Amber

Some memories stay trapped like flies in amber, perfect and golden, unchanging the whole of their existence. We can take them out and polish them or leave them in a drawer and ignore them but they'll always be the same. Immortals, too, stay trapped in the likeness of the day they are made. The lucky ones, caught in the full bloom of youth and strength, keep their heads, for a while at least. The others? Well, they don't last long. The Game they play is an unforgiving one and the rules give no handicaps. The strong live and the weak die. And so it was....

September, 2000

Methos woke, as he often did, with a conscious running-through of who and when and where he was. His name, the country he was in currently, and most importantly the date, were carefully catalogued before he even opened his eyes. The only thing he didn't need to remind himself of, he thought with a lazily contented grin, was the 'who' of the body beside him.

That fact was imprinted across every single cell in his body -- permanently. Duncan MacLeod: beauty layered on strength with a vein of weakness running through like a fault line. Methos turned their fingertips-and-barely-there connection into a full-body snuggle. Duncan murmured drowsily and pressed back against his body. Methos sighed and buried his face in the silky tangle of waves at Duncan's nape.

But something wasn't right. As Methos held him in the odd half-light of the rainy morning, Duncan tensed, twitching restlessly, small, distressed noises escaping him. Methos tightened his arms around his lover and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Another nightmare... Which one this time?

Duncan's ghosts were persistent, he had to give them that. Too many ghosts for such a good man. Methos' own found ways to torment him, but nothing like the torture that Duncan seemed to suffer regularly. He was sweating now, gasping for breath, struggling in the small, restrained ways of the dream against some unseen enemy. Methos couldn't watch anymore.

"Mac," he whispered, close enough for his breath to ruffle Duncan's hair. "Duncan, wake up." He moved the hair aside to bare Duncan's neck and pressed a kiss there, lingering over the faint saltiness of the golden skin.

Duncan's arms and legs jerked, as if he'd dreamed he was falling, and with a short gasp he was awake. Methos felt him breathe deeply, shuddering with it, obviously still banishing whichever demon he had faced. After a few breaths, he rolled up on his side to face Methos. His eyes looked tired, as if his sleep had brought little rest. Methos slipped his hand up to stroke his thumb along the line of Duncan's cheekbone.

"Dreaming..."

The shutters came down. Duncan's eyes darted away from Methos' gaze. One look was answer enough. In those amber-brown eyes, a wealth of words was spoken. Pain. Suffering. So much lost, so much taken away -- how much more would be too much?

Small tremors still rippled through Duncan's body as Methos reached out to touch his face. The wide, brown eyes sought his own again and the breath stilled in Methos' chest as he caught the sudden need and hunger in Duncan's expression.

Rational thought was banished in the blink of an eye. Methos leaned across, closing the small gap between them and pressing Duncan back into the mattress. The opening of Duncan's beautiful mouth under his own set something free inside him -- in a heartbeat he was ravenous, desperate to have Duncan beneath him, to be buried deep inside him. If the reasons were complicated, then the resolution was very simple, Methos thought as he moved to cover Duncan with his body.

It was a balm, not a solution. But sometimes a balm is all there is.

"Need you," Duncan whispered, parting his thighs and arching his rigid cock up into Methos'. "Don't wait."

Methos reached between them, wrapping his hand around their cocks, stroking firmly. He bent his head to capture the soft mouth again, slipping his hand behind Duncan's neck. His teeth pulled gently on the full lips, his tongue following the nips, darting in to taste the sweetness. He was thrusting minutely into his hand, rubbing it against Duncan's cock.

Duncan circled his hips up into the touch, still restless, still needy. "No, fuck me. Come inside me. I want it -- want you."

There was a sharp edge to the need; Methos could hear it in his lover's voice and felt it echo inside himself. He let their cocks go with a final rocking thrust of his hips, relishing the small hiss that escaped from Duncan's mouth. Reaching out, Methos fumbled in the drawer for the lube, closing his fingers over it gratefully. He flipped it open with a practiced motion of his thumbnail and relaxed back against Duncan once more, kissing him deeply.

Rain pelted like gravel against the high loft windows and the wind howled. Methos was only minimally aware of the violence outside their small world as he squeezed a blob of gel onto Duncan's flat belly and dragged his fingers through it, keeping his other hand behind Duncan's neck, angling his head to taste him thoroughly. The mouth that met his became frantic, lips and teeth and tongue ravenous. The metallic taste of blood bloomed on his tongue when his lip caught against the sharpness of Duncan's teeth.

