Archive of Our Own

Thunderclouds were building again in the western sky. They mirrored the charged heaviness in an ancient heart.

This was getting to be a habit, Methos thought bitterly, his long stride eating up the pavement. He'd done a lot of it lately—fading into the shadows, waiting for MacLeod to kill or be killed.

He could feel the throb of the bass even from here, and the wave of sound made by the ecstatic crowd as their idol appeared, muted by distance but swelling up through the pavement: the echo of the name. Methos knew the Highlander would wait. In his ineffable decency, he would give Byron one last night, one last moment in the spotlight before he lowered the inescapable hammer of MacLeod justice on that brilliant, doomed head.

Distant electric flashes traced the dark clouds up ahead, but it was the gathering storm at his back Methos felt, the anticipation of lightning much closer to home.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

The club was closing when Methos got there, but Dawson let him in. The Watcher gave him a searching look, knowing instinctively something had happened.

"Did you see MacLeod?"

"I saw him." Methos met the kind, worried eyes, hating that he had to be the one to bring bad news. "Joe, I'm sorry to have to tell you this. Paladino... Mike's dead."

The ripple of shock that touched Dawson's face was so brief it barely had time to register, before it was swept away by a swift surge of anger. "No, dammit—he's just a kid!" Methos touched the other man's elbow, turning him toward one of the vacant tables, but after half a step Dawson jerked free of his grasp. "What the hell happened?"

Plain facts, Methos thought. No sense in prettying it up—he wouldn't appreciate it anyway. He put his hands in his pockets, since his touch wasn't wanted. "An overdose. Heroin and alcohol. I found him in Byron's hotel room." He paused meaningfully. "MacLeod knows."

He knew Dawson had gotten pretty much the whole picture in less than three seconds. The man's intuitive powers were considerable—and he knew MacLeod very well. He would know as well as Methos did how utterly inevitable the ending of this story would be.

But the Watcher's anger didn't fade. Renewed fury flushed his cheeks, his eyes sparking like the clash of steel. "Jesus." He struck the bar with his fist and turned away. "Why can't you stick to killing your own kind?" he hissed, obviously too angry to think about what he was saying. "Isn't that enough? You have to take a kid like that—" He cursed again, and Methos saw him close his eyes. "All he wanted to do was play. Just play his music."

Methos moved close again, still not touching. "I am sorry."

Dawson's tension held a long moment, two. Then it ran out of him, and he sighed. He bowed his head. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, about—"

"I know. It's okay."

Grey eyes lifted, anger slipping away to sadness. "No, I shouldn't have said it. It isn't your fault."

"It's such a waste," Methos said softly, understanding too well.

"Yeah."

"Not your fault either, Joe."

"If it wasn't for me, the kid wouldn't have been here in the first place."

"You gave him a chance to do what he wanted to do. You aren't responsible for what he did with that chance. You know that."

The other man didn't answer, but turned and made his way toward the small stage at the front of the club. Methos followed, wanting a drink but not wanting to dull the blade of his own anger, which was coming to a fine and satisfying edge within him. He needed something strong and bitter to hold on to for a while, some weapon to wield against the certainty that one old friend was not all he was going to lose tonight.

Dawson took up his guitar and sat down wearily, not playing, just leaning on it and looking at his hands. Methos was too keyed up to sit. He circled aimlessly, running fingers over the edges of the drums. They were alone in the club, and he could hear the thunder coming closer. Dawson's head lifted.

"Is that...?"

"Storm coming."

Dawson nodded, listening. After a minute, he shifted the guitar, fingers moving over the strings, not really playing but talking with the instrument, a moody wandering full of phrases that didn't really go anywhere. It occurred to Methos, listening, that this would be what he would remember about Joe Dawson a century from now. This moment.

"He wasn't always like that, you know." It wasn't meant to defend him; Methos needed for some reason to say it. "The Byron I knew loved creating art, not destroying it."

Dawson didn't look up. "I know you tried to talk to him. Thanks for trying."

"He never should have been one of us. He wasn't made to live forever." Methos realized he was talking about the man in the past tense, and figured it was accurate, or would be soon enough. His lip curled. "MacLeod will solve that little problem for him, anyway."

Dawson's fingers paused over the guitar strings, and he gave Methos a harsh look. "I hope you'll understand if I say that I'm gonna pray you're right."

"Oh, you're all for a Highland judge, jury and executioner?" The anger flared, and Methos nurtured it.

"Maybe," Dawson shot back. "Maybe in this case it's been too long coming."

"Byron is not a murderer, Joe."

"Isn't he? You've read his file. You know about the others they found. Suicides. Mysterious accidents. Never any proof that he was involved, but it seems pretty clear now, doesn't it?"

Methos averted his face, not wanting to acknowledge what he'd guessed some time ago.

Dawson didn't wait for his answer. "You really telling me that you're not hoping with everything that's in you that it's Mac who walks through that door?"

The smoky voice was too gentle, too knowing. Methos felt his anger slipping before he could snatch it back. Suddenly boneless, he sank into the chair closest to the stage. He had no words to tell Joe what was in his heart, his desperation to avert Byron's inevitable fate because he didn't think the fragile, damaged creature that was his friendship with MacLeod could withstand another death, another grief. He didn't think he had it in him to forgive any more hurt, nor to beg a forgiveness that was too long overdue. The weight of all they carried to be able speak to one another was becoming too great to bear.

He had been so desperately glad to see Byron, his once-upon-a-time lover. He'd hoped for an end to this loneliness and pain that kept him coming back to MacLeod like a starving man begging for scraps. He had been a fool; Byron had wanted only oblivion, and had only oblivion to offer. And now the Highlander would give it to him, and Methos's loneliness would be complete.

Damn you both, he thought bitterly. You are so well fitted to your roles—you each have what the other needs, and you will leave me with nothing.

* * *

Waiting again, Methos listened to the rain falling steadily against the street above, a muted sound like the footfalls of a vast, distant army.

"How do you do it, Joe?" he asked conversationally, tracing patterns on the small table. It wobbled enough to be annoying.

Dawson looked up from the glass he held cradled between his knees. The guitar was on the floor beside him. "Do what?" He sounded exhausted. But he was waiting too, worried, not knowing what Methos knew in his heart—that Byron longed for death and certainly would not kill his ready-made executioner.

"How do you manage to stay friends with him?"

The mortal looked at him oddly. "That's kind of a strange question coming from you." When Methos didn't elaborate, Dawson straightened in his chair. "I owe him my life, several times over. I've had a lot of friendships that were based on less."

"Yes, but you have to have limits, don't you? How do you keep trusting him like you do?"

"What reason do I have not to trust him?" Dawson looked genuinely perplexed.

"Oh, so I suppose he's never let you down? Never failed to trust you? Never made you feel like you're a convenient source of information, or maybe judged you unfairly? I want to know how you do it, that's all. How you justify the price you pay to be the friend of Duncan MacLeod."

Dawson leaned forward, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Who are we talking about here, Adam?" Methos gave him a bland look, but Dawson's face said he knew the game Methos was playing and chose to play along. "Every friendship has the good and the bad. I'm not exactly without flaws, you know. You know what he's done for me—you were there when he took a bullet in the back so I wouldn't have to carry the murder of a friend around for the rest of my life."

"Yes, but doesn't it make you a little bit crazy, that he uses you the way he does? That he can't just be your friend, no strings, there always has to be a reason, a crisis?"

A long, measuring stare seemed to take him apart. At last Dawson said quietly, "That road goes both ways, my friend. Yeah, sure, sometimes it's hard. But that's the way it's always been, and that's the way it's always gonna be. That's who we are. When he calls me, the crisis is real. If I help him, that's my choice. I know the score."

"So why do you keep doing it? And don't say because you owe him. If that was all it was, you wouldn't be sitting here looking so worried, waiting to see him walk through that door."

"Mostly it's because he's worth caring about—whatever it costs me. Why do you do it? Isn't that what you're really asking me?"

Methos said nothing.

"You know why. It's because if there's a choice to be made, if being the friend of Duncan MacLeod, with all that entails, is a choice that you and I have made—then we got the easy part of the deal."

Methos couldn't help a small, incredulous laugh. "How do you figure?"

"Think about it. Think about what it must be like to be him—for a week. A day. We call him the 'boy scout' and we tease him, and he laughs but he never denies it, you ever notice that? He never denies that's his goal, that's what he's trying for. He wants to save the world. And every day he has to live with death, and more death—at his hands. And at others' hands the death of people he cares about, people he loves."

"We all deal with that, Joe. Even the Watchers. I've been dealing with it for—"

"—five thousand years, I know. But can't you see the difference?"

Methos gave him a dry look. "Why don't you enlighten me."

