Lie down with Deamons By Suze

Let's see -- there's language, blasphemy, and implied slash. Maybe a little more than implied. Okay, I'll rate this one R.

Lots of people helped me with this one. Kat Allison and Melissa, who threw themselves bodily into the line of fire before I could stop them. Maygra, who read it again, and again, and again, and found me a title. She threatens beautifully, too. In progress comments and emotional support were supplied by Shug, Mog, the incomparable Zen, and the patient, ever faithful Luminosity.


Lie down with Deamons
By Suze January, 2000




"I'm sorry."

Whatever I had been expecting, it wasn't this. I had prepared myself for arguments, defiance, at best for more convoluted rationalizations. Some fresh version of 'things were different then', updated and revised for a new season. Or at worst, avoidance. Deep inside, the small, terrified part of me that wakes in the middle of the night shaking and chilled to the bone, has been afraid for weeks that I would never see him again. Afraid that he would just walk away, disappearing into mist and legend for another hundred years, leaving me to wonder if he was still alive.

I had prepared myself for any of those. I had spent hours, then days, then *weeks* preparing myself for a hundred different versions of this scene. I knew just where I would stand, exactly
what I would say, even how I would look when I said it. And I knew what he would say, how he would look: confident, angry, self-righteous and offended. Leaning against a wall or a counter, ready to jump whichever way seemed best or easiest at the moment. Or sprawling bonelessly across my sofa, relaxed and unconcerned, making himself comfortable in my home even as he tore out my heart. I was prepared to deal with that.

But not this. I have no words ready for this. None of my daydreams and rehearsals prepared me for him to sound or look like this.

His voice is low and rough, almost as if he hasn't spoken aloud in days. Maybe he hasn't. He looks like he's spent the weeks since Bordeaux dead and buried in a cold, wet grave. And now he's here, huddled in my doorway, arms wrapped around his chest, tensed as if prepared for a blow. And thin, even for him. Thinner than I've ever seen him. His skin is unhealthily pale, his only color the deep blue circles under his downcast eyes, and the flush of fever splashed unevenly across the sharp cheekbones.

I should get him inside. Get him a drink, food. Get him *warm* for God's sake. Death looks like he's preparing to die right here on my doorstep. Instead, I stand here, speechless and unprepared. Watching him flinch at my lack of response. Watching him tremble as he waits. Watching him suffer. Watching him take a small, shaking breath, and turn to leave.

"Methos..."

He stops and turns back, and I can finally see his eyes; his dull, red-rimmed eyes. Christ! I don't know whether to be angry or heartbroken. Is he for real, this pathetic, wretched creature, or is he playing with me again? I don't know him at all, and he knows me too damn well. Knows just which strings to pull, which buttons to push. And I have no doubt at all that he'll use them. But I'll never forgive myself if I turn him away, unheard. I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering if I should have invited him in, should have asked the questions and listened to whatever answers he was willing to give. Damn you to hell, Methos.

"Get your skinny butt in here. You look like death warmed over."

Oh, shit. I was just trying to unfreeze him a bit. I want to see a grin, a smile. A raised eyebrow, at least. I want to see *Methos*. I can *fight* with Methos. Don't do that. Don't. Laugh at me, scream at me, sneer. Throw something. Pull your sword and *fight* me, you sorry son of a bitch. Don't you dare cry. Even that one tear running down your cheek is too much. Let
me be angry, Methos. I need to be angry. It's my only defense against you.

And you know that, too, don't you?

What do I do now? Do I ignore the tears still in your eyes, spare whatever's left of your pride and pretend not to notice? Do I offer you a tissue, or my handkerchief, or a drink? Or do I take you in my arms and hold you, comfort you by torturing myself? I don't think I deserve to be tortured, and I'm not sure that you deserve comforting. But I do think we both need that drink, a very strong drink. Then maybe we can talk about exactly what 'I'm sorry' covers. And what it doesn't.

"Give me your coat. You're dripping all over the floor."

And I won't even mention my sweater. I wondered where that was. Just one more thing you stole from me, Methos. My favorite sweater, three CDs, my peace of mind, two books, and my heart. Are you going to give any of it back? Or have you broken the CDs, too?

"I'm sorry."

"Just give it here and go sit down, you...Christ, Methos, you stink! When was the last time you bathed?"

"Bathed...?"

"You smell like you've been sleeping with a wet dog."

Or Kronos. No. I don't even want to think about...*did* you sleep with him? Did you kiss him? Did you fuck him? Oh God, did you love him? I never thought I'd want you to lie to me, Methos, but that may be the one question I *don't* want an honest answer to.

"I'm sorry."

The floor, the walls, the door that I'm not going to let you walk out of, they're all easier to look at than me, aren't they, Methos?

"If you think you're sitting on my furniture in that condition, you're insane." Hell, MacLeod, why don't you go find a puppy to kick while you're at it? I don't fucking believe this. Damn you,
Methos. How dare you come in here and make me feel sorry for you!

"I...you're right. I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have bothered you. I'll..."

He had better not even look like he's thinking about leaving. He's walking Immortal bait right now, and nobody gets a shot at his head until *after* I've beaten the crap out of him.

"Strip."

"What?"

From despair to -- is that terror, Methos? -- in one word. Not very flattering, but what did I expect? All that flirting, all those tempting little grins and not so accidental touches. You
sorry little prick tease. What was it? Were you looking for another protector? A torture-free version of Kronos? Another winner to go with? Well, I won, didn't I? Just the way you
planned it. And I own your ass now, Methos. Did you plan on that?

This isn't helping. Stop thinking with your dick, MacLeod, the man's about to fall over. I can decide later whether I'm going to screw him or beat him to death. Or both. But he's in no condition right now to fight *or* fuck.

"Strip. Give me those disgusting clothes and go take a shower. You're not leaving here until we've talked, and I can't talk while I'm gagging." You don't have to smell like a sewer to remind me what you are. I'm not going to forget.

"MacLeod..."

"Methos. Now that we know who everybody is, strip. There's a robe on the back of the bathroom door. I'll make us something to eat, you look like you could use it." Oh, for God's sake...would you
*stop* that? That's two tears now, Methos. I'm keeping score, and if I decide you're manipulating me again, you're going to pay for every torturous one of them. I don't know how, but you'll pay if I have to take it out of your worthless hide, one painful, bloody strip at a time.

"Why do you care? What I did...I thought you'd...why the hell are you being *nice* to me, MacLeod?"

Because it puts that sexy, wide-eyed look on your face. Because it's scaring the shit out of you. Because I'm a goddamned Boy Scout! How the fuck do I know? Why *do* I still care about you? How hard can it be to fall out of love? People do it all the time. God, this hurts. It shouldn't hurt this much, should it? Why can't I just enjoy seeing you suffer? You *deserve* to
suffer.

"I'm not being nice, Methos. I'm fattening you up for the kill."

Damn, I don't think his legs are going to hold him up long enough to shower. I may have to...

I don't fucking believe this! You prick! How dare you pass out on me! Who the hell do you think I am, your mother?

I hope that hurt, asshole. Damn shame this floor isn't concrete.

"How long was I out?"

"Two hours." Two hours while I bathed you and dried you, while I sat here beside you, watching you curled up like naked temptation in my bed. Two heartbreaking hours while I listened to you moan and whimper in your sleep. Two endless hours while I stroked you
to make you stop. And it worked. Every time I touched you, you calmed. You turned towards me and clutched my hand like I was your only hope of salvation. Shit. I'd feel better if I thought you could lie in your sleep, Methos. I'd feel a whole lot better if I could just be angry again. Pity, anger, love, hate. I'm so tired of this. I wish I could pick one way to feel about you and stick with it.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop *saying* that." Well, shit. I wonder which one of us was more surprised by that little slip?

"I thought that was what you wanted to hear."

Only if you mean it, Methos. And how the hell can I tell? And you can stop *that* too. I'm not buying that innocent Adam Pierson look again. I never took you at face value, but who could have dreamed there were so many layers of deceit between us? I thought you were...I hoped we....

How much of *us* was truth? Was there ever any chance there would really be an *us*, or was I imagining all of it? No. Not all of it. I'm not that gullible. The desire I saw in your eyes was real, I *know* that. Could you see the desire in mine? If you would just look at me, really look, you'd see that it's still there. I can't hide it. It's too strong even now. And I can't hide that I don't *want* to feel desire for you. Dear Lord, I don't want to want you. I don't want to love you. And it shows, doesn't it? Is that why you won't look at me? Does the pain in my eyes hurt you, Methos? God, I hope so. I hope you drown in it, asshole. You put it there.

"I want to hear *why*, Methos: why you're sorry, why you did it, why you lied. Why did you lie, Methos?"

"Which time?"

Oomph. That's a punch in the gut. Oh, no. My sheets aren't *that* fascinating. He's going to look me in the eyes if I have to put my hands on his head and *force* him to. There's an idea.

Surprised you again, didn't I? But that's much better. I'm going to see your eyes while we talk this time. You're a damn good liar, but not as good as you think you are. Not anymore, not
today. Not ever again. I know you better now than I did before, and it takes more strength than you've got left to lie to me with those eyes, Methos. At least, I hope it does. I haven't got
anything else I can count on, so I'm betting my future on your eyes.

"In the dojo, with Cassandra." Get used to it. Every time you try to turn away I'm going to turn you back. And if you won't stay there on your own, I'll hold you there. We're going to see each
other tonight, you son of a bitch. Can you see it in my eyes? Can you see what's at stake? Every hope I've got left is here in this room tonight. I need to see truth in your eyes, Methos. I need that more than I need my sword, my sanity, or my next breath.

"Because I didn't want to fight her. I didn't want to kill her."

"It was a fair challenge. No one would have been able to blame you."

"By the rules, maybe. But fair? Have you ever seen Cassandra fight, MacLeod?"

"That's beside the point, isn't it? I've seen you fight women before. Chivalry doesn't stop you. Hell, it doesn't even slow you down."

"Cassandra didn't deserve to die, especially not by my hand."

Truth. I really can see it. A little bit of truth, anyway, but not everything. He's still trying to turn away from me. What are you still hiding, Methos?

"I'm supposed to believe you were being noble? Try again. There had to be more to it than that."

"And you never would have forgiven me."

Oh. Damn, be careful what you ask for, MacLeod. Barely a whisper, but it's the truth, and nothing but the truth. He killed Kristin, and he let Cassandra live. For me. Methos and Kristin, Amanda and Kalas. Why do the people I love always want to kill for me? Do I
give off some kind of signal, some twisted pheromone? Kill this person and I'll love you forever? I don't ask anyone to kill for me. Not for me. I'm so tired of the killing. So tired.

Cassandra wanted me to kill you, Methos. Did you know that? She didn't think I understood, and I didn't then. But I've had a lot of time to think about it. She would have taken your head herself if she'd had to, but she wanted me to do it. Not because she was afraid to fight you, or because she didn't think she could win, or to keep your blood off of her hands. She thought it would hurt you more if I killed you. She wanted the last thing you saw to be me, hating you. She didn't just want you dead, she wanted you to *suffer*. And in the end, even though she hadn't seen you in thousands of years, she understood you much better than I ever will.

That's probably why you're still alive. She wasn't being merciful, and she certainly wasn't doing me any favors. You told her she didn't know you, but I think that was a bigger lie than
you imagined, Methos. She still knew one important thing about you: how to cause you unbearable pain. How else did she know that letting you live would be punishment enough? So she walked away and left you there, with me hating you and the men you'd called your brothers for a thousand years dead at your feet.

Your brothers.

"How did you...No. Not how. *Why* were you with them, Methos? Why did you do it? Why did you rape and murder and destroy with them? Why did you *enjoy* it, Methos."

Damn. I'd get him another blanket, but I don't think it would stop his shivering. That kind of cold is born too deep in the bone for blankets or whiskey to cure. You don't think about those
years, do you? Not any more often than you can help.

"Just talk to me, Methos. Tell me the truth tonight, and hopefully we'll never have to speak of it again. Just tonight." Take a deep breath, and *don't* cry, damn you.

"MacLeod, I don't know if I can make you understand. I'm not sure I want to try. It's not exactly something I enjoy remembering."

"I'm not really all that concerned about your comfort level right now, Methos."

Yeah. Right. I'm not concerned about him, not at all. That's why he's curled up in my bed, wrapped in my robe, spilling twenty- year-old scotch on my expensive sheets. If his lips so much as *twitch* towards a grin, I swear I'll turn those sheets into his shroud.

"Do we have to go into all the sordid details, MacLeod? Is it enough to know that it was rage, and pain, and revenge...and more than a little bit of insanity? Do you want to hear me admit that I hate who I was then? I do. I despised myself for more years than you've been alive, Highlander, then I spent a hundred lifetimes trying to make up for it. But I can't."

