It was the weeping that Methos heard first...low, gut-wrenching sobs echoing out in the stony quayside darkness. The night wind off the Seine was frigid and damp, shivering icy fingers over his skin, shivering into his bones. He quickened his steps, skimming over the gangplank and onto the barge's deck, feeling Duncan's troubled presence tumble over him. He knew why.

Methos paused at the top of the stairs, breathing deeply, still trying to assure himself that this wasn't idiocy. The flat was packed up; his Volvo was loaded and waiting for him at the end of the quay. He should really just walk back to it and drive away; MacLeod wasn't going to want to talk to him anyway. But no matter what Methos told himself, he could not just walk away, not just yet.

Methos sighed to himself and rolled his stiff shoulders, tilting back his head to search the star-smudged sky for answers. But the heavens kept their own counsel, merely reflecting his own questions back at him. No help there.

The weeping stilled as Methos followed the narrow stairway down, but no one appeared to greet him, to investigate this intrusion of Immortal presence. Methos opened the door hesitantly, the chill of the brass doorknob a tiny shock to his hand as he turned it.

"Mac?" he called, peering into the darkness.

A surly voice, wet with sorrow, answered him: "What?"

He was there, sprawled over the sofa in a shadowed disarray of limbs. As Methos grew used to the dark, the details emerged...a tear-streaked face, an almost empty scotch bottle, a katana tossed carelessly to the floor amidst the folds of a leather coat.

Methos lifted his arm where he'd draped the dark overcoat Duncan had discarded. "You left your coat...before; I thought I'd bring it by." There was a long, uncomfortable silence while Duncan did not reply to the inanity. Methos plowed on regardless. "And I thought you could use some company tonight." Useless, insipid words conveying nothing of the sorrow he felt for this man, his friend, who he'd helped to betray to save his life.

"I'm not much company, Methos. Go home," Duncan rasped, lifting the bottle to his lips and draining the last of it.

"No," Methos said gently. He moved from the door at last, closing it quietly behind him and making his way over to the sofa where Duncan sat. He let the overcoat slip from his grasp and onto the arm of the sofa. Methos' eyes sought his friend's and locked on them, holding the shadowed gaze as he settled in beside him. Neither man made any move to turn on the light, didn't even suggest it. They were at a crossroads here...a turning point in their short friendship, and to have only the yellow moonlight struggling through the portholes to illuminate them made it easier, somehow.

"Why, Methos?" Duncan whispered, his amber eyes luminous with tears.

Methos sighed. There were too many 'whys', too many questions that he did not want to answer; things he didn't want to face. He equivocated. "Why what, MacLeod?" Methos asked quietly. "Why am I here? Why did I help Joe set up Galati? Why did I value your life above his? There are an awful lot of whys," he trailed off, the words he truly wanted to say catching in his throat.

"But do you have answers to any of them?" Duncan murmured, shifting a little to turn his body towards Methos.

"Only one."

"And...?"

Methos swallowed and willed the right words to come. "Because you're important to me, Mac."

Duncan's face turned away, the moonlight catching his solemn profile, stern as bronze. "And Jakob was important to me."

"Yes."

"I let him die...I let them kill him. They held him down and cut off his head and there wasn't anything I could do to stop them...and Christ, his Quickening hurt so damn much..." Tears came again and Duncan dashed them away with the back of one hand and then upended the scotch bottle, draining it to the last drop. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on top of his spread knees, hanging his head so that Methos could not see his face. The bottle dropped from his fingers, hitting to floor hollowly and rolling away. Methos caught the faintest whisper of a sob, muffled by hands and pride.

The pain that shimmered from the man in front of him, lifting like heat haze from an airport tarmac, cut straight to Methos' heart. Before he could think to censor himself, he had Duncan in his arms, holding him tight, feeling the emotion shuddering through him into him, until they were both shaking with the force of Duncan's pain.

"He saved my life," Duncan said thickly, his face buried in Methos' shoulder. The sobs had ceased again, but Duncan made no move to shift from Methos' embrace. "Dragged me out of Watcher headquarters after they shot me. They almost killed me, Methos. The blade was in the air..." Duncan paused, inhaling loudly. When he spoke again his voice was dull and flat, emptied. "He saved me and I couldn't save him."

"There wasn't anything you could have done," Methos answered, stroking down the tense length of Duncan's spine, stroking over the knotted muscles taut with grief, while his own gut turned cold with the knowledge of how close to disaster they'd come. "The Watchers were never going to let him walk away."