"Everything he's chosen to fight for contradicts everything he is. And he knows that. It'd be a lot easier on him if he held himself apart, concentrated on fighting the good fight and didn't give a damn about the rest of us. But he doesn't do that. He chooses to love. And he chooses to fight, to kill when necessary. He makes a target of himself—and because of that everyone he loves—and finds the courage to do it again, and again, and to deal with it if those he loves can't be strong enough to love him back when they finally see what he really is."

How can he? Methos almost said. How can anyone be foolish enough to be that brave? He held the words back with effort. "And you think he's worth it," he said instead.

Joe sat back in his chair. "Yeah. Don't you?"

They looked at each other, that certainty ringing between them. Methos found himself remembering suddenly the story Mac had told him of his father's rejection, and what it had meant to him—and he realized for the first time that the ties that bound Dawson and MacLeod ran much deeper than he had ever guessed.

"I must," Methos agreed finally, ruefully. "Or I would be somewhere warm and tropical right this minute, instead of sitting in this empty bar in the middle of the night in this rainy, miserable city with you."

Dawson gave his wry, crooked grin. "I rest my case." He lifted his glass part way to his lips, then paused, those sharp eyes seeing with merciless clarity. "Now ask me something you don't already know."

Methos smiled slightly. "I'll let you know if I think of anything."

* * *

The club was quiet, the storm outside past, the city of lights hushed at the beginning of its long, breathless wait for dawn.

Dawson had picked up the guitar again, tuning it. Suddenly restless, Methos rose abruptly to his feet and resumed pacing, glancing involuntarily toward the door.

"You ever going to play that thing?"

"If you're nice to me." Dawson glanced up. "You're worried." It wasn't a question.

Methos forced a laugh. "About his oh-so-foolish head? No. About my sanity? Most definitely. A sane person would have gotten out of Dodge long ago. And yet here I stay, hanging around like a party crasher who doesn't know the party's moved down the block."

Dawson rested the instrument on his lap. "Let me ask you something. What do you think it meant to him, that the very first time you met, you offered him your head?"

"Probably that I deserved whatever I got for being so bloody reckless."

Dawson shook his head. "It meant that you believed in him. And no matter how many times you might laugh at him for being a boy scout, it's never going to take away the fact that you, Methos, the oldest of them all—for that one moment at least—agreed with his choices."

Like everything else that had passed between himself and MacLeod in the last two years, that memory tasted bittersweet now, a simplicity of feeling that wouldn't come again. "Yeah, well, times change."

"Is that a fact." Dawson's knowing gaze held that gentleness again, unwelcome and invasive, understanding him entirely too well. "And after everything that's happened, don't you think he needs that now more than ever—for you to have faith in him? He does want you around, you know. Even if he doesn't know how to show it. He needs you more than he admits."

"Sure of that, are you?" Methos tried to keep it light, but it came out a whisper. And as simply as that his defenses were down, laid waste, and the fear and need and months-old hurt welled up so fast he barely managed to keep them from showing on his face.

The lights flickered and went out. In the sudden darkness they could see distant lightning flashing against the front windows.

The thought came, quite unexpectedly: Byron, if you have killed him I will make you know what it is to long for death.

There was no thunder.

* * *

More than half an hour had dragged by since the power had flickered, and Methos was getting very tired of being sober. He was also having a hard time remembering why it had seemed like a good idea in the first place.

He leaned against the bar, arms crossed protectively against his midriff. Dawson was playing softly. The low sweetness of that gravelly voice filled the waiting silence, making it bearable.

"Lately I've been running on faith
What else can a poor boy do?
But my world would be right
When love comes over you
Lately I've been talking in my sleep
Can't imagine what I had to say
Said my world would be right
When love comes back my way..."

Where the hell was he? Mac had his car, surely it couldn't take him this long to get here from the concert hall. If it is Mac.

Of course it would be. Of course he knew that. Of course there wasn't any doubt.

Well, maybe only the slightest doubt. Byron had never been one to fight fair. Why had he forgotten that?

"I've always been
One to take each and every day
Seems like by now
I'd find a love who'd care, care just for me...
Oh like a dream it'll come true
Love comes over you
Oh like a dream it'll come true
Love comes over you..."

Methos buried his face in his arms, remembering how happy he'd been to see Byron come through that very door only two days before. He'd been a fool many times over, most notably for the delight he'd taken in MacLeod's seeming jealousy. How had he failed to foresee what would come of it? 'These two hated with a hate found only on the stage...'

Dawson's voice faded, and the guitar found another melody, mournful and as mellow as smooth aged whiskey.

Fuck sobriety, I need a drink.

Methos reached behind the bar, coming up with a glass and a bottle of Jameson. He took them with him to a table nearby, very deliberately not looking at the door—and it was then that it touched him, the unnerving sub-auditory current of Presence.

MacLeod. He knew it without having to look, but looked anyway, something hard and cold releasing in his chest when his eyes confirmed it, relief of a fear he hadn't really begun to let himself feel.

And on the heels of that, the loss, bitter and empty, catching him by surprise. Byron. Wild-born falcon... I only feel farewell. He met the Highlander's gaze, finding no words for the tangle of contradictions in his heart.

At the sight of MacLeod in the doorway, Dawson's music had faltered; it washed over them again now, bittersweet echo of the look Mac was giving him, the question in those sad, dark eyes. Methos averted his gaze and poured himself a drink, needing it badly. He was painfully aware of MacLeod's nearness, the low waves of current pouring off of him, skittering over Methos's skin like a caress. Quickening energy. Byron's. He felt his body's hum of response, and it sickened him.

MacLeod, mercifully, said nothing, only laid his coat on the chair opposite and moved to the bar to get himself a glass. Methos watched him out of the corner of his eye, unable to stop himself from doing so; the words came, though he hadn't meant to be the first to speak.

"Matter and antimatter. Byron knew that, too." Saying the name, a little of the bitterness spilled out. "His life had become one long tragedy."

MacLeod poured himself a drink and sat beside him. "We all know how those end," the softly burred voice said, as gentle as it had ever been.

And suddenly he felt Mac with him, feeling with him, no apology but a slow wash of shared grief, sorrow, and understanding that took his breath away and enraged him, made him want to hit something. He wanted it too much for safety. Damn you, he wanted to cry, don't do this now. Not now when I can still feel him inside of you, when I need to stay angry at you if I'm going to keep myself together. The weight of that dark gaze was more than Methos could bear; he turned as far away from it as he could.

It was a losing battle, of course, that closeness like sweet spring water after a drought, nothing he could fight against. It didn't matter that he knew it to be a hollow promise, nothing more.

Dawson's guitar commiserated, echoing his sadness and need.

"You were right, you know," MacLeod said after a time.

"About what?" Methos made his voice as hard as he could and knew he fooled no one, least of all himself.

"He was everything you said he was. A great artist. Larger than life."

"Once, maybe." Methos stared at his hands, unable to find the edge of anger he had whetted with such care. "I wanted to believe he still had that beauty in him."

"He wasn't meant for immortality."

"I know." He swirled the golden liquor, watching the reflections.

"He wanted to die, Methos."

At last Methos met the dark eyes over the rim of the glass, unable to stop himself. "Mac, I know. He wanted you to kill him, and he made sure you had no choice. I know that. I just—" He ran out of words. Morose, he drained his glass and set it down to refill it. MacLeod did it for him, then added a splash to his own.

"It's never easy to lose a friend."

Methos felt a burning in his throat and poured whiskey on it to put it out. Where does love go when it's been bludgeoned to the ground so many times it can't get up again?

I don't want to hate you, Duncan.

The broad, worn hand moved in his peripheral vision, and for a second Methos thought it would cover his. It didn't; MacLeod was merely toying with his glass restlessly, rolling it between his palms. And only then, feeling his pulse skipping unevenly, did Methos understand how badly he needed those hands on him, more than he ever had before, more than was safe. The anger surfaced again without warning, hot and shivery and dangerous. Byron was not a cause, only a catalyst. Methos was full of old rage, and hurt, and need—and MacLeod had taken a head. No, they definitely were not safe together, not now, maybe not ever.

He rose abruptly, nearly overturning the chair.

MacLeod's head came up, startled. "Methos?"

"Another time, Highlander. Tonight, I think I'll drink alone. Joe—" The Watcher looked up, and for an instant Methos let his eyes speak his gratitude. And with that he turned to go, tucking the bottle into his black coat.

Behind him, there was a scraping on the wooden floor; MacLeod rising to stop him. Methos kept moving, up the steps and out into the humid night, jamming his hands savagely in his pockets as the door closed behind him.

* * *

MacLeod didn't come after him as he once would have, and Methos didn't want to think about what that meant. Didn't want to think about the persistent certainty he felt that there would be no more chances for them.

Ever since Bordeaux, he had lived in expectation of judgment at MacLeod's hands. He was exhausted from fearing it, from longing for it. Sleep had proved as elusive as the Grail; when it came at all the dreams gave him little rest.

