Standing on the Edge of Never By MacGeorge and Maygra

Standing on the Edge of Never
By MacGeorge and Maygra(c) 2000-2001

This is a sequel to Ragged Edge at
http://www.7parabian.com/Maygra/Musings/hlfiction/ragged.html

(We highly recommend you read it first or again if you haven't.
We think we've put a new spin on the term "sequel". This puppy
really doesn't stand alone very well at all.)

Rated NC17 for violence, sexual situations

~~~~~~


Methos thoughtfully examined the phone for several seconds after
he had pushed the off button. His heart was pounding disturbingly
in his ears. Mac had sounded first hurt, then angry when he had
turned him down for dinner. It was too soon. They both needed
time to sort this out. Of course, MacLeod didn't want time. As
usual, he was prepared to rush headlong into a situation that
could have fatal ramifications. Physically. Emotionally.

I should have known, Methos chastised himself as he put the phone
back in its cradle. For all his much vaunted age and wisdom,
sometimes he was just as susceptible to thinking with his dick as
any eighteen year old. A deep, involuntary breath caught in his
throat at the memory of MacLeod's hands on him, his cock pushing
deep inside, at the magnetic draw of that siren thrum of power
that was as much a part of who Mac was as his persistent need to
be a caretaker.

And now what was he supposed to do? An unavoidable connection
between them had somehow been forged, something tangible and
undeniable. Maybe he was hesitant because he wanted it so much,
ached for it. He had spent much of his life denying his own
desires in an unending quest for survival, and he couldn't
remember ever wanting anything as much as he wanted MacLeod.
Instinctively that urge made him pull away.

Methos shook himself. MacLeod's ardor would cool now that the
Quickening had settled. As for his own, well, deprivation had its
own masochistic appeal. Until the next time, his ever-present
ironic eye reminded him. Until the Highlander took his next head
and that ever-growing and increasingly irresistible river of
power sucked him in once more.

<<<<>>>>

Three days. Seventy-two hours. Actually seventy-seven hours and
forty-three minutes.

They had talked on the phone. Briefly seen each other at Joe's
yesterday but Methos had been on his way out and Mac on his way
in. It occurred to him that the man had probably timed it that
way. MacLeod had spent the whole day after their rather sudden
consummation working on the dojo floors...and the walls, the
bathroom, the bed.

Everywhere he went in his own living space smelled of Methos.
Reminded him. Gave him a fucking hard-on just thinking about it.
Yes, a day alone with strenuous physical labor was exactly what
the doctor ordered.

Only it wasn't working. He had spent the next day trying to
return to his routine. Running at dawn, opening the dojo, seeing
clients. Trying to do as Methos suggested and think about what
had happened and why and what it meant.

He had gone to Joe's for just that because he had called and
gotten no answer at Methos' apartment. But they needed to talk.
They really did.

/After./

Then today...just dinner. In public. What could be the harm?

And Methos had told him no. Flat. Not rudely. Just, "no." Not,
"Not yet." Or "I have plans." Just...

No.

It had pissed him off. He had hung up without actually slamming
the phone down but he was angry. Confused. Annoyed. But mostly
just pissed off.

Again. The familiar -- too familiar -- sensation swept through
him again. Throbbing in his blood, making his belly feel heavy,
his skin flushed, his lungs tighten as they tried to retain air
he wasn't replacing.

He counted. He breathed. He leaned his forehead against the cool
brick of the wall and *felt* Methos beneath him, his scent
filling his senses, the smooth brush of skin beneath his hands,
the daring, dangerous look in his eyes.

He was going to lose his mind.

Methos was home. If he left now -- if Methos didn't disappear, he
could be there in ten minutes. He could always say he was there
to retrieve the sweater Methos had borrowed. If he was really
lucky, maybe Methos would even be in it at the time.

And yes, they were going to talk....

/After.../

It took him twelve minutes because the light on Freeman Avenue
was stuck. But he made it. Methos' SUV was still in the parking
lot and the lights were on in his third story apartment.

He was almost too impatient to wait for the elevator but he did,
bouncing on the balls of his feet and smiling inanely when other
people disembarked. He almost knocked a man down coming out of
the elevator on the third floor.

And there it was, the final barrier between him and what /who/ he
wanted. He could feel him before he reached the door. The scent
that had lingered on his skin growing stronger. He rang the bell
and then he knocked before the echo faded.

The door opened and ...

<<<<>>>>

The doorbell was an unnecessary accompaniment to the rush that
Mac's presence triggered, sending his dick into a new size range
and his heart into overdrive. He opened the door without a word
and just stood there. Actually, he expected to say something
sarcastic, but his mouth dried up so fast he was having a hard
time ungluing his tongue from his palate. So he let the silence
drag on, just letting his eyes fill with a big, pumped up,
obviously aroused Highlander.

"Move," Duncan snarled, then pushed by him into his apartment.

Methos' mouth finally managed to generate enough saliva to
function. "Why don't you come in, MacLeod?" Methos asked
redundantly. Mac was already pacing his living room.

"You've been avoiding me," Mac stated, marking the four strides
it took to measure the distance from the couch to the wall, then
four strides back again.

Methos leaned against the wall to watch the lion marking his
territory. A smile twitched his lips when he mentally pictured
Mac pissing on the floor and walls to embed his scent, but
quickly squelched the thought since it brought to mind one of the
more compelling portions of Duncan's very appealing anatomy.

"Yes," Methos said simply and took a deep breath -- virtually
girding his loins. "And, knowing that, you decided to disregard
anything I may want and show up anyway."

"What do you want?" MacLeod demanded. "A clue would be nice."

"Time and space," Methos said, eyes narrowing and his tone like
that used to scold a four-year-old.

"I would like to talk," Mac said, finally remembering to moderate
his tone but it was damnably difficult with Methos standing
there, body relaxed, every line of muscle and sinew startlingly
clear under the tight T-shirt and tighter jeans. So close.

"I don't remember asking what you would like," Methos snapped
back at him.

It surprised MacLeod and he wasn't sure why except that with that
surprise came the realization that while Methos was leaning
against the wall, he was anything but relaxed. His body was
closed, arms crossed protectively across his chest, chin down,
legs braced.

Another breath and the scent of the man in front of him seemed to
replace the air. Christ! What a rush. He felt drugged. "Why? Just
explain that much?" Mac said with effort and forced himself to
move -- away. Methos countered to watch him -- wary, ready...

Wary. Afraid?

"I just think we both need time to think... it was a ..."

"Mistake?" Mac demanded, suddenly angry again.

"No!" The green eyes flashed. "A little... emotionally charged,"
he finished lamely.

Mac turned on him and stalked closer, watching the muscles shift,
from wary to on guard.

And it excited him. As it had before when it was anger, and edgy
and intense. Some tiny part of his brain detached and he watched
himself -- watched *them*. There was a dynamic here he didn't
understand, something unfolding that made no sense but should
have. "No," he hissed. "This is emotionally charged. There's
no....Quickening now...here."

But desire was -- the hot rush of it increased the closer he got.
"Isn't there?" Methos ground out, starting to move sideways.
MacLeod stopped him by the simple expediency of placing his hand
on the wall. Methos stopped and met his gaze, lips parted and
dry, Mac saw.

His heart was surely being heard on the street. Methos did not
move again, only watched him...waiting.

/Domination and control two sides of the same coin./

Only Methos wasn't in control now as he had been in the dojo.
After the Quickening. He wasn't even close to being in control.

But Mac was. He was certain of it, absolutely, totally certain of
it. He liked the feeling. He smiled and saw the narrowed eyes
widen. He lunged and felt Methos give way -- not an easy thing to
do with his back to the wall.

The taste of him started it all again, the rush of blood, the
ache, the need to immerse himself in every molecule of Methos'
being. Absorb him, take him.

He got no resistance at all, even when his other arm hooked
around the back of Methos' waist to bring their bodies in tight,
close contact. He could feel Methos' arousal through his jeans --
it was there. The desire Mac felt was in Methos as well.

He dragged his mouth away to gulp air but sought the side of
Methos' face, feeling the soft rub of the beard that never seemed
to grow. His lips trailed across the hard edge of Methos' jaw to
the tender skin along his neck, under his ear. "Tell me you don't
want this. Tell me no," he said as soft as a whisper, but the
growl was there.

The denial, when it came, was not for what was happening but a
surrender of sorts. Moving his head again, Mac reclaimed that
mouth -- the lips no longer dry, but as hot as a desert, moist as
a rain forest, sweeter than any confectioner's dream.

He pulled again and felt Methos' hands come out for balance, his
slighter weight easily pulled by MacLeod's determination.

<<<<>>>>

All the air left Methos' lungs as Mac pressed against him and he
wanted to melt into that hard flesh. Either that or he wanted to
take it for himself, but he dared not summon that angry edge. And
without the threat of their blades between them his body did what
it wanted, which was let itself be taken. Duncan's hard, hot
hands felt down his back to the rounds of his ass and crushed
them together until it hurt. If he hadn't hung on, if his hands
hadn't found purchase in Duncan's sweater he was sure his knees
would have folded underneath him.

The lips were alternately soft and hard on his mouth and neck.
One minute gently raining kisses on his eyes and lips, then
pushing in, prying his mouth openwith a seeking, hungry
tongue:now biting his chin, his neck, all the while grinding
their throbbing erections together in a rhythm that clearly was
going to send them both over the edge very quickly.

Mac stopped for a second, only long enough to drop his coat on
the floor, ignoring the thunk of the blade within, then he
grabbed him by the upper arm and pulled him the short distance to
the bed before he started yanking his own clothes off.

Methos sat, watching, finally closing his eyes because watching
was too intense. It made the need rise up in him and he feared he
could not do what had to be done. Then Mac was pressing him back
into the mattress, rocking his hips against Methos' thigh even as
he pulled at the T-shirt Methos had been wearing. Finally, Mac
unfastened the jeans and yanked them down his thighs and stopped,
out of breath.

"Methos," Duncan breathed, "Oh, Methos, how can you...?" but he
didn't seem to want to finish his sentence. Instead he stroked
the older man's hard, leaking cock. Methos' breath caught in his
throat at the touch. It was all he could do not to cry out, not
to grab that beautiful face and force it down on his dick and
fuck that mouth until the man choked. That image was already in
his mind when he felt moist heat enclose him and he couldn't
contain a strangled cry and his hands grabbed at the sheets while
his hips surged up off the bed.

It took only a few delicious strokes into Mac's hot mouth and he
came in long, hard spurts that pulled low, carnal grunts from
deep in his gut, until he just lay there, gasping and tingling.

Duncan felt the painful tightness in his chest easea little. He
needed that... He almost laughed at the thought but it was true.
Just what he needed to at least begin to quench the thirst that
seemed to suck at his soul. It wasn't enough, not yet, but it let
him calm down a bit, the taste of Methos still in his mouth, the
smell of him on his skin. His hands moved upward over the still
trembling flanks, across pale skin, the smooth belly, then
upward, his mouth following until he tasted the sweat on the
other man's throat. His body moved between the lax thighs,
shifting and moving, nudging Methos' hips upward, his cock
informing him quite happily that it could seek out its own depth.

"Look at me," he said it softly, his face inches from Methos'. He
felt urgency,need, yes, but there was calm too. It settled over
him like his desire, a slow burning urgency.

Not-quite-focused eyes opened, dark lashes so long it seemed they
must cast shadows. But he had to see it -- the acknowledgment,
the permission.

What he saw was....not denial. But it was enough, given what had
happened between them before. Enough that he barely noticed the
eyes close again, tightly, as he pressed inward, bodies sliding
together as easily as mouths. Key into lock...hand into
glove...cock into ass.

Mac groaned out loud, arranging the body beneath him to allow the
most freedom to push, to thrust, to bury himself inside the siren
song Methos' presence had become. He missed the hiss of air from
Methos' lungs, ignored the clutch of fingers around his forearms.

He wasn't even paying attention to the half-muttered words that
escaped the other man. In and out, flex and stretch, deeper and
harder until he felt his muscles seize, the air escape his lungs
in a gasping, guttural moan that lasted almost as long as the
spill of his seed into the tight, gripping sheath he'd made of
Methos' body.

And just as easily he collapsed downward, barely remembering to
allow his lover's legs to shift off his shoulders as their bodies
parted.

It took long moments to recover. Sated, relieved, wonderful
moments where he was able to concentrate on the beat of Methos'
heart and his own. To listen to his own labored breathing calm,
to feel the warm, smooth skin beneath his chest and cheek. He
smiled a little, rubbing what skin he could reach and lifted his
head, expecting to see an answering smile.

It wasn't there. There was nothing much there at all on Methos'
face. Neither joy nor fatigue nor bliss nor dismay -- no
expression at all. Merely the dark curve of lashes on the pale
skin, the mouth looking bruised and moist still.

"Methos?" he said it, not sure his lover was even with him.

It took forever -- his whole lifetime -- before the eyes opened
to look at him. Not with accusation or warmth, merely observing
him as if they just finished a couple of beers rather than come
all over each other. The stroking Mac had been applying to one
arm faltered. He moved his hand to caress the sharp cheek softly,
ready to ask, apologize -- whatever was needed after...

After.

He moved, lifting his weight off the flushed and sticky torso,
for the first time wondering if talking first might have been a
better plan. Warmth spread over his face.

What had he done? Methos hadn't said no but...

There was a sound, derisive and short. A grunt and Methos
extracted himself less than gracefully from beneath the rest of
MacLeod's weight. But he didn't get off the bed, merely rolled
and twisted slightly to his side. "Wipe that look off your face,
MacLeod," Methos said sternly -- the disgust was there now.
Somehow, however, Mac was certain it wasn't aimed at him. "It
wasn't a fucking rape. Not then, not now."

Mac let it sink in. No. It wasn't a rape, but it wasn't making
love either. It was...sex, lust, a lot of things. Methos had not
protested nor did he seem unduly alarmed. He had neither resisted
nor....participated...except in the most base, physical sense.

"What the hell is going on?" Mac said it suddenly and with some
force, rolling away and onto his back to stare at the ceiling in
confusion.

"You were there," Methos sniped back at him. "I just got the best
blow job of my life and you just got the best fuck of yours. Call
the media," he said and then did get up, heading away, toward the
kitchen, the thin silvery sheen of Mac's semen on the inside of
his thighs. He returned a few moments later with a kitchen towel
and two beers. He handed a beer to Mac who looked at it numbly.

The towel he used to wipe off his belly and thighs before
settling onto the bed again, passing the cold glass across his
forehead before sipping. He glanced over at Mac. "It's a beer,
MacLeod. You drink it. I'd offer you a cigarette but I don't
smoke."

Methos watched Mac carefully put the beer down on the nightstand,
untouched. His hair was a mass of tangles around his head and the
sweat still gleamed on his skin. And Methos could still feel it,
that thread, that constant, almost irritating, nagging pull of
awareness and power. Mac's face worked through uncertainty,
guilt, anger, resentment, irritation; gods, but the man was
utterly incapable of hiding what he felt. How had he ever
survived this long?

Uh, oh. The big brown eyes had now evolved into an expression of
longing and confusion, a dangerous combination.

"What the hell is going on, Methos?" Mac asked again. "All I
want...all I want is to be with you." He reached out a hand to
cover the one Methos had left resting on the covers.

"Seems to me you just were," Methos pulled his hand away and took
another long swig of his beer. As he knew it would, the sardonic
comment sent MacLeod surging off the bed and groping for his
clothes.

"Damn it, Methos, you started this!" Mac yanked on his jeans and
looked around for his socks which seemed to have disappeared
among the clothes strewn over the floor. He paused in his frantic
search and took a long breath, hands on his hips, unable to meet
his lover's eyes. "I thought it was more than sex." He raised his
hands, palm out, defensively. "I know, I know, just now it
was...sex, but that's not why I came over here...at least it
wasn't the only reason."

"Your sweater is in the top dresser drawer," Methos said dryly,
then finished off his beer. God, he hated doing this.

Mac stared at him, aware that Methos wasn't staring back. He made
a sound, half curse, half question and made his way to the
dresser. Yanking the top drawer open he pulled out the sweater
Methos had borrowed with an implied promise about the
circumstances of its retrieval. Cleaned, folded carefully. He
glanced back to find Methos still, resolutely not looking at him.
Naked as a babe but clothed in a near impenetrable distance.

The urgency gone, Mac looked again and saw -- without the need
and desire driving him -- the man he'd just fucked. Methos looked
none too happy about it. Or on closer examination, the hooded
eyes revealed a level of confusion Mac wasn't sure he'd ever seen
before. Not with Methos -- not how it subtly altered the
arrogant, cock-sure, laissez-faire expression the oldest immortal
usually wore.

But the thrum of power was still there, banked, as it had not
been when Mac first arrived, dialed lower. Chewing on the
thought, Mac reached back into the dresser and pulled out a clean
shirt and underwear and then bent to retrieve Methos' jeans. He
took four steps closer and dropped the clothes on Methos'
outstretched legs. "Get dressed," he said quietly.

Methos looked up at him, his expression becoming once more wary.
"Go to hell."

Mac smiled just a little. "Get dressed or I will dress you."

A sullen expression crossed the stark features but Methos' hand
fingered the shirt across his knee. "Why?"

"Because we are going for a walk, where there are people, so the
likelihood of either of us...losing control...is lessened," Mac
said deliberately.

"I'm not losing--" Methos protested hotly and was brought up
short by the look on MacLeod's face. Partly amused, partly
sardonic, lips curled in a patient but not necessarily benign
smile. Involuntarily Methos shuddered and reached for the shirt,
setting his beer bottle aside. He dressed, slowly, as much to
keep his movements deliberate and steady as to obscure his
shaking. Shirt, boxers, jeans. He looked and then found Mac
holding out a pair of socks. "I smell like a brothel," Methos
muttered, looking for his boots.

/No, you smell like.../ Mac took a deep breath, inhaling the
sweat and musky sex scent, the faint trace of shampoo Methos used
on his hair. The other man bent to pick up his boots and Mac
found his hand on Methos' arm, pulling him back. Methos wasn't
prepared, didn't resist now either, even when MacLeod's hand came
under his chin, guiding his mouth.

No bruising this time, no force, barely a nibble and the tense
mouth relaxed, Methos' head falling back just that much before he
realized he didn't want this, wasn't supposed to want this. The
boot dropped heavily onto the floor and Methos' hands came up,
fingers spreading wide to lift the heavy damp-tangled hair, to
pull MacLeod closer. No resistance there either and no attempt to
take back control. The full lips were soft and accommodating.
MacLeod's tongue danced against Methos' in a slow ballet of
movement and taste and satisfying sensuality. Dark brown eyes
regarded him mildly as Methos pulled back. His tongue came out to
moisten lips already wet with MacLeod's saliva, the taste as
sharp as it had been a moment ago.

Mac may have been prepared for triumph or arrogance or distance
once more but not for uncertainty, not for the darting, near-
panicked look in Methos' eyes. "Again," he said softly and waited
for Methos to move, to nod almost imperceptibly, eyes shuttered
as their mouths met again. This time MacLeod moved his hand,
lifting it to filter through the short silky strands of hair,
still giving over control as Methos sucked softly on his lip then
his tongue, swallowing at the tentative gentleness of the kiss.
This was what he had wanted. Yes, the sex too, with some part of
his mind, his body, but this was what he had been looking for
when he settled for the other. Methos' heart was beating rapidly,
caged like a rabbit in fear or excitement: MacLeod couldn't tell
by taste alone. His own heart was beating far more slowly,
steady, once for every five of Methos'. He found himself wanting
to soothe, protect, to ease the fluttering, involuntary movements
of Methos' heart and his hands as they flexed and curved and
moved against his scalp.

Mac pressed his lips against the smooth forehead, Methos closer
to him now than he had been. Not leaning or seeking support, but
close. The arousal was burning again but low, soft, comforting
rather than all-consuming. Methos had stopped shaking, at least.

But he wouldn't look at him. He pulled back, hands leaving
MacLeod's hair reluctantly before he bent for his boots again and
Mac let him go, watching as the other man sat on the bed to pull
on his socks then lace up his boots. The sweater was still in
Mac's hands and rather than hunt up his shirt he slipped it over
his head, rolling the hem over his jeans and pulling his hair out
of the neck.

Methos looked up just then, watching while Mac dug in his pocket
for a tie to gather up the thick curls to pull them back. Not the
most polished coiffure but it would do. Still watching MacLeod,
Methos reached under the mattress to pull out a sheathed dagger,
slim, stiletto style, rising from the bed to tuck the short-
handled blade into the back of his jeans and pulling his shirt
over it.

Mac considered that and then retrieved his coat, feeling the
katana's weight slide into place. Methos moved past him, reaching
for a jacket, soft silk and all too obviously not concealing any
other weapon, and waited by the door.

No signals were forthcoming, no indication of what Methos was
thinking. His face was shuttered again but still he looked
exposed, uncertain. Shrugging his coat back on, Mac moved.

The door was closed and locked behind them, Methos pocketing the
keys and heading for the stairs, not the elevator, as if the too
small space would be more than he could take at the moment. At
the front door, Methos pushed through, body relaxing fractionally
as they hit the outside. He glanced at MacLeod and waited. Taking
the two steps needed to bring him abreast of the other, Mac made
sure Methos moved with him as they headed for the sidewalk,
moving along toward the busier section of town, the business
district, where lights and voices could be heard.

The first five minutes passed in total silence: their gait
unhurried, Mac looking straight ahead and Methos letting his gaze
wander over buildings, trees, greenery, people, anywhere but over
the man walking next to him.

MacLeod nearly bit the inside of his cheek waiting for Methos to
speak first, say anything. Sarcasm would have been a blessing. As
it was, he felt the frustrated anger rise again. What was it
about this...this mercurial shift from the gentlest, tenderest of
instinct to the burning anger? He did have better control than
this and it had nothing to do with embarrassment or shame or
awkwardness over claiming the body of the man beside him or
surrendering his own. But he needed some way to categorize what
was happening -- a one off, an agreement that they were fuck
buddies and no more, lovers -- whatever. But Methos had said that
it wasn't just the sex, not the other night. Definitely not today
although he had said nothing. If he were willing for that to be
all, he would not have reacted as he did -- or rather, would not
have *not* reacted as he did; only to then respond so willingly
and hungrily to a mere kiss.

Well, maybe not mere.

There was no sense to be made of it. Not now, not three days ago.
The only thing Methos had said that made sense was that he was
not leaving. And so he hadn't, physically. He had guided Mac,
brutally, through the tumult of emotions and physical responses
the other night, been as pleasant a wake-up companion as Mac
could have wished or expected (from Methos.) The rest of it was a
confusing melange of haphazard images and shifting feelings,
barely hoped for desires and startlingly clear realizations.

MacLeod stopped and Methos continued for a few steps before
realizing he was alone. He turned, question in his eyes but lips
tightly pressed together.

"You had no fucking idea what you were doing the other night, did
you?" MacLeod asked in a completely conversational tone as if he
had asked about some bit of historical trivia. The sound of it
was as shocking as the thought had been moments earlier.

Methos' chin came up defiantly, an affectation totally lost as he
jammed his hands into his back pockets.

MacLeod wasn't fooled. Something had thrown Methos off kilter and
badly and he could only point the finger at himself. "Why?" he
asked, truly needing an answer this time. What had driven Methos
to put himself at such a risk? All too well, Mac recalled the
violence that had burned through him at the elder Immortal's
challenge in the dojo. Physically, perhaps, Methos thought the
risk was minimal: he was Duncan's match sword to sword -- or
close enough for the outcome to be an uncertain thing. But this,
emotional risk -- exposing himself to this and for no reason that
MacLeod could divine. Affection, yes. Friendship, certainly. But
there was more to it than that or he would not have so rashly
assured Mac in the parking lot that it wasn't for the cheap
thrill of rough sex.

"I thought you said dinner," Methos responded and turned away,
heading back toward town. "I'm hungry."

/No. You are a fucking pain in the ass,/ Mac ground out mentally
but followed, alert to the fact that when he didn't press, Methos
relaxed again.

It wasn't haute cuisine. It was a Denny's on Belmont and Third,
and Methos was obviously well known as the hostess grinned at him
and led him to the back of the restaurant, a small area for
smokers which made Mac hesitate -- not from the vague aromas of
stale tobacco but because, assuming Methos had told the truth
earlier, Methos didn't smoke. But it was apparent a moment later
why here.

It was nearly empty, even at the dinner hour, the few patrons
were older couples who apparently decided the dangers of
cigarette smoking were past the point of worrying over. Only two
other tables of the eight in the room were occupied. Married
couples and dressed up to some extent, a night out on a
pensioner's income. It was slightly sad and inexplicably
reassuring as well.

According to the embroidery above her pocket, their waitress'
name was Helen and she obviously knew Methos fairly well,
bringing him coffee and water before even asking MacLeod what he
wanted to drink. She had to be sliding down the backside of forty
and not gracefully, but a smile and a sweet bit of flirting from
Methos along with a sincere appreciation of her memory had her
looking two decades younger, with a glimpse of the beauty she
might have been for but for an easier life.

MacLeod stuck to coffee but Methos ordered eggs and bacon and a
side of hash browns, digging into them with single-minded
determination as if by keeping his mouth full he could not be
forced to talk.

Nor did Mac try to force anything but the most banal of
conversations and even those Methos avoided by way of summoning
Helen for water, or springing up to grab a copy of the local free
paper to see what news was to be had.

"Will you stop?" MacLeod said finally after Helen had brought a
second order of toast to which Methos was applying jelly with far
more care than wheat bread deserved. "I get the message. You
don't want to talk, you don't want to discuss it...could you at
least tell me what you do want? Why all of this--" he waved his
hand in the air. "Is necessary? Can't you just tell me... to
...to leave you alone?"

Methos meditatively wiped first one side of the knife off on the
bread, then the other, then placed the implement carefully on the
side of his plate before taking a bite. He chewed slowly,
swallowed, then sipped at his coffee. Finally, he dared raise his
eyes to the dark, stormy eyes of his companion. "I wish it were
that simple," he said. He took another delicate sip of his
coffee.

"You wish what were that simple?!" Mac struck his fist on the
table, spilling coffee, rattling silverware and drawing the
attention of nearly everyone in the restaurant. He immediately
flushed, then sat back, trying to not look like he was about to
strangle the other man.

Methos wiped at his mouth and crossed his arms onto the table,
his face taking on a slightly aloof expression. When he finally
spoke it was with the tone of an upper class British
schoolteacher. "The violence of the Game is part and parcel of
the Quickening," he instructed, as though Mac didn't already know
that. "The question arises, at what point does an Immortal's
power become sufficient to trigger that violence or aggression in
another Immortal, even when such violence is contrary to that
Immortal's desires or character?" When Duncan started to insert a
comment, Methos stopped him with a gesture. Clearly, he needed to
articulate this, even if only for himself.

"Is it possible to redirect that aggression into a non-lethal
activity, at least to each other?" Methos asked, rhetorically.
"There is some historical evidence that it is possible, but that
outcome is not always...healthy," he said, his voice getting
quiet. "And the times were different, the relationships
were...different," he added. "And not a very...positive...
example to emulate."

Mac sat, feeling like someone had just hit him with a two-by-
four, for several minutes. He leaned over and spoke in a low
tense voice. "Are you saying that you and I...that we..." his
eyes shuttered closed and he shuddered, unable to complete the
thought.

"What did you expect, MacLeod?" Methos wanted to laugh at the
Highlander's denial and naiveté. "That you could take Kronos and
Caspian, you could absorb all these Quickenings over the past
dozen years and never pay a price for it? You hold half the power
of the Four Horseman, plus your own, you bloody fool! What do you
think it's like for me to be around you anymore?"

As he expected, MacLeod danced around the real issue, avoided it
and turned the discussion to something outside himself. "You're
telling me that those thousands of years of violence, the raping,
the killing, were because you were reacting to each other's
Quickenings?"

Methos shrugged. "It's more complicated than that. We were
brothers. Unique, even among our own kind. The best. The most
powerful. There was such a...bond between us. It had to do with
the nature of the times, the nature of being Immortal, the nature
of who each of us was. It's hard to explain in terms you would
understand, MacLeod. You have no frame of reference for what we
were!"

But Mac had stood, his face resolving itself into a hard masque.
"And you think that's what we've become, Methos? That we can only
relate to each other with violence?" He leaned forward, his broad
hands splayed on the table. "Speak for yourself, Methos!" he
whispered harshly. His coat swirled as he turned and slammed out
the door.

"Right," Methos whispered as he watched the broad back retreat
from the battlefield. "You're just full of tender fucking
romance."

Outside the restaurant, Mac stopped, sucking in a great lungful
of air. His mind made a dead stop at what Methos had said, what
he implied. What he knew.

He let the air out more easily. Clearing his mind, and replaying
the words...the tone of voice, the detachment. Clinical, inhuman,
emotionless.

What was it like for Methos to be around him, now. After all
that. After....

As it was for him to be near Methos and not being near him,
finding himself driven to seek the other man out. The bench in
front of the restaurant gave him support as he sat. Skipping
backwards like a rewinding tape, he replayed it all...today, the
other night. Methos had followed him back to the dojo the night
of Joe's party. Followed and hovered as if he were reluctant to
come too close or stray too far. Concern or something more.
Something else?

He couldn't deny that he had been drawn out today -- seeking
something and even with Methos' consent, had treated him with
something less than a lover's affection -- no matter how much he
had examined and found himself ready for those feelings. Denied
them, he had still sought...wanting somehow to ....

To what? Fuck his friend silly? Whisper endearments? Settle the
driving urge in his head and his loins?

He felt him then. That thrum of power easing up on him, but still
muted, it seemed, but not as much as before.

"I didn't bring my wallet," Methos said quietly behind him.
Beyond that, Mac could hear the clatter of dishes and voices
inside the restaurant. "You said...dinner," he ventured.

Compressing his lips together MacLeod gave a curt nod and rose to
his feet. Steadier. He went back inside and paid the bill while
Methos remained near the door. A smile and a generous tip for
Helen and he was out again.

"So this is nothing more than some holdover -- some primal draw
based on our Quickenings, our presence," he said stiffly as they
both headed toward the street. It was darker now, dusk shifting
into dark blue skies. He had walked away from Methos in anger
once before. He wasn't going to tempt fate a second time.

"So it seems...," Methos said softly, the scholarly tone gone.
"It's what draws them to you in the first place, Mac. I can feel
it -- it's under my skin, when you are close...and after you
took..." He hunched down further in the silk jacket, burrowing
his hands into the pockets even though it wasn't that cold.
"Pacific Power has nothing on you."

"And you as well," Mac had to admit. "But it can't be that and
only that. Or two immortals in the same room would never
survive."

"Sometimes they don't."

Mac stopped and turned to face him. "And sometimes they do. You
didn't bring your sword. Why? Afraid you might lop off my head in
the middle of Denny's?"

"And scare Helen?" A ghost of a smile appeared then vanished.
"No. But I didn't want to be perceived as a threat either."

MacLeod stared at him, stunned. "To me? You were afraid that much
-- a perceived threat would be enough to trigger--Jesus! Methos!"

Another shrug. "It occurred to me. It's only that...this kind of
-- attraction/aggression has happened before."

"With the Horseman?" Mac asked, almost dreading the affirmative
he knew was coming.

"Among others." It was said quietly, almost an afterthought as
one of Methos' hands came out to gesture as he spoke. "There was
a balance...that we found. We four. It wasn't pretty and I don't
expect you to approve but it worked. It kept us from killing each
other. It didn't keep us from fighting."

It was another half-block before Mac worked up the nerve to ask
the next logical question. "How do we find a...balance?" he
asked.

They stopped at the corner to wait for a light. It changed. They
walked to the other side of the street. "I don't know," Methos
finally answered.

"But we will, right?" Mac insisted. "It's possible. It can be
done."

Methos shrugged, his hands stuck deep in his pockets, his eyes
traveling everywhere except to the man next to him. "Anything is
possible," he answered. But to sully his relationship with
MacLeod by comparing it to the sick mutual dependency of the Four
Horseman made Methos' skin crawl almost as much as it must make
the upright and moralistic Scot's. More, because Methos knew just
how depraved that relationship had been.

Suddenly Mac had stopped and had to call him back as he continued
down the sidewalk.

"I need a drink," he announced. "And when I think of dinner,
Denny's isn't the first place that comes to my mind."

<<<<>>>>

They were seated, linen napkins spread across their laps by a
solicitous maitre d', and a bottle of wine ordered and uncorked,
then poured. Mac ordered for them both when Methos just waved a
hand when asked what he wanted. At last they were left
undisturbed and Mac stared at him until he got uncomfortable.

"What?!"

"So, what's the plan?"

"The plan?"

"How do we deal with this?"

They were silent as the busboy brought fresh rolls.

Methos steepled his fingertips in front of him. "My plan was to
avoid each other," he cocked his head at his dinner companion.
"It doesn't seem to have worked very well."

Mac turned his wineglass around and around. "Is that really an
option, Methos?" he asked quietly. "Is that what you want?"

"Those are two different questions, MacLeod." Methos could almost
hear the low growl in the Scot's throat.

"Are you constitutionally incapable of giving a straight answer?"
Mac hissed.

"Depends on the question," Methos sat back with a smile, now
definitely hearing the growl.

Mac's meal arrived and Mac just glared at him until the waiter
had left. Then he leaned forward with a glower of his heavy brows
and poked the table with a blunt finger to emphasize his words.
"Okay, Mr. Smart Ass. Simple question. Is Separation What You
Want?" He leaned back and crossed his arms, waiting.

"That's not a simple question, Mac," Methos answered

A sound very much like 'Aaargh' escaped from Mac's throat this
time, somewhere between a growl and a curse.

"It's not!" Methos insisted. "Because what I want may not enter
into the equation at all. There's also what you want. There's
also what we are driven to do, despite what we want. You see?" he
asked. "Nothing is simple."

"You're not listening, Methos!" MacLeod spat. "Is Separation What
You Want?! Forget what I want. Forget what we might be driven to
do. Answer the fucking question!"

"No." It took a while to say, and it came out very quietly. "It's
not what I want."

Mollified and slightly surprised in spite of himself, Mac nodded
curtly. "See? That wasn't so hard after all, was it?" he said too
sweetly and instantly regretted his sarcasm. Methos had cracked
that impenetrable veneer a bit and now it was effectively slammed
shut again. Stifling a groan, MacLeod pushed his plate aside and
leaned across the table. "It's a place to start." He tried again,
his voice low and even. "There was more to you coming after me
the other night than some reminiscence of friendships long past,"
he said, choosing the word friendship deliberately. He may not
approve of Methos' choice of former companions but approve or
not, the other man was right. A thousand years together spoke of
bonds Mac wasn't sure he could ever fully understand.

Methos studiously refused to look at him. "Whatever you
had...then. It doesn't have to be the same, now. It is... also...
a place to start. But there has to be a better way to work this
out than me taking...than this," he finished suddenly embarrassed
again.

Methos took a breath and nodded slowly but wouldn't look up from
his contemplation of the tablecloth. "Maybe...but I haven't a
clue." He admitted. "Or I do, but as you just discovered, it
isn't my first choice." He raised his head then to look at
MacLeod almost defiantly again, his jaw set. /Better this than
nothing./ Methos said not a word but it was there, on his face,
in his eyes.

"Don't leave," Mac asked it, wanting Methos to know it wasn't his
choice either. Separation, and Methos wasn't talking about the
distance of a few city blocks. "Tell me...tell me what did work,"
he asked quietly.

"All right," Methos agreed. "But not here. Finish your meal, Mac,
and we'll...talk."

Mac's food was utterly tasteless and not any fault of the chef's.
Methos' went untouched. Nevertheless, MacLeod ate most of it
wondering if it wasn't a mistake as his stomach rolled queasily,
then called for the check.

They left, scarcely noticing the goodnights of the staff, back
into the darkness that seemed somehow less threatening than the
intimacy of a table for two.