"Breathe, Methos. I want to hear it, but we'll never get through this if you keep passing out." Just calm down, take a deep breath, and I'll take my hand off your mouth. Your mouth. Your lips. Your beautiful face. Damn, Methos. I've touched you more since I've hated you than I did during all the years of loving you.

That's better. One more breath...okay.

"There's nothing I can do, nothing I can say that will make it one bit less horrible than it was. You've known people that are filled with self-hate, MacLeod. They're useless to anyone, and they're dangerous. I finally had to learn to accept what I was and move on."

"And now you want me to accept it." Three tears. I'm still counting, Methos. Three years of lies and deception on one side of the scale, three tears on the other. Three tears shouldn't weigh that much, should they? What did they cost you? What are they going to cost me?

"You're going to spill that scotch all over the bed, Methos. Let me have it."

"Thanks. I'm sorry I'm such a mess, MacLeod."

"Don't worry about it. It's not important." Not important. Right. Your tears don't bother me at all. And so the first lie tonight is on my head, not yours. Why did I do that? Why didn't I just use the sheet? Tears don't stain. Not sheets, anyway. I wonder if your blood could possibly burn my hands as fiercely as your tears do, Methos? I may choose to believe you just because I don't ever want to know that. Do you know that that's why I told Cassandra I wanted you to live? If she'd killed you, or if I had, I would have had to live with these unanswered questions about you, about us. And there would never have been any answers that meant anything.

I'll get over wanting you. Eventually. Maybe. But I don't think I could ever get over taking your head. You would haunt me forever. I'll see you in my dreams for the rest of my life; I don't want you in my nightmares, too.

"Accepting it is all you can do. I know you, Highlander. That's why I came here tonight. Not to beg you to forgive me, but to convince you that you shouldn't even try."

Four tears. Is this acceptance, this confusion and pain I feel when I wipe away your tears? Or is it just desire masquerading as compassion? I want to believe in you so badly that I can't
tell anymore. But how can I trust you when I can't trust myself? How do I do that, Methos? And who do I ask these questions of now? This is the kind of thing I talked over with *you*. Who do I go to now? Darius is dead, and Joe...Joe's a Watcher. That's a little more information than I'm comfortable tempting him with. Connor? Oh, yeah. Wouldn't that be a fun conversation? Connor, do you think I'm trying to accept Methos' past just because if I
don't I'll never get to fuck him?

That's the downside of being Immortal. There's never a father figure around when you need one.

"So you showed up on my doorstep, wet, cold, and smelling like a three day old corpse, all for my benefit? Gee, Methos, what did I ever do to deserve that?" No frown. Not a hint of a smirk. Not
even a blink. That was one of m y better attempts at sarcasm, Methos, react, damn you. I'm trying here, but I don't know how much more of this I can take. And this is what I thought I wanted from you. Truth and sincerity. Honesty.

Oh, dear Lord. No, don't...Oh, Christ, don't touch me. Why isn't my hand bursting into flames? It looks so normal, lying there under yours, but I can feel the bones dissolving into ash. If I
pull away, will you think I'm rejecting you? If I don't, I may embarrass both of us.

"MacLeod, I know you don't think of yourself as my friend anymore, but I still consider myself *your* friend. None of this was your fault and you didn't do anything wrong, but you're tearing yourself apart over it, aren't you?"

My friend. Don't you know that I never wanted to be just your *friend*? And, oh, dear God, I still don't. Skinny, pale, shivering in my bed like a half-drowned kitten I pulled out of the gutter, and I still want you. Let go of me, Methos. Please.

"Part of you is outraged and appalled, and part of you believes in all that forgiveness is divine, thou shall not judge bullshit. Stupid, wonderful Boy Scout...."

And all of my parts want you. Even the ones that should know better. What are you doing to me, Methos? You're giving me what I asked for. Why does it hurt so much, and how do I make it stop?

"There is no way to absolve me of my past, MacLeod, and even if there was, that absolution isn't yours to offer."

"So we just let it go. It happened, but you've changed, so we all pack up and move on." You have the hands of an artist, Methos. Gentle, with such long fingers. These hands were never meant to destroy, were they? But I feel the strength, and the roughness of the sword calluses. Oh, my beautiful Death. Don't touch me like that.

"If we're going to salvage any shreds of a friendship out of this mess, that's exactly what we have to do."

"And that's how we deal with the Horsemen? Do you really think it's that easy, Methos?" I wish I could take back my heart as easily as I took back my hand. Just casually rip it out of my
chest and use it to push the hair out of my eyes.

"Don't flatter yourself, MacLeod. The only two people left in the world who have to deal with the Horsemen are Cassandra and I, and we have to fight our own demons. There's nothing you can do
to make anything about this *easier*, Highlander. You can't turn on the lights and chase the bogeyman away. You can't kiss it and make it better. You couldn't do it for her, and you can't do it
for me."

You don't know how badly I want it to be that easy. How badly I want to take you in my arms and kiss it better. I want to hold you, and comfort you, and tell you that none of it matters.

You're right, Methos, we all have our own demons to deal with, and wanting you is mine. More than wanting you, loving you. Forgive me, Cassandra. I love him.

"What about Cassandra? Is that what you expect her to do? Accept it and move on?"

"She had her shot at me, and she didn't take it. That was her right, and her choice. Hopefully she's managed to exorcise some of her demons. I'll face mine when I get to hell. Why do you think I try so hard to stay *alive*, MacLeod?"

You were waiting for me, Methos. So that we could be together. So that I could love you. Damn, I'm glad you can't read my mind. I sound like the cover notes on a cheap romance novel.

I can deal with this. I have to. I can reach some kind of acceptance of who you were, or I can curl up and die. I've lost too many of the people I love to death. But I don't have to lose you, too. This time I have a choice. If there is any way to live with this, any way to move on from here, I'm going to find it, Methos.

"Why didn't you ever tell me about the Horsemen? I realize it's not the kind of thing you blurt out in casual conversation, but...I feel like..."

Damn, I didn't mean to ask that. Not yet. I don't want to sound needy. I don't want to be needy. I don't want to need you, Methos. Loving you is painful enough.

"Like I lied to you?"

"Yes."

"I didn't want you to despise me. I needed a friend, MacLeod. I don't have many. It's hard to form lasting relationships when you're hiding all the time, changing your identity, your entire persona, every fifteen or twenty years."

I don't care if it won't help, I'm getting him that extra blanket. And that's five. Stop it. Just *stop* it. Stop being weak, stop being wretched. You're stronger than this, Methos. You
have to be.

I didn't do this to you, did I? I don't want that kind of power over you, Methos. I never did. I just wanted you to want me. How did you survive this long if one man's opinion can turn you into a shivering wreck? Is this part of what Cassandra saw? Why she tried so hard to make me hate you? Did she see how much you need me, Methos? Did she know that losing me would do this to you?

Why didn't I see it? Why didn't you let me see it? I wish I'd known. I wish...I don't know what I would have done differently. I don't know what I could have done differently, but I would
have found *something*. Surely, in a universe of infinite might- have-beens and what-ifs there was one way, one path that would have let us walk away from Bordeaux alive, and strong, and together.

"I had been alone for...a very long time, MacLeod. Then one day you walked into my life, and you *knew* me. How could I resist that? It was like putting liquor in front of an alcoholic."

"I recognized you, Methos. I never knew you." What happened to us? When did we switch places? You're supposed to be the dark one, the deceiver that lurks in the shadows; I'm supposed to be the truth-teller who searches for the light. So why am I sitting here hiding the knife in my heart, watching while you twist the one in yours?

"You knew who you *wanted* me to be. I couldn't be him. I couldn't be your replacement for Darius. But I tried to be someone you could trust. Do you know what it's like to need a friend that badly, MacLeod?"

"Yes." That is what I wanted from you, wasn't it? And even more. I wanted everything from you, Methos. I wanted you to be everything I'd lost, returned to me in one ancient, beautiful
soul. Darius' wisdom, Fitz's laughter, Tessa's passion. You understood that long before I did, and you gave me what you could: laughter, wisdom when I would take it. You even tried to
give me the passion, didn't you? Damn. I thought you wanted me, but didn't need me. I'm beginning to think I had it all backwards, Methos.

I can't take anymore tonight. Not tonight. I don't think either of us can. And I know things now that I can't let you read in my eyes. Not yet. I need time to bury them. Thank you for teaching me how to do that, Methos.

"Lie down, Methos. You need to sleep. We can talk more tomorrow."

"I should go home. You've done more than I had any right to expect, MacLeod."

"All I did was pick you up off the floor and hose you down, Methos."

"You listened, MacLeod. Thank you for that."

"Get comfortable, Methos. You're not leaving. Not in this condition. Right now you couldn't defend yourself from a ten year old with a sharp stick."

"You've got a point. At least let me move to the couch."

"Stay right where you are."

"I don't want to take your bed, MacLeod. You've done too much already."

"I'm not being generous, I'm conserving energy. Move over. You were having nightmares earlier, and if you do it again, I want to be able to kick you without having to get out of bed." And I want to know that you're safe. Even if it's just for tonight.

"Oh. Sorry."

"From the look of you, I'd say that's been happening a lot lately. Have you been having nightmares every night?"

"Not every night, just the ones when I try to sleep."

"About the Horsemen? In Bordeaux, or back when...?"

"I've been dealing with my past for a long time, MacLeod. When I have nightmares now, they're about the future."

"The future? What are you afraid of, Methos?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to be alone. I was never very good at being alone."

Were you afraid of losing me, Methos? You're not going to. Ever. But I can't tell you why. I'm the one with secrets to keep now.

"Go to sleep, Methos. You're not alone. I'm still your friend, and I'm here. And I'll still be here when you wake up."

Shall I count the wet lashes as a sixth tear? If you could keep your eyes open you'd be weeping, but you're already asleep again. Why do you trust me that much? It's heart warming, but probably not wise. I wouldn't take your head, but...

Do you know how tempting you are, lying there defenseless in my bed? You *do* lie in your sleep, you know. When you're asleep you look so young, so innocent, so damnably chaste.

Your hair is so soft. I didn't expect that. I thought it would be sharp and prickly, like your tongue. You don't stir when I touch you, would you wake if I kissed you? One small, gentle kiss?

"Shhh. Go back to sleep. It's just me."

"Duncan..."

Yes. Hold my hand if it helps.

I was ready, Methos. Ready to accept your past, even if I don't understand it. Ready to tell you that I love you. Ready to tell you that more than anything in the world, I want to curl up next
to you and hold you in my arms. That I want to kiss you, and taste you, and steal your breath with my mouth as I enter you. That I want to listen to the sounds you make while I take you,
and watch your eyes when you come.

Then in three miserable, short hours you took me from wanting to fight you to being convinced we were meant for each other. Then you broke my heart all over again. And I don't think you were even trying hard. This time I can't even pretend it's your fault. Blame this heartbreak on the Boy Scout.


Sleep, my friend. When you wake up, there are so many things I want to tell you. I want to tell you that I love you. I want to tell you that we were always meant to be together. I want to tell
you that you're never going to be alone again because you belong to me now. I want to throw you down, pin you to the bed and tell you that I'm going to make love to you for the rest of our lives.

But I won't.

I can't.

I thought I wanted to know the whole truth, Methos, but I learned more about you tonight than I wanted to know. I'm such a fool. If only I didn't know...

If I didn't know how badly you need me, I could be holding you in my arms right now. If I didn't know to what lengths you would go to keep me in your life, I could be wrapped around you, keeping you safe from the demons in your dreams.

I love you, Methos. Maybe someday I'll be able to tell you that. Maybe someday I'll be able to ask you if we can be more than friends. Maybe someday I'll be able to ask if you can love me
back. Maybe someday I won't have to guard every look, every word, every touch, to keep from giving this secret away and damning myself to a deeper hell than this one.

But not tonight, and not tomorrow. Someday. Someday when you have more than me in your life.

Someday when I'm sure you're strong enough to say no.



The End

Alpha Omega By MacGeorge

(Maygra's Christmas Gift)
By MacGeorge


MacLeod was pulled out of his deep meditative trance by an uneasy mental chill signaling the approach of another Immortal. The automatic rush of adrenaline sped his heart rate but he doused that impulse and rose to put more water on for tea for his visitor. The deep thrumming presence was one he would have recognized in any circumstance.

The tall lanky figure paused at the bottom of the steps, looking around the transformed interior of the barge, surprise moving to a crooked smile on his angular face. "Well, MacLeod, who's your new decorator, Monk's R Us?"

