Not

It started out simply enough: an ordinary day, another bead on the chain. The sun came up, he went to bed. Nightmare one, up, down. Nightmare two, up, vomit. Nightmare three, up, coffee and croissant.

He bought his daily newspaper and wandered across to Joe's in search of a little company. MacLeod was out of town, always out of town these days, but the new bartender had displayed a talent for chess. Cocky with it too, and Methos was prepared to get medieval---or possibly Renaissance--on his ass. He knocked and waited. When no one answered he knocked again and squinted through the rippled glass. No movement visible, but clanks and maybe cursing; he tapped the lock experimentally.

Five minutes later he was sliding his tools back in their case and mentally thanking Amanda. He squeezed the handle, pushing the door open, and peered in. Muffled voices; a barstool scraped against the floor. The lights were on, but what he could see of the bar looked empty. Very odd for this time of afternoon. He moved in a cautious few steps and the yeasty smell of spilt beer rose around him. Craning his neck, he got a view of the main bar and a bit of the floor behind. A plaid-shirted body lay twisted under the taps. Methos drew his gun slowly from his pocket and crept closer. He tilted the gun up and leaned across the bar. "Joe? Are you all right?"

There was a bump, and a curse, and Joe brought his head out from under the bar. "What the fuck..." He looked up at Methos in annoyance, which changed rapidly to alarm. "No! Don't!" Methos twisted, leveling his gun, as something crashed into the back of his head and he fell, shooting, face down in a shower of beer.

+++

Red, he saw red with his eyes closed. Some light shining over his face. He cracked a peek and winced at the dazzle. A shape bobbed toward him, and he tried to blink it into focus. Sound emerged from the haze, boots on stone, leather slapping, someone leaning over him...

"Greetings, Brother!"

"Bugger!"... He prodded his stunned brain into life.

"Now, is that a thing to say? I've missed you, you know."

Methos lay on his back and stared up at the face of nightmare one, fresher, brighter, more pungent than memory allowed. "Kronos. You're dead."

"Bright boy. Here, get off your back." He grasped Methos by the arm and pulled him upright.

Methos shook off the helping hand and looked around. "This isn't Heaven, I take it." They were standing on a pier overlooking black water, in a starless, moonless night. Torches blazed at intervals, reflected in the lapping waves.

"It's what you make of it Brother, just like life. Close enough. Maybe better, who knows." Kronos grinned, indecently cheerful, and grasped Methos by his coat lapel. "Feel real enough for you?"

He'd had Kronos's hands on him often enough to recognize the grip. Nasty, but something to hang onto. "Enough." He reached automatically for the weight at his side and brushed nothing but cloth. "My sword!" The gun, the main gauche, the lockpick case, all gone.

"Don't need it." Kronos laughed at Methos's panicked glare and released him. "I can't kill you here, much as you deserve it. Against the rules, for now. What do you say to a drink?"

Drink good. Methos shook his head and clutched after sense. "I think I'd prefer a bit more specific information on where and what and why before I..." Kronos was walking away from him fast, away from the water and the light. Methos hunched his shoulders, flapped his coat around himself protectively and hurried after, before Kronos was lost to sight. He stumbled down a cobbled street between blind buildings to an alley, the thudding boots and clinks from the fittings of Kronos's leather jacket for a guide. He caught up to him, close enough to smell the dressing on his hair, eerily familiar and, again, a small comfort in this abyss. They stopped short at an indentation in a wall. Kronos rattled a latch and swung a door open on lights and noise and smoke. A pub. An honest to god public room with lights and people and a long, polished bar where serried ranks of bottles gleamed. Methos sighed.

Kronos pushed him toward a booth and signaled a waitress. "Jack Daniels, rocks. And scotch for my man here--Macallan." He quirked a brow at Methos. "It was scotch, last I heard?"

"There's malt whisky in hell? What do the angels drink?" Kronos couldn't kill him; so far, so good.

"This isn't hell; I didn't think you believed in such things. Something more frightening than us." There it was, the flash of knife beneath the humor. "Didn't think you believed in anything but saving that precious hide of yours--just think of me as a Messenger from whatever protective deity you paid lip service to last. A caution and a threat."

The whisky arrived and Methos took a long eye-watering swallow. "A Messenger from the great beyond? Expect me to believe that, do you?"

Kronos leaned back and stared, amiably. "You've been dreaming about me. Not about your treachery, not about getting your faithful brothers in arms killed--about the good old days, riding together to raid and kill and laugh at the world."

"Indigestion. You're a bad lobster dinner, Kronos. You could be nothing but a tainted clams casino now."

"Pretty intimate with that lobster, were you? I've seen those dreams; I know what you remember. I know what you miss." He reached under the table to grab Methos's thigh, sending shivers racing up the long muscles to his crotch. Laughed at the look on Methos's face. "Can't do that now either, more's the pity."

Methos knew the dreams too well. The doubts, the regrets, the desire...the loss. He was too old to believe in justice or retribution, or absolutes at either end of virtue's scale. But hell--hell he could accept. hell was being numb and alone again. He drank off the rest of his scotch and cracked the glass on the table. "As nightmares go, this is pretty tame so far. What do you have to show me, ghost? 'A Christmas Carol,' is it, or 'It's a Wonderful Life'?"