"Fuck, Mac," he whispered against his lover's mouth.

"Yes," Duncan hissed back. "Fuck me." Duncan arched down onto Methos' hand as Methos slid two gel-slippery fingers hard into him. He was making small, urgent noises that matched the beckoning in his eyes. "Please, Methos."

Duncan's need was infectious; it made Methos' movements quick and desperate. His heart hammered in his chest and his groin throbbed, aching to finish it. Duncan tugged at him, wordlessly begging him with hands and eyes.

Methos gently withdrew the fingers and slid his cock home. The heat and pressure were breathtaking and he stopped, pulling his control back by the hair. Duncan was just going to have to wait a moment, or Methos wasn't going to last. But Duncan wasn't waiting,  he was writhing, arching his back, begging for more.

"Christ, Methos. Fucking move!" Duncan ground out through gritted teeth.

As if of their own accord, the muscles in the small of Methos' back tensed, slipping his cock almost all the way out. Duncan stilled and sighed at the movement within him and Methos reversed the motion. Duncan's eyes drifted closed and his lips parted. He could almost have been asleep except for the clenched fingers digging into Methos' hips and the pulsing cock that lay between their bellies. He had gone far inside himself, drowning in the depths of his arousal.

"More," Duncan breathed, almost too faint to hear.

At last Methos found a rhythm, plunging slow and deep into the hot, smooth flesh. Duncan's breath grew ragged and his fingers dug deeper into Methos' skin.

"Oh yes..." Methos gasped as Duncan clenched his inner muscles, squeezing Methos' cock deliciously tight.

"Harder," Duncan whispered.

Methos could only thrust more strongly in response. He was helpless in the face of so much need to do anything but respond to it. And Duncan was with him all the way, meeting his thrusts with equal strength. This need in Duncan, so close to violence, never failed to touch some primal part of Methos' soul. He immersed himself completely in the sensation of Duncan around him, beneath him -- inside him.

"Yes!" Duncan's eyes snapped open and he was coming hard, sobbing his release as he spilled over his belly.

Methos let go and followed his lover over the edge, free-falling into orgasm. Fire rolled through him, along his spine from his tailbone to his brain, melting everything in its path. He slumped against Duncan's lax body, gasping for breath. He pulled out slowly with the push of Duncan's muscles and fitted himself carefully along Duncan's side, gathering him close again.

The loft went quiet for a long time, the only sound the relentless rain.

"Good morning to you, too," Methos whispered at last, as he smoothed the tangle of hair away from Duncan's face. "Are you all right?" Duncan never talked about the nightmares and Methos couldn't make himself push it. Sometimes he wondered if Duncan even remembered having them.

"Mmm...good," Duncan mumbled in reply, draping a heavy leg across Methos'.

And suddenly things were normal again. They were just a couple of guys having a normal Sunday together. No nightmares, no demons, nothing more frightening than a load of laundry, for another day at least. The tension left the room as easily as if it had been blown away by a puff of storm-scented breeze.

Methos gave Duncan's neck a leisurely nuzzle and asked, "Plans today?"

"Nahh...not much. You?"

"Sunday stuff, you know, the usual."

"Might go for a run and get the paper, see what's going on in the world. As soon as I can move."

The quiet settled over them again, and Methos was almost asleep when Duncan made a move to get out of the bed.

Methos folded a hand around Duncan's wrist, stroking his thumb over the bounding pulse as Duncan sat on the side of the bed. "It's raining, MacLeod, and you've done your exercise for the day. Forget the newspaper for once, get your bum back in here with me.  It's all the same anyway, bad news from start to finish. Haven't you already heard enough bad news to last your whole life?"

But Duncan was gone, slipping his wrist from Methos' grip with a quick sneaky tug that Methos thought Duncan might possibly have learned from him, before striding gloriously and unashamedly naked along the length of the loft from the bed to the bathroom. Methos gave an idle thought to following him into the shower, but it was raining outside and it was warm in the bed. Later. Methos pulled the quilt over his head and went back to sleep.

