The Ragged Edge By MacGeorge and Maygra de Rhema

The Ragged Edge
By MacGeorge and Maygra de Rhema
© March, 1999

The human head, when removed from its natural home atop a torso, two legs and two arms, was a hideous lump of flesh, Duncan observed in a moment of detached clarity. It had landed on the time-worn cobblestones of the empty alley with a disgustingly familiar, squishy splat before rolling away, facing in his general direction. The gray eyes were frozen in abject surprise, the sandy, carefully layered chin-length hair still neat and shiny. It was the bloodless lips drawn back in a final rictus of fear or uncertainty, and the long splatter of blood that had sprayed across the chin that spoiled the image. And the unnatural distance from the rest of the body, of course.

The ghostly mist that crept out of the other Immortal's corpse was a prelude to the violence of another in a long, long series of Quickenings that the Gathering had forced on an unwilling recipient. As Duncan felt it's hungry tendrils creep against his skin, he couldn't help fighting it, even though he knew resistance would only make it worse. His jaw clenched and his shoulders bunched in anticipation of the mind-numbing blast of energy that seared every one of the billions of nerve endings in his body. Was it pain? It was an agony, like immolation, like being dropped into hot lead, ripping an involuntary scream from his throat. Was it ecstasy? Oh, yes. The sense of power, of life, with every sense magnified to new heights until they all reached overload and his breath was squeezed out in an endless exhalation of pain and such intense pleasure that it became pure mindless, pointless overwhelming sensation.

Then it stuttered and slowed, small, painful sparks skittering across his too-sensitized skin, making him jerk and gasp like some puppet whose strings were all a-tangle, until at last the energy found an uneasy home in its new host. The muscles in his legs trembled and he collapsed to his knees with a painful thump, hard enough to tear fabric and skin. It was a moment of terrifying weakness, when anyone could come along to take his head and he hadn't enough strength or presence of mind to even find his katana, much less defend himself.

He closed his eyes, attempting an inventory of his available resources. Hearing? The roaring in his ears would take another minute or two to subside. Touch? His fingers were still numb and clumsy. He pushed against the ground, testing and gathering his strength, took a deep breath and forced himself to stand. The world tilted and nausea was another distraction as he stumbled to a nearby wall. The solid, rough brick was reassuringly steady, providing much-needed stability while he waited for the world to regain its axis. The impact of Quickenings had gotten steadily worse as the Gathering had intensified and he had been inexorably sucked into its center, taking more Immortal heads than he would have ever dreamed possible in the last half dozen years. It made him sick with disgust at himself, at his Race, at the hideous Game he was forced to play to its fatal conclusion again and again and again.

It also made his skin crawl with excess energy, sending his libido and his aggressive tendencies spiking off the chart, each successive battle another challenge to his hard won emotional and physical control.

Control. The bane and the savior of his existence. Without it he would never have survived as long as he had, emotionally or physically. But those same essential survival skills so easily became domination, became judgment, became rigidity, became an emotional blindness that damaged himself and the people he cared about. And there were other, more serious flaws in his character, ones he never wanted others to see. It was moments like this, moments when he felt his ugly, selfish, needy weakness crawl over his flesh, that he felt…unclean, unworthy. He so desperately wanted it to stop, to give in, to give up, to let someone else carry this awful burden. The deep disgust at his own cowardice was too much, the nausea spiked and he vomited violently onto the cobblestones, the smell of his own bile triggering more dry heaves until he had exhausted himself and was again on his knees, gasping.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and forced himself to his feet. There were chores that needed to be done. This self-indulgent weakness would just have to be put away, locked up again somewhere inside where no one could see. He ran through a calming meditation and let his heart rate slow. The spots that had been wavering in his vision cleared and his hearing had returned at last. While his overtaxed muscles were still objecting, he could now move and function, attending to the gruesome disposition of yet another body, another casualty in this mindless pursuit of racial extinction.

Joe Dawson sat at a table drinking his favorite whisky, surrounded by friends, basking in the warmth of their open affection and admiration. There were his Watcher friends, including his daughter, Amy, and ex-Watcher Adam Pierson a/k/a Methos, closet Immortal. There were his musician friends, some of them of a stature that took his breath away. All here for his 50th birthday. They had jammed, each taking a solo turn while the others played backup, urging the other on with shouts and laughter and applause. A perfect evening. Almost.

The one person that meant the most to him, who had no doubt been responsible for organizing and funding the whole elaborate affair, was noticeably late. Frighteningly absent.

"You okay?" Methos' gentle tones whispered quietly at his elbow.

"What? Oh, sorry. Just woolgathering," Joe smiled.

"I'm sure he's just gotten delayed," Methos said.

Joe shot him a hard look, raising an eyebrow. The oldest Immortal knew better than anyone that Duncan MacLeod would have moved mountains to have been there. "Yeah, right," Joe took a large gulp of his whisky. "That's what I told myself the first hour, and the second." He shook his head, studying the bottom of his glass. "I've been a lousy Watcher the past few years. Gotten lazy. Figured he'd always tell me what was going on. That's he'd always survive. The business with O'Rourke should have taught me better. If I'd been doing my job, I'd know…" he couldn't go on. Couldn't fill in the blanks where his voice had stopped.

They were both quiet for a minute. The crowd moved and talked and laughed around them, water flowing over two smooth stones. Methos watched his mortal friend's well-worn face. Joe was almost sick with worry and the oldest Immortal made a decision to reveal a secret, something that went against all his usual instincts. "Joe?" The grizzled face looked up. "He's alive, trust me," Methos stated.

"You say that like you're absolutely certain," Joe looked curious, puzzled.

The lean, pale man nodded. "I am. I'd know it if someone had taken his head."

Dawson slowly leaned back in his chair, staring at the man whose age defied rational explanation or understanding. He looked dubious. "What is it with you people and MacLeod? That's what Amanda insisted once when he went missing." He watched the thin mobile face as Methos smiled and cocked his head, shrugging one shoulder in a trademark gesture that made him look like a shy, endearing teenager.

"Ever since that business with Kronos and Silas…" he turned his attention to his beer, not wanting to get into any details of that ugly incident, then went on. "It's kind of weird, I know, but…well, MacLeod always seems to surpass expectations and break boundaries no one had thought could be broken."

"So do you, old man," Joe whispered quietly. But some of the tension and worry had lifted from his face and he allowed himself to smile at his ancient friend.

Then Methos went very still and his sharp chin turned expectantly towards the door.

The figure that stepped through the bar's entrance was a sight straight out of heroic myth. Long dark hair rippling just past broad shoulders. A truly impressive physique, a body made for battle, graceful and strong. But that wasn't what most people noticed first. First they saw his eyes, dark and intense and somehow…sad. There was a soft vulnerability, an openness that inspired trust, that invited confidence. And then there was that mouth. One would expect such a warrior, with that chiseled profile and strong jaw, to have a hard, determined mouth. But Duncan MacLeod was a man of contradictions. His lips were soft and bowed and sweet, and when he smiled, the warmth of that gentle expression had the power to light up a room.

But there was no smile on those lips now. They were pressed together in a hard, grim line.

"Shit," Methos murmured. Joe gave him a sharp look. "He's taken a Quickening. A strong one."

Duncan made his way over to Dawson's table. His gaze focused solely on his Watcher although his body language made plain his intense awareness of the other Immortal. "I'm sorry I'm late, Joe. I really am. And I can't stay, but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday." He took a small package out of his coat pocket and placed it carefully on the table, then quickly slipped his hands back into his pockets.

