Watch This

by Argentum_LS

A/N: Written for Vaznetti as part of the Wayback exchange. Thanks to havocthecat for helping me find the story and to idelthoughts for helping me finalize it. Questions, comments, observations, and concrit always welcomed.

I. Get Noticed

"Excusez-moi." Methos caught the attention of the man who'd sidled out of the row of chairs ahead of him and held out the wallet he'd lifted earlier. Continuing in French, he inquired, "Is this yours? I saw it—" He waved vaguely toward the floor, allowing the man to fill in the most likely spot a misplaced wallet could have landed.

It wasn't bad as far as openings went, and was definitely better than the others Methos had debated while he was supposed to be listening to the homily.

"Excuse me. That's a swell looking symbol you have prominently tattooed on your wrist in a culture where tattooing is widely viewed with contempt. Do you mind telling me where you got it?"

-Or-

"That's an interesting symbol. I've seen a few people with it. What does it mean?"

-Or-

"Secret societies are totally righteous. You know any I can join?

The man turned, slapping at his pockets to verify what his eyes had already told him. Though not tall, he held himself with a confidence that suggested he was used to being in charge—and that mistakes like this were not ones he was used to making. His mouth tightened for a moment, then eased into a grateful smile. "Thank you. I might not have realized until this evening." He also spoke in French, with the word order of long years spent learning the language and an appallingly strong English accent twisting the pronunciation.

Methos handed the wallet over with a humble nod, and, switching languages, he put his own English accent on display. "You're far from home."

The man's smile broadened into that of someone recognizing a kindred spirit. He was only a few years older than Methos appeared to be; between that and the accent, it might be enough for friendship to bloom. "As are you," he responded in kind. He stuck out a hand. "Ian."

For a moment, Methos was stymied. He'd come here to do reconnaissance, and hadn't planned to speak to anyone who needed an identity. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a Bible left on someone's seat. If life had taught him anything, it was to grab the opportunities that arose—and figure out what to do with consequences later. He grasped the proffered hand. "Adam," he answered.

II. Cover Your Ass

"Do you think you can do it?" Methos asked the question, then carefully kept his gaze forward, aimed at the back of the thin wooden door that offered far less privacy than this conversation should have had. It was the best he could do. Though the screen between him and the priest didn't permit seeing more than a silhouette, he didn't want to put any more pressure on the man than necessary. This was too important.

"I have considerable experience in ignoring the demands of the flesh," he answered. Amusement tinged Darius' answer, as if Methos had only inquired about his ability to remain chaste.

"You know it's not the same thing."

"Isn't it?"

Methos bit his lip and refused to take the bait. When this was over—when they once again had the ability to wile away afternoons in conversation without fear of being observed together—they could reopen this parallel. Indeed, Methos looked forward to doing so. For now… "So that's a yes, then?"

Now there came a pause, a hiss of breath being drawn in, but not immediately turned back into words.

"I can ask someone else," Methos offered. "You were my first choice, not my last." Admittedly, the next options were so far down the list as to make them desperate measures, but Darius didn't need to know that. Instead, Methos kneaded his hands together, out of sight, and threw a small prayer out into the ether. While he didn't worship the Christian god, he had no shortage of other gods and divine beings he'd paid homage to over the millennia that might be willing to listen. And if he'd ever needed their help, it was for this.

The air in the confessional was stale and smelled faintly of incense and burning candles. Methos had time to draw several deep breaths and tease apart the different scents before Darius spoke again: "All you need is for me to ignore your Presence?"

"I need you to give me all the attention you would any mortal, in the same way you would. If this is going to work, the Watchers have to have absolutely no reason to suspect me."

Darius nodded, a bare tip of his head to acknowledge the point without yet agreeing. "How am I to know it's you? You are not the only one of our kind who graces me with his company, after all."