Methos led him back to his apartment and into the elevator,
slouching in the corner of the steel cubicle as it rose. Once on
his floor, Methos dug his keys out, unlocking the door and
turning on the lights in the dark apartment. Without waiting to
see if Mac followed, he entered and took his coat off, flinging
it into a chair and then shoving the sleeves of his shirt up as
he dug into a cabinet, emerging with a full bottle of whiskey and
two glasses. He poured generously and handed a glass to Mac,
sipping at his own.

Methos found a wall and leaned against it, holding his arms in
close, his glass hovering near his mouth as though it were a
defense against some unknown enemy. Duncan took off his coat,
draped it over the back of the couch and sat, leaning forward,
thick forearms on his knees. They weren't looking at each other.
They couldn't.

"Where to start?" Methos asked himself, barely audibly.

"Not at the beginning or we'll be here forever," Mac responded,
trying to inject a little levity, but the smile that it generated
on Methos' lips had little to do with amusement.

"No. Not at the beginning," he agreed.

So he began, glossing over the number of times they killed each
other in anger or during sex, just for the thrill of it, the
number of times one of the four had prevented the others from
taking a brother's head in the midst of a mindless bout of
violence. He concentrated on the effort they had made to enjoy
the violence, to find their fulfillment and release in the thrill
of prolonged rough sex. Eventually, it became a way of life.
Whenever the aggression spiked, they raided, they raped -- each
other as well as others. And they loved it. And when one of them
actually took a head, a truly rare event in those days, it became
a virtual orgy of blood, theirs and others'.

Methos spoke evenly, his gentle tone belying the horror of his
words, watching MacLeod's face go pale, watching the jaw set, the
muscles bunch as his teeth clenched. His heart grew heavier and
heavier. This could never work. Not today. Not ever. Not with
this man who had a warrior's spirit, but a gentle heart that
would be destroyed just in the trying. It wasn't an answer -- if
anything, it only further pointed out how impossible finding a
viable solution might be.

When he finished, he let the silence roll on, knowing there was
nothing much left to be said. He crossed to the couch and softly
stroked the silky hair on Duncan's bowed head. "Go home," he
whispered.

Mac finished his glass, which had remained untouched during
Methos' brutal tale, in one gulp. He stood and picked up his
coat, putting it on as he headed to the door. His hand was on the
knob, and he paused.

"Methos..." he began, but Methos knew he could not, dare not say
what he intended.

"Go home, MacLeod," he interrupted, speaking sternly.

The dark headed nodded, the door opened, and he was gone.

There wasn't enough air in the hallways, or the stairs, nor even
outside. Once in his car, MacLeod rolled both windows down and
then leaned his head on the steering wheel. It still wasn't all
of it. He knew that, knew Methos had glossed and hedged over the
worst of it, chosen his words so very carefully for both impact
and to cushion the tale.

It made Mac sick. Sicker because he knew it for the truth, knew
it in the way the words resonated through whatever fragments of
Kronos and Caspian still clung to his soul, however
disenfranchised. Had already known some of it on some level.

It explained a great many things. It illuminated nothing.

Reluctantly he started the car and drove home. It occurred to him
as he drove, that part of his reluctance came from the idea that
having heard all that Methos could say -- or would, he had left
Methos. Not in horror (although that was there too) but because
having heard it -- he was as much at a loss on how
to...cure...this condition as Methos was.

He arrived at his own building almost without noticing it. He
turned on no lights in the dojo but made his way to the lift and
headed up, leaving the loft dark as well, save for the light over
the stove.

Stripping down he turned on the shower. Clothes removed, the
stale scents of sex were released, almost making him gag. He
immersed himself in the water before it was fully warmed, the
cold water shocking him out of the stunned funk he had fallen
into.

He was far more clear-headed when he was done, feeling less like
the world had crashed down on him. Making a cup of tea, his hand
hovered near the phone, wanting to call Methos to make sure he
was all right but he wasn't sure he could stand to hear a stock
answer, the lack of inflection that had so marked his words
earlier.

In the end he finished his tea without calling, falling into bed
with a weariness that had nothing to do with exertion. It was no
surprise then that he fell asleep when his head hit the pillows.

<<<<>>>>

Methos stared at the door for awhile, his mind numb and empty.
Eventually, he realized his drink was also empty and he went to
refill it. He had to set the newly filled glass down, though, as
he stripped off the shirt Mac had chosen for him, then sat on the
bed to pull off his boots. He barely had the strength to
accomplish the task. The room was a mess, the sheets stained and
rumpled, the smell of sex and sweat lingering in the air. Instead
of changing them, he just pulled the covers up and lay on top,
curling into a ball against the night's chill.

He almost reached for the phone. Mac would be reeling from the
evening's events, his whole life turned upside-down. He would
need reassurance. The man didn't handle chaos well. Methos smiled
to himself. He was sure that was one reason they were so
attracted to one another. Aside from the physical, of course. And
aside from the whole Quickening mess.

Mac instinctively knew he needed a little chaos in his tightly
controlled life, and Methos represented that better than anyone.
Even better than Amanda, who had filled that role until Methos
came along. Methos smiled grimly at the irony. Neither of them
had any idea just how much chaos was possible. It seemed they
were in the process of finding out. He picked up the phone, then
put it down. No. Let things settle a little. Besides, he didn't
know what to say. He had no words of reassurance, no grand plan.

He only knew he had promised he wouldn't leave, that he couldn't
walk away, when doing exactly that was really the only action
that made any sense at all. There was an odd, peaceful
resignation to that thought, and it comforted him as he finally
fell asleep.

It was dry as dust, hot, no moisture at all and Mac could feel
his lips cracking but there was water ahead. A well, camp, food
for himself and his horse. He pulled the wide brim of his hat
lower to increase the shade on his eyes, squinting at the bright
and unending sunlight.

A flash of color and the sound of voices and he was there,
dismounting as a young brown-skinned boy came up. A peso got him
to lead the horse and MacLeod to the stable and a few more coins
got his horse watered and fed and out of the sun.

There was a cantina close by and he headed there, liquid for
himself then food primary in his mind. He followed the
sounds...saw the darkened doorway in the adobe and anticipated
the coolness that would greet him inside.

But it wasn't cooler and it wasn't dark. Instead of mud-yellow
adobe walls and wood and cane chairs he found fabrics, moving and
shifting what little wind there was around the open space, small
as it was. A woman came forward offering him a bowl, the vinegary
smell of wine assaulting his nostrils. He took the bowl and
sipped. It was tart but it quenched his thirst and he drank
deeply, then gave it back to her for more. There was an oddity to
this situation but he couldn't identify it.

Thirst satisfied, another slave brought him food, grain cakes and
dried meat, dried fruits and more wine as well as water for
washing his face and hands but it was only enough for that and
the woman wiped his hands dry. And brought him fresh robes. She
never lifted her eyes as she helped him change from the dusty
loose clothing into fresher apparel.

"I expected you sooner," he knew that voice and turned, hand
reaching for his sword. "Jumpy?" Kronos asked and waved the
slaves out, pouring additional bowls of the wine for himself and
Duncan.

It was Kronos and it wasn't -- the face that greeted him was
marked by paints, yes, but the eyes were calm, not the madness
and lust for power that Duncan remembered. The bowl was offered
and Duncan took it, his hands brushing over those holding the
bowl but when he looked up again it was Methos, offering him a
clear tumbler of Scotch, dressed as he usually was in jeans and a
loose Henley.

It seemed the most normal thing in the world for Methos to be
there, dressed as he was amidst the loose fabrics and desert
setting. He moved away after passing the glass to Duncan, making
himself comfortable on the spread fabrics and furs and picking up
a hardbound book to thumb through.

"What are you reading?"

"Methos' chronicles," he said with a rich chuckle, eyes dancing
with amusement.

"I had no idea you were so fond of fiction," Mac said, relaxed as
he dropped down next to him, pushing the robes away so he
wouldn't trip only to find his hand brushing over the soft weave
of his favorite terry-cloth robe. He folded himself up neatly
beside Methos on the sofa.

"Funny man," Methos said. "A little drama, a little action, a
little romance." Mac could swear his voice got huskier as he
spoke, languorous, and Mac reached out for the man in front of
him, taking the book from his hand to look at it, but the
language on the page was foreign and shifting. As was the man
behind him -- shifting to fit his body to MacLeod's back, peering
over his shoulder. "Now we can both read." His mouth was at Mac's
ear, his hands slipping around his waist and under his robe to
stroke over the bare skin on his belly and then up to his breast.
His nipples tingled under the caress as Methos read to him -- his
words no more intelligible spoken than they were on the page but
it was important for Mac to hear them and understand.

The words became the language of the caresses being laid upon his
skin, from his chest to his stomach and then lower, between his
legs and along his thighs. He tried to concentrate on the words,
the murmur of sound that was now vibrating on his skin, skin that
was bared without even the scant protection of the robe. But
Methos was bare as well, moving over him, pressing him back and
still speaking softly although how he could make a sound with his
lips pressed to Mac's skin he had no idea.

He tried to hold the man still, but Methos kept eluding his
grasping hands, until he hovered, his mouth close to Mac's groin
with a predatory, hungry gaze in his eyes. Achingly hard, Mac
touched his head in permission, benediction, plea, then arched
upward as the moist heat of Methos' mouth slid over his erect
cock. Heat like lava rocketed through him and the indistinct
murmurings grew louder, rising and falling with each gasping
breath he took.

He fell into that soothing, exciting rocking motion, just waiting
for the burn to intensify, for the tension to coalesce into a
mindless burst of pleasure. But before it began, he was on his
side and there was a hard body behind him, rough hands moving
over his ass. He strained to look over his shoulder, but already
knew who it was.

Kronos' thumbs dug into the crack of his buttocks and suddenly
there was a hot arrow of pain piercing him to the core. Methos
groaned as though he felt it, too, pulling upward until they lay
face to face. "There are only these choices, Duncan," he said,
almost apologetically.

"Unless you prefer the others," Kronos whispered in his other
ear, the cold blade of a knife at his throat even as the urgent
and demanding press of Kronos' body pushed him until he was over
and on top of Methos. A look up and Caspian's face leered at him,
his hands holding Methos' wrists above his head, but he lunged
forward to give MacLeod a deep and savage kiss that was less
affection than claiming territory. "All for one and one for all,"
Caspian snickered. "That would be Dumas...or one for all of us,"
he looked down and Duncan's gaze followed to find Kronos, not
Methos, splayed beneath him. "It's this or blades, brother,"
Kronos laughed up at him, legs parting and lifting as Mac was
pushed down, sinking his body into Kronos' and then felt the
piercing pain of another body sliding into his.

His hands were covered in blood, the scent of it around him amid
the dancing light of fires and that murmuring throbbing power
that surrounded all of them. He desperately needed to come but it
would mean giving up something, to surrender something precious,
something fragile.

..."Finish it," Methos' blade was against his throat, his hair
long and wild, the eyes narrowed and lips curled in a sneer. "We
stand as one or die separately."

With a snarl, Duncan lunged for him, a blade in his hand, aware
that Kronos and Caspian and Silas watched them, egged them on,
catcalls and cheering as they engaged. More blood obscured his
vision but Methos gave ground and his blade fell as he abruptly
surrendered, pressed back against the mudbrick wall that edged
their camp, Duncan's blade pressed to his throat.

"You have won the round, Brother. He's yours." Kronos whispered
to him, his hands ghosting over Duncan's flanks, across his groin
to grip his cock, licking his shoulder.

"It's how it works, Duncan," Methos said, not denying him,
turning to face the wall, skin bared and blood streaked as if
he'd been whipped. Kronos pressed him forward, guiding his cock,
pushing Duncan into Methos' body as he sank his own cock in
Duncan's ass and moved against him "Enjoying it, Brother? Ah,
yes, you feel so good, don't you? You love this, don't you? This
is what it means! This is what you truly are!"

"No!" The shout from his own voice woke him and Mac lay panting
and sweating among the twisted sheets, his dick hard as a pole.
He groaned out loud, wrenching the sheets back to lay his own
hand along the hard flesh. Without the goading, conflicting
desires of the dream, it didn't take long and he lay back,
letting the inevitable reaction unkink the muscles that he'd
clenched in denial.

He wiped himself clean and then savagely ripped the sheets from
the bed to thrust them into the washer. There would be no sleep
and he didn't even try to convince himself otherwise. In truth,
he tried not to think about it at all. He took a fast shower to
rinse away the lingering smell of his own semen, sweat and fear,
dressing in more than his robe, feeling bare and exposed. But
there was only so much he could do to occupy his mind.

It was a nightmare, no more, no less. It wasn't difficult to
figure out why, but the details bothered him most -- too real by
far, or just products of his imagination, except he couldn't
convince himself of that. This was not the madman Kronos he
remembered from Bordeaux or even from the west a hundred years
ago under the name of Koren. Mad yes, but to willingly submit to
Mac in such a manner? Not a trait MacLeod's subconscious would
have ascribed to Kronos.

He could not summon those images consciously. Wasn't sure he
wanted to but even if part of what Methos said was true, there
was a connection here.

He gave up and sought some kind of answer in his Scotch and in
the strains of Debussy piano concertos. But even with that
calming influence, the Methos of his nightmare and the Methos who
had surrendered to him earlier in the evening kept melding
together.

He wouldn't leave and he wouldn't fight Mac. Not again. Mac was
as certain of that as anything. Methos would yield to him under
whatever driving urge he succumbed to. Whatever mindless violence
Mac used to act out his aggressions, whether or not it was under
his control.

And if the positions were reversed? Would Mac yield as well? Or
would he fight as he had in the nightmare.

Dawn held no more answers than the Scotch did.

<<<<>>>>

Somewhere in the night, Methos had pulled the covers over
himself. The combination of the fact that he was still clothed
plus the weight of the down comforter made him feel heavy and
constricted, but he still couldn't bring himself to move. He
wanted to stay cocooned in his bed...forever.

Bleh! He could smell himself and the covers. The inside of his
mouth tasted like stale water from a back alley puddle. He
cracked his eyes open, viewing the strewn socks and shoes and the
discarded T-shirt from the night before, the half-empty glass of
scotch on the nightstand. Finally he couldn't stand it anymore,
his disgust overcame his lethargy and he disentangled himself
from the bed, running his tongue over his teeth and feeling the
scum that had gathered there.

He stumbled towards the bathroom, pulling off his shirt and
unfastening his jeans and underwear, dropping them wherever they
happened to fall. He viewed his face in the mirror. Pale,
scrawny, hook-nosed, spike-haired, snake-tongued asshole that he
knew he was, he wondered why on earth Duncan MacLeod bothered. He
shook his head and stepped underneath the shower, washing away
the dirt, the sweat, the semen still stuck on his thighs. He
stayed there a long time, letting his mind puzzle over their
dilemma.

He should leave. He really should leave. It was the only action
that made any sense at all. But he had promised to stay. Well,
what difference did that make? A promise was merely a delaying
tactic, never something to take seriously. Never before. Not
really.

Who was he kidding? It wasn't the promise, it was MacLeod. He
felt anchored to the man like the earth's orbit of the sun.
Gravity. The strongest known force. But it could get them both
killed. Or worse.

And what was that weird thing that happened when they fucked? Or
rather when they made love? It hadn't happened last night when he
had refused to participate. Only when they were both totally
caught up in each other, their bodies and minds and hearts
almost...Don't go there, Methos. Getting fanciful and romantic
leads to emotional blindness, and blindness is a very poor
survival trait.

He was still toweling off, slowly, thoughtfully, the room filled
with enough steam to cloud the mirrors and send rivulets
collecting and running down the walls, when he heard the phone
ring. He knew who it would be and he pulled the towel around his
waist and went searching for the bloody thing, which wasn't where
it was supposed to be.

<<<<>>>>

"Come on, Methos," Mac murmured, waiting for the phone to be
picked up. It had taken most of the night to work up his nerve,
to think of what to say. He didn't know if he could do this in
person, and he certainly couldn't do it over a message machine.
But that's what picked up after four rings. For a few seconds, he
heard Adam's recorded voice instructing him to leave a message.
He had just taken in a breath to do so when there was a click
followed by the hollow sound of a live connection.

"Mac?"

He had known. Of course he had known.

"Uh, Methos. I've been thinking..."

"At last. You know I have been telling you for years that..."

"Methos!"

There was a brief pause. "Sorry, couldn't help myself."

"Look. I think you were right."

"Well, that's a..."

"Stop it, Methos. Just listen. I think there's more to this than
just Quickenings, just the Gathering, just the power. But I need
time to think about it, to settle things in my own mind. A few
days, a week, then we can meet...talk some more? There has to be
a better way than...than what you did before." He paused. "You've
changed, Methos. And I'm not...I'm not like them."

He waited, picturing Methos standing, all his weight on one hip,
one hand running his hand over his hair while he thought about
it.

"No, you're not. And I didn't mean to say that you were, if
that's what you were thinking."

That hadn't been what he was thinking. It was what he most
feared.

He heard a gusty sigh. "Okay, MacLeod. I can hardly argue with
advice that I had already given. Just...call me. Call me when you
think you're ready to talk."

"Yeah. I'll call," Mac replied. He took in a breath to say more,
but the line was dead. He set the phone back gently in the cradle
and leaned back, stretching muscles in his back he hadn't
realized had tensed.

There had to be another answer. Had to be.

Determined to find it, he reordered his thinking from trying to
avoid the confusing thoughts to putting them in some kind of
order. There was no denying that he had reacted to something in
Methos after the Quickening. Or that his need to see the older
man yesterday was something more than just a pique at Methos
turning him down for dinner.

But he had spent years with other Immortals as friends,
companions and never had such a reaction to them. Admittedly, few
were as old and powerful as Methos. Darius perhaps, Marcus
Constantine. Neither as old as Methos but still...He and Brian
Cullen -- and it took strength to summon that painful memory --
had been reduced to blows, to a fatal fight but he had always
attributed that to Brian's continued use of drugs, to the
behavior he had picked up under their influence. Kronos was bad
news all around, and Caspian and Silas as well.

Stephen Keane and an old grudge, or had it been simply that? And
Byron. He drew a breath and pulled paper toward himself,
beginning a list.

It may provide him with no answers but it was a start.

Of a very, very long week.

Oh, he could function. He thought. He read. He ran every day.
Miles and miles. But there was no illumination, no brilliant
answer that made him sit bolt upright in the middle of the night.
Only a sense of incompleteness. It wasn't the hot lust of the
Quickening, or even the intense need of their second encounter.
Just an emptiness, a desire to share a thought, a joke, an
observation, with someone who wasn't there.

<<<<>>>>

Methos had felt it before, just not this intensely. An itch that
couldn't be scratched. A high-pitched whine in his ears that
wouldn't go away. MacLeod had not yet learned to dampen his power
and it called to Methos just by being in the same city. Maybe it
was because it was gained so quickly, but it was a constant, raw
need.

He managed to make it through each day without seriously injuring
anyone, at least physically. He taught his classes, his caustic
wit honing its edge on poor hapless students. He drank. A lot.
His only solace was ending each evening at Joe's, where the man's
sympathetic silence was oddly soothing.

Until the evening Mac called to let Joe know he was stopping by
and Methos beat a hasty exit, finishing his beer but otherwise
not offering any explanation to Joe. He had his keys in hand and
was in the parking lot when he felt it -- for one fleeting moment
thinking it MacLeod until he realized that a) it didn't *feel*
like MacLeod and b) unless the Scot had suddenly gained access to
a Star Trek teleporter -- there was no way he could have gotten
here that fast.

He did a half-turn before he saw the other Immortal but said
nothing, watching and waiting for him. There was an instinctive
tightening in his gut when the man suddenly began moving toward
him with slow deliberate steps.

"Early night?" The man asked, casually.

"Preferably," Methos murmured but didn't give ground. "But
please, don't let me interrupt yours." The face was not familiar,
nor the voice. Blond hair was cut in a neat wedge, angular
cheekbones suggesting some Nordic lineage somewhere.

"I hadn't really known why I ended up here. Not my normal sort of
...entertainment," he said glancing dismissively at the neon sign
and the faint blues strains from inside the bar. He turned his
gaze back to Methos. "But I suppose I do now."

"Lucky me," Methos said. "But, really...no quarrel. I'll be glad
to --" he had started to say "leave." Quit the field...show a
yellow streak -- only MacLeod was on his way here. "Show you a
different vista," he finished gesturing toward the near-empty
parking garage attached to the office building across the street.
"View from the top is spectacular. From there you can see all the
way to --" he let a smile touch his lips. "Valhalla."

The stranger walked abreast of him, but several paces away while
Methos obliquely observed the way he moved, automatically
cataloguing age and probable ability. Given the nasty edge of his
temper these days, and now that he had committed to the fight,
his blood began to sing in anticipation and he was genuinely glad
the opportunity had laid itself in his lap. His fingers curled
expectantly, eager to hold a blade.

They squared off on the roof. No cars had made it to the top,
preferring the weather protection of the lower decks. "See?"
Methos gestured grandly. "Lovely view. You can see all of
downtown and all the bridges from here."

"Enough!" the man insisted. "My name is Norton Kraus. And yours?"

Methos smiled. "You don't want to know my name, my boy. But you
can call me...Adam." He bowed elegantly over one leg.

But the Slav was good. They traded blows for several minutes to
establish their mutual styles, by which time Methos decided he
had misjudged. This was a serious opponent. At last he darted in,
slashing low to draw blood. If he had to do this the hard way,
well he could do that, too.

Kraus stepped back, limping slightly from the deep cut in his
calf. Both were breathing quickly now, sweat shining off their
faces. "Adam, eh?" he observed softly, circling widely as he
waited for his leg to heal. "There have been rumors, you know.
Rumors of a really old Immortal in these parts. I was just after
the Highlander, but maybe I've caught an even bigger fish."

"And where did you get that information?" Methos asked. "The
National Enquirer? Entertainment Tonight? I'm afraid all you've
got is 'lil ole me." He moved in and the blades clashed again,
and again, as Methos tried to wear the man down enough to get
through his defenses.

<<<<>>>>

Mac pulled into the parking lot of Joe's, half hoping that Methos
wouldn't have left. He knew they agreed to stay apart, which is
why he had called first and Joe said Methos was just leaving, but
still... Then he saw Methos' car still in the lot and he wasn't
sure exactly what to do. Well, if the old man wanted to see him,
then he certainly wasn't going to turn down the opportunity.

He pushed open the door, wondering when he would feel Methos'
presence, but the room obviously contained no ancient Immortal.

"Hey, Joe," The Watcher had nodded and smiled at him as he made
his way across the room. "Where's Adam?"

"He just left," Joe answered a little irritably. "He's not
exactly being Mr. Personality these days, you know, Mac," Joe
groused. "I'll be glad when you two are speaking again. At the
rate he's going on his bar tab, I'll have to ..."

"His car is still in the lot," Mac said, an uneasy feeling
settling into his bones at Joe's eyes widening in concern,
glancing toward the now closed door.

"He's had plenty of time to get to his car," Joe said, confirming
Mac's anxiety. He cursed csoftly and MacLeod reversed his
direction and headed back out the door.

Mac didn't know what he expected, what he was looking for.
Methos' vehicle might be in the parking lot but the man himself
was not. And if he were close, surely Mac would be able to feel
him.

But he did feel him, in his blood, in his mind -- Methos had
occupied at least part of his consciousness for a very long time,
even before the Quickening a week ago. Why would that link fail
now when he needed to find him?

Because he had been shutting himself down, severing their
connection. Not consciously, but in reaction -- for lack of a
better answer. Not physical distance but....

Emotion. Feelings, desires, wants and needs. His nightmare had
been about all of that and more. And the Quickenings, the power
in them was made up of those things as well -- it was what was
left over when the body no longer contained them. Not
thoughts...emotions.

Like hate, anger...or love.

Even as the thought struck, the heat and urgent need inside
surged and he turned, guided by some instinct he had not known he
possessed, but he let it take the lead. His feet took him down
the block, then across the street and by the time he got to the
first floor of the big parking deck he could feel it -- feel
them. Methos and another. Up two more decks and he could hear
them, the distinctive clash of steel on steel. Up another deck
and onto the roof and he could see them.

Two men, sliced and bloody, hacking at each other like brutes.
Both exhausted, their blades looking like they weighed far, far
too much to lift. Methos still retained a degree of grace, but
the other man was heavier, stronger. They glanced in his
direction for a fraction of a second, then both simultaneously
attempted to use the distraction, coming together with a slam of
bodies and blades that could be heard all the way across the
roof.

Then they fell apart, Methos staggering a little while the other
just stood, weaving, looking down. The Oldest Immortal had
stabbed him in the stomach with his spare blade, now held limply
in a bloody left hand.

"Damn you!" the dying man's words bubbled out, along with blood
staining his lips. He stumbled back and reached into his pocket
as Methos strode forward, lifting his blade for the final
stroke..

"Methos!" Mac shouted just as the gun fired, opening a bright red
fountain into the ancient's chest, lifting him off his feet and
sending him flying backwards. He was dead before he hit the
concrete.

The other combatant turned his body, his blue eyes pinning Mac
with an accusatory glare before he, too, toppled dead to the
ground.

There is a curious sense of relief in any Immortal to see a
friend fall dead with their head intact.

Mac's relief moved swiftly into anger as he approached the prone
man. The blond hair was blood spattered but still it moved under
the light wind. MacLeod's hand was on his sword before he
realized it.

/To do what? Take a head while he's helpless, in a fight that
isn't yours?/ It was exactly what he wanted to do, for the man's
blatant breaking of the rules of engagement between Immortals.
Easy to forget that Methos was not above the same tactics.
Especially when he had come this close to losing him. He was
almost startled by his own vehemence and desire to do just that.
Until the man took a breath -- not conscious yet, but breathing.
Sort of.

"Asshole," Mac muttered and sheathed the katana before going to
where Methos lay sprawled on the pavement. The wound had stopped
bleeding already but had not healed enough that he was actually
breathing. Given the types of wounds, his opponent would likely
revive faster, unless age and stubbornness did actually count for
something.

In which case Methos should have revived by now.

Despite Mac's impression of his friend as slim, there was weight
in the limp body and he grunted softly as he managed to get
Methos up and over his shoulder. He paused, looking down at the
other, unknown Immortal. Had he been after Methos, or, more
likely, had he been after Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and
had stumbled across the oldest Immortal accidentally? Mac sighed.
He had shouted out Methos' name just as the shot was fired and
couldn't risk that the man had not heard or understood what had
been said. With an effort, he shifted Methos' weight, reached
into his pocket and found one of his cards, and dropped it by the
body. A glance around revealed the elevator and Mac took it
instead of carrying the dead weight back down the ramps.

There was much to be said for being near a bar and Mac used it to
dispel the stares he got, talking to Methos as if he were drunk.
He took a brutal satisfaction in being able to dump the dead
weight incautiously onto the back seat of his car before climbing
into the front and starting the engine.

His own neighborhood was quiet and there were no curious eyes to
see Duncan MacLeod carry a dead body into his business and
residence.

<<<<>>>>

The corpse on his couch suddenly gulped in a huge, rattling,
noisy breath, coughed several painful-sounding wet heaves, spat
blood onto his floor and then proceeded to spout what were
probably profanities, assuming one was acquainted with ancient
Sumerian or Babylonian or whatever language the man was babbling.
The rush of returning Quickening energy almost made Mac drop the
glass of water he was carrying. It was like a wave of heat that
started somewhere in the back of his neck and rolled outward,
triggering a nearly painful rush of blood and adrenaline to his
extremities and a subliminal irritation that made him tremble
before he forced himself to take a deep, calming breath.

This was Methos, his friend. He was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod, not some mindless hunter.

"Here," he thrust the glass of water into Methos' hand, but it
was batted away, sloshing over the floor.

"Water?! What the fuck do I need water for? Gimme a beer," Methos
wheezed, then fell back. "Gods what did that asshole use, a
cannon?"

"No, a .45 at short range." He tossed the weapon onto the table,
then tugged at the bloody tear in Methos' shirt. "Makes a nice
hole, though. You should have seen the blood. Probably flew three
feet at least."

"What? Were you giving points for splatter effects?" the older
man groused, rubbing at his now healed chest absently. Then he
looked over at his friend curiously. "You didn't take his head,
did you?" When he didn't get a reply, he snorted. "Shit. What was
it? Didn't want to take unfair advantage? The bastard had just
shot me for God's sake!"

"And you had just stabbed him," Mac observed, handing Methos the
requested beer.

"I was losing!" Methos shot back as if that explained it all.
"Would you rather he had taken *my* head?"

"I'm beginning to think that might not be a bad idea," Mac
growled back at him. "At least I wouldn't have to listen to your
sniping at me all the time."

"Oh, you haven't begun to hear me sniping at you, MacLeod! Did I
hear wrong, or did you just happen to shout out 'Methos!' in
front of that asshole, the world and everybody?" Before Mac could
answer he went on. "You know, ever since we met you've
practically taken out ads announcing my existence." Now he was on
his feet, pacing back and forth. "Now I'm going to have to track
down Mr. Norton 'I'm not really looking for you, but now that I'm
here' Kraus, and make sure he loses his head before he decides to
take mine!"

His pacing had brought him nose to nose with the Scot, and he
stopped short. Both of them were flushed and breathing a little
too quickly. Their eyes locked and they each knew exactly what
the other was thinking, what the other wanted.

"I shouldn't be here," Methos suddenly mumbled, turning away.

"No!" Mac whispered hoarsely, catching his arm. "This is exactly
where you should be."

Methos' face was held in a firm grip and his mouth was covered,
lips moving over his own, tongue seeking entry. The big, callused
hands were moving down his shoulders, over his waist to his hips.
The two men pressed together, each trying to devour the other,
breaths mingling and gasping.

Mac found his hands bunching up Methos' shirt, turning the other
man and pressing forward until he had Methos pressed against the
kitchen island, bending him back until Methos was forced to brace
himself with his hands and Mac was nipping and sucking at the
nipples he had exposed, feeling across that long, lean, sweaty
back. Mac needed more, he needed...he bit, hard into that sweet,
hard nub. Methos' gasp sent a thrill that went straight to his
groin. He felt the slightly salty, copper taste of blood and it
excited him even more and he bit again. He examined the dark
bruise his teeth had left and smiled, and bit again, digging his
fingernails deep into Methos' back.

"Mac!" Methos gasped. The younger man didn't look to see if it
was a cry of pain or pleasure, just kept at his very satisfying
occupation with his mouth and teeth while another hand found its
way to Methos' erection, rubbing it hard over the rough canvas of
jeans and zippers. "Duncan!"

This time he did look up, and froze. Methos' face was white with
strain as he was stretched awkwardly back over the kitchen
island. It took every ounce of control for Mac to stop his hands,
to take a deep breath, and see...blood, dripping down Methos'
chest where his teeth had torn flesh and left deep puncture
wounds and bruises. "Oh, god," he whispered and turned away,
wiping his mouth and staring at the red smears now on the back of
his hand.

Methos watched the Scot disappear into the bathroom, no doubt to
brood or brush his teeth or some such, he decided. Damn! The only
reason he had stopped him was because the faucet had been digging
into his back. Otherwise...

He wiped his chest off with a dishtowel and found a fresh beer in
the fridge, grabbing a second one just to be polite.

"Yo! MacLeod, you retiring in there or what?" He tapped on the
door with the spare beer. At last the door opened. Mac looked
dreadful, his face pale and pasty, but his expression was worse -
- that dreaded 'I just can't live with myself' look the man wore
whenever his guilt demons took over.

"Look, Methos, I think you'd better leave," he said glumly.

"Make up your mind." Methos shoved the spare beer into the other
man's hand. "First you say this is exactly where I should be, now
you want me to leave? I never thought of you as a fickle man,"
Methos smiled, then settled into the deep comfort of the couch as
though he intended to stay for awhile.

"I'm not in the habit of hurting the people I care about," Mac
snapped, then added distractedly, "at least not intentionally."
He took a long pull at his beer, pacing the floor in front of his
desk. "Besides, your new friend could show up here any time and
it would be easier to deal with if you were gone."

"My new friend? You mean our Aryan visitor? Why would he show up
here?"

"Perhaps because I gave him my card."

Methos paused with the beer halfway to his lips. His eyes
narrowed in disbelief. "You gave him your card? As in your
address?"

"That's right!" Mac suddenly advanced on the older man, hovering
over him, letting his aggression and lust work its way through
his system and become anger. "I don't need you to fight my
battles for me."

Methos stood, facing off with the big Scot. "Oh, so you just
assume he was after you, do you? After all, Duncan MacLeod is the
center of the universe, right?"

"Damn it, you were the one who said they were being drawn here
because of me. You can't have it both ways!" Duncan snarled.

"I can have it any way I please!" Methos seemed to grow taller
and wider with every word. "I fight battles when and where I
choose and you have no business..." He stopped and took a long,
deep breath, finally raising both hands in front in a gesture of
appeasement. "Wait...just hold it. We don't have to do this."

"Do what? Have me hurt you? Maybe kill you or get you killed?"
Mac sank into a chair, the defeated, despondent look again
darkening his features. "You were right," he whispered almost to
himself. "You may have changed, Methos. You had a couple of
thousand years to learn to cope with this...whatever it is. But
I..." he surged up out of his seat again, pacing once more. "I
don't want to hurt you." He stood, staring sightlessly out the
window.

Methos moved up behind and let his hands rest on tense shoulders,
gently stroking the warmth he could feel beneath the smooth
fabric. "Duncan," he whispered, "I've never been worried about
you hurting me. Even in your darkest hours, you couldn't bring
yourself to do me any permanent damage." He lay his forehead on
Mac's back, consciously suppressing the desire to nuzzle into
that tempting, warm neck. "It isn't you that worries me. I am far
too intimately acquainted with my own weaknesses to trust myself.
That's why I tried to create some distance between us. I should
have just left, but...I don't know... If I try to go too far I
fall into this needy panic that draws me back every time." He
chuckled, laughing at his own folly. "You are my cocaine,
MacLeod. My heroin, my nicotine. Know of any twelve step programs
I can join?"

"This isn't funny, Methos!"

"No," he sighed. "It isn't." He stepped back, picked up his beer,
finishing it off in one long swallow and set it firmly on the
kitchen counter. He picked up the coat he had discarded when he
came in and put it on, not looking at his friend, who was careful
not to look at him in return. "Okay. We're back to Plan A.
Strategic distance. You go your way. I'll go mine. We can attempt
to vent our excess, uh, energies, in other means. Maybe then we
won't be so tempted to, shall we say, over-indulge when we are
together," Methos suggested while he made his way to the elevator
and lowered the gate. "As for Mr. Kraus," Methos punched the down
button, then peeked out at him through the wooden slats, "No
promises, MacLeod. Finders keepers."

<<<<>>>>

Mac found him first.

"Where's your friend?" Kraus asked. He had confronted him behind
the dojo the next day, at dusk. "Your very old friend," the blond
man added with a smile.

"Not here," Mac responded. The katana slid silently out of his
coat. He had known this would happen, had been ready for it all
day. More than ready. Eager. The gnawing need for violence had
not been sated by running, by katas, by pounding on the heavy bag
in the dojo. It bothered him a little, this desire for violence.
A part of his mind kept telling him that this was his heritage,
it was what his kind did. That There Can Be Only One.

Kraus' blade slid into view, but he did not move any closer.
"Look, MacLeod, we don't need to fight. We will eventually, but
not today. But Methos? Well, there's a head I'm willing to
bargain for." His even, white teeth gleamed in the dimming light.

"Bargain? And what would you have to bargain with me?"

Kraus stepped forward, stopping when the katana raised
fractionally. "A sort of...mutual protection pact? I'm very good,
you know. But I like to study my opponents, to learn their
strengths, their weaknesses.I hear you're very good. I also hear
you have a lot of friends, people you care about, ja? I will stay
away from them, from Amanda Darieux, from Grace Chantal, from
Connor MacLeod, from the deValicourts, from anyone you name,
until you and I finally do battle." Kraus shrugged, "They live
longer, you live longer. Everyone is better off."