Every day that had passed without incident had cut him more deeply, made him feel more certain that they would not get past this, that what they were together could not survive what he had been, what they had cost one another. They'd danced around each other, going through the motions of a friendship that had once sustained them both until Methos had wondered if he was the only one who felt the strain, the difference. He didn't know why there had been a reprieve, nor why he had stayed when every survival instinct he possessed told him to go to ground somewhere far away from the Highlander and the hurt he caused as easily as breathing.

The sound of water lapping on bricks reached him then. His feet had carried him toward the river without his conscious volition; Notre Dame rose up ahead, spectacular and ghostly under its floodlights.

As simply as that, the lie slipped away. Of course he knew why he had stayed, not just for the past two months but for more than two years. He had known from the beginning—some part of him had known. What more fitting payment could there be for what he was, what he had been? It was inevitable, that his soul should have recognized Duncan MacLeod and yearn to be joined with him in every way possible, this man who was the mirror of himself but who was everything he hadn't chosen, this bright warrior whose very nature would demand a reckoning Methos had done perfectly well without for two thousand years.

From the beginning, the need to be known and accepted by this one man above all others had been a dangerous, unprecedented, nearly irresistible longing. For the first time in his life, his own acceptance of his dark past hadn't been enough. Everything in the universe sought its opposite.

Matter and antimatter. Perfectly mated, endlessly attracting, but only disaster resulted when they came together. The pathetic futility of it was painfully clear, now, and he damned himself for a fool for not facing it sooner. While he was at it, he damned Byron for his weakness and MacLeod for his strength, and for being Methos's own weakness, and for ever laying eyes on him.

He does want you around, you know. Even if he doesn't know how to show it. He needs you more than he admits.

Methos mentally added Joe Dawson to his list of targets. Yes, damn you too, Watcher, who asked you anyway?

Perhaps out of some perceived debt of honor, MacLeod had chosen to cut him with cool tolerance rather than steel. That casual disregard was a weapon that sliced deeper than any judgment could have—all the more so because Mac didn't seem to consider their onetime closeness to be any big loss. Even Byron's descent seemed to have evoked more emotion from him than anything Methos had done lately. And as Methos stood watching the play of lamp light on the dark river, he understood at last his own jealousy, and found that understanding it didn't make it hurt any less.

It was that more than anything that pushed him finally into a kind of resigned defeat. The water lapped gently at the hull of the barge, not fifty feet away; very deliberately, Methos turned and strode in the opposite direction.

* * *

Leaving is easy, he thought, watching the wet bricks disappear beneath his feet eight at a time. I've done it a thousand times before. I know leaving better than anyone. How hard can it be?

The thought made him feel freer, lighter, made it instantly easier to breathe. Oh yes, it was definitely time to leave. Where then? The tropics? Someplace warm sounded appealing, but he'd had more than enough rain to last him for a while. Australia, maybe. Minimal luggage, minimal packing. If he locked up the flat and dealt with it later, he could be in the air by eight a.m. at the latest.

What if MacLeod came looking for him, though? For an instant he pictured righteous Scottish fury, and couldn't help the wicked satisfaction the image brought him. He liked thinking of Mac pounding on his locked door, furious—or better yet bewildered, his pride wounded. Maybe he'd worry that someone had finally gotten the drop on old Methos and taken his head. He'd storm the streets of Paris looking for the culprit, sworn not to rest until the dastardly villain was no more—

Methos smiled bitterly at the image. Not bloody likely. The way things had been lately, he'd be lucky if Mac didn't try to look the guy up to say 'much obliged, you saved me the trouble.'

But that bit too close to the bone, and as hard as he tried he couldn't sustain the black humor.

What was it about this man that could unmake him so effortlessly? And when had it become so fucking hard to imagine a life without one infuriating, overgrown Scottish boy scout in it?

That was good. Yes, that was better... if he let himself get pissed off enough he might be able to do this. Might be able to stop thinking about how many parts of him were hurting right now, and how there was only one cure for all that ailed him. He fed the rage by thinking of those unfeeling hands that would caress a whiskey glass yet offer him nothing, not even the judgment he so feared. Yes, think of the coldness in dark eyes that could not forgive, think of the full, sweet lips that dealt pain so readily. We're through. That mouth could cut deeper than any blade. You kill him, I swear Methos—you face me.

Methos...

No, don't think of that. Don't think of the way he says your name, the way he said it that first day, all wonder and astonishment. Don't think of how long it had been since anyone had said it like that, all the long centuries of never being known, never letting anyone close enough to know. Don't think of how it made you feel, still makes you feel to hear him say it. Don't think...

Fuck.

He knew he shouldn't have let himself think about that mouth. That was never a good idea.

Australia, he reminded himself grimly. Rio, maybe. Less than two blocks now, and he'd be at the flat. He could do this. No problem, nobody did leaving like he did.

As for MacLeod following, as very unlikely as it was, he could take care of that easily enough. A few choice words meant to hurt, a warning that said he meant business written in a terse note stuck to the door with a pre-Columbian sacrificial dagger—that ought to get the message across. Yes, lovely, just the thing for the Immortal who has everything.

Gray dawn was beginning to touch the edges of the sky, a bleak hint of light that gave no promise of sunshine, only more grayness to come. Methos rounded the corner of his building and yanked the door open viciously, well on his way to working himself into a truly black temper. He banged his shin; it helped immensely. Starting up the stairs he took them two at a time, fishing his keys out of his pocket as he went.

But what to say? One had to strike the right chord, the right combination of threat and scorn to make sure of a clean exit, that was key. We're through was so wonderfully succinct, but he hated to be unoriginal. Get fucked had a nice ring to it, but did have the drawback of being somewhat vague in its intentions, besides lacking style. I never want to see you again was rather cliche, of course—

Methos reached the top of the stairs and stopped in his tracks. And found himself suddenly, painfully aware that besides being a cliche, it was also completely untrue.

He had been so deeply enmeshed in his own dark thoughts that the strong signal of Presence had not reached him until that moment.

"I let myself in downstairs," MacLeod said quietly, getting up from where he'd been sitting cross-legged in the hallway. "I hope that's all right."

Seeing him there in his red silk shirt with his hair loose about his shoulders, Methos had never found him more devastating—not even in that miraculous moment when the velvet voice had spoken his name for the first time, standing in the long rays of sunshine all those months ago.

"Oh no, fine, make yourself at home," he managed, with something close to his usual asperity. "Hallway's lovely this time of night. I'm going to bed." He got the key into the lock without incident. Don't look at him. Look bored. You can do this.

"Methos," Duncan said, very softly, and he was lost. His hand faltered fractionally. The key slipped. He turned on MacLeod, snarling because he couldn't help it.

"What?"

"Please. We need to talk."

Methos heard himself breathing hard, as if he'd been running. He tried to find the words of denial, rejection, but they didn't come, and after a moment Mac took the keys out of his nerveless fingers and unlocked the door.

* * *

MacLeod made a circuit of the shadowed loft. He seemed fascinated by the odd assortment of artifacts, antiques, and modern miscellany, as if collectively they could give him an answer to some question he wouldn't ask aloud. Methos watched with some dismay as he took his coat off, laying it over a chair as if planning to stay a while.

His own coat felt unbalanced and he remembered the bottle of Jameson.

"I'm going to have a drink. You want one?" He moved to the narrow sideboard that passed for a bar.

"It's five-thirty in the morning."

"And this is relevant because...?"

There was a pause, and Methos heard the heavy tread move toward him. "All right then. Why not."

Methos fixed the drinks without hurrying, needing the reprieve to get himself together. You didn't live as long as he had without learning how to switch gears on the fly, but having struggled so to find the strength to run it was hard, very hard to stay and face MacLeod again. He could do it, though. He didn't know what it was Mac thought they could possibly have to talk about at this late date, but it didn't matter. He would be on the other side of the world in a few short hours, and they wouldn't be able to do each other any more damage.

But when he turned at last with the two glasses of whiskey in his hands, MacLeod was only a few feet away, watching him with the most comical, heart-wrenching astonishment written all over his face. And then the astonishment gave way to something else. Something hurt and angry that made the sable eyes glisten before he controlled his expression, the defenses going up.

"You were leaving," he said, accusing.

Oh, Duncan. Methos might have laughed, if he hadn't been afraid it might turn into something else. He only looked at MacLeod, saying nothing.

"Just like that?" The burr was thick in MacLeod's demand.

"Well, I was going to leave a note." He was unable to keep the laughter entirely out of his voice. It felt a little hysterical.

"A note." The inflection was flat, disbelieving. "Really. Tell me, I want to know—what would it have said?"

"Oh, the usual." Methos turned and put a little distance between them, faking nonchalance while his heart sped up steadily, dangerously. "You know, 'it's been real, thanks for the memories,' that sort of thing. Whatever it took."