A warm flush of familiar presence roused Methos a dream-filled half hour later. Duncan. He poked his head out from beneath the covers and snorted quietly at the sight of his drenched lover shaking the rain from his hair, looking for all the world like an insulted sheepdog. He heard some reasonably inventive Gaelic cursing as Duncan rattled the raindrops from the newspaper and tossed it onto the kitchen counter with a wet slap.

"Damp enough for you?" Methos sniped, grinning smugly while he slipped out of bed at last and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, knotting the cord so they rode low on his hips.

"Thought you weren't getting up," Duncan grumbled while he tugged off his squelching shoes.

"Well, I'm awake now. Coffee?"

"Yes, please. I'm taking a shower." And Duncan strode off into the bathroom.

"That was 'coffee?' as in 'where is my?' not 'coffee?' as in 'would you like a?'" Methos muttered at Duncan's departing figure. He sniffed with an air of injured sensibility completely wasted on the now empty room. "But you really do need that shower."

He puttered about the kitchen, made the coffee without another word of complaint -- after all, Duncan was out of earshot -- and took it and the still-damp newspaper to the sofa. Nothing much of interest, all the usual wars and rumors of wars, death and disaster, freaks and geeks. But he still managed to become absorbed in it until Duncan reappeared from the bathroom in a towel and a cloud of steam.

Methos peered out from the side of the paper and gave his lover an appreciative once-over. "You could just stay like that all day -- I wouldn't mind."

"I think I might get a bit cold," Duncan shot back, though he continued to come closer, and Methos could see the teasing grin lurking around the corners of that lush mouth. Apparently Duncan had recovered his good humor and was ready to play.

"I wouldn't let you get cold. In fact if you come over here now I'll show you just how warm you could be." Methos shook the folds back into the newspaper and went to put it down on the coffee table, when he caught the sudden frown creasing Duncan's face and froze. "Mac? What's wrong?"

"I know her," Duncan answered distractedly as he snatched the newspaper from Methos' hands. "Knew her. Years ago." He sank down onto the couch beside Methos and smoothed a hand absently over a small sidebar photograph of an older woman -- perhaps in her fifties -- with the indefinable look of an aging flower-child, gazing wistfully out from behind rimless glasses at whomever had taken the photo.

Methos leaned closer to Duncan and read the article while the paper lay in Duncan's slack fingers.

Suicide's Body Missing

Officials today were unable to explain the mysterious disappearance from the City Morgue of a body believed to be that of Sheila Connell. Ms Connell, 62, is understood to have taken her own life in undisclosed circumstances early Friday morning after a personal tragedy.

Friends of Ms Connell discovered the error when they arrived to identify the body at the request of police. Ms Connell was not known to have any living relatives.

Seacouver City Morgue has had ongoing problems with disappearing human remains and investigations are continuing.

Methos' heart plummeted. "She's one of us isn't she?"

"She is now."

San Francisco: August, 1965

The woman behind the bookstore counter looked up at him and smiled as Duncan shouldered through the beaded curtain and entered the dark incense-and-dope-scented space. Wind chimes jangled softly in the gentle breeze off the bay and psychedelic mobiles drifted prettily from the ceiling and glass prisms threw rainbows at the walls. The shelves were crammed with an anarchic mix of books on so many different subjects by so many different authors that the effect was almost dizzying. Or perhaps that was just a side effect of all the dope in the air. His eye lingered for a moment on a poster advertising, of all things, a love-in. He was really starting to enjoy the 1960's, he thought as he watched the woman behind the counter with more than a little interest.

She was lovely, not in her teens like so many of the pretty young things he saw hanging around the streets of Haight-Asbury, but somewhere in her late twenties. Glossy, straight chestnut hair brushed her waist and slipped over the smooth tanned skin of her arms as she swayed in time to the sitar music that played in the background. The loose muslin dress she wore hinted at the curves beneath, outlining them occasionally as she moved. Before he knew it, Duncan found himself at the counter and it was then that he felt it -- the slight buzz of the pre-Immortal.

"Peace, brother," she said, catching his gaze with eyes the color of water over a stone, clear and gray.

Duncan felt her smile all the way down to his feet.

***

"So you and this little hippie chick were involved?" Methos broke in, hoping to prompt more detail from his lover's memory.

