1. The first story takes place after the double quickening between Methos and Duncan. Methos comes to Joe’s bar and collapses while Joe calls Macleod to try and figure out what is wrong with him. While Joe and Duncan take care of an unconscious Methos, Methos is mentally fighting against Kronos who is trying to take over his mind.
Here is an excerpt from the fic:
It was an effort to put one foot in front of the other. He could hear his own gasping breaths, could feel his legs trembling from the exertion, and he concentrated on the sensations. It was vital to keep aware of himself. Periodically, he bit his tongue and lips, grounding himself to keep from slipping away.
People passed him, but he did not notice them or their stares. Fortunately, he knew the way without thinking, so he could concentrate completely on walking.
A sharp honking momentarily jarred his concentration, and he became aware of a man shouting at him in French, but he ignored him. He had to keep moving. There was very little time before his exhausted body would fail him, and he had to be there by then. The alternative was collapse in the street, then probably some French hospital, drugs, maybe a mental asylum. Unthinkable.
*I am Admetos*, he thought in a language that was older than the Minoan culture, older than the pyramids. The thought blurred, frayed, and he bit his lip until he tasted blood.
Dimly, he could hear the cursed laughter in his mind.
Joe didn't normally look up from his guitar every time the bar door opened. He usually was too engrossed in his music to even notice, and besides, on good days a bar door opening was hardly noteworthy. But today was very slow; in fact, he was his only customer, playing for his personal enjoyment, and so the entrance of a newcomer was interesting enough to capture his attention. Then there was the way the door opened - slowly, hesitantly, almost fearfully.
But when Joe got a glimpse at his visitor, he realized that fear was not the reason for the unusual entrance.
"Methos!" Putting his guitar aside, Joe levered himself to his feet.
It was obvious that sheer willpower was the only thing keeping the old Immortal on his feet. He looked like death warmed over. Joe cringed inwardly. In view of recent developments, that comparison was more than a little too apt.
Stumbling with exhaustion, Methos made his way towards the Watcher like a marionette. Sweat and dirt stained his face; his clothes were wrinkled and in disarray, as if he'd been sleeping in them for days. *Well*, Joe calculated mentally, *Bordeaux happened two weeks ago, didn't it?* And no one had seen the Old Man since, not Joe, and not MacLeod, either.
2. I don’t remember when the second story takes place. Methos is secretly fighting Duncan’s battles to protect him by pretending to be him. Duncan finds out about it and wants to confront him, but then Methos is injured before he can.
Here is an excerpt from the fic:
It was a rainy morning, and the streets were deserted. Methos cursed under his breath. If it came to a fight, it would happen right here. Quickly scanning his whereabouts, he noticed with relief that he was still too far away from his car for it to get damaged in the quickening. Then he spotted his adversary, who was advancing with his sword already drawn.
"I'm Patrique Moriot", the newcomer called, squaring his broad shoulders and settling into a fighter's stance. "Duncan MacLeod?"
The mentioning of that particular name jarred Methos all the way down from his emotional high. *Another one.* He didn't think before responding. "Aye, tha's me", he called back, trying to imitate Duncan's voice along with his accent. "Wha' is it ye're wantin'?"
Moriot launched. "Your head!"
*My, aren't we subtle.* "Come in' ge' i'."
He was good, Methos noted, but not good enough. And certainly too stupid to deserve surviving his mistakes, for every Immortal on the planet who knew Duncan MacLeod also knew that the Highlander's sword was a katana, not an thirteenth century European broadsword. Not to mention the fact that MacLeod's hair was longer. Methos didn't bother to keep up the charade, falling back on his own fighting style, which mainly consisted of making the opponent underestimate him. When the time was right, he faked a stumble in the tried-and-trusted Veranus Maneouver, utilizing the resulting opening in Moriot's defense to put his back-up short sword into the opponent's diaphragm. Moriot couldn't even curse.
*Works every time.* Methos stood back, raising his sword above his head.
Moriot raised terrified eyes to him.
"Oh", Methos said conversationally, "in case you've fogotten: There can be only one."
The quickening tore into him with the unbearable ecstatic agony that usually made him avoid challenges at all costs. It drove him to his knees, making him hang on desperately to the last remaining shreds of santity, of identity. Moriot's last stand - the attempt to take over his killer's body. It had been known to happen, and Methos could sympathize with this last-ditch effort to turn around the outcome of the fight even after it was lost. He would try the very same thing if it ever came to it.
*I AM METHOS! * he screamed into the cacophony in his mind. *THIS IS MY MIND! THIS IS MY BODY! YOU ARE DEAD! DEAD!*
At last, the defeated Immortal's quickening dispersed, losing its sense of being and becoming nothing more than accumulated knowledge and power to add to Methos' own. Aching with that bone-deep pain every quickening caused in him, Methos forced his eyes open. *Never again*, he vowed. *This was the very last time, I swear. I will lay down my sword, retire to Holy Ground, never fight again. Gods, I am too old for this shit.*