"Good to see you too, Methos," Mac replied, his own face warming with a smile, part genuine welcome, part bemusement. He hadn't expected the Oldest Immortal to understand or sympathize with his current need for order and simplicity in his life. He sank down onto the small straw mat he had occupied for the past hour or two, gesturing in invitation.

"What? On the floor?"

"At least there's a pillow available to cushion your bony behind."

"Thanks, I'll stand," the pale man replied, divesting himself of his long dark coat, looking for a place to hang it then dropping it with a muffled clank as the sword -- or swords, Mac reminded himself -- hidden in its folds hit the floor.

There was an awkward pause as Methos was unexpectedly at a loss for words. It had been over a year since he had last seen MacLeod. He had assumed his Scottish friend, king of guilt, would need the barbed humor the Oldest Immortal prided himself on to puncture what had become an almost permanent state of gloom. He had prepared a repertoire of witty and sarcastic comments guaranteed to annoy, irritate and -- eventually -- amuse. But Duncan seemed eerily relaxed, waiting placidly while Methos paced, inspecting the austere, almost empty barge, the myriad candles, the simple clay teapot and bowls arranged on what had formerly been the bar, but was now a small galley area.

Methos finally gave in and sank to the floor, hugging his knees as he openly inspected his friend. The shoulder length mane of dark hair had been shorn away at some point, now just leaving dark curls against the back of the neck. The face was a little leaner, the body was, if possible, even more compactly muscular, clad in loose white trousers and a similarly colored silk shirt. That in itself was a change from Mac's previous penchant toward dark clothing. But more telling was what was missing -- the haunted look that had hovered behind MacLeod's eyes, the look that had grown ever more desperate, more agonized with each friend's death, each battle ever since the Dark Quickening.

The last time they met Mac had been standing over the decapitated body of the young Immortal he had taken in and treated as his son, with his bloody katana, the instrument of the boy's death at his hand, dropped to the cold concrete floor. Agonizing despair and guilt drove the Highlander to seek his own death. To ask Methos to be the executioner, and the tainted katana its instrument. When Methos had refused in shock Duncan had walked away, disappearing without a trace. Unlike Joe Dawson, their mutual Watcher friend, who feared the worst, at least Methos was certain the Highlander still lived since Methos would have felt that terrible death in his own soul. Feeling helpless and at odds with himself Methos had left the country, wandering, checking back in with Joe occasionally, only to learn that despite the best efforts of the worldwide Watcher organization, the Scot could not be found. And then, after over a year, MacLeod had suddenly reappeared.

Methos was stunned at the serenity that MacLeod seemed to personify in the relaxed posture, the gentle smile, the warm brown eyes now reflecting their lighter green and gray highlights. He had always thought of Mac as having dark eyes, but he realized it was the expression behind them that had made them seem so.

"You look . . . good," Methos said, knowing how inadequate that sounded. "Joe said you had conquered your demon, but he didn't mention . . . this." Methos' gesture encompassed the obviously dramatically changed lifestyle. "Are you going to do a Darius on me?" Methos asked suspiciously.

Mac smiled, pouring each of them a bowl of tea, pushing one towards his friend who looked at it distastefully as though the liquid might somehow crawl out of the bowl in his direction. "No. I've just cleared the decks a little. It helps me focus."

"A little?" Methos questioned with a crooked smile. Mac's lifestyle had always been low key but this was life stripped down to its bare essence.

Methos finally took the bowl and sipped. It was actually quite pleasant. He recognized it as a mix of tea and herbs used for thousands of years to relax the body and clear the mind.

The silence extended for a few minutes, making Methos increasingly uncomfortable. "Look, Mac, about what happened . . ."

Mac held up his hand. "Don't, Methos. What I did was . . . well I won't say unforgivable because I've given up that concept. But I put you in an impossible position and for that I apologize."

The Oldest Immortal carefully inspected his bowl of tea, not meeting Mac's eyes. "What I was about to do was apologize for not listening to you when you tried to tell me what was going on. For not being there afterward when you needed someone." His voice died to a whisper.

"Enough apologies," Mac said dismissively, rising to his feet. "Want a beer?"

Methos' face brightened as he gratefully put down his tea. "Yeah. I'd really like a beer."

Mac retrieved one from his refrigerator in the upper galley, popping the top and returning down the stairs to hand it to the angular figure sprawled on his floor. Methos rose gracefully to take the bottle, their hands met and Methos started to reach out, but hesitated, stopped himself and turned away, gazing out a porthole at the river traffic going by. "I still wish I had done something, MacLeod. I wish you hadn't had to go through this alone." His voice was low and rough with emotion - quite unusual for the normally cynically detached eldest.

Duncan squeezed Methos' shoulder affectionately. "There are some roads we can only travel alone. It was long overdue for me, I think." He retreated to his mat once again, settling into a cross-legged position. "Now, old man, tell me what you've been up to."

They talked, or at least Methos talked, relaying amusing anecdotes full of colorful detail about a year of travelling in the Near East, encountering several near misses with the various spurts of violence plaguing that part of the world. As he talked, Methos studied the change in his friend. It left him feeling oddly disquieted, uneasy. The Highlander had become an emotional touchstone in his life these past four years. He had been so predictable, so intensely involved in the lives of those he encountered. This Duncan was utterly self-contained, almost distant, removed from worldly concerns. Methos wasn't even tempted to bait the man about his monk-like quarters and appearance. He instinctively knew any efforts to get a rise out of the Highlander would fail.

After a particularly long silence while Methos contemplated the label on his now-empty beer, Duncan interjected softly. "What's really on your mind, Methos?"

Not really understanding why he was feeling so unsettled, Methos shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing, Highlander. I just get uncomfortable with my butt stuck on a hard, cold floor after an hour or so. You know you really ought to get some furniture in here. It's gonna be hard to cozy up to the fireplace in the winter with only a straw mat to sit on. And I'll be damned if I'm going to crash here with no couch and no decent booze." He rose in preparation to leave.

Mac watched as Methos gathered up his coat. There was a tension around the ancient's mouth that had only gotten more obvious during his visit.

"Sit down, Methos. Stay awhile."

The lean, pale man looked at him with elegant disdain. "Sorry, Mac. My butt's asleep. Gotta go."

"Sit down. Please."

Methos was impressed by the quiet command in that instruction. It went beyond the words to some deeper part of the brain. Interesting.

"You've learned a few new things while on your little sabbatical," Methos said, meeting Mac's eye with a curious glare.

But Mac only looked slightly puzzled at Methos' comment. Perhaps he didn't even know what he had done, Methos speculated.

"Okay, MacLeod, if you're that desperate for company," he acquiesced, even though a part of his mind warred against that decision. He put down the coat with another thunk and flopped onto the floor. "What?"

"I was going to ask you that," Mac replied with a smile.

"You were going to ask me what?"

"That's right."

"What?!"

"Correct."

"Mac! I feel like I'm in the middle of a Laurel and Hardy routine! What are you talking about?"

"It's Abbott and Costello, actually," Mac chuckled. "And I was going to ask you what's bothering you."

"Me? Nothing. I just came to see how you were," Methos tone was bordering on irritated.

"And what do you conclude?"

"That you are fine, of course. Practically perfect. You look like you could out-serene the Dali Lama."

"And that bothers you?"

"Why would it bother me?"

"We're back to Abbott and Costello again, Methos. I asked first."

"This is ridiculous," Methos growled, unfolding himself from the floor again and going for his coat. But Mac was right behind him, stopping him with a touch on the arm.

"Methos, stop. Please. I've done something to chase you away and I don't know what. Just tell me what's bothering you." The brown eyes were dark and troubled once again.

Methos almost laughed, but contained himself as he turned away. Seeing that look had, in some dark corner of his mind, actually made him feel better. The realization was an ugly one.

"What's bothering me is me, Duncan," Methos said over his shoulder in an unusual spurt of honesty. "I expected to come in here, dispensing wry humor and sage advice to a gloomy wreck, bringing a smile to your face and a light to your eyes. Instead I find myself at the feet of Bhudda, Mr. Serenity. It makes me feel foolish, is all."

"As though I don't need you?" Mac asked.

Ouch. That was close, Methos thought. "Need me? Now why would I ever think that, Highlander? As you have told me numerous times, you did just fine for 400 years before I came along."

He heard Mac's bare feet walk away towards his stupid little straw mat. "Because I survived without your friendship before doesn't mean I wouldn't miss it now."

Methos turned. Mac was sitting again, his arms wrapped around his knees, looking up at him with those big, sad doe-brown eyes. He had always been such a sucker for that look. Five thousand years old and here he was, struck dumb by a mere child. A gorgeous, sensitive, intelligent, sweet child, but still just a babe compared to the Oldest Immortal. Of course, everyone is a babe compared to me, he reminded himself. And during Mac's mere four centuries this particular 'babe' had many times the life experience most of his kind endured. And had manage to survive with his integrity, his sense of justice, his honor, intact. All in all, a remarkable child.

And dangerous, Methos decided, turning to leave. This whole thing is dangerous. I have always been the one in control, of myself, of him. I better exit stage left before it's too late.

"It's not too late," Mac said behind him.

"What?" Methos cocked his head in puzzled astonishment at the unexpected echo of his own thoughts.

"Am I mumbling today or something? It's not too late. We could go get a late lunch. Talk some more. I know I haven't been particularly chatty but that doesn't mean I don't want your company, Methos," Mac said. "I'm just a little out of practice in the art of conversation."

I'm going to regret this, Methos told himself. But despite his misgivings he held out his hand to help haul the Scotsman to his feet and waited while he slipped on shoes and a light sportcoat.

"That's pretty clever," he remarked, admiring the soft linen jacket.

"What do you mean?"

"I wouldn't think you could hide a sword in that coat, but I can't even tell its there."

"It's not." Mac started up the stairs to the deck.

"What do you mean, it's not?" Methos demanded as he followed him out into the afternoon sunshine.

"I'm not carrying a sword anymore."

"Wait a minute!" Methos shouted at the broad back headed down the gangplank. "If you think I'm going to step in to save your miserable head the next time some asshole comes for it, you've been drinking too much of that herbal crap."

"I don't expect anything of the sort and you know it, Methos." Mac said over his shoulder as he headed toward the street.

Methos long legs quickly caught him up to his friend. "But you expect me to hang around and watch? Maybe give critical comment and style points to the guy who does it? No thanks, Mac. If I want to see blood and gore I'll find a re-run of an old "Terminator" movie."

They walked along in silence for a moment while Methos waited for a response to his tirade, but got none. Finally, Methos, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, grumbled, "I suppose this is some sort of penance? That's bullshit, Mac. You should know that by now."

But MacLeod only laughed. "Oh, Adam, this is no penance, its freedom!" He spread his arms wide. "I have been an instrument of death for so long I had forgotten how to live any other way."

"You need some serious help, MacLeod. This isn't freedom. It's suicide." There was no bantering in Methos' tone.

Mac put a hand on his companion's broad shoulder hidden in the folds of his over-large coat. "Enough, Methos. Let it be. For the moment let's just enjoy a decent meal and good company."

It was an excellent restaurant and when Mac demurred on ordering a glass of wine, saying he hadn't had much liquor in over a year, Methos deliberately ordered a bottle of Mac's favorite Bordeaux vintage, pouring him a glass over his protest. An hour later they had finished the bottle and he ordered another, then brandy and coffee, again over Mac's protest, but the Oldest Immortal filled the afternoon with funny stories and anecdotes of his travels through the millennia. Finally, he let the silence fall, watching MacLeod slowly turn his brandy glass around and around, the eyes focused inward, reflective.

"Now, Duncan," Methos said quietly. "Talk to me. Tell me what you've been through. And about this ridiculous business of not carrying your sword."

"You're a real SOB, Methos," Mac said quietly. "Trying to get me drunk."

"It's a hell of a lot easier than it used to be."

"Don't flatter yourself, old man. A bottle of wine hasn't been enough to get me drunk for several centuries."

"More like a bottle and a half, plus two brandies. You know I never do things by half measures, MacLeod."

Mac raised his hand. "Okay, okay. Arguing about it seems silly."

"You're avoiding the topic, Duncan."

"Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, I don't know. Just curious, I guess, as to why the master of the dour Scots gloom is suddenly acting like Bert Parks on Valium."

Mac sat back and gave him a long look as he took a sip of his brandy. "Some people go off on a search for God. I went off on a search for evil."

Methos waited. "And?"

"And I found it. I had been trying so hard for so long to avoid evil thoughts, evil deeds. Trying to do the right thing. Always fighting the darkness I felt in my own nature. I know, I know. It goes back to my childhood, trying to prove my father wrong. But knowing doesn't make it any less a part of who I am." Mac took a large gulp of brandy, wincing at the burn of the strong liquor. "Richie's murder . . ." Mac's voice had trailed off and at that moment he didn't even appear to be aware of Methos' presence.