"Not like that. No, Sheila wasn't interested in me like that; she had someone else. But God, could she talk -- we started talking about Kerouac that first day and before we knew it, it was dark and closing time. I walked her home, even though she insisted that as an 'independent woman' she was perfectly capable of looking after herself." He smiled with look of fond remembrance Methos recognized only too well.

"She probably was -- you do tend to treat women like they're made of porcelain, MacLeod."

Duncan stood and paced the length of the room, a brooding frown pulling at his mouth. "I have to find her, Methos. Can you imagine becoming an Immortal at her age? What she must be going through?" Methos could practically see the plans running through his head.

"She might not even still be alive, Mac, you know that," Methos had to remind him. He knew deep inside that keeping Duncan MacLeod from doing what he thought he had to was an exercise in futility. Methos stood and went to him, grasping his shoulder. "Are you ready for that? You know what this city's like for Immortals, she could have been dessert for any one of us by now. When did she die -- Friday morning? She's been wandering around, in all likelihood not having a clue what she is, for almost two days. If she hasn't found a teacher her chances are pretty poor."

"I know," Duncan sighed, his eyes haunted.

"Even with a teacher..." Methos had to add, even though he knew Duncan didn't want to hear it.

"I know!" Duncan shouted, throwing off Methos' touch and spinning away. "But I can't just stand by and do nothing! I have to try," he said in a more subdued tone.

There was more to this than just Duncan's overweening loyalty to his friends, Methos could hear it in Duncan's voice, see it in his wounded eyes.

"There's more, isn't there?"

"It didn't have to be like this."

San Francisco: September, 1965

"Wanna toke?" she asked him, her gray eyes reddened and heavy-lidded as she dragged strongly on the joint. "'S good shit..." she squeaked as she attempted to hold in the smoke and talk at the same time.

It was early evening and they were lying side by side in the park gazing at the stars while Duncan told her their stories, as once he'd been told them in his time with the Lakota. She loved to hear about old myths and legends, especially the Native American ones. So he told her all that he could remember while Sheila listened and smoked, throwing in the occasional observation, sometimes uncannily accurate, most times more than slightly skewed by the pot.

Duncan smiled and shook his head, declining her offer. From where he stood, dope smoking and the continued maintenance and retention of an Immortal's head did not go together very well.

Sheila apparently found his abstinence hysterical and smoke exploded from her mouth in a wild squawk of laughter as she rolled back on the grass. "Damn you're straight, Duncan...positively perpendic- perpend- square!"

She giggled to herself a little longer and Duncan said nothing, waiting for her to get over it. He wasn't crazy about all the drugs Sheila was doing, but she was a good kid, and it wasn't like the pot would kill her.

She rolled up on her elbow to look at him, her face grown serious again. "I'm sorry, Duncan...didn't mean to be mean." She gave another little giggle. "You know what I mean -- oops!" She smiled a wide guileless smile at him then, a smile that had him wishing briefly for things that could never be. "You're a good guy, Duncan MacLeod, why do you put up with a flake like me?" She sighed and sank back to look skyward again, sucking down the roach to the last dying embers, then flicking it away.

He leaned over her and grinned. "Maybe I'm just waiting for you to give up Laura and run away to the circus with me." He waggled his eyebrows at her and smirked like a cartoon villain, twirling the end of his thick mustache stagily. "You don't know what you're missing."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "No, thank you." She gave a theatrical little shudder. "You're very pretty and all, Duncan, but...."

"The heart wants what the heart wants," he supplied.

Pure unadulterated happiness spread over her face. "Oh yes...it certainly does."

Duncan looked at his watch. "Come on, then -- we'd better get you to this girl of yours before she worries about where you are. She'll be finished work by now."

"Hell! Is it that late?" Sheila jumped to her feet, staggering slightly before she regained her balance. "Come on, Mac -- jeez you're slow... Race you to the bar!" She hiked up her gauzy Indian skirt over her knees and took off across the grass towards the roadway.

Duncan raced after her, down the hill and by the time she was almost at the road he all but had her, just another step.... Then they were on the road and so many things were happening at once, he couldn't think -- could only react. There was a car coming very fast, catching them in its headlights, then its brakes were screeching and she was almost in front of it. Another step and -- Duncan grabbed her and pulled her back into his arms, just as the car swerved and sped away.

"Holy cow, that was close," Sheila gasped as she shook in his embrace. "Wow...like that was nearly it...." Her knees buckled and she sank to the ground.