"Whatever it took to keep me away, you mean."

Yes. We're through. Fuck off. You're destroying me. Whatever it took.

"That was the general idea."

MacLeod took one step toward him. "So you... what? Disappear in the night and let me wonder what happened to you for the rest of my life?" He sounded genuinely hurt, as if he really might have.

It pushed Methos past the precarious edge of control. He spun, sloshing liquor onto the floor. "Oh, come off it, MacLeod! Do I have to paint you a picture? Haven't you had enough? I bloody well have."

MacLeod's anger rose to meet his, the dark eyes full of thunder. "You'd throw away everything we've been through—over this? I couldn't let him kill again. I had no choice!"

"According to what law?" Methos bit out. "Yours?" If MacLeod wanted to think this was only about Byron, Methos would oblige him. He saw the words strike home.

"Damn you, Methos, you of all people have no right—"

Methos set the drinks down very deliberately, and without another word, he turned for the door. Get out, the voice of survival cried, get out, get out—last chance or there will be no turning back, not for either of you, not if you don't get out right now.

He didn't make it. Three steps from the door, strong hands closed on his arms from behind, warm even through the layers of wool and twill. He could feel the imprint of those hands as if he were naked.

"I'm sorry," MacLeod whispered, so gently it was almost a caress.

Frozen in place, Methos shuddered against the urge to turn on him, the fight or flight panic that had his hand flexing toward the blade he still wore tucked in his coat, an instinct so powerful that resisting it made him break out in a sweat. A wave of chills sluiced over him. It is happening, he thought, with a mixture of dread and profound relief. Finally, it is happening. No running after all, old man.

Methos was having trouble breathing. He pressed his lips together but could not seem to calm the heaving of his chest. With effort he forced the words out.

"Get. Your hands. Off. Of me."

But MacLeod didn't. He was moving, circling so he could see Methos's eyes. Methos stared straight ahead, holding himself so tightly he thought he might shatter. Whatever MacLeod saw in his face, it stopped him; the iron grip tightened.

"Methos."

His nearness was intolerable. Methos jerked out of his grasp. "No. Enough, Highlander. Judge me or let me go, but I will not play this game with you any longer!"

"I didn't mean what I said."

Methos met his eyes without mercy and enunciated carefully, wanting there to be no mistake. "You meant every word."

"No, I—"

Methos advanced on him, and MacLeod fell back a step before his fury. "Yes!" Methos hissed, knowing he was finally out of control, and unable to care. "Yes, MacLeod, you meant it. Just like you meant to kill Kronos. Like you meant to kill Byron. It's time you accepted it because I have had enough. You can judge them. You can kill them." He seized hold of Duncan's shirt, red fistfuls of silk. "Why do you deny me?"

"You know why!" MacLeod cried, and planted his feet, grabbing Methos by the arms. The dark eyes were blazing with something fierce, something too bright to look at. "You are not like them!"

Methos shuddered, catching himself against the Highlander's broad frame. "MacLeod—" There was a thickness in his throat, blocking the words. "MacLeod, I am them." The room was spinning. "Nothing I've done is going to go away because you pretend it's so—you cannot have it both ways. You can't forgive the things I've done. If you couldn't kill me, you should have let Cassandra finish the job." He cursed his body for betraying him. It took every ounce of will he possessed to shove Duncan away from him, denying that support; the absence of those hands was like longing for the sun in an endless night. He backed toward the center of the room.

MacLeod didn't follow this time. His eyes were watchful, his voice dangerously quiet. "What are you doing?"

Only then did Methos realize his hand had found the hilt of his sword. Yes, a voice said within him, layers of civilization falling away, making him feel suddenly light. It is fit.

A kind of calm fell over him then. Two years ago he'd known what the outcome of their meeting must be. He'd let himself be seduced by the promise of the Highlander's friendship, but he had always known in his heart that one day it would come back to that moment of truth under the bridge. It had come again in Bordeaux, and again MacLeod had turned from it, taunting him with the hope of forgiveness, acceptance, absolution that had never come.

Well, third time's the charm.

He drew his sword, a long, deadly gleam of silver in the shadows.. "Trial by combat. Trust the fates to decide the winner, isn't that how the song goes, Duncan-MacLeod-of-the-Clan-MacLeod?"

The instinctive reaction to that challenge was unmistakable. He saw MacLeod's stance shift, saw him take two prowling steps forward, the deadly grace making the hair stand up on Methos's arms. But MacLeod shook his head slowly, his hands deliberately open, empty. "I will not fight you."

"Oh, but you have to. Your own code tells you so. Isn't that what you told Amanda and me?"

"It's not the same thing, and you know it!"

"Sorry, the philosophical distinction eludes me." Methos was grinning ferally now, circling him. The space was far too small; the flat would be laid waste by the time they were finished. It wouldn't matter—chances were good the entire block would get scorched shortly thereafter. Somewhere, a part of him asked what the fuck he thought he was doing, but that voice was small and far away, and carried little weight against the certain truth of what it always came down to, in the end.

"Methos, please." The expressive face was drawn with betrayal and grief, the look that haunted his memories. "It doesn't have to be like this."

It enraged him as nothing else could have. He hated that look; it had power over him, frightening in its intensity. "Don't look so surprised, Highlander. You knew it would come to this. You must have known."

"For God's sake, I don't want to fight you!"

"Suit yourself," Methos said, and lunged.

It was a tribute to MacLeod's reflexes that he instinctively stepped inside the blow, the flat of the broadsword's blade glancing off his shoulder, slicing open fabric but missing flesh. Even so, the power Methos had put behind his swing drove him staggering to one side. MacLeod turned it into a roll, putting enough distance between them to go for the katana. It whistled from its hidden sheath, blade humming faintly.

He wouldn't use it. Methos pressed the attack but MacLeod kept falling back, putting furniture between them, using his sword only when he couldn't block the furious blows any other way. MacLeod had snagged his coat as well and used it now to advantage, entangling Methos's weapon and buying himself a few seconds.

Damn you, Highlander, fight! Methos fumed, but his soul was light, singing in harmony with the steel of his blade. He knew it couldn't go on. The man would have to fight back, sooner or later. MacLeod shoved a chair in his path and he vaulted over it, seeing the dark eyes widen in surprise at his agility. Sweet rage and grim pleasure soared through him. Now, Duncan. Now. He had MacLeod in an awkward spot, dangerously close to being pinned against the windows. For an instant he feared MacLeod would try to go through the glass, and his sword whipped upward, driving the other man back and back again, toward the wall.

But MacLeod wasn't looking for escape. He was looking at Methos, their eyes locked, unwavering, and Methos saw it the moment that it happened, the fury sparking in that storm-dark gaze. The katana lashed out, faster than thought. Somehow Methos blocked it, but MacLeod's blade slid along his, slicing his hand viciously.

Methos did not feel it, except as a flame in his blood, urging him on. Now, Duncan, his heart cried, and he could feel the katana coming for him, knew that it was coming for him, and for that one instant he felt nothing but sheer, blessed freedom. One more parry, and one more, and then—

"No," Duncan whispered, going to one knee.

The katana was flung aside, ringing against the hardwood floor.

Methos snarled, thwarted. His sword came down, level with MacLeod's heart. "Pick it up!" he hissed, pressing the point against red silk, drawing blood.

"No," MacLeod said more forcefully, eyes never wavering. He rose to his feet, and took a step forward, heedless of the blade pressing at his heart. Methos was forced to step back. "I told you before the answer is no."

"You owe me!" Methos cried, knuckles white where they gripped the hilt.

"Yes," MacLeod agreed. "But not this, Methos. I cannot judge you."

He took another step and again Methos retreated, his rage incendiary, burning him up from the inside out. "You deny me still?"

MacLeod only looked at him, a look full of compassion, layers and levels of tenderness and sadness and pain. He took another step and to Methos's horror he let his blade waver fractionally, permitting it. He felt himself shaking with a reaction he could not name. As if waking from a dream, he looked at his own hand where it gripped the sword, knuckles white and scraped raw. How had they gotten here? "Can you forgive, then?" he whispered, voice breaking, not really daring to hope.

Duncan's lips, those sweet lips that fueled his dreams and dealt such beautiful pain, parted. Dark eyes shone with tears he didn't shed. "Oh, Methos. You know I can't."

Despair flooded Methos in a dark rush, and when his sword arm fell, unbalancing him, he was only distantly aware of it.

Duncan caught him by the shoulders, disarming him, taking the sword and his defenses. "Methos, listen to me. You're asking for something that cannot be given, not by me nor any man. How do I absolve the man who was Death—when that man died two thousand years before I was born? He doesn't exist. Let him go. I have."

Methos felt himself fragmenting, and didn't think he could take much more. "That's a lie," he whispered.

