Chapter Text
There was no escape. Methos knew this in his bones as surely as he knew the feel of a sword through the belly. The end had been clear as soon as the first news story hit the stands. "Immortal Beings live among us" blazoned across the front page. Of course it had taken years for it all to come together. For the powers that be to use the information and corroborate what the news said. One by one every immortal he knew, personally, and through the years as a Watcher, was plucked up by some government's military, it was only a matter of time before they came for him.
He had kept his identity as an immortal quite well hidden in the last century or so, skirting around every immortal and joining the watchers to be sure of his anonymity. He had been so careful, erasing all connection to the famous oldest immortal and living a peaceful life. That is until he ran afoul of Kalas. Until he had met MacLeod.
MacLeod had pulled him out of hiding, not by force, but through temptation. The man tantalized him something fierce and he had found he couldn’t stay away. There was something so terribly enigmatic about him, an intricate puzzle of violence and grace, morality and judgment. Goodness and Darkness all wrapped into a smart complex package. Methos had fallen for him willingly. At first to keep the poor foolish man alive, and then to keep himself that way. Not until his own stupid actions had led to the exposure of all of them.
Of course even had he not met the man, disaster would have befallen them all eventually. His work with the Watchers to create a digital database, his unworthy contribution to the story. Ultimately he had to admit his own hubris was probably to blame for most of their current problems. Though he also schooled himself at his own self importance, if he had not created a database someone else in the organization would have soon enough. Everything was digital now, it had only been a matter of time.
Even with the release of the disk at Kalas’ hands, as his head dropped to the ground at MacLeod’s sword, it had taken years for the world to make their moves.
Now here he was over a decade later, holed up in a basement in Paris, burying his sword so it would be there when all this blew over. If this all blew over. His long life had taught him that everything was temporary, all monarchs die, all empires turn to dust. Even the best swords wore down over time and needed to be replaced. He finished the last swipe of grout over the hole he had bored into the cavern, and brushed his hand off on his pants.
He no longer had to fear his brethren, all of his enemies were already in custody, and none of them thought of fighting amongst themselves anyway. Not now. Not when mortals could simply shoot them down and turn them in. Many a mortal had died for looking too similar to a known immortal in the last few months.
For the longest time he had held out hope. Had tried to go to ground, but there was no safe place left on the planet these days. No hiding place when your face and alias were plastered on every television and device. Not when the world wanted you to wage their wars for them.
Then MacLeod had been taken. He knew it was all over then. His one regret was that he hadn’t been at his side when it happened. He also knew if Macleod was in custody then he should be there.
Making his way up the stone steps out of the basement, he locked the door, and slid the panels into place to hide where it was located from prying eyes. Not feeling like waiting for them to come for him, he put on his trenchcoat, the one MacLeod had bought him their first winter together, and walked himself through the Paris streets. The sky overcast, the streets wet from their morning flooding to clean the gutters, the wind ruffling his hair.
His senses pricked as they emerged from the shadows and around buildings. There was an immortal traitor in their midst as well for the buzz overcame him as well. Strolling idly he pretended not to notice.
“Adam?”
Methos looked up at his name, to his surprise it was Duncan, he wasn’t being held in cuffs, but he was obviously being used to gather the rest of them. Methos hadn’t known he was still in Paris.
Their eyes met, saying a million things to each other. Saying nothing at all, for what did words mean to them anymore? Methos accepted the betrayal, knowing that by using his alias Duncan was doing everything in his power to protect him still.
Methos stopped walking and let himself be surrounded. When they had him cuffed and bound, guns pointed at his heart, he looked around, but Duncan had been carted away again.
It was the last time he saw him for decades.