In an instant, Duncan pushed away, tearing himself from Methos' arms and surging to his feet. "They didn't do it by themselves! You helped them kill him! Jakob died because of you!" he bellowed, his finger stabbing accusingly towards Methos' chest.

The anger was infectious. In a heartbeat Methos was on his feet too, standing inches from the heat of Duncan's fury. "Jakob died because of Jakob! He chose his path. Do I have to remind you how many Watchers he killed? If he hadn't been your friend, you'd have killed him yourself!"

Duncan stared at him, stricken. "You fucking bastard," he growled.

Methos smiled with just the corners of his mouth. "It's not news, MacLeod. Pragmatism's rarely popular." He dared a glance up into Duncan's narrowed eyes before he continued, "But it's kept you alive." Duncan merely stood, still glaring at him fiercely from beneath his brows. "Look," Methos said, forcibly relaxing his stance into something approaching conciliatory, "I know he was your friend and you cared about him, but Jakob Galati was on a one way trip from the moment he first went after the Watchers. You have to realize that. And if you're honest with yourself, you'll know I'm right."

"What the fuck would you know about honesty, Adam?" Duncan asked in a low, rough voice, taking a step towards Methos.

Methos held his ground, unintimidated but speaking calmly, willing his words through the barrier of Duncan's rage as he recognized it for the deflection that it was. "I know there's a difference between the lies we tell the world and the lies we tell ourselves. They're the difference between living in this world and letting it tear you apart."

Something in his words touched Duncan, Methos saw it in the minute relaxation of the clenched fists held taut beside the younger man's thighs. Strong, square hands opened, the fingers spreading and the palms turning towards him. But it wasn't enough, not yet. The neat fingers turned in on themselves once more, knuckles whitening. "It's all just words, Methos," Duncan bit out. "None of it changes anything. Jakob, Irena, Darius...they're all still dead." Duncan's eyes found his again, deep with melancholy. He uncurled one hand and reached it towards Methos, closing it gently over his left wrist. "And you, Methos," he said more quietly, almost intimately as he turned the wrist to expose the tattoo, "still wear this." Duncan dropped Methos' wrist and walked away to face the obsidian length of river visible through the porthole.

Methos stood, immobile, watching Duncan watch the river in silence. There really wasn't anything to say, nothing that would make any difference. Duncan was right, in the end all he had offered was words and words alone could not heal them. And so Methos was silent, stepping closer to his friend, standing at his shoulder and looking over it, his eyes fixed on the river flowing like an oil slick to the sea.

As they stood and watched, Methos let his mind drift, absorbing the quiet, the peace, the bump and lap of wash against the barge's hull that rocked them gently. He could hear Duncan breathing, hear the distress slowly easing out of it until it was steady and even, as oddly soothing as a heartbeat against his ear. And sometime in the silence Methos' hand had gravitated to rest on Duncan's shoulder, clasping it lightly as the rage gradually eased out of muscle and sinew.

"Do you ever stop asking why?" Duncan murmured.

"I did, but I doubt you will," Methos answered him, unable to quell the wry tone in his voice. "I think that one day you'll be five thousand years old and still railing against the injustices of the world, still riding to the rescue on your white charger."

Duncan didn't laugh. "I don't think I'll live to be five thousand," he said with quiet certainty.

"I never thought I would, either, never really thought about it at all, but life is full of surprises. All I ever knew was that I didn't want to die."

"I don't want to die, but sometimes it hurts so damn much. Sometimes it seems the price is too high. Why is it always my life over theirs?"

Methos had thought he couldn't get any colder, but Duncan's words were chilled him to the marrow. "Don't ask me to be sorry that I chose the way I did, Highlander," Methos rasped, his throat suddenly taut with emotion. "I will never be. I will always choose your life, above anyone else's."

"I never asked you to choose, Methos."

"No, you didn't, Highlander," he answered quietly. "But would you rather that you had both died?"

"I'd rather we had both lived."

"Wasn't ever going to happen."

Duncan exhaled heavily. "I know."

With a squeeze of the hand that still rested on Duncan's shoulder, Methos turned him until they stood face to face at last. Duncan's eyes were black in the moonlight, wide and unreadable now. Methos closed his eyes and pulled him into his arms, holding his friend tightly against the length of his body. After a moment, Duncan's arms slid up around Methos' waist, pulling him even closer.

Duncan was warm in his arms, almost hot with the effort of distress. His breath feathered humidly over Methos' neck while a sandpaper cheek pressed against Methos' own. Methos breathed him in. Duncan smelt of tears and whiskey and the strain of staying alive and sane another day in a world seemingly devoted to making that difficult. He was quiet and still and Methos held him close, the only movement the gentle lift of a broad chest against his own.