Joe looked at the package, picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The gift was unimportant. What Mac had done for him over the years, their friendship, the very fact that this most unusual of Immortals had let him become part of his life…that was the true gift. And the fact that, once more, he had survived another fight to the death, as evidenced by the blood staining his big, blunt hands.

"Are you okay?" Joe asked. He gestured to the empty chair, but Mac just shook his head tightly.

"I'm fine. I just…I don't think I should stay, Joe."

Dawson leaned forward a little. "Anyone I know?" he asked so softly only Mac and Methos could hear.

Mac shook his head. "Not now, Joe. Please. I just need…I'll talk to you soon. Have a great party." He turned and slipped back through the crowd and out the door before Joe had a chance to protest.

Joe turned to Methos to comment on the Scot's unusual behavior but was stopped, his mouth still open, his words unspoken. Methos seemed absolutely frozen in place. His normally relaxed, innocuously sardonic expression was erased, replaced by a hard, grim alertness, his entire body poised, ready to move at the slightest provocation. It was a frightening transformation, one Joe knew instinctively was a rare glimpse at the true Methos, the warrior, the greatest survivor of all time.

"Adam?" Joe spoke softly, uncertain that the ancient man was even aware of his presence anymore. He reached out to touch, and those sharp, hard eyes flashed and turned, looking at him as though he were only an obstacle in his way, a minor one at that. Joe's mouth went dry. He had never before feared this man, but…"Methos," he said, deliberately, more as a reminder than anything else.

Methos paused, then took a deep breath, suddenly looking around the room, surveying his surroundings. Then he stood. "Sorry, Joe. I think…I think MacLeod and I need to…to talk." The lean figure turned and slipped through the crowd like a wraith, and was gone.


Mac slammed into the dojo, grateful it was now used by appointment only. The room was empty and dark, his footsteps echoing sharply through the large room. The Quickening he had taken boiled inside, giving every sensation an edge; every breath of air against his skin becoming a caress, every sound conveying a sharpness of pain or pleasure, every sight a stab of bright color and texture. He was angry. Angry at being needlessly challenged, angry at having to kill again, angry that he had not been able to be a friend to Joe, who deserved better. Just generally pissed off. And horny as hell, his dick hard and hot in his jeans, rubbing harshly with every step.

But jerking off would not be satisfying. Not now. He needed something else. He threw off his coat, carefully laying his katana within reach. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks and took his place in front of the heavy bag, eyeing it as though the inanimate object had personally offended him. Then he attacked. Feet, fists, shoulders. The blows felt good, absolutely necessary, every one of them punctuated with a grunt of effort. The rough fabric split the skin on his knuckles and the bag's tan surface became a canvas for his aggression, blood painting a staccato pattern as he hit again…and again…and again.


Methos found himself sitting in a taxi outside Desalvo's Martial Arts Studio, wondering how and why he had gotten there. He never did anything without a very good reason. One of his primary rules of survival was…do nothing unless you have no other choice. Non-involvement. His personal credo. The last few years had seen the rule operate more by exception than not, but it was still a good rule. The exceptions always seemed to involve MacLeod, however. And here he was again.

He paid and got out of the cab, waiting until it pulled away before carefully checking that all his weapons were in place and in easy reach. He felt oddly edgy, his skin tingling as though he were breathing too quickly. There was a familiarity to the sensation; an old, old memory, and not a good one. He shook himself, considering leaving, calling another taxi and leaving well enough alone but he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and stepped back a little to see better.

It was in the dojo. The lights were off, but he could just barely see someone moving in there, repetitively, the vague shadow lunging forward again, and there again. His long legs carried him across the street and up the steps, where he paused when Mac's aura washed over him. It felt hot, almost spicy, tingly. His hand automatically closed around the hilt of his blade as he stepped inside the big room.

Mac had stopped whatever he was doing and turned. He was breathing hard, his denim shirt soaked with sweat, even his jeans were stained dark around the waist and crotch. The two men stood at opposite ends of the room in silence. Methos could feel the tension build between them and did not understand his own inability to move, to relax, to throw out some ironic observation that would break the moment. Instead he just watched as Mac crossed to his katana, never taking his eyes off of him. The big blood-stained hand closed over the blade's hilt and Mac paused, lifting his chin a little.

"Have you come for me, too?" he asked.

"Of course not!" Methos was shocked at the question. He had spent the past several years trying to keep this man alive, after all. The question was an insult. But the realization that, whatever his mind thought, his body was responding to a call he had successfully ignored now for thousands of years moved suddenly from his subconscious to his conscious mind. With an effort, he made himself put the Ivanhoe away in the fold of his coat. But he could not let it go entirely, as his fingers refused to release the hilt of the blade he had carried for so long.

"Then what do you want?"

"Who was it?"

"He said his name was Eric Lockwell. Looked Nordic." Mac's body sagged, and he stepped back, leaning against the office wall. "He felt old, Methos. I thought the old ones didn't hunt like that. I tried to lose him, to tell him I didn't want to fight him, but he backed me into an alley and said he'd keep coming until we finished it." His dark eyes drilled into the Oldest Immortal. "He almost drove himself on my blade!"

Methos forced his hand to release his sword, surprised at how difficult it was. "Eric Loke. About 2,300, I think. Stuck to his homeland, pretty much. Norway and Denmark. Finland sometimes. I saw him last in Amsterdam about three hundred years ago. Not a bad man. But…"

"But what?" MacLeod insisted.

"The last I remember, he had gotten so afraid of being hunted that he became a complete recluse, running a small health spa in Denmark, but otherwise never leaving his own compound. I would guess that the Gathering had forced him into a few battles, that he snapped and finally decided it was just time to end it."

"Why me?" Mac snarled, advancing on the older man. "Why did he bother to seek me out and hunt me down? I didn't want his bloody head!"

Methos stepped back, his hand again seeking out and touching the comforting hilt in his coat. "Because of who you are, Duncan," he replied softly. "I'm sorry, but…you are known as both the best and most promising among us. A man of honor. A man of great strength. Probably when you told him you didn't want to fight, it only reinforced his determination that he had found the answer to his misery."

Mac backed away again, his eyes black with his own frustration and pain. "Is that why you have your hand on your sword now, Methos? You offered me your head before. Has it now become the fashion, all the rage?" he asked bitterly. "Or have you just been waiting around until I've killed so many that there are none left but you and me, figuring I won't take a friend's head. That I'm too much a man of honor?" The katana gleamed as both hands folded gently around the ivory hilt, holding it low in front of his body. "Don't be so sure, Old Man." The tension Methos had seen in Mac's body resurfaced, flowing off of him in waves, triggering an automatic similar aggression in his own body.

The Ivanhoe was out and his coat cast to the floor before he had time to think about it and the two were circling, the distance between them gradually narrowing.

Methos heard a low chuckle rumble out of his own throat. "You are so fucking sure of yourself, aren't you, MacLeod? The best in the world. Unbeatable." Mac circled to his left and he countered, monitoring the Scot's every move.

Mac's left foot lifted, crossing behind his right as he circled, and Methos took that precise moment to lunge, catching him with all his weight on one leg, forcing him to block and fall back, then following through to the other side, but Mac was too quick, spinning around with unnatural grace, meeting the heavier Ivanhoe close to the hilt and closing the distance between them, jabbing an elbow straight into his sternum in a move that forced the air out of his lungs in a painful rush.

Methos fell back, blocking, then went on the attack again, knowing MacLeod was already exhausted and weak from his previous battle, counting on his own wily strength and endurance to keep him alive until Mac faltered. The blades sparked and rang, both men aware that the other was capable of surprise, of astonishing speed and strength.