"Everyone except Methos."

Kraus smile broadened. "That old man? It's way past time for him
to die. But your friends? Compared to him they are still young!
Compared to him you are but a child! And in over 800 years I've
never heard anyone call Methos their friend. He must be a
solitary bastard. What good is he to you? He's probably just
using you as a shield, you know. Don't let him do that! If you
can't kill him, give him to me!"

"Better I give you what you deserve," MacLeod growled softly and
gave barely a thought to the thrill the he got from the music of
steel against steel.

<<<<>>>>

The room was dark and silent, with only the eerie, phosphorescent
flickering of the blue neon tubing outlining the edge of the bar.
Joe Dawson was sitting, staring at a shot glass full of 20-year-
old scotch when he heard a hard knock on the door. He looked at
his watch and frowned. It was after two in the morning, he was
tired and the last thing he needed was some late night drunk
wanting one last shot.

"Go away, we're closed!" he shouted.

The pounding stopped, so he went back to contemplation of his
drink. It was always a conundrum. Do you drink enough to forget,
and make yourself sick, or do you make yourself sick remembering?

Then the door opened. Damn! He could have sworn he had locked the
damn thing.

But the long shadow that slunk in had needed no key for entry.
Another one of those survival skills, no doubt, Joe thought as
Methos made his way over to the bar, his hands stuck deep into
the pockets of his dark coat, clutching the over-large garment
around himself like protective armor.

The Immortal slumped onto a bar stool, reached over and snagged a
shot glass and poured himself a drink from the bottle Joe had
been nursing. "How bad was it?" he asked.

If Joe had hesitated before, the prospect of talking about the
ugly battle he had witnessed earlier in the evening made the
decision for him. He threw back the shot in one gulp. "Bad."
Maybe he could get away with minimal description.

"How bad?"

It appeared Methos would not be satisfied with less than a full
report. Maybe he could distract him. "How'd you know?"

Methos' mouth twisted in a semblance of a smile. "Trust me. I
know. Is he okay?"

Joe poured another shot into his glass and stared at it. "I
honestly don't know. But if you're asking whether he's alive,
then yeah."

"Don't make me do twenty questions, Dawson," the old Immortal
snarled. He sipped from his glass, looked at what was left
briefly, then downed it in a single swallow, immediately pouring
himself another one.

"The guy was good," Dawson finally said. "And he likes to use
tricks, guns and spare knives and such. But Mac was ready for
that, slammed him up against a wall and pulled the gun out of
Kraus' pocket before he had a chance to use it."

Methos nodded in approval.

"But that left an opening for the bastard to pull a spare knife.
He practically gutted Mac before he managed to pull away." Dawson
closed his eyes against the memory. Almost twenty years of
watching such battles never made the gore easier to take. "But it
barely slowed Mac at the time. You'd have thought Kraus was the
origin of every bad thing that has happened to MacLeod in his
whole life," Joe said and shook his head. MacLeod could be a
vicious fighter if pressed, but Kraus had been mostly dead
already and Mac had barely noticed. The savagery had left Dawson
with an empty feeling in his gut that had yet to be banished by
time or alcohol.

A pale hand rested briefly on his forearm. "That's okay, Joe.
Just skip to the end," Methos instructed.

Dawson started to chuckle, but it didn't come out quite right.
"Well, he won." When Methos just glared at him, he sipped at his
shot glass and sighed. "He was mostly dead when the Quickening
hit, his guts half out of his belly. And I don't know who this
Kraus guy has taken on recently, I suppose I'll have to look it
up," he added almost to himself. "But, Jeezus! I think we're
lucky the dojo didn't go up. You know, Methos, sometimes a
Quickening seems so...so disorganized, so wild, with energy
flying every which way, blowing out windows. Then other times
it's like a heat-seeking missile, straight into the other
Immortal, pinning him like a fly to flypaper. I honestly don't
know which is worse."

Joe waited expectantly, but Methos was silent. Apparently the old
man was here to get information, not give it.

"So, what are you going to do?" Joe asked.

"Do? What makes you think I'll do anything?"

"Then why did you come here, dammit!? I'm not the Immortal
Associated Press, you know. The only reason I told you was
because I figured you two could help each other, you know...." he
waved his hand, suddenly feeling awkward about the intensely
personal relationship Methos and Mac had developed. "I don't know
why you didn't just go over there and ask him yourself!"

"Our relationship, such as it is, isn't what I would
call...healthy," Methos said quietly, his focus on the liquid in
his glass. "Especially after Mac has...especially after a
Quickening." He shrugged. "We're trying to work it out, but right
now we've decided a little strategic distance is best. I just...I
was worried."

"Don't you think you should be telling someone else that?" Dawson
asked after a moment, watching Methos with as much detachment as
he could muster. And it was hard, difficult and got more
difficult every time. His 'professional' detachment had been
tossed out the window like yesterday's dirty bath water some time
before -- starting with MacLeod. It hadn't taken much for Methos
to slip under his defenses, although he couldn't quite pinpoint
when it had happened.

And less than a week ago he'd been damn sure the two of them
would kill each other. As of now, he hadn't changed his opinion -
- only he doubted it would be something so neat and tidy as a
beheading. "How much distance do you think you can keep in a burg
this size?" Dawson muttered. "You two can practically throw rocks
at each other."

He got a dry chuckle in response. "Maybe we should." Methos
finished his drink off and looked up at the Watcher who, at the
moment, was watching with an entirely different expression than
polite interest. "Sorry, Joe. I just needed to know."

"You coulda' called," Dawson said gruffly and poured Methos
another measure before sealing the bottle and deliberately
tucking it back under the bar. He studied the man before him
again, seeing signs he wasn't sure he was reading correctly.
Stress, yes. Concern -- not that you could see it on his face or
in the long body, only in his actions. "No angle you can play,
eh?" he asked, shooting from the hip and in the dark.

He got another dry chuckle. "Angles are difficult to see around,
Joseph." Verbal fencing was a lost art, or had been.

"Methos," Dawson tried again, going for the same semi-wheedling
tone that he had used with iffy results before. "This 'thing' you
two are dancing around -- how much of it is tied back to
Bordeaux?"

The sharp eyed glance would have pierced Dawson if it'd been made
of steel. It was gone again in a flash, leaving a far less
confident expression on the young-old face. Shaking his head,
Methos polished off the rest of the whisky and set the glass down
again. "All of it? None of it? I couldn't tell you, Joe. Just,
history has a nasty way of repeating itself. I'm trying to ensure
that doesn't happen. MacLeod is..."

"In trouble?" Dawson prompted, feeling a prickling of unease up
his spine.

"*Is* trouble," Methos said quickly. "Stubborn...aggravating.
Persistent."

The uneasiness faded and a sense of real irony replaced it. "You
know, I could say the same thing about you, my friend," Joe
commented tipping his glass toward Methos in a salute. "For
somebody who spent so much time under the radar, when you popped
up, it was like somebody set a homing signal out there."

"I know." The words were barely a breath, Methos looking troubled
and uncertain -- neither expression one Dawson was used to seeing
in a face that hid so much, so carefully.

"Maybe you should duck back down again," Joe pushed softly,
surprising himself as he said it. He was as reluctant as MacLeod
to lose sight of the ancient ass, and not solely for the
amusement factor--although Methos could be that. Amusing, in that
solve the mystery before the last page, fill in the gaps of the
puzzle kind of way.

"That would be the prudent thing to do," Methos said, evincing
little interest, but with an inevitability that left Dawson a
little chilled.

"Not something you and Mac can talk out?" This was all bartender
advice, stocked and patented. An obvious solution, except when it
wasn't.

"Tried. We're having two different conversations."

And then some. Joe kept what else he knew to himself, not sure if
it was important. Talking wasn't all they were doing and he had a
fairly good idea of what was happening when they weren't talking.
That had gone down easier than he'd expected.

Methos drew out a breath and pushed back. "I'm glad he's all
right," he said gathering up his coat.

"Be by tomorrow, or should I say tonight?" Joe asked, glancing at
his watch and wondering if his advice had actually taken root.

Methos nodded but didn't really look at him. "Sure. Why not? Save
me a table." He gave Joe a quick grin and headed out and although
he still wanted more information, Joe wasn't inclined to press
any further.

A phone call to Mac would have confirmed he was all right --
alive anyway. Methos seemed less interested in the outcome of the
fight than in the details. Mac survived, head intact -- what else
was there to know about a challenge?

<<<<>>>>

Methos walked the three and a half miles back to his apartment.
It was dark, and drizzling and cold, and for the umpteenth time
in the past six months he went through the litany of reasons he
should be anywhere but in this cold, damp city where immortals
clustered like boy band groupies, just itching to be beheaded by
the Scottish Boy Wonder.

What was he supposed to do? Just put his life on permanent hold
while Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod single-handedly cleared
the decks for the Gathering? He shuddered, not knowing whether it
was the cold or the residual skittering of painful energy that
had reflected off the quickening MacLeod had taken. Lord knew he
had had more than enough of compelling Quickeningsin his long
life and he sure as hell didn't need MacLeod's overactive libido
to be the center of his existence.

It was time he took his life back, took some control. Found some
other friends, other interests, other warm and willing bodies to
share his nights with. He genuinely hoped MacLeod would do the
same.

<<<<>>>>

He hurt.

Oh, it wasn't a physical hurt. Not anymore, anyway.

Right after the quickening it had felt like his blood had been
replaced with battery acid. His belly ached and throbbed where
Kraus had split him open, and his temples pounded as though his
blood pressure had gone off the scale. His groin was hot and
pulsing with every beat of his heart, and it wasn't the warm
anticipation of sexual desire. It just hurt.

He had jerked off. Several times. Had run six miles that morning.
Now the physical hurt had evolved into a subliminal irritation
that made him want to snap and strike out at anyone who dared
cross his path.

So he had spent the last hour working on his katas, trying to
find some small measure of inner calm.

And Methos hadn't even called to see if he was okay.

The bastard. Probably over at Joe's now feeling up some barmaid,
guzzling his precious beer. Having a grand old time. He finished
the kata, forcing his fists to relax, finishing with a
concentrated effort to let the anger wash away. At last his
breath was even, the headache had eased, and he was left standing
alone in the semi-dark dojo feeling...empty. Lonely.

Well, Methos was certainly not his only friend in Seacouver, and
Mac had wasted enough of both his life and his time in trying to
make anything Methos did or said even vaguely resemble sense. He
had been a regular patron at Joe's from the day its doors had
opened. He would not be chased away from the warmth of good
friends, good drinks, good music just on the off chance that the
old man might show up. It was time he took his life back, took
some control.

<<<<>>>>

The bar was crowded and noisy, but Mac was really only aware of
Methos' aura pressing against his skin...under his skin. His eyes
quickly scanned the room, looking for the source of the
irritation and found it, lounging in a studied casual pose on the
padded bench along the wall, one knee bent up on the seat beside
him. He was dressed in dark, tight jeans and a long-sleeve cream
color knit Henley. The buttons at the neck were undone, just
showing a tantalizing shadow of the deep sculpting of pale skin
over sharp collarbone. The sleeves were pushed up his lean,
muscular forearms, emphasizing their length and the elegance of
his hands. There was a young man with him, thin, long hair
frizzed up and wild around his head, a row of earrings sparkling
along the rim of his left ear. Mac recognized the youngster from
the band that had become a regular at Joe's on the weekends over
the past couple of months. Bass player. Mac's lips twisted in an
amused, disdaining smile as the two Immortals' eyes met, hard
gold and dark brown.

He watched as Methos leaned over and whispered something in the
boy's ear that made him blush and duck his head, laughing. Too
obvious, Old Man, Mac thought, keeping the smile on his face and
turning away, examining the rest of the crowd. He took a long,
deep breath as all the irritation and excess energy he had worked
so hard all day to dispel surged up again. He moved to the bar,
gently elbowing his way to the front. People tended to give way,
as they always did. It was something he had taken for granted for
centuries and hardly noticed any more. And tonight he wanted them
to give way.

It took only a minute for Joe to spot him, and a double shot of
Glenmorangie appeared in front of him. The expression in Joe's
gray eyes was speculative as he leaned over to speak. "I don't
want any trouble between you two tonight, MacLeod."

"Trouble?" Mac asked, raising a thick eyebrow. "I just came in
for a drink and the music, Joe. Why should there be any trouble?"

Joe nodded towards Methos' table. "I don't know what's going on
between you two, but he's been drinking even more than usual
tonight and he's got Daniel so wrapped around his finger that the
poor guy doesn't know whether he's coming or going, if you'll
pardon the expression."

Mac smiled to himself when Joe didn't even blush at the innuendo.
The Watcher was a perpetual source of solace and surprise. That
such sexual tension existed between two intensely male Immortals
phased him not at all.

<<<<>>>>

Methos felt it, and involuntarily took in a deep breath in
anticipation. He had to force himself not to react, even when the
crowd noise dimmed when Mac walked in. Instead of turning to
look, like most of the people in the room, he reached for his
beer and took a long swallow. Only when the bottle was empty did
he turn, letting their eyes meet. He would have cursed himself
for the stutter his heart made, if he thought it would have done
any good. It always happened. Had happened the first moment he
laid eyes on the man. Happened every single bloody time.

Hormones. Stupid fucking hormones and Quickening energy, that's
all this was, he told himself for the thousandth time. Put all
that power in that kind of package and what else can you expect?
His dick twitched and filled in his tight jeans and he shifted
his weight a little, then leaned forward to cover up a
surreptitious rearranging of his willful anatomy. Daniel's
searching hand reached over to rest on his thigh and squeeze
slightly. A promise of things to come, evidently. Methos
whispered as much in his ear and Daniel blushed delightfully,
ducking his head, not used to such a direct approach.

When Methos looked up Mac had turned away, his broad frame
slipping easily through the crowd at the bar.

<<<<>>>>

The gentle drift of Chanel told Mac of the female presence to his
right and he cocked his head just to check. She was facing away,
tall, honey blonde and for a brief, poignant moment he could
imagine Tessa standing there, her eyes bright with laughter and
love.

The gentle laughter at his elbow drew him. In some ironic part of
his mind he had an image of those horrible machines so ubiquitous
now on American front porches. Deadly traps of bright light
designed to draw fluttering moths inexorably to their demise in a
bright flash of electric death. She had turned to pick up her
drink and their eyes met. She smiled. He smiled. He watched the
slight dilation of her pupils, the color brightening her ivory
cheeks. The thought of Methos sitting behind him, languidly
draped across the furniture, was not far from his mind and he
wondered who was trapping whom in this little melodrama.

"Hello," he opened simply. Simple was always best.

"Hi," she blushed.

"My name is Duncan." He offered his hand and, as he knew she
would, she instinctively took it.

"Katherine," she returned.

He put his other hand over hers, then brought it to his lips,
just barely brushing her knuckles. "I'm so glad," he said.

"Glad?"

"Katherine is so much better than Kathy, or Kate, or so many
other nicknames. Katherine is lovely, dignified, elegant,
intelligent."

She swallowed, then gently extricated her hand from his, blushing
furiously.

And so it went, the mating dance. It was one he knew well, and
tonight, at least, pursued vigorously. He rarely deliberately set
out to seduce, but she seemed more than willing and he was more
than ready. He would be kind and considerate and, hopefully, they
would both feel better for the encounter.

<<<<>>>>

Methos played idly with Daniel, knowing the boy was practically
panting with unrelieved lust. His fingers had brushed along the
inside of the musician's leg, teased playfully with the enlarging
bulge at his zipper, all the while keeping up a steady patter of
amused, subtle, sexually charged banter. It was annoying that he
couldn't seem to quite manage to sit so that MacLeod was not just
at the edge of his vision, touching, whispering, laughing with
the pretty, curvaceous bottle blonde at the bar. Mac was a man
who loved to touch, at first his hand just brushing against an
arm, a shoulder. Then gradually the hand became more bold, would
rest on a forearm, or just innocently take the girl's hand in his
own. Innocent. Yeah, right, Methos thought as he watched the
wandering hand find its way all the around the woman to rest on
the small of her back as they sat at the bar.

"Having a good time?" a whisky roughened voice spoke. Methos
looked up to find Joe Dawson looming over their table with
another couple of beers, his eyes traveling knowingly back and
forth between the two men.

"Lovely," Methos smiled up at the bartender and bluesman. "Just
lovely."

"I'm so glad," Joe smiled back, serving up the drinks, but the
expression in his eyes told another story. "I wonder if you could
let go of Daniel here long enough to let him play a set?"

"Oh, uh, sure Joe, sorry," the boy stammered, pushing himself
away from the table, and heading awkwardly to the small stage in
back.

"Look, Adam," Joe's smile was now less than friendly. "I'll tell
you what I told Mac. I don't want any trouble."

"Trouble?" Methos face was as open and innocent as a babe's. "I'm
just sitting here with a friend, minding my own business, Joe."

"I don't know whose business you are minding," the bartender
snarled. "I know you are putting on quite a show for the
customers, and poor Daniel is going to embarrass himself soon if
you don't stop teasing him."

Methos' lip curled in derision. "He's a big boy. Over 21. He gets
what he wants, I get what I want," he shrugged, "Nobody gets
hurt."

He turned to watch Daniel as he mounted the stage and plugged in
his guitar. The boy looked up while he tuned, and his face
flushed darkly when Methos draped his long-fingered hand casually
across his own crotch and looked hotly into the boy's eyes.

<<<<>>>>

MacLeod and Katherine turned towards the stage as the band
finally started to tune up for their first set of the evening.
Gradually they had moved closer together until now she leaned up
against his shoulder, her hair brushing against his cheek. The
smell of her, the feel of her made Mac's skin tingle. He was
anxious to get out of there, to take her back to his loft and
make slow love to her through the night until they were both
sweaty and sticky and completely exhausted. But he was sensitive
to her readiness, and she was rightfully wary. They had just met.

Then again, Mac knew he had the power to overcome her hesitation,
he just rarely chose to use it. He was considering that option
when he followed the young bass player's intense stare to Methos.
The man was sprawled on the padded bench a few feet away,
practically masturbating in front of the whole room. Mac's hand
tightened slightly around Katherine's waist and he leaned close
to her ear, letting his breath play over her cheek.

"Why don't we get out of here before it gets too noisy?" he
murmured.

She turned to say something, but was caught by the raw sexual
heat in those dark brown eyes. "Uh, I...where?" she stammered.
She had been fairly self-assured most of the evening, but
suddenly it was as if the temperature in the room had risen by
ten degrees and all her veneer of coy hesitation melted away.

<<<<>>>>

Methos reached for his beer, letting his eyes sweep the crowd
once more, but stopping at the sight of MacLeod, whispering in
the blonde's ear. The woman's whole body flushed, her nipples
visibly hardened under the thin knit of her dress, and she
practically threw herself at the Scot, pressing against his broad
chest, looking up into his eyes with unabashed lust.

Irritation at the man surged to new heights. Besides he was out
of beer again. He rose, and sauntered up to the bar. This ought
to be amusing.

Their eyes met as he approached, but Mac quickly turned away,
pulling Katherine even closer. "Let's go," he instructed, but
Methos' blocked his path.

"Who's your new friend, MacLeod?" he asked, pitching his voice
low and sweet.

"Why do you care, Adam?" Mac's lips curled. "It seems you already
have companionship, at least for the moment."

Methos' stretched out a long-fingered hand, touching Katherine's
chin. The woman pulled back, nervously looking back and forth
between the two men. "She's lovely. Looks a little like your dead
mistress, eh? Well, you're in for a real treat, dear," he smiled
into her eyes, holding her like an insect on a pin. "MacLeod here
is a remarkable lover, well endowed," his eyes were now taking an
intimate inventory of the Highlander's tense body, "terrific
kisser, and endurance? Well..." he let his hands flutter up in an
expression of amazement.

"Shut up, Pierson!" Mac moved between the other Immortal and the
girl. "You want to fuck up your own life, fine! Just stay out of
mine!"

"Speaking of fucking," Methos smiled evenly, "Next time would you
prefer top, bottom or..." he cocked his head at Katherine,
"middle?"

The survivalist instinct that normally governed Methos' actions
realized he had crossed the line even before the words were out
of his mouth. Even so, the oldest Immortal's reflexes couldn't
avoid the big hand that wrapped itself around his throat, lifting
him off the floor and tossing him like a rag doll into the
nearest table, sending patrons, drinks and pretzels in every
direction.

Women were screaming, men were shouting and chairs went flying as
Mac came after him, his handsome face distorted with rage.

Methos rolled to get away, only to have his forearm grabbed in a
bruising grip and he was unceremoniously hauled to his feet. He
saw Mac's hand go back and he ducked. The wind from the blow
whished by so close and fast he knew he had just barely avoided a
broken nose or jaw, and he used his momentum to lower his
shoulder and slam forward, his pumping legs propelling them both
back until their progress was stopped by the hard mahogany
surface of the bar. The grunt of air escaping the Scot's chest
was very satisfying, as was the crunch of a probable broken rib.
Of course, he hit his own head in the process and was still
shaking off the black spots that had formed in his vision when he
was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and spun around.

The booted foot came up at him faster than thought and the black
spots became stars of bright, white pain, followed by another
smashing blow from what was probably the heel of Mac's hand.
Stupid, he kept thinking as he felt his cheek hit the cold
flooring. Really, really stupid to get into close hand-to-hand
combat with possibly the world's master of the art.

He felt for his equalizer in its hidden pocket at his thigh and
slipped it out as he was grabbed, turned over and hauled upwards
once again. His head was wobbling a little on its axis, making
Mac's face appear to tilt this way and that. If he hadn't hurt so
badly, it would have made him giggle. Mac looked so...so pissed
off and so alpha male and so...really sexy.

His shirt fabric was wrapped around the Scot's meaty fists and
suddenly he was nose to nose with the man. "You like this?!"
Duncan growled, astonished at the flushed, bright look on the
ancient's blood-streaked face.

"Don't you?" Methos whispered through split lips, daring a slight
smile. But when Mac shoved him away and gathered himself for
another blow, Methos struck back instinctively, sinking the
stiletto deep into Mac's hard belly. Mac grunted and looked down,
astonished at the sudden gush of warmth onto his skin.

"You bastard!" he gasped, then his knee came up, catching the
Oldest Immortal hard, square in the groin. Methos twisted and
convulsed, mouth open in a silent scream of pain, and the knife
handle snapped away as he fell, pulling his knees up to protect
his damaged privates.

"That's Enough!" a shout barely made it through the roaring in
Methos' ears. He managed to slit open his tearing eyes, panting
in pain, to see Joe Dawson standing threateningly between him and
the raging Scot, a baseball bat at the ready.

When Mac ignored him, stepping ponderously towards the man
writhing on the floor, Joe pulled it back, ready to hit a home
run using the thick-headed Scot for a ball. "I said Enough,
MacLeod!" Joe roared. Mac staggered a little, the deep flush in
his face fading noticeably. Finally MacLeod looked around at the
silent, shocked audience as though aware of them for the first
time, then stepped back, leaning heavily against the bar, gasping
for breath.

"Okay, show's over," Joe told the crowd. "Sorry about that,
folks. Next round of drinks is on the house."

The waiters solicitously began picking up tables and chairs and
attempting to restore order, while Joe crossed to the man he was
tasked with Watching. "Get him to the office in back," he ordered
the 400-year-old man gruffly. When Mac didn't immediately move,
he added, "Now!"

The look he got in return was somewhere between angry and
chastised. Mac bent down with a groan and hauled the thinner man
to his feet. When Methos' legs wouldn't hold him, Mac
unceremoniously grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged
him, barely crab-walking along, bent over and gasping, hands
clutched to his aching, bruised gonads, towards the dark recesses
of the back of the bar and Joe's office.

<<<<>>>>

There was absolutely nothing quite like the pain of being caught
full and hard, right in the balls. It went straight to some place
at the base of the brain and everything just shut down. Breathing
stopped, sight, hearing. Methos could have sworn his heart had
even stopped beating there for a few seconds. And it faded
so...very...slowly. Breathe deep, he instructed his lungs. Again.
And again. Gradually he became aware of the feel of the cracked
leather of Joe's couch on the side of his face, could smell the
stale dusty odor of the combination storeroom and office.

He forced himself to uncurl with a long groan. His knee brushed
another body and he realized MacLeod was sitting on the floor
next to him, his back up against the couch. He slowly pushed
himself up to a sitting position.

"You know, Mac," he finally sighed. "Maybe separation wasn't all
that great an idea after all."

Mac leaned his head back with a soft groan. "You didn't have to
stab me, dammit!"

"And kicking me in the nuts is fair? Don't be such a baby. You're
the martial arts expert. How else am I supposed to defend
myself?"

Then the door opened and a large, angry shadow loomed over them
both. "Trouble, Joe?" the shadow growled rhetorically. "Oh, we're
not going to cause any trouble. We're just here to have a good
time!" Joe Dawson moved heavily into the room, slamming the door
behind him. "You two are worse than dogs in heat! Maybe I should
advertise. I can see it now." He waved his hand, outlining a
headline in the air. "'Come to Joe's. See it all. Sword fights.
Stabbings. Post-beheading light display scheduled for the 10
o'clock show, Friday night!'"

"It's okay, Joe. Mac will pay for any damage," Methos tried to
sound reassuring.

"No, it's not okay!" Joe insisted, waving his cane and almost
whacking Mac with it in his irritation. "The two best people I
know can't seem to exist in the same space without trying to kill
each other! You think I give a rat's ass about the damage? Shit,
I've had worse than that when two little old ladies started
scratching at each other last month over who was going to pay the
tab!"

"Methos," Mac interrupted.

"Joe, we just have a few things to work out. It's a little
complicated..." Methos tried to interject.

"A little complicated?! Jeezus H. Christ! This is takin' "You
Always Hurt the One You Love," a little far, boys," Joe sneered.

"Joe!" Mac tried to interrupt again.

"I admit we got a little carried away, but..." Methos attempted
to explain.

"Carried away? What if that knife you pulled had really taken a
slice? What then? Mac dies, then heals right in front of an
entire bar full of people! You know better than that, Methos!"

"Damn it, Joe!" Mac coughed.

"WHAT!?" the two other men snapped in unison.

"I've got a little problem," he whispered.

"And what little problem is that?" Methos asked impatiently.

"Your knife? The one you stuck in me?"

"Yeah?

"It's still there."

"Still where?"

"In me."

"Oh." Methos slid down to the floor beside the other Immortal.
"Let me see."

Mac was pale and sweating, his hand folded around the damp stain
on his black silk shirt. The one that clung so deliciously to his
shoulders and chest, Methos noted as he pushed away the
bloodstained hands and pulled away the fabric.

"There's nothing here, Mac. It's healed. Why are you whining?"
Methos asked in annoyance. Mac's abdomen was smeared with drying
blood, but was otherwise just smooth, golden skin. "Oh," he
corrected himself. Smooth and golden except for that odd
protrusion underneath the flesh just north of the navel. He
hissed slightly. "I bet that hurts."

"No shit, Sherlock," Mac snarled.

Methos ignored the sarcasm and rose to his knees, hooking his
arms underneath Mac's shoulders. "Come on, up you go," he
grunted, trying to pull his friend up onto the couch.

"Ow! Goddammit, Methos!" Mac yowled as he struggled to get up off
the floor. The two men traded insults as Joe looked on, but by
the time Methos had MacLeod stretched out on the couch, the
Scot's skin had gone gray and sweaty.

"Methos," Mac gasped, struggling to rise, "I need to sit up. I
can't breathe this way."

But the Oldest Immortal held him down. "I know, Mac. Give me just
a minute. You are bleeding internally and it's filling your chest
cavity, but I have to have access." Methos pulled a Leatherman
out of his pocket, snapping it open to the knife blade and
locking it in place. Methos and Joe exchanged grim looks, both
painfully aware of the increasingly distressed, short gasping
noises of MacLeod's breathing.

"Methos!" Mac gasped again, his voice fading. "I can't..."

Methos struck quickly, slicing under where the unnatural
protrusion showed above Mac's navel. The rough edge of the broken
knife blade slipped through the cut at the same time blood gushed
over his hand.

"Damn. You're gonna ruin my couch!" Joe snapped, but he turned
and quickly rummaged through some of the storage boxes in the
back of the room, coming back with a handful of bar towels.

Mac's breathing had eased almost immediately with the release of
the blood that had crowded his lungs. Methos' long fingers closed
around the knife blade and drew it out smoothly, quickly,
ignoring Mac's hiss of pain. Methos staunched the additional
bleeding with more bar towels, adding to the sopping pile that
had gathered on the couch and floor.

The fascination with Immortal healing had never dimmed even
though Joe had seen it again and again during his quarter century
as a watcher. As Joe looked on, the oozing blood diminished to a
trickle, then stopped. Then Methos reached out a red-stained
finger as the skin began to close and the crackle of Quickening
energy across Mac's flesh was momentarily visible. Methos touched
that energy, his lips forming an odd smile as the blue light
played over his hand.

Mac's eyes were closed, his face alarmingly pale, but it made the
Scot look almost luminous in the low light. Joe looked again
between the two men. Methos was trailing his fingers in the
sticky blood on Mac's skin, his lips slightly parted, his skin
flushed.

"Methos?" Joe called.

"Leave us," the Oldest Immortal said.

"Methos, maybe..." Joe began cautiously.

"And lock the door," Methos said. It wasn't a suggestion or a
request.

<<<<>>>>

The world was gently swaying and tilting and Mac kept his eyes
closed, slightly confused about time and place. The barge? A
lingering ache burned along his belly and pounded rhythmically
behind his eyes. He knew he hadn't actually died, although it had
been close. No matter how many times it happened, the wrenching
agony of his body's automatic rejection of death remained the
most consistently terrifying reminder of his true nature. To come
so close time and time again, to stand on that threshold only to
be yanked away was both an affirmation and rejection. An
affirmation of continued existence, desirable or otherwise. And a
rejection of some essence of humanity which had been forever
denied to him. Who knew if an Immortal's death was a "true" death
in any human sense of the concept? Was the Quickening a form of
reincarnation, a passing on of the spirit to those who took it?
Or was it just raw power? Certainly there was something there
besides energy. The Dark Quickening had proved that once and for
all.

They were odd thoughts to be rumbling around in his still hazy
brain that pounded painfully with each struggling beat of a heart
that was trying to force too little blood through too many veins.

The floating buzz in his body harmonized with Methos' presence,
blending together in a distracting counterpoint to the
discomfort. He was reluctantly pulled a little more towards a
conscious state by a soft tickling along the skin of his abdomen.
The sensation spiraled out to his groin, gathering there in a
warm, heavy mass.

The growing need moved up his body into his chest, tightening his
neck, making him swallow in a mouth dry as dust, traveling
further up until his eyes opened. Methos' dark cap of silky hair
was bent over his belly in evident fascination with the blood and
sweat spread across Mac's skin. Methos long, warm, wet tongue was
cleaning away the fluid in patterns. A lick and a pause, the cat-
like eyes glinting in some feral, possessive trance-like state.
The soft tongue came out again and dipped into his navel, those
glittering eyes moving up finally to meet Mac's, while a knowing
smile curled the old man's lips.

"The prince awakes," Methos whispered.

In his drifting state of semi-consciousness, Mac wanted to ask
him what he thought he was doing, or thought he should want to
ask, but of course, he knew what and he knew why. A moist brush
of tongue across one hip alerted him that his skin was being
peculiarly sensitive to air...and was followed quickly by the
realization that his hips were being bared.

"Stop," he said half in plea and half to forestall any further
sensation or stimulation, vaguely alarmed at the potential
consequences of that act, and then more forcefully when Methos
did not stop. A command and shove from limbs that still felt
shaky and weak and Methos was pushed back.

Only to return with a softly spoken but non-endearing oath on his
lips and his forearm pressed to Mac's throat to hold him still.
"My turn..." Methos hissed.

Adrenaline cleared away the lethargy that had weighted Mac down,
sinking him into the ancient leather of the old couch. Methos'
turn? The thought, and the accompanying surge of denial along
with a sharp spike of aggression prompted a twisting motion to
free himself, but was countered by impossibly quick, strong
hands, and Mac found himself pinned down even harder, Methos'
long legs tangled in his own. Between the blood loss, the weight
on his chest and the heavy sinews of the arm pressed against his
throat, Mac couldn't get enough air into his lungs, his breaths
becoming a wheezing, noisy accompaniment to the creak and squeak
of the couch as it groaned under the weight of two squirming men.

Mac worked his hands up, reaching for that long, vulnerable
column of neck. Unable to get the proper angle or best leverage,
he could still squeeze. He pressed his broad thumb against the
man's adam's apple and felt it give at the same time Methos'
twisted his head and torso to try to avoid the hold.

"No!" Methos' voice was strained, but determined. "You've had
your chances, MacLeod. It's time you learned just how this game
is played." With a jerk, Methos yanked back out of Mac's grasp
and his fist popped straight forward.

Mac's world went white with pain, then black, then finally
wavered back into unsteady focus. It took a second to realize
that his viewpoint had changed. His chest was now pressed onto
the couch by a hand leaning heavily into his back, while another
hand worked at his jeans, attempting to tug them over his hips.
Fuck! The man was planning to take him, by force, right here and
now. Everything he was, everything he believed himself to be,
shouted an angry denial inside his head and Mac pushed up,
bucking the other man off the couch with an animalistic snarl.

Then Methos had him by his long ponytail and his head was yanked
back hard enough to make his eyes tear. "Play nice, MacLeod."
Methos' purr into his ear was breathless as Methos attempted to
restrain him with the force and weight of a slightly smaller, but
more agile frame.

"This is no game, Methos!" Mac panted. "I'm not some mindless
savage who takes pleasure in violence!"

The fist in his hair tightened further and Mac was pulled hard
against Methos' chest until the ancient Immortal was growling
right into Mac's ear. "Aren't you? You're the one who took me in
the dojo, remember? You're the one who started the fight in the
bar. Don't lie, MacLeod. Not to me. Not to yourself." Teeth sank
deep into the flesh of Mac's ear and he cried out, arching back
against the sudden pain.

"This isn't about what you want. It's about staying alive, and
staying together. I need this." The older man's voice was harsh
and whispered, panting as he struggled, one-handed, to yank down
the material that separated him from his goal. Mac felt trembling
fingers stroke the skin of his back, and down, tracing down into
the warm crease of his ass.

"Gods, I need this," Methos whispered again.

Mac tensed, straining against the grip in his hair until his eyes
teared.

"Stop struggling, Mac, and I promise I'll try not to hurt you too
much," Methos growled. "You might even enjoy it," he added. "I
know I will."

Suddenly the grip on Mac's hair loosened, but before he could
gasp another breath, his own belt had been wound around his neck
and tightened until he was choking. With deft, expert moves,
Methos maneuvered them both to their feet. Mac's trousers fell
around his ankles, almost tripping them both.

"Kick them off!" Methos spat.

Survival instinct warred with Mac's need for control and the
nearly overwhelming panic tightening his gut that was telling him
this was wrong. Wrong for him. Wrong for this elusive,
frightening man whose hands pulled and tugged at him with such
expert desperation. He kicked at his clothes, struggling for
balance as Methos dragged him to his feet and swept away the
papers and office supplies scattered on Joe's desk.

Mac gritted his teeth, ignoring the spots that were beginning to
cloud his vision. The word 'balance' hovered his in mind, like a
key, a code, a password.

"Wait...Methos," he struggled to speak past the ever-tightening
constriction at his throat.

"Wait for what, MacLeod? I think I've waited long enough!"

"Wait for me," Mac whispered. He reached up, tugging at the
leather around his neck.

It wasn't what Methos expected and at the moment, it wasn't what
he wanted. This was a battle and could have only one winner. It
was how things worked, the only answer to the rising urges
within, the only way to meet the forces driving them toward each
other that didn't end up with one of them headless.