"I've missed hearing you talk, Brother. No, I'm just the guide, I don't explain. Maybe I'm here to show you what a fine place the world would be without your meddling self. How's that sound?"

"Can we skip it? I'm not about to jump off a bridge. Another drink, I'll swear I'm happy to be alive, and you can send me home to buy some beggar a goose."

"Not your choice to make. Better have that drink, though. I'm going to enjoy this, I can tell." He turned to gesture to the waitress and Methos watched the shift of his shoulders, the lift of his arm. This was different from the nightmares. This felt strangely good, being in company with an old comrade, without the threat of death. The glass was set before him. He raised it in a mock salute and the bar blinked out around him.

Kronos steadied him as he staggered. "Remember, you're not real; nobody sees you or hears you or knows you're around." They were in a forest, green and fresh. A man stood before a cabin, chopping wood. A huge hairy dog lolled in the grass nearby, gnawing a knotted rope. Methos's throat tightened; he swigged his whisky and shrugged. "So?"

"It's today and he's still alive. A waste of a strong right arm and a lust for battle, if you ask me; but I'm not writing this. Alive, Brother, because you didn't kill him. Alive because you never betrayed him to anyone else."

"To you, you mean." He looked at the sun glinting on the axe and the dog barked. "But if I was never here...."

A shimmer shook the forest and he slopped his glass. Now they were on a rooftop overlooking a city, hazy with heat. Soft tar oozed under his feet. A short distance away a man crouched with an automatic rifle; he turned his head to wipe sweat from his eyes and looked right through them. Methos sighed. "Don't tell me you're making a case for St. Galati?"

The rifleman squeezed off a few shots and slapped the parapet in satisfaction. "His enemies are our enemies. He's keeping them in line, a few at a time." Kronos gripped his shoulder and pressed close, purring in his ear. "I won't ask whose side you're on; I know."

Methos leaned into the grasp and closed his eyes. Nightmare two, without blood and screams: the hard grip lost, the voice in the dark vanished. The empty pit with no one's hand to catch him. But the grasp was real, the body hard behind him, the breath hot against his cheek. Kronos chuckled. "I think we've drifted off cue here." Methos dropped the glass and turned, eyes still closed, reaching for the remembered embrace.

The roof dropped away beneath his feet and he fell, into Kronos's arms. Caught. Held. A better dream than he'd endured in months. He wrapped his arms around the leather jacket and pulled Kronos closer, tucking his head down. He didn't care who was beside them now--Don Salzer? Byron? Kristen, the eternal bitch? He licked the side of Kronos's throat, below the curve of his jaw.

"Rules, Brother, rules; pay attention," cautioned Kronos in a roughening voice, and slapped his ass.

"Fuck this. Fuck your rules. Fuck me." He canted his hips to press against Kronos's thigh and froze at the laugh beyond him. Nightmare three.

"Do you know what I am?"

Methos gripped Kronos tighter and looked across his shoulder at the wild-eyed, unshaven man brandishing a sword. Behind Methos a calm voice answered. "You're not yourself, Duncan." A church, they were in a church. Not the same church, thank god for that.

"Oh, I'm more myself than you've ever known." MacLeod snarled and swung the sword in an arc that swept through their necks to cut a candle in two. Kronos smirked at Methos's shocked jerk backward and let him go. "Now there's a bit of deja vu you haven't had the pleasure of." Methos shoved him off and backed up the aisle, away from the sword and MacLeod.

Sean Burns stood beside him, making soothing gestures. "The hate isn't yours, Duncan. I can help you. Just lay down your sword and give me your hand." Methos's breath shortened; he felt his pulse pound, looking at MacLeod's leer, the brutal twist of mouth, the earring...fine eye for detail there, he told himself. It's a dream, just a dream. He saw something flicker in the madman's eyes; Mac cocked his head and stared at Methos as though he saw him, glanced from him to Kronos with something like recognition. Then he snapped his attention back to Burns and grasped his hand, pulling him forward. Burns tripped and he caught him by the collar. Duncan kissed him roughly and pushed him down, overturning a stand of votive lights. In the echoing crash he stalked out, scattering sand and kicking the rolling candles in his path. Methos exhaled with relief, while Burns scrambled up to sink into a pew. Kronos looked after MacLeod thoughtfully.

"What happened to him! Show me! Where's Mac today?"

Kronos stood gazing through the doorway. "Well, officially there's no today for him; he couldn't last long on his own like that. But that other boring prick is still around."

"What do you mean? MacLeod is dead? Sean's alive? Because I wasn't here?"

Kronos finally looked back at him and frowned. "You know, you've wasted entirely too much time on that self-righteous prig. I mean, I'm speaking as a spiritual guide here, Brother, not just as the thousand-year companion you threw over for a pretty face. You're better off without him. This version of the warrior bastard, though... what do you say? Did you like it when he roughed you up?"

