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No Good Deed
Methos stomped down the street in a foul mood out of all proportion to the provocation. After all what had been disrupted? Merely a trip down to the local Italian café bar for a Sunday morning coffee over the papers with MacLeod. They'd done it last week and the week before that and the week before that. It wasn't a tragedy, in the scheme of things, to skip a week, was it? No, it wasn't. And it wasn't missing Carlo's coffee that was the problem. And to be honest, the problem wasn't what MacLeod had found to do with his time rather than spend it with Methos and a couple of cappuccinos. Even if rescuing a little old lady's cat from a tree was getting a little too stereotypical, even for MacLeod. There were mitigating circumstances, however. For a start the little old lady, wasn't that old, but was a chain-smoking, retired air-hostess called Irene who appeared to live on gin and was running an impromptu animal shelter from her house. Or rather, *in* her house. Trumpet, the cat up the tree, was one of her waifs and strays. The explanation for his name, 'Because that's where he likes to sleep, darling,' had given Methos an insight into Irene's domestic arrangements he hadn't cared to pursue further. It was accidental that when the two immortals left their house for the weekly trip to Westbourne Grove and coffee, they found Trumpet high up in one of the plane trees that lined the street and Irene at the bottom alternately cursing him and looking worried. It was inevitable that MacLeod offered to help. Methos had pointed out that cats had evolved to climb trees and had perfected the art of getting down from them as well and that Trumpet would undoubtedly get down on his own without any assistance. MacLeod had said that they still needed to help. Methos replied that *he* wasn't going to get involved in such a waste of time. 'If that's the way you want it,' MacLeod said, shrugging. 'Fine!' Methos turned on his heel and stalked off down the road, leaving Mac, Irene and Trumpet to get on with it. He was still simmering with anger when he reached the newsagents. Sunday Times for him and Sunday Independent (and how bloody boring was that?) for MacLeod. Back on the street he hesitated; he could go back to see how MacLeod was getting on with the rescue or he could go to Carlo's, have a cappuccino and listen to the latest instalment of Carlo's improbable love life. Neither option seemed that appealing. He breathed deeply and tried to sort out why he was feeling that way, why MacLeod's actions made him so angry. No, not angry. Afraid. Afraid of MacLeod's instinctive reaction to want to help those who needed it, the Boy Scout reflex. It wasn't any surprise to him, he'd known MacLeod by reputation for a long time and personally for five years before they finally become lovers. But watching a friend put his life on the line was one thing, watching a lover do it, was something else entirely. Of course MacLeod was taking no risks in rescuing a cat, but some day it wouldn't be a cat and he would be in real danger and Methos would have no more success in talking him out of it than he just had twenty minutes ago. And if he was honest he wouldn't really have in any other way. A Duncan MacLeod who didn't rescue kittens or get friends out of fixes or challenge evil immortals wasn't the Duncan MacLeod Methos had fallen in love with. He couldn't change him, so he had to find a way to deal with it. Methos sighed and turned back to their home. They'd have to talk. He met MacLeod further down the street. The Scot was struggling with a long ladder. 'Great,' he said. 'You can give me a hand with this. Our ladders are too short, so I borrowed these off Geoff at Number 43.' It was news to Methos that they had ladders of any length, but he didn't argue and shouldered his end of the burden. They got to the tree and he helped MacLeod prop the ladder against it while Irene held the papers. Methos squinted up at the cat, who was mewling pathetically on a thin branch. 'Is it my imagination, or is that cat higher up than when I left?' 'That's why we need the longer ladder,' MacLeod explained. 'Hold the bottom steady for me will you?' Methos obeyed and watched his lover's progress up the tree. 'Mew, mew,' went the cat. 'Puss-puss. Here puss-puss,' went Duncan MacLeod, hero of Culloden. Methos watched MacLeod get to the right height and stretch out a tentative hand to the bundle of ginger fur clinging to the branch. 'Brawowwww,' said Trumpet, doubtfully. 'Here Trumpet, don't be frightened. Gotcha!' MacLeod made a grab for the cat and Methos saw it change from a scared little cat into a spitting and hissing handful of fur, claws and teeth. It raged up MacLeod's arm, scrabbled for purchase on his shoulder and then took a leap down the tree trunk to just above Methos' head. Methos turned his head protectively to one side in time to see an angry blob of fur jump off the tree, ricochet off the ground and head straight up the trunk of the next tree along the street. He started to laugh. He laughed as MacLeod, holding bleeding hand to clawed cheek, climbed carefully down the ladder. He was laughing so much that when they got to their front door he couldn't fit the key in the lock and MacLeod had to do it. He lay on the sofa in their living room and laughed as MacLeod went upstairs to wash the blood from his face and hands. He was still laughing when MacLeod came back downstairs and went out to retrieve the ladder from the tree and take it back to its owner. By the time he came back, Methos was starting to sober up, but the sulky glare MacLeod gave him as he went into the kitchen set him off again. Eventually, he stopped and levered himself off the sofa, wincing as his stomach muscles protested. He became serious; there was something he had to say to MacLeod. Oh yes, he knew what it was. 'Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,' he drawled. MacLeod looked up from where he had been setting the coffee machine going, his face was wary, no doubt waiting for a clever remark from his lover. Methos walked over to him and rubbed a finger across the cheek that the cat had scratched. There was no trace of it on the immortal skin. 'I love you, you know,' he said. The End
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Freyja's Highlander Slash Fic |