/Wait.../ the soft request burned through him as sharply as his
own need and hunger did. Sharp enough to make him...wait...

Not without impatience or without suspicion that this would be a
trick, a guile -- it had happened before. His fingers tightened
briefly on the belt only to loosen a moment later as the bronzed
body beneath his hands went from tight resistance to...something
more relaxed but still alive with anticipation.

"If we do this, Methos," Mac's voice was harsh, distorted by the
strain in his throat, "we do it together."

Mac's hands were pushing him away, but Methos refused to be
moved, tightening more on the strap that held the other man
close.Finally a hand closed around his jaw and his face was
pushed away.

Anger flared, and the oldest man jerked hard on the belt,
bringing Mac's face so close his lips could feel the stubble of
beard on the other man's skin as he whispered, "I told you,
Highlander, it's my turn!"

"Aye." It was only a breath across his cheek. "But there's
nothing you can take that I am not prepared to give willingly."
The voice was barely audible, struggling past the strangling
leather binding.

Methos found that his chest was rising and falling so fast, his
own breath rasped harshly in his ears. He closed his eyes and
forced himself to some semblance of calm, barely loosening the
strap, letting Mac's voice wash over him like cool water.

"Let me give you what you want," the voice was stronger now,
"what you need. What we both need. Let that be the difference,
Methos."

Methos pressed and opened, wanting more, but he made himself
pause, reaching for some strength, some trust, some reason that
this...was...truly...different. Had to be...different.

"Let's go home," Mac whispered against his ear.

Home. Methos took a deep breath and stepped back. His hands were
trembling so badly, he thought he wouldn't be able to get his
clothes fastened again. Home. The word seemed to echo, like some
mantra, some talisman against the constant adrenaline rush that
kept flushing his skin and making him want to scream and just
throw Mac to the floor and take him, right here, right now.

But they were different. He had to make this different, or he had
spent 5,000 years only to end up back where he had started. And
that was the last place he wanted to be.

<<<<>>>>

Joe watched as the two men slipped out of his office and through
the bar. They grabbed their coats, both of them looking flushed,
sweaty and distracted. Mac's shirt was still open down the front,
stained heavily with blood, his hair wild and loose around his
shoulders. Methos' face was hard and sharp as cut glass, frozen
in an expression of tight-lipped determination, and both men
walked stiffly, as though barely in control of their movements.

"Mac?" Joe whispered as the man brushed by, "Maybe I should go
with you guys." Joe had to work not to cringe at the grim, angry
look his offer generated."Hey, you two can do whatever wild dance
works for you. Lord knows I don't want to invade your privacy,
but I thought I could just provide a little...backup, just in
case things got out of hand." Joe pulled his hand out of his
jacket pocket, and the light glinted off the gunmetal gray
surface of a snub-nosed .38.

Methos went very still, looking over Mac's shoulder. Joe looked
back and forth between the two Immortals. Mac looked at the gun,
closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. "No, Joe. We either
learn to deal with this, or we end it. And if that happens, I
don't want you or any of your people anywhere near."

"Come on, Mac! Is that the best answer you can come up with?" Joe
turned to Methos, half joking, half pleading. "You can do better
than that, can't you? There's a plan, right?" But Joe hardly
recognized the Methos' voice when he finally spoke.

"Stay away, Dawson. This time, just stay away." Methos' long
strides carried him out the door, with MacLeod a careful distance
behind.

<<<<>>>>

The dojo building. They'd at least made it that far. Mac had
driven, warily watching Methos out of the corner of his eye as
the ex-Horseman of the Apocalypse...Death...sat, rigid,
unnaturally still, hands gripping his thighs, staring out the
passenger window. Mac had felt fortunate to get out of Joe's with
no further public violence. The air between them was charged to
the point where anything...anything, could set them off again.

He parked the car in the alley. The keys jingled loudly in his
hand as he fumbled at the lock to the back door. He was wondering
why Methos hadn't gotten out of the car yet when he heard the car
door slam, and the whole key ring seemed to jump right out of his
hand, falling into the gravel at his feet. Somehow he knew it was
going to happen. He could have probably stopped it, if some part
of him didn't want it, wasn't aching for the contact, the
intensity of Methos dragging him up by the collar of his coat and
slamming him against the cold metal door.

His heart was in his throat, and Methos' hands yanking on his
coat, pinning his arms to his sides was simultaneously maddening,
frightening and just exactly what he wanted. The low, malevolent
voice snarling in his ear made gooseflesh crawl over his entire
body. This was one Immortal calling to another at some base,
instinctive level that he had never before really acknowledged,
or perhaps had never recognized for what it was, something
primeval, something unique to their kind. But this was more. This
was Methos, whose subterranean depths were dark and dangerous and
unknowable, where strange leviathans lurked, unseen by any living
human eyes.

"You wanted to get nice and comfy inside?" the voice hummed at
some deep resonance Mac could feel in his bones. "A little
necking on the couch, a little wine, some soft music? You're such
a romantic, MacLeod. But I don't feel like nice and comfy right
now. I don't feel like waiting, either. I've waited long enough."
Mac could feel hands underneath the coat now, then he sucked in
air at the touch of cold steel underneath his shirt.

The ripping noise triggered a deep gasp and Mac arched back
instinctively as his shirt and coat fell away in two neat pieces.
The sword's razor edge brushed along his spine, so sharp it
didn't hurt for several seconds, and all he could feel was a warm
trickling of blood sliding down his skin, followed by a feather
touch of Methos' fingers. Just as pain began to register, the
tingling of healing began and Methos' moist tongue left cooling
trails of saliva on his back. The man was making small humming
sounds as he tasted the blood and lapped at the blue tendrils
that sparked and skittered along the shallow cut as he healed.

"Methos." It was just a whisper, hardly qualifying as a protest.
Mac turned his face towards the dark head bent at his shoulder,
uncertain what to say or do, or even what he wanted. Something
about the way the man pressed into his skin, touched his
Quickening, possessed him with his hands and mouth, it was all
intensely erotic, mesmerizing, hypnotic. The night's chill air
against his bared skin only made Methos' touches feel hotter,
just at the edge of pain.

As though the man could hear his thoughts, Methos' voice rose
above the harsh rhythm of Mac's panting breath. "You want it,
don't you, MacLeod? You want this!" he insisted, pushing his
distended, throbbing cock, now a hard ridge of pressure under his
jeans, against Mac's ass and deliberately tilting his hips so he
could slide provocatively up, then down and deep into the crevice
of his buttocks.

"Yesss," Mac hissed, despite some small, lingering remnant of
sanity that advised him to take control, to stop this now before
they both did something they would forever regret. His chest was
cold, pressed into the metal doorway, so the warm hand reaching
around to unbutton his pants felt good at so many levels it was
hard to sort out all the expectant, titillating sensations
thrumming through his system.

Methos pushed his hips in harder, his body taking over as the
need for stimulation became so great that he doubted he could
stop even if he wanted to. Harder, Yes. It felt so good, except
he wanted...needed direct contact with that hot, Quickening-
electrified flesh. His hands found the buttons on Mac's pants,
the belt having been left somewhere in Joe's office. The top
button popped loose easily, leaving plenty of room for a hand to
delve into the warmth below. It was better, but not enough.

He leaned his palm against the cold metal of the door to give
himself greater stability while he worked his other hand around
Mac's hot flesh, across smooth buttocks to the damp, hot crevice,
groping for that heated core he craved. His breath was coming in
heaves now, need turning into desperation while some small part
of his brain wondered at Mac's willing submission to his demands,
to the indignity of being stripped and taken in his own alley
because...because the oldest man alive couldn't even wait to get
inside.

Methos sucked in a long breath and held it, forcing himself to
pause, concentrating on the cold metal where his palm lay against
the door. Grounding himself, pushing hard, harder until his arm
was shaking with the strain before he was able to actually move
away from direct contact with Mac's flesh. Mac deserved better
than to be sucked down into the ugliness of his destructive,
violent nature left over as some kind of aboriginal urge in
someone who had never quite evolved into something
totally...human.

"Methos," Mac whispered harshly again, begging, no doubt, for
some vestige of sanity in someone he mistakenly believed to have
ultimate control. The very idea of MacLeod, a man who was so much
better than he in so many ways, begging him for anything made
Methos suddenly ill and he was at last able to step away
entirely.

Mac braced both arms against the door for a few breaths, then
turned, his chest rising and falling quickly in the dim light,
shining with sweat, nipples dark and taut and.... Just looking at
him made Methos clench his fists to keep from taking, owning,
possessing...breathe deep, he instructed himself firmly, closing
his eyes against the object of his obsession.

He heard the distinctive rattle of keys as Mac retrieved them
from the ground, then opened the door. Methos waited a few more
seconds to be sure Mac was well inside before he opened his eyes
and followed.

"Leave them off," Methos whispered before Mac could even reach
for the switch. "Leave the lights off." It was as much growl as
words. There was enough light spilling through the frosted glass
of the windows. Ambient light from the street lamps, from
neighboring buildings, from cars passing. It was enough to see by
but not enough to see and he didn't want to see. He didn't want
to see the look in Duncan's eyes. Understanding, compassion,
fear, anger -- he didn't want to see any of it. He wanted to
feel. He wanted to burn this wild urge from his blood without
conscience. Without thought, without...shame or guilt.

Once he would have never thought such a thing. The idea would
never have occurred to him that there was anything wrong in this.
Every hunger had to be assuaged. This was no different. It never
had been before.

But it was.

A single fragment of rational thought crept into his mind and he
took a half step back. What he could lose here was so much more
than he could gain. And it wasn't his life...but it was.

He should leave. He should head out and never look back, never
turn his gaze toward this man who had so invaded his existence on
so many levels. Never see or think of him again until, if by
chance, he saw him once more, face to face over the deadly sheen
of steel.

He had thought to do so with Kronos but it hadn't worked. Three
millennia had passed and he'd never rid himself of his former
compatriot, nor shed himself of Silas or Caspian. Not really.
Somehow they had become parts of each other, tangled together
over centuries, no matter the distance or time that passed apart
-- and when they had come together again, he had been unable to
deny that the connection still existed.

So what did that say about the probability that he would be able
to walk away from this, which had so many more layers, so much
more meaning than the Horsemen ever had, even after thousands of
years? He had jokingly called Duncan his addiction, but suddenly
it didn't seem like a joke at all. To be rid of it, the mere
thought of being rid of yet another set of strangling bonds set
his hand to his sword, to draw steel, to sever himself from this
threat to everything he thought he was, was as compelling as it
was unconscious.

"Tell me what you want, Methos." The voice made him start. All he
could see was a tall, man-shaped shadow. His throat locked tight.
He wanted...everything. And nothing.

Mac watched the slim shadow near the door, waiting. Methos was
utterly still, but Mac could feel the tension across the short
distance between them, vibrating like a charged electric wire.
When Methos didn't answer, Mac was at a loss. He knew what his
own body was telling him, and it wasn't a pretty story. They were
at a crossroad, and any direction Mac looked, he saw pain and
violence and maybe even death. Was this it, then? Was this how
their kind were destined to end their days, a foreshadowing of
the final Gathering? A hideous thought, that all they were, all
they had known and experienced and felt would be subsumed into a
mindless quest borne of some ancient urge over which they had no
control.

Did he even want to participate in such a ritual? And what
existed between them seemed somehow separate from the Game. Some
indefinable essence that was both related to what they were, but
also who they were. Methos and MacLeod. Linked somehow.
Intertwined. More than two Immortals fighting for survival. More
than two erstwhile lovers battling for dominance.

Mac carefully put down the remnants of his coat and shirt, which
were now just rags wrapped around his katana. He nudged it away
with his foot, warily watching Methos' grip convulsively tighten
around the familiar broadsword.

"Put it down, Methos."

The other man looked down at the blade, then held it up, gripping
it in both hands, letting his eyes slide along its gleaming,
blooded, deadly length. "There can be only one, Duncan."

"Put it down!" Mac said again in a rough whisper, his heart
pounding so hard it hurt. Despite the cold air, he could feel
sweat trickle down his back and under his arms. His legs were
trembling with the effort to stand still when every other
molecule of his body was screaming to attack. He wouldn't be able
to hold on much longer. Already his mind's eye was conjuring ways
to either slip past that blade, or simply let it do whatever
damage it could until he was able to wrestle the other man down
and...

Methos lowered his blade slowly, taking long, deep breaths. The
tip finally reached the floor where it rested briefly. For one
heartbeat Mac was certain Methos was not going to drop it and he
rose up onto his toes, ready to lunge forward...then the blade
fell, clattering noisily to the floor.

Methos raised his eyes to Mac's, his mouth in a hard, grim line.
"I...have...changed, Duncan," he said, his voice low and hoarse,
each word coming with an effort. "I will not be that again,
but...I need you. I need to...to take you. There is something in
me that must have something of you. I can't explain it, but..."
He stopped when Mac reached for the zipper on his half-open
trousers.

Even as he prepared to acquiesce to the need he heard in Methos'
voice as much to the words, Duncan felt his own need rise. To be
taken, to offer -- like polarized magnets, they had to find the
middle ground. They couldn't both take or they would end up
fighting -- likely to the point of final death this time. And for
both of them to walk away only made the impulse worse the next
time they met.

With a whisper of sound his trousers fell to the floor and he
kicked off his shoes and stepped out of the piled fabric. His
fingers hooked under the elastic of his briefs, pulling that
fabric down and away as well.

The sound that escaped Methos was part hiss, part growl -- or
some sound so close it didn't matter and suddenly those long,
graceful and currently icy fingers were on his skin, at his hip,
at his throat, then to his face. A startled turn of his head and
Methos' mouth was fixed on his, tongue invading Mac's mouth,
demanding and insistent. The hand that had explored his face a
moment before now tangled in his hair, the other guiding Mac's
hands to the denim sheathing Methos' lower body, the command
unmistakable.

So many conflicting urges, needs, sensations. Clumsy fingers, too
thick on tight buttons. The heady, musky smell of arousal, of
sweat and fear. Methos' erection throbbed under his hand and Mac
had to stop his fumbling at fastenings to just feel it, stroke
it, his whole body straining up against the other man while
Methos wrapped his fingers even more tightly in his hair. Methos'
breath was harsh against his neck, his teeth and tongue scraping
and licking along his shoulder. When Mac rubbed his palm against
the hard ridge under the denim, Methos hips surged and Mac
stumbled back a step.

Mac found another button and Methos' jeans slipped low on his
hips until Mac could reach inside. It was hot and damp and the
smell of sex was overwhelming. The internal war raging inside
surged and Mac grabbed at Methos' jeans, pulling down hard, but
Methos stopped him, yanking his head back.

"Methos, I want..." but the other man pushed him until he
stumbled, backpedaling.

Methos pressed back and back again, keeping Mac slightly off
balance, holding him firmly by fingers tightly tangled in dark
locks. He kept his eyes only on a destination that would put his
prize where he wanted - totally under his control. The man had
offered, and he was taking, letting go of his doubts and fears.
He pulled down hard on Mac's hair, and hooked one foot around the
back of Mac's knee.

Mac's lips drew back in a hiss of pain as he collapsed backward
onto the weight bench. 'Methos!" he gasped. "You don't need
to..."

"I do need..." Oh, yes. He needed to. Mac's satisfying grimace of
pain, his nakedness, his vulnerability, all fed the conflagration
roiling in Methos' guts, the intense pressure to take, to rend,
to impale himself, to wash himself in Mac's blood, to make him
cry out in surrender...except that Mac had already surrendered.

Mac breathed deep, looking into Methos' feral, almost yellow
eyes. There was an alien-ness there that made his heart stutter.
Was he really prepared to do this? To trust -- completely? He had
to choose. Fight...or let go. Let go of every warrior's instinct
that had been part of who he was for four hundred years. It was
so simple, and yet it ran counter to everything he had ever
believed was the way he was supposed to be. To simply relinquish
himself, to let Methos take him to whatever heights or depths he
wished.

He took a deep breath, telling himself that the pain, the
aggression was just a test to see whether he could keep from
reacting, from taking back control, so he let it roll over him,
into him until it was just part of the rhythm. He reached up,
holding onto the weight bar over his head for leverage, to keep
his body balanced on the narrow bench as Methos bent over him,
pushing, pressing, pulling his thighs up and open. Mac realized
he was panting, near panic at the sense of utter, exposed
vulnerability. Sweat washed over his skin, chilling him despite
what felt like the internal furnace Methos had lit deep in his
belly until his hips tilted and pressed upward of their own
accord.

He bit his lip, hard, to keep from...what? Kicking out? Crying
out? Methos' long fingers dug into his hips lifting them and with
one hard jab, Methos was stabbing deep inside with enough of his
hand that he tore his flesh. Mac arched back and couldn't stop
the cry that tore through his throat, from the pain, from the
fear, from some primal need to make noise because Methos had
ignited such a fire inside and was stoking it with every stroke.

How could it be such agony and still he wanted it?

Vision tunneled and all Methos could see was the sweat-slicked
golden flesh, all he could smell was the pungent odor of arousal
rising in waves off of their bodies, all he could feel was hard
muscle and tendon underneath smooth, wet skin. Some part of him
was surprised as Mac gave way before him, but it felt good, felt
right, the way it was supposed to be. The way it had been for so
very, very long when one of them would take...and take...and
take.

Then he had the larger man pinned on his back. He kept expecting
resistance, assumed force was necessary as he gripped heavily
muscled thighs, pushing them up and back before he did what he
had wanted to do for...hours? No, he had wanted to do this since
the beginning of time itself. To be in this body, to own it, to
claim it, mark it. Maybe he should have pissed on him first,
washing this man in his scent.

At that thought, and the image it evoked, Methos felt his lips
draw back from his teeth in a parody of a grin. His focus caught
on the lights reflecting in Duncan's dark, deeply dilated pupils.
Was it arousal or fear he saw there? Both? Did it matter? Duncan
was gasping for breath, straining to maintain balance on the
narrow bench, his arms stretched up so he could hold onto the
weight bar overhead. The position was breathtaking, casting every
finely honed and sculpted muscle into eerie bas-relief in the
dimly lit room.

Methos ran his free hand up Duncan's sides as he worked the other
into the hot, damp, tight depths inside his body. He felt each
rippled indentation of rib, over the tense, quivering pectorals,
finally resting over the tight point of a dark nipple. Almost
idly, he twisted it between forefinger and thumb, relishing the
quick sip of breath Duncan took in response. Methos' blood surged
into his already aching cock. He pushed away the almost
overwhelming urge to simply jam his dick up that incredible ass,
to mindlessly pummel, to claim absolute dominion over this
marvelous flesh.

No, this was a taking to be savored. Soon Duncan's muscles would
begin to strain to hold him in his position. Soon the need and
pressure for release would combine with the pain to become
unbearable. Methos fingers tightened and he twisted harder on the
sensitive nipple, and Duncan flinched and swallowed, panting
shallowly.

"Do you want it, MacLeod?" His voice sounded alien to his own
ears, harsh and guttural. "Tell me you want it!" He pushed his
hand further into MacLeod's body and Duncan arched his neck back
with a low cry. A trickle of blood crept from his lip, where
white teeth cut into tender skin. It dripped down Mac's chin and
plopped onto his neck with a tiny splash.

The dark eyes moved and caught his. "This isn't a contest,
Methos!" Duncan gasped. His arms were beginning to tremble as he
held both their weights balanced on the narrow surface. "Yes, I
want this. I want you."

But Methos had wanted it to be a contest, had wanted to push this
maddening man to the limits of endurance, until he was screaming
for release. Duncan's face was drawn into a rictus of strain, at
the position, at his own vulnerability as he forced himself to
surrender to the will of another. To my will. And realization
washed over Methos of what a breathtaking act of trust the man
was making, from someone for whom surrender was an anathema. The
thought slowed everything, every thought, every sensation as his
own urgent, driving desperation, was immutably, subtly, totally
altered and he began to question himself.

Why was he so bent on taking what was so freely given? Was it the
jangling, grating awareness of the man's Quickening that was a
constant spur to every aggressive instinct? There had to be more
to this. Something else. Something worthy of this astonishing
surrender. But Duncan was gasping, trembling with the strain,
forcing himself to do that which was contrary to everything he
had been taught to value. Why would he do that? How could his
ancient, tainted soul be worthy of such a gift?

"Duncan," he leaned close, their foreheads nearly touching as he
paused for several long, deep breaths. "No fear. Let go. Let go
and trust me." Dark eyes blinked slowly and met his. The teeth
that had been cutting into his lips opened for a deep gasp of
air. Duncan swallowed, and nodded, letting his head fall back,
finally letting go of the last of his hesitation. The strained
effort to breathe appeared to slow, as did Methos' own movements
until it seemed as though they were both moving through soothing
liquid that cushioned and enveloped them in a private, safe,
protected space, far from the dojo, far from the Game they had
never wished to play.

"Now," Methos thought, or perhaps said, although he wouldn't have
heard it anyway. He nudged his swollen, heavy cock between blood-
smeared thighs where it found its own home, and he leaned in,
bracing himself on Duncan's forearms below where they grasped the
weight bar. He pressed forward, looking deep into Duncan's eyes,
watching as they grew even wider and darker, and a soundless
'ahh' escaped that beautiful mouth. Methos took that breath into
his lungs and answered with his own.

Already he was healing, somewhere in the back of his mind, Mac
knew it, had known it -- knew that whatever the agony, he could
endure, wait out, until the healing began. Was it only
coincidence that it started just as Methos whispered to him, just
as he let go of all doubt? Just as Methos entered him not as a
conqueror, but as an equal, as a lover. Oh, there was pain still
but the wanting, the needing, had made him far more ready for
pleasure than he expected. No hand gouging his flesh now, no
demands or expectations, just the easy slide of Methos' cock
pressing inside him, stroking across him -- so much what he
wanted that he could only groan at the fulfillment of that need.

The aching in his body had not subsided, nor the fatigue in his
arms, but here was a different ache now, more trembling that had
nothing to do with fear or pain. The rhythm of his heart, of his
breathing, of the wet-slick sound of Methos' body sliding into
his was hypnotizing, beguiling, robbing him of strength and of
the ability to think or reason. Deep within he felt the surge of
power, healing, his Quickening rising to meet the challenge of
battered flesh -- the strength of it robbing him of any other,
more mundane strength and his grip went lax. He cried out, might
have screamed as Methos fell forward, driving into him painfully,
a cry of his own escaping. They slipped, shifted, nearly fell
before Methos grabbed the bar to catch himself and brace them
both, panting harshly as he found his balance.

And looked, met Mac's eyes in the shadowy dimness of the room,
lips parting as if to speak, something in Methos' expression
changing, a look almost like pain creeping over the pale, angled
face. Then he was moving again, one hand gripping the weight bar,
the other gripping Mac's hair and shoulder tightly to keep him
from sliding on the bench. Surprise tinged Methos' expression,
the realization of something building between them -- familiar
and terrifyingly intimate, more so than even this livid joining
of bodies.

"Methos!" Mac gasped, feeling an urgent need to cry out a
warning, but of what he had no idea. Something was happening. He
could see it in the wide-eyed look on Methos' face, could feel it
in his own body. It was a tsunami when it hit, a roar of sound
and thought and feeling, physical and emotional. He was drowning
in it, lost, battered in the churning, roiling tumult. He barely
felt his body convulse in an orgasm that was part of this
dizzying, rushing tide.

It had all the power of a Quickening, and more. So much more. He
felt/heard Methos' voice, or perhaps it was his own, he could no
longer tell, there seemed to be so many voices, all shouting at
once, telling him to hold on, so he did. Wrapped his arms around
the warm, solid flesh that was on him, in him, of him, and held
on for dear life.

<<<<>>>>

At first Methos was only aware of a strange, unidentifiable
vibration deep in the hidden recesses of his mind, in places long
neglected, where all the dust of the ages had lain undisturbed
for eons. The dust rose and drifted. Long-unheard voices of his
past whispering in the same distant cacophony of disparate,
desperate, senseless noise that had been rattling around in his
brain for as long as he could remember. All those years traveling
the earth, of watching friends and lovers die, all those
identities taken up and then discarded like old clothes. All
those Quickenings.

Then gradually the voices began to resolve themselves into the
strangest sensation, and he began to feel what he could only
identify as music. But instead of sound it was pure sensation, as
those voices joined with a new one and formed a coda. The phrase
and rhythm that was not sound surged and took on a life of its
own that grew quickly into a wonderfully interwoven and complex
melody of lives lived, of loves lost, of deeds and events and
feelings.

Methos felt his throat tighten, his entire being responding to a
concordance and blending that was his Quickening, Duncan's
Quickening and all the Quickenings that resided in them both,
resonating at last in perfect, exquisite harmony while light and
energy danced around them both. It shimmered in delicate,
beautiful patterns across every surface in the room, reflecting
back in an explosion of tiny shards and sparks that stung like a
thousand needles. He clung to Duncan protectively, wondering
vaguely if, once again, he had hurt him without intending to.
Then the sensation gently, gradually faded, leaving behind the
sweet, phantom scent of summer grass and ocean breezes.

For awhile Methos just existed, suspended in some bubble of time
and space, clinging tenaciously to the warmth of Duncan's willing
flesh as the unique sensation of music gently drifted from his
mind, leaving behind an abiding sense of tranquility.

How long had it been since he had felt so utterly at peace?

Then a hand was stroking his back, gently, like a parent soothing
a child, and he heard the gentlest of whispers in his ear. It
repeated itself again and again, a reflexive, meditative mantra.
It was both alien and so very familiar, he had to let his mind
drift for a long time to even recognize it. When he did, he
opened his eyes in wonder, to see Duncan, eyes closed, face
flushed and still damp with sweat. He was murmuring a phrase,
over and over, and lightly stroking his back.

"Azeez pasa taa. Azeez pasa taa." After a moment, Duncan seemed
to feel Methos' gaze, and opened his eyes. And smiled. "You
okay?" he whispered.

Methos' couldn't answer. His throat was locked tight as memories
so ancient they seemed only bits and pieces of dreams floated to
his mind's eye. Another dusky face with beautiful dark eyes.
Long, straight, black hair accented with streaks of gray. Hard,
work-callused hands gently stroking the back of a frightened,
lonely child and saying that same phrase, over and over in a
language so old even he had forgotten until this moment. A Light
Beloved.

The best he could do was to nod. He reached up to touch Duncan's
face, to wipe away a trickle of perspiration that was threatening
to run down his cheek. Duncan smiled at the touch, tucking Methos
a little closer, and sighed. Methos' eyes drifted closed with a
sense of comfort and safety he had not felt for over five
thousand years.

<<<<>>>>

The phone was ringing. It was a distant, jangling noise instead
of the electronic dweedle of the loft telephone. Mac got one eye
open. The other seemed almost glued shut. A gray, diffuse light
filled the room, reflecting off the shards of broken glass still
clinging to the frames of the office windows and scattered over
the highly buffed wooden floor.

They were on the floor.

They were freezing cold. At least Mac was. He was half on his
side, Methos tucked into the crook of his arm, which was dead and
numb. He tried to move, but his floormate snuffled closer into
his chest, probably looking for warmth from something other than
the jeans still halfway down his thighs.

The phone finally stopped ringing.

"Methos?" He nudged the man with his shoulder a little.

"Mmm."

"Methos."

"What?" The word was muffled, barely audible.

"We need to get up. Are you okay?"

Methos rolled closer, draping a long arm over Mac's torso. "S'too
early to get up."

"Sorry, but my arm has gone dead and I'm freezing my ass off. If
you want to stay here on the floor, it's okay with me. I'm sure
the dojo's early morning customers will be highly entertained."
Mac pulled his arm free at last, hissing at the sudden sensation
of thousands of pin-pricks splashing over his arm and hand as
circulation returned. He crawled stiffly to his feet, picking
carefully among the small particles of broken glass and padded
across the room to find his clothes. Fortunately, he had
installed safety glass the last time the office windows had been
a casualty of his violent lifestyle, so the danger to life and
limb was minimized.

Methos ran his tongue around his mouth, swallowed, sighed, then
propped his head on his hand as he watched in appreciation while
Duncan pulled his pants and shoes on. Mac turned, caught Methos'
eye and smiled, finally spreading his arms and turning in a
circle. "Get a good look?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, yeah," Methos leered.

Mac returned to stand over the lean form sprawled provocatively
on the floor, then squatted down beside him. "You are quite a
sight yourself, you know." His voice turned husky, and he reached
out, his thumb tracing a line from Methos' temple to his jaw.
Methos caught his hand.

"Are you going to help me up here, or just admire the view?"

Mac stood and helped haul Methos to his feet, at which point the
jeans, which had already hung precariously on slim thighs, fell
to the floor with a sigh. Methos then proceeded to toe off his
shoes and pull his clothing the rest of the way off, leaving Mac
dressed, and himself naked.

"You have something against clothes, or are you just feeling
particularly proud of yourself?" Mac asked. He leaned in close,
resting his hands on Methos' low, trim waist, "Not that you
shouldn't be," he whispered, and he moved in closer, folding his
arms around Methos' body, running his hands up and down smooth
skin to generate warmth. "Methos..." he began, wanting to
acknowledge that something profound had happened between them,
but the other man stepped back, stopping him with a gesture.

"Shower," Methos declared, then picked up his clothes, his
discarded coat and sword and turned toward the elevator. He
stepped in and keyed for the loft. "I assume you are going to be
your usual diligent self and clean up here?" he asked, indicating
the safety glass scattered over the floor and, by implication,
the blood and semen smeared on, around and near the weight bench.

Mac looked around, debating with himself, trying to read the cues
in Methos' voice and manner, which told him the man wanted a
little time to himself. "Yeah. I'll clean up. You go ahead." He
turned away to find a broom as the elevator door closed and the
lift rattled its way upward.

<<<<>>>>

The shower was a blessing and a retreat, a mindless comfort that
let Methos' overtaxed senses just drift in a near-void. Being
around MacLeod was exhausting, their intellects constantly
sparking off one another, their conflicting values frequently
generating tension, their Quickenings a perpetual subliminal, or
even overt irritation. Methos let the hot water beat into his
back and neck where he could feel the residual tension of having
strained to hold them steady on that bloody bench, or perhaps
when they fell after the...what was that anyway?

It was a little scary, in retrospect, since it hadn't exactly
been an orgasm, more like a small, shared Quickening.

The sense-memory of lying in Duncan's arms as he murmured that
long-forgotten endearment suddenly flooded back and Methos
gasped, almost sucking water into his lungs. He closed his eyes
and swallowed, his throat tight with unfamiliar emotion and he
was shocked to realize tears were squeezing hotly out of the
corners of his eyelids and dripping down to join the rest of the
water running down his body. That old memory of a worn face and
dark, sad eyes, who...? Th'luma.

Methos sank to his knees, the tears now becoming sobs that racked
his whole frame. Why, on earth...? It was just some syllables
strung together. Old. So old. He tried to remember symbols for
the name, but realized that the symbols for the sounds had not
been designed at the time of this memory, would not be for
another thousand years and by that time, the name had been long
forgotten, its owner gone to dust.

Mother.

"Methos?"

His head came up with a jerk. Duncan had moved back the shower
curtain slightly and was staring down at him in obvious concern.

"How did you do that?" Methos demanded.

"Do what?"

"Call me that!"

Mac's eyes widened slightly. "Call you what? Methos? Is something
wrong?"

Methos realized he was almost hyperventilating, sitting in the
bottom of the shower, clutching his arms around his knees. He
must look totally insane. "I...no, nothing, Mac. Sorry. I think
my mind drifted there for a few minutes." He pulled himself up
with an effort, keeping his face turned away from those
concerned, perceptive dark eyes. "I'll be out in a minute."

<<<<>>>>

Mac reluctantly let the shower curtain fall back into place. He
had hoped to join his lover there, that he had given Methos
enough time to himself, but evidently not. Mac closed the
bathroom door behind him and leaned against it with a tired sigh.
He had so hoped they had somehow managed to get past this
distrust, this hideous need for violence. For a few minutes, as
sore and spent as he was, while he cleaned the dojo and dealt
with a few early arriving customers, he had felt at peace, the
subliminal, aching turmoil of the past weeks, or even months,
finally banished.

At last he could think of Methos without his hands curling into
fists, without his dick getting immediately, impossibly hard,
without pictures forming in his mind of doing cruel and sadistic
things to that lithe, responsive body. But perhaps Methos hadn't
gotten the same kind of release from their strange coupling. He
decided he desperately needed coffee. He ached all over and his
head was buzzing with exhaustion.

"I've always found that fascinating, myself."

Mac started, realizing he had been mindlessly staring at the
burbling coffee maker for some time, but had no memory of the
mechanics of how he had gotten it going.

"Mm?" he answered. Methos had managed to exit the bathroom, find
sweats to wear and put them on, all without Mac being aware of
it, and was now watching Mac with a tired smile. Dark circles
under Methos' eyes emphasized the angular sharpness of his
features. The sweatpants he had borrowed hung loosely and Mac was
reminded of a child in hand-me-down pajamas. For his own safety,
he decided to keep his observations to himself. "What?" he asked
again, having lost the thread of conversation.

"Watching coffee drip. One of life's great pastimes." Methos
moved into the kitchen and pulled down two mugs and filled them.
"You look like hell," he observed, handing Mac his cup. His grand
nose wrinkled slightly. "And you smell like a whorehouse."

Mac rubbed his rough scratch of stubble. "I suppose that explains
why the dojo patrons were giving me a wide berth this morning."

"That and the blood on your chest," Methos indelicately pointed
out.

Mac looked down. "Oh." He sighed inwardly. His shirt had been a
ruin and he didn't figure going shirtless in a dojo was
particularly unusual, but he had forgotten the rusty stain on his
skin. Maybe he should just close the dojo instead of constantly
scandalizing its members.

Methos laughed. "Oh, stop! I bet they love speculating about the
mysterious Sensei MacLeod. You should charge extra just for the
excitement you bring to their lives."

Trust Methos to find some amusement in a completely bizarre
situation. "Are you okay?" he couldn't resist asking even though
he was sure the question would irritate the man. His hand strayed
to Methos' shoulder, wanting to get closer but not certain of his
welcome.

Methos looked down, then away, towards the windows where the
morning sun was streaking through in painfully bright rays.
"Yeah," he said, then took a sip of his coffee. "I'm fine. I
must've fallen asleep in the shower. I didn't even feel you come
in. I can't remember the last time the presence of another
Immortal didn't jerk me wide awake."

Mac smiled. "I know how you feel. Normally, I can track the
slightest movement of a nearby Immortal, but I didn't even hear
you come out of the bathroom."

Methos frowned slightly at his comment, and looked at him, their
eyes meeting as similar thoughts passed through their minds.

Mac put down his cup. "I'll go downstairs, and out onto the
street, then come back in again."

Methos nodded, and watched while Mac grabbed a t-shirt out of a
drawer, yanking it on as he sank out of sight on the elevator.
Five minutes later, the elevator rose again, stopping with a jerk
and a clank. Mac raised the gate and the two Immortals just
stared at one another in silence.

"This isn't good," Methos said at last.

"Maybe," Mac said, coming closer. "It may be temporary. And if we
can't sense each other, it may be that other immortals can't
sense us either. That may not be all bad." Mac was reaching, for
anything, if the truth be told. He picked up his cup and sipped,
made a face.

"I don't think I want you to go out looking for another Immortal
to test your theory," Methos said, reaching for the pot to warm
MacLeod's cup. Setting it down again, he pulled a knife from the
block on the counter. Before Mac could stop him, he'd sliced his
palm open, blood spattering to the grey stone surface. But the
wound was already closing even as Mac grabbed a towel. "Just
checking," Methos said softly, letting Mac wipe the blood away.

"You couldn't try a finger prick?" Mac snapped, cleaning the
counter as well, in sharp harsh movements. "What is it with you
and blood, anyway?"

Methos met his angry gaze, hazel eyes distant. "When I stop
bleeding...when it doesn't hurt..."

"Don't," Mac warned him. "Not again. We're past that. Way past."