And for a long time it was merely comfort, although there was nothing 'mere' about the wonder of being held and understood and met on even ground, Methos knew. It was rare and special and all too infrequent. This magic, the benediction of touch, was the one thing that had never changed through all the years of his life. Methos held on and let it wash over him. It drove out the cold and unlocked the tension that had coiled in his gut since this whole mess had begun, healing the places he hadn't known were raw.

It was simple and complex and comforting and terrifying all at once. Duncan could undo him so easily right now, a word, a touch, a look would be all it would take to lay him bare. Methos closed his eyes again and forced the fear away. It had no place here...not here, not now. He turned his head and laid it on the strong plane of Duncan's shoulder, a little surprised to feel Duncan do the same. But the weight of Duncan's head on his shoulder felt as right as having him in his arms, natural, unforced and infinitely comforting.

But even comfort had its limits and eventually Methos knew that it was time he left. He raised his head from its resting place and whispered, "I should go."

Duncan didn't move to release him, only lifted his face to look into Methos'. He held Methos' silent gaze for an eternity, sadness and yearning still warring in his eyes. Methos waited, although for what he could never have been sure. He almost missed the sensation of Duncan's hand leaving his back to travel to his face, until the backs of Duncan's fingers were brushing lightly over his cheek. "Thank you," Duncan said, his voice still tear-thick and hoarse.

Methos tilted his face into the touch, just a little; his eyes drifting closed with the pleasure of the small intimacy. He felt Duncan come closer, felt the heat of his skin and the whisper of his breath. Methos was in the process of opening his mouth to answer him when firm, dry lips settled over his own.

"Oh, Methos..." Duncan breathed against Methos' mouth, wonder and hunger and need expressed in the sighing of three syllables.

He deepened the kiss, and Methos gave himself up to it, gave himself over to the unexpected torrent and let it wash him away. Warm hands lifted to cradle his face, angling it perfectly and Methos slid his own hands up over Duncan's chest and shoulders to curve around his nape.

"Please don't go," Duncan murmured, breaking the kiss to tilt Methos' head back and taste his throat. "Stay, tonight?"

"Just tonight," Methos answered, barely above a whisper, finding Duncan's eyes and seeing the understanding of the promise...and its limitations...in his expression.

Then Duncan was moving, leading him slowly towards the bed with recklessly careful lips and fingertips. Methos was no longer sure who was receiving the comfort and who was giving. Perhaps it didn't matter. All he did know was that all of a sudden he needed this...this contact, this connection, this stolen moment. Methos put aside his own pain, the unwanted guilt and confusion, and let them fall from him with the crumple of his coat to the floor and surrendered to Duncan's hands on his body.

Methos felt the bed behind his legs and eased back onto it, bringing Duncan with him. The younger man pressed him back into the cool covers and blanketed him with the heat of his body. And god, it was sweet, the greedy mouth on his, the needful hands plucking away the remainder of their clothing and the press of hard muscle and cock against his own. As inexorable as the tide, pleasure filled him, swirling and unfurling, filling him to brimming. The edgy fire of desperation was almost entirely absent, leaving only the sweet, sure brush of hands and mouths and bodies in time and in tune.

Methos pushed up into the sensation and rolled them over, a smile in the kiss that covered Duncan's lush mouth. Methos felt Duncan's hands sweep up along his back, smoothing the skin from the curve of his buttocks to the arch of his neck. Leisurely, exploratory touches, matched by his own, learning all the places that could elicit a moan or a sigh. Or a gasp. A square tipped finger found its way between the cheeks of Methos' ass and traced down the center of his cleft, teasing too briefly at his entrance. Methos slid his legs apart and straddled Duncan's hips, opening himself brazenly to the touch.

Duncan teased him, circling his fingertip lightly over the sensitive tissue. Methos shivered, leaning back to chase the sensation. Duncan kept it light, feathering over and around the tight furl of muscle. Not enough...not nearly enough... Methos slithered down Duncan's body, dropping heated kisses on his chest, his nipples, the shallow ridges of his belly. And finally, his mouth going dry from expectation, he closed his lips over the glistening head of Duncan's cock.

Duncan moaned desperately, his hands clutching at the sheets. Methos wrapped his hand around the base of the younger man's cock and held it up to lick languidly as his eyes found Duncan's and held.

And this was the truly erotic part...looking into the eyes of a lover as the pleasure was given and received, watching the reaction bloom in his eyes, in his skin, in the pattern of his breath until the pleasure formed a loop and no one could tell who was the giver and who the receiver.