That was a different problem, because other Immortals couldn't be read in on what Methos was doing, or why. There were too many of them in Paris, and too many who had no reason to want to participate in the charade. He had also determined that if his plan were going to work at all, he needed to avoid all other Immortals. He would have been willing to Darius, too, should it have been necessary. Immortal friends often went decades, even centuries, without seeing each other; he could've handled a few more years. "We'll figure something out. It wouldn't do for you to ignore everyone. The effect would be lost without contrast."

"Perhaps a dedicated time for your visits? You have already shared what Mass you plan to attend, though that will hardly be sufficient if we need to speak of matters outside the Church's purview. I always advise a weekly Confession. No one would consider it unusual for you to have a standing appointment with your priest…"

They both froze under the wash of a third Immortal, and it suddenly occurred to Methos that his plan might have failed before it was even enacted. If the mystery Immortal was one of those who could identify how many other Immortals were in range, and was the type to comment on such out loud, Methos would have to shelve the whole idea.

Darius glanced at his watch, the timepiece briefly glinting through the screen as his hand rose into view. "That would have to be MacLeod. He wrote me last week and told me he was returning to Paris."

"Connor's in Paris?" Methos sighed, defeated, and started to stand. If Connor was in Paris, that meant Methos needed to not be. They had never met and Methos was determined to keep it that way, because where Connor went, so did the Game.

"Duncan," Darius corrected. "His kinsman."

Unbidden, Methos dropped back onto the seat. "There're two of them?!" Somehow, he managed to keep his volume low enough to not seep through the thin wood of the confessional. A second MacLeod? And one he'd never heard of? Or, maybe he had. He thought back through all the times others had mentioned a Mac or a MacLeod, and how he'd wondered at the man's ability to seemingly be in two places at once. "Does he use the moniker 'Highlander,' as well?"

"It's not very original, I'll grant," Darius confirmed.

"And is this one as blade-happy as the other?"

Methos didn't need to see Darius to hear the smile of one who knew more than he was willing to tell. While Darius had left the battlefield centuries before, he clearly had not lost his touch for tactics.

"Come, I'll introduce you," Darius offered. "Duncan's younger and still has much to learn, but he has an energy I think you'll find interesting."

'Interesting' was not the adjective Methos was looking for, especially right now. "Not today," Methos demurred. "When this is over, perhaps I'll introduce myself."

"So be it." Darius stood; his body blocked the screen and dimmed the light on Methos' side of the confessional which was kept darkened in the old way, to help ease parishioners' tongues. He started to open the door, to step out to greet the other Immortal, then stopped. "I will help you."

It was not a directive to pray the Rosary or say an Absolution, yet held the same weight.

"Then I will owe you," Methos responded.

"No, my friend. You have enough debts to the world without adding one more. Perhaps my efforts will aid you in repaying one or two."

III. Get Close

From the Driver's license in the wallet, Methos learned the man's full name. And from carefully trailing him, he learned the rest.

Ian Bancroft leased a flat a short distance from the church, which he attended every Sunday for the early Mass and every Wednesday for the morning one.

For the life Darius lived, a twice-a-week checkup was bound to be all the Watching necessary.

Ian also lived alone: no wife, no children, no pets. And he frequented a pub that lay between the two buildings. His schedule there was far less regular, though no less devoted.

It took Methos only two weeks to learn the patterns. He allowed two more to verify them, during which time he moved his own residence to a flat on the other side of the church: close enough to justify both the church and the pub as his locals, yet far enough that he and Ian would have been unlikely to run into each other.

Until Methos was ready, that was.

On a carefully selected Tuesday night, Methos pulled up a bar stool and settled in. Only a handful of other patrons filled out the corners, each keeping to himself, though cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air. A jukebox in the corner fed out intermittent songs when someone bothered to feed it Francs, while the sounds from the foot and vehicle traffic outside filtering through the propped open door filled in the gaps.

One beer.

Two.

"Adam?"

Right on time.

Methos swiveled on his seat and, feigning surprise, greeted his new friend.

The most important detail of Ian's life, Methos had recognized in their first meeting: the man was lonely. It was a common consequence of involvement in clandestine organizations, and more so when the other members moved around frequently and unpredictably.