MacLeod's honesty radiated from him, undeniable. "I've never lied to you."

Impossible to think with those strong hands holding him captive. Methos broke free of his grip. "You would have fought me for the right to face Keane—for things you did centuries ago! How can you stand there and tell me you can let it go?"

Something snapped in MacLeod. He flung a hand outward, gesturing at Methos's sword on the floor. "And how can you think I would ever do such a thing? You told me the only forgiveness that mattered was my own. You were right. You were right about every single thing you said to me that day. Why have you forgotten?"

"What makes you think I have?"

MacLeod moved a step closer, his eyes darkening with unnamable emotion. "Then why do you ask me to judge you?"

"It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Answer the question!"

"Because it isn't enough!" Methos snapped. He caught himself, too late. The expectant silence defeated him. His lips thinned, bitterness simmering beneath the words he bit out. "A long time ago I decided I wanted to live, and I turned my back on the past. But then I met you." His mouth twisted with something that wasn't a smile, the mocking directed at himself. "Now I think of what you see when you look at me, and suddenly it isn't enough any more, just to live."

"And?" MacLeod prompted, inexorable. "What else, Methos?"

Involuntarily, his eyes went to Mac's.

"Tell me."

Those eyes, dark-fringed and liquid and asking for the world. Inescapable. Something vital in Methos broke open with a hairline crack.

"Because you couldn't forgive," he whispered at last, averting his face. "Because I thought judgment was the only thing you could give me."

A long, astonished silence. Then MacLeod swallowed, drawing a deep breath. "You asked me once if I could accept. I didn't know the answer then. But I do now."

Methos wanted so badly to believe him. But it was too much, to let go of so much hurt and fear all at once. He started to pull away, but MacLeod touched him, brushing fingertips along the side of his face, his neck, freezing him to shocked stillness. The low voice wrapped itself around his heart.

"Listen to me. That day, when Kronos came, I let you convince me that the trust we had was a lie. I should have believed in you no matter what you told me."

Methos closed his eyes. "I needed you," he said in a rush, not knowing until it was past his lips that he was going to say it. Breathing hard, his heart clenched like a fist, he wished he could snatch the words back. Too late.

"I know." The grief was heavy in MacLeod's voice. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I failed you. Failed both of us. But I do believe in you, Methos. Anything you need, all you have to do is ask. All you ever have to do is ask." He leaned forward until their foreheads were touching. His hand slipped up the side of Methos's throat, cupping the vulnerable nape in his warm, callused palm. "Only please, not this. It would kill me."

His touch broke down some last line of defense. Between one breath and the next, Methos felt the taut thing in his chest start to unravel, spilling light into places that had been dark for a very, very long time. It was nothing he had ever expected. Not judgment or forgiveness, but much more than either of those. Acceptance. Faith. That voice saying his name. "Who are you," he managed, "and what have you done with Duncan MacLeod?"

MacLeod's breath caught in something like a laugh, low and sweet and suspiciously unsteady. "Don't worry. I'm sure I'll manage to do something pig-headed or judgmental before long."

The man's nearness was a drug, making Methos a little crazy. Pulling away, he struggled to find the gallows humor that had always been a refuge between them. "You've been in such a snit, I was more than half convinced you wanted my head for a doorstop."

"You can take mine if it'll make you feel better." The tone was light, but underscored with a deep current of sorrow. "Methos, I—"

Methos looked hard into MacLeod's eyes. "Don't," he said harshly, before MacLeod could say anything else. He couldn't bear it, to think that Byron should come between them now. "It's done. No regrets."

MacLeod shook his head gravely. "No. Not for him. But I regret more than you can know that I had to kill your friend. Can you..." MacLeod hesitated, as if considering what he asked. "Can you accept it?"

Methos chuckled softly, the relief a heady lightness inside of him. "Oh, Mac." For an instant, he curled the back of his hand into the warm curve of the muscular throat. "What do you think?"

He meant to keep it light, an acknowledgment of the hurt healed between them, only that. But something shifted in the fleeting touch, the moment when their eyes met and held—something that washed over both of them, like pale sunlight after a storm—much more than Methos had ever meant to tell him. Methos froze, as the realization came: as easily as that, he had given everything away.

A chill squeezed his heart as MacLeod's eyes went wide. The seconds drew out, a small forever.

At last MacLeod gave a breathless, choked off laugh. "I think we've both been idiots. Methos—" He shook his head helplessly. "You broke my heart, you know. That day by the car, you broke my heart. Did you not know that?"

The words took Methos's breath and shot like strong liquor through his blood, flooding him with a deep, overpowering ache of need. He started to pull away.

But strong arms caught him, drew him close.

"Enough, Methos," Duncan whispered harshly. "Enough." And any protests Methos might have made died swiftly, forgotten in the uncontrolled heat of those hands in his hair, that body pressing against his, that mouth claiming his in a silencing kiss.

One rough, sweet caress, like coming home, Duncan's mouth, lips parting, tongue tasting him intimately. Oh god. More poignant than Methos had imagined, more all-consuming, more devastating.

Distantly Methos knew that MacLeod had backed him up against something—a bookshelf? A cabinet? He grabbed for something to hold on to and his hand found purchase on smooth wood. His other hand laced in dark hair, releasing a faint scent that made him groan and pull Duncan's head down in spite of himself. Duncan kissed him as if he could not bear the separation of any part of their mouths for long, as if Methos were a part of his own soul he could reclaim with the voluptuous invasion of his tongue.

Maybe that was true, Methos thought, the flood of his own response shaking him to his core. Knowing him like this, tasting him, feasting on his mouth, holding on to each other like this, frantic for more closeness... there had been dreams. Fantasy paled; the reality unraveled him. A thousand reasons why this should not be and not one of them that could stand against the slide of Duncan's hair through his fingers, the slide of that sweet tongue in his mouth. Whatever else comes, I will have had this. And it will have been worth it.

Duncan's strength asked no permission and needed none, for Methos didn't resist any more. Strong hands pulled his coat off and let it fall, possessing his hips; Duncan pressed into the space between his thighs. A shock of current leaped between them. Methos sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the heat, the hardness of that body all along his. The feel of him—steel and softness under thin silk—was so addicting Methos instantly had to have more. He pulled Duncan closer, pleasure soaring from the friction where his sex found a fervent, answering hardness.

Duncan moaned softly, his hips surging of their own accord. In another moment that knowing mouth was at Methos's throat. Shivering a little, Methos arched in his arms. "Mac—" Duncan's hands seized him, stroking down his waist, hips, pulling him in tighter. Methos had to widen his stance for balance. He felt the touch of Duncan's tongue, tasting him, the graze of teeth stabbing electric pleasure down his throat, straight through his belly and groin, making him throb against Duncan's thigh. A short cry escaped him, breathless and pleading.

That mouth, warm, consuming, the hollow at his throat, under his jaw, behind his ear, at his temple. The sweet jolts of pleasure intoxicated him; the pulse of energy generated by each caress soared through him. Methos felt it looping back and forth, a kind of euphoric ecstasy singing through the nerves, concentrated at the base of the spine like being fucked by an electric pulse. "Mac, I—" He'd never felt anything like it, not with any Immortal, not with anyone. Quickening, he thought incoherently. Something to do with his quickening, mine— He tried to remember the question but no words came.

"No," Duncan murmured against his neck, "no more. Not talking is what got us to swords and bloodshed. Say it, Methos, tell me what you want. Tell me what you need."

Methos shuddered. His head fell back, exposing the length of his throat to Duncan's mouth. "More. I need more. Your mouth. Your hands—" He barely recognized the sound of his own voice hoarse with need, asking for those things from this man. He rubbed himself helplessly against the other man's insistent arousal. Blood surged to MacLeod's sex and his own with the friction.

Duncan pulled Methos's shirt out of his jeans, even the drag of fabric across his belly almost more stimulation than he could stand. And when those hands touched him there, cupping taut muscle, slipping over his flanks and up his sides, he shuddered again, hissing in a breath. God yes, better than he'd imagined, warmer, more possessive. He had to bite his lip against a sob. You have me, Duncan. You can have me. The other man swept broad thumbs across his nipples, not hurrying, and the surge of pleasure brought him close to orgasm. "Duncan," he gasped out, a warning.

"Methos," the other man answered, his voice raw and edged with need. So beautiful, Methos thought, he is so beautiful, his voice and his mouth and the way he says my name...

Dark eyes focused, found his, the look of glazed arousal intoxicating. "Will you tell me what you need?" The big hands spread against the bare skin at his waist and slipped to the small of his back, beneath his jeans, cupping bare flesh. As if Duncan could not hold the words back, he confessed, "I want so badly to be inside of you."

Methos closed his eyes, the suggestion enough to push him to the edge. "Yes," he groaned. "God, yes." The pressure of denim against his desperate arousal threatened to send him over. "But you'd better make it soon."