Methos reached out to touch his friend's arm.

"I knew I had lost the battle . . . that the darkness, the evil had won."

Another long silence went by and Methos began to think making MacLeod talk about this was a bad idea, but eventually the man continued in a soft monotone.

"I went to Malaysia. There's a monastery there run by a monk who ran the temple in Seacouver for awhile. It took me . . . a long time . . . to stop . . ."

"Stop what, Mac?" Methos prompted after a moment of silence. He was almost afraid to ask. The pain on the man's face was like nothing he had ever seen except in those few horrifying moments as they had stood over Richie Ryan's headless body.

". . . wanting to die," Mac said simply.

"But you did stop," Methos said, keeping a grip on Mac's arm.

Mac took a deep breath and let it out slowly, closing his eyes. His face cleared to a careful neutrality. "Yes. Eventually. I went through the forms, the routines, the meditations, the rituals, over and over and over again until my body and my mind were numb. And then I did it again, and again and again. At some point, I found the pain bearable, then I discovered something else." Mac actually smiled. The strain and grief were still there around his eyes, but the smile was genuine even if it was self-deprecating. "I had to remove all the artifice, the pretense, the heroics, the self-delusion, strip it all away and see myself as I really am. What I found was evil, yes. But not all evil. And if I acknowledged it, stopped fighting it, the evil had less power over me." He chuckled at Methos' dubious look. "I know, I sound like a spokesman for a twelve step plan - "How to Defeat Your Personal Demons."

"No, Duncan. You sound like a man who looked deep into his own heart and faced what he saw with rare courage."

Mac looked at him with a surprised raised eyebrow.

"I can express a non-ironic thought from time to time, MacLeod. When appropriate." He looked around and discovered the sunlight that had been so bright when they arrived was dimming quickly. They had been here all afternoon.

Mac stumbled uncharacteristically as they stepped out into the quickly dimming light. He truly was unused to liquor, although Methos had not lied when he said it had been more like almost two bottles of wine. He had assiduously taken small sips as he had constantly refilled Mac's glass, determined to get behind that smooth façade.

And apparently he had, Methos realized, perhaps too successfully, as they walked back to the barge in silence. The streetlights began to flicker on as the vanishing sunlight turned the world into muted pastels, then soft gray, then black with sharp white contrasts. Mac seemed preoccupied, walking with his hands stuck into his pockets.

The whole evening had bothered the Oldest Immortal. He had done almost all the talking, and now Mac, who had always been one of the few people he had known for whom liquor normally had an uplifting effect, seemed positively depressed. Considering that Mac started out the day perfectly content does not say much for the impact of my company, Methos decided.

Mac paused at the edge of the gangplank and Methos was certain he was about to be politely dismissed so that the man could go brood or meditate or obsess on the nature of good versus evil or some other high-minded crap.

Not allowing him to act on that impulse, Methos quickly stepped up the ramp first before Mac could protest.

"Got any more of that delightful tea, Mac?" he asked with a mischievous grin before disappearing down into the barge interior.

Mac followed, slipping off his loafers and moving to light the candles in the room as he heard the eldest Immortal raid his refrigerator at the other end of the barge, appearing at the top of the steps with an open beer.

"Methos . . . ," Mac began.

"Whatsa matter, Mac? Got a hot date? Anxious to get rid of me?"

"No. It's just that . . ."

"Just what, MacLeod? Need your alone time to contemplate the nature of the universe? Bring about world peace?" He took a long drink from the beer and moved into the middle of the bare room. "Or perhaps you just can't deal with life's uglier realities any more. Look at this," he gestured expansively around the room. "Not a single picture of anyone you care about, no books, no art, nothing to remind you of your past, of who you really are."

Mac silently moved to the bar to put on water for tea.

"Look, Mac, I'm sorry, but this monk routine just isn't you, it isn't right. And not carrying a sword? Puleese! It's just another version of your usual holier-than-thou shit except now you've gotten quite literal about it, haven't you?"

"Adam, you can't say in one breath that it's not me, and then say its more of the same old me," Mac said quietly.

"Oh, but it's both, MacLeod. The self-righteousness is the old you. It's the detachment, this . . . this curtain you've put up around yourself that doesn't work. You really think this is an improvement? That wrapping yourself up in some placid emotionless cocoon is somehow going to keep all the bad stuff out? The Game is going to go away? The killing will stop? Your friends won't die? Sean or Richie will come back from the dead?"

"And what would you have me do, Methos?" Mac asked, a touch of anger creeping into his voice. "Continue to wallow in guilt and grief?"

Methos was silent for a minute, an odd mixture of anger and confusion working its way across his face. "I don't know, MacLeod," he said softly. "But I do know that you, of all people, can't lock away what you feel. It will destroy you if you try."

Mac turned away, silent and still. He was quiet for so long that Methos finally crossed the room to stand behind him, only to realize the Scot had braced himself firmly against the counter, his whole body trembling.

"What?" Methos asked, instinctively reaching out to put his hand on that broad back.

"Why are you doing this?" Mac choked. "Does throwing all my failures and the death of all my friends in my face bring you some kind of perverse pleasure? I worked for the longest twelve months of my over 405 years to find some measure of peace and in one evening you try to dredge up enough pain to erase it all." He took several deep breaths and slowly stood and turned. "I know I murdered my own student. I know I murdered Sean, that Fitz and Saltzer and Brother Paul and who-knows-how-many others died because of me. What do you want from me, Methos? You've always made fun of my self-recrimination and here you are encouraging it!"

Methos backed away, getting more and more disturbed at his own unfocused, uncomfortable, feelings - dominated by an anger he felt rising from deep within. "I . . . I don't know, Mac," he said quietly. "The idea that you aren't carrying a sword, that you somehow think the rest of us are going to respect your "Give Peace A Chance" attitude, is just so ludicrous, so unlike you." He paced towards the door and turned back, clearly agitated. "You just don't get it, do you? What your [presence] feels like to the rest of us. It's like . . . a siren song, Mac. If you aren't prepared to defend yourself, to fight for your life, then for God's sake go to holy ground!"

"What makes you think I'm not prepared to defend myself?" Mac asked incredulously. He turned to the bar and ran water for tea, noisily slamming the kettle onto the burner. "Besides, whether I do or not is my business, my decision. And if my power was so goddamn irresistible, you would have taken my head a long time ago." Then he went very still as he subliminally sensed the movement of steel against air behind him.

Mac turned. Methos had taken off his coat and stood, leaning lightly on his sword, it's tip digging a slight indentation into the floor as its owner slowly turned it round and round. "And here you are, MacLeod, off guard, slightly inebriated, and, silly you, you have no weapon!" With a quick, graceful step the Oldest Immortal had the Scot trapped up against the bar, the sword's edge pressed lightly into the heavily muscled base of his neck.

"Trying to make a point?" Mac asked with a grim smile, then pushed the blade away from his throat. "What's wrong with you, Methos? This angry man bit is getting a little old."

But Methos would not be deterred. He pressed his weight in closer. "There's nothing wrong me with me, Highlander. What's wrong is You! You think just because you've decided to bring peace and brotherhood to the world the Game is going to stop? That you're no longer in the spotlight? That hunters are just going to turn aside out of respect for your new vegetarian lifestyle? Bullshit!" He pressed harder, the razor sharp edge of the blade beginning to mark a bright red line on the Scot's throat.

Then Methos eyes rounded in surprise as all the air suddenly escaped from his lungs. His reflexive contraction raked his blade, carving a bloody slice along Mac's collarbone, but Mac ignored it as he roughly pushed the slender man back then knocked Methos' raised sword away with the decorated wooden rod that had suddenly appeared in his hand.

Methos turned with the blow, spinning around and coming down overhand for a diagonal cut, but that small rod caught the edge at a careful angle, again deflecting it and throwing the other combatant slightly off balance. Then one end of the rod slammed into the side of Methos' face and he staggered back towards the middle of the room with MacLeod dancing after him, swirling, using that infernal stick to whack him hard on the knees, almost sending Methos to the floor.

But the old Immortal's fighting blood was up and the elegant figure was suddenly deadly serious, hazel eyes glittering gold as he watched Mac slip off his linen jacket, now stained bright red at the collar. "You can't be serious, MacLeod. You think that you can protect yourself with a kenji stick? You'll be cut to ribbons!" Methos circled around, his upper body still and poised as his long legs carried him in a wide arc.

"This old dog can learn new tricks, as even Ahriman noticed. When I need to carry a sword, I'll have a sword." MacLeod followed the oldest Immortal with his eyes, his body completely relaxed.

"What about right now, Highlander?" Methos said moving in quickly again, but the other man was a ghost, one minute there, the next somewhere else. Methos spun around, looking, only to find MacLeod behind him.

"You've had lots of opportunity to kill me, old man," Mac said quietly. "You might want to hurt me for a variety of reasons," he smiled, "but you won't take my head." Then MacLeod was coming at him and Methos went on the defensive, fending off that damnable hard rod that burned like hot coals when it hit. Normally a cool, calculating fighter, an unusual red haze of anger began to burn behind Methos' eyes and he fought back, determined to teach this young upstart a real lesson. His heavy blade, longer and far more deadly, was turned away again and again, but then he felt it strike deep into Mac's thigh, and grinned in perverse satisfaction at the sharp grunt of pain and spreading red stain on those pristinely white trousers.

Whack! The rod smacked his forearm, making his fingers go numb so that he had to pass the blade to his other hand. Whack! Sharp pain on the side of his head, making him turn to one side, then the Highlander's muscular bulk was behind him and the stick held hard against his throat, pressing in, making him choke.

"Stop it, Methos!" For a moment the pressure against his throat was unbearable, but then it disappeared, to be replaced by the tight grasp of two large hands on his shoulders.

"Whatever you're trying to do, just stop," Mac ordered breathlessly. The fingers held him in place, the thumbs gently pressing at the base of his neck. Methos couldn't prevent himself from arching into that touch as suddenly his entire universe collapsed into ten pressure points against his skin. The broad thumbs worked up into his hairline making circles, pushing against tension he hadn't even realized was there until that artful brush against sensitive nerve endings found it and made it go away.

"What do you want, Adam?" the voice came again, all the while distracting him with that persistent touch. "Where's all this anger coming from? What are you really after?"

"I'm not after anything, MacLeod. The question is what are You after? Peace? Serenity? Refuge from the Game? That's bullshit. There is no peace or serenity or refuge for us." The words came out more bitter and ugly than he had intended. This whole evening had turned out that way.

Those magic fingers moved down, across his shoulders, the strong hands transmitting their warmth deep into his skin, kneading the long muscles in his back. The incredible pull of awareness crowded out other things. Like breathing, like his own heart beat.

"I think not, Adam." The hands moved down, slipping underneath his sweater, then upwards, pulling.

"What?" he asked in reaction to the unexpected move. Then the sweater was pulled over his head and his damp, overheated skin was exposed to the cool air. Chill bumps spread across his skin until the warmth from those broad palms once again moved over his shoulder blades and down to the small of his back.

"I think what you want has nothing to do with the Game." He finally stopped his maddening, distracting touch and turned him so they faced each other. Again Methos was struck by the kaleidoscope of colors in those irises - brown, gray, green, gold, but all combined to form an impression of deep woods, of smoke, of autumn, of the embers of a long-burning fire.

"And what you need, Adam, is not necessarily what you think you want."

"And what do you think I want, Highlander?" Methos found his vocal chords not quite responsive to his commands.

"Me."

"Ah," Methos smiled, crossing his arms to create distance between them. He would have stepped away, but was unwilling to concede anything to the bigger man now standing so close he could smell the musk rising off his damp silk shirt, along with the sharp copper tang of drying blood. "The arrogance of the young and egotistical. Is it so difficult to conceive that someone could, somehow, manage to resist your ineffable charm?"

"I said that's what you wanted, Adam, not what you needed. I've been so stupid about this," he said quietly, turning away and running a hand through his short hair, just long enough now for its curls to start to be unruly at the back of his neck, Methos noticed. "I ran off and disappeared and for over a year you were left without any explanation."

The crossed arms bulged as muscles contracted in sudden anger. "No, Mac. For over a year I was left wondering - every fucking day - whether that would be the day I would feel you die! And I didn't know where you were or how to stop it!" The words came from somewhere deep within the Oldest Immortal. Dark, rough tones dredged up, full of unwanted pain. "You made me care, damn you. And then you just walked away." The pale face twisted with a cynical smile. "The ultimate revenge, Highlander. Just punishment, I guess, for several thousand years of carefully cultivated disinterest." He turned away to gather his sweater and coat.