With that knowledge, the pleasantries fell beneath a few shared drinks, and soon Methos was able to lead the conversation to more fruitful territory.

"So, what do you do?" he asked. He knew what answers he wouldn't be getting.

"I keep tabs on a 2000 year old Immortal priest."

-Or-

"I coordinate a team of stalkers who watch people murder each other."

He almost wasn't prepared for the one he did get.

Ian tipped his beer back and finished off the dregs before answering. "Books." One word, no elaboration. He bristled, too, as if their conversation had crossed a line he wasn't ready for.

Trying to keep from sounding impatient, Methos tossed out his own interpretation. "Do you mean writing, binding, or burning? All of the above? Do you have a preferred order of operations?" Leaning closer, he confessed, "Because I've always found that books don't burn very well while the ink and glue are still wet."

The absurdity worked, and Ian chuckled. "I buy and sell antique books. You?"

"Oh, I prefer to keep my antique books in a climate controlled vault," Methos answered, quite honestly. He'd always found that being completely honest could be more distracting than equivocating was. "As for my income, I get that through writing. What a coincidence—" That was entirely planned—"how we're both professional book lovers. In fact, I'm researching a new one right now: local legends of Paris." He paused, sipped his beer, and glanced toward the door as if checking for eavesdroppers before adding, "Did you know there's one about our priest?"

"Father Darius?"

"The same. There are legends of a priest with that name at that church going back 1000 years."

It seemed that when someone didn't age and didn't move around, a few people here and there were bound to notice. And a few people who weren't Watchers had also taken note of the phenomenon over the centuries—though always in oblique and obscure enough ways that the information had stayed hidden, as if they suspected that stating anything outright was dangerous. Mentioning it now was a risk, especially considering Ian's reaction to the earlier question about his job, but it was the one Methos was willing to take. The Watchers needed to have reason to recruit him, after all.

"And there are legends of a troll living under Pont Neuf," Ian rebutted. "If you looked hard enough, I'm certain you could find legends of selkies swimming in the Seine. He shook his head dismissively. "Just because someone dreamed up an idea once, that doesn't mean there's anything to it."

"True enough," Methos demurred.

But Ian's eyes had narrowed and he seemed to be paying closer attention to Methos in the right way.

All Methos had to do now was not die or take a Quickening in front of him.

IV. Level Up

As expected, Darius kept his word. He stepped onto the altar each Sunday morning and, before opening his mouth, performed a slow scan of the people assembled in front of him. His hands stayed folded in his chasuble while the background whispers of the parishioners faded to attentive silence, as if that was what he waited for. But Methos knew Darius was looking for the Immortal he felt—though he never let his eyes linger on the one he inevitably found.

Until, one Sunday, he did.

As the Mass concluded, Darius and Methos briefly locked gazes, and Darius sent a silent message. Organ music swelled and people began to stand up and gather their belongings, and Methos stood and maneuvered into the aisle, but didn't make effort to leave.

Soon enough, Darius appeared. "I had a dream about you." He murmured the words in Latin, layering them under the much louder French chattering of the other church goers. The scrapes and clunks of wooden chairs against the stone floor and echoing off the stone walls provided the rest of the cover. Darius touched Methos' shoulder, then his elbow, signaling that he had more to say, then withdrew his hands into his chasuble.

The precognitive nature of Darius' dreams was well-known amongst those Immortals who confided in him, so Methos immediately grew wary. "Is there something I should watch out for? Should I leave Paris?"

Darius shook his head. "You are on the path you need to tread." He stopped, brows drawing together. Around him, people jostled and pushed, seeking to get past the pair blocking the aisle. Several brushed against his robe as they passed, so intent on getting to their breakfasts that they didn't see their priest standing among them. Their actions caused no offense, as Darius didn't notice them. "There is not much to share, except for one thing." Again, he paused. Darius was not prone to being dramatic, so Methos understood the pauses to be ones of distress. But Darius wouldn't have volunteered any information if he didn't believe it needed sharing. "Before I awoke, I heard the clamor of galloping hooves."