Those hands squeezed his ass and pulled him up against MacLeod's body, one muscled thigh pressing between his legs. The flushed mouth took possession of him again, a wet, ravaging assault. It ended before his shocked body could find release and he was left without breath, trembling short of coming. For an instant it was on his lips to beg for mercy. He bit it back, his hand snaking between them to ease his own ache.

But before he could MacLeod's hands were pulling his shirt off, palms roughly skimming the contours of his body. "Not yet. I want to look at you. I've dreamed about having you like this, about you letting me touch you like this. Tell me what you want. Anything."

Out of self-preservation Methos struggled to focus on something besides the demanding pressure between his thighs. His fingers found the rent in Duncan's shirt, where his sword had sliced through. "This. Off. Now." Together, not bothering with buttons, they pulled the garment over Duncan's head and off. "And these." Methos felt him hungrily through his trousers. He felt like heaven, hot and stiff and responsive. Duncan moaned aloud and had to put a hand out to steady himself against Methos's shoulder. Getting the pants off was torture for both of them; when they were off, his dusky skin gleamed in the silvered light of dawn, putting imagination to shame.

Methos had meant to distract himself with Duncan's nakedness under his hands, the feel of his heated curves and hollows, sheened with sweat and heady musk. But his hands closed around that elegant, heavy sex, felt it leap to his touch—and the throb of wanting laced down his spine and straight through his insides.

Duncan caught him at the back of the neck, an embrace of unexpected, devastating tenderness. "Tell me." He made it a plea, asking for the world again, for Methos to trust him after everything that had happened, all the hurt they had caused and all the chances they had missed. His eyes were wide and full.

Methos was undone. "Be with me, Duncan. Don't make me wait any more."

He didn't know how they made it to the bed. The pressure of those hands at the buttons of his jeans reduced him to harsh panting, his body arching against cool cotton-sheathed down. Silver raindrops painted tall windows and golden skin and the jeans were down, were off; he made a sound of relief and wanting, pulling that magnificent body down between his thighs. A hot hardness pushed into his hip. A low moan escaped him, anticipating that heat inside of him.

Fingers laced in his, pressing his hands down against the duvet. "Do you have anything...?"

"No." He shook his head, consciously relaxing the muscles, unable to bear any more waiting. "It's all right. You won't hurt me."

"Ah, Methos." Duncan's cock caressed his roughly, the pleasure almost unbearable, making Methos moan and shiver in the other man's grip as slippery fluid surged fresh from his overstimulated sex. At last Duncan shuddered, shifting down between his thighs until Methos felt a blunt pressure, slick with his own fluid and Duncan's, pushing against him. One hand let go and tilted his hips up, steadying him. The pressure was uncomfortable, delicious, terrifying. Duncan inside me. Pressure became a slow, sweet invasion, and Methos buried his helpless sob of need against the corded neck, trying to breathe. He squeezed Duncan's fingers like a lifeline and pushed against him.

Duncan slid roughly into him, their voices groaning a duet.

One long moment of shocked pleasure—then a high, profound plateau of dizzying height. So sweet. Duncan, you are so sweet in me, I could die like this. I would die like this. And then, bracing a hand against Methos's hip, Duncan thrust deeply, drawing a hoarse cry from someplace deep within him.

They moved together, and there was no room for mercy, no quarter given or asked. Methos heard himself making those deep, wordless cries. They were nothing he could have controlled. There was pain and he couldn't breathe because he was coming apart, but he didn't care because the pleasure was devastating. Duncan's muscles worked against the back of his thighs. He could feel their rhythmic slide driving that throbbing heat inside of him, the grip of strong fingers in his. It was hard, and fast, and wonderful.

"Look at me," Duncan panted. "Methos, look at me."

For a second Methos didn't think he could. The rough friction, pressure, fullness were too much, the throb where Duncan was hitting the bundle of nerves within him again and again a thick sweet pleasure taking thought and breath.

But to deny him was unthinkable, and he found he had opened his eyes, found Duncan's, and there was no hurt now, no pretense, no refuge in anger or any of the other shields they had held between them for so long.

"Feel me inside of you."

"God, yes," Methos gasped.

"This is real. Don't doubt it. Believe it."

"Yes," he whispered fiercely, for that one moment, believing.

And then Methos became aware that the rhythm had changed, that he was soaring on a knife-edge of pleasure so sharp it was akin to pain, that he was sobbing softly because Duncan was stroking himself inside him with exquisite slowness and the salt wetness on his lips was his own, because there had to be some outlet, some release for how good it was.

Duncan was making exposed, breathless cries with each slow advance, arching above him, face transcendent with his pleasure. He took Methos's cock in his hand and leaned forward. And pressing his hand and Methos's sex against his belly, he kissed Methos, capturing his keening sob of pleasure with his mouth, rocking deep in Methos's body.

No thought then, just their cries and the long, helpless slide down the face of the cresting wave into the undertow. Just the orgasm rolling over them in great swells of release as quenching, as uncontrollable, as deep and strong and infinite as the sea. Just Duncan gasping his name against his neck, over and over as the tremors shook him. "Methos. Methos."

Just that beautiful voice saying his name, taking him apart and remaking him into something rare and incandescent, something innocent as the morning... something newborn.

* * *

Duncan stayed in him, on top of him, for an unmeasured span of minutes. Methos wished that it could be forever. The weight of him, the salt-sweat scent, the feel of his nakedness—all of them together were a kind of peace he had not known in a very long time, if ever. Duncan's breath against his shoulder was sweet, his hair damp with sweat and smelling of rain and smoke, cannabis and tobacco from the concert. Methos gently stroked the dark waves back from his temple and waited for his breathing to steady.

Inevitably, bodies cooled, heartbeats slowed, and the other man shifted off of him, rolling onto the duvet beside him. Methos found himself concentrating on the throbbing deep within him, the bruised pleasure that would fade too quickly. Not yet. For now he could still feel where Duncan had been.

The voice, when it came, was a rough-soft purr, sated and holding a smile. "We could have done this a long time ago, you know. Might have saved us a lot of trouble."

"Right. Can't imagine why we didn't think of it." His own voice was hoarse, almost a stranger's.

Mac chuckled. "Speak for yourself."

Methos looked over at him sharply. Mac was looking up at the ceiling, only a few hand spans away.

And Methos couldn't help it. He started to laugh, and went on laughing until his eyes watered and he was gasping for breath. "You bastard."

"Me?" The voice was a perfect portrait of wounded innocence. If only his mouth hadn't quirked at the corners. "What did I do?"

Methos threw an arm over his eyes, feeling the heat there that still threatened to spill out in earnest. "Oh, nothing, Mr. Poster Child for Rampant Heterosexuality. I can't imagine why I should have thought you'd say no."

He felt the bed shift, and knew Mac had rolled over to look at him. A warm hand spread against his belly, heedless of wet stickiness. "So when did you first think of asking?"

Methos moved the arm far enough to look at him, and for a long moment he couldn't speak. How long had he dreamed of seeing that look of contentment easing the strong lines of his face? When had he first imagined the sleepy glow of satisfaction in those dark eyes, the flushed bee-stung lips, the shadow of stubble along his jaw?

At last he smiled slightly, tracing Duncan's mouth with his fingertips. "When did I become warm for your form, you mean? Before you were ever born, I think. Maybe before I was. How old is the universe? I think it might have been then."

MacLeod was smiling too, but he caught Methos's hand in his and drew it down against his chest. "Seriously."

"Seriously?" Suddenly he felt exposed, raw, and he couldn't raise his eyes from looking at where their fingers were joined.

"Yeah, seriously."

This is real. Don't doubt it. Believe it.

Methos drew a careful breath. "I was half gone that first day—don't laugh. I'd wanted to meet you for so long. And you knew who I was. I can't tell you what that felt like, to have you know me like that after so long hiding. The way you said my name. You terrified me."

"Why?" Mac asked huskily. "What were you afraid of?"

"I wanted you to live more than I wanted myself to live." Mac started to say something, but Methos hurried on. "And then you wouldn't take my head, and that terrified me even more, because then I knew I might start to trust you, and I knew... I knew that you would trust me too and it would all fall apart eventually, when you knew what I was."

"No. When I knew what you'd done." Duncan squeezed his fingers, and finally Methos had to look at him. "That isn't what you are, Methos. That isn't even close to all the things that you are. You are... you astonish me."

"And you me, Mac," Methos said, when he was able to find his voice. "You are a constant source of amazement." His throat burned, an image teasing the edges of memory. Sudden daring made him go on, the need to hold to these sweet, painful truths persisting, irresistible. "Do you know when it was I first knew?"

Duncan shook his head, eyes bright.

"It was at the spring. You trusted me so much. You faced your darkness and won and when I saw you... I knew you had come back to me, and then I knew how close it had been, how cold and dark my life would have been if you hadn't."