"Come off it, Methos," Mac replied, his words stopping him in mid-stride. "How many times have you derided me for despising my lack of insight, my own failings? And how many times have you done exactly the same thing? Only you hide your self-criticism behind a mask of irony and cynicism." Methos felt Duncan's callused palm on his shoulder. "You've always cared. You have just learned to hide it better. But over the years, you have begun believing the lie. Well, I don't believe it, Old Man. I just don't believe it."

"Bullshit!" Methos heard coming out of his mouth. "You're flattering yourself if you think we're at all alike! I just wanted to see if I could still penetrate that careful little wall you had built. Well, so much for spiritual renewal, MacLeod. I knew you couldn't really change. Still the same old judgmental, guilt-ridden puddle of raw emotion. A year of drinking tea and meditation couldn't change that. Nothing can change that!" He snatched up his sweater and coat and started up the stairs, his mind reeling in disbelief at what he had said and done. He felt like he had been taken over by some alien force.

"Oh we are very similar, old man." Mac's voice stopped him at the top of the stairs. "That's why you're here. That's why you keep coming back, because you need what you think I represent - someone who can understand who and what you are. Someone who knows what it is to be consumed by a depth of evil that defies description or understanding by anyone who has not experienced it." Duncan smiled wryly. "The pull you feel has nothing to do with my 'ineffable charm' but with the simple fact that you and I are far more alike than we are different. And if I can accept you, then, by definition, you might - just might - be able to accept yourself."

"Stop it!" Methos hissed advancing towards him. "Where do you get off trying to tell me what I need, for God's sake. Look at you! The great Highland warrior, barefoot and weaponless, living in a one-room barge on a polluted river. Go ahead, MacLeod. Light your bloody candles and chant your silly mantras to your heart's content. You think you've gained some great insight into my character because for one year you sat on a mountaintop and inspected your navel?" Methos stepped dangerously close. "Well I've been there, MacLeod. Done that. I invented the teeshirt."

Mac's gaze didn't waver from Methos' set, angry face. His only reaction was to grasp the back of the old man's neck and pull. Those full, soft lips moved, touched, closing over the other mouth, not pressing, just exploring, slightly open, inviting but not demanding.

For several seconds Methos stood in frozen, confounded shock. This was the last thing he had expected from the intensely masculine, singularly heterosexual Highlander. But there was no hesitation when the heavier body moved closer, pressing against him from thigh to abdomen as one hand moved across the side of his neck to cradled his face, a broad thumb tucked delicately under his chin, while the other hand traveled around to the cool bare skin of his back. That warm palm splayed wide across his spine and pressed as Methos opened his lips to say . . . what? He couldn't remember as the gentle tongue slipped in, warm and welcome.

His eyes closed and he opened his mouth further, meeting that tongue with his own and answering. The coat and sweater slipped out of his fingers and onto the floor as his hands reached out tentatively, first only resting on the narrow waist then moving, pulling the soft silk out of the trousers, exploring underneath the damp shirt to satin skin of a back whose muscles moved under his fingers as though every inch of the body was individually responsive to his touch. At last the warm mouth stopped its exploration, pulling a tiny distance away.

It took several heartbeats before thoughts managed to coalesce sufficiently to form words. "Was that your version of . . . acceptance?" Methos whispered.

Those incredible lips curved up at the corners. "I'm leaving that up to you, old man," was the answer, barely heard. More like an intimate thought Mac had somehow shared.

"Don't start something you aren't willing to finish, Highlander. And this doesn't seem like your . . . style," Methos said between clenched teeth as he felt anger coil inside. Or was that desire? Or pure lust? He couldn't tell. It was, however, rising and moving across his belly, centering in a throbbing heat in his groin.

"Adam," Mac whispered in a voice laced with amused patience. "Just because I have found a slightly new and different way to look at the world does not mean I don't want and need your friendship."

Mac's thumb gently traced the sharp line of Methos' jaw, his hand dark against the elder's fair, almost translucent skin. The thumb moved up and over, brushing the thin lips until Methos' tongue flicked out to touch and lingered there. The thumb tasted salty, the ridges of rounded flesh slightly rough - the strong hands of someone not afraid of labor. Methos felt his heart rate rise, felt blood flush his face, felt his breath quicken and, feeling about to lose control, he stepped away.

"What makes you think this is what I want?" Methos asked in irritated confusion. Suddenly Duncan was the teacher, the seer, and the change in roles made him uncomfortable, the anger he had tapped into asserting itself once again. "I've been . . . deliberately cruel. How do you know I'm not just being the arrogant son-of-a-bitch everyone knows I am."

"Because all you were trying to do was to reestablish our relationship the way you had always understood it, when you could control it, control me, but when all that anger poured out I knew it wasn't directed at me. It was aimed right here." He gently placed his hand in the center of Methos' chest, where he could feel the strong, fast beat of a heart that had sounded that rhythm for longer than any another in the world.

Mac watched in fascination as Methos' throat contracted with a swallow, the long elegant neck shining with dampness in the candlelight, the skin color shifting across the spectrum from alabaster to soft rose.

"But we have ever been at odds, haven't we Methos? There always has been . . . tension . . . between us. Do you feel it?" Mac whispered. He ran his hands gently up Methos' bare biceps. Skin tingled and both of them simultaneously pulled in a deep breath at the shared, almost electric sensation of the simple touch.

"That siren call works both ways. It's power, Methos. Yours and mine. There have never been two like us. It has taken five millennia for our kind to come to this point, with the Gathering at hand. We are magnetic north and south. Alpha and Omega."

Methos felt his heart pound disturbingly fast, finding a singular inability to get enough oxygen to feed his brain sufficiently to manage cogent thought. Hips moved in and pressed against his own and he felt a hard, throbbing ridge of pressure, a twin to his own where all his intellectual capacity was currently centered.

"And don't you think this is a little . . . dangerous then, Duncan?" he asked, as he realized he desperately wanted to put his lips on the ugly red line his blade had drawn across the man's well-formed neck and shoulders. Action followed the thought, and the taste of salt, sweat and blood filled his mouth as he gently licked at the stained golden skin, cleaning it, wanting to take the hurt away with the caress of his tongue.

Mac didn't answer for a moment as his head went back and he let Methos tend the already disappearing wound. It was still tender and the exposed nerves stung and sang, taking his breath away at the incredible eroticism of that soft, moist balm. It had been centuries since he had come just on the basis of a touch, but the urge was suddenly so strong he was almost afraid to move or even breathe.

And only a part of it was novelty. He had only a few experiences of sex with another man and, while interesting, it had never been compelling or emotionally satisfying. But Methos . . . the power, the beauty, the sheer wonder of who and what he was, had subliminally excited him from the moment of their first meeting.

Then the soft tongue stopped and Mac held his breath, aching he was so hard.

"You didn't answer my question, Duncan."

Mac opened his eyes at last, looking into green ones filled with a sly amusement. The old man was laughing at him, he was sure. At his inexperience. At his audacity to think he could possibly understand or have any control over this truly bizarre situation.

"You may be right," Mac said unsteadily. "Two like us were never intended for . . . this." His voice trailed off as Methos' fingers delicately unbuttoned his shirt, sliding underneath across his already tense pectoral muscles, brushing across his nipples.

"Ah, but Duncan," Methos voice was low and husky. "You are always the one taking risks, pushing the margins." His long, tapered fingers pushed underneath the shirt, unable to control his own deep intake of air as the sculpted body that had occupied his fantasies for so long was not only exposed, but suddenly available to touch, to feel, to explore.

"Methos," Mac's voice was barely audible. "I can't . . . I'm not going to be able . . ."

"Don't tell me you can't, Duncan," Methos growled, pinching one dark nub hard enough to evoke a gasp.

"No. It's just . . ." Mac's hand closed around Methos' wrist, guiding his hand lower until it brushed up against the Scot's straining trousers.

"Been a long time, Duncan?" Methos asked with a sly smile. "Monastic life does have its drawbacks, doesn't it?" But the old man relented, seeing the near-panic on his friend's face, stepping back while MacLeod lowered his head and took several long, calming breaths.

Truth be told, Methos realized, he needed the moment to bring his own raging heat under control. As he did, it belatedly occurred to him that poor Duncan might easily have been pushed well past his tolerance level for new experiences. He tilted the bowed chin up, watching those long eyelashes flutter open over forest colored irises. God, they were the sexiest eyes he had ever seen, now dilated and wide with intense need.

"Are you alright?" Methos asked solicitously. Not certain how to react if the Scot had suddenly decided that he was not ready for this particular expansion of his sexual repertoire.

The full, bowed mouth curved upward at the corners and a low chuckle escaped. "Oh, it's not that I'm not ready, Methos," he said as the old man wondered again if MacLeod had somehow learned to read minds during his year on the mountaintop. "It's that I want you too much," his voice was hoarse and he reached for the band of Methos' jeans, pulling him forward with a jerk. "Right now it's all I can do to keep from ripping your clothes off and taking you right here on the floor," he panted.

This time the mouth that covered Methos' demanded immediate entry, the tongue delving deep, moving down his throat until he thought he would choke. One hand held his head firmly in place while the other undid the buttons on jeans with magical dexterity and pushed them down until they fell around his ankles.

Methos instinctively wanted to struggle against the Highlander's aggression, but instead found himself answering the rough treatment with his own, his hand slipping down between their two hard bodies to massage the straining cock throbbing through the thin cotton of Mac's trousers, pressing into the body until they were forced to separate with a gasp for air.

Mac groaned and stepped back, doubling over and grasping his thighs, he burned so. "God, what are you doing to me!" he murmured, almost to himself. But when he looked up and saw the Oldest Immortal, bare chested, his long, lean limbs glowing almost iridescent in the soft candlelight, he staggered back until he was stopped by the bar. He reached back and grabbed its edge in a desperate grip just to keep himself in place, to force himself not to do violence to that gleaming, elegant form.

"Take them off," he demanded, gesturing to the remaining clothes, including the shorts that bulged and jumped with Methos' living flesh. "Please," he added. "I want to see you."

Wordlessly Methos complied, his eyes never leaving the Highlander, watching Mac's hungry eyes observe while he slipped out of his shoes and jeans then slid his shorts down and kicked them away.

MacLeod slowly approached him, reaching a trembling hand out to gently touch, tracing a line across his collarbone, down his smooth sternum, brushing across his abdomen and down his thigh. "You are so . . . beautiful," Mac said reverently. Methos held himself very still except that he could not control the hot flesh between his legs. He sensed the barely contained violence in the other man that echoed and magnified something deep within himself. But then the gentle hand moved into the curls at the base of his groin, moved down and cool fingers stroked his balls, already tight and full. Methos closed his eyes, centering himself on that sweet touch as it moved, taking his throbbing flesh and moving along it oh, so slowly. He had to breathe deeply and concentrate in order not to jerk into that touch, not to will it to close tightly around him, to move faster, harder.

Methos finally stopped the roaming hand with his own, afraid this unbelievable turn of events would end too soon if he let the touch continue. He opened his eyes to see Duncan's face only inches away, eyes closed. Small beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead and upper lip, and a golden sheen shone over his entire, classically sculpted face.

Methos put his hand on that hard cheek, feeling the warm, earthy reality of this Highland son, the half-day stubble of dark beard, the sloping, dusky eyes, the rich full mouth. "Your turn," Methos whispered. "You may think this is all about power or acceptance, Duncan. But I've always wanted simply you, to see you, to touch you. All of you." Mac reached for his shirt, but Methos brushed his hands away, preferring to do this himself.

Methos parted the already unbuttoned shirt and pulled it away, dropping it onto the growing pile of clothes. Then he unbuttoned and slowly unzipped Mac's bulging and bloodstained trousers and waited while Mac slipped out of them and stepped away. The tight shorts were all that remained and Methos waited for one long, delicious moment of anticipation. He had watched the Highlander work out, had sparred with him many times, frequently distracted by the liquid muscles rippling over a perfectly proportioned frame, but he had never seen him completely naked. He slid both hands along the sides of the shorts underneath the elastic and moved them down over hard buttocks and heavily muscled thighs, running his hands against smooth skin until the last remaining obstacle finally fell to the floor.

Methos couldn't help smiling, an expression which made Mac frown. "Oh, Highlander," he chuckled, realizing his smile had been misinterpreted. "How many times in life has reality so far surpassed fantasy that it made you question the capacity of your own imagination? "

But there was a hunger on Duncan's face, an urgent need that would have been frightening if Methos had not answered it with even more long-repressed desire. The two bodies came together, mouths seeking each other, wanting to taste, to touch everything at once. It quickly turned into a wrestling match, with the Highlander's strength and bulk countered by the lithe grace and supple quickness of the slender Methos.

