Worlds Apart Xover, HL/Waiting for God (Oh, relax, don't look at me like that. <  No it's not the remake of Harold and Maude. It's gen. Quite possibly the only gen thing you will see me produce, as far as that goes… ;) It was a marvelous late September afternoon in Derwent Park. The sun was out, taking most of the nip out of the cool fall air. Two men stood talking at the park entrance, standing closer perhaps than some of the people passing by might have approved of.  Both attracted attention with their looks as well as their stances. One was tall, large and muscular, with olive skin and sensual male-model looks, his long dark hair gathered into a thick ponytail by a heavy antique silver hairclip.  His companion was slender, almost to the point of seeming frail, features pale under short-cropped dark brown hair. A casual observer might be tempted to focus on his taller companion's blatantly handsome face, then be drawn back to notice the smaller man's broad, high cheekbones, chiseled features and lively green eyes and realize that they were both beautiful.   Both wore long dark overcoats, and the slender man slipped his hands into the pockets of his companion's coat, drawing him in close as they talked. "Why does Resnick need to speak with you alone, exactly?" Methos looked intently into MacLeod's face, his keen eyes searching for any hint of deception, of anything that the other man might be attempting to keep hidden. It would be just like the big Scots git to lie about how serious this meeting might become, just to keep Methos out of harm's way. Needless as it was, Duncan was always doing it. Dark coffee-colored eyes regarded him with amusement, and MacLeod chuckled, slipping his fingers into the belt loops of Methos'jeans. "Because he's a nervous little prick and he thinks I might be an undercover detective as it is. If I bring someone else with me he's simply going to rabbit, and I'll have to start looking for him all over again. Don't worry, he hasn't got the nerve, or a reason, to try anything stupid." Methos frowned at him, obviously unconvinced, but gave in. Reluctantly, he watched his lover stride off into the park, heading toward the designated rendezvous spot dictated by Resnick. He knew this had nothing to do with the Game, it simply concerned some stolen religious icons that MacLeod was trying to buy from the art smuggler. But he still worried when that damned boyscout was out of his sight, especially on an errand like this. The man could find headhunting Immortals while stopping at a convenience store for bread. It would be par for the course if this entire thing turned out to be an excuse for some new Immortal to come hunting MacLeod's famous head. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trenchcoat, he turned and began to wander aimlessly back toward the parkside café that he and Mac had eaten breakfast at earlier. As he strolled, he idly watched a group of student types kicking a soccer ball around in one of the park's grassy open areas.   "My God. I don't believe it."   The voice, its quality and cadence struck a buried layer of memory in Methos, and for one dizzying moment he wasn't Methos or Adam Pierson, but--- "Michael. Michael Dunbar. It is you." He spun, and looked into a pair of sharp, bright gray-blue eyes and his own went wide for one astonished instant before his mind kicked in and he shuttered his expression, injecting just the right amount of puzzlement into the gaze he leveled at the elderly woman in front of him. She stood there, looking into his face, her own gone slack with amazement. He could still see traces of the beauty she'd possessed forty-odd years ago, the high cheekbones and fine lines of her face still there under the wrinkled, sagging skin, the chestnut hair now silver white, but still thick and luxuriant. Then he realized that he was staring, and his instincts kicked back in. Schooling his expression carefully, he spoke in his polite, slightly timid grad student voice. "Ah, I'm sorry, madam…my name is Pierson. Adam Pierson. I'm afraid you must have me confused with somebody else."  Her eyes narrowed.   Crack! Methos yelled in pain and surprise as her black cane lashed out and connected with his left shinbone. "Ow! What the hell are you—*Ow*!"  Another blow landed just below his left knee, and he hopped back before she could land yet another one. "Don't shovel that tripe at me, you little bastard," she snapped. "You couldn't lie to me convincingly back when I was considerably more young and gullible; you certainly can't do it now."  Then she seemed to realize what she was saying, and her voice faded, her face paling. Confusion replaced the anger snapping in her eyes, and she suddenly looked as if she might collapse. "But---I don't understand, how can it be you---you haven't aged, you---you're still the same." Sinking down onto a wrought iron bench, she looked at the back of her own withered hand, then up into his smooth, youthful, distressed face. "Dear God. I'm starting to see things." Methos shook his head, cursing himself for being so slow to react. < He bit his lip, looking into her pale face. << Ah, no, I hate this. I hate seeing them like this. She knows it's me, what do I tell her?