"Are you sure? Something's changed, Duncan." Methos was serious
now, studying the counter, fingers tapping. "We changed...we
altered something. Something..." he closed his eyes, trying to
recapture the feeling: what had he lost? Given up? Surrendered?
Or what had he taken? Like a Quickening but not...more or
something. In sync, that sense of belonging, of being part of
something other than himself. He could almost feel it now.
Something sang along his nerves, in his brain, under his skin,
like a current, a mild electrical shock, familiar and not.

"Methos!" Mac's voice was frantic, worried. His eyes snapped open
to find Mac holding him, almost holding him upright, alarm all
over the handsome features, which were pale and tight.

"What?" he asked, startled by how difficult it was to speak.

"There...for a moment...I felt something. Like tearing...like
you...something was being torn from me. I could feel you...just
then. What did you do?"

"I...don't know," Methos felt a sudden need to sit down, and Mac
didn't look like he was any too steady either. They both
gravitated towards the couch and sat in silence until Mac rose
and retrieved their coffee. "I was thinking about what we had
changed, about what it felt like. Sort of like a current under
the skin and I think I...pushed at it a little."

Mac looked distant and thoughtful for a moment, then put down his
coffee and took Methos' hand in his own, spreading the palm open.
The self-inflicted cut was fading, and only a thin red line was
left, almost indistinguishable from the usual pattern of lines
and creases. Mac traced the line in a gesture that Methos found
both sensuous and relaxing.

"The tension we felt before," Mac began, sounding hesitant, as
though he were thinking out loud. "For me, at least, is gone.
Whatever we did, maybe our Quickenings are now, I don't know,
operating on the same frequency? Maybe that's why we don't sense
each other? That would mean that we would still sense others,
wouldn't it?"

"What, you mean we can tune Quickenings like an instrument?"
Methos pulled his hand back with a sharp laugh. "I can see us all
now." He raised his arms as though playing a violin. "Give me an
"A" please," he intoned, then pantomimed tuning a badly strung
instrument, complete with off key humming and pained facial
expressions.

"No, wait!" Mac seemed genuinely intrigued by his analogy. "We
could hardly stand to be around each other before. What if our
Quickening energy -- and we really don't know what kind of energy
it is, do we? Electrical, brain waves, sound waves, whatever --
what if they do operate on some distinct frequency, each of them
different, each of them unique in form and strength and
complexity?" Mac leaned forward, his eyes focused on the floor as
his mind worked through the problem.

"Okay, I'll bite," Methos finally prompted, "Just for the sake of
argument. If you extend that idea out, and include what's been
going on with us, you can see where once two Quickenings get
sufficiently powerful, if they are on close, but differing
frequencies, it would create a hell of a dissonance."

Mac stood and paced slowly. "It would be enough to drive you to
distraction, even to violence. Unless you were able to...tune
them, like you said."

"I was kidding, MacLeod."

"And I'm not!" Mac sat, again taking Methos' hand in his, laying
their palms together. "Your hand feels perfect in mine, like it
belongs there, like it has always belonged there." His eyes
traveled up to meet Methos' with devastating vulnerability.
"You've always been such an enigma, Methos, like I could never
begin to understand how you feel or what you are, but right now I
feel like I've known you all my life, even all your life. Like
you were a part of who I am." The shy smile that crept onto Mac's
face had the power to melt the polar ice cap. "And I like the
feeling."

Methos pulled his hand away and stood. He picked up his coffee
cup on a pretense of warming its contents and retreated to the
kitchen area. "Very moving, Mac, but this is all sheer
speculation. If all it took was one admittedly spectacular fuck
to get us all past our urge to kill each other, the Game would
have been cancelled a long time ago."

"Is that all it was, Methos?" Mac asked. "Considering who and
what you are, considering who and what I am?" He leaned forward
onto his elbows. "And considering just how desperate we were not
to kill each other?"

Methos couldn't hold Mac's powerful stare, and turned away,
leaning up against the kitchen island. "Mac, when we were
downstairs, after...whatever happened, you said something. A
name. Something very...obscure. Do you remember it?"

"What does that have to do with...?

"Just answer the question, MacLeod!"

"Afterwards? In the dojo?"

"Yes, when we were still on the floor."

There was a long silence behind him, and Methos wasn't sure
whether he was relieved or troubled that Mac couldn't answer the
question.

"I think...I don't know. I remember wanting to hold you and
comfort you, and whatever I said came from that desire. Why? Is
it important?"

"No, it's not important. I was just curious." Suddenly Methos
felt dangerously exposed, as though he had walked into a room
full of hostile Immortals, without a weapon. "Look, this is all
very scintillating, but I've got to go. I do have a life, you
know." He gathered the shoes and socks he had dropped by the
elevator when he first came up, and sat to put them on. He could
feel Mac's eyes following his every movement.

"That's what you were asking me about in the shower, isn't it?"

Methos kept his attention on tying his shoelace. "Yeah."

"Then obviously it is important. Don't run away, Methos, please.
We need to talk about this."

"Actually, I think we ought to think about it first. I know it's
a foreign concept, this thinking before you talk business, but
you really ought to try it sometime."

"Methos!"

He snatched up his coat and threw it on, tucking the Ivanhoe
safely inside. Everything about Duncan sang through his senses,
the other man's fear, his affection, all of it washing over him
until he felt himself drowning in it. It was so far away from the
peace he'd felt earlier but so close to it as well, it was
maddening.Beguiling and frightening all at once. Running away,
yes, but it was the instinctive need to distance himself from
Duncan the same way he'd distance himself from an approaching
avalanche.Duncan was just as obviously not feeling it and for one
panicked moment Methos wondered exactly who and what had been
surrendered to whom? "I need to leave," he said tersely, ignoring
both Mac's confusion and his own.

"Dammit, you don't even know if you'll feel another Immortal if
he approaches!"

"And sitting around here discussing the meaning of life isn't
going to enlighten me, is it?" Methos answered as he entered the
lift and slammed down the gate. "I'll call." He tried to sound
reassuring as he punched the button for the first floor. Mac had
stood and was watching him through the grate, his eyes dark with
confusion and concern. "Really, Mac. I promise. Don't worry." But
the lift's noisy engine started up and he wasn't sure if his
voice could be heard over the grinding machinery.

<<<<>>>>

Methos felt curious eyes follow him through the dojo, and was
tempted to swing his hips a little just to feed whatever gossip
must be circulating about its owner, but he decided Mac had
enough controversies in life to deal with right now. Out on the
street, he had to pause, belatedly recalling that he had left his
car at Joe's the night before, and was low on cash. Well, he
certainly wasn't going to go back inside....

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Joe's muffled, decidedly irritated
voice could be heard approaching the door just before it was
snatched open. He looked up at Methos from his wheelchair, his
hair tousled from sleep, a robe barely covering his gray-furred
chest. "What the hell are you doing here? Do you know what time
it is?" Joe snapped.

"Got a twenty you can lend me, Joe? I'm short of cash and I've
got a cab waiting," Methos said, letting his mouth curve into his
most boyish, sweet, pleading smile.

Joe gave him a look that, by rights, should have turned him to
ash where he stood, then rolled away into the shadows, returning
a moment later with his wallet. He opened the screen and shoved
it into Methos hands. "Here. In return you owe me some answers,"
Joe instructed.

Methos nodded dutifully, paid off the cabbie and trotted back up
the stairs to Joe's front porch, letting himself in the door and
following his nose to the kitchen, where Joe was noisily
preparing coffee. Only when the pot was dripping, and toast was
cooking did he turn to his unexpected guest.

"Well?"

Methos shrugged, lowering himself into one of the chairs around a
small table against the wall of the old fashioned kitchen. "We,
uh...You probably noticed that Mac and I have a unique way of
dealing with our feelings."

Joe snorted. "How badly did you hurt each other?" Joe was trying
to be blasé, but the question held a note of concern and
uncertainty.

"We're okay, Joe. Both of us."

"That doesn't really answer my question, does it?" The toast
popped up and Joe proceeded to methodically butter it. "You
looked ready to do serious violence last night when you guys
left, and Mac didn't look too steady. Anybody die?"

"No. Actually, we seemed to have, at least for the moment, worked
through whatever was causing all that aggression."

"Not a lover's spat then?" Joe laid a plate of buttered toast in
front of Methos, and pulled a jar of strawberry jam out of the
refrigerator. "It looked like the green-eyed monster had reared
its ugly head last night. I swear I could've sold tickets, the
way you two were putting on a show for each other."

Methos had to smile, remembering just how juvenile they had both
acted. But what had prompted their behavior was a great deal more
than jealousy. "It's more than that, Joe. A lot more. It's as
though we are driven towards each other, but when we get too
close..." Methos shrugged. "The first thing we feel is a need for
violence. The second thing is a desire for sex. Fortunately, at
least last night, we found some other...I don't know. Some other
place to be, where we didn't feel that drive to kill each other.
I must confess it's a little messy and bizarre, but," Methos
shrugged, unable to come up with a better explanation, and
certainly not willing to talk about the intensity of the
experience, or any of its details.

Joe thoughtfully chewed on a piece of toast for a minute. "Has to
have something to do with the Quickening," he offered. "The two
of you have always had a thing for each other, as well." He
licked some butter off his fingers.

"A thing?" Methos shot an incredulous look at the Watcher.
"Please. Your Highlander may be the bee's knees to the Watchers,
but to me he's just a precocious barbarian child."

Joe chuckled and shook his head. "He's hardly my Highlander,
anymore, old man. I think you've taken possession, lock, stock
and, uh, barrel." He seemed mightily amused by his own joke and
laughed, almost choking on his toast.

"I do so love it when you're trying to be droll," Methos drawled.
"It provides me with a standard to be avoided at all costs." He
rose and poured the freshly brewed coffee into two cups.

Joe's smile quirked around a full mouth, his humor unaffected by
Methos' attempt at insult. Joe thoughtfully chewed for a minute.
"Maybe its the Gathering?" he offered. "Intensifies everything?"

"Probably doesn't help," Methos equivocated. "Listen, there's
something I need to figure out, and for that, I need to know
about the other Immortals in town."

"Methos," Joe said with a warning tone. "You know I can't..."

The jam-smeared knife in Methos' hand waved placatingly. "Someone
completely harmless, preferably. I won't even say boo to them. I
just need to locate them."

"Why?" Joe demanded.

"Joe, can't you just trust me? You know I don't fight unless I'm
forced to. I'm not hunting anybody." Methos tried his whining
tone. It was frequently so annoying, people gave in just to make
him stop.

"Then tell me why," Joe repeated.

"Because I saved your ass, and your daughter's much more
attractive ass, from Walker's evil clutches?" Methos offered, now
using his wheedling tone, which could sometimes be even more
annoying than his whining tone.

"You leave my daughter's ass out of this." Joe's tone had a
sharp, unyielding edge to it, despite the smile on this face. "I
know I play a little loose with the Watcher rules from time to
time, but telling one Immortal where to find another, without a
very good reason, stretches my limits, Methos, even for you."

"But you'd do it for MacLeod, right?"

"Not without a very good reason."

"What if he batted those big soft brown eyes and said 'Please',
and promised you, on his honor, that it was perfectly harmless,
and that it was really, really important?" Methos batted his eyes
at the Watcher.

Joe just looked at him, impervious and impassive.

"You are such a pain in the ass," Methos finally muttered.

"You should know, Methos. Being an expert on that topic, and
all."

Methos stood, went to the refrigerator, opened it, stared into it
for a minute before he pulled out a carton of orange juice, then
opened it and drank.

"Hey!" Joe protested.

"What's the matter? It's not like I'm going to leave germs behind
or anything." Methos replied, unperturbed at Joe's objections to
his manners. But he did pull down a couple of glasses from the
shelf and filled them before he sat back down. "All right," he
finally sighed. "Something happened last night. Somehow, I think
Mac and I changed the nature of our Quickenings. It seems we
can't sense each other anymore."

"What do you mean?" Joe asked. "You can't feel each other
coming?"

Methos nodded, frowning at the crumbs of toast left on his plate.

"And you want to find another Immortal to see if this is just
between you and Mac, or if you can still sense other Immortals."

"Yup," Methos answered, raising his eyes to his mortal friend.
"Mac thinks it's just between the two of us, that we somehow
managed to match Quickening frequencies, or something, and that's
why we can't sense each other. He's bound to stumble across
another Immortal soon, and since they're usually out for blood,
and he's usually willing to accommodate them, I'd rather find out
beforehand for myself whether or not he's right."

"And how did you manage this neat little trick?" Joe asked,
instantly going to the heart of the issue.

Methos just looked at the Watcher.

"You're not gonna tell me, are you?" Joe's lips pressed together
in a hard line of frustration. He dropped the last of his toast
and sat back. "One of the most bizarre phenomena the Watchers
have ever heard of, and you're not going to tell me how it
happened, but you want me to help you. That's just great."

Methos gave up on the whining, the wheedling and the batting of
eyes, and just nodded and waited for an answer in the long
silence.

"Ah, shit!" Joe pushed his chair back and rolled out of the
kitchen, down the hall and into a spare bedroom set up as an
office, complete with fax, scanner, printer and two computers,
one of them a laptop. He turned on the laptop and called up a
program, giving Methos a sour look when he attempted to look over
his shoulder. Methos quirked a slightly guilty smile and
retreated to lean up against the doorframe and wait.

"Try Marion Winthrop, a librarian at Hoover Middle School," Joe
instructed, then closed down the program, closing the laptop with
a snap. "That harmless enough for you?"

Methos put up both hands. "I promise, I will not harm a hair on
her esteemed head. Now, can I get a ride over to the bar? I left
my car there last night."

Joe closed his eyes and shook his head in resignation.

<<<<>>>>

Mac stood for a long time after Methos left, just staring at the
empty space behind the elevator gate. His mind was in turmoil,
replaying snatches of old memories that didn't seem his own, bits
of dreams, confusion, elation, exhaustion. The last one finally
pulled him toward his bed, where he lay down, too tired to even
pull back the covers. His last thought was how good the soft
mattress felt, but that he wished Methos was there to share it.

He woke with a start, jerking his whole body around as the
tendrils of some ugly image, some vague threat from his dreams
that still seemed to hover in the dark corners of the loft. He
was twisted up in the covers, sweaty and hot from the hard
pounding of his heart and the late morning sun beaming in from
the loft's windows. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply,
reaching for calm, trying to recapture the sense of the dream. It
seemed particularly important because the dream was unlike most
of the memory-induced terrors that periodically disturbed his
sleep.

This came from a place and a time totally outside of his
experience. He lay back, feeling the drying sweat chill his skin,
closed his eyes and let his mind drift. But instead of the
panicked fear that had startled him out of sleep, he found
himself relaxing into a pleasant feeling of comfort and security.

/"I don't like what they call you," his boyish voice whined.

The woman holding him dabbed at the cut on his head with a smelly
glop of yellowish pulp made from the plants she gathered. She was
brown-skinned, her flesh rough and wrinkled like the beaten skins
she wore round her waist, her arms bony but strong.

"Aeeyaa!" he cried, ducking, trying to squirm out of her grasp,
but as always, she anticipated his move and held him fast in her
arms.

"Saa, saa, Little He-Cat," she chastised, as she always did.
"They call me what I am. They call me She-Man because I have
taken no mate and hunt for flesh, because my breasts are small
and I have borne no young. And that is all only the truth. And
the truth should never be cause for you to fight the other young
ones."

"But it is the man's job to protect his woman..."

"Feh!" she smiled at him, "You are not my man, Metlos, little He-
Cat. You are my Azeez pasa taa, my light beloved, with your pale
skin and your long, lean body." She pulled him into her lap,
although he was almost too large for her to hold anymore. He
squirmed at the embrace, fearful the others would tease him later
about being coddled like a child. "Finding you gave me status
with the elders, such a strong young male who could survive
abandoned in the wild. You saved me from having to mate with
La'kea, or even with old Pe'fea. Now I forage for the plants that
heal, I hunt when I wish, and no one dares deny me, for I have
great magic, in you."

"You really think I'm magic?" he asked. He had never felt like
magic, but then he had no idea what magic was supposed to feel
like.

"You are *my* magic," she whispered in his ear, nuzzling his neck
until he squirmed away, laughing, his hurt forgotten./

Mac opened his eyes, the echo of a child's laughter lingering in
the room like an auditory ghost. He found he was holding a pillow
in his arms, feeling unaccountably sad. The dream lingered in his
mind almost like a true memory, replete with a sense of sweet
longing for someone loved and lost.

These were not his memories, he was certain, or even transformed
ghosts from old nightmares. These came from that brilliant,
shattering moment when he had surrendered to Methos' will, and
some fragment, or even more than a fragment, of their Quickenings
merged and blended, smoothing all those rough edges that had
grated between them for so long. Would Methos resent this
intrusion into his most private thoughts and memories? Mac lay
for a long time considering the matter, without ever finding an
answer to the question. Giving up on getting any more sleep, he
rose, wondering what his ancient lover was doing, and when...or
whether, he would return.

<<<<>>>>

Methos parked his battered SUV across the street from Hoover
Middle School. He sat, contemplating the best way to find out
what he needed to know. Hanging around a grade school in a trench
coat was probably not wise, and he really didn't want to alarm
the esteemed Ms. Winthrop. He idly wondered if she had chosen
"Marion" as a first name before or after she had decided to
become a librarian. The day was warm, with a real promise of
Spring in the air, so he lowered his window and lay his head
back. His body still ached from their violent gymnastics the
night before, and from lack of sleep.

He jerked awake so violently that he activated the seatbelt
restraint, which then threw him back into the seat, almost giving
him whiplash. His heart was pounding, and he almost threw his
neck out again as he quickly scanned the area. Well, at least one
mystery was solved. He could definitely tell if there was another
Immortal close by. He didn't see anything immediately
threatening, but he unbuckled his seatbelt and eased the door
open.

The playground was full of children, screaming and talking in
their uniquely grating high frequency. There was a woman showing
kids how to hit a softball, but she was a good 100 yards away.
Now Methos was really getting concerned, the hairs literally
standing up on his skin as he failed to immediately identify the
threat. Then a shadow appeared at the corner of the red brick
building, then retreated, the movement catching Methos' eye. With
a sigh of relief, Methos sat back in the car. He could leave now.
He had answered his question and had no desire to confront poor
Ms. Winthrop.

The shadow appeared again. It was quite large. Then the Immortal
stepped away from the building, staring straight at Methos.

"Joe, you bastard," Methos whispered to himself.

It appeared that Marion Winthrop could have played linebacker for
the Packers. He was black, he was big and could move surprisingly
quickly, since by the time Methos had the door closed and had
reached for the key, Winthrop's huge paw was hooked around the
window frame of the car. Methos could just picture the vehicle's
wheels spinning uselessly while the big man held him in place by
sheer weight and strength.

"You looking for me?" a deep voice growled.

"Uh, no. Not really, just checking out the school for my, uh,
nephew," Methos replied, putting on his best, most innocent Adam
Pierson face. "Don't want any trouble," he assured. "Really," he
added after a moment of ominous silence.

Winthrop looked him hard in the face for a long moment, and
Methos diligently held his pose, letting some nervous mannerisms
show themselves in tapping on the steering wheel, and licking his
lips. Damn Dawson. Surely he wouldn't have put him in a position
where he would have to fight someone?

"Well," the dark face broke into an oddly beatific smile. "That's
okay then. Would you like a tour?" he offered. "I run the library
here, and we've got some wonderful resources. Full access to the
internet, monitored for content, of course. And I tutor a special
needs math course after school for any kids who need help."
Winthrop was beaming now, proud to show off his domain. He opened
the door of the vehicle, gesturing expansively towards the
building.

After a moment, Methos' dumbfounded shock transformed into
intense curiosity about how an Immortal so clearly designed to be
a warrior ended up as a grade school librarian. With a private
smile, Methos dutifully followed the huge man, spending the next
half hour listening to Marion Winthrop describe Hoover Middle
School's programs in almost painful detail, watching big black
hands gently touch a shoulder here, the top of a tousled head
there, a gentle giant obviously beloved by his charges. At last
they found a corner in the noisy, echoing cafeteria, where Marion
served him a small carton of milk and they sat in child-sized
chairs.

Winthrop looked at him for a long moment. "You're not here to
look at the school, are you, Mr. Pierson?"

Methos took a small swig and wiped away the milk mustache he felt
on his upper lip. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Look," Winthrop said, his lips pressed together for a moment. "I
have no desire to fight you or anyone else. I know the Gathering
is building, but there is so much more to life than killing our
own kind; there has to be. I can't believe we were made for such
an utterly pointless and tragic existence. I have a lovely wife,
two adopted daughters. I've been through the Civil War, the Civil
Rights conflicts, I've been shot and hung and treated like a
piece of meat. Frankly, I just want to be left in peace."

Methos smiled. A man after his own heart."You are a fortunate
man, Marion Winthrop, to have found peace, especially now. And
no, I have no desire to fight you. I came here for an entirely
different reason, to solve a little mystery. I know the answer
now, and I promise I won't harm you or your family."

Marion leaned back, a broad smile gracing his face. "Well, isn't
that something. The first Immortal I meet up with in almost ten
years, and he turns out to be a detective of some sort. I'm
curious, if you can tell me. What was the mystery that I managed,
all by myself, to solve for you?"

Methos considered the issue for a long moment, wondering if
Marion Winthrop could help in this quite bizarre situation,
simply because he was an honest man who presented no threat.

At Methos' hesitation, Winthrop put up his hand. "That's okay. I
understand if you don't want to tell me. Our kind doesn't often
just sit and talk like normal people, I just found it so
delightful to be able to be with one of my own kind without
feeling like I was going to get my head whacked off any minute."

Methos thought for a moment, then came to a decision. "Look, Mr.
Winthrop, you would be a fool to trust me, since we just met, but
I'm going to say this anyway. Would you be interested in an
evening of great food and conversation with two other Immortals?"
He raised his hand in assurance. "Neither of us is at all
interested in your head, but we have a little...conundrum you
might help us with."

"Who is this other Immortal?"

"Duncan MacLeod."

Winthrop sipped in his breath and held it for a moment. "I heard
he's a decent man," he mused thoughtfully. "I knew he was here in
town sometimes but figured it was safest just to maintain a
distance."

"You're right. He's a magnet for hunters. Spending too much time
close to MacLeod is hazardous to your health, but one evening
won't hurt, and I can promise you two things from it. First, Mac
is an excellent cook. Second, once he has befriended you, if you
ever need someone to call on for help he'll be there for you.
He's a good man to know."

Winthrop took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Let me think
about it a little," he replied at last.

Methos shrugged. "That's probably wise. If you want to come, just
drop by Joe's Bar on Market Street between seven and eight
tonight. If one of us isn't there, just ask Joe for the
address.Tell him Adam said it was okay." Serve Joe right to have
this man turn up on his doorstep after this little stunt.

"I'll think on it," Marion said, his white teeth showing in a
slow grin.

"I hope to see you tonight, then," Methos replied, with more
meaning than Marion Winthrop could fathom.

<<<<>>>>

Mac was intent on his careful stirring of the risotto when he
froze, at first going cold with the wash of Immortal presence
that crawled up his spine, then a pleased smile took over his
lips. So, whatever bizarre phenomenon had overtaken he and Methos
last night, either it had dissipated, or it only affected the two
of them. That must have been the "good news" that Methos had
hinted at when he left a terse message on his answering machine
informing him he was bringing a guest for supper.

Now maybe they could discuss their current situation, their
relationship, rationally, intelligently, and afterwards...the
knock on his door brought him out of his momentary reverie.
Incredibly stupid, he chastised himself for his gross
inattention, turning off the flame under the meal he was
preparing and reaching for his sword. Obviously, the Immortal was
not Methos, and here he was spinning sexual daydreams while an
unknown Immortal knocked at his door.

He opened the door halfway, bracing his foot at the bottom to
prevent easy entry if his visitor turned out to be hostile, but
kept his katana tucked behind his arm under the assumption that
someone knocking politely was unlikely to be out for his head, at
least at the moment.

The large, dark stranger on the other side of the door had a hand
inside his long coat and stood well back from the entrance.

"Yes?" Mac said, letting the katana drop down, its deadly tip now
pointed mostly toward the floor, but slightly in the direction of
his visitor.

"Duncan MacLeod?" the man inquired in a deep, rumbling voice.

Mac smiled slightly. "That seems probable. And you are?"

"Marion Winthrop. Adam Pierson invited me over for dinner
tonight?" the man said, backing up slightly, clearly caught off
guard by Mac's undertone of suspicious hostility.

"Adam?" Mac repeated, his brows furrowing in puzzlement. "Asked
you to dinner?"

"Uh, yeah, but hey, if it's a problem, no big deal, man,"
Winthrop backed up, moving towards the stairs.

"No! Wait!" Mac swung the door open and curled the katana back
into a non-threatening position again. "If Adam invited you, you
are certainly welcome Mr. --Winthrop, was it?"

Winthrop edged past the Scot through the narrow hallway, and into
the large open space beyond. He stood and looked around
uncomfortably for a moment, keeping his body slightly turned
toward the other Immortal so both men could see each other's
hands clearly. Mac considered the situation a moment, wondering
what the hell Methos had been thinking and why he hadn't warned
him that their dinner guest was an unknown Immortal, and who the
hell Marion Winthrop was and why he had been invited to dinner.

"Have a seat, Mr. Winthrop," he offered. He didn't offer to take
the man's coat. If the Immortal felt comfortable enough to divest
himself of his sword, he would do so without being asked. "Can I
get you a glass of wine, or a beer?" Mac moved into the kitchen,
leaning the katana carefully against the island, within easy
reach.

"A beer would be great," the black man perched on the couch, then
slid back, relaxing just a little.

Mac retrieved an Amstel from his refrigerator, opened it and
handed the bottle to his guest. "We're pretty informal around
here. If you'd prefer a glass, just say so," he advised.

"Bottle is fine," Winthrop assured him, then tipped the container
at his host. "Cheers," he said, then took several long gulps.

Mac sat, holding his own beer without drinking it, then smiled at
Winthrop's awkward silence. "Don't worry, Mr. Winthrop. All
rumors to the contrary aside, I don't bite, or take heads without
provocation."

"Call me Win," Winthrop advised, settling back even further into
the soft leather of the couch. MacLeod's furniture was
comfortable on his big frame, and the masculine, open space was
intended to put visitors at ease. "And of course I've heard of
you, MacLeod. I wouldn't have come if you didn't have a
reputation as a man who doesn't fight unless challenged. And I
make it a habit not to challenge."

Mac took a seat in his armchair, finally relaxing enough to drink
his beer. "That's a little unusual for someone your age and,
frankly, your obvious physical strength. What are you, 150?"

Winthrop looked a little surprised at MacLeod's estimate. "163,
actually. I was born a slave, but early this century went to
Africa for a few decades. Saw what the constant squabbles were
doing to the African people, spurred on by the whites that were
colonizing the country like crazy, stealing land, increasing the
tensions between the tribes." He shook his head. "Death is ugly,
MacLeod, whether its from the Game or from greed or stupidity or
pride, it's still ugly."

"Amen to that," Mac agreed quietly. "Mind if I get back to my
risotto?" he asked. "If I don't, it's going to be a gummy mess
for dinner."

"You're cooking risotto?" Win asked with a sudden brightening of
his eyes. "I spent six months at the Cordon Bleu and risotto was
a particular specialty."

"Well then, by all means!" Mac laughed, gesturing towards the
waiting stove.

Winthrop stood, his bulk seeming to take up most of the room. He
hesitated for only a moment before he took off his coat and hung
it on the coat rack by the wall while Mac moved his katana back
to its usual place on a shelf near the door.

" I suppose I really ought to call Adam and find out where the
hell he's wandered off to and why he didn't bother to tell me you
were coming," Mac added.

<<<<>>>>

Methos languidly stretched a leg gone numb from the angle it was
bent under his body. He'd been having such a nice dream.
Something about hunting rabbits, lying still and quiet in sweet
heather, waiting with Robert, a boy with fair skin and eyes,
watching for the nervous animals as they nosed carefully out of
their burrows early in the morning.

He blinked the sleep out of his eyes. Heather? Robert? What an
odd thing for him to dream. It had felt like a dream/memory from
childhood, but not only did he have no memories of his own
childhood, he was certain he had never participated in any
activity remotely similar to the one that had left such a clear
impression in his mind. It felt far more like something out of
MacLeod's past.

Methos rolled over and sat up with a start. MacLeod! He peered at
the window, noting the setting sun with dismay. He had stumbled
home, left a message on Mac's machine about dinner, grateful to
be able to duck the Scot's usual plethora of questions, then
intended to lie back and rest just for a little while, arriving
at Mac's in plenty of time for explanations prior to Marion
Winthrop's arrival.

And that was almost six hours ago. He grabbed the phone, dialing
Mac's number. Busy. Well, at least that indicated he was both
alive and at the loft.

<<<<>>>>

"Line's busy," Mac hung up the phone. "At least we know he's
alive and talking," Mac smiled, even though his concern at
Methos' actions had evolved to irritation now that he was sure
his ancient friend was at least alive.

"You know, Mac," Win said as he carefully stirred the risotto
while Mac took out the smoked salmon and prepared it to add to
the rice dish, "Adam said today that I had solved a mystery for
him, but didn't tell me what the mystery was. Do you have any
idea what he was talking about?"

Mac continued carefully slicing the salmon. "You'll find that
Adam is full of little mysteries. Half the time I can't figure
out what's going on in his head," Mac equivocated.

The risotto was finished, salad was made, and the table set by
the time the two Immortals heard a knock on the door.

"You expecting someone besides Adam?" Win asked, looking up from
taking the rolls out of the oven.

Mac paused. "Uh, no." Then went to the door.

"Liquor Delivery!" a youthful voice with an English accent
called, and knocked again.

Mac opened the door and Adam swept in, his arms wrapped around a
brown paper grocery sack that had gotten rather wrinkled and damp
in transit. "Sorry I'm late, guys. Glad to see no one has lost
their head yet. Fell asleep. Haven't slept that well in ages,
actually. Tried to call but the line was busy." He dumped his
burden on a kitchen counter and proceeded to put two six packs of
beer into the refrigerator, retaining one bottle for himself. He
twisted off the cap, dropped it on the counter with a small
clatter and took a long swallow, sighing with pleasure. He
lowered the bottle and looked at the serious faces of the other
two men in the room. Mac was staring at Winthrop, and Winthrop's
gaze was darting back and forth between the other two Immortals.
"What?"

"This is way too weird," Winthrop observed, his eyes large. He
backed up, heading towards his coat.

"What is it?" Methos insisted.

"Win! What did you sense?" Mac insisted.

Winthrop paused. "I...I don't know." He rubbed at his temples,
wincing.

Methos straightened from his usual unobtrusive slouch,
approaching Winthrop carefully. "We mean you no harm, Marion, no
harm at all, but if you felt something different from what you
expected, please tell us. We need to know."

Marion retreated to the couch, almost falling into it. He rubbed
at his dark face thoughtfully for a moment. "The thing is, I
didn't feel anything! I did this afternoon, of course, when you
came to the school, but just now...nothing that warned me that
you were here. Now it's like there's one of you in here, but
instead of coming from one direction it feels like stereo, I
guess. A very, very loud stereo. It gave me a headache for a
minute, but it's fading now. How did you do that?!"

The other two Immortals shared a long look. "Let's eat dinner
before it gets cold," Mac instructed, diverting the conversation.
Methos sent him a dark look, but eventually all three men were
distracted into enjoying the gourmet meal, their casual
conversation lubricated with a couple of bottles of one of
MacLeod's fine vintages.

Fine brandy and coffee had been served and the men relaxed,
settled comfortably into the deep cushions of the heavy
furniture.

"This has been a real treat," Win smiled into his brandy snifter.
"I haven't been able to tell some of those stories for almost
thirty years. My wife doesn't like to hear the details about our
lives, and talking about events from fifty or a hundred years ago
reminds her that she will age and I won't. I wish..."

"Yeah, I know," Mac agreed, relieving him of the necessity of
expressing what they all felt, that their race was so set on
mutual annihilation that friendships among them were almost
unheard of, leaving them lonely and isolated even in their
temporary families.

Win sipped at his brandy, holding it in his mouth for a moment to
savor the flavor before he swallowed. "Not to spoil the moment or
anything, gentlemen," he said quietly, "But I have two questions
of you. First, I think you need to explain what happened earlier
when I didn't feel Adam show up. Second, what do you want from
me?"

Mac looked over at Methos. He thought he knew the answer to the
first question, but didn't really want to respond. He didn't know
the answer to the second since Methos had been the one to bring
Winthrop into the equation. Methos met his gaze for a moment,
then leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs.

"I think the answer to both questions is the same," he replied.
"For a host of very complicated reasons, we've come to the
conclusion that MacLeod's and my Quickenings have, well, I guess
'matched frequency' is the best explanation. We were suddenly
blind to each other and didn't know whether it was unique to the
two of us, or whether we had lost the ability to sense any
Immortal. I sought you out this morning for the purpose of
finding that out."

Winthrop's smooth brow furrowed in confusion. "Matched
frequency?" he snorted. "Now I've heard everything." He put his
glass down and raised his hands. "Look, guys, I may be only 163
years old, and not a big player like MacLeod here, but I wasn't
born yesterday. You take a Quickening, you gain power. Maybe the
sense of your presence ratchets up a little over time, but it's
still your Quickening."

"Then how do you explain the fact that you didn't sense another
Immortal when Adam arrived?" Mac interjected.

Winthrop opened his mouth, then closed it, then picked up his
brandy again to take a drink.

"And that was the other reason I asked you to dinner," Methos
broke the awkward silence. "To find out how the two of us, when
we're together, were perceived by other Immortals."

"Pretty neat trick," Winthrop frowned into his glass. "Makes it
possible to sneak up on one of us, then, ssst," he sliced his
hand through the air in a short motion. "One less Immortal, one
more Quickening."

"There's a thought," Methos observed.

"No!" MacLeod snapped. "It's not like that, and we're not like
that. This is all..." he searched helplessly for words. "I don't
know what this is," he finally admitted with a frustrated sigh,
swallowed the rest of his brandy in a gulp and rose to pour more.

Methos smiled affectionately at Mac, his eyes following him as he
paced the floor. Mac didn't deal with uncertainty very well, and
predictably bristled at any implication that he would behave less
than honorably.

"Anyway," Methos continued, "You seemed like a decent sort, an
intelligent man, and not likely to be intimidated by all of this
nonsense," he shrugged, "and we needed to know."

"Well, now you know," Winthrop acknowledged. "What are you going
to do about it?"

"Good question," Methos leaned back, nursing his drink. "I have
no idea."

<<<<>>>>

"He seemed like a good man," Mac observed as he washed and
stacked the dishes.

"Yeah, I hope he keeps his head down," Methos replied. "He's a
little young to have much chance in the Game." He wiped off the
counter and tossed the damp sponge past Mac's shoulder and into
the sink.

Mac was silent at that gloomy thought. "Maybe I'll ask him if he
wants to spar, let him use the dojo. Give him some practice
against an experienced opponent."

"MacLeod," Methos opened the refrigerator, leaning over to
inspect its contents. "The best way for Marion Winthrop to
survive as long as possible is by keeping a low profile. Hanging
around your dojo is the last place he should be."

Mac's hands froze for a moment, then he slowly wiped off the last
of the last of the silverware, putting the cutlery meticulously
away in a drawer. "Maybe you should follow your own advice," he
finally observed.

Methos had grabbed a beer and was halfway to the couch. He paused
and turned. "Excuse me?"

Duncan leaned up against the counter, his arms crossed, his gaze
fixed firmly on the floor. "Methos, whatever was driving us
together seems to have resolved itself. The last several weeks
have been...exhausting, for both of us. But it's over." He raised
his eyes to meet Methos' directly. "How many Immortals have come
looking for me just in the past couple of months? Three? You
should follow your own advice and get out of Dodge."