One moment, Mac had Methos pinned to the floor, their groins tight together, Mac's lips, tongue and teeth sinking into the long, lean neck and torso. Then Methos had pushed up with a heave and thrown the bigger man off, flipping them both and twisting, his long fingers closing around a thick forearm as they stood and pulling it behind Mac's back, slamming him up against the cold metal of the fireplace hood. Methos leaned hard, pulling Mac's arm up at an angle that threatened to dislocate the shoulder, but it was the only way he could have any hope of taming this lion. But the strength and training of the ultimate warrior gave him an advantage as he pushed off, hooked around with a foot and knocked the leaner man's knees out from under him. He turned with a sly grin of triumph, diving down for Methos' torso, intending to lift him and carrying him towards the bed, but was thwarted once again when the slippery figure slid underneath his arm, sweeping out with a leg and knocking the Highlander flat.

Then, as MacLeod turned to roll to his feet, Methos dove onto Mac's back, his arm locked around the thick neck and shoulders, the other hand slipping down to feel between the rock hard buttocks, pressing against the hot, tight opening there until the Highlander hissed and arched into him.

"Are you ready for this?" Methos panted, reveling in the intensity and strength of the living, writhing powerhouse in his arms. He could easily have shouted for the excitement and energy that sang in his veins, that made his ears ring. He couldn't remember the last time he's felt so alive, with every nerve tingling until it was so near ecstasy it was close to pain. But with a grunt, Mac broke Methos' hold and turned, flipping them both onto their backs on the floor with the heavier Scot on top, crushing the air out of the older man's lungs. Even the danger presented by the rigid throbbing cocks couldn't dampen their mutual need to test each other's strength, to push each other to the limits of near brutality.

Mac rolled off but Methos moved quick as a cat, turning over to slip away, only to be caught from behind, Mac flattening him to the floor and holding him there. They were both breathing heavily, naked, glowing bodies slippery with sweat. Mac's erection throbbed at Methos' back as its mate and match did the same into Methos' abdomen, an exquisite agony making them both pause as they used the sensuous moment to catch their breath, each fighting for control of a need that was pushing them to the edge of serious violence.

"I want you," Mac's rough voice breathed into Methos' ear.

Methos gasping chuckle was almost a sob. "I think you've got me, Highlander."

"Do I?" the man asked, relaxing his hold to move his hands down the slick body beneath him, one slipping underneath toward that hard shaft trapped against the floor. The other sliding over wet warm flesh to rest on Methos' tight small behind.

"God, Mac, please, before I embarrass myself!" Methos had tucked his head down and leaned into Mac's hand.

"I don't want to hurt you," but even as he spoke, one finger pressed into that small space, and then another. With a growl, Methos raised up his hips, pressing into Mac's back, almost frantic to have this man inside him, part of him, to push himself past pain and into a place he desperately wanted to be.

"I want to see you," Mac whispered, bodily lifting Methos up and turning him over, leaning in for a deep, searching, exploring kiss. Without taking his eyes off of Methos face, he lifted the slim hips and moved between them, and with no more lubricant than their dripping sweat and leaking pre-cum, he pressed his hard cock inward as Methos held himself absolutely still. Mac had never been quite so glad of Methos' limber grace as the man opened himself to him fully, almost wrapping his long legs around Mac's neck. His short, gasping breaths against the initial pain of entry were followed by a cry as the Scot moved into him, stopped, then further, then further still until Methos sobbed, afraid he wouldn't be able to take all of him and wanting it as much as he ever wanted anything in his long, long life. It was like fire inside him, an electricity that, once the initial pain was past, unleashed an uncoiling, incredible long wave of pleasure that almost made him weep.
Mac was consumed by heat and energy that pressed outward against skin too tight, too hot on his body. He felt himself losing conscious control of a compulsion that was driving him inexorably towards a fast and violent release. He took short gasps against that almost overwhelming need as his hand reached down in between the warmth of their two slippery bodies, grasping that quivering, hard cock, sliding his hand around it, where it seemed to belong, like an extension of himself. The energy pressed harder, demanding escape and he clutched Methos to him, driving himself deeper, then again, and again, echoing that movement with the smooth slide of his hand, surrounding Methos, inside of him. Until there was no boundary between where he ended and Methos began. Until the white-hot energy that was fighting for release poured out of him in a long rush of ecstasy that stopped his breath and threatened to stop his heart as a primal cry escaped his throat.

And pure energy it was, and more, as the Oldest Immortal felt himself lifted almost off the floor in the Highlander's final thrust and contraction into his body. Liquid heat flowed into him, filling him until he couldn't breathe with all that energy inside, moving along the base of his spine, upward and outward, expanding until his universe exploded and he came. He wanted to cry out, but no sound escaped as Mac crushed him to his chest in a vice grip and his body violently pumped fluid out onto and over the Scotsman's hand. For a timeless moment it was as though the world just stopped. No sound, no sight, no feeling except the intensity of life in his own body and the drumming heartbeat pounding against his chest.

Then Mac let him go, slipping away and collapsing at last in a heap beside him. For several minutes Methos lay blissfully still, trapping the memory, holding and turning it in his mind. The warmth still sang and thrummed, almost like after a Quickening, but enervating instead of exhausting and even more intensely erotic. Only gradually did normal breath and heartbeat return and skin begin to cool in the candlelit shadows of the barge's spare interior. He turned to MacLeod, finding him lying on his back, eyes closed.

Methos lay on his side, stretching his long body against the Highlander's, brushing the back of his hand against that hard cheek. The mere touch aroused him all over again. He wanted to feel more of that magnificent physique and ran his fingers teasingly along the smooth lips and down the muscles of the Scot's neck and shoulders. The skin was damp, slightly pale and cooler than he expected, and he got no response from his touch.

"Mac?" There was no answer and Methos lay his finger along the big vein at the base of the neck. The pulse was hard to find and when he did it was fast and uneven. "Duncan?" He was getting concerned. Yes, the climax had been unlike any he had ever experienced but . . . the brown eyes opened slightly and the chest rose with a deep breath.

"Hey, MacLeod," Methos said with a relieved laugh. "I know I'm good and all that but I think that's the first time I ever made anyone faint!"

For a moment Mac's face reflected only vague confusion, and the warm, golden glow of only a moment before had transformed into pale exhaustion. But even his languid lethargy was appealing to Methos, who trailed his hand across the soft mat of hair on the deep chest, then moved to lay on top of the heavier man, looking down hungrily into sleepy brown eyes.

"Mac?" he murmured. "Don't tell me you didn't enjoy that. I wouldn't believe you." He leaned into the body beneath him, relishing the feel of hard muscle and satin flesh. The rub of skin against skin tingled, the sensation going straight to his groin and gathering there as Mac shifted and moved in response.

"Methos . . ." he began softly. "I don't know what happened, but . . ."

"You don't?" Methos chuckled. "Then you're even more inexperienced at this than I thought." The older man could hardly hold himself still. It wasn't just that this was the fulfillment of a long-held fantasy, but he felt like he would burst with energy and desire. He wanted this body, to own it, to be part of it. His long fingers traveled down the hard torso, reveling in the differences between them, light and dark, muscular and slender. His hand traveled down the single line of dark hair bisecting the flat, hard abdomen and sank into the dark curls below, feeling a private thrill when MacLeod pushed against his hand and the semi-erect shaft trembled at his touch.

Methos was already hard and hot again, and had been within minutes of their coupling. And he wanted more. And he wanted it now.

But a sharp whistling noise finally managed to cut through his haze of lust and he realized the teakettle had been whistling for quite awhile. He rose, relishing the chance to move. He took the kettle off the burner, then searched in the lower cabinet to see if he could find a real drink to rouse his pallid companion. He spotted the scotch, but next to it was another bottle which brought a slow smile to his face. He retrieved it and returned to his friend, still supine on the hard wooden floor.

"Come on, Duncan," he said, pulling on his arm, dragging him to his feet. For a moment he thought the man was going to fall. Maybe he should have brought the scotch after all, Methos speculated as he cajoled the man up a level and onto the platform bed built into one end of the barge. Mac fell face down onto the bed in a sprawl.

"I don't know what you did, old man," he said, his voice muffled by the covers. "But I feel like someone just . . . pulled the plug." He gave a low laugh, and Methos crept up beside him on the bed, enjoying the sound. "Like you sucked up every bit of my energy."

"Well, maybe I did," Methos said, stretching out beside him and trailing his fingers along the golden back. "Because I feel . . . I can hardly even tell you how I feel." He leaned in close near Mac's ear, his tongue tracing along its edge. He stopped to watch the chill bumps rise deliciously along Mac's shoulders in reaction.

"I just know I feel more alive right now than I have in a thousand years, maybe more," he whispered. "Maybe it's just that I've dreamed about this for so long." His long, tapered fingers stroked across Mac's shoulders like he was petting a cat. "But touching you, feeling you, feels like . . . an addiction that I can't stop," he said. "And I found something. Something that seemed just too perfect to leave behind." He brandished a small bottle. "It's extra virgin olive oil," he teased, leaning close. "Tell me, Duncan. Are you a virgin?"

"Hmmm," the low voice purred, "depends."

"Depends on what?"

"On how you define the term."

"Okay," Methos rose, straddling Mac's narrow waist, intensely aware that his erect cock was resting lightly against the small of the Scotsman's back. He spread oil onto his hands, rubbed them together to warm them then dove into the thick muscles of those broad shoulders, digging deep with his fingers. Even that touch was enough to drive him close to orgasm, but long centuries of discipline, plus taking in long, deep breaths, controlled the urge.

"I define the term as not having had sex with another man in . . . oh, say . . . two hundred years," Methos stated definitively.

"In that case," Mac said with a chuckle that resonated through his chest to Methos' hands. "I think I'd have to ask if you are a virgin."

The warm hands paused for a moment, then continued, and Mac realized his faux pas.

"I'm sorry, Methos. I forgot about Byron."

The fingers moved down, warming muscles along his spine. "It's alright, Mac. You did what you had to do. Immortals who abuse their power, their charisma, destroying mortal lives . . . I know it's something you can't abide. Nor should you." The voice was soft and low.

Mac lay quiet for a moment, realizing his friend wasn't really talking about the great poet, but about himself. He squirmed around, turning over, then reached out, entwining his fingers in Methos oil-covered hands. "What you were is not that different from what I was. In some ways, the Dark Quickening was an obstacle to understanding, because I thought if I could overcome it, you should have. But . . . I finally got it through my thick skull that I didn't overcome it alone. And I wouldn't have, without you." He let go of the slender hands and grasped the older man's broad shoulders, pulling him closer, the shoulders of a swimmer, a long distance runner, a lean musculature borne of endurance and natural grace.

"And you did it by yourself, and had all the reason in the world not to. Knowing just how overwhelming that feeling can be . . ." his voice trailed off as he traced a hand down Methos' face. "It's beyond imagination how you did it."

The touch felt electric and Methos closed his eyes, fighting the urge to sink his teeth into the palm that was so near his lips. His whole body was pounding with the strength of his own heartbeat. What Mac had said sunk somewhere deep into his psyche, an admission in words of what had already been demonstrated in action. But the words were a balm over the wound of his own self-hatred, the unforgiven and unforgivable pain of what he had been. Of what he always feared he might be again.

Emotion choked his throat and he closed his eyes, not able to meet that completely open, vulnerable expression Duncan was wearing. "Here," he said gruffly. "Turn over, MacLeod. I wasn't finished with your back." Mac rolled back over with a smile, laying his cheek on his hands. "And you didn't ever answer my question."

"I forgot what it was."

"Something about virginity, I think."

"Ah yes. Two hundred years? Well . . . then I guess my little tryst with Brother Timothy in the monastery about 325 years ago doesn't count."

"That long? My, my you are a virgin for all intents and purposes." The thought made him want to dig his fingers harder into the malleable flesh under his fingers. He leaned forward, luxuriating in the feel of his chest against the smooth oiled skin of Duncan's back, smelling the earthy smell of olive oil, sex and sweat that rose from the warm flesh. He felt more than heard the low, rumbling chuckle rising out of Mac's chest.

"Well, then please be kind, Adam."

"Oh, I'll be much more than kind, Duncan," he whispered, then dragged his teeth along the hard line of Mac's shoulder, the tension in him building until he ended up biting down hard enough to feel his partner tense beneath him. He rose up and moved back, nudging Mac's legs apart, then pulling on his hips until the man rose up to his elbows. Methos spread more oil across his hands before he ran them across the firm buttocks, then below, feeling the full, hard sacks, then pressed his hands into the base of Mac's shaft. The living flesh trembled and throbbed and Mac's back expanded as he took in deep breaths at the touch that radiated through his groin and up into his chest, demanding more air.