> He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. < Methos knelt, carefully keeping a distance of a few feet, and quietly said, "No, Diana. You're not seeing things. It is me, and there is an explanation for it." She shook her head disbelievingly. "How? Are you"…she looked almost embarrassed, but went on, "are you a ghost?" A little bit of the stunned fear left her eyes, replaced by the piercing intelligence and fierce independence that had captivated him so when they met back in 1952. Her expression darkened and she frowned at him, eyes narrowing. "This isn't some sickening Bronte-novel method of ushering me through the Pearly Gates, is it? Sending the spirit of my long-lost true love to ease my way into the white light? I'm not back at the café sitting in my little chair like a pickled herring, dead as a doornail while Harvey grabs some poor nauseated waitress for an impromptu victory tango? Because if that's the case, you little prat," she hissed, "you can just bloody well stick me right back into my tired old carcass for a few more years of mayhem, or you can just point me in the right direction and then bugger off." Methos stared at her, speechless. This had happened a few times over the years, running into people he'd known decades before and having to come up with some story to explain it, or in even rarer cases, telling them at least part of the truth—but this reaction was utterly novel to him.   The end of her cane came up and planted itself firmly against his breastbone. "If you're Michael's ghost, I'd very much like to hear your explanation for that little disappearing act you pulled on me four decades ago. And I hope for your ectoplasmic sake that your explanation involves you being hit by a bus on your way to see me and being buried in some potter's field because you weren't carrying any identification." Methos smiled. "No, I'm not Michael's ghost. I am Michael, or rather I was. My name is Adam Pierson now, and I've had other names too, more than I can ever begin to count. Diana, I want to tell you the truth about me. Part of why I left the way I did was because suddenly realized that I was close to telling you the truth back then---and I knew it was a terrible idea. I was getting too fond of you, too close to you…and you were getting to close to me. I had to move on. I'm sorry." He gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. "It may not win me any medals, but running from difficult situations has been my best defense through the years. It's kept me alive for a long time. I didn't have the courage to do it before, but...you deserve to know about me." He smiled. "I have to warn you though, it's going to sound pretty unbelievable." "You mean more unbelievable than a man in his seventies still looking like an undergraduate?" She settled back on the bench and folded her arms, cool gray-blue eyes appraising him. "Does this explanation involve UFOs, or you being from another planet? Or a time machine?" With a little shake of his head, he softly said "No...nothing like that..." She nodded decisively. "Good. Mind you, I still probably won't believe you, but at least you've passed the initial weeding-out process. I am all ears." He drew a deep breath and began to talk. As he spoke, her expression alternated between incredulity, skepticism, and fascination. When he was done, he leaned back against the bench and regarded her from fathomless gold-green eyes.  She nodded, fist resting against her chin, looking thoughtfully down at the ground. "So, you're immortal." He nodded. "Yes." "And if I had a gun and shot you dead right here, you'd bounce back up in a few minutes, fit as a fiddle." "Well, really more like five to thirty minutes, a lot depends on the size of the bullets, how much damage gets done…" Trailing off, he shrugged and was silent.  She looked at him levelly and said in a mild, curious tone, "Is there any reason in the world why you would think I'd believe that? And yes, you appearing here like this is a powerful argument, but I still think *immortality* is stretching it a bit." He bit his lip, obviously thinking. His expression brightened, then he looked a bit concerned.  "Well, yes, I can show you something that can't be explained away by plastic surgery, cloning, or whatever other explanations you might be thinking of. But you might find it a bit distressing." Tilting her head to one side, she regarded him suspiciously. "Why do you say that?" "Well, because it's---look, one reason we live so long is that we don't ever get sick, and when we get hurt we heal *very* quickly. Have you got a penknife in your bag?"  An alert went up in her eyes, but no alarm, not yet. Methos was terribly glad that she was still as cool and levelheaded as he remembered. After a long, calculating look at him, she nodded. "I believe I do. May I ask what you intend to use it for? Although I think I could take a wild guess…you're not going to ask me to cut you with it, are you?" He shook his head, smiling. "No, I'll do it. Unless it would make you feel better to do it yourself."   "Don't tempt me. All right." Rummaging in her bag, she brought out a small folding Swiss army knife. "There you are. Enjoy." After a glance around to make sure there wasn't anyone watching them or passing near enough to see what he was doing, Methos lowered his arm and drew the small knife across the inside of his forearm, opening up a two-inch gash. It was deep enough to see the edges of the skin part, revealing a glimpse of the red meat inside. She inhaled deeply and looked up into his eyes, alarmed now. "Michael, are you completely insane? That's not a bloody nick, you'll need stitches for that! Here, I've got a handkerchief, press it hard against the—" He cut her off, shaking his head, arm still held out. A thin runnel of blood ran down his arm and dripped from his fingertips. "No. Watch." As she watched, a tiny blue spark glimmered over the deep cut, and the bleeding stopped. Then the wound closed before her eyes, skin resealing itself over the healed cut. Dazed, she reached out with the handkerchief clutched in one hand and wiped the blood away from the vanished cut, staring at the unmarked pale skin. "My God." It was said very quietly. She looked at him, an expression of wonder softening her severe features. Then a half-smile quirked her mouth, and she snorted. "I don't suppose this is something you can teach somebody, is it?" He shook his head, looking wistful. "No. I would have given anything to be able to do that for several people, at times over the years. And yes, you were one of those people." Both of them sat quiet for a short period of time that seemed much longer than it actually was. Finally Diana looked up at him, frowning, her eyebrows knitted together. "So, how old are you? Model Ts, horse and buggy, chariots, what?"   Snorting, he waved a long, slender hand. "Keep going." "Indoor plumbing?" "Keep going." "Christianity?" "Keep going." Her gaze searched his face, and she shook her head.  "Hmm. No, I don't think I want to." Reaching out, she tapped the back of his hand. He looked up at her. Diana grinned at him. "How many children do you have? My God, statistically you must be the ancestor of one third of the civilized world"   He shook his head.  "No, that's one thing that we all envy you for. Our race can't have children. With mortals or each other. We are barren." She snorted. "Then where do you all come from? Found under cabbage leaves, or springing from the foam like a gaggle of Venuses?" He gave her a half-smile. "That, Diana, is the million-pound question. None of us know. Well, the cabbage leaf theory has had it's proponents over the years, but I'm a skeptic on that theory." Expression sobering, he shrugged and said, "Infants appear from time to time, and are raised as foundlings, almost always by unsuspecting mortal foster parents. None of us know we're immortal until we have our first death. Until then, we age like any other person. " "Must be a bit of a kick in the teeth for the ones who don't get themselves killed before they reach 80."  She rummaged in her purse and brought out a folding leather picture caddy. Flipping it open, she handed it to him, pointing at a picture of an adorable strawberry-blonde toddler. "Here. My little bit of immortality, I suppose. My little grandniece, the next Diana Trent. If I can hold off from having my ticket punched for just a few more years, I may be able to leave some sort of impression on her. " Methos looked closely at the picture, studying it, a faint smile on his face. He looked up at the old woman and handed it back to her. "She's going to keep that light hair, but otherwise she's going to look a great deal like you." "Oh please, Michael. Right now she resembles me about as much as she does Winston Churchill."   He grinned. "No, trust me on this, I've seen literally thousands of babies, and I'm a pretty good judge of what children are going to look like when they're grown up. She's going to look like you, I'm sure of it." Diana took the pictures back from him, eyes warm. Tucking the caddy back in to her purse, she frowned, hesitated, then looked up at him uncertainly. "Michael, can I ask you a favor? Could you—-I mean, would you, from time to time, maybe check in on young Diana after I've gone? I do worry about her. This miserable ball of mud is getting more dangerous to live on every year. It would mean…it would mean a lot to me to know there was someone who would…who could help her if she needed it. I know it's a lot to ask, but,"   Reaching out, he halted her speech. She looked at him, expression carefully nuetral. He nodded, then leaned in close. "Diana, I will. But you should know what my real name is." Pausing, he seemed to consider what he was going to say, then shrugged and drew a deep breath. "My name is Methos." He regarded her, smiling. " You are now one of a handful in the world who know that. For your well-being, as well as my own, never mention it to anyone. There are people who would commit a number of heinous actions to find out where I am." She nodded, eyes thoughtful.   "I understand. Thank you, Michael...Methos." Shaking her head, she snorted. "Well. It only took forty years to get the truth out of you." He shrugged and looked amused. "It's more than most ever get out of me." His gaze left her and swept across the manicured landscape. Suddenly, he straightened up. "Hmm…hold on, is that---?" Shading his eyes, he squinted across the park.  Two figures had just come into sight, walking up the jogging path toward them. After studying them for a few seconds, Methos smiled and visibly relaxed. One of the two was unmistakably MacLeod. The other one was a tall, elderly man, a bit taller than MacLeod. He was talking animatedly to Methos' partner, hands waving around grandly in the air. He couldn't see Duncan's expression at this distance, but he could tell from the set of those broad shoulders and the way he was walking that he desperately wanted to get away from his companion. Methos turned to Diana, who was looking at him expectantly. "Well, I suppose it's not going to come as that much of a shock on the heels of the whole Immortality thing, but there's something else you ought to know about me, because you're about to be introduced to my significant other." He pointed. "That's him, coming up the path toward us now. The one with the dark hair." Diana's eyebrows climbed and she gave him a dubious look. Shading her own eyes, she looked at the two approaching men. Then she smiled, and turned back to Methos. "Well, it's good to know I ruined you for all other women." He laughed and took her hand, squeezing it gently. "You certainly did, Diana." One corner of her mouth quirked up, and she snorted. "Liar. But thank you for being polite. Actually," she continued, "we are now entering the realm of too much coincidence---the ancient sod walking with him, waving his hands around like a windmill? Well, that loony old trout, who's probably taking your boyfriend on a guided tour of Wonderland right now, is my current gentleman friend, Tom Ballard."   