Setting the bottle down on the end table, Methos studied MacLeod
for a long moment. "Is that really what you want? For me to
leave?"

"No!" MacLeod said sharply then shook his head. "No. But maybe
it's for the best. This could be...temporary. I'm not sure I want
us to be too close if it wears off. I don't..." his face twisted
into a grimace and he met Methos' stare directly. "I don't want
us to go back to what was before."

It made a certain kind of sense, Methos supposed and MacLeod was
right -- if, when, this odd peace passed, they might be worse off
than before. Able to think now, Methos was all too aware how
closely they'd come to killing each other. A breath, the wrong
word, a wrong move, either way and the result might have been
very different.

He tested the feeling between them, watched as Duncan almost
seemed to hold his breath waiting for his answer. Without the
compelling need, the aggression, there was something still there.
Not the gut wrenching *necessity* of being in MacLeod's presence,
but a desire for it certainly.

He hated to think it was all part of the same package, that the
mutual attraction was only a product of this odd ebb and flow of
their Quickenings. Surely they needed, deserved the chance to
find out? If only to be able to separate one from the other.

And he owed MacLeod one. "It's a simple question, Mac. All other
considerations aside, is separation what you want?" he asked,
picking up his beer andwaiting for the words to sink in, smiling
a bit knowingly as he watched recognition wash over MacLeod's
handsome face.

"This isn't the same thing at all --" MacLeod began.

Methos sank onto the couch, stretching his legs out in front of
him, then took a swallow of beer. "This is a test, right?" he
asked at last, an amused smile turning up his mouth.

"A test?"

"To see whether or not I walk away or stay."

"This is not a test, Methos. I just think..."

"Bullshit. Come over here."

"Damn it, can't we just have a rational..."

"Get your arse over here and sit down."

Methos waited until Mac had warily sat across from him in his big
armchair, once again crossing his arms. The man was incredibly
easy to read, an emotional open book. "Not over there," he
instructed. "Over here." He patted the seat beside him.

With a frown, Mac moved from the chair to the other end of the
couch, turning his body to face the other man. "This is not a
test, Methos," he reiterated defensively. "I just think..."

"Sometimes," Methos interrupted with a sigh, "you think far too
much." He put his beer down on the coffee table and turned,
crawling across the couch until he was looming over MacLeod, one
hand on the backrest, the other on the armrest. Mac had sunk back
into the corner, looking up at him with wide, suspicious eyes.

"But you are right," he leaned close, his lips brushing Mac's ear
as he spoke, making him cock his head at the tickle of breath and
sound. "These last several weeks have been a bitch." He let his
tongue glide around the interesting hills and valleys of Mac's
ear, finally feeling the man take in a long breath as hands
reached up around Methos' waist, then moved lower to knead his
ass. "I vote we go someplace warm and relaxing. Someplace
private, where we can swim naked in the surf and sunburn our
bums." He fastened his mouth on Mac's neck and sucked, delighting
in the low groan he heard, then continued his task until he had
created a large, rosy hickey on the honey-colored skin.

"What is it with you and Amanda and nude beaches?" Mac asked
hoarsely, reaching around his waist and pulling him down to
reciprocate.

Methos smiled. Evidently he had passed the test, or Mac had come
around to his way of thinking. Either would suffice.

Mac looked up into Methos' face, automatically answering the
smile there, trying to read Methos' enigmatic expression. He
hadn't intended his question as a test, but in retrospect he
recognized that it had been. It all felt so odd, so different
from any other relationship he had ever attempted. So far, almost
everything between them had been all about violence and lust and
need, like something was pushing them, driving together whether
they wanted it or not.

Methos ran a finger along Mac's neck, tracing a circular path
there. "What a shame," he said softly.

"What?"

"It's gone. And it was such a nice hickey."

"You could try again," he suggested. "But I've got a better
idea."

"What's that?"

He shifted his body so more of it was lying on the couch and took
Methos' face in his hands, holding him still. "If you want
someplace to put your mouth, put it here," he whispered, then
pulled Methos towards him. He had wanted to do this for so long.
Just to hold. Just to feel the man lying against him, the warmth
of another human body, the comfort of the sense of connection, of
sharing his life.

Methos undulated against him, his hands in his hair, searching
along the length of his body to find his gently swollen sex.

Duncan gently moved Methos' hand away. "It's not always about
sex, Methos," he said softly.

"It's not?" Methos asked, sounding slightly shocked, but with
teasing smile. The smile faded as he watched Mac's face.

Duncan swallowed the doubt that suddenly crawled along his skin
and pulled Methos' face down to his. This he could do, this
tender tactile caress of lips and fingers across a hard
cheekbone, a slightly stubbled jaw, finally landing on Methos'
mouth where he pressed, licked just a little to encourage an
opening, then pressed inside. His tongue gently explored the
warmth of another man's teeth and tongue, his heart surging when
Methos responded, relaxing his long body against Duncan's. The
subtle scent of after shave, the underlying taste of their
dinner, the rich body of the beer Methos had consumed - he lost
himself in all the sensory input as Methos responded in kind, his
elegant hands exploring the texture of Duncan's skin, the
softness of his sweater, the fingers tangling in his hair,
tightening almost painfully as Methos aggressively took control
of the kiss at last, nibbling along his jaw, leaving a trail of
bite marks along his neck. Their breaths got faster and he could
feel the heat between them rise until at last Methos slowed,
simply pressing his lips to his neck, then resting his forehead
there.

Duncan had his eyes closed, concentrating on his breath, as well
as on savoring the feeling of Methos' weight pressing him down.
Then an unexpected wave of warmth rolled over him, generating a
wash of gooseflesh and for a second he was dizzy, disoriented,
uncertain whether he was lying on top of Methos or Methos was on
top of him, or both at the same time. It was similar to, but less
intense than the unusual post-orgasmic wave of euphoria they had
recently experienced. He pulled in a long breath and opened his
eyes, looking down at the dark head tucked into his shoulder.

"You okay?" he asked, a little breathlessly.

Methos looked a little dazed. "Yeah."

"What the hell is that, anyway?" Duncan whispered, not really
wanting to break the mood.

"I have no idea," Methos answered, shifting slightly to relax
into the warmth of the body beneath him.

Duncan waited for further discussion, but it was soon apparent
that Methos had drifted to sleep.

<<<<>>>>

The compromise over a brief getaway had been a long drive south
down the Pacific Coast Highway to a private rented beach house
south of Eureka. They put the top down on the T-bird, loaded up
the back seat with a cooler full of aged cheese, fine wine, some
beer for Methos, even some caviar and sour cream. Duncan drove,
and Methos lay back against the soft black leather seat, letting
the sun warm his face. Between the magnificent, crashing waves of
the Pacific Ocean on his right and the truly fine eye candy to
his left, life felt very good at the moment. That it couldn't
last made it even more important not to think about anything but
right now.

He stole a glance to his left. Mac had his elbow on the
doorframe, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel in time to
the 70's classic rock music blaring on the radio. Sunglasses hid
his eyes, but his hair had come loose a little in the wind,
streaming back in dark tendrils. And he had acquired an instant
tan. It was disgusting, really. Mac could spend a year indoors,
then walk outside and in five minutes turn this incredible
burnished gold color, while it took Methos five minutes to turn
pink and peel.

Ah, well, it made for very pleasant scenery. He closed his eyes,
relaxing totally, letting the pleasant moment saturate his skin.

/"There are definitely too many trees in the world," the man
beside him announced. He looked over at his companion as he took
another swig from the silver flask he had been sucking on all
day. The man was drunk, and getting slightly belligerent, if not
morose.

He gestured to the towering, ancient woods around them, moving
slowly past as the carriage wound its steady way through the
countryside. "Why do ye say that, Brian? They're beautiful. I
think there are nay enough trees in the world, myself," he
announced, more to be ornery than anything else. Brian could be a
real pain when he got in these dour moods of his. "Besides, if it
weren't for the trees, what would we have to aim at when we take
a piss?" he snickered, realizing that he had had too much to
drink as well. It was one of the few ways to pass the time in the
long hours of travel. Except for reading, which didn't interest
Brian at all, and it irritated the man when his companion read,
so he refrained.

"Speaking of which," Brian mumbled, signaling to the driver to
stop. He stumbled out, staggering to the side of the road and
unbuttoning his pants. Oh, well, as long as they were stopped. He
got out as well, joining Brian at the edge of the woods,
unbuttoning his pants and pulling his dick out. He waited a
minute, eyes closed, until the piss started to flow, hearing the
patter of both their efforts hitting the dry, dusty ground.

He finished and began tucking himself back in his pants when he
felt Brian's gaze on him. His friend's blue-gray eyes, always lit
with some inner fire of determination, or humor, or sometimes, he
worried, even madness, were fixed on him with an intensity that
he had previously seen reserved for dueling opponents. A bit of a
scary thought. Brian was the best swordsman in Europe. Maybe the
world.

"Something wrong?"

Brian started a little, averting his eyes. "Noooo," the Irishman
rubbed his face, tugging at the long mustache he had carefully
cultivated. He turned away and both men climbed back into the
carriage. They were silent as dusk slowly settled over the woods,
the only sound the horse's steady hoof beats, and the diminishing
birdsong as the sun went down.

Sleepiness overcame them both and Brian slowly tipped over,
finally relaxing against his shoulder, snoring softly.

Hands, creeping under his jacket. He started awake, then held
very still as Brian's fingers undid the last button on his pants
and reached inside. "Brian?" He jerked up. Maybe the man was
still asleep, moving in a dream.

"Duncan," Brian whispered, his body pressing close, the hand
closing over his cock. "Please, you said you loved me. I need
this. I need you. Don't deny me this." The hands kept moving,
delving deeper between his legs where his cock responded
automatically to the attention and he felt himself go hot with
embarrassment and confusion.

"Brian, 'tis not like that! I said I loved you like a brother,
I..." but his best friend was all over him, crushing him into the
corner of the small carriage./

"Adam!" A hand jostled his shoulder. "Adam, wake up." He blinked
against harsh sunlight. He pushed himself up to sitting, feeling
disoriented, out of place and time. Duncan was getting out of the
car. They had pulled into a gas station. "Would you put some gas
in the car?" he asked. "I'm going to take a leak."

"Watch out for guys in the woods," Methos called after him, the
amused warning popping unbidden into his mouth. Duncan turned and
gave him a brief, puzzled look, then headed towards the side of
the building. He sat for a few seconds, surreptitiously
rearranging his half-erect dick in his jeans. Weird dream. Not
really a dream. A memory. Duncan's memory? He shook his head, and
climbed out, stretching his arms above his head to relieve the
kinks from sitting too long, and hunted for where to put petrol
into Duncan's ancient automobile.

He was starring at the nozzle as it fed gas into the tank, deep
in consideration of what Mac might think of someone having access
to such intimate memories and moments in his life. There was a
powerful emotional tone to the memory/dream that lingered even
now. Obviously it had been a seminal moment in his friendship
with Brian Cullen. The pun that brought to mind made his lips
twitch, although Mac's feelings had been anything but amused. And
he clearly remembered Cullen from the Chronicles. The two men had
been close friends, indeed, even closer than the Chronicles had
actually recorded. Duncan had rescued him from madness and
despair more than once, but in the end had been forced to kill
Cullen anyway, a man he had deeply admired, and had loved like a
brother. And yet when Cullen had insisted on sexual intimacy as
well, all Duncan had felt was pity and embarrassment.

"Don't fall asleep again," a low, velvet voice admonished at his
elbow, and he started, looking up into the reflection of Mac's
sunglasses. "Or were you just busy scheming? Some nefarious plot
to get me naked on the beach?"

There was nothing of pity or embarrassment in the seductive purr
of Mac's voice, though, and Methos dismissed the dream as a
momentary oddity of time and circumstance. "Does that require a
special scheme?" Methos inquired, lowering his own sunglasses so
Mac could see the heat in his eyes. "Or can I just ask...nicely?"
He slowly licked his lips.

"How nicely?" Mac leaned closer, cocking his head.

"Ahem!" a voice made a slightly strangled noise behind them and
Mac turned to find a young man dressed in an overlarge, oil-
stained work shirt with the name "Buddy" embroidered over the
pocket. "Uh, check your oil, sir?" The boy's acne-riddled face
was slowly turning from pink to purple.

"No," Methos answered for them both. "We've got plenty of
lubrication, but thanks for thinking of us." He vaulted easily
over the door and into the passenger seat while Mac paid for
their purchase and more sedately opened the door and took his
seat.

Mac shook his head as he started the car and pulled away.

"What?"

"You're impossible, you know that? I can't take you anywhere."

"Oh, did I embarrass you?" Methos asked innocently, incongruously
pleased when that drew an irritated glare. For some dark reason,
he always got a tiny, secret thrill whenever he managed to find
one of the Highlander's emotional weak spots and make him cringe,
especially in public.

"I'm four hundred years old, Methos. I got over embarrassment a
few centuries back, but that poor lad may never recover."

"You are embarrassed!" Methos crowed in triumph. "Duncan MacLeod
of the Clan MacLeod, macho man supreme, observed in a public
relationship with a queer, a poof, a homo, a faggot...."

"That's enough!" Mac snapped. "You think you are the first man I
ever had sex with? Don't flatter yourself."

"I would hardly count a few drunken gropes in a carriage as sex,
MacLeod." He felt Mac's eyes on him and suddenly wished he had
kept his mouth shut. "I mean it takes time and experience to
appreciate all the possible nuances of..." Methos let the thought
die unspoken, and shrugged. "Anyway, I'll be an enthusiastic
teacher," he smiled, thinking he had made a pretty good recovery
of his own fumble.

They drove on in silence, but Methos couldn't relax anymore. He
could almost hear the gears turning in the Scot's head in time to
that little muscle twitching in his jaw.

It was dusk, and Mac turned off the highway on a one-lane road
winding down toward the ocean. With only a few words between
them, they unloaded the car, dumping their gear in the foyer of
the rather grand house overlooking a small stretch of private
beach interspersed with dark, jagged rocks jutting out into the
water. The sun was setting, casting long shadows and brilliant
colors across the endless vista. The two men walked out onto the
balcony and stood for awhile, just listening to the sound of the
surf and watching the colors change. The wind turned cool and
Methos rubbed his arms for warmth, but didn't really want to go
inside.

With a smile, Mac moved behind Methos, wrapping his arms around
the slighter man, lending him his warmth, resting his chin on
Methos' shoulder. "Methos?"

Methos swallowed the tension in his throat. Mac had been too
quiet all afternoon and when the Scot thought too much, it
complicated things. "What?"

"How would you feel if I had access to your most intimate
memories and thoughts? Knew things that even you couldn't
remember very well, or even at all? Would it bother you?"

"Look, Mac, I'm sorry." Methos didn't want to have this
conversation, didn't want Mac to know that his knowledge went
well beyond having read Duncan MacLeod's Chronicles. The man
would undoubtedly resent the hell out of that. Something about
Duncan's hesitancy in asking made him stop, wondering just how
much of each other they had passed to each other -- and how big a
problem it would be. Could be. "I was out of line about that
'groping in a carriage' crack. I know there's a huge difference
between my knowledge of your history and your knowledge of mine,
but the gap will close in time." He turned in Mac's arms, running
his cold hands under Mac's sweater and making him jerk and gasp.
"And that's one thing we've got a lot of, if we can just keep you
out of trouble," he insisted.

"But..."

Methos tweaked Mac's nipples and was grateful when the man
laughed and tried to pull out of his reach. "No more serious
conversation, MacLeod. We came here on holiday and I refuse to
let you worry it to death. Now I'm going to get a beer, and you
are going to fix a delicious dinner, and then we're going to find
some inventive way to work off all those calories."

<<<<>>>>

It had been an interesting evening. Mac had fixed a light dinner
and they had ended up just sitting by the big stone fireplace
reading and listening to the ocean's perpetual rush of sound. It
had lulled them into a state of quiet relaxation, and Mac was
actually glad when their lovemaking was gentle and relatively
brief. The rather sudden release from the sustained emotional
intensity of the past several months had left him feeling raw and
exhausted, a state Methos no doubt shared, although he always
seemed to maintain his emotional control and balance better than
Mac did. He didn't know whether it was just Methos' age, or
simply that he had a more emotionally volatile personality. He
suspected a little of both.

Certainly Methos' comment about groping in a carriage had
bothered him more than he was ready to admit, and on a number of
different levels. And he couldn't talk about it with Methos at
all. If Methos had gotten his information from the Watcher
Chronicles, then it meant that his whole life had been monitored
far more closely than he had realized, and it made him feel
exposed and violated. If the knowledge was gained through the
same mysterious and frightening process that had merged their
Quickenings, that was even more complicated.

Mac's life, while there was much he would prefer to keep totally
private, would seem mundane compared to that of the oldest
Immortal. Even so, he flushed at the notion of Methos having easy
access to memories he had always believed were totally private.
Was Methos saying that Mac's experience as a lover was
inadequate? He had always taken great pride in his skill and
sensitivity as a lover and after 400 years, to have his adequacy
in question was more than uncomfortable.

His mind churned as he lay in the semi-darkness of the enormous
master bedroom, unable to sleep. Methos lay on his side, one bare
shoulder and arm shining whitely against the dark covers. The man
seemed to be able to sleep whenever the opportunity presented
itself. The moon shining through the wall of windows facing the
ocean cast a blue sheen on the pale, smooth skin. Mac wanted to
touch it, but knew it would waken the man, and then he would have
to face those all-knowing eyes and face questions he couldn't ask
and couldn't answer.

And if Methos' access to his private thoughts and actions
bothered him this much, what would it be like for Methos, ever
quick to change the subject or obfuscate when his own past came
up, to know that Mac remembered things the oldest Immortal had
long forgotten? He gave up on sleep at last, slipping out of bed
and padding into the living room, closing the door behind him.

<<<<>>>>

Methos woke with an almost uncomfortable warmth on his face,
aware of the morning light pouring in through the high windows
onto the thin skin of his eyelids, eyelids that refused to open
for several minutes. He had slept deeply and well, but he was
trying to hold onto the tendrils of a dream that had drifted
through his semi-conscious mind just before he woke. It was
something about a beautiful woman with wild red hair and flawless
skin. It was more of an emotional memory, really, an intense
sense of protective, tender love that was both wonderful and
tragic. The dream awakened all kinds of other feelings and
memories, of his own loves lost to time and tragedy. Lord, how
did MacLeod do it, Methos wondered. To have so little armor
against the pain must be a terrible burden.

Even as the thought passed through his mind and he reluctantly
opened his eyes and sat up, he could almost hear Mac's voice in
his head. "There are some sacrifices that are worth the price,"
he would say, meaning that the pain of loss was the price of the
joy of really living. No wonder the man sometimes fell into such
dark broods.

The empty space beside him on the bed was cool to the touch, so
Mac had been up for awhile, and he could smell the tantalizing
fragrance of Kona coffee drifting through the room. He found some
discarded boxer shorts and pulled them on, shuffling into the
living room as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and combed back
his hair with his fingers.

The coffee was wonderful, and the sun felt even warmer out on the
deck, with the wind blowing out towards the ocean creating a
comfortable breeze. Methos reached out his senses automatically,
curious about whether Mac was nearby, but was abruptly reminded
that even if he were, Methos wouldn't be able to tell. He frowned
into his cup, still undecided as to whether this whole shared
Quickening thing was merely an annoyance, or a real problem.

He was still silently pondering the question when a lone figure
in shorts and an old gray sweatshirt emerged from the rocks way
down the beach, almost lost in the morning mist. His long, strong
legs carried him quickly over the sand, weaving around the rocky
outcroppings, sometimes leaping over them effortlessly. He never
broke stride, and Methos just enjoyed the view, wishing
momentarily that he had a pair of binoculars so he could see
Mac's sweaty face, watch as his chest expanded deeply with each
breath. At last Mac was to their house and he turned inland,
slowing as he slogged through the dryer, loose sand up to the
steps that led to the porch.

Methos had gone inside as Mac had turned, and emerged with a
towel and a glass of orange juice.

"Thanks," Mac gasped breathlessly, wiping his streaming face and
neck with the towel and pulling the soaked kerchief off his head.
Then he took the juice and drank several long gulps before he
leaned up against the porch railing to stretch the backs of his
calves.

"How far did you go?" Methos asked.

"Up to the rock outcroppings before you get to the cliffs north
of here, maybe four, five miles," he answered, still breathing a
little quickly.

"You mean four or five miles each way," Methos amended, and Mac
just nodded and finished the rest of the orange juice. "That's
what, about an hour and a half? Two hours?"

"It was a good run," Mac said, perfunctorily.

"If you'll wait for me tomorrow morning, I'll run with you," he
offered, wondering at his own sanity as the words left his mouth.
But he didn't like the thought of Mac running for miles without
his sword and without anyone watching his back.

Mac smiled. "Why don't I just get you up at 5 am or so?" he
asked, leaning close, his sweaty heat palpable on Methos' skin.

"In your dreams, Highlander," Methos grunted, pushing him towards
the house. "You go take a shower and I'll put out some
breakfast."

Methos watched as Mac headed to the bedroom, wondering if the
tension he felt from the man was just his own overactive
imagination. He wandered back into the living room, picking up
the previous evenings' leftover glasses and found a text on
medieval art open on the couch that hadn't been there the night
before.

<<<<>>>>

"Sleep okay last night?" Methos looked up from the breakfast
table when Mac emerged from the bedroom, damp but clean, dressed
in shorts and a sleeveless shirt, his golden skin still flush
from exercise. Methos had decided the vague sense of distance he
felt from Mac was real, and that Mac had been up since well
before dawn, reading, then running himself ragged to exorcise
some internal demon that had disturbed his sleep.

Mac shrugged. "A little restless, I guess." He straddled the
chair, reaching for a piece of toast. "What did you want to do
today?"

"Do? Do we have to do something?" Methos asked.

"Well, there's an artist colony a few miles down the coast, some
nice shops and restaurants. Or we could drive an hour or two
inland and take a walk among the redwoods, maybe take a picnic
basket or something."

"Mac," Methos said the name with enough emphasis to force the
Scot's dark eyes up to meet his own. "We're here to relax. To me,
relaxing means doing as little as possible. Reading. Sitting on a
rock in the sun. Building sand castles. Why do you always have to
run around doing things?"

The big shoulders shrugged. "I like being active, and I go on
vacation to distract myself, to see and do different things."

"And I go on vacation to do nothing," Methos replied. "And what
do you need distraction from?" Methos persisted, "what kept you
awake last night?"

Mac shot him a dark look, then occupied himself spreading jam on
his toast. "So how about we compromise," Mac offered. "We spend
the morning doing nothing, and the afternoon wandering through
galleries."

The few seconds of silence that Methos let fall before he
answered was intended to let Mac know he was not fooled, only
that he had chosen to let the matter drop temporarily.

<<<<>>>>

Somehow, compromise with Methos always ended up with doing
exactly what the old man wanted. After a morning of lying around
on the deck, reading, Mac made an attempt to pack a lunch, but
Methos trailed around, munching on whatever Mac put out so that
ultimately they ended up snacking at the breakfast bar. By then
it was the middle of the afternoon and Methos complained that by
the time they got to the galleries they would have too little
time to truly explore them, so why didn't they just wait for
another day. And so it went until the bright sunlight began to
dim, and they settled out on the deck once more. Methos had fixed
some exotic drink he called "Blue Boomies," using lime juice,
beer, tequila and blue curacao, and they watched the sun slowly
descend behind the hazy, thin demarcation line between the blue
sky and the blue ocean.

The drink went down almost too easily, Mac decided halfway
through his second tall glass of blue liquid. The liquor was
making him feel heavy and warm, especially after he had gotten so
little sleep the night before. He pondered once more his decision
whether or not to attempt any discussion of their shared
Quickening, especially the memories that seemed to periodically
flash into Mac's head, usually when he was most relaxed.

/He was running. There was something...someone chasing him and he
didn't know why, only that his head rang and buzzed every time
the Other got close, and that the Other wanted to kill him. Had
been chasing him forever, it seemed. Had killed everyone he loved
and then hunted him like an animal.

And the other wouldn't die. Couldn't die. He wouldn't have
believed it except that the same had happened to him...twice. The
first when famine gradually killed off his entire tribe, but his
body refused to stay dead, forcing him first to watch everything
he cared about shrivel and die, then to wander for cycle after
cycle, dying again and again until he was taken in by another
tribe at last, as a slave. That had been long ago, but it had
happened again when he had revived from being mauled by a great
cat, and the magic no longer had the power to surprise him.

He heard crashing in the brush behind him, but his legs had
carried him too far for too long and he could run no further. He
turned at last to face the monster, the monster so like himself.
He had known it instinctively, somehow. That horrid noise in his
head that surged whenever the monster came near was the first
clue. The fact that the monster had healed so quickly from the
barrage of rocks Metlos had rained down on him several turns
before had convinced him. It had been an odd moment, to know he
wasn't entirely alone in the world, but it also seemed fitting,
somehow, that the only other of his own kind he had ever
encountered wanted to kill him for no reason. It was all such
nonsense since he couldn't die anyway, yet he feared this man as
he had not feared anyone for many, many seasons.

The man cleared the rise behind him, standing tall, chest heaving
with effort. The furs he wore were tattered and smeared with old
blood, making him appear large and fearsome, yet he looked like a
man, dark eyes peering out from long, stringy brown hair hanging
over his eyes and furring his face. He carried a tool, long,
pointed and sharp on one edge. Metlos had never seen its like and
his eyes fixed on it, wondering what magic had created such a
thing.

The monster grunted at him in sounds that had no meaning. Then he
waved his deadly tool at him and grunted some more, clearly
threatening him, as he had threatened from a distance, for days
on end, until both of them were exhausted from the hunt. But
Metlos had one advantage. He knew he was faster, more agile, if
not stronger. And he had always been smarter than the others,
always different. He stepped backwards, as though terribly
afraid, which was only the truth. The monster stepped ponderously
towards him, still gasping with exhaustion.

Metlos stepped back again, pretended to slip on a rock and fell,
letting the monster get closer and closer. The man raised the
long tool above his head, preparing to hit him with it but at the
last second, Metlos rolled free, reaching back and grabbing at
the stiff, smelly furs to yank the man off his feet. Metlos felt
for the nearest rock and struck, smashing the monster's face,
then smashing it again and again until the features were nothing
but blood and bone.

He sat on the ground for a long time, then, panting for air.
Watching. His heart sank when suddenly the huge chest rose and
the mutilated face made a horrible gasping, groaning noise. He
didn't know what to do anymore. He had run and run and run, and
fought and fought but this monster wouldn't stop, wouldn't go
away, wouldn't die. Maybe if he had no hands, he couldn't fight
anymore. Metlos picked up the long tool, its weight so great he
could hardly lift it. With a grunt of effort he swung and hacked
at the monster's arms, chopping off one hand, then the other even
as the man screamed and thrashed, his blood spraying and soaking
the dry, dusty earth. But still the man refused to die, and
Metlos watched in horror as the face rearranged itself into nose
and mouth and eyes again, and the rough stumps of arms healed
over, ugly, but no longer an open wound.

Perhaps without legs the man would no longer chase him, so Metlos
raised the tool once more, hacking at the squirming, wiggling
legs until there was nothing left below either knee. The screams
were weaker now, the incomprehensible sounds the man was making
sounded like cries for mercy, but after a moment the blood
stopped flowing and the man was still alive, still speaking those
ugly sounds at him.

He didn't want to hear those ugly sounds any more. They had
haunted his days and his nights for days on end, those hideous
noises, taunting him, echoing even in his dreams when he managed
to sleep even for a moment. He stood for a long time looking down
at the handless, legless body. At last he raised the heavy tool
once more, though his arms were now weak and shaking with the
strain, striking at the neck, hacking again and again until at
last the head rolled loose from the body, and the monster could
speak no more.

A deathly silence filled the air and somehow he knew. Finally. It
was dead. Truly dead. The nightmare was over. Then an arc of
light snapped, and he jumped back, but the light followed him,
arching through him with an agony and an ecstasy he had never
imagined.

Then the world ended./

Mac jerked awake, his drink spilled over his lap and across the
deck, his own cry still echoing in his ears.

"Mac?"

He looked up. Methos was sitting on the edge of the lounge chair,
looking at him with concern. Mac took a few deep breaths to calm
himself, to clear his mind from the horrific sense of violation
and fear the vivid dream had left. The ocean breeze had turned
cool with the setting of the sun and his sweat-dampened skin
puckered with the chill.

"Bad dream?" Methos asked, watching him closely.

"Yeah. Bad dream." He swiped at the sticky blue liquid on his
shorts, wondering if it would permanently stain the fabric. "What
a mess. Sorry about that."

Methos just watched him for a minute, then rose and went inside,
coming back out with a dishtowel and tossing it into Mac's lap.

"You gonna talk about it, or are we going to pretend there's
nothing wrong?" Methos asked. He was leaning his forearms against
the railing, looking out at the surf breaking against the rocks.
The sun was gone and the evening had turned chill, the light
quickly dimming to a blue, hazy dusk.

"Nothing to pretend about," Mac shrugged. "I'm fine. Don't you
ever have bad dreams?" He wasn't ready to discuss these weird
visions yet, realizing he had deliberately put Methos' earlier
questions about his sleepless night out of his head. And it
wasn't exactly a lie. Who knew if what had happened was something
'wrong' anyway? Maybe it would all just fade away in time. He was
convinced Methos would freak out, possibly make a quick and
permanent exit if he knew Mac was literally remembering the
oldest Immortal's earliest years -- years Methos himself didn't
even recall. And no doubt Methos would be convinced that Mac
would rush to judgment about whatever occurred. But he had sworn
to himself that would not happen. Never again.

Methos nodded, his focus still on the tumbling surf. "Getting
funny little snatches of someone else's history?" he asked. Mac
could hear the grim tension in his voice.

Funny little snatches? Mac thought in amazement. Is that how they
seemed to you? You have no idea. "I can handle it," Mac snapped.
"Can you?"

He watched as Methos shoulders shook for a moment in a soundless
laugh. "There is nothing in your life that could shock me,
Highlander."

So all Methos was worried about was that Mac would see snippets
of his sometimes violent and sordid past. No doubt the old man
was mildly amused at his peek into Mac's own comparatively pallid
and uninteresting history.

"Sorry if my life bores you, Methos," he responded, knowing he
sounded petulant, hating it but helpless to stop it. "I think
I'll go change my clothes." He had to force himself to walk
calmly away, closing the sliding screen door quietly behind him.
Well, what should he have expected? Methos had formed some
irrational heroic image of him before they had even met. "You're
too important to lose" was a phrase that would haunt him to the
end of his days. And now all that was being stripped away and
Methos was seeing his stalwart Highlander as the callow, driven
fool that he was. All the mistakes he had made over the
centuries, all the people he had allowed to die, all the people
he had killed. All his sexual liaisons, few of them stretching
the boundaries of convention with either sex. He had never felt
the need, being more concerned with the companionship, the
friendship, and if he was very fortunate, the love being
expressed in the act of intercourse. This sense of sexual
inexperience and utter inadequacy was new, disturbing and
humiliating. Had Methos merely been making fun of him all this
time?

He sat on the edge of the bed, contemplating packing up and
leaving.

"Duncan, Duncan, Duncan," Methos voice sighed behind him, making
him whip around in surprise. Being so blind to another Immortal's
presence was truly disconcerting. The man was leaning against the
doorframe, arms crossed, with an annoying, condescending smile on
his face. He was in ancient cutoffs and nothing else, the white-
blue fringed edge dangling raggedly around his thighs. The long
day in the sun had given him a mild, momentary sunburn, flushing
his skin with warm color. Without the usual camouflage of over-
large dark clothes, the lean, hairless, smooth musculature seemed
surreal, almost predatory.

"You sometimes make me think of those little electronic signs
they put in windows where words move across in a continuous line.
You might as well have one pasted on your forehead," he added. He
came over and sat down beside him, but Mac stood and moved away,
yanking off the stained shorts and reaching into his drawer for
fresh sweatpants.

"Mac, come here and sit down," Methos instructed, his tone one of
patient affection, like a parent to a stubborn child.

Mac yanked at the strings on his sweatpants, tying them in jerky
movements. "Just let it be, Methos. I'm not a child, although you
seem to want to treat me like one. I can't do anything about the
fact that my life is just one big bore to you. So spare me the
condescension." He went over to the closet and pulled out his
boat shoes, slipping them on. "I'm going to the store for some
fresh fruit for breakfast," he announced. "The nearest place is a
bit of a trek so it'll probably take me an hour or so." He was
tired. He was confused. He was angry. It was the only thing he
could think of to get away, out of the house before he said
something he'd really regret.

<<<<>>>>

Methos watched out a window as Mac thumped down the back stairs,
got into the T-bird and drove away, the classic car's wheels
spitting up sand and gravel as he pulled away out onto the road.
He had considered protesting, of insisting on going along, but
Mac was seriously irritated with him, and perhaps some time alone
was a good idea. Mac needed to cool down, to get past any silly
discomfort about Methos' peek into his more intimate memories.
The man could be a stubborn idiot at times, but given a little
breathing room he usually managed to think his way past his
initial knee-jerk emotional reactions.

The notion that Mac might be having similar insights into his own
past...his mind skittered away from that thought, just as it had
every other time he had considered the idea. If Mac had been
having such dreams, the man would have no doubt blurted it all
out to him, or run screaming into the night. No, his own life was
far too crowded with images and memories to make much sense to
anyone else even if they did glimpse into his past. He shook
himself, not particularly comfortable with his thoughts.

But something continued to bother him as he turned away from the
window, headed to the refrigerator for another beer, more than
the amusement at Mac's ludicrous bout with fears of inadequacy.
He stepped through the foyer toward the kitchen before he
realized what it was. Mac had left his katana lying on the table
in the hallway, right next to Methos' broadsword.

<<<<>>>>

Mac was about five minutes down the highway before he realized he
had left without his sword. He slowed the car, pulling off onto
the shoulder, and just sat in the dark, letting other cars whiz
past, their lights momentarily flashing in his rearview mirror
before they disappeared around the bend ahead.

He finally had to smile at his own foolishness. No one but Methos
ever managed to rattle him so completely. But he was damned if he
was going to let Methos know that. He started the car and eased
back onto the road. He not only didn't really need the weapon, he
didn't want it. It was ridiculous to try to carry a sword while
wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and sweatpants. He'd gone without
one for almost two years after his encounter with...his mind
always avoided thinking about his dance with the devil and the
events that preceded it. He only wished he could have put his
sword away forever.

He deliberately shrugged off the naked unease that threatened to
make him turn back. Maybe he'd buy Methos something special, a
unique microbrew or maybe some really decadent ice cream.

The grocery store was typical for a small, well-heeled resort
community. All brand names, lots of smaller containers of basics
like dish soap and an extra large display of sunscreen lotion.
The fruit was all carefully arranged, polished and shiny under
the fluorescent lights, most of it breathtakingly expensive. He
chose some strawberries and a nice melon, managed to find a brew
in the cooler called "Old Man Ale" then wandered the aisles with
no particular purpose in mind other than letting his mind settle.
Methos had been so smug, full of snappy comebacks and
condescension. Damn, but the man could be irritating, with a
unique ability to make him feel stupid, graceless and inept. It
wasn't a feeling he was used to and that alone threw him totally
off his stride.

"Personally, I've never found breakfast cereal to be all that
interesting," a voice said behind him. He turned and there was a
young brunette woman standing there, apparently waiting for him
to move.

"Oh, sorry. Just daydreaming." He stepped back so she could reach
for a box of Corn Chex. She smiled at up at him and took the box
back down the aisle to a cart being pushed by another
woman...girl really, although sometimes they all seemed like
children. They leaned together for a moment, whispering and
watching him out of the corners of their eyes.

It was hardly the first time he'd been ogled in his 400-odd
years, and he had learned long ago that the best response was no
response at all. He shook himself out of his stupor and got into
the checkout lane with his few purchases, pondering what he was
going to say to Methos once he got back.