Methos clung to the pleasure, focused on it as a single spot of light in the darkness, refusing to even look at the dark until the light was gone. Reality would come crashing in on them soon enough; he was not about to invite it. Methos held Duncan's gaze and swallowed his cock whole. The noise torn from Duncan's throat was an attenuated vowel sound of pure need that echoed around the room.

Methos felt it echo through him too.

Duncan's cock filled his mouth, his throat, and Methos slipped his hands up over the younger man's narrow hips, over his broad chest to pinch and tease at his nipples. His fingers carded through soft, springy hair to find the hard nubs hidden there. They pebbled to his touch and Duncan moaned quietly. Methos answered with the faintest scrape of his fingernails over the hardened flesh.

One of Methos' hands was seized and guided between wet lips and suckled greedily. He watched his fingers slipping inside Duncan's mouth as his cock slipped between Methos' lips. Teeth and tongue teased and nibbled delicately at his skin and Methos groaned around the flesh he held.

Needing more, Methos slid his hand from Duncan's mouth and brought it back between the other man's legs to probe wetly at his entrance. Duncan shuddered and spread his thighs wider.

"Methos..." Duncan breathed. "I want you."

Without releasing the cock in his mouth, Methos shifted, slithering around on the wide bed to lie on his side and put his cock within reach of Duncan's mouth. Duncan didn't take any encouragement at all to follow suit and roll up on his side to face Methos until they lay like a pair of parentheses around a superfluous question.

Large hands clasped Methos' hips and drew him closer. Oh gods yes... Methos' toes curled as soft, wet lips closed around his cock and the broad, rough sweep of a tongue tasted him. Heat...sleek and smooth and wet...enveloped his flesh, taking him deep almost straight away. The breath hitched in Methos' chest as Duncan sucked him firmly and swiftly.

They fell into a steady rhythm, silent but for soft gasps around hard flesh and the passionate wet sound of sucking lips. Methos cupped his hand gently around Duncan's scrotum and felt it tighten beneath his fingers, as the younger man's orgasm grew close. Methos slid one finger back into Duncan again, triggering his prostate, sending him flying into a shuddering climax.

Methos was still swallowing when Duncan tipped him over the edge into his own orgasm. Liquid fire shot up his spine and he thrust deep into Duncan's throat, deep enough to make the other man start and pull back a little even as he continued to swallow hungrily.

For a long time after, shattered by the intensity, Methos stayed where he lay. His head was pillowed on the taut muscle of Duncan's thigh and Duncan echoed the posture on Methos' leg. Hands and fingertips stroked and gentled, soothing one another back to themselves.

Eventually, though, Methos stirred himself enough to turn around and wriggle up the bed to lie in the crook of Duncan's arm. Duncan toed the covers up over them both, tucking them around Methos in an oddly protective gesture.

"Are you all right?" Duncan asked in a low voice, his thumb stroking back and forth along Methos' bicep.

"Aside from being half-dead, you mean?" Methos joked tiredly. "I'm fine. You?"

"I'll live." Then Duncan was quiet for such a long time that Methos thought that he had gone to sleep, until the accented baritone rumbled in the chest beneath his ear once more. "I loved him, you know."

Methos hadn't known, but he had guessed. "I thought as much."

"He was a good man, Methos. He wasn't always like that...fanatical, I mean. But Irena was everything to him. The center of his world..."

"Together since the dawn of time...the madman and the lover," Methos quoted sadly. "There's a fine line between passion and fanaticism..." He let the words trail off into the darkness.

"Best not to care too much, then?" There was an edge to the question that Methos didn't miss.

"Ahh...I didn't say that, MacLeod. Without passions what would be the point of it all?"

"And yet his passion turned him into a fanatic...a murderer."

"It's the risk we run."

Duncan was quiet for a long, drawn-out moment, then said: "I know how he felt."

"I know you do."

"It could have been me."

"But it wasn't you, Mac. Let it be," Methos told him evenly, slipping an arm across the broad, dark chest to hold him tight.

"Joe said that, you know, when I went back for Shapiro. He said as I was walking away, 'It's over...let it be'. I don't even know if he was talking to them or to me. Do you think it is over?"

"I hope so, for all our sakes. But it wouldn't hurt to get out of Paris for a while, just to be on the safe side. Go somewhere warm..."

"Maybe. Maybe I'll go back to the States."

"Seacouver?"

"Well yeah, I do have a life there."

"Joe will be there, you know."