***

"Come on, Mac. You really can't blame yourself for that," Methos said into the silence as Duncan's narration trailed off.

"Can't I? I should have let her die then. At twenty-seven she'd have had a far better chance at survival than at sixty-two."

"Could you really have just let her run in front of that car, though? Really?" Methos knew the answer to that even if Duncan wouldn't admit it. He just wasn't wired that way.

"I should have."

"But could you have?" Methos pressed.

"I didn't think -- I just reacted."

"Ma-ac...." Methos caught his lover's gaze and held it.

"No.... I guess not. But I should have."

Methos recognized the mulish set to Duncan's jaw and let it go -- he'd wrung all the truth he could from the conversation for now. Duncan rose smoothly from the sofa and headed to the wardrobe, pulling out jeans and a sweater.

Methos followed him a short while later and Duncan turned to look at him as Methos drew near. "You don't have to come with me, Methos, I can do this by myself. I know you think she's a lost cause."

"When have I ever let you go off windmill tilting by yourself?"

***

Methos sat quietly in the passenger seat of the T-bird watching Duncan drive through the light Sunday traffic. The visit to the morgue had been a total waste of time; the attendants closed up tighter than clams when Sheila's name was mentioned. Probably not surprising after the newspaper article. They caught a break with her home address in the phone book though and that's where they were headed now. It was a place to start anyway.

They wound their way from the city out into the suburbs, industrial bleakness giving way to suburban smugness. MacLeod turned off the main road into a side street lined with gnarled yew trees, slowing to check the house numbers as they passed. Number fourteen, that was it -- Methos saw it just up ahead, a quirky jumble of bright flowers and eclectic objets d'art decorating the front yard.

"Over there, Mac," Methos said with a gentle touch of his hand to the other man's forearm.

"Yes, that's it," Duncan murmured as he parked at the side of the street. They left the car and entered the yard through a rusting gate that protested every movement and shed paint like a snowstorm as Duncan pushed it open. "It's exactly like her."

Methos was less impressed; up close, the untidiness was more tacky than cheerful and the objets were less d'art and more d'iscount. The sun had struggled through the clouds for the moment anyway and glare flared from the solar panels on the roof. He squinted against it as he followed Duncan past wilting vegetable beds and nodding sunflowers.

Methos felt the buzz a split second before Duncan did. "She's here, Mac."

It was then that they heard the crying: deep, gut wrenching sobs rising above the Sunday morning noise of lawn mowers and children playing. They had found her.

"Sheila!" Duncan called.

The sobbing continued unabated.

"Sheila, it's Duncan, Duncan MacLeod. Let me in. Please, Sheila?" Methos recognized those soothing tones only too well; it was the same voice Duncan always used for gentling restive horses and hysterical women.

She didn't hear or didn't care -- either way there was no response.

Methos tried the door, it swung open to his touch and he cocked an eyebrow at Duncan, smiling wryly. His hand went automatically to the hilt of his sword beneath his coat as he stepped over the threshold.

"Methos!" Duncan hissed in a scandalized tone. "Do you want to frighten her to death?"

Some days he despaired of MacLeod's continued survival. "She'll recover." Duncan failed to see the humor in that. "I don't know what's in there -- you don't know what's in there. Can we just be a little cautious 'til we know for sure?"

"Would you rather wait out here?" Duncan shot back, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"And let you go in there by yourself?" Methos cursed himself as every kind of fool as he slid the blade back into its sheath and followed Duncan into the house. He cursed Duncan too, under his breath in half a dozen languages.

She didn't even look up at them as they entered. Sheila sat in the middle of the living room floor, crying in utter desolation. Dark blood splattered her clothes and lay in drying pools around where she sat cross-legged on the floor. In her shaking hand she held a carving knife, its broad blade scarlet with her own blood. Her wrists gaped with the long, ragged wounds still pumping her life out onto the floor.

Her eyes were dead, holding not a shred of surprise.

"I can't die," she whispered. "Why can't I die?" Her face paled a little more, she looked up at MacLeod and rasped, "Duncan?" in a disbelieving tone and slumped to the floor.

Duncan knelt down beside her, and Methos molded himself against the wall, watching them. Duncan pushed the woman's straggling gray-streaked hair from her face and stroked her cheek tenderly. The bleeding had stopped but her healing was slow--just how many times had she died already?