Duncan was looking at him as if waiting for the dropping of the other shoe—as if expecting him to come to his senses and deny ever saying such things. For a moment, Methos felt a suffocating pressure closing around his insides, and was sorely tempted. But the dark eyes were shining with an odd tangle of emotions—tenderness and bittersweet memory, joy and somethng like hope—and Methos found he could breathe after all.

At last Duncan closed his other hand around their joined ones, searching for words. "Methos... I want to tell you the feelings... I want to tell you how deep you are in my heart. But how can I ever make you understand? You are so much better at words than I am."

"Just keep looking at me like that. Say my name like that. And stay alive. I won't ask for more than that."

Duncan shook his head emphatically. "But I want you to ask. I want to make you happy. I want you to tell me what you want, what you need. Don't run away from me any more. Believe in me. Will you do that?"

Methos could only nod. "You know, I think this may be a record for us. Almost half an hour and no arguing, no shouting..."

"You know, I think you may be right." At Methos's look, Duncan broke into a slow grin. "Well, it had to happen some time."

"What, that I'd be right or that you'd admit it?"

Duncan's arms went around him, dragging him into a rough, entangled embrace. "Ah, Methos. You're almost always right. I just like to keep you on your toes."

"God help me."

Duncan buried his face in Methos, breathing him in. He groaned. "We're not fit for a stable."

"Shower."

"Shower," he agreed.

They slept like that, sweaty and tousled, wrapped up in each other on top of the bedclothes.

* * *

Methos woke to late morning light filtering through raindrops that traced lazy tracks on the window panes. The vibrant current of Presence followed him from dream into waking.

"Just me," a familiar voice said, and he turned his head to see Mac sitting close by, a book open on his lap, a mug of something that steamed in his hand. His hair was damp and clung to his neck in wavy tendrils. He was wearing an old white henley and drawstring trousers he'd scrounged from somewhere, the stretched fabric skimming his body but fitting him, barely. He smiled, and his eyes spoke a caress. "Good morning."

The world's oldest living Immortal, lying naked face down on the bed, felt his body belie its five thousand years and come instantly, painfully erect.

He drew in a breath, closed his eyes, let it out. When he had done that three times, he felt marginally better. He opened his eyes again and looked at the cup in MacLeod's hands. "Is that coffee?"

Mac relinquished his cup to the extended hand, their fingers touching briefly. Methos propped himself up on one elbow and took a sip; it was nirvana.

After two more sips, he handed it back. "How long was I asleep?"

"Not long. Hope you don't mind I borrowed a few things, including your shower."

"I'm sorry about your shirt," Methos said, lips curving.

"S'alright. I took it out on your chair." Mac's gaze went to the high-backed Martinique, which by the looks of things had suffered a mortal blow in the evening's excitement.

"I think I'll survive the loss. Ugliest thing you ever saw, isn't it?"

"You said it, not me."

"Everyone's a critic." Methos sat up, supremely aware of his disheveled appearance and the memory of Duncan fucking him slowly.

The thought raised gooseflesh—and that wasn't all it raised. A wave of pure sensation started between his thighs and flooded his whole body, thinking of it. He drew a deep breath to steady himself.

"Is there hot water?" he asked, not the question in his thoughts. His face was too warm.

Duncan gave him an unreadable look from beneath lowered lashes, before returning his attention to his book. "Should be."

Methos rose, taking two steps before stopping.

This sudden awkwardness was excruciating. He turned back for a moment, had to clear his throat. "Mac?"

The smile Duncan gave him was pure sunlight, full of promises that did dangerous things to his insides. "I'm not going anywhere."

Methos knew he probably looked ridiculous, rumpled, hair sticking up, half-aroused and smiling like an idiot—but he absolutely could not help the grin that spread across his face.

* * *

He emerged from the bathroom to find Duncan at the kitchen sink, washing blood out of his coat. The spectacle appealed to his admittedly skewed sense of humour.

"Another casualty?"

"Mm. We're lucky no one called the police. Your neighbors must be sound sleepers—or exceedingly good at minding their own business."

"Terrific. Hope I never have any real trouble."

Duncan flashed him a sidelong grin, wiping his hands on a towel. "What are boy scouts for?"

Methos rolled his eyes. "Thank you, now I feel so much better." In fact, he felt absurdly self-conscious, and occupied his hands with finding another cup in the cabinet, pouring fresh coffee for himself and adding a healthy spoonful of sugar.

Even this was an intimacy, standing in his tiny kitchen in his dark silk robe and bare feet, watching Duncan out of the corner of his eye. He noted with a kind of chagrined helplessness that the thick hair was almost dry now, curling in soft waves about the strong neck. He thought of what it would smell like—his own shampoo, sandalwood and sage—and unconsciously moved half a step closer.

Duncan shut off the water and turned, leaning his hips against the sink. He crossed his arms casually, regarding Methos with an intensity that accelerated Methos's pulse by slow increments. "No sword, I see," he commented with a dangerous smile. "Does this mean we're safe to be in the same room together?"

Methos gave a choked laugh. "When have we ever been?"

"Well, I'll be good if you will."

"If not, I'll try and be better."

Dark eyes narrowed, accusing. "You've been waiting to spring that on me."

"Well, you're slipping, if you expected me to let an opening like that go." Methos sipped his coffee, trying an innocent look over the rim. He watched Duncan trying to keep the outraged expression, but it wasn't working. The flick of that amused gaze down to his mouth and back was so brief, for a moment Methos was certain he'd imagined it.

Then, just as suddenly, he was sure he hadn't.

Methos put down the cup.

It required only the smallest shift, closing the space between them. With perfect naturalness he let gravity draw him forward. Duncan moved by silent accord, spreading his feet slightly, palm skimming Methos's shoulder, and Methos breathed a sigh against his mouth as they drew close, his hand going instinctively to the sweet join of flank and hip.

The kiss was warm, sweet and coffee-flavored, licked with enough passion to make the blood heat, the nerves tingle. Too soon, Duncan started to draw away. Methos startled him, hands sinking into soft waves, holding him still, prolonging the kiss and answering Duncan's tongue with his own. Duncan made a sound, soft and questioning, little more than a vibration against his mouth.

They parted. Methos drew back, only far enough to look a question into his eyes.

Duncan's pupils were dilated, the pulse visible at his throat, a dark flush rising from the open neck of his borrowed white shirt. He was bracing himself with one hand against the edge of the sink behind him.

"Do you feel that?" Duncan murmured, never breaking his gaze. "When you touch me?"

Methos moistened his lips, tasting Duncan on them. "I should hope so."

"You know what I'm talking about." Duncan ran a fingertip along the line of Methos's nape, tracing the nerves there and watching Methos's reaction. Licking current followed the touch and stabbed gently into more secret places. Methos couldn't prevent the catch in his breath. "You do feel it. Do you know what it is?"

Methos lowered his eyes. The memory of the terrible, ecstatic merging that had fused them together for an eternity of seconds in Bordeaux still felt too real and too big to comprehend. He could no more get his thoughts around it now than he had then. "I know when it started, if that's what you mean."

"So do I." Duncan waited, but Methos said nothing. "Are we gonna talk about it?"

Methos thought about that. Then he looked up, a faint smile touching his lips. "No, I don't think so."

After a moment, an answering smile found Duncan's mouth. "I can live with that."

"Can you?" Methos moved in, straddling one taut thigh, and pressing close, pleasure soaring from the friction and heat against his bare skin under his robe.

Duncan drew a sharp breath, soft and fervent. "Oh, yes. I think so. I can definitely—" His words broke off in a soft gasp as Methos rubbed against him gently, stimulating him further.

"I think you can definitely, too. What do you say we test that theory?"

"Mmm," Duncan agreed. "Here? Or the bed?"

"Oh, I'm all for variety." Methos slid his hands under the white cotton, hungry for contact. Duncan's skin was warm, dewed with faint perspiration, responsive to his touch. Duncan growled softly against his ear, tracing the inner curve with his lips. "So demanding. You really should learn some self-restraint..." Duncan's tongue teased his ear, raising gooseflesh "...but maybe later."

"Later?" Duncan's thigh pressed intimately between his.

Methos groaned. "Much later."

He felt his robe part under warm hands that traced his nakedness from shoulders to hipbones, shivers chasing the caress. "Maybe you're right," Duncan said thoughtfully, gazing down at Methos, who was hard and flushed under the perusal.

"No, no, I take it back." Methos caught his hand and tried to bring it down to his aching flesh. "Self-restraint is overrated."

Duncan grinned mischievously, eyes flicking up. "I meant, maybe you're right about the bed." And with that he pushed Methos backward, up against the kitchen island, and went smoothly to his knees.

