my lover stuck with me. Can you believe it? After the betrayal, he stayed by my side and, not too much later, as least for immortals, he was killed. Because of me, he was killed. And my best friend was left to bury him."

"Duncan MacLeod?"

The name slammed into Nick. With a gasp he staggered back and stared at Stephen, his eyes and mouth wide with shock. The fury was dashed away and he was left silent and white. His mouth moved as he tried to speak.

Finally shaking his head, he grabbed his bag. "Enough," he gritted. "That's enough, no more of this. I've had enough."

Stephen followed him, almost running. "Nick! Wait! Nick! Nick!"

"NO!!" Nick roared. Without looking back, he fled from the park.

Moving quickly through the city, heading for the spot to leave it, Methos could feel that infernal buzz as Stephen Drake followed him. Why the hell wasn't Stephen Drake like most immortals? Why couldn't he just want to kill him for his Quickening?

The story of those dreams was starting to bring it all back: the hopelessness, the despair, the blackness.

If Stephen had been a different sort of immortal, Methos would have died the night before. He would have died the way he deserved to die: a drunk who had to wait for someone to come along to end it all for him. The only reason he was even still alive for Stephen Drake to find was because he had kept moving. He was nowhere for more than a few days and was always in places like that bar where Drake had found him: "Sneakers." That was the name of the bar, and not the kind of place most immortals frequented. "Sneakers" was the perfect place for someone like him, someone who had spent the majority of his 5,000 years sneaking around, intent only on his own survival. Well, he had certainly survived. Just look at his magnificent accomplishments.

A hundred years before, Methos had descended into a pit of hell. He had lost the will to live and coldly, deliberately, had cut all his friends out of his life, including MacLeod. Then he became a Sneaker. He sneaked his way through city after city, barely alive, barely conscious. Days had passed, then years, finally decades with little or no human contact, and not one familiar face, good or evil. He didn't survive because he had become a Sneaker, but despite it. The first immortal that came along was welcome to his head. He was done with it.

Of course that first immortal was Stephen Drake with his dreams of a life Methos barely remembered, a life he didn't want to remember. He had gotten so angry, he had considered challenging the young upstart. Then Drake had mentioned Duncan MacLeod.

Just the thought of that name stuck a cold knife into Methos's heart. The memory of what MacLeod looked like twisted that knife, so Methos was running, getting out of New York. Maybe he'd go to New Orleans. That place had more seedy dives than street corners, not to mention the best bourbon. The thought made Methos lick his lips. He'd go to New Orleans. Besides, there were always immortals in New Orleans.

The "presence" thrummed between them as Stephen approached Nick. Stephen had followed him all the way to the airport and watched, out of sensing range, as Nick booked a flight to New Orleans. When he walked away, Stephen did the same, then followed Nick to where he was sitting.

Nick's newly roused emotions had clearly taken their toll. The older immortal looked as if he had come through a traumatic ordeal and his sunken eyes carried the horrified knowledge of more to come.

Stephen sat down next to him.

"Gods, you never give up, do you?" Nick said, his voice hollow with exhaustion.

"No," Stephen answered quietly. "I can't. There's too much at stake."

"What, the dreams? Too much at stake for you, you mean."

"Perhaps, but I have to know about them, about how I know you and what happened in those dreams."

"I can't talk about it." Nicks voice was weary with the battering of long-unfelt emotions. "It's too much."

"Isn't it better this way? Isn't it better to feel, to not be so dead inside?"

"No," Nick retorted. "I'd rather be drunk and unfeeling, thank you very much, than feeling what I'm feeling right now."

"Well, in one of the dreams Duncan MacLeod said--"

Suddenly, with no hint of what he was about to do, Nick spun in his seat and grabbed Stephen by the neck, long, slim fingers tightening on his windpipe, choking off his words.

"If you mention that name to me again," Nick said through clenched teeth, "I will kill you. I promise you that. I will kill you."

Lips tight, eyes staring, Nick waited until Stephen nodded. Neither man seemed to notice that they were making a scene in a public place and that everyone was looking at them.

When Stephen nodded, Nick released him and sat back. Stephen took a deep breath, swallowed several times to make sure his throat worked, and straightened his clothes. After a long moment, the public went back to its own affairs, the scene over.

"That sounds familiar. Didn't he say something like that to you once?"

Nick looked at Stephen with warning.

"'I promise I'll kill you?"

Closing his eyes, Nick slumped back into his chair, weary defeat stealing over him.