She looked back at Methos, curious. "So, what are you going to do when this one starts turning gray? Pull another disappearing act?" Methos looked almost guilty for a moment, watching the approaching men, then softly said, "No. He's like me." He turned and looked at her, a faint smile on his lips. "He's like me." Diana studied his expression, and nodded. "So. This could go on for centuries, literally."  Methos closed his eyes, the tiny smile still on his face, and said, "Fates willing, yes."   As they drew close to the pair seated on the bench, the elderly man hurried forward and addressed Diana eagerly.  "Hello, old thing! I see you've slipped away from Jane's watchful eye. I'd like you to meet somebody." MacLeod hung back and looked at his lover, his expression more than a bit desperate. Methos looked back at him, his expression more than a bit amused. Tom  cheerfully continued, oblivious. "Diana! Lord Greystoke here is going to accompany me to the deep jungle this afternoon, we're going to rescue a certain lovely young ingenue from a lost city populated by intelligent gorillas. So I'll be late for dinner. Tell Harvey there'll be an extra portion of dog stew to parcel out to the inmates." MacLeod slid down onto the bench next to Methos and mouthed 'help me' at him. Methos smiled at him pleasantly, and said, "Lord Greystoke, I'm pleased to meet you. Didn't you bring any of your apes along?" Dark eyes narrowed, Mac glowered at his lover, who looked back at him, greenish eyes dancing. "Actually, yes." growled MacLeod, glaring directly at Methos. "As a matter of fact, I had breakfast with one this morning." Next to them, Diana decided that she had listened patiently to enough of Tom's safari itinerary. Reaching out, she gave Tom's coat a sharp tug. "Tom! Shut up, you loony old buzzard. I want you to meet someone, and I'd prefer it if you weren't in Africa when I introduce you. So come on back, would you?" Tom looked down at her and grinned, bushy eyebrows raised. "All right, old thing, settle down. Hello!" He turned to Methos and genially held his hand out. "Tom Ballard, at your service. Maidens rescued, Huns defeated, lost cities discovered. My rates are very reasonable." Methos grinned back at him. This sort of thing he could handle. Liking the man already, he reached out and grasped the large hand, giving it a firm shake. "Adam Pierson. Books read, history researched, beer consumed. My rates are also very reasonable. I'm pleased to meet you, Tom. And this," he turned and indicated Mac, "is not Lord Greystoke, I'm afraid, although I can understand you thinking he was raised by wild animals. This is Duncan MacLeod, of the clan MacLeod." He turned to Mac. "MacLeod, this is Tom, whom you've already met, and this is my friend, Diana Trent." MacLeod gave a barely civil nod to the beaming Tom, then switched on his considerable charm as he took Diana's hand and squeezed it gently, smiling at her with genuine warmth. "I'm glad to meet a friend of Adam's. Have you known him for a long time?" "Oh, we go back quite a ways," she said, shooting a wicked smile at Methos. "But I'm afraid we don't have time to stay and chat. We have a rendezvous with a prison bus in about ten minutes, which is waiting to take us back to our own little green corner of Hell. Michael...Adam." She stood up and took his hand. Her eyes softened. "It was good to see you again. Thank you." The wicked glint came back into her eyes as she looked at MacLeod. "Good to meet you, too. If you ever need a place to stick an elderly friend into, look me up at Bayview and I can show you the kind of place you don't want them going to. Take care of this little bastard. He needs careful watching." Mac chuckled. "Tell me about it." The two Immortals stayed seated on the bench and watched the elderly couple walk away. When they were out of sight, MacLeod turned an inquisitive gaze onto his partner. Methos smiled gently. "I'll tell you the whole story later. Right now, I believe we should think about finding lunch, and some really good beer." They strolled toward the park exit, Mac's arm draped casually over Methos' shoulders, the oldest Immortal's arm around Mac's waist. As they reached the street and turned in the direction that would take them back toward their hotel, Mac turned his draped arm into a gentle (and very firm) neckhold, hauling Methos' head in close to his own. Lips a few inches from the older man's ear, Mac rumbled in a low, dangerous voice, "Raised by wild animals. I like that. I think I'm going to take you back to the hotel for some really serious punishment. Then we can think about lunch. And beer." A pleasant little shiver ran down Methos' spine as Mac's warm breath puffed in his ear.  He tightened his grip around the Scot's waist and sighed. "I do need to be kept in line, now that I think about it. Don't I?" The end