Methos had little time for breath before the hands slid deeper under his robe, gripping him from behind and holding him still for the first velvet touch of Duncan's lips on his naked sex. In another moment Duncan's tongue was there, tasting him with firm, purposeful touches, and he made an incoherent sound, his knees refusing to support him. He had to put a hand on the counter, liquid heat spiraling through him. He closed his eyes to feel, then had to open them again to see. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that."

Duncan looked up at him, smiling wickedly. "I thought we'd been through that." His lips were wet.

Methos slid one hand into dark hair and pushed his hips forward, rubbing himself on that mouth. He shuddered with the pleasure. "Please..."

Duncan met the advance with his tongue and slightly parted lips, never taking his eyes from Methos's. Then he pulled his mouth away and smiled again. "You'll have to be more specific."

Methos tightened his grip, a warning. "Please stop talking and suck me, Duncan." He laced it with an edge of steel, and saw it flare in dark eyes, a faint almost imperceptible tremor running through the kneeling man. And under his grip the stiff neck relaxed, and that lush mouth engulfed him in a sensuous motion.

The glimpse of willing surrender was as devastating as the wet sucking heat, and Methos's mind spun into a dark nexus of erotic urges. To have Duncan kneeling like this, head bowed under his touch, sucking him exquisitely... uncounted fantasies of uncounted nights, and still he hadn't come close to this. He couldn't think for feeling it.

"Yes..." he breathed, feeling the slow surge of ecstasy as it began to roll over him in shuddery, building waves. Duncan's hands squeezed, taking his weight as he swayed. The wet, warm, intimate, oh god, gentle sucking of that mouth drew him fast up a pinnacle of desperation and sweet, hot pleasure, and it wasn't enough, it wasn't nearly enough. Methos needed desperately to thrust into that tender mouth, to win his submission and take him for his own, but right now he needed even more to be close to him, to know again that oneness they had touched a few hours before. He let go of the counter and closed his hand on Duncan's shoulder, pulling. Finding the words was almost impossible, but he gasped them out at last, pleading. "Come here." The other man obeyed, releasing his engorged sex and rising into his arms.

Yes, yes, this was exactly what he wanted, Duncan's embrace, the press of their bodies, the heat of Duncan's face against his...

It still wasn't enough. Methos tugged at white cotton impatiently, needing to feel skin. Duncan obliged, stripping the shirt off, and Methos had pulled him close again before it hit the floor.

"You feel so good Methos. So good." Methos caught his breath as a warm hand cupped his arousal, rubbing gently. Duncan's fingers spread against his sac, caressing him there and underneath, the palm creating sweet friction against his cock. He fumbled with the drawstring of Duncan's pants, working it free and slipping his hands inside.

Heat. And softness. Wiry hair, satin-smooth hardness, the soft down of his thighs. The feel of him was incredible, hot, his sex leaping into Methos's hand, a drop of slickness against Methos's wrist. Duncan drew in a sharp breath, then let it out on a broken sigh. He pushed forward, stroking himself into Methos's hands.

Methos leaned his forehead against a broad shoulder, touched by that artless surrender and suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling he had been seeking, the oneness. "Yes," he gasped, biting his lip as Duncan stroked him. "Yes, touch me, make me come. I want to come with you, Duncan." He pushed himself into that sweet grip and felt Duncan shudder and push back, Methos's words fueling his urgency.

Another stroke and Methos felt himself break out in perspiration, pleasure shivering through his buttocks and belly and thighs, felt the moisture spring up along the fine skin of Duncan's groin. "Come on," he urged. "Don't hold back. Let it go, Duncan." He groaned, feeling his own body's response to the tiny surge of fluid against his hand. He had one hand in Duncan's pants, the other braced against his waist. They were holding each other up, bodies pressed close, so much heat in the grip and slide and stroke of what they were doing that it threatened to cause a meltdown. "Come with me," Methos urged, trying to hold back the crest that was close now, so close... "Soon—"

"Now," breathed Duncan.

Methos inhaled sharply, caught off guard by the sudden swell of orgasm, the rush of pleasure hitting him hard in the gut, unstoppable. A sweet, slick throb in his hand and Duncan was coming, too, surging hot over his wrist in strong pulses, crying out softly near his ear. The feel and the sound and scent of him swept through Methos, taking over his senses. His release unfurled, a delicious jabbing pleasure that rippled through every part of him at once. It went on; he held fiercely to Duncan and rode it out. A wave of tremors swept him, then subsided. It left him stunned, disoriented, utterly euphoric in the aftershock.

For a minute they breathed together like that, Duncan boneless, slumped against him, as dazed as he.

At last Duncan's arms found their way around his waist, and Methos returned the embrace. "You're getting heavy," he murmured into the other's shoulder.

The sound Duncan made was indistinguishable as speech, yet managed to communicate both his utter contentment and his complete unconcern about whether Methos would continue to hold him up indefinitely.

So easy, Methos thought. Can it really be so easy?

It couldn't be, he knew. Wouldn't be. But suddenly the thought of an Immortal lifetime of being with him, knowing this with him, struck Methos in the solar plexus, and he needed to sit down. Or maybe lie down.

They made it to the bed, though it was a close thing.

* * *

The rain had stopped, and afternoon sunlight streamed in the windows, but Duncan slept on. Methos had been watching him for some time. His own thoughts were very far from sleep

For two years he'd refused to acknowledge the possibility that this would ever be anything other than an idle fantasy. Sanity had always won out, and self-preservation, and remembering all the compelling reasons why this could never be, must never be, why he was the worst kind of fool to ever let himself forget that. The risks were far too many. The danger to his survival had been self-evident, the other dangers more nebulous, but no less of a threat. The most dangerous of all—the possibility of going too deep, feeling too much, getting lost. Losing oneself was an Immortal's greatest fear, with good reason.

He'd foreseen that one long ago, long before they'd ever met, and he'd never lost sight of it. Admittedly, what had happened during the double quickening and since was a much more concrete demonstration of that particular risk than he'd counted on, but it was still a danger he'd anticipated.

What he hadn't counted on—the threat he'd never even looked for—was this profound, overwhelming joy he felt at having failed so completely to save himself.

"You look happy," a sleepy baritone said from the bed.

Methos thought idly that Duncan sleeping in the sun was a wondrous sight, but perhaps not quite as wondrous as Duncan waking with that look on his face, sleepy, sated, satisfied with himself and the world.

He pretended to look at his nonexistent watch. "I try to do happy once a week, for five minutes, just to keep in practice."

Duncan's eyebrows climbed for his hair. "Every week? That's a little extreme, isn't it? You might ruin your reputation for being an old grouch."

"You've been talking to Amanda."

"Mm, and I think she and I are going to be due for another talk soon."

Methos had made a very long lifetime's work of controlling his expression, and he put it to good use now, his tone so neutral he might have been asking after the weather. "That so?"

Duncan grinned, a lazy Cheshire cat grin that should have been illegal. He propped himself up on one elbow, displaying a few of his undeniable charms. "Why don't you put that book down, and come over here so we can discuss it?"

Methos answered with a sweep of eyelashes. "What, and lose my place?"

The book in question was the same volume Duncan had been reading earlier—a leather-bound first edition of The Collected Works of George Gordon, Lord Byron - 1788-1824. Methos's gaze fell upon the page he'd marked with his finger, reading his old friend's words again with the same wonder, the same recognition. The passage was singularly appropriate, on many levels.

So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain
No more through rolling clouds to soar again
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.

"Hey."

Methos looked up. All joking had left Duncan's face, and in its place was shared sorrow, and the shadow of profound regret.

"You all right?"

He was much more than all right, and he let it show in his eyes, seeing that the reassurance was needed. "Yes. Just thinking about something he wrote, a long time ago. It's almost as if he knew."

MacLeod's expression was thoughtful. "Maybe he did."

"Yeah, maybe." Methos laid the book aside and with it the sadness. Feeling the mood dissipate, he crossed his arms, surveying the disheveled and very naked man in his bed with a deliberately provocative look. "Are you really going to loll about in my bed for the rest of the day?"

The lines of Duncan's face altered, a hint of his grin returning. He shrugged. "I thought maybe you'd keep me company."

"In the middle of the afternoon?"

"And this is relevant because...?" Duncan slid the edge of the sheet back fractionally, exposing a strategic length of muscled thigh. "I'll make it worth your while..."

Methos did his best to look scandalized. "You're shameless, aren't you? Not to mention insatiable."

"And you're a tease," Duncan retorted.

"Tart."

"Oh yeah, and you love it."

"In your dreams." Methos's voice dripped sarcasm.

Duncan's look turned dangerous, his eyes glittering. "In yours," he said huskily. And pulled the sheet back, revealing the very visible results of their teasing.

Methos was already on his feet, stalking him, blood singing from the way the dark eyes watched him move, the way his own body responded to that look.

He didn't bother trying to pull the shaft from his heart.

the end