Methos kept one hand there, stroking carefully, as the other moved up, spreading the oil deep into the warm crack, finding that tender opening and moving in. First one finger, waiting as Mac began to tense and pant with anticipation, then another, and a low groan could be heard. Methos knew exactly where the nerves were, the glans, and he stroked, his own excitement accelerating, his own breath matching the panting of the man writhing beneath him.

Then the world slowed to one long second at a time. He had to be there, now. There was no more time, no more seduction or foreplay left in him. He pressed himself in, slipping inside, hearing but not heeding Mac's grunt of pain, but all the same, something made him pause before he pressed again, and then he was there, buried deep inside that warm, tight place that seemed divinely made just for him, just for this moment. He stopped, holding himself as still as his trembling legs would allow, letting Mac hold his weight. If he moved at all, he was certain he would come and he had waited so long for this, he didn't want it to end. Mac was arching towards him, almost coming to his knees, but for Methos' weight he carried on his back. Methos wrapped one arm around that broad chest, then carefully reached down, finding the distended, weeping cock and folding his hand around it. It was as though the touch was transmitted straight from his lover's flesh to his own skin because just as Mac jerked into the touch, so did he jerk into Mac's body. It rose up in him. A heat. As though some part of him, at some subliminal, almost subatomic level, wanted to pour itself into that flesh. As though it were coming home.

But the long, trembling breaths forestalled whatever hunger was driving that fierce need as he forced himself to move out, then in again, reveling in Mac's desperate panting at each subtle move. Again he slipped ever so slowly out then in again, but now the body under his arms was beginning to tremble out of control. Mac's wordless cries of need and frustration bled away whatever possibility remained of restraint, and he at last slammed into that beloved body hard enough, he knew, to hurt both of them, and again. And again, and life poured out of him in a rush of sweet warmth, a thrilling release of wave after wave of fulfilled desire.

Mac shuddered and came, crying out as he arched his back, gasping for air and crying out again as it went on and on. For just a moment, a fear trembled across both men, a fear that this wasn't going to stop as each strained, unable to breathe as body called to body, neither of them able to do anything other than let it happen. But at last it stopped, leaving both men gasping. Methos sagged for a moment against Mac's back, then the world faded away and he slipped off, welcoming the embrace of the soft covers on his skin. He could barely find the energy to take the next breath, and was uncertain that his heart would manage to take its next beat, but he didn't care. He closed his eyes, feeling himself falling into a warm, welcome darkness.

MacLeod held himself still for long moments after Methos slipped out of him, falling almost insensible at his side. He took short, shallow breaths, fighting the tides that surged inside. At first it was just heat, an ecstatic thrill ride more intense than any sex he had experienced in his long life. But the heat turned into shocks that were travelling along every nerve ending, sending overtaxed muscles into tiny spasms that had his whole body vibrating. He gradually eased himself down, looking over to Methos to see if he had been similarly affected, but the man was pale and wan, eyes closed, barely breathing.

Mac surged up off the bed, staggering to the wall and leaning against the cool metal. A slow sick realization stole over him and he made his unsteady way to the bathroom.

Methos opened his eyes slowly, feeling the chill of the room and reaching lethargically for the covers. He barely had the energy to pull them up to his shoulders, and turned to seek warmth from another body, only to find it gone. The covers weren't even still warm from his presence. But weakness made every movement an effort and he felt heavy, weighed down by some invisible force. Maybe it's just life, he thought. Maybe it's just time, too much time. And he drifted off again. But some sense of wrongness pulled him out again, not letting him rest. And he really wanted to rest. There was a sound that didn't quite belong to the usual background noise that intruded on his wish for sleep. Ah, the shower. Mac was taking a shower. That was okay. That was understandable. Except that it was taking too long. Way too long.

Methos groaned, wondering why he was bothering. The man ought to be able to take a shower if he wanted. But still he struggled out of bed, stumbling, surprised when his knees really didn't want to hold him up. It made him smile for a moment. When was the last time sex had left him weak in the knees, he wondered.

Methos' legs almost folded up underneath him again as he unsteadily climbed the steps toward the bathroom. He stopped at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, a woozy lightheaded sensation threatening to send him tumbling back down. He opened the door, expecting to encounter steamy warmth, but shivered instead. Chill bumps washed over his already cool skin as he stepped inside the freezing room. He could barely see Mac's outline through the translucent curtain, but he was obviously standing directly under the hard spray of what had to be cold water.

He pushed the curtain aside to see MacLeod's broad back, tight and tense. His head was bowed, leaning against his forearms, letting the water wash over his neck and down his shoulders. His fists were clenching and unclenching, and he jerked away when Methos reached out to touch the frigid skin.

"Don't!" he growled, moving closer to the wall.

The Oldest Immortal's sense that something had gone very awry was increasing by the moment. Methos grabbed a big bath towel off the bar and wrapped himself in it for warmth. "What's happened, Mac?" Methos asked.

"You know what's happened, old man. You felt it," was the barely audible reply.

"I . . . felt something, that's for damn sure," Methos smiled grimly. "I'm not exactly lacking in experience, Highlander, but this . . . well that was new to me. Exciting, thrilling, almost painfully so." He reached in and turned off the water. "But what's wrong, Mac?" he said in the sudden silence. "You have to tell me, Mac, or I can't help you."

"Helping me is the last thing you should do right now, Methos. Maybe ever. I think you should leave. Get out of here. Now!" The words were harsh and desperate, matched by a look that most would have taken for anger, but that Methos knew was stark fear. Fear plus an outpouring of nearly uncontrollable sexual energy, whose painful manifestation was the evident reason for the cold shower.

"Trying to be the stoic martyr again, MacLeod? Give me a break!"

"NO!" Mac growled, and Methos was forcibly backed to the door, trapped as the Scot's large hand closed around his neck and the big body crushed him. "I'm desperately trying not to either fuck you or kill you, Methos, because those are your choices if you stay."

"Given the alternative, fucking sounds good," Methos managed to choke out against the building pressure on his throat.

"You don't get it, do you, Mr. Smart Ass? Each time it's going to get worse until one of us has to kill the other. Magnetic north and south, Adam. Irresistible force and immovable object. Alpha and Omega," he said roughly. His hands closed even more on the long white neck. "Me to you, then you to me. It's the Gathering. The two strongest were meant to take Quickenings. Our souls know it even if our hearts don't want to. We're drawn to each other, our Quickenings mingling, passing it back and forth." He took a long, shaking breath and let go, turning away, stepping back into the shower and turning the cold spray back on. "It's one thing Ahriman taught me. The feel of power against the skin. It's crawling inside me, Methos. It wants out. It wants to be back where it belongs -- in you."

"And you're afraid you'll hurt me?" Methos asked through the closed curtain.

"Oh, I know I'll hurt you, Methos. But even if I don't manage to kill you, then the cycle will continue until one of us has both Quickenings instead of just parts of each, meaning one of us will be dead." The words were flat and hard.

Methos carefully put down the toilet seat and sat, thinking. Then a laugh bubbled up, making his mouth twitch. Then it became a giggle. Pretty soon tears were streaming down his face and his whole body shook with mirth. He heard the water cut off and the curtain slide back. The towel was pulled from around his shoulders and he stopped to voice a mild protest, but quickly gave it up at the dark and murderous threat in the Highlander's eyes, which were now, once again, brown as wet earth and old leaves.

"I would like to know what you find so amusing, Methos," Mac said, his voice rough with tension. He wrapped the towel around his waist, crossed his arms and stood, rigid with tension, periodically trembling with cold and . . . whatever else was bedeviling him.

"Life. Us. Fate," Methos replied, wiping his eyes. "The best sex I've had in thousands of years. Talk about fatal attraction!" The thought seemed to set him off again into uncontrollable giggles.

With a disgusted shake of his head, Mac vigorously dried himself off and started out the door. "Mac, wait!" Methos managed to call.

"What?!"

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm just a little . . . I don't know . . . giddy, I guess."

MacLeod turned, leaning against the door, the towel draped carefully in front. The naked nearness of the Oldest Immortal was driving him close to the edge, and the slightest excuse would, he feared, move him to rape, or close to it as some portion of the old man's Quickening tingled inside, fighting to be reunited with its originator.

Methos fought to get himself under control, finally succeeding except for the occasional snort of laughter that bubbled up at the intense, desperate look on Mac's dark face.

"Mac," Methos took a deep breath, willing himself under emotional control. "It can't be all that bad. A major hard on never killed anyone." The thought almost made him lose it again, but the humor in the situation evaporated when MacLeod dropped the towel and hauled him up bodily, throwing him against the medicine cabinet hard enough to shatter it.

"You don't get it, Methos! That rush you felt after we made love the first time? That was my energy in you that you unconsciously pulled from me. Exciting wasn't it?" Mac smiled and nodded as Methos eyes lit up at the memory of the hunger that had made him far more aggressive than was his usual style. "Well I got it all back, and some of yours besides. Can you feel it? Touch me, Methos. For God's sake, can't you tell?"

Methos realized he had been unconsciously stroking Mac's arm, feeling the skin, wanting to get as close as possible as though it's warmth, it's life, was necessary to his very existence. He closed his eyes, letting his mind explore the sensation. The longer the contact continued the stronger it got. He opened his eyes, looking into the hot gaze of Mac's tense face. He slowly forced himself to push the heavier man away. The still-throbbing erection against his own groin was getting to be too much. He almost wanted to be taken as violently as Mac's body language was suggesting. Anything to get closer, to crawl into that golden body.

The two stood for a long minute, the tension in the small room, the nearness to violence a living, breathing entity between them.

"I think you better get dressed and wait for me, Mac. I'll be out in a few minutes."

Mac's movements were forced and jerky, totally lacking his usual liquid, athletic grace as he barely seemed to make it out the door. He stood outside, momentarily rooted to the spot, and almost grateful when he heard the door lock click behind him. He could have broken through easily, but the gesture was enough. Methos believed him at last, realized the danger.

Methos finally emerged, this time from a steam-filled room, to find Mac dressed and back on his mat, eyes closed, deep in concentration. He retrieved his clothes, unusually aware of the fact that all he was wearing was a towel, and retreated to the bathroom to dress. This is ridiculous, he thought to himself as he closed the bathroom door and locked it again. This is MacLeod we're talking about. Mr. Righteous. Mr. Boy Scout. And I'm suddenly afraid of him? But the memory of that intense look, an echo of a Dark Quickening that drove the Highlander to murder, provided reason to be very, very careful. Another part of him warred against the warning, relished the idea of the violence that stirred just beneath the surface of both men. What a thrilling ride that would be, part of him knew. Death on a Horse was only a breath away, waiting to ride again.

Methos leaned up against the door, sweat already dampening the clothes he had just managed to put on. They each had battles to wage, he knew. He wasn't really afraid of MacLeod. He was afraid of himself. Even if Mac managed to subdue his urges, that didn't mean the Oldest Immortal wouldn't take back that which was his, by whatever means necessary. And he could think of several means - some more enjoyable than others. His imagination worked on that for a moment, but he carefully, diligently pushed the thought away and stepped out of the bathroom again, and down the stairs.

Candlelight still warmed the room, a wavering luminance that imbued his already golden warrior with a wavering unsteady glow. He could feel the draw, like a tightly drawn string between them. What had been a siren song before was now nothing less than a irresistible magnet. He sat carefully across from the Highlander, who felt his proximity and opened his eyes.

"Now what, Methos?" he asked. The question was neither demanding nor arrogant, only a desperate question from a desperate man. "I don't want to hurt you."

The wry smile that flitted across the angular features of the oldest Immortal made MacLeod worry again that he was still not being taken seriously, but Methos raised his hand to, at least partially, allay that impression. "Part of our problem is that . . . both of us are operating on the margins here, MacLeod. The violence that is stirring in you is, in part, a reflection of my own needs and desires. Somehow we have to put these genies back in their respective bottles or we will feed off of each other. You were right, Highlander," he whispered. "At this moment we are more alike than not."

Mac waited during the long silence that followed while Methos settled into a relaxed meditative pose, his breathing deep and regular. Mac finally had to close his eyes to block out the sight of the alabaster skin reflecting the flickering candlelight. A wave of need rolled over him and he took a long, deep breath, letting it out ever so slowly, reaching for that elusive calm he had, until tonight, been able to regularly achieve.

"You said you had found evil within yourself and accepted it, Duncan," Methos' voice drifted softly to him out of the darkness. "Does that mean you control it?"

"It means that I acknowledge my capacity for it, hopefully recognize it when it occurs, understand it and, as a result of that understanding, make the right choices."

Methos chuckled. "Is that a long-winded way of saying "yes"?"