A chill ran down Methos' spine and his breath tightened. The Horsemen. That was all a portent like that could indicate. He glanced toward the door, then up at the stained glass windows that lined the walls, half expecting Kronos to crash through either. "When?"

"My dreams do not come with clocks and calendars," Darius answered, "though I think—"

"Adam!"

Both men spun, guilt darkening their expressions, to see Ian leading another man upstream through the diminishing crowd.

"My apologies, Father," Ian offered, belatedly recognizing that he had interrupted a private conversation. "And to you, Adam. I wanted to introduce you—both of you—to a … er … colleague. He has recently moved to town and is hoping to join your church." He indicated the second man, who stood near Ian but a half-step back, as if uncertain about his inclusion in the group. He looked to be in his 50s, with a short beard that had gone nearly all white and a head that had gone nearly all bald. "This is Don Salzer. He's going to be running a bookstore here."

Don extended his hand and greetings were made all around, with Darius assuring him he would be welcome member of the faith community. Though it was polite enough, Methos sensed that Don was cataloging more than just their names.

And there was no missing the edge of tattoo that peeked out of the sleeve of his white button-down shirt, or the deference Ian paid to Don.

Shoving Darius' warning aside, Methos allowed himself to feel a moment of victory. With Don in the picture, he was no longer dealing with the front lines.

V. Get a Foot in the Door

"It wasn't even a real first edition!" Don crowed. He wasn't the kind to laugh boisterously, but he didn't lack for sense of humor. At his revelation, his face turned red and his eyes began to water. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at them.

The bar was packed tonight, which had forced the men to draw their bar stools as close to each other as they could in order to carry on a conversation over the noise.

"You'd think a bibliophile would have spotted the difference before any money changed hands," Methos commented, shaking his head. He made his mouth twitch into the kind of smile used when one didn't get the joke, but wanted to pretend he had. The Adam Pierson he was creating was so young and had so much to learn.

Don and Ian both nodded in agreement, the beer and the sheer stupidity exemplified in the story softening all their tolerances. Methos signaled for another round while Ian and Don both lit cigarettes. Neither offered him one. It had taken a few meetings before they finally believed Methos really didn't smoke and wasn't going to start for them. He had to draw a line somewhere.

People got suspicious if you were too amenable.

"So, I found another lead," Methos offered. He leaned into their cloud of smoke so he could lower his voice a notch. "I have an interview all set up for next week. All these stories of people living hundreds of years … there just might be something there."

The Watchers exchanged a glance, then each took a long drag, like they'd rehearsed the pause. Ian ended the pause first. "With whom?"

"A woman who lives in an Abbey outside the city. Some say she's been living there longer than Father Darius." He pretended to search his memory. "Her name starts with an R … Rachael …" From his pocket, he pulled a small notebook he'd mocked up with notes on his fake research project and riffled through it until he found the entry on the interview. In the corner of the page, he'd sketched a circle with a stylized rams' horn through the middle, like he'd drawn the Watchers' symbol from someone else's memory. "Rebecca! That's it. Rebecca." He made sure Ian and Don caught a glimpse of the sketch before he put the book away.

Once again, they exchanged a look. This one was more serious, and Don's face had drained of color.

"Would you believe I had to set up the interview by letter? Who doesn't have a telephone these days?" Methos pretended to be oblivious to the unspoken argument his new friends were having.

"It's because she's over 4000 years old and still thinks the postal service is an innovative invention."

-Or-

"Because she's trying to hide from whackos like you."

-Or-

Don stubbed out his cigarette, leaving a full knuckle's width above the filter unburned when normally he smoked to its edge.

"Adam," he started, "what if we told you it was all true?"

Adam's eyes widened in innocent curiosity, and he looked from Don to Ian and back, as if verify their friendly intentions. Inwardly, Methos enjoyed the warm glow of a military strategy executed with precision. His unmarked wrist caught his eye. He wasn't in yet, and he still had a lot of work to do.

With a little patience—and perhaps a couple faked injuries to "prove" his mortality—he could work on getting assigned to the most coveted Immortal of all—himself.