Mac found an opening, jabbing forward, but Methos swiveled his supple frame enough that only the tip of the katana caught him, slicing an inch or two into his side, but the show of blood made him angry. He suddenly swirled swinging low, and almost laughed when the heavy blade cut deep, slicing into the thickest meat of the Highlander's thigh, making him fall and roll to get away.

"What the hell are you two doing?!"

The two men stopped, never taking their eyes off the other.

"Get out of here, Joe!" Methos ordered.

"I will not. Not until you two tell me what's going on! This is no spar!" Joe worked his way into the room, gazing in astonishment at the two Immortals. Two friends, almost brothers who had each saved the other again and again. There was no question that this battle was deadly serious. Both men were flushed, eyes glittering and hard, tense and angry. Blood and sweat smeared the floor and dampened their clothes.

"No, it's not..." Methos hissed. "Do your duty, Watcher, if you must..." Methos had no more time or patience for the mortal. He could feel the savage blood lust rise, answering the challenge still smoldering in the dark eyes watching him. He smiled, faintly coldly, angling his blade, shifting his stance.

A deadly dance. One that Methos had resisted for centuries but not now. Not here. He even knew there was a reason beyond the kill that was driving him. But right now...it was the dance...the challenge. The pure seduction of power that oozed from every pore of Duncan MacLeod's body.

Oh , yes. He wanted that...craved it as Kronos had craved domination. Not all of it necessarily but some of it...part of it. A taste.

He feinted and lunged, countered, felt his muscles sting from the jar of the katana against his heavier blade. Turned and dropped, reacting without thinking and giving up more blood, spatters here and there for better positioning. Duncan's blood spattered across his cheek for a shallow but telling slice along Mac's upper arm and Methos stepped back, observing his opponent like a chess master. His thumb came up to wipe the blood, glistening red on his skin and he licked it away. And smiled like the predator he was at the moment.

Mac watched the other man's eyes. They were pure gold. Hard metal. Methos was going all out, showing moves he had never before displayed, a surreal quickness that was quickly exhausting what little remaining reserves he had.

And everything was on the line. Life, friendship, honor, the Game itself. How dare he! How dare he use him like that? Befriend him, make him trust him, only to lust after the same thing all the others had wanted. Something Mac had never wanted for himself. The anger, the betrayal was choking him. He spun, trying to move in close where his greater body mass gave him an advantage, deliberately letting the older man cut into his ribs as he pushed him back until they hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath from them both.

Then it was a matter of strength. Mac's forearm pressed against the leaner man's throat, getting great satisfaction out of the strain that was showing in Methos' flushed, angular face. The other hand had dropped the katana in preference to circling Methos' wrist squeezing deliberately against nerves and tendons, finally feeling something snap. Methos' whole body jerked from the pain and the Ivanhoe clattered to the floor, but somehow, impossibly, the smaller man slid from under his arm and away. Mac staggered back, reaching for his katana only a few feet away, desperate to exploit the moment of vulnerability…then arched back with a cry when he felt cold metal pierce him to the core.

From a distance he heard Joe shout, but kept stumbling forward towards his blade, fell, grabbed it and rolled. Methos was standing over him, right arm dangling uselessly, the other holding a long, bloody dagger. The katana almost wavered, his strength was failing, but still he pressed himself to his feet, almost slipping in the blood that now slicked a wide area around them.

"Why?" he gasped.

"Because there can be only One," Methos answered in a near whisper, slowly closing the gap between them.

Mac drew back, sighting on the long, lean neck, so vulnerably exposed at the same moment Methos pulled the long dagger back across his body. It was only a matter of who was faster now.

Methos felt no fear. He always had before but seeing MacLeod, watching him haul himself to his feet, the katana steady despite the pale aspect of the usually golden-dark skin, sent the fear out of mind and replaced it withan appreciative hunger, lust and a thrilling wonder at his own foolishness. Dagger to sword, never good odds, always the last means of defense.

So why was he attacking? Part of Methos' mind knew it made absolutely no sense. His arm was broken -- he should be buying time for it to heal but instead he was moving in, closer...able to feel the smile curving his own lips.

"I will take your head," Mac spat at him and Methos laughed.

"You can try," he taunted and then feinted, compensating for the dead weight of his arm, for the blood on the floor. It was exhilarating, heady and thrilling, dancing with death -- a worthy opponent. A beautiful one.

He didn't even really feel the sharp edge of the katana as it slid past ribs and deeper, only the flow of hot blood over his hand as he realized he was dying. And MacLeod was dying as well. Shock and surprise on his face, only inches from Methos' own, glancing down briefly where the long dagger had pierced his heart. Joe was yelling something, cursing them both no doubt.

"Why?" MacLeod asked him again, on a breath.

"If you get up first, you'll know," Methos murmured and closed his eyes. The last breath he felt not his own but MacLeod's on his face. If you take my head, you'll know. But the Highlander didn't hear that, of course.

Joe Dawson hadn't realized he had been holding his breath until a gasp forced itself through his chest. More of a sob, really. He leaned heavily on his cane, dizzy, nauseated. The scene was appalling, blood everywhere, the bodies of the two most powerful Immortals since creation entwined grotesquely on the floor, almost like lovers.

Methos was impaled on Mac's katana, and Methos' dagger was buried up to the hilt in Mac's chest.

"Now what the hell do I do?" Joe asked himself out loud. "There sure isn't anything like this in the Watcher's Manual," he groused, moving closer. He didn't have a prayer of moving the bodies, and once he pulled the deadly weapons out, it would be only moments until they revived. The Watcher in him knew he should just walk away, not interfere. But these two were the best. The best of the Immortals. The best friends he had.

He had once asked Mac how he managed to believe in God, in man's goodness, after all he had seen and done and known, and Mac had answered, "Faith, Joe. Faith."

It seemed at the moment that there was little else on which Joe Dawson could rely. He moved to the wall, where Mac kept his practice katanas and pulled them from their sheaths. Then he found Methos' blade on the floor, stacking all three outside the door. Taking a deep breath, he fumbled inside the pockets of Methos' coat, pulling out another small dagger and a well-oiled .48, slipping the articles into his own pockets. Finally, he moved again to the still, silent bodies. He reached down to slide the katana out and away from Methos' body, fighting the sick, creepy sensation as the long blade rubbed against flesh and bone. Then he quickly yanked the dagger out of Mac's chest and headed out the door, gathering all the weapons under his arm and moving as fast as he could. Faith, he kept telling himself as he threw the weapons in his trunk and closed it. Gotta have a little faith.

Dying was easier than coming back to life. Dying meant the pain would eventually end. Coming back to life meant that it was just beginning.

Again.

Pain and nausea throbbed through Methos along with something less physical, less tangible. All of it accompanied by a groan that wasn't his own. He didn't try to roll to his side, just let his head and neck relax in the direction of the sound and opened his eyes.

On his stomach, just beginning to revive, fingers curling into the pool of his own blood. Sweat matted the long tendrils of thick dark hair and still glistened on the golden skin of his arms where blood wasn't turning the sweat to muddy rivulets.

It took Duncan a few moments to open his eyes, to turn his head, to gaze at Methos with first bewilderment, then shock, then anger. "You bastard," he said on a sharp breath.

"Truth." Methos returned and closed his eyes again. Their blades were gone. He could neither hear nor see Dawson. Smart man. Interfering but smart.

Duncan recovered faster. Not a surprise really -- he had just taken a Quickening a few hours ago. He was younger.