Stephen decided not to say anthing else. Finally, after some minutes of silence, Stephen asked: "Nick, why are we going to New Orleans?"

"I don't know why you're going to New Orleans. I'm going for the bourbon."

"Really?"

"Really."

"No other reason?"

Nick looked over at Stephen and shrugged. Cold indifference had started to creep back into the hazel eyes.

"Tell me, Nick." The note of quiet conviction demanded an explanation.

"Perhaps I'll find an immortal to do what you wouldn't."

Stephen shivered. Nick was telling him the truth. The numb, matter-of-fact tone said more than a hundred words could.

"I won't allow it."

"You have no say in it."

"Yes, I do." More quiet conviction.

"What if I gave you all the answers you wanted?"

"Doesn't matter. I won't allow it."

"How could you stop it?"

Stephen paused. "Any way I can. I'll do whatever I have to, whatever it takes."

Leaning forward, elbows on knees, Nick buried his face in his hand. "Oh, gods! It's never going to be over, is it? Dammit! You never give up. No matter what the consequence, no matter if it's life or death, even your own life, you never give up. You never have--."

His heart suddenly picking up as Nick's words trailed off, Stephen turned toward the older immortal. "What do you mean?" he asked urgently. "What do you mean I never give up, I never have?"

With a sigh that sounded like it was pulled from the depths of his being, Nick rested his head back against the wall. He closed his eyes. When he started speaking, it was as if he was talking to himself. His eyes remained closed and his voice was low and musing, almost thoughtful.

"I've known you a long time, Stephen Drake. I first met you in the mid-nineteenth century. You were a woman then. The next time we met it was in the latter part of the twentieth century. You were still a woman, but a different woman. We knew each other for a very long time then, until you died, as a matter of fact. We didn't meet again until the beginning of the twenty-second century. And now here we are again, in the middle of the twenty-third century. You keep coming into my life, no matter what--."

"You're talking about reincarnation," Stephen ventured, trying to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

Nick gave a dusty, unconvincing laugh. "Whatever you want to call it, reincarnation, old soul, the same person coming back over and over and over again. Whatever."

"How do you know this?"

"The dreams. They were things that happened in other lives. It's the only way some people ever know about past lives, especially mortals. You had the dreams, but I was there."

"What were the names of all these people?"

Nick shook his head, not answering for a long time. "I can't--I can't remember," he finally said.

"You can't, or you won't?"

"Same thing," Nick whispered.

"Well, who was the woman in the red robe in the room with all the fire?"

"Gods, Stephen, leave it alone, please!"

"I'm sorry, Nick, I really am. But I've got to know."

Another one of those deep sighs. "You've always been stubborn." There was an odd note in Nick's whisper that made Stephen narrow his eyes and lean closer, but before he could say anything, Nick spoke. "That was Elizabeth. The room was lit with candles and gas and the fireplace because she lived in the nineteenth century, before electricity."

"The battle on the hilltop."

"There were several battles there." Nick's tired voice was laced with sarcasm.

"The one with only one Quickening."

"That would have been Jacqueline."

Stephen waited, watching Nick's still form with the closed eyes that shuttered all emotion out of his face. "Well?" he prompted.

Nick merely shook his head.

"What about that windy rooftop?"

"Michael." The name came out in less than a whisper, more like a breath.

"Your lover." It was a statement.

"My lover. The one I betrayed then killed."

"You didn't kill him. The woman with the madness in her eyes killed him."

Abruptly, Nick's eyes popped opened. They had darkened to an indefinable color and were filled with raw emotion as they stared at Stephen.

"You saw that in your dream?" Nick asked hoarsely.

"Yes."

"Did you see him die?"

"No. I saw her die."

"How do you know she killed him?"

"Point of view. 'I' was fighting her. 'I' fell to her sword. You came, with great anger, and killed her. There was another Quickening, and everything went dark." Stephen ran a hand through his hair, suddenly sweating with remembered terror and dismay. "It's a nightmare. I hate that dream. It's one of the worst. It's a bloody nightmare."

Nick closed his eyes again. "Yes, it is."

Stephen knew by Nick's tone that he was done answering questions. He hesitantly tried one more. "That alleyway?"

As expected, Nick didn't answer. Stephen waited for almost five minutes, but he still didn't answer. Giving up, he rested his own head against the wall and thought about what Nick had told him. Three souls, all of them knew Nick, and it started 400 years ago.