Duncan turned to look at him. "Methos, there's a blanket in the back of the T-bird. Would you get it for me, please?"

Sarcasm was instinctively on the tip of Methos' tongue, but he left it there when he saw Duncan's eyes. Instead, by way of an answer, he turned and walked quickly from the house back out to the kerb where the car was parked, retrieving the blanket from the back seat. Damn, he hated it when things like this happened. Bloody MacLeod and his waifs and strays... He was one hundred percent certain to get his heart broken by this and there wasn't a single thing Methos could do about it.

With that bleak thought weighing on his mind, Methos went back inside the small house. He found them where he had left them, but now Duncan had lifted her into his arms, and was holding her close against his chest. Methos passed him the blanket and stood back silently. Duncan tucked it around her still form and stood, lifting her with a small grunt of effort.

"I'm going to take her back to the dojo, Methos. It'll be easier to explain things to her there. You wanna get the door?" He walked past Methos without waiting for a response.

Methos sighed and got the door. Easier? Some things never got any easier....

***

Duncan reached into the T-bird's backseat and heaved the woman out, cradling her in his arms. Methos opened the front door of the dojo for them and jogged ahead to get the lift. Sheila had still not revived through all the time it had taken them to drive back here. Chances were though, she would soon and none of them needed it to be while Duncan was carrying her. Before he started looking too closely at his motivations for that, Methos was distracted by the sight of her wounds healing over. A few more tiny sparks and the skin had zipped together as cleanly as if the wound had never been. He was right -- Sheila would be awake any minute.

"Come on, Mac," he said as they stepped from the lift. "She'll be back soon." He cleared the newspapers from the sofa and stood aside to let Duncan put her down.

Duncan was straightening the blanket around her when at last she jerked under his touch and Methos saw her eyes fly open...and fill with tears.

"Damn it all to hell." She began to cry again, curling into a ball in the sofa, knuckling her fingers against her eye sockets like a small child.

"Sheila?" Duncan reached out and closed his hand around her wrist.

The crying halted and she blinked at him, looking stunned as if she was seeing him for the first time. "Duncan? Is that you? Am I dead then? You look just the same...are you dead too?" Her voice was barely a whisper, made hoarse by crying.

Methos perched on the edge of an armchair and watched the scene unfold. A really-not-disinterested bystander.

"No, I'm not dead, and neither are you," Duncan began gently. "This where I live. I brought you back here so I could explain some things to you -- things you need to know. You're an Immortal, Sheila -- you can't die."

Methos cleared his throat.

"Except if your head is separated from your body. That's the one thing we don't heal from. That's the only way we can die."

"Well, good," she shot back tiredly, rolling back into a ball. "Then cut off mine. I want to be dead."

"Well, if you insist." Methos stood and put his hand to the hilt of his sword.

Duncan grabbed him and growled, "Adam!"

"A joke -- just a joke. Jeez...." Methos threw his hands up. This was getting to be too much like a Greek tragedy for his taste. "Well, kids, this has been all kinds of fun, but I think I'll head down to Joe's for a while. Catch you later, MacLeod." Methos strode away without looking back.

Duncan caught him with his hand on the gate of the lift. "Are you coming back?"

Methos stepped up closer to his lover, laying his hand to one side of Duncan's face, stroking the stubbled cheek with his thumb. All the snideness bled out of his tone as he answered; "Of course I'm coming back. But right now she needs you, so go do what you do, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I'll say hi to Joe for you." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Duncan's mouth, small but full of promises. "Later." And he closed the gate.

It was his own fault, Methos thought as he left the dojo and began to walk the short distance to Joe's Bar. He'd never given Duncan reason to believe he'd stay. He'd just assumed that almost two years and a declaration of sorts had spoken for him. Perhaps not. He sighed heavily; he detested having to talk things out like that.

The sky closed in again, and he could taste the coming rain on the wind.

***

Joe had him sorted in one razor-sharp, gray glance. Seeing Methos striding through the door of the bar, Joe immediately pulled a beer, passing him the brimming mug as Methos settled on his regular seat at the bar, slipping off his coat and folding it over his lap. The bar was busy for a Sunday and noise -- music and chatter -- buzzed all about them, creating a protective cocoon around the conversation.

"What's MacLeod done now?" Dawson clearly wasn't wasting any