He was definitely pissed off.

New pains added to the old as he was grabbed, large fists bunched in his shirt, hauling him upward, jerking him forward. That warm, sweet, blood-scent tinged breath washing over his skin again. His face.

"Why?"

"Is your head intact, MacLeod?" Methos said, barely above a whisper. MacLeod could easily kill him again. Might be a blessing at that.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You were in a rage. You needed to let it out...I needed the passion to get you there. I only get that when I am likely to die." Methos opened his eyes to see MacLeod staring at him in shock again, and revulsion.

"I could have killed you."

"You tried," Methos said softly.

MacLeod stared at him for another five seconds, then his face contorted, blood flushed his features and his muscles bunched, lifting Methos bodily from the floor, and shoving him back until his momentum was stopped by the unyielding brick of the wall.

"You expect me to believe all this was some stress relief technique?! FUCK YOU, Methos! I saw it! I saw it in your face, in your eyes. You wanted it, didn't you? You felt it the minute I walked into Joe's tonight. You followed me here. Don't bullshit me, old man!" Mac was shaking with rage, leaning hard up against him.

Then suddenly, tables were turned. Long, strong fingers were wrapped into Mac's shirt and he was slammed hard against the wall. "Yes! Oh, yes, I wanted it. I've always wanted it, you bloody fool! And I can't deny that tonight, seeing you standing there, reeking of power, of sex and anger, I felt the call of the Game stronger than any time in the past 5,000 years!" He took a deep breath and slowly let go, stepping back to let them both breathe.

"But I didn't take your head, now, did I?" he observed. "And you didn't take mine." For a timeless moment the two men stood, still breathing too rapidly, hearts still charged with adrenaline, faces flushed and sweaty.

"Then what...." MacLeod started to demand and then he knew. Why. What alternative could there have been. Why Methos pursued him, followed him. Saw it in the slight uplifting of Methos' chin, in the glint of challenge still residing in the hazel eyes. The sharp quick breath the other man took. "You could have taken my head."

Methos smiled, ferally, appreciatively. MacLeod still reeked of power in every breath. The rage was subsiding, leaving behind it pure power building that once more had need of an outlet. "It crossed my mind...but once you've sampled a fine wine, you don't destroy the vine."

No, you didn't. MacLeod got the analogy in some subconscious visceral part of himself. Sense memory flooded through him of Methos being so close, meeting him move for move, score for score, wound for wound. He took a step forward and Methos did not yield. And Mac wanted him to. He wanted that body to yield, that challenging look to falter.

There was power there too, not leashed but allowed to run free -- controlled but not restrained. Drawing him...calling to him. His vision darkened, narrowed, tunneled, the dojo fading from view. The distance between them closed and Methos lifted his head just that much to look at him, lips curved up in a smile that was as infuriating as it was inviting.

"Fuck you," Mac said softly, prepared to stalk away.

"If you like," Methos said, taunting him, moving slightly, seductively.

It was too much and Mac's control, tenuous as it was, snapped. Once more that lithe, strong body was caught in his hands. Methos didn't fight him but gave way and twisted, his back against the wall once more.

"One kind of power is very much like another," he said softly, almost so softly Mac didn't hear it. "Domination and control two sides of the same coin."

It was so close to his thoughts earlier. So eerily similar, his breath caught. "You want it.. this..."

"I should have thought that was obvious," Methos mocked him with the truth, the hard thrust of hip against MacLeod's thigh revealing a body as hard and aroused as his own.

"Damn you!" Mac snarled, and he took. Took possession of that sneering, manipulating, lying mouth with his own. His tongue forced its way in and he found himself falling into a chasm so deep, so hot, it enveloped him, smothered him. His hands found buttons and zippers and he yanked impatiently, never relinquishing his possession of that wet, warm cave. But when his hand closed over Methos' hard, pulsing cock at last he had to put his head back and take a deep breath. Eyes closed, he felt further, moving down, his whole existence centered on the feel of tight, heavy balls in his palm. Gods, the power of it, of having Methos in his control, his legs spread, his sex heavy in his hand, his whole body trembling at his touch.

Mac's cock leaked and ached and throbbed. It wanted. It lived. It had a purpose that overrode every other guiding instinct. He reluctantly let go of Methos' balls, barely hearing the low groan at the loss of sensation. Instead he roughly spun the lighter man around, yanking the loose jeans down around his knees with one hand, undoing his own pants with the other. Ah, release. The subliminal pain that had been tormenting him for hours spiked into pure, unrestrained lust at the sight of those exposed pale, lean hips.

His fingers closed over the hard muscles of Methos ' shoulder, barely seeing the other man's profile. His other hand went to one pale hip to steady himself, ready to thrust his own aching cock into the warmth of a living body to ease his torment, release his lust, banish the throb of need inside him that was both sexual and not.

He pressed close, the firm buttocks caressing his cock and he groaned, tightening his grip. And caught sight of the splayed fingers, pale and tense against the dark brick. The dark T-shirt, torn and stained with blood where his sword had pierced Methos from front to back. He faltered, hesitated, started to pull back, confused and uncertain again.

Air across his bare ass alerted Methos that MacLeod was moving away and he whirled, catching the bloody shirt in one hand, bringing their bodies in contact, almost falling with his jeans tangled around his thighs. "Do it! Don't go all noble and guilty on me now!" he snarled and attacked the lips that parted to protest. He was no less brutal than MacLeod had been minutes before. If anything he was more ruthless, demanding, biting, his other hand closing over both their hard cocks and squeezing, stroking. MacLeod's groan vibrated through him and the large hand closed over his skin, digging into the skin at his hip, into his neck to hold his head still.

But eventually they had to breathe and when they did, Methos gave Mac's cock one more firm stroke, fluid slicking his fingertips. His own juices, Duncan's, and he brought his fingers up to taste then touched them to MacLeod's lips. "Stop thinking.." he said softly and fiercely.

The eyes held him, glittering bright, flaring nostrils, the taste on his lips, the scent of it and the realization that Methos was neither expecting nor asking for gentleness or reason. It clicked in his mind, tripped some unknown switch and once more they were both facing the brick, the fingers splayed again, not with tension but with anticipation.

The first press of flesh into flesh made him moan and jerk. Tight and hot, roughly satisfying. Muscles that stalled against him then released and he was pressed chest to back with Methos, his face all but buried in the short, damp, silky hair. He needed leverage and his arm went around Methos' waist to hold him as he pulled away and plunged in again, the low lush, lush groan from Methos driving him on until it was all he knew -- the driving rhythm of forcing his flesh into the waiting body until it became like a kata of it's own. Soothing in a way he hadn't expected. So much so that the first clutch of his orgasm barely registered.

Methos gave up entirely, gripping the wall only to steady them, brace them and to keep himself from falling as the Highlander pressed deep with a force that was jarring and welcome. His body was unprepared but his mind was not, transmuting the pain into pleasure almost immediately, yearning for the fullness that made him ache all the more, sending a shiver of sensation down his spine and into his cock again. He didn't try to touch himself...he wanted it to build slowly, the aching, throbbing need moving into the same rhythm that Duncan now used to penetrate his body again and again.

He felt it grow inside, felt it in the heat that radiated off Mac's body, felt it in the length and breadth of the cock that stretched and filled him, deep and hard, again and again. Mac's breath became a gasp against his neck, then a choked groan. The last thrusts came brutally hard, slamming Methos against the wall, his cock trapped between his own hot skin and the cold wall. The smell of blood, of sex, of sweat, was almost overwhelming.