"New in town?" a now-familiar voice said at his back once again,
and he turned. She was very tan, her body honed to physical
perfection and displayed nicely in a bright pink tank top cut off
at the midriff, tight pedal pusher pants and sandals. Her blonde
friend crowded behind her, similarly dressed in casual, revealing
clothes.

"We try to make it a point to know all the really handsome men in
town," the blonde added, as if to clarify the question.

When it came to beautiful women, Mac couldn't resist a response
that was as automatic as breathing. He smiled, and was pleased
when both ladies blushed. "Just visiting," he responded. The
clerk rang up his purchases and he pulled out his money clip,
handing over a fifty and receiving his change.

"Visiting where?" The brunette seemed persistent, following him
away from the cashier and letting her friend pay for their
groceries.

Mac nodded in a generally northern direction. "A rented house
about six miles north along the coast road. Why?" he asked,
letting another smile quirk his lips, reaching all the way to a
raised, inquisitive eyebrow. They were both flirting, he knew,
although he should nip this in the bud. It just felt good at the
moment, knowing she wanted him, that both women wanted him.
"Looking for a place to stay?"

Now the brunette flushed to her roots, her cheeks bright with
color. "Uh, no!" she responded a little breathlessly. "It's just
that...well, Tanya and I were headed over to the only really good
place to get a drink around here and, well, wondered if you were
headed there, too. They've got a live country western band, and a
really nice dance floor."

"And you are?"

"Oh! How stupid of me," she gasped. "I'm Naomi." She stuck out
her hand. Mac had to move his grocery sack to his left arm, but
eventually took her hand in his own in a light grip, more of a
caress than a handshake. By now, she was just staring up at him,
her mouth slightly open, her eyes shining.

"My name is Duncan," he responded softly. "Duncan MacLeod. And
you should be a little more careful, Naomi, about introducing
yourself to strange men. I could be an axe murderer," he
admonished. Tanya had finished her transaction and had joined
them, her focus wandering back and forth between her friend and
Duncan. "Or," he added with a smile, "I could be married and have
a wife and four kids waiting for me back at the house."

But Naomi had managed to recover a little of her composure, and
Duncan gave her points for spunk. "Are you?"

"Married, or an axe murderer?" he asked.

"Either," Naomi responded, now meeting his eye with a definite
look of challenge.

"Well, I'm definitely not married," he said. "As for being an axe
murderer, why I haven't killed anyone with an axe in...years," he
shrugged and smiled tightly.

"Well, then," Tanya broke in, nudging her friend as they shared a
knowing look, "I guess we're pretty safe, right? How about it,
want to come along?"

Well, he had told Methos he would be awhile, and it might be nice
to scope out the local nightspot before the two of them showed up
together. And the ladies looked very delectable in their skimpy
little outfits. He could think of worse ways to spend an evening,
among them listening to Methos carp at him about how utterly
uninteresting he found Mac's life.

He looked down at his old sweatpants and tee-shirt. "I'm hardly
dressed for an evening out," he equivocated.

Naomi managed to inch her way a little closer, until he could
smell the residue of coconut oil from her suntan lotion, and see
the gentle mounds of her soft breasts, unconstrained beneath her
tank top. "You look just fine to me," she purred. Her near-violet
eyes opened wide and met his with a blatant invitation. "As a
matter of fact, you're the finest thing I've seen around here in
a long time."

"Naomi!" Tanya almost shrieked, tugging at her friend's arm.
"Don't mind her," she stammered, her face glowing bright red.
"She's...she's outrageous."

Duncan just smiled, meeting Naomi's seductive smile with one of
his own. "I've always liked outrageous women."

The two women in their red convertible Pontiac Sunbird led him
inland a couple of miles to a rambling, weathered structure with
a huge neon sign atop, announcing that it was the Texas Tavern,
where the deep, heavy beat from the live band inside could be
heard all the way out in the crowded, gravel parking lot. Mac had
a few misgivings at the large number of pickup trucks with
oversized tires parked in the lot, along with a long row of
supercharged Harley's.

These girls would've been fools to have come here without a male
escort, Mac decided a little grimly, and made sure he was close
behind them as they entered the crowded, noisy bar. He managed to
get them each a beer by sheer dint of size and presence,
maneuvering carefully back through the crowd to the small table
they had snagged. No sooner had he put the beers down than Naomi
had grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the dance floor.

"Do you know how to do the Texas Two Step?" she shouted into his
ear over the thundering music.

"Know it?" he had to grin at her. "I was there when it was
invented!" Then they were on the floor, his arm around her waist,
her arm around his and they were moving in a circle with the rest
of the dancers. When Naomi realized he really did know the dance,
the couple easily moved into more elaborate patterns, each
turning and twirling in time to the music, until they had cleared
a little of the floor to themselves, so that when the music came
to a crashing close, there were cheers and applause from the
informal audience that had gathered to watch.

Before he could wipe away the sweat that had started to trickle
down his temple, Tanya had claimed him for the next dance, and it
was two more songs before he was allowed to find his beer and sit
down for a minute to catch his breath.

"Where are you from, Duncan?" Naomi asked in the sudden relative
quiet as the band launched into a slower ballad. "You may dance
like a Texan but you sure don't sound like one."

As usual, he equivocated with a short explanation of having
traveled a lot. Maybe someday he would be able to erase his
ancient Scottish burr from his speech entirely, but maybe the
reason he hadn't was because he didn't really want to. He was a
little relieved when Naomi was asked to dance, then Tanya,
leaving him momentarily to himself. He hadn't worn a watch, but
suspected he had been gone a little too long, and that Methos
would be wondering what was keeping him. He would just finish his
beer and make a graceful exit. His only concern was that the two
women shouldn't be left alone in this rowdy place. Another hour
or so and the level of drunkenness would diminish judgment on
everyone's part.

The song ended and both women made their way back to the table,
slipping into their chairs and taking long drinks from their
beers as Mac polished off the last of his own drink. He had to
lean over and raise his voice again to be heard. "Time for me to
be off, I'm afraid, ladies. Can I walk you to your car?"

"Oh, Duncan," Naomi pouted. "We just got here. You can't leave
yet!"

A sudden chill washed down Mac's neck and he sat up, his eyes
searching the crowd, his hand closing around his absent katana.
Not now. There he was, at the entrance, all decked out in western
gear, high heeled boots, bolo tie, Stetson hat and all, and with
a long, fringed leather jacket. Long enough to conceal a sword.

The two Immortals' eyes found each other easily, but Mac forced
himself to sit back in his chair, expressionless, as the man
approached.

"Deacon Albright," the man said, stopping an arm's length away.
He was about Mac's height, maybe a little taller, but certainly
chunkier. Looked more like an offensive tackle, thick in the
middle, probably at least 30 pounds heavier than he should be.
Not usually a good characteristic for a swordfighter.

"You two know each other?" Naomi asked, looking a little
nervously between the two men. Although not overtly hostile,
there was an unmistakable tension in the air between them.

"Not exactly," Mac assured her. "We just have something in
common. Look, Albright, another night, all right?"

Albright leaned down, his thin mouth hardening into a line. "I
gave you my name, mister. The usual response is to give me
yours."

Mac slowly stood, his hands itching to reach for a blade. "I said
another night, my friend. The ladies and I were just leaving
anyway." He reached down and took Naomi's arm, urging her to her
feet.

"Duncan! What's going on?" Naomi snatched her arm away. "I'm not
ready to go yet."

"Duncan?" Albright cocked his head. "No. Couldn't be," his voice
lowered.

"I said not tonight," Mac snarled, stepping up close.

"Where's your blade?" Albright asked softly. "Did I catch you at
a bad time?"

"There is no good time for this!" Mac hissed. "But if you want,
I'll meet you somewhere later."

"Hey, what is it with you guys?" Tanya had now inserted herself
into the conversation. "Get a grip, will you? This isn't the O.K.
Corral, you know."

"I'll meet you outside, right now," Albright insisted, stepping
back to let Mac pass.

Mac considered his options, and in a flash, Albright was face
down on the table, beer bottles rolling and smashing messily onto
the floor, and patrons and his two new lady friends squealing and
scattering. He bent Albright's arm up high enough to snap
tendons, eliciting a yelp of pain. He leaned close to the man's
ear. "You have a hearing problem?" he asked. "You want to fight
me? You really want to take me on, cowboy? Then meet me on the
beach, tomorrow night, midnight, six miles north of here. Don't
worry about the exact location. I figure we'll find each other."
He pushed away, and Albright rolled away from his injured arm, he
and the table crashing to the floor at the same time.

<<<<>>>>

Mac's hands slipped on the T-bird's leather-covered steering
wheel as he gripped it, and he realized he was squeezing the
wrapping so hard it was creaking under the pressure. He schooled
himself to calm. Why should he be surprised after all? Why should
he manage to escape for even one fucking weekend without some
asshole wanting to take his head? And his attempts to urge his
two companions to leave for their own safety had proven futile.
They had even gotten angry at his implication that they needed
some protection from the obvious rough elements of the rowdy bar.
Well, they were on their own now. They couldn't say he hadn't
tried to warn them.

He reached the driveway of the rented house more quickly than
expected, and realized he was lucky not to have gotten a speeding
ticket on the drive back. He yanked the grocery sacks from the
trunk and slammed it closed, realizing that the brew he had
bought in an attempt to do something nice for Methos was now
warm.

All in all, it had not been a good day.

He managed to get the door open with his hands full of groceries
and keys and found his way into the kitchen, dumped his packages
on the counter and looked over the breakfast bar into the living
room, where Methos had laid a fire in the big stone fireplace and
was stretched out on the couch, reading a book by the light of a
single lamp. The rest of the living room was in semi-darkness.

"I'm back," he announced desultorily.

"I noticed," Methos said, his voice floating quietly out of the
gloom.

"I got you some beer, but it will take a little while to chill.
And I got some fruit for tomorrow morning," Mac called as he put
the groceries away in the refrigerator.

There was no response from the living room.

Mac found a glass and poured himself a double shot of scotch. He
trudged into the living room and settled into a chair, then
stretched his neck around, trying to relieve some of his tension.
He was exhausted, but too wound up to relax yet, or even attempt
to sleep.

He looked over to Methos, but the man seemed completely absorbed
in his book, which was a shame since Mac could think of one sure-
fire way to take his mind off the frustrations of the day and the
challenge that awaited the next night.

"Interesting reading?" he ventured.

"Mmm," was the only answer.

Oh, yeah. He had almost forgotten. Just as they had finally
tentatively begun to discuss this shared memory weirdness, Methos
had made a joke about the mundane quality of Mac's life. He took
a slow, deep breath and lay his head back, recognizing all the
signs of a serious rift growing between them. Okay. Let it go. So
what if compared to Methos' life, his own was a
little...ordinary. Methos was here, wasn't he? That had to count
for something.

He moved from the chair over to the couch, sitting on the edge
and leaning an arm against the back. "Miss me?" he asked, his
voice pitched low and quiet.

The eyes did not move from the page. "Was I supposed to? Did you
really expect me to come running after you, throwing myself into
the middle of whatever fray you managed to get yourself into?" he
asked, his voice smooth as silk, almost without inflection.

"What are you talking about?"

At last the gaze lifted, meeting Mac's with a cold intensity that
made him push back a little. A tiny smile curved at one corner of
Methos' thin lips. "You are a terrible liar, MacLeod. I can smell
the beer, the smoke, the perfume, the testosterone. You were gone
for almost three hours, for Chrissake. How many bars did you
cruise without your blade? Did you do it in another bout of
suicidal self-pity, or just to see if I cared?" Methos gave up
the pretense of reading the book and let it close with a snap.

"I..." Mac's mind was momentarily blank with surprise.

"Don't bother to answer. It doesn't really matter, anyway. I
can't do this, Mac. I won't. If you want to get yourself killed,
then just do it and get it over with. It will be horribly
unpleasant initially, but less painful than this sick,
pathetic..." Methos' voice broke, and he pushed Mac away so he
could get up off the couch, stepped out on the back porch and
slammed the screen door behind him.

Mac ran his fingers through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut
against the intense headache that was forming at his temples. He
took a deep breath and followed his lover out onto the porch,
where the stiff evening breeze coming in off the ocean
immediately chilled his skin. Methos must be freezing, standing
there in only shorts, with no shirt on at all. The thinner man
was hugging himself, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Mac moved up behind him, braced his legs wide and pulled the
stiff, unyielding figure into his chest, holding him tight. "I'm
sorry," he whispered, and went on quickly when Methos started to
pull away with a curse, holding the man even more tightly. "I
didn't even realize you knew I had forgotten the katana. Truly I
didn't. I would have called otherwise. I wasn't suicidal at all.
It had nothing to do with that. I'm really sorry." He kissed the
cold skin of Methos' shoulder. "Forgive me?" he asked, and laid a
trail of soft kisses up the long column of pale neck to just
behind Methos' ear.

"Very pretty, MacLeod, but walking out without your sword is
terminally stupid," Methos answered coldly. "And an apology
doesn't explain why you were gone for almost three hours and why
you smell like dime store perfume and stale cigarette smoke."

"Jealous?" Mac smiled into Methos' pale skin. At that, Methos
jerked out of his arms and stepped away, gripping the railing.

"If I were jealous of every person you screwed, MacLeod, I
wouldn't have energy left over for anything else, now would I? Is
that what you did tonight? Reassure your threatened ego by
crooking your little finger at the first sweet young thing to
cross your path? No doubt she was thrilled to spread her legs for
you. Everyone else seems to be."

"You are jealous!" Mac said in astonishment.

"No, MacLeod. I'm disappointed. Disappointed that you couldn't
manage to stay here and talk about whatever bug has been up your
ass ever since we got here. Disappointed that you didn't even
consider the possibility that I might...," he took a deep breath
before he went on. "That I might have been a little concerned
when you were gone for three fucking hours without your sword,
when all you were doing was going to the grocery store."

"That's not fair, Methos. I told you I wasn't aware that you knew
I didn't have the katana, and I told you I might be awhile. I'm
sorry I worried you, I really am, but I went for two years
without carrying a blade and for me, it's just not that big a
deal. As for talking, well it seems to me that you're the one who
is unwilling to talk about this...this thing that's happened. The
most you've said is that whatever little tidbits you might see of
my life, it's pretty damn boring! And don't you remember I found
you huddled in the bottom of the shower, screaming at me about
how I knew that name I called you? Well, how the hell did you
think I knew it?" Mac forced a little more calm into his voice,
which was quickly rising to a near-bellow. "And you're surprised
when I'm not real comfortable talking with you about this?"

Methos was shivering, whether from tension or emotion or the
cold, Mac didn't know, but the man's discomfort was making him
crazy. The silence between them lengthened and Mac was ready to
figuratively throw his hands in the air and leave. Methos had
just claimed he wanted to know what was bothering Mac and now
that it was out, the man's tight silence made a lie of everything
he'd said.

It was pointless. Mac stared at him for a long moment, both
seeing and not seeing the sharp lines of Methos' profile. He
didn't know what else to say. He'd apologized, he'd explained...

He stepped back; to leave, to get Methos a jacket, to escape, he
didn't know. He turned away, only to feel cold fingers wrap
around his wrist. "I don't remember that name..." It was said so
softly Mac almost didn't hear it. "And I never said your life was
boring. Only that nothing you've done would shock me."

Duncan turned back. Methos' body was half turned toward him but
his gaze was firmly fixed on the dark horizon, his arm stretched
between them where he still held firmly to Duncan's wrist. The
silence stretched again and then Methos drew a deep breath.
"Three hours, Duncan. I've lived through centuries that went by
faster."

Mac used the leverage of Methos' near-painful grip on his arm to
reel the man in, folding him tight in his arms, rubbing his hands
along Methos' biceps for warmth and comfort. "God, I'm so sorry.
I didn't know. I didn't think," he whispered softly into the dark
hair ruffling in the cold wind.

Once more Methos broke away, using enough force to make Duncan
release him but not actually going far - enough to look Duncan in
the face. "I don't want your apologies, MacLeod. I think I've had
enough of those to last me awhile as well. You don't think much
of me, do you?"

"Wha-why do you say that?" Duncan was flabbergasted, once more
caught off guard. For the life of him he didn't know why it
didn't feel more familiar as often as it happened. "Methos...I
think a lot of you. Admire and-"

"-and fascination and awe," Methos said and he sounded tired. "So
you say...but it isn't true. What kind of man would stay with a
foolish, immature, uninteresting, predictable, do-gooder with a
guilt complex? Not a very wise one. Or patient or even with a
modicum of taste, surely?"

Blood rushed to Duncan's face, brain responding sluggishly to the
accusations, the derision and mocking tone in Methos' voice.

"Is that how you see me, Duncan?"

He'd probably do better just to sit down. Methos was changing
tacks so fast Duncan could barely keep up. "No! Of course not! I
see you as...you are-"

Methos was watching him, patiently, the corner of his mouth
turned up just a little, but not mocking, not even in a leer --
just vaguely, maybe even a little sadly, amused. "Glad we have
that cleared up," Methos said finally, softly. "Now that we've
established that I don't suffer fools, bores or idiots gladly,
and by elimination establishes you as neither idiotic nor boring,
maybe we can cut through this thick swath of guilt you seem to be
determined to carry and start a new line of thinking....or
conversation." The last was said as an afterthought, Methos' gaze
once more turned toward the sea. "I'm not quite ready to talk
about your three-hour tour, but the other - I suppose we should."

"It isn't necessary, Methos. You don't have to-"

"But you need to," Methos said. "And if you apologize again I
swear I will deck you and dump you in the water for the sharks to
nibble on."

The wind picked up, sending the sand on the walkway swirling off
into the dunes. "All right. No more apologies," Duncan said,
moving to stand beside his lover, barely touching him. Methos'
skin was dimpled by cold but other than some involuntary
shivering he seemed neither to notice or care. "I've been
dreaming...your life," he said. "At least I'm pretty sure that's
what it is."

"I agree. Yours has been playing out like the miniseries of the
week for me as well."

Duncan leaned into him a little. "Can we do this inside? You're
freezing. I'm freezing."

Methos nodded and Duncan turned them both, pulling Methos inside,
shutting the screen door, then the French door and the wind's
mournful whistle died to a distant moan.

Methos moved over by the fire, staring into it, the flickering
light casting the hard planes and edges of his face into stark
relief. Mac went into the bedroom, retrieving a sweatshirt from
his drawer. He came back in to the living room, but Methos hadn't
moved, so he carefully draped the shirt around Methos' shoulders,
tying the sleeves loosely together in front.

Mac retrieved his scotch and sat in a chair, rubbing absently at
the ache in his head. "I had a dream," he said quietly, against a
backdrop of silence and distant wind and the gentle crackle of
the fire. "It was about a child raised by some kind of shaman
woman. An orphan child. Do you want to hear this, Methos? Or do
you want to just let it rest?"

"No. I don't want to let it rest. The problem is -" Methos
shrugged, seemed to notice the shirt and pulled it off his
shoulders and slipped it on, turning back to face MacLeod. "-I've
heard what you've said...the glimpses. I can't confirm or deny
it. My name...what your dream - what you saw, it triggered
something very old and deep inside, but it wasn't really memory,
only an emotional response. I don't remember it, Mac."

Mac let that settle a bit. Methos didn't look stricken or upset,
distant perhaps, slightly closed off but it seemed less focused
and more instinctual. That would be disconcerting at the very
least - to have someone else know more about you than you knew
yourself. To wonder exactly what horror occurred to make you not
remember.

"Azeez pasa taa," Mac whispered, watching Methos' face closely,
but the expression didn't change. "What I remembered, or dreamed
or saw...it wasn't bad or unpleasant. Just a child's memories.
I've been afraid to say anything. There's a reason you don't
remember, Methos. Who am I to disturb that balance?" He spread
his hands. "I didn't know what to do."

"I wouldn't have either," Methos said and moved, finally, to get
a drink for himself and bring it back. "I still don't.
But...ignoring it is proving to be a bit problematic. Not to
mention your failure to cooperate."

Mac glanced up sharply to where Methos was standing in front of
him but all he saw was wry humor - not humoring. "What else, Mac?
It bothers you...to know."

"Yes," Mac said. "It's like reading your private journal without
your permission."

"You've been curious, maybe even afraid. Of what you might find
out?"

Mac looked into his glass for a moment before he took a drink,
carefully considering his next words. "I made a vow not to judge.
But there are things that we all would like to remain private."

"And there was another dream, this afternoon," Methos reminded
him. "That one wasn't so pleasant."

Mac nodded, then took a larger gulp from his glass. "It's
very...uncomfortable. I don't want to turn away, but...I don't
want to watch either. It feels like some kind of test, and I
don't want to disappoint you, or myself." He put his empty glass
down carefully. "And I don't want to hurt you."

"MacLeod..." Methos said coming to squat in front of him, setting
his glass on the end table. "I am very rarely disappointed in you
or even in my expectations of you. And as for hurt...well, it
would seem that any hurt you may discover, was a long time ago.
Whereas, I have somehow hurt you without noticing it. It's not
what I meant."

"I didn't think you did. That's not what I'm worried about."

"Then what did you dream today?" Methos asked, maintaining his
balance with a hand laid on Mac's thigh. He squeezed lightly when
Mac hesitated. "I ask because I want to know. You've wanted to
talk about this...now I'm ready to listen."

Mac closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I dreamed of your
first Quickening," he said in a bit of a rush, then opened his
eyes.

Methos was just watching him, calm and implacable. "And?"

"It was ugly."

"Of course it was. So was yours."

"No," Mac reiterated. "This was really ugly."

"And so was yours. Can you tell me?"

Mac took his hand, stood and pulled him up, then moved to the
couch so they could sit side by side. He waited until they were
both settled before he spoke. "Whoever it was didn't speak your
language, so you didn't have any idea why he was hunting you, why
he had killed your family. And you didn't know how to kill him.
That you managed it at all was...sort of...trial and error. You
just kept...removing things." Mac's mouth had dried out and he
couldn't bring himself to say any more.

Methos leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly
shook his head. "I don't remember. I honestly don't remember."
Then he turned his head and looked at Mac with a small smile.
"See? I didn't turn into a raving monster after all."

"I didn't expect you too," Mac said, a little more harshly than
he intended. His own reaction made him sit forward. His mouth was
still dry and bitter tasting.

"Mac!" Methos said sitting forward as well and gripping Mac's
forearm. "What is it? It's not just the dreams is it? You
are...feeling what I felt? Aren't you?"

Mac's jaw tightened and he nodded. "You were...terrified.
Terrorized...exhausted. I'm not even sure you were thinking any
longer, just reacting."

"Very likely. I don't remember what it feels like not to know
what to do," Methos said, easing his grip. "No doubt
my...adversary at some point felt the same way."

Mac shrugged. "I don't know. I woke up before the Quickening."

"I'd count your blessings then," Methos said rubbing his arm.

"Have you dreamed of me taking a Quickening?" Mac asked. The
thought made his blood run cold.

"No. No, I haven't. I have seen...well, enough so far to fill in
a few of the gaps between your chronicle entries. Was Brian your
first?"

Mac couldn't help himself, he stood and moved to the fireplace.
"Of all the things for you to see," he shook his head.

"We can drop it if you're embarrassed."

"No. It's okay. Brian wasn't the first man I ever had sex with,
Methos. I'd been in countless campaigns by then, you know."

"But you did feel very strongly about Brian, I could tell."

Mac nodded silently. "He was a good friend. I wish..."

"You can't save them all, MacLeod. Especially if they don't want
to be saved."

Mac closed his eyes against a memory he hoped Methos would never
see, of Brian Cullen, so full of fear, so desperate to die that
he would attack the one person that cared about him most in the
world. He rubbed at his temples again, but found his hands pulled
away and instead Methos' cool fingers were pressed there, with
his thumbs working their way up stiff tendons in his neck, easing
away tension like a magic balm.

"And now, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Methos voice was
right next to his ear. "You are going to tell me about your
little jaunt tonight."

Both men stilled, then Mac pulled away with a sigh. "I'm really
tired, Methos. Can we talk about this tomorrow? I swear," he
raised his hand. "I swear I didn't screw anyone, male or female."

Methos' hands dropped and he stood observing Mac for a moment
before turning on his heel. He picked up their empty glasses and
dropped them in the kitchen sink before turning the lights off
there and locking the porch door. He didn't even look at Mac as
he headed for the bedroom, pulling the shirt off as disappeared
into the darkened doorway and not bothering to turn a light on
there. A moment later Mac heard the shifting and creak of the bed
and then silence.

Still batting zero, he thought, turning the gas off in the
fireplace and standing in the dark as the coals went from bright
to dull red. They were nearly gray as he closed the grating and
turned toward the bedroom, his eyes adjusting to the near
darkness.

He could hear Methos' breathing, steady, shallow breaths from the
bed, indicative of sleep, heard between the perpetual background
ebb and flow of the waves. The sheet and comforter were pulled up
to mask the form in shadows. Silently, Mac got undressed, easing
his body onto the bed where he sat for a moment, staring blindly
at the picture on the wall that he couldn't really see.

He hadn't taken a shower and removing his clothes had reawakened
the scents Methos had smelled: perfume, smoke, the particularly
stale scents bars left on your skin and in your hair. There was
another bathroom - he should use that to avoid waking Methos up.

Before he could move though he felt Methos turn on the bed and
the fingertips of one hand, much warmer now, trailed down his
spine.

"I was just going to take a shower," he whispered. A foolish
concession since Methos was obviously awake.

"Don't," Methos' voice was equally as soft, the fingertip caress
turning into the full press of his hand along Duncan's side and
the bed dipping again as Methos moved, rocking Mac backwards
slightly. "When words fail..." Methos' hand was back on his neck,
burrowing under the fall of his hair, along his scalp, his other
hand tracing out a pattern along Mac's arm, then up along his
shoulder, pushing until Mac half twisted on the bed. A mouth
descended on his, hungrily seeking entry. Methos tasted of scotch
and something sweeter, smelled of wood smoke and sea spray. There
was no fumbling here, nor hesitation and no retribution as far as
Mac could tell. Methos was insistent but not harsh, easing Mac's
fall to the bed with the strength of his arms, quite capable of
arousing Mac with no help at all.

Maybe it was Methos' way of saying he wasn't angry or that Mac
was forgiven, or maybe it was just an interlude between their
fighting and quarreling. Methos didn't speak and when Mac tried
to he found his words silenced by fingers or a mouth until the
only sounds that could escape were pants or soft moans.

Methos' skin was far from cold now, hot and slightly damp, what
distance Mac had sensed earlier closed aggressively and solidly.
Arousal was no longer a matter of coaxing and his lover's arousal
was not a matter of speculation as their hard cocks rubbed
together.

There was no frenzy for all it was swift and purposeful and Mac
almost arched off the bed when a firm hand covered him, the palm
slick and the gel there warmed to near body heat by Methos'
action. He wished he'd had the presence of mind to turn on a
light so he could see his lover's face. As it was he caught only
a glimmer of brightness where Methos' eyes were and the darkness
of an open mouth that grew smaller as Methos settled, body
opening to Mac's easily and fluidly.

Methos' hips flexed under his hands as the other man angled his
pelvis, the inside of his knees slick and smooth against Mac's
sweaty skin. He was wedged in and helpless under the other man's
weight and insistence, ears finely attuned to the breathing that
was rapidly losing control of any rhythm or cadence. Or it might
have been his own and even that became impossible to track as his
cock took over all higher brain functions. He felt a quiver and
tremor in Methos' body and then he couldn't breathe and didn't
care as Methos' mouth covered his once more, tongue invading and
conquering Mac's mouth as readily as his cock claimed dominance
in the tight constriction of his lover's ass.

He needed to breathe but Methos' mouth was relentless, the lack
of oxygen making everything more intense and setting up a
sparkling light show behind his eyelids. He knew he could breathe
through his nose but he had forgotten how, and Methos' mouth kept
his open. The fleeting thought that he might pass out and his
body continue on without noticing was lost as he suddenly and
forcefully pushed, was met and both of them arched, sucking in
air not to breathe but to have voice enough to scream or moan or
cry out.

Methos' ass was hot and slick and still tight, the shudders
running through his body counter pointed by the harsh gasps for
air. An involuntary spasm ran through Mac's body in the aftermath
and he heard Methos gasp sharply again and felt more.

Like a lightning strike but without the pain, sharp and quick and
undeniable arcing between them. A snap of sound that couldn't be
heard and Mac was as aware of Methos' heartbeat as of his own.
Felt the thick, still hard weight of a cock in his ass, filling
and swollen and a pleasure he didn't want to lose.

They both went still at the shock of it, neither breathing for a
moment as if waiting for the next strike, the next shift of
perception. Anticipating the storm that it seemed must follow - a
calm before the cataclysm.

Then it was gone. The moment, the sensation -- all of it giving
way to the sense they had lost something or missed something.

A mouth nuzzled his, taking away the sense of loss as their
bodies separated. Then Methos shifted and moved, to stretch his
long limbs from their cramped position and allow Mac to do the
same.

Mac wanted to say something, to reconnect, to bridge the gap
between them, but couldn't think of anything that wouldn't be
more likely to irritate than sooth, so he let his hand move
gently over Methos' smooth, damp shoulder, turned on his side so
he could press a kiss there, then let him go. He waited for a
moment, wondering if Methos would say anything, but he couldn't
keep his eyes open very long, and in a few moments, exhaustion
claimed him.

<<<<>>>>

Methos stared into the darkness, the sensation of Mac's hand and
lips lingering on his skin, the pleasant heat from their
lovemaking still pooling deep in his groin. He had come to a deep
and frightening realization tonight. Something he had known
somewhere in the dark, pre-conscious depths of his mind for a
long time, but which had only made itself manifest in his
intellect, in his guts, in his heart, during that long, miserable
three hours waiting for MacLeod to come home.

Each second had ticked by as a separate interminable entity,
another possible instant when the world might end. After an hour
or so he had stopped trying to figure out when this man had moved
from a desirable, bright and warming light of hope and
possibility, and become essential, mandatory, as important to his
own survival as air and water. After the second hour, he had
started to pack his bags and picked up the phone to call a cab,
but he had just looked at the receiver, put it down, then put his
things away again. There was no where to run, no place he could
hide from someone who shared the essence of his own identity,
whose death would...what? He had no idea anymore. If Duncan
MacLeod died, would he die, too? That is what finally settled him
down a little, from stark fear and panic to a kind of grim
resignation.

He turned his head, looking over at the shadow where Mac was on
his side facing him, sound asleep. Dreamless, Methos hoped. It
wasn't fair, really, for Mac to bear the real burden of the
sharing of their lives. How could a mere 400 years of a noble
life prepare him for the visceral experiences he was likely to
encounter in the bottomless well of Methos' 5,000 years of
survival at any cost? Not a fair exchange at all.

Usually sex was an almost instant soporific, but despite that,
plus the predictable, constant, soft shush of the waves crashing
on the beach outside, combined with the warmth of the man sharing
his bed, Methos lay for a long time before sleep finally claimed
him.

The dream was an old one, almost boring in its repetitive
predictability, like one of those late night commercials that
plays over and over and over again until you have memorized the
sales pitch, the jingle, even the telephone number to call for
"this incredible one-time offer!" Even so, it always formed a
hard knot of dread in his chest.

/Silas loomed over him, the great axe swinging with a loud whoosh
of air, like a scythe mowing down everything in its path. As
always, he backtracked, barely managing to defend himself each
time, feeling the cold floor slip underneath his feet. Then he
was falling, falling, the curved blade catching the light, but
instead of moving towards him, it was moving away, a pendulum of
weight in his hand and then Silas' head was flying through the
air, the eyes of the gentle giant watching him in amazed sadness,
tears streaming down the cheeks while a voice grated in his head,
"I want him to live!"

But this time, instead of waking with a start, he turned towards
the voice, peering through the dimness of concrete columns lined
up like soldiers on review and extending back into the shadows as
far as he could see. This time an engine roared, the motor
gunning, tires screaming, the battered van emerging from the
darkness, bearing down on him like a demon from hell, its bright
lights like eyes, watching him in greedy hunger.

He turned and ran, weaving in and out among the columns, trying
to out maneuver the speeding machine, his heart pounding in
confusion and fear. Somehow, he knew this was wrong. This wasn't
supposed to be happening, but whether it was from the distant
sense that knew this wasn't the familiar pattern of an old dream,
or from something else was uncertain, and only added to the
feeling of confusion and displacement.

And this dream was far more vivid, the panic in his chest, the
sense of loss and despair like an open wound, bleeding his life's
blood away as though the emotional armor he had built over
centuries had been ripped away, leaving him defenseless and
crushingly vulnerable.

The beast caught him at last, as he knew it would, smashing him
against something solid at his back, and he made a last,
desperate defensive thrust of his sword through the windshield,
deep into the darkness beyond.

Images blurred, moving too fast to follow. Limbs that wouldn't
respond, pain, the reassuring feel of the katana in his hand.
Watching Brian, shirt soaked with blood, eyes bright with madness
and despair, a blade slicing down, barely deflected, cutting him
across his neck and shoulder in as near a miss as one can get to
losing ones' head. The bitter taste of his own blood. The sudden
thought that Brian could've taken him then, with a little more
force in the blow...but his friend of two centuries staggered and
fell under a clumsy, defensive kick.

His only thought was survival, his own, Brian's. But Brian dove
for the katana, throwing it high and away, and he sadly,
reluctantly, with more agony than he thought he could stand, let
go of any hope of saving his friend, and decided to save himself.

Flashes of light, of pain, of Brian's agonized face, looking at
him at last with a desperate plea in his eyes. "Goodbye, Brian,"
he whispered.

No! He couldn't do this. His mind simply rejected what it knew
was coming. He pushed away, reaching for the katana, groping for
an escape from a nightmare that felt like it would simply render
him asunder. He could feel the Quickening creeping up on him, the
inevitability of it as daunting as the pure, unadulterated power
of despair that had been Brian Cullen./

Then there was a cold, hard wind on his face, and Methos opened
his eyes with a gasp.

And found himself on the porch, leaning against the railing, a
strong, wet ocean wind whipping his hair and chilling his skin.
He doubled over, almost gagging with the fear and desperation
crawling over his skin. The fact that he had walked in his sleep
was an astonishing testament to the emotional power of MacLeod's
experience.

But there was more, some other power that pulled at him, a
distant electric sensation. He looked up into the gray pre-dawn
shadows of sand and ocean and rock. There was a bulky shadow
below, near the surf, staring up at him, a long blade visible in
his hand.

His first instinct was to turn inside, to avoid the
confrontation, but he instantly rejected it as his mind
automatically clicked into defensive mode, the dream's sticky,
disturbing cobwebs forced aside by sheer necessity. If he refused
the challenge, the Immortal would likely come closer, awakening
MacLeod for no purpose other than to get the man into his over-
protective, over-aggressive mode, which Methos had seen too much
of recently.

Methos raised his hand to the man in a universal signal to stay
where he was, then tiptoed inside, pulling on shorts and the
sweatshirt Mac had brought him the night before, and picked up
his broadsword from the entryway table, then slipped out again
and down the steps, his bare feet sinking in the sand as he
approached the stranger on the beach.

He stopped about twenty feet away. The man was about his own
height, but bulky, huge across the shoulders and a little more
flesh in the belly than Methos would have thought wise for
someone whose life depended not just on strength, but on agility
as well.

"Out for a morning stroll?" he asked casually resting his blade
on his shoulder.

"Just a little reconnaissance," the stranger answered. "I don't
like surprises. And you're a bit of a surprise."

"Oh?"

"I was expecting someone else."

A tense knot gathered between Methos' shoulder blades. "And who
would that be?"

The man smiled. Leered actually. "I have a feeling you know."

"Humor me," Methos snapped.

"Your teacher, perhaps? A Scot? Got quite a name for himself,
I've heard. We had a little date set for tonight, but I just hate
waiting."