After a while he said that: "400 years ago it started." He said it quietly, almost to himself without opening his eyes. He got no response from Nick. "I can't believe you're more than 400 years old."

"Believe it," was the terse reply.

Stephen opened his eyes, but Nick had not moved. "Just how old are you, Nick?"

Nick opened his eyes and looked at Stephen. The older immortal regarded the youngster for a long moment, staring into the brown eyes as if searching for something. He looked away from Stephen but kept his eyes open. There was a battle going on in those eyes, and a decision trying to be made. Then, Nick shook his head and shut his eyes again.

"Older than you are, kid," he finally said. "Old enough to know better."

"Know better?" Stephen asked, but he got no answer.

Stephen tried several times to initiate a conversation while waiting for the transport and during the trip to New Orleans, but Nick was uncooperative, remaining silent the whole time.

Nick tried to lose Stephen when they got to New Orleans by ducking out of the airport ahead of Stephen but it was in vain. Stephen caught up to him anyway.

"Forget about it, Nick," he said. "I'm going to your hotel."

After some back and forth, Nick finally shrugged wearily, giving up the battle. They went to the same hotel, to separate rooms. Stephen didn't want to press too hard. He figured he could keep an eye on him. He had to be quick, however. Before long, Nick was in the hotel bar, having bourbon, neat.

"Doesn't take you very long, does it," Stephen asked him ironically when he finally found the older immortal.

Nick's reply was a grunt. Stephen counted himself lucky he got a response at all. He joined Nick for a drink.

For over an hour, the two men sat drinking in silence. Finally, a question that had been burning in Stephen's brain for most of the day came out. "Did Elizabeth know you were in love with her?"

"Stephen!" It was a warning growl.

"Does it all really hurt or are you just freaked because I know about so much of your life?"

Nick turned to the young upstart, eyes narrow, mouth set in a tight line. "I'm freaked because you know so much about me," he snarled through clenched teeth. "And," he added, turning away, his voice softening, "it all really hurts."

Stephen's own mouth tightened as he regarded the older man, his torment obvious. "Look, Nick, I'm sorry I'm bringing all this up for you, but I didn't ask for this. I didn't want these dreams or even this--this soul, if this is all true. I didn't want any of it."

"I know, I know," Nick replied quietly. "I'm blaming you because you're doing this, but you have to do it. I know that. I just don't want to be here while you're doing it."

"I'm sorry about that, but I need you."

After a long silence, Nick said, "She suspected, but I never told her."

Stephen looked at Nick with a puzzled frown. Suddenly, he got it and his face cleared. "Elizabeth! How did she know, and why didn't you tell her?"

Over many glasses of bourbon in a quiet hotel bar, Nick told Stephen the story of Elizabeth's life, as he knew it. In a matter-of fact tone, Nick told him of the pictures, the villain, the children, and the redemption by "Dr. Adams." He kept nothing out, telling of his small kernel of hope that Elizabeth felt as he did because of her inability to refuse him anything as she tried to thank him for helping her. She was more than willing to do anything for him, to him. And finally, about how Elizabeth suspected how Dr. Adams felt about her because he sent her back to her husband, her offerings unopened.

"That seemed to follow through with Jacqueline and Michael," Nick concluded quietly. "None of them were able to refuse me anything. I thought it was a characteristic of the soul until I met you." The gaze he sent up and down Stephen was harsh.

"It's a bit different for me," Stephen said, refusing to let Nick bait him. "Besides, didn't you say they were stubborn, that they never gave up? What do you think they would have done if they were in my place."

"They are in your place," Nick muttered. "They would do exactly what you did."

Stephen had no response to that. Nick slowly got off the stool, his movements eloquently expressing his tiredness.

"I'm going to bed," he said quietly.

"Are you going to be all right?"

Hearing the real concern in Stephen's voice, Nick gave him a ghost of a smile, the first real one that Stephen had seen outside the dreams. "I'll be fine, Stephen Drake. I always am." He touched Stephen gently on the shoulder to show that the harshness in those last words was self-directed.

Stephen watched Nick walk out of the bar then got up to follow him. He felt that not trusting the older immortal was a sort of betrayal, but he was afraid that Nick's depression and despair would make him do something foolish, like looking for a sword-happy immortal on the streets of the French Quarter.

Nick, however, did indeed go right to his room, and did meet Stephen the next day. Of course, it was not for breakfast. Apparently, Nick was not an early riser.