With a final, guttural shout Mac jammed himself deep and held him, pulling them together with crushing strength. Hot, gushing pulses radiated from somewhere deep inside, at his very core, and in response Methos' orgasm shot through his body in a mind numbing blast, so hard it felt like his balls were being squeezed in a vise. So hard his cock ached with each rhythmic release that pulsed and pulsed and pulsed again until he felt like he was being milked dry of every drop of fluid in his body.

In the rush of ecstasy that followed, Methos felt a whole new sensation of power sweep over him and through him. Mac's power, his own power, the essence of life, of their lives. It was like another orgasm, both of them stiffening, trembling, holding on to each other as time stretched out to infinity, each of them aware of the other, feeling what the other felt, and even more. Some surreal connection that encompassed a vast sea of existence, spanning time and space, spanning the multitude of lives that lived within them both, before whatever it was gently released them, leaving each of them wondering if what they had felt was real or only an imagined after affect of intense sex.

Mac pulled away at last. Methos was barely aware of the discomfort, the noise, the sudden chill at his back. He was hanging on to the wall still. In 5,000 years he had had precious few experiences that could be called truly unique. Right here, right now, was one. And he was very occupied living it, feeling it, holding it close.

Until he heard and felt the hard thump behind him, and turned. Mac was sitting on the wooden floor, covered in blood, jeans around his hips. His face was ashen, eyes glazed with shock.

He should have expected it. Maybe anticipated it but he had not, so lost in the feeling, the wash of sensation between them that he wanted to makes sure he had it locked away --knowing it would fade away soon enough....

All too suddenly.

There was a distinct possibility that he would trip and he pulled his jeans up, ignoring semen slicked skin and the ache that was just now registering. He squatted then knelt next to MacLeod, catching the gray cheeks in his hands and tilting the stunned face upward. The kiss he laid across the full lips was as gently persuasive as the others had been brutal. His thumbs stroked across the planed cheekbones, softly, pulling Mac's head and then his body toward him. His hand slid through the thick hair, a soothing massage on the scalp and then down across the nape of MacLeod's neck, then to his shoulders. "Breathe, Duncan," He said softly, quietly, against the shell of the Highlander's ear. "It's done...passed. Breathe, mo chara..."

The strong arms were trembling as they reached out to grab -- not with roughness but to cling and Methos folded the Warrior in his arms, as careful in his handling as he had been ruthless before.

"You....you planned this..." Duncan said, face half-buried against Methos' shoulder.

"Some..." Methos admitted. "Only in so far as to ....show you..." he sighed not sure he could explain or that it would be worth it. That MacLeod would understand that taking his head had been an option as well.

"A long-standing plan?" Duncan asked, voice taking on some gruffness but he hadn't moved, not yet.

Methos chuckled. "You're the Boy Scout. Be prepared....if I'd only wanted to dominate your body, Highlander. I'd have been fucking you, not the other way around." He pulled back that much, to see color returning to Mac's face.

"You are pretty damn confident," Mac growled at him.

"Hardly." The sardonic smile was gone and all Mac could see was a kind of affectionate regard. Oh, there was still that brittle edge, the wariness that he'd come to expect from the eldest Immortal but it wasn't aimed at him -- just at the world in general.

He could be angry or he could be...what? Grateful, maybe? Annoyed, certainly. Mostly what he was was tired and sore and bloody and filthy and yes...calmer now that the shock had worn off. "A bottle of good wine is the traditional opening for seduction."

"Far too plebeian for you, Duncan." Methos was trembling slightly from fatigue, from kneeling and supporting a good portion of MacLeod's weight. MacLeod shifted taking more of his own weight and glancing up and down Methos' body -- every bit as battered and bloodied as his own and the man hadn't taken a head.

And he could have. Their fight had been very real, deadly. What had Methos said about passion?

Passion to live and if you lost it...then you were waiting to die. Lockwell had gone looking for it...for him, but Methos or anyone better with a sword than he could have given him what he sought. Lockwell had gone down fighting but he had gone down.

Methos had done the same, but he wasn't ready to die yet...and passion....

Well there was more than one way to keep that alive as well.

He flashed on the image and feel of Methos' body under his, yielding, meeting him, taking all he had to offer and more. Demanding it of him. So fast. It had been so fast and no time to savor, only the driving need. But now that the need was gone, he wanted more. Now he needed to know if that same passion could be roused without such deadly intent.

"I know where there is a really hot shower," Mac said. He needed to think about his more but not now.

Methos had stood, and now offered him a hand up off the floor, holding him steady as he refastened his pants. Mac stepped towards the elevator then stopped, looking around. "Jeezus," he murmured, then moved stiffly to the office and retrieved a 'Closed' sign from the desk drawer to put in the window to the second set of outside doors. "Cleaning this up is going to be a bitch," he sighed, shaking his head. "I really should…"

"Don't even think about it, MacLeod," Methos ordered peremptorily, "If necessary, you can have the bloody floors refinished." He placed his hands on MacLeod's shoulders and pushed, urging him on until they had made it all the way to the elevator. They stood slightly apart, the edgy awkwardness noticeable, but muted by their mutual exhaustion.

Mac went to the liquor cabinet and poured a double scotch while Methos gravitated to the beer stocked in the refrigerator. They both took long swallows, sighing almost in unison at the feel of the liquid sliding down dry, burning throats.

Mac watched as Methos drank again, almost draining the bottle in a long series of swallows that rippled through the long neck. The sensuousness that graced every move, every breath, was it that he simply hadn't appreciated it before? Or was it that the old man was more consciously displaying it, knowing Mac was watching?

Well, two could play that game. Mac took a long swallow of his scotch, wondering at his own actions. Somehow what had happened had loosened his hold on that tight control he had thought was so necessary to survival. He placed the glass down carefully, and reached for the buttons on his shirt, watching Methos watch him. The bloody fabric slipped off his shoulders and he just let it drop, for once not worrying about where it should go.

The beer wouldn't help Methos' dry mouth but he drank again anyway. The adrenaline should be wearing off but he couldn't tell it from the flush that swept over and through him at the sight of MacLeod bared to the waist. Gods, what a beauty the man was.

He drained the bottle and set it on the kitchen island and then pushed off, heading toward the bathroom, deliberately passing close to MacLeod as he pulled off his own shirt and added it to the pile started by his host's shirt. Also deliberately.

Fingers closed over his upper arm and he tensed for just a moment before looking at Duncan. "Shower," he said softly and lifted his hand to the face before him, pulling Duncan close and savoring those lips again. He moved backward, not releasing the Highlander, drawing him along until Mac was moving of his own volition.

Methos leaned against the door frame to pull off his boots and shuck his jeans, another pile of filthy clothes starting. Mac's face flushed slightly but Methos paid no mind to his own nudity, merely dropped his gaze to MacLeod's waist then up again, the challenge back in his eyes but with more humor. He turned on his heel to start the water.

Duncan blew out a breath before stripping. Methos was a definite threat to his equilibrium, his libido and probably his sanity but a glimpse of that slim, muscled form, leaning into the shower to test the water temperature reminded him that his sanity was none to sure a thing under any circumstances. He could wait, of course, but then the hazel eyes were fixed on him again and he moved as if hypnotized.