So that was what the bastard was doing last night. Methos
wondered when Mac planned to inform him, or if he was going to
tell him at all.

"Well, then I guess this is your lucky day," Methos smiled, and
spread his arms. "No queues, first come, first served."

"I don't want the student," the Immortal insisted with a sneer.
"I take your head, MacLeod just comes out here and takes mine
while I'm down. Go get him," he nodded towards the house. "Tell
him I'm waiting."

"I have a few things to tell him, my friend, but that isn't one
of them," and he closed in, the heavy blade whirling like a
windmill, surprising the other man until he backpedaled
frantically almost to the rocks behind him.

<<<<>>>>

He wasn't certain why he woke up, only that suddenly he was wide
awake, every sense alert. The bed next to him was empty, the
sheets cool to the touch. He sat up, uneasy at Methos' absence.

"Methos?" he called, but his voice seemed to echo back to him and
even though he was blind to the other Immortal's presence, he
knew instinctively that the house was empty. He yanked on sweat
pants and padded out to the living room, checking the front to
find that the car was still there, but...his eyes focused on the
table by the front door. Methos' broadsword was gone.

"Methos!" he called again, snatching up his own blade and
striding quickly towards the back. He threw open the French
doors, his eyes scanning the beach, and he felt it - the distant
tingle of Immortal presence. Mist was rolling in uneven waves off
of the ocean, and Mac trotted down the towards the water, letting
his instincts pull him south along the beach, his eyes straining
to penetrate the fog.

Then, for a moment, the wind died completely, the air suddenly,
ominously still. A sudden, powerful gust of air pressure washed
across the beach, clearing the mist out of its path, and opening
up a circle around two figures near the water's edge. Methos
stood over a headless body, turning to face Mac as the eerie
quiet was shattered by the thunderous explosion of released
energy of a Quickening. Sand swirled violently, stinging Mac's
flesh as he drew closer, close enough to see the hard, implacable
expression on his lover's face as he braced his legs wide and
spread his arms, letting light and power dance through his body,
snapping his head back in an involuntary scream of rage and pain.

<<<<>>>>

Methos could taste the grit of sand in his mouth, and let that
discomfort begin to chase away the trembling weakness, lethargy
and remembered agony. He was huddled on his side, hands dug deep
into the fine, wet grains dotted with small, sharp shells. For a
moment he just concentrated on breathing until at last it became
an almost automatic function, one he didn't have to actively
think about in order to achieve.

He pushed himself up to his haunches, then slowly gathered
moisture in his mouth, and spat, getting the irritating grains
out of his teeth, then wiping his mouth with the back of his
sleeve. The roar of the nearby surf somewhat masked the high
whine in his ears, but the cool, wet dawn wind made him shiver,
when he was already trembling with the aftershocks of the
Quickening.

Or was that something else? He raised his head. Mac had driven
the car onto the smooth sand near the water and was loading the
body Methos had just decapitated into the trunk. As Methos
watched, Mac retrieved the head, placed it in a plastic bag and
stored it away with the rest of the body. A gruesome chore
reduced to the level of housekeeping by hideous repetition.
Oddly, Methos attention was riveted not by the process, but by
watching Mac move, the play of muscle across the skin of his
naked back, the sweat stains that darkened the crease of the
sweatpants at MacLeod's crotch and the back of his knees.

At the same time, Methos was aware of his own anger, festering
from the night before, fed by a sense of betrayal, inflamed by
the Quickening. The sense of Mac's presence was like the grit in
his teeth, galling and insidious. At last MacLeod closed the
trunk of the car, and stepped closer, squatting down on his
haunches about ten feet away.

"Are you all right?" he asked, but his face was wary, his body
language tense and defensive.

"No," he answered on hardly a breath and jerked backward as Mac
moved forward slightly. "Don't get any closer," Methos managed,
pulling himself further back to try for his feet and failing,
flailing as he stumbled. Mac moved again, quickly, to catch him
then sucked in a sharp breath as the tip of Methos' sword hovered
perilously close to his throat. "Back to square one, MacLeod."
Methos sank heavily back on his thighs but the sword didn't
waver. "Can't you feel it?"

The expression on Mac's face indicated confusion but he was a
bright lad, it only took a few seconds and he was sitting back as
well, twice as wary. "Shit," he murmured.

"As in we are in it again. Find a hotel or a-"

"No!" Mac snapped, dark eyes flashing. Enough of a challenge in
his voice and demeanor for Methos to feel the dark urges break
free of their lethargic paths to shatter and break into sharp
lances of desire and aggression.

"Been there, done that, MacLeod," Methos snarled. "I'm not keen
to do it again. Are you?"

"Not that way," Mac said, forcing himself to relax with obvious
effort. "We do have another option, Methos. It worked once
before. We can make it work again." DMacuncan opened clenched
fists, letting them rest quietly at his sides, his dark eyes
meeting Methos' with a studied calm.

Some part of Methos recognized the tactic, fighting through the
aftermath of the Quickening, the song of MacLeod's presence
humming through every nerve ending, to struggle for the
circumstances and rationales of their previous experience to find
some answer other than trying to kill one another.

But Gods above and below, he wanted the fight. That desire was as
sharp and fresh as it had ever been. With effort, he forced his
blade down - the result being his breathing became as labored as
if he'd lifted his own weight over his head. He needed to think
this through as Mac was. There was another answer to this. Was it
blind luck, or could they find it again?

"I don't think this is something we can teach anyone else, Mac,"
he said with effort after they'd sat there still and silent for
several moments. "Somehow, I don't think fuck or fight is going
to please everyone."

Mac's teeth flashed in the dim light, bright white against his
dark and shadowed face. "No. Probably not. But for now - for us,
it works. Can you make it to the house?"

"As opposed to getting sand up my ass? Yes. I'll shower while
you--" It took real effort for Methos to release his sword,
sliding its point deep in the sand. "Lock it up," he whispered
and forced himself to his feet, turning away, feeling a shiver of
real fear run down his spine as he headed toward the house. He
heard Mac behind him; the opening of the trunk again, the harsh
'snikt' of the latch releasing. It felt as if someone were
following him, stalking him. He'd managed his anger and his
aggression thus far but it left the perpetual undercurrent of
fear in its place. By the time he topped the stairs he was
covered in sweat even though the air felt damn near arctic.

Getting inside didn't help much and he tried to concentrate on
one task at a time, getting his grit encrusted clothes off,
turning on the water, trying to figure out what Mac would do with
the body.

The hot water helped clear his head somewhat but did nothing to
quiet the over stimulated nerves. The edge he was riding became
sharply painful when he felt Mac approach. He found himself
turning in the shower to face the door, cursing himself for
surrendering his sword. His fingers turned white on the shower
bars when the door opened.

He should never have given up his sword. Never go anywhere
unarmed. It hadn't taken him more than a decade to learn that.
You might as well give up the fight altogether.

"Methos?" Mac said softly, pulling the curtain back. Methos' gaze
immediately dropped to the Highlander's hands. He seemed to be
unarmed but those hands could do lethal damage. Except they
wouldn't, he told himself fiercely. It wasn't in MacLeod to do
that - to take advantage of him in any way.

It didn't help to repeat it. Uncertainty gave way to fear which
gave way to anger which gave way to aggression. "I don't think I
can..." Methos managed to grate out, backing to the wall, feeling
naked and vulnerable the way the mere lack of clothing could
never accomplish.

"You don't have to. You don't," Mac said quietly. The steam from
the shower was turning the loose strands of hair around his face
to ringlets, glazing his skin with a thin sheen of moisture. He
reached for the washcloth, soaking it as he stepped into the
shower stall with Methos.

Methos remained still, back pressed hard against the cold tiles,
watching Mac warily, gulping air and water when the water
splashed across the other man's broad shoulders and onto his
face. Methos watched like a hawk as Mac got the washcloth soapy
and reached for him. He didn't move when Mac touched him. The
movements were slow, deliberate, meant to reassure.

Long, slow, gentle strokes worked down his arms and across his
chest, Mac bathing him as if he had been burned. He made no
effort to grab Methos or hold onto him, only washing his skin
carefully until Methos relaxed slightly, no longer backed to the
wall, moving enough so that Mac could get to his back. He held
onto the bath bar still though, afraid he might collapse if he
let go.

He thought he would be prepared when Mac pressed against him
lightly, when his hands roved over his flanks and hips, lightly
brushing over the hard flesh at his groin that had remained
rigidly at attention since shortly after the Quickening had
faded. His grip on the bars grew tighter, body like steel as he
forced himself not to flinch, or pull away or even turn and
strike.

"Methos," Mac's lips were right at his ear, hands resting on his
shoulders as he pulled him back enough to rinse his skin. Then he
turned the water off. His hands slipped down along Methos' arms
then back up, rubbing gently. "You don't have to surrender. I
will."

It took a few moments for the words to sink in, to make sense, to
remind Methos that they had found a balance once. He'd half
forgotten what it was they were doing and why.

"I don't think it will...it needs to be..." Methos was struggling
for the words as he finally released the bar to turn.

"Nothing more than it is," Mac said and kissed him, lightly, a
bare brushing of his lips against Methos', still making no move
toward restraining or even holding him.

Methos thought he opened his mouth to protest but whatever he had
to say was lost under the searing heat of Mac's mouth. It washed
through him, taking away the burgeoning chill left behind by the
lack of hot water and replacing that warmth with something that
went all the way to his bones. Even the feel of his back hitting
the cooling tiles of the shower didn't really register as
anything more than a soothing relief to the fire that burned
inside him.

But it wasn't like before - the urge to fight, to dominate,
seemed to have faded now that they were actually doing something
other than thinking or talking about it. As if recognizing a
pattern, the urges rose and fell with every breath - now the
desire for power, then the need to give up or give over that same
desire.

Methos' hands came up first, to catch Mac's face between his
palms and pull him closer, swallowing the desire with the taste
of his lover flavoring every breath. He didn't know what they
were trying to accomplish any longer, he only knew he needed
MacLeod like he needed air to breathe, and that it was getting
hard to breathe. There was a pressure building in his chest, a
humming in his ears that was both grating and comforting. Mac was
speaking but he couldn't hear and couldn't understand.

It came again, a kinder gentler shock to his system that
nonetheless ricocheted through his body like the most searing
lightning strike. He could barely feel Mac under his hands and at
the same time, the man was the most solid and real thing in his
world. Which was a good thing because everything else was rapidly
slipping away and then it was gone.

<<<<>>>>

Having Methos pass out on him after only a bath and a few kisses
wasn't what Mac expected and he wasn't quite sure what to do
about it at first other than to keep Methos from giving himself a
concussion on the side of the shower.

He thought he'd found the answer. The anger and need radiating
off Methos had been almost a tangible thing, beating against Mac
while he watched Methos struggle for control. His own anger had
been fast to rise and equally fast to fade on seeing who Methos
faced. Guilt had followed, for directing Albright here and not
being the one to meet him. Then relief to know Methos had won
through regardless of his own carelessness.

But while Methos fought his battle against the alien Quickening,
Mac found himself growing calmer. Feeling Methos' presence again
had been a shock but not entirely unexpected. Puzzle pieces were
fitting together and Methos had recognized it as well, felt the
storm building and tried once more to let distance be the cure.

Only physical distance would merely add to the gulf that even now
threatened to widen between them. Recognizing that had made the
decision easier, the realization more tangible than the vague,
half instinctual, half accidental theories they had been fumbling
through.

Something had shifted in Methos and Mac was the only one to see
it. For the first time in his long life he could actually see and
feel how a Quickening could shift a man, change the essentials of
who and what he was. It was never easy to do it for yourself when
the Quickening scrambled your brains and your body. But watching
Methos fight for his sense of self in the middle of the
Quickening and immediately after; his Quickening bouncing off Mac
as it had in the past but without the ragged edge of violence
beneath it all, Mac found his own center remaining calm and he
didn't know why or how. Only that he had and if he could stand
firm, Methos might find his own balance again.

He didn't dare give Methos that much time alone. His fear that
his lover might take off to seek his own resolution was very real
and grew more certain every minute that he'd used in getting rid
of Albright's body. He'd ended up being less careful than he
could. Less thorough than he should have been.

It hadn't mattered. Mattered less once he returned to the house
and found Methos in the shower, no sign of relief in the taut
body and something near panic in his eyes. His protest made
perfect sense then. It was difficult enough when they were
fighting each other but to fight another as well - Mac wasn't
sure if their positions had been reversed he'd have been able to
do as well.

He had planned to be no threat, to let Methos find his own way
back as he had before, praying it would be easier now that one of
them had half a clue. It wasn't something he could explain in
words, only in actions. But he could see it in Methos' body and
eyes as his lover had found his own answers - or started to. As
if the lack of threat Mac presented triggered the same response -
Methos tense, but passive under Mac's hands and then his mouth.

He couldn't surrender, but he had and now he was barely
conscious, the sense of his presence still hammering against Mac,
but now and then it wouldn't, flickering in and out like a candle
flame caught in a draft.

Mac touched Methos' neck, breathing deeply against the spike of
need generated by the sensation of warm, damp skin against his
fingers. He let his instincts guide him, though, and grabbed a
big bath towel, wrapped Methos in it and pulled him up, lifting
him in his arms and taking him into the living room, where he
laid him on the couch.

Methos' eyes were open, but unfocused, marginally aware. Mac sat
next to him, letting a hand trail through soft hair, pushing the
wet strands off Methos' forehead. He felt a compulsion to touch,
to stroke, and his other hand ended up on Methos' chest, where he
could feel a heartbeat, fast and uneven. It was intensely sexual,
enough that he was embarrassingly aroused by a semi-conscious
man. He pulled his hand away and it automatically curled into a
fist. If he didn't stop, he might take what hadn't been offered.

He rose, intending to make a fire and put on some clothes, but
stopped when a hand closed around his wrist. "Don't go," Methos
whispered.

Mac looked down and Methos was watching him with an unreadable
expression. His arm was tugged and he sat back down. He had not
totally figured out what was going on, but he knew one thing for
certain, struggling against this, resisting, was not the answer.
Last time, he had surrendered, left behind his pride, his fears,
his need, his very identity. He had been prepared to do that
again, but it appeared that Methos had beaten him to it, at least
at some level.

"I think we need to finish this," Methos deliberately moved Mac's
hand to cover Methos' cock, which was twitching and filling more
with each fast beat of Methos' heart.

Mac felt heat flush his entire body as he leaned down to take
possession of Methos' mouth, feeling inside with his tongue while
his hand folded over Methos' dancing cock. His hand moved further
down, feeling the tight sacks below, then the hot, damp skin
surrounding that pucker of flesh guarding the entrance to his
lover's body. His stomach clenched and his tongue became an echo
of where his fingers went, delving deep inside as Methos arched
into him with a throaty groan.

He gasped for breath and pulled back, so near to climax just by
touching he needed to take a moment. Methos' head was back, his
neck arched, his thighs thrown open, hips thrusting themselves
onto his fingers, cock rigidly stabbing into the air. It was too
much and Mac had to bend down, taking that mass of flesh into his
mouth, Methos' hoarse cry only heightening the drive to push him
further, higher, harder as that hot cock was jammed into his
throat, harder and faster.

Then Methos twisted away with a cry, throwing Mac off, both of
them tumbling to the hard floor. Mac ended up on his back,
gulping for air, and Methos was on his side, curled around
himself, eyes shut tight, breathing shallowly.

"Why?" Mac gasped.

"Not...the answer," Methos grated out, his hands curling against
the carpet, digging deep into the thick pile. He reached out and
grabbed one of Mac's arms, pulling him up until he loomed over
Methos. "I need to let you in, to let go completely."

"But...last time..."

Methos shook his head, frowning. "Trust me, Duncan."

"I do. But are you sure it matters?" Mac asked, hand smoothing
the skin along Methos' flank.

"Maybe not in the wide broad spectrum of things, but ..." Methos
said and drew a deep sharp breath, as if keeping some kind of
pain at bay - or something else. "-at the moment, I think we
should go with what works...Duncan..."

"Not the time for debate. I know," Mac said, trying not to
overthink this while Methos was struggling. He tried to clear his
mind, to erase the hierarchies of domination and submission. If
this were more a blending or merging as it seemed to be, those
metaphors had no place. His mouth sought Methos' again, coaxing
and easing, shifting them both until he was sitting, back to the
sofa's edge to brace himself. Suntan lotion was the only option
that was immediately at hand, the scent of coconuts and baby oil
making his nose twitch and leaving a sloppy mess across his
groin.

But it was all he could do to overcome the urge to stretch the
anticipation out, to make his tortuously aroused lover wait, just
a little longer. Methos' breath was deliberately slow and
shallow, muscles rigid in an effort to control the trembling Mac
could sense from the rapid pulse under his hands. The rippling
sensation of Methos' presence was starting to grate on his nerves
now as it hadn't before, his own need and lust rising and adding
to the discord. To make Methos wait would assert his dominance
and he fought with it, watching Methos fight the same urge, to
demand or take what he wanted and needed.

Between one gasp of breath and the next, Mac had pulled his lover
forward so Methos was straddling his thighs, his fingers curling
gently around the upthrust, swollen cock and his other hand
cradling the back of Methos' head equally as gently. No waiting,
no taking, and he almost heard Methos sigh in relief as their
mouths met, realizing the struggle was over. When both parties
surrender there is no winner - but no losers either.

Methos' hands closed over Mac's shoulders to steady himself, to
guide and fit them together. Everything felt heightened or
amplified - senses sharper and clearer. Background noises faded,
leaving Mac with only the sound of Methos' breathing. Or perhaps
it was his own. He tucked his head down, cradled in the crook of
Methos' neck, his lips automatically pressed against smooth skin,
and they moved. Together. Action and reaction. Earth and water,
like the ocean waves breaking and retreating just outside their
door. A slow, languid, unison rocking motion, warm and easy, but
with a sharp spice of urgency adding to the pleasure of it.

It built so slowly, and the purity of the pleasure was so all-
encompassing, that Mac wanted to resist the orgasm, but such
things were entirely out of his hands and when it finally came,
he could hardly regret it, leaning back against the couch and
pulling Methos with him as they both cried out, their bodies
seeming to want to meld together on every surface, inside and
out.

Then, as one, they held their breath, waiting. When it came, it
was a ripple of sensation of mind and body, a welcome rearranging
of something deep within. And this time it came easily, a
recognition of a known pattern, a kind of physical whisper of
"ah, hah. There you are again." Mac moved his hands along the
familiar skin of Methos' long back, finding as much comfort in
the gesture as he knew he was giving, since the man's body leaned
into him with a long sigh of released tension.

"I don't want to move," Methos whispered into his shoulder a very
long time later.

"Then don't," Mac answered, not ready to break contact even
though Methos' weight was gradually cutting off the circulation
in his legs.

"My calves are starting to cramp," Methos explained, shifting
slightly.

So Mac lifted the warm weight in his lap, unable to keep from
groaning slightly as he slipped out of the comfortable tightness
of Methos' body. Methos hissed, stretching one leg out, then
another, then hazel eyes looked up, meeting his in an unreadable
expression.

Methos lifted a hand, pushing back long strands of dark hair that
had fallen forward, caught in the sweat that glistened on Mac's
skin. "Why?" he whispered. "After all this, why would you try to
lie to me?"

Mac closed his eyes and rested his head back against the couch
cushions. "I was feeling adolescently rebellious?" he offered
with a small twitch of a smile, then jerked and winced when
Methos pinched him hard on a nipple.

"Rebelling against what, Duncan?" Methos asked in the same gently
ominous whisper. "Against us?"

Mac raised his head, looking his lover in the eye. "Against your
persistent inability to accept me as I am, including my judgment
about when to fight and when to walk away. I knew you would
berate me for a fool for taking a challenge, that you wouldn't
listen or wouldn't care that I tried to walk away. I was tired
and didn't feel up to another discussion about my character
flaws."

Methos let out a long sigh of air, closed his eyes and leaned
forward to rest his forehead on Mac's. "There's a difference,
dear man, in wanting you to stay alive, and thinking you are a
fool for what you do."

"Really?" Mac couldn't keep the irony out of his voice. "It's
sometimes hard to tell."

Methos eyes met his, and the half-serious, half-joking glint in
them matched his tone of voice. "Well then, I guess that's
another character flaw you'll just have to work on, isn't it?"

With a growl, Mac pushed him to the floor, his hard fingers
digging for particularly sensitive spots under Methos' armpits
and on his ribs. For a moment, the two athletes tumbled over the
floor, wrestling playfully until they managed to knock a coffee
cup off a side table, sending it crashing to the rug.

"Uncle!" Mac cried, letting Methos go and flopping into his back,
gasping for breath, not wanting to do any more damage to the
rented space.

Methos felt a grin stretch his face. "Uncle?" The expression felt
good, like it had been a long time coming. "Are you surrendering
to me, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?"

Mac rolled over on his side, cradling his head in his hand and
inspecting him with a proprietary eye. Methos had to forcibly
subdue the blush that wanted to color his skin at the open,
honest affection that was so clearly written on Mac's face.

"You know," Mac said softly. "I could have saved us a lot of
trouble if I had done that years ago."

"Amen to that."

A broad hand reached out, gently stroking Methos' arm for a long
silent moment. "Methos, we will have to talk about it eventually,
you know."

"Lord, you do love to talk things to death, don't you? Talk about
what, in particular?"

"About how we managed to do this, to meld our Quickenings, to
overcome the urge to fight. This is something I don't think
anyone ever thought could be done. Just think about it, Methos,
it could change everything! A life without all the killing..."
Mac swallowed hard. "It's hard to imagine," he added softly. "I
don't know if what we have can be achieved by any others, but I
think we have to at least try to let them know that maybe the
Game isn't inevitable."

Methos laughed, locking his hands behind his head and speaking to
the ceiling. "Oh, absolutely. I can picture you now in front of a
lecture hall full of hostile immortals, preaching about the
psychological benefits of rough sex." But when Mac was silent the
laughter died on his lips, and he turned his head to see the
serious expression in MacLeod's dark eyes."Oh Christ, you mean
it, don't you? MacLeod, just because we managed to find a way not
to kill each other does not mean others can do the same thing.
For all you know, it could all have been caused by that fucking,
if you'll pardon the expression, Quickening with Kronos and
Silas."

Mac looked away, finally rolling to lie on his back, thinking.
"Perhaps," he finally admitted. "But can you deny that there is
the possibility that there is something happening here that has
implications about the Game, about Quickenings, about the nature
of who and what we are?"

Methos sat up with a small, wondering shake of his head, and
wrapped his arms around his knees, looking over at Mac with an
affectionate smile. He was both surprised and amused. Surprised
that such a private man would be prepared to consider publicly
discussing the details of a homosexual relationship, and amused
that, once again, his thoughts had predictably turned to the
"greater good."

"Who and what we are is MacLeod and Methos. Now far be it from me
to boost your already considerable ego, but frankly, I don't
think there are any comparisons - anywhere. That we were pulled
to each other is a function of that and, frankly, I have
absolutely no desire or intention of blabbing any of this to
anyone."

"But Methos..."

"A more suspicious or jealous man might think you just wanted an
excuse to fuck every Immortal that crossed your path, but then I
suppose you've never needed an excuse for that," Methos said, the
smile in his voice softening the harshness of his words.

"That's not true!" Mac frowned.

"What? That you don't need an excuse, or that you've fucked just
about every Immortal that crossed your path?"

There was a beat of silence.

"Well?" Methos prompted, wondering whether he should take back
his words because MacLeod would not take it as the joke it was
intended to be, despite the grain of truth.

"Not /every/ Immortal," Mac finally answered quietly.

Now it was Methos' turn to frown. He knew Mac was a man who loved
the sensual pleasures, but assumed that at least in recent
decades had demonstrated some small modicum of restraint. Then he
saw that Mac's mouth was twitching at the corners, and in an
instant he had been tackled by a grinning Scot, and found himself
straddled, his arms pinned above his head.

"Gotcha, didn't I?" Mac insisted, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I only fuck Immortals with long, white necks," Mac bent down,
breathing warm air against his ear and then moving slowly south,
nipping gently as he went.

"I thought I was the one who took the Quickening," Methos
struggled to keep his voice even under the onslaught of a mouth
that would certainly have been banned in Boston, among other
places.

"Since when do I need a Quickening for this?" Mac whispered
against his skin.

They made languid, slow love in front of the fireplace, Methos'
chest against the soft carpet, and Mac at his back, pushing deep
inside him again and again, taking them both to the brink, then
stopping to suck, kiss and nip at Methos' neck and shoulders
until they were both shaking with the need to move. Then he'd do
it again.

<<<<>>>>

Mac did not press the topic of their peculiar situation the rest
of the day, and the emotional tension, the fight, the Quickening
and finally, their extended, intense sexual gymnastics left
Methos pleasantly exhausted. After a long shower, Methos curled
up in bed and fell soundly, dreamlessly asleep, waking only when
long shadows were streaking in through the oceanside windows.

He pulled his arms above his head and pointed his toes,
stretching with a long, groaning sigh of contentment. Even now,
he could feel that warm looseness in his belly from making love
until his body had passed beyond sated into some realm of
passive, happy semi-consciousness.

Such a state was rare, especially for an Immortal. Perhaps it was
the Quickenings, perhaps it was because so frequently they were
caught close to the height of their sexual peak when they died,
but Methos had found over the centuries that most Immortals were
perennially sexually frustrated. They either acted it out in
aggression and violence, or they learned to sublimate, to
redirect their energies - Methos smiled as he considered all the
strenuous exercise MacLeod had pursued all his life - but the
need and desire was always there.

Almost always. Unless you found yourself an Immortal lover with a
sexual appetite and stamina as strong as your own.

He pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and wandered out to
the back porch. It was a magnificent view of rocks and ocean and
sky and sand. And MacLeod.

He was sitting in full lotus facing the ocean, still as one of
the basalt bastions against which the ocean hurled its timeless
rhythm. Since the death of his student, MacLeod had found solace
in the eastern arts of meditation, searching for internal peace,
even if the Game denied him external peace.

And no doubt, with my old, ugly memories now bouncing around
inside that thick skull, it was doubly difficult, Methos decided.
He closed his eyes, his stomach turning as the impact of that
thought actually sank home. He made his way slowly down to the
beach, mostly watching the changing colors of the sky as the sun
slowly settled, nestling down in spectacular splendor on the
western horizon. He stood behind Mac, and closed his eyes,
breathing in the heavy, salt-laden moisture of the ocean air. In
a moment of amused anachronism, he realized he missed that
creeping pressure in his head that used to generate a rush of
adrenaline every time MacLeod came close.

"Did you have a nice nap?" Mac asked, his voice drifting back to
him over the steady rush of waves. He hadn't turned around, and
it seemed unlikely that he could have heard him over the sound of
wind and churning water.

Methos settled onto the sand behind him, wrapping his arms around
the broad, naked chest and resting his chin on Mac's shoulder.
Mac's body was cool from the evening breeze coming in off the
ocean, and Mac leaned into him, turning his head to look at him
with a smile. In the past few years the warm expression, the
delightful crinkling at the corners of those brown eyes, had
become a rare gift. That he had the power to bring it to life
felt like as important an achievement as most of those he had
sought in his long life.

"What gave me away?" Methos asked. "Does the earth tremble when I
walk?"

"You certainly make me tremble in all kinds of places," Mac
answered, ending his comment by entwining their hands as they met
across his chest. "But close your eyes," he advised softly, and
Methos complied. "Listen to the waves, use them to focus your
meditation." Methos found his breath moving easily in and out of
his chest in time to the soft rush of water. After a moment, he
realized he and Mac were breathing together, and...he opened his
eyes in surprise.

"Can you feel it?" Mac was looking at him, his dark eyes
gleaming.

Methos nodded. It was not at all like the sense of another
Immortal...yet it was. He had been able to identify Mac's unique
quickening ever since they had endured that snake pit in
Bordeaux, but this was much more subtle, like a pressure on your
skin you didn't realize was there because it was constant and
unchanging, except this was in his mind, not on his flesh. He
concentrated on the sensation a moment, then experimentally
pushed on it, and suddenly both men sucked in a gasp of air.

"Guess I won't do that again," Methos whispered shakily, and Mac
chuckled weakly.

"I'd rather you didn't. I don't know if I have the strength to do
that, myself. I only know when you tried it the last time, and
just now, it feels like someone peeled off a layer of my brain
cells."

"Ouch," Methos smiled, and they were quiet for a moment, just
letting the sense of "knowing" settle between them. "You know,
Duncan," Methos finally spoke, then had to stop and swallow
before he could go on. "I've only had a couple of brief flashes
of your memories and experiences, and..." the air seemed to
escape from his lungs and he had to stop.

"And what?" Mac asked.

"And your...sense of my life has been more...revealing and far
more, well, painful, I guess is the word." Mac was silent,
waiting for Methos to finish his thought. "What I'm trying to say
is, I never wanted anyone, especially you, to have to go
through...to have to live with that, and if there is some way we
can reverse this that gets all that crap out of your head..."

"Stop it, Methos," Mac snapped. "I think we've proved that any
attempt to change the status quo is both painful and dangerous,
and could ultimately end up with one of us at the wrong end of a
sharp object. " He turned in Methos' arms, and he had that set,
mulish look that he got when he was just this side of angry.
"Perhaps you don't believe me, Methos, and I guess I can't blame
you for that, but whatever you were, however uncomfortable it
makes me, or you, your history is part of what you are. Just as
Culloden, and the murder of Sean Burns and Richie and so many
other disgraceful and disgusting acts are a part of what I am. Do
you still think I'm too shallow to accept that? To live with it?
To understand it?"

"No, Mac, but..."

"But what?" Mac stood abruptly, sand washing off his body and
blowing in the wind, stinging Methos' skin and eyes.

Methos pulled his legs up, wrapping his arms around them, and
closed his eyes. Why did it have to be like this? Why did their
relationship have to oscillate so wildly between ecstasy and
agony? "What you said, about me not wanting to remember, that
there was a reason...I'm sure there was and I'm not sure I want
you to be able to...not that I can think of a damn way to stop
it," he said softly opening his eyes. He met Mac's eyes only for
the briefest moment before looking away and over the ocean. "It's
not your shallowness I don't want to deal with -- it's my own."

He gave MacLeod a small tight wry smile. "How much do you really
want to know about my past, Mac? Is there so much distance
between us that you have some desire to level the playing field?
Or think that somehow knowing any of it will make more sense to
you than it does to me?" Methos shook his head and unfolded
himself from the ground to stand. "I keep wanting to move
forward, but it's my past that keeps dragging me back. I just
don't want it to drag you back with me. You deserve better. *We*
deserve better," he said with a fierceness that rose as quickly
as the winds. But he wasn't all that sure he did deserve it in
that sense, only that letting go of it was likely to prove more
difficult than anything he'd ever let go of in his past. "It's a
relief, after so many centuries to be able to step out of time
for a little while," he said, less harshly. "We seem to want the
same things in different ways, Highlander. And in this as with
the other, one of us will have to surrender."

It sat wrong, in his mind, and Mac couldn't say why.Was it the
surrender? The need to give up what was forced upon them with the
taking of a life, a head, another Immortal's quickening? There
was more than that, he knew. Knew in his gut the same way that he
knew what lay between he and Methos went deeper than some driving
need of their Immortal natures. "Is that what worked with Kronos?
With the Horsemen?" he asked quietly, curious. Back to the
balance of things, and maybe more difficult because there were
four of them. "Surrender?"

"Sometimes," Methos said, MacLeod realizing the truth of it
before the other man took his next breath. That even Kronos had
surrendered from time to time to maintain the fragile balance.
He'd had to, for it to work at all -- some kind of equality had
to be found, come common ground of need and desire.

Or maybe it wasn't that complicated. "Methos...." he looked down,
studying the dark head. "Before...then, with Kronos and Caspian
and Silas...did you decide...before, that you would work
together?"

Methos shrugged. "It all kind of happened ...quickly. Meeting up,
deciding to band together, to ...be what we became."

MacLeod squatted and touched his arm, asking Methos to look at
him with a touch."But you had a reason to want to make it work,
right? However it ended up?"

Methos closed his eyes briefly before looking up, looking into
the dark eyes. An easy answer, that was what MacLeod wanted for
both of them. He nodded briefly. "We did. Mutual protection, to
be more powerful than any that might hunt us down." He thought on
it, calling the details to mind and then stopped for a moment,
actually giving the idea the attention it, perhaps, deserved. "We
decided...to change the rules of the game a bit. We never
*hunted* Immortals as a...policy, but we did...vow that the hand
of a brother would never be lifted against another brother.
Anything but that -- and it worked, for a thousand years and
after. Until..." until he'd found another, far more powerful vow.
One he had yet to voice. "You think...by will alone?"

"No, but I think it matters," Duncan said and stood again. Mac
extended his hand down and Methos took it, pulling himself to his
feet. "Walk with me," Mac said, twining their fingers together
and moving them north, their bare feet leaving temporary
indentations in the wet sand. They strolled along the water's
edge in silence for awhile, the waves periodically splashing up
to their ankles. "I'm afraid, too," Mac finally admitted, and
Methos' eyes were drawn to watch the proud profile, the strong
jaw, and classic features, but Mac was studying the sand as they
walked, his mouth tight with the attempt to express thoughts he
was probably not sure he could articulate adequately. Methos
squeezed Mac's hand gently, urging him to continue.

"I'm afraid for both of us, Methos. You are right, you know," Mac
confessed, his brows drawn tightly together. "Whatever my
protests about my willingness to accept your history, I am too
easily shocked, too quick to judge and nothing reveals that to me
more starkly than glimpses into a past so distant that I have no
context for understanding it. I am afraid I will fail to
understand, and I am afraid you will be forced to deal with both
my prejudices and your own trauma, and that's just not fair," he
said fiercely. He stopped and turned toward the ocean, letting
Methos' hand go and wading into the water, letting the cold ocean
wash up to his knees.

Methos studied the tense lines of Mac's neck, softened by dark,
tangled hair swirling in the wind, and felt a smile tickle his
lips. What a pair they were. He reached down and yanked off his
t-shirt, his skin tightening at the exposure to the chill, then
pulled down his shorts and ran past his lover into the water,
whooping at the sudden chill as the water got up to his waist. He
turned, raising his arms as another swell washed past. "Duncan!"
he called out over the sound of the rushing waves. "If you are
worried about failing me, and I am worried about failing you,
then maybe we both need to surrender to the inevitable. It's
going to happen, you know.". Another waved crashed over him, this
time slapping his shoulders and making him gasp. "But I love you,
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, I truly do. And I'll do my
damnedest not to let you get lost in my memories, my life," he
vowed, and held out his hand. "And if you do, then I'll just find
you again."

Mac was watching him a little warily, as though uncertain whether
he ought to call someone to haul his lover away in a
straightjacket, or laugh.

"But Methos," Mac shouted over the waves, "What if..."

"Surrender, MacLeod," Methos waded back towards the shore a
little. "Let it go. We both keep trying to manage and control
what is happening and it has become patently obvious that we
can't. All we can do is hang on tight to each other, to trust
that somehow my strength, your integrity, my will, your
generosity of spirit, my experience, your love of life, will keep
us safe, and keep us together." He held out his hand again, and
waited until MacLeod finally yanked off his shorts and waded in.

Their hands met, and Mac's hand felt warm compared to the cold
water, his body hot as they closed the distance between them,
belly to shoulder. A smile had finally eased some, but not all,
of the doubts written on that dark face. "You are insane, you
know that?" Mac said, his lips so close to Methos' that he could
feel them move.

"It's the only way to be," Methos replied, pulling closer, his
hands moving down to Mac's ass, his mouth opening to receive
Mac's tongue. It wasn't any kind of solution, but life had never
been about solutions, about answers, about resolution. It was
about...living. And it rarely got better than this, Methos
thought.

Until the next wave came along, knocking them both off their
feet, and tumbling them, laughing, into the boiling surf and
hanging onto each other for dear life.




finis