"It means exactly what I said, Adam. We all make choices, every minute of every day. Understanding them and accepting the consequences of them is the best I can hope for."

Methos sighed softly. "I told you I had been to your meditation mountaintop, and I have, many times. Because enlightenment isn't a one-time event, Duncan. Understanding doesn't come in a blinding flash, to then be forever in your grasp. It has to be constantly revisited and renewed, and that's where I have failed. Time and time again I have lacked understanding about the choices I have made, why I made them. Or even if I understood why, I had stopped caring about consequences. In that respect, young man, that's where you and I are very different. Maybe that's what frightened me so, made me so angry. I was afraid that the precious difference between us, the thing about you which I prize above all, had been lost. That you had, indeed, become more like me than not."

"Don't expect more of me than I am capable of, Methos," Duncan warned.

"All I want is for you to still be, essentially, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. And that person does not want my Quickening. That person is fully capable of resisting his own dark impulses, even when amplified by mine."

Duncan drew a long, unsteady breath. "But how? I just know I want to touch you, to be in you so desperately . . ." he couldn't go on for a long moment until he regained control of his voice. "I feel like I would do anything for that. Anything," he choked.

"But you're not, Duncan. You are sitting there quietly. Talking rationally."

But his words were answered by a sharp laugh, and suddenly MacLeod had lunged across the short distance between them, stopping inches away. So close that Methos could feel the heat from his body, could see the pulse pounding in Mac's neck.

"You call this talking rationally?!" he leaned so close Methos could feel the air of his breath move across his face, and he froze, waiting as their eyes met and held. Finally, Mac closed his eyes and slowly turned his head away, almost as though some external force was moving his body, clumsily backing off, crawling back to his mat and sitting again.

Methos let several minutes pass, watching. Gradually MacLeod's breathing deepened again, the body was tense but no longer trembling.

Finally Methos spoke. "That was a choice, Mac. Wasn't it?" He watched as the thick neck moved with a swallow and a slight nod.

"I know of only one way to resolve this, Duncan. And that's for you to make love to me again."

Duncan's eyes flew open in surprise. "But . . ." he stopped at Methos' raised hand.

"There are many ways to love, Mac. We'll just have to find something . . . non-physical."

At Methos' murmured instruction, and helped by the steady confidence of his voice, Mac sank deeper into his meditative trance. At last he found himself back in the vaulted echoing stone chamber he had frequented before, knowing it was in his own mind, but sensing the fundamental reality of the structure as a metaphor for the multitude of corridors and places in his own mind he had yet to explore, as well as the calm emptiness of a deep meditative state.

Then Methos was there. He looked around in a manner eerily similar to his first reaction to the emptiness of the barge. "Trust you, MacLeod, to conjure someplace cold and uncomfortable. Come," he held out his hand. "Let me take you somewhere else."

Mac hesitated. The long, tapered fingers were so close, but if they touched, he knew the marginal control he had over the dark urges Methos' presence sparked might very well evaporate.

"This is where your heart and mind is, Duncan, not your body. Trust yourself."

He touched . . . and they were walking along an empty beach, the hot sun warming his shoulders, the hypnotic crash of waves a soothing accompaniment to the scene.

"There," the man beside him sighed with pleasure. "Isn't this better? I swear, MacLeod, you have never learned how to indulge your creature comforts. Almost as though you needed all that cold and wet and rock, afraid to actually enjoy yourself."

Mac couldn't think of a response to the comment. In a way the man was right. It would be so easy to get lost in a search for pleasure, to forget your obligations, neglect responsibilities. It was especially hard for an Immortal.

"Why?" Methos asked, turning to face him.

"Why what?"

"Why is it especially hard?"

"You can read my thoughts?" Duncan asked fearfully.

Methos laughed, raising his arms to indicate the broad, empty expanse of ocean, sand and blue sky. "I'm in your mind, Duncan. And you're in mine. I wasn't sure we could do this, but you always were a stickler for self-discipline. Those monks in Malaysia must have loved you. But you didn't answer my question."

Duncan trailed along for a moment, Methos following, feeling the imaginary warm sand rub between his toes, thinking. "It's hard because an Immortal has to invent his or her own obligations and responsibilities, decide for themselves and commit to them as a matter of honor. It's not like mortals, who have a short span of time to achieve something, to devote to a family, a career, a life goal. We create our obligations for ourselves and have to continuously renew them or they become meaningless."

"And what are your obligations, Duncan MacLeod?"

"To live a life that gives more than it takes. To help and protect the people I care about. To do what is in my power to see that my Race does not damage mortalkind."

"Hell of an agenda, Mac. Who made you the Immortal police?"

"Not the Immortal police, Methos," Duncan said softly. "Just a person who cannot stand by and do nothing when others of my Race use their gift to hurt others. I know you think me judgmental, and perhaps you're right. But to do nothing is a judgment of sorts, as well, isn't it?"

"So it is, MacLeod. So it is."

"Why did you bring me here, Adam?" Duncan had stopped, forcing the old man to pause and turn.

"Because here there are no barriers, Duncan, at least for you. When you are ready, when you feel you can, you can either take all of my Quickening, here and now, or give back that of mine that is still within you."

Duncan looked at him in confusion. He reached out to touch, but at the contact, all he felt was a soft sense of air, a brush of [presence]. It drew him and for a moment he felt caught like a moth near a flame. It was so very bright and hot, a power that had burned down to a hard unquenchable core. One could get badly burned in that kind of heat. He drew closer.

"Duncan?" The low voice broke the near trance-like fascination and Mac found himself looking down into gold-green eyes. Somehow they had both sunk to their knees in the soft sand, so close . . . and yet not there at all for there was no breath, no heat coming off that skin, no moisture from the warm sun beading the flesh.

Mac closed his eyes. "I . . . can't, Methos. I don't know how."

"Yes you do, Duncan." The long, elegant fingers of his right hand raised up in front of him. Brown hand brushed against alabaster. There was no sense of touch, just a emotional wash of warmth, of desire. Not physical, but no less intense for all of that.

And no less dangerous, Duncan thought.

"But you fear your own physical strength, Mac," Methos answered his thoughts. "You fear your capacity for violence, for domination. But here all we are is idea, concept, belief. It is no less real, but - for you - perhaps less fearful."

"And here you are more than my equal," Duncan finished the thought.

Methos chuckled. "In some things, perhaps. In others - you have a strength of spirit like none I've ever known, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

But the knowledge that here his big hands wouldn't bruise the white skin, that there was no blow he could thoughtlessly deliver that would snap the elegant neck, that desire was merely an unfulfilled wish, and lust took on a different definition entirely - left him free to . . . what? He wasn't at all certain. His only experience with this odd Quickening exchange phenomenon was associated with sex.

"With love, Duncan. With a willingness to give yourself to another - totally," Methos responded to his thought.

How does one express love here, Duncan asked, but Methos didn't answer, and Mac knew it was a question he had to answer for himself.

The only ways he had ever known were to be there when the people he loved needed them. To defend them, to hold them, to protect them. He was an intensely physical being and needed to touch, to feel their reality, to let them feel his. Mac reached out, feeling the life that was Methos, extending his awareness of what 'being Methos' meant. What he felt was too vast, too complex to capture in words or ideas or pictures.

It was . . . an accumulation. A totality of pain and need and loss, of sweet love and willing sacrifice, of self-doubt and shame, of knowledge and curiosity. A compendium of a life lived again and again and again, sometimes foolishly, sometimes well, but beneath it all was a foundation of endurance, an intense will to see tomorrow and next month and next year, and the next millenium. To touch all that vastness was to see a new and overwhelming definition of Immortality. Mac had never thought of life, especially his own life, as never ending, only as very long. But this seemed to go on virtually forever. The prospect was terrifying.

But within all that complexity, surrounding it, underlying it, was a unique soul. A soul of a sensitive and caring man, who had, as a survival technique, become a purported observer of life, rather than a participant. But survival and endurance, no matter how strong or harsh, had never erased a deep capacity for love, just made it careful, protective, hidden. But somehow sweeter and almost childlike because of it. And heartbreakingly undemanding with no expectation of love's return.

Mac moved closer, placing the ghost of his own hands on each side of the essence of Methos' face. "Take back what is thine, Adam," he whispered. "As precious as it is to me, you'll have need of it for a long time to come."

Those long tapered fingers brushed against his own face, feeling like feather touches of warm comfort. "You'd do this for me?" the whispered voice asked in wonder even though the pale lips did not move. There was a sound that might have been a laugh, but was more like a quiet wind through tall grass. "You give a new definition to the term "Boy Scout, Highlander."

Mac almost drew back when he realized Methos had actually not expected this. The ancient had thought to let his lover take all that he was in a gentle release of energy. An act of such love and sadness that, if he could have, Mac would have wept. He had done nothing to deserve that gift. But instead of tears flowing, a gentle tingle flowed through his fingers as energy sought its natural home. The energy gathered force and strength until the tingle became a burn, flowing out and away, into the furnace of Methos' power. It was a whirlpool that dragged him inexorably towards that heat, a gravity well that had no bottom, far deeper and the pull far too compelling to even attempt to resist.

It felt like all the oxygen was being burned away and he stopped even trying to breathe as he fell further and further . . .

"Duncan?"

The air that flowed into his lungs was cool and sweet, even though its movement across the soaked clothes clinging to his skin made him shiver convulsively. He opened his eyes. Methos was sitting across from him, watching him with careful concern.

For a moment MacLeod just sat and catalogued his senses, waiting for that chest-constricting lust to rise again, but his body was quiet at last, if exhausted. The thin, tight thread of connection that had been there since he and Methos had shared the simultaneous Quickenings of two ancients was still there. If anything, that wire resonated more strongly, with overtones not previously present. Mac sighed internally. He had never welcomed that psychic intrusion, but it seemed the two of them were destined to travel ever-intersecting paths.

"Did you really expect me to take your Quickening, Adam?"

The hazel eyes that met his flickered in the soft candlelight for a brief second before he looked down and all Mac could see were dark eyelashes against his pale face. He seemed actually embarrassed. "Suddenly it seemed too easy, Mac. So right. Such a gentle way to let go . . . of everything. It never occurred to me before that taking a Quickening might be anything other than an act of terrible violence."

"The same could be said of taking mine, old man. Age doesn't give you a monopoly on regret, you know." Mac held up his hand to stop the other's protest. "Enough, Adam. I know I'm not ready to live with your old soul rattling around in my head, and I assume you have no desire to carry around my penchant for self-recrimination." He passed his hands in front of his face in weariness. "Especially since there was no way I had the strength to keep you from taking anything I have, everything I am. If you hadn't stopped it . . ."

"You're right, MacLeod. Having your overwrought conscious bedeviling me for the rest of my days is not a fate I would wish on my worst enemy."

He unfolded himself stiffly from the floor, reaching over to help the Scot rise, and steadying him when the heavier man faltered. Instead of releasing, Mac roughly pulled Methos to him and for a moment the two embraced. Each could still feel the subliminal tickle of energy just beneath the surface wherever skin touched skin.

Methos let Mac hold him. It was an odd sensation, this . . . comfort. He stiffened for only a moment before he allowed himself to lean into the warm, strong body. It was so different from the hot need he had felt before, but strangely more satisfying. This embrace was not about need, it was about . . . love. And he chuckled.

Mac drew back, looking into his eyes, but keeping his hands on those slim hips. "What?"

Methos pushed an errant lock of hair off Mac's forehead. "I'm going to hate myself for this in the morning, but . . ."

"First, it already is morning," Mac said nodding toward the dawn light leaking in through the barge portholes. "Second, old man, you already hate yourself too much, so if this is going to make that worse, I'd say skip it."

"Oh, no, Mac. You'll love this," Methos said, then paused. "I was just going to admit you were right."

"Ah. This is a first. You're right. You'll hate yourself for this." But Mac's eyes were crinkled in amusement. "Anything in particular I'm right about, or just everything in general?"

Methos touched the soft curls at the back of Mac's neck, feeling desire rise again, incongruously, knowing it was an aspect of their relationship that would forever be a forbidden temptation. "This . . ." he said, indicating the comfort they each felt at that moment, "is even more precious than having your glorious body."

He made himself step away, then turned to gather his coat and sword. Mac didn't try to stop him as he wearily mounted the steps. A thought occurred to him, though, and he stopped and turned.

"You know, Duncan, if it is just the two of us at the end of the Gathering, and there can truly be only One," a naughty smile warmed the old man's young face.

"Yes?"

"Well, it'll be a hell of a last battle, won't it? And for the first time, I can actually say that, win or lose, I'm looking forward to it." Wearing that same self-satisfied smile, the Oldest Immortal nodded to the Highlander, and was gone.

finis