Despite his discomfort, he was almost grateful to drop his jeans. They were filthy and stiff with blood and sweat and cum. He could smell himself, his sweat, his blood, his sex, the distinctive aroma of a Quickening that clung to you for almost a day. After only a second's hesitation, his eyes met the challenge in Methos' amused, watchful stare, and he stepped in. And was instantly glad he did. The warmth of the water was almost erotic it felt so good. Strong hands soaped his back in long strokes, washing away the aches and generating a whole different set of sensations. When they moved between his legs he tensed, but the touch was gentle, thorough, then moved on down his thighs and calves. Then he felt them in his hair, and the clean smell of shampoo filled his nostrils as Methos massaged his scalp. His knees almost went weak it felt so wonderful. He breathed deep, and a pleased, noisy sigh escaped.

Methos chuckled behind him and suddenly the other man's back was pressed close, the long arms folded gently across his chest. "I always figured you for a sensualist, Duncan. I've waited a long time to find out for myself."

The Scot turned in his arms and Mac let his eyes really feast on Methos' lean beauty for the first time, tracing a path with his hands from his angular, fascinating face, down his neck, over his shoulders, feeling the smooth strength of his long arms, the finely muscled chest, finally resting his hands on a tapered, elegant waist. "I hope it was worth the wait," Mac heard himself say in his most seductive tone. He felt the lust within him rise again, but this time he was sure he could control it, instead of it controlling him.

"I've no complaints so far." Methos did his own inventory, slowly. Glad all he could smell now was the scent of clean skin and soap. The fear-scent was gone, Duncan relaxing under the steaming spray. He soaped the washcloth again only to have it taken from him and he smiled, letting Duncan bathe him as he had done, leaning against the tiles as Duncan washed his back and spreading his legs when the firm hands pressed between his buttocks. He was turned and rinsed but instead of the cloth pressing to his chest he felt fingers on his face. Opening his eyes again he found Duncan close and, wonder of wonders, smiling. The kiss that followed was accompanied by the taste of warm water, a bit of soap and the thoroughly intoxicating taste of Duncan MacLeod: the woodsy taste of scotch and the slightly bitter-copper taste of blood.

The hands moved from his face down his chest, molding and exploring, kneading the softer flesh at his chest. Strong fingers gliding across water-slicked flesh. Water glistened on Duncan's skin, amplifying the golden tone. Methos' hand reached out to touch and explore slowly, skimming across the broad shoulders and then along the curve of spine to the hard muscle at MacLeod's buttocks. An answering touch snugged Methos to the hard chest, his groin rubbed against the broad thigh pressed between his legs. He opened his mouth to the welcome invasion of a moist tongue, sucking softly, savoring the masculine appeal and slightly possessive air Duncan exuded.

Hands at his lower back dialed the water off and Duncan pulled him forward and out, thick fluffy towels used to dry off and warm. Far slower, kisses and touches, exploring, acquainting themselves with new textures and sensations as they made a stop and start passage to the bed.

The transition from fury and shock to this hazy, slow building passion was easier than Duncan expected. It fell into place with ease. An hour ago he had been ready to kill the man he now touched and caressed like a lover of long-standing. Not exactly how he had planned his night to go.

"Joe." He said it suddenly, then saw the same realization cross Methos' face.

But Methos quickly just smiled, shaking his head. "He's a big boy. He'll figure it out when he sees there wasn't a Quickening," all the while those elegant hands kept moving across Duncan's fascinating landscape. But the big Boy Scout wouldn't, couldn't let it go and he stopped, sighing in frustration into the deep crook of Duncan's neck. "You know, Duncan," he murmured, "You've never had a great sense of timing."

"Stay right there," Duncan admonished, then rolled over, reaching for the phone. Even in the wee hours of the morning it was answered on the first ring.

"Yeah? Who is it?" The voice was fearful, tense.

"It's Mac, Joe." There was a momentary, breathless pause while ominous silence gathered at the other end of the line.

Then the damn broke. "You know I've been sitting here for the past three hours, wondering if you two were in the process of killing each other?! What the fuck did you two think you were doing? Did you think that was funny? Some kind of sick game?"

Mac held the phone out slightly from his ear as Joe's ranting beat painfully against still over-sensitized eardrums. He tried several times to break in, but the Watcher was evidently determined to let his Immortal know exactly what he thought of his lack of responsibility, his thoughtlessness, his aggression, his childishness -- all the while Methos was stroking his flesh, letting his fingers stray over his abdomen, tickling into his pubic hair, distracting him. His body broke out into a fine sweat.

"Joe," he tried again, but the mortal ignored him. "Joe!"

Finally, Methos took the receiver from his hand. "Joe, shut up," Methos said firmly and sternly. The silence on the other end of the line was loud enough for Duncan to hear. "You're a good friend, Joe. We're both fine. Get some rest and we'll buy you breakfast...lunch," he corrected glancing at Duncan with a wicked grin, "when we come get our swords. I'm assuming you have them?"

"Hell, no! I threw them in the damn bay!" Joe snapped.

Methos was unperturbed. "Then we'll lunch by the waterfront and you can watch Duncan dive for them."

"Tell me one thing," Joe said, voice reaching a more reasonable volume. "Did you know what you were doing?"

Methos smiled, almost letting laughter escape him. "What do you think?"

"I think you took a really big risk," Joe said after a moment. "Go on, then. I'm an old man. I need my sleep."

"Goodnight, Joe," Methos said but Duncan grabbed the phone.

"Joe. I'm ---"

"Just wish me a happy birthday, Mac. And you owe me a drink for the next one."

Duncan smiled. "Happy Birthday, Joe...thanks."

"Yeah, yeah," Joe said dismissively and hung up.

"Feel better?" Methos' hands resumed their exploration as Duncan twisted to hang up the phone.

"Did you know what you were doing?" he asked turning back to the lean form leaning over him.

"What do you think?" Methos' voice dropped to a husky whisper and his mouth descended as he pushed MacLeod onto his back. Whether he had known what he was doing earlier or not, the eldest Immortal certainly knew what he was doing now. Strong graceful hands caught at MacLeod's wrists when he tried to return the caresses being lavished on his body. Methos pushed and crossed them above Duncan's head, holding them there as his mouth took over their previous task. He moved his lips from Duncan's mouth to his throat, licking and sucking on the tendons protecting his Adam's apple, the lower, nipping at the rounded soft muscle of his chest until his tongue teased at one nipple.

Duncan drew a breath, pushing his skin more firmly against the clever mouth and was rewarded by a soft suckling that made his skin flush again and little electrical thrill skitter across his chest. The hands holding his eased and he was able to sink his fingers into the silky, short hair, encouraging the ministrations with soft sounds and movements.

Everything about MacLeod was exciting and new and appealed to Methos on a lot of levels, not the least of which was the way the man moved underneath him, obviously appreciative of the attention Methos was giving such a small parcel of flesh. And if sucking on Mac's nipples could produce such a response...Well, more was frequently better. Barely losing contact, Methos slid himself along MacLeod's body, feeling the rough silk glide of the hairs on the other man's thighs rub against his chest and he pushed those thighs apart until he was laying between them. Head and mouth hovering above MacLeod's groin, he glanced up and smiled at the slightly wild, mostly anticipatory gaze (or was that glazed?) look in MacLeod's eyes.

Mac looked down across his own sweat-slicked body to see those golden-green eyes watching him with a feral sense of ownership. It was true, he realized, letting his head fall back with a quick gasp, almost a hiccup, when he felt the slow slide of a wet tongue start at the base of his cock and ride all the way to its tip, where the warm sensation stopped to linger, teasing, lapping at the cum-engorged slit until the tension that had gathered in his belly was almost unbearable. No one had ever just…taken his body like this, like it was his personal plaything and there was nothing he could do, nothing he even wanted to do to stop it, to control it. His mind was at war with his own body, and he was losing, was lost when that hot mouth closed over him, taking him deep, holding him hard.

"Methos," he whispered, his hand reaching down to hold that silky hair, uncertain whether he was trying to get that mouth closer or push it away, only that he felt like he was falling, falling. He was scared, he realized. And exhilarated. And so hard it felt like he couldn't possibly come. Couldn't possibly survive not coming. Soon.

Duncan's hips moved and Methos closed his eyes, letting the thick shaft slide deeper into his mouth and throat and then out, his fingers wrapping around the base of Duncan's cock and sliding upward until his lips met the edge of his fingers. Again and again until he had to breathe and let his breath roll over the heated, flushed skin. Duncan tensed and released, pushing deeper, his moans and curses doing nothing but sending aural stimulation to Methos. He had known MacLeod would be a magnificent lover, appealing to all his senses. He had not expected this need to please him, this need to drive him harsher and harder would be quite so -- dominant -- to his intentions.

But it was and he found himself hooking his arms under Duncan's thighs to lift them, establishing absolute control, denying the faster rhythm Duncan was begging him for with every movement, every breath. The salt-bitter taste of Duncan's release tingled on his palate and he sucked, wanting more, relaxing his throat and taking the thick cock as deep as he could without choking, his nose buried in the sharp musky scented curls at MacLeod's groin. He heard his name muttered on a strangled gasp and looked, seeing the muscled body arching, pushing and he pulled back, tongue rasping along the underside of Duncan's cock with rough pressure. The body he held seized and twitched, then twisted and he had barely time for a breath before the subtle taste became a flood of flavor and thick, hot, liquid filling his mouth. He swallowed and breathed, licked and felt semen escape his lips and dribble down his chin. Swallowing again, he let Mac push and thrust and pump his cock into his mouth.

He wasn't quite prepared for Duncan to sit up and drag him away from his task but he didn't resist as he was held, crushed, actually, to the broad chest, Duncan's mouth claiming his, his tongue sweeping away the last of the sticky fluid on his chin and in his mouth. Wet smears of cum were painted on his thighs from Duncan's still weeping, pulsing cock, and then he was unable to catalogue the nuances of his lover's responses as that same broad hand closed over his own hard cock to squeeze and stroke. He could see it in MacLeod's eyes, the need to take back control.

Satisfied, Methos had no anxiety about surrendering his own control and he pushed into the warm hand, wanting to feel the rush of desire, the need that would be near painful. Knowing fingers pressed into him from behind, plundering his ass, seeking the hard little nub of nerve endings and he grunted in pleasure as he was stimulated from within and without. He reached up and back to hold onto to MacLeod's neck, twisting his body to its side so MacLeod could have better access, abandoning any dignity or restraint. "I can't believe what you do to me," he heard gasped close to his ear just before teeth sank deeply into his shoulder.

A hand brushed over his chest, pinching first one nipple, then the other, making him twist and squirm, each movement driving him more onto the thick fingers that thrust inside where he was still slick and loose. Then a callused palm closed tight over his cock and he was firmly caught between those two strong hands, moving in opposition. Moving into one was moving away from the other, but he wanted both and his hips began to gyrate of their own accord. He was gasping, choking with need, and the broken words behind him barely registered.

"Oh, Gods, Methos, I'm going to…I have to…" The fingers came out of his ass and he cried out at the loss, but was immediately silenced when Mac's already hard cock thrust deep, deep inside and froze there for a long minute. The weight around him increased even more, pinning him tightly, held firm by one arm across his chest, one huge fist in possession of his cock, and a warm, wet, steel-encased body impaling him from the rear.

"Yesssss..." Methos hissed, pushing back then forward, forcing MacLeod to fuck him, then fucking himself in Duncan's hand. Duncan's arm tightened around him, holding him still and he groaned, squirming. His movements only aroused MacLeod further and he bit down harder, held him more firmly. The hand on Methos' cock pumped him and MacLeod's cock drove inside him, going deep, pushing them both to the limits of their capacity and endurance, all the way to pain. Methos felt at once like he would be ripped apart or explode from the sheer pleasure of being taken so roughly and thoroughly. The sharp pain in his shoulder was all that kept his mind from floating free of his body. Deep inside him something seized and exploded, rippling out ward with waves of heat and sensation. He cried out and felt MacLeod's hand at his throat, stroking, the deep voice murmuring in his ear. His hands frantically gripped the sheets, the blankets, covered MacLeod's hand at his cock. Then he was coming, curling around his orgasm, Duncan curling against him, still thrusting inside him.

Methos' squirming, frenzied thrusts into Duncan's hand, onto his cock, was a moment of abject incredulity for the younger man. The reality of having Methos, holding him, owning him, lifted him somewhere outside of himself. This power, the knowledge that he had pushed this incredible being into such delirious mayhem was at least as heady and intoxicating as the sex itself. When Methos finally shouted, seized, then curled in on himself, violently spurting cum into his hand, onto the sheets, over the bed, his own body let loose in a final burst of short thrusts into the hot cavern that seemed like the only place he could truly exist on this earth at the moment. The orgasm poured out in a long, sweet wave as Methos' internal muscles pulsed around him. He held on as the ecstatic warmth washed over him, subliminally aware that the harsh Quickening that had started all this was finally settling deep in his bones.

They lay spooned tightly together, panting, when Duncan felt a second wash of power or adrenaline or…something…flush through him, triggering a long intake of breath, one he felt Methos share, as though their skins were suddenly wrapped around each other and every touch, every heartbeat, every breath was a mutual experience. It was just for a few seconds, then it faded, a lesser echo of the odd moment they had had earlier. Duncan relaxed at last, nuzzling into Methos' long neck, gently kissing away the marks his teeth had left. He was too tired to think about it. Life was too complicated as it was, he decided.

It was hours later when they woke, both instinctively finding a nest away from the damp spot in the bed. Duncan found himself lying half on top of Methos, the long body face down, one arm curved under and around the pillow, face relaxed and unguarded in sleep as it rarely was on waking. Flawlessly pale skin was smooth under MacLeod's beard roughened cheek, the strong masculine scent of the man in his arms sweet in his nostrils. Without meaning to he looked at the clock...ten a.m. They had slept for nearly eight hours without interruption. Mac couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so deeply or so well.

His movement caused Methos to stir, body stretching and contracting like a cat's. The sheets shifting to reveal the long, soft curve of his back and MacLeod had to smile, laying a kiss along the raised nubs of the spine to mid back, coming up in a crouch.

"Nice wake up," Methos said gruffly. "Coffee would be better."

MacLeod chuckled and got out of the bed, pulling the blankets with him and Methos shivered in he cooler air. "In the cupboard. Second on the left. I like it strong," he said clambering over his bed partner and heading for the bathroom.

"Asshole," Methos grumbled but opened his eyes to better appreciate the well muscled and naked form walking away from him. A moment later he heard the water start.

Rolling onto his back he stared up at the exposed ceiling beams. Coffee. Strong. How appropriate, he thought, grinning to himself and roused out of bed, finding Mac's large white terrycloth robe and wrapping himself in its oversized warmth. He brewed up the coffee, staring at the dripping liquid more or less mindlessly. It wasn't quite finished when he heard the water stop and MacLeod emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist, picking up their scattered and stiffened clothing as he came forward. The dark eyes were watching him, a faint smile on the heat-flushed face.