Methos waved him away. "He was mad and getting worse by the hour. You wouldn't have put up with him for a day."

Kronos shrugged. "Pity. He showed some definite promise there, I thought."

Methos leaned against a column and shook his head. He was tired, and his stomach was sour. Duncan dead, even in a dream, made his heart ache. "Is that your big finale? Are we done, yet? Because I have to say, I don't see the point."

"Well, you always were the clever one. You'll come up with some rhyme and reason for it all." He tilted his head. "Kisses over, now?" Methos looked down at the ashes on the floor. Kronos shrugged. "Save it for your fancies, then. One more little treat in store, thanks to the powers that be and your holy Highlander. I pulled a lot of strings to get my hands on this."

Methos looked up as the light shimmered again. They were in a library, wood paneled, with leather club chairs facing a cabinet. "A little less Gothic than your usual taste, I'd say."

"It's on loan. The fixings are on the sideboard, help yourself. Make mine with ice."

"A barbarian to the end, aren't you?" Methos poured the whiskey--bourbon, it seemed--from a decanter into heavy-bottomed cut crystal. Kronos swung open a cabinet door, revealing a television monitor and bulky tape player.

"Pirate copies haven't made it onto DVD yet," Kronos said, sliding in a tape. He settled in a chair next to Methos's and picked up his glass from the table between them. "Cheers," he said, and the tape began to play.

Methos recognized Hugh Fitzcairn from MacLeod's cross references. He sipped and frowned. So MacLeod got light and ferns and a heavenly host, eh? By the time Amanda's little turn was done, he had finished his first drink and was headed for the sideboard, snorting.

"Bring the decanter; there's a lot to come."

"How much? I'm five thousand years old and he gets the grand tour?"

"Did you want to see more?" Kronos asked. Methos ignored him, watching MacLeod gaze into Tessa's eyes. "Hey!" Kronos prodded Methos's side. "The good stuff isn't on yet; soon, though, soon."

Soon enough. The man on the screen barked at the barmaid. "Oy, you tart, what's it take to get served in this hole?" Methos stared, riveted. And then, "Good lord, that's Jillian, from accounting! She's the office gossip--he's insane! Don't trust her, you idiot. Ah, no. No."

Gunfire, then: "Greetings, Brother." Kronos grinned. "I rather like this part. Sorry about your little Jillian--you always did have wretched luck with women. But you should listen to yourself: 'It's all that matters in the end.'"

"Without you, he hadn't changed enough. Pity...." Methos threw his whiskey at the screen and swore, inventively and at length, while Kronos kicked back in his chair and laughed..

"I thought you'd appreciate that. It gets better."

He watched. Watched MacLeod watching him recruit and kill Richie, kidnap and torture Joe. Watched MacLeod, indignant, step in with sword drawn and beat down Kronos then challenge and swing a killing blow at him, while Joe urged him on. Watched until Fitz's voice faded and the screen went blue.

Kronos snapped his fingers at the set and it died.

"Oh, that son of a bitch. No." Methos shook his head. "Oh, no, that never happened. Not Mac."

"Rumor has it MacLeod saw this while you were trying to save him from O'Rourke."

"He said we'd been fighting. He said...." Methos clutched the empty glass until the facets dug into his flesh. "More lies, Kronos."

"I'm not the liar among us, Methos. That's what your precious Mac was shown and that's what he believed."

"Believed we'd be like that without him? That...did Fitz, did that, come from his mind? Did he make that up?"

"Did you?"

Good question: ask a hallucination what was real. He took a breath. "Get me back. I've got some inquiries to make."

"Brilliant! Count on you to have a plan." Kronos bent toward him and brushed a thumb across his mouth. "See you in your dreams, Brother." He slapped Methos across the face and the room exploded into shards of glass.

+++

Someone was slapping his face. His wet face. "Hey, buddy, want to leave some for the paying guests?"

Methos blinked and raised a hand to a healing lump on his head. Joe grinned down at the soggy Immortal and prodded him with his cane. "I told you he wasn't dead."

Brian the bartender was dabbing his face with a wet cloth, white faced and shaky. "Adam, I'm so sorry. I saw Joe and the gun...."

"And decked you with a pitcher of beer." Joe poked him again. "Now what the hell were you doing sneaking around here with a gun when we're closed?"

Methos struggled up. His coat was soaked and his sword hilt was digging into his side. "There was no answer. I saw you on the floor under the bar." He glared at Joe. "I was trying to help, you ingrate. You bloody bastards, I've been trying to help."

"Fixing the tap. Nobody else does it right." Joe ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "Relax, sit down. Brian, take a break and then mop this up."

"Relax, my arse. Where's MacLeod?"

"How would I know? Look, have a drink and calm down. It was an honest mistake."

"I've drunk enough. You're his Watcher, damn it, you know where he is."

Joe rubbed the bar rag over the wood where Methos had dripped. "I can check. He was in London, last I heard."

"You do that," Methos snapped. Dream or not, he had things to say, a few home truths for a certain Scot. And his little angel too, if he could find a way. As for the nightmares, he was rather looking forward to tomorrow.

Never again, indeed.

-End-