Methos felt Duncan tense at the mention of the Watcher's name. "It's a big city," Duncan said tightly. "His isn't the only place to get a drink."

"You know what I mean. Don't be so hard on him, Mac. He was only trying to keep all his friends alive, just like you."

Duncan shifted out of Methos' embrace, turning to face him across the rumpled bedclothes. His voice was hard and dry as he answered: "No, not like me, Methos. Not at all like me. I wasn't playing both sides of the fence."

"That's a bit harsh."

"You think?" Duncan asked with heavy sarcasm. "Dawson was so busy being everybody's friend that nobody won...everybody lost!"

Methos wasn't fooled by the show of anger; he knew how hurt Duncan was by this rift with Joe. "Yes, Dawson made some mistakes, but who doesn't?"

"Mistakes?" Duncan threw back with hurt disbelief dripping from his voice. "People died, Methos."

"Yes, and he was trying to prevent that the same as you were. He's only human, Mac. Cut him some slack...good friends are hard to find..."

Duncan's eyelashes dipped. "Yes, I know."

"Can you forgive him?"

Duncan rolled over onto his back, bending his arm behind his head and hiding his eyes from Methos' gaze. He sighed quietly. "I don't know, Methos. I just don't know."

That was as much as anyone could expect from Duncan right now. "Give it time, Mac," Methos whispered. "Give it time."

"God, Methos, I'm so tired..." Duncan rasped, his voice still taut with pain.

Methos slipped close once more and slipped his arm across Duncan's chest. "I know you are," he murmured. "Get some sleep, it'll be daylight in a few hours."

Duncan said nothing more and was quiet in the circle of Methos' embrace.

***

Methos woke still wrapped around Duncan, as he had been when sleep had finally claimed him. The younger man was a warm, heavy weight in his arms, their legs tangled lazily together. Duncan had slept soundly, unmovingly, the day and night leaving him limp with exhaustion. Methos had gathered him close as he slept, savoring every stolen moment.

Water-pale sunlight, almost completely without heat, shone down on them through the skylight and Methos peered up into the washed denim sky, willing the dawn away. It had come too soon, stealing away the night he'd promised before he was ready to let it go. But it was gone and soon, he would be too.

Ghosting a single kiss to Duncan's nape, Methos detangled himself and rolled away. He padded quietly to the bathroom and closed the door. As he relieved himself, his half-hard cock held loose in his hand, Methos felt the night slipping further away, like a dream half-forgotten on waking. It had been sweet...beautiful...but unreal, not belonging to either of their lives. Methos walked to the sink and doused his face with cold water, glaring at his reflection in the mirror...some days it was hell being a realist. He sighed once and went back out of the bathroom.

Duncan had not moved. He still lay on his side, his face peaceful and his massive chest rising and falling slowly. The covers had slipped to his waist and lay in loose midnight folds against his smooth skin. Methos plucked his clothes from where they lay strewn on the floor and put them on, then sat on the bottom corner of the bed, and shoved his feet into his boots, lacing them quickly. When he was done, he turned on the bed to face Duncan's sleeping form, folding his legs underneath him and watching, imprinting the sight on his memory indelibly.

His legs were stiff beneath him by the time Duncan awoke.

Duncan yawned and stretched, rolling to face Methos still sitting on the corner of the bed. A faint flicker of surprise crossed his face. "Good morning," he said, sitting up to lean against the tumble of pillows at the head of the bed. "I didn't know if you'd still be here."

Despite his resolutions, Methos felt a small pang at this. "Give me a little credit, Mac," he chided gently.

Duncan looked chastened. "I'm sorry."

"Are you okay?" More uselessly insipid words, conveying nothing except in their expression.

Duncan caught the subtext anyway; Methos could see it in the wry little smile he gave. "I will be. Thanks." His eyes darted up and down Methos' body, clearly taking in the fact that he was up and dressed. "You're leaving?"

It was hardly a question at all, just enough hope in the tone to make Methos wish the answer could be different. "I have to."

Duncan closed his eyes briefly. "I know." Amber brown eyes opened and caught Methos'. "Don't disappear for too long, Old Man, good friends are hard to find."

Unaccountably warmed, Methos gave in to impulse and, leaning across the bed, pressed a quick, firm kiss to Duncan's mouth. "Bad pennies always turn up, Highlander. Watch your head."

"And you, Methos," Duncan answered.

Methos turned away without another word, picked up his coat from the floor and went out into the cold Parisian morning. He was exhausted, but at least he could sleep on the plane. It was a long flight to Tibet.

**The End**

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