"Not quite the morning after I am used too," Mac admitted, stopping only inches from Methos. Nevertheless, he leaned forward to kiss him. It was easy and undemanding. Sweet. Methos kissed him back, making sure Mac knew here was no awkwardness on his part. "Save me a cup or four," he said softly, pushing away from the counter and heading for the bathroom. He paused by the bed to drop the robe, never turning, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Duncan chuckled softly and glanced down at the filthy clothes in his hand. While the coffee was finishing brewing he dumped them all in the washing machine and changed into fresh jeans, pulling out sweats for Methos and a shirt. His guest's jeans would be clean and dry by the time they met Joe but the shirt was a total loss and for a moment Duncan frowned, the events of the night before returning to mind. Desperate gamble or calculated risk? He wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

He did not and could not regret the outcome though. Not at all and not for a moment. He opened the bathroom door and laid the clothes on the commode, hesitating only for a moment to appreciate the silhouette of the graceful body behind the wavering glass.

"Either join me or leave, MacLeod," the outlined head turned in his direction. "Or at least close the bloody door!"

"Ha!" Mac returned, throwing "Wimp!" over his shoulder as he turned to leave.

"Neatnik!" Methos threw back.

Mac couldn't resist and stopped. "Slob!"

"Control freak!" A wet washcloth soared over the top of the glass, and Mac had to dodge the highly accurate throw, then wisely decided to quit the battlefield before his bathroom was sacrificed to the cause of one-ups-manship.



Joe had been sitting for almost half an hour on the outside deck of the riverside restaurant, impatiently playing with his silverware, nursing his coffee, fending off waiters, when finally he felt the lunch crowd stir and turn, and followed the general direction of their attention.

Whatever he had been expecting, this wasn't it.

The fury, the aggression, the death-dealing anger of less than twenty-four hours before between the two most powerful beings on the planet was replaced by the easy, almost intimate camaraderie of two close friends. Two handsome, no make that stunning, smiling, relaxed close friends.

"One of you is buying," he said gruffly as they approached. He was caught off guard again, and he didn't like it one bit. Methos gave him the familiar laconic grin and pulled his chair out. Joe had to look again to make sure that the sweater the eldest Immortal was wearing was indeed, Mac's sweater. One of his more expensive ones if Joe was any judge. He was wearing his own long coat but obviously had not yet returned home. MacLeod looked relaxed, no longer grim or racked with tension.

"I will," Mac said as both his companions knew he would.

The waiter took their drink orders and hovered for a moment before disappearing and Joe just stared at them for long moments, head turning from one to the other. "Well?" he said at last, exasperated.

"Well what?" Methos asked innocently, leaning back in his chair to observe the boat traffic on the river.

"What the hell happened last night?" Joe demanded, dropping his voice.

Methos glanced at him once then dropped his gaze to where his fingertips rubbed softly on the edge of the tablecloth. His eyes flickered to MacLeod briefly under his lashes but Joe caught it.

"I took a Quickening...Eric Lockwell for your records," Mac said quietly, sipping at his water. "He was old. It was rough. Adam...helped me work it off."

Was that a smirk he saw? From Duncan MacLeod? Joe wondered. "You two were going for blood." He insisted, still keeping his voice low.

"Blood was enough," Methos said, meeting Joe's gaze for a moment. "You worry too much, Joe. Bad for the blood pressure."

Joe sat back, his focus going back and forth between the two men. He'd been a Watcher for half his life, and there was not one scintilla of doubt in his mind that there was a whole other thing going on here. There it was again. Those hazel eyes flicking briefly to Mac's, then back again. Then Mac looked down, concentrating on his water glass, a slight flush in his cheeks.

Holy Shit. The thought came so hard and fast that for a second, Joe thought he had said it out loud, but the seconds ticked away, and the timely intrusion of the waiter to take their orders helped him cover his sudden shock, confusion, and, he realized, a surge of real joy.

"Well," he suddenly smiled, almost beaming at his two friends. "I'm really hungry. I hope you brought your credit card, MacLeod."

Joe's change of attitude alerted Methos and he looked at their friend, eyes narrowing slightly at the Cheshire cat, knowing look in the Blues Man's eyes. He might have laughed out loud but he kept it to himself. It was amusing but he wasn't sure he liked this sudden knowledge Dawson seemed to have.

The rest of their lunch was pleasant enough. Joe relating the spicy highlights of his birthday party before he had left. Mac paid the bill without a flicker of expression, the three of them walking to Dawson's car to get their weapons.

"Give me a lift to my place, Joe?" Methos asked.

Mac, who had started to head back to his car, stopped and turned. "I'll take you." His words were more of a command than an offer.

Joe said nothing, just leaned against the car and watched.

Methos turned towards Mac slowly, his body taking on an authority, a height that he usually consciously suppressed. "No, Duncan. You need some time alone, and so do I."

In three long strides, Mac was almost pressing against him. "That's it, then?" he hissed, trying to keep his voice down and speaking directly into Methos' ear. "Until the next time I take a head and you can get your jollies from it?"

"Excuse us for a minute, would you, Joe?" Methos said easily and gripped MacLeod's arm walking him to his car. Giving him no choice but to move or make a scene in the parking lot. He moved him to the far side of the SUV, away from Joe's or anyone's eyes. Once there the casual stance was gone and Methos all but slammed MacLeod into the side of the vehicle. Then he kissed him, long and hard, pulling back just as Duncan felt his knees turn to water.

Methos stared at him for a long moment and then reached out to brush the bruised lips gently with his thumb. "I am going home, Mac. Not leaving town. Besides, if I let you talk me into going with you, you'll talk me into helping you clean the damn floor."

He pulled his sunglasses out of his coat pocket and put them on. "And you'll have to come get your sweater at some point," he said.

Methos waited in silence for a minute, almost holding his breath, watching Duncan's all-too-expressive face move from confusion to uncertainty to a slow, mischievous smile. The blunt fingers reached out, rubbing the soft cashmere of the borrowed sweater, just over his nipple. "As long as you're inside it at the time," he finally replied.

Methos didn't want to risk any more words, especially when he felt the blood rush through his body at the barest touch of those fingers. Instead he pressed the broad hand against him, against his heart. He looked into dark, longing eyes and for a second it was as though he could feel Mac's heart beat through that rough palm, instead of the other way around, and that the two hearts were, at that one moment, pumping in exact unison.

"See you around, MacLeod," Methos said, his voice suddenly rough. He had to swallow and take a deep breath before he walked away, knowing that Duncan was watching, that he would watch until he and Joe had driven out of sight.

Gone. It took a moment for the thought to sink in and MacLeod let out a shaky breath. Less than twenty-four hours had turned his life around. He should have expected it with Methos close at hand. Closer.

He stood there, looking over the water, letting the sense of panicked loss fade, realizing that Methos was right. He needed some time to think through this, to decide if this was a new direction in his life, of his heart, or just a brief diversion. He had no idea how Methos felt about it. No doubt the reason the eldest had wanted time alone as well.

Mimicking the man who had just left, he put his sunglasses on, blocking out the bright midday glare. He could still feel Methos' chest under his hand, tingling his palm. The steady, rhythmic thump of his heart like the steady lapping of the waves around the seawall.

He figured he could finish cleaning the dojo floor just in time to issue a late dinner invitation. That made him smile and he sent a brief thanks to the last vestiges of Eric Lockwell that remained within him.

"Sorry. No room for you, old boy," he whispered to the faded presence. "Prefer an older vintage." What had Methos said? 'Once you've sampled a fine vintage you don't destroy the vine' You nurture it, give it room to grow.

Some vines took years to mature. He could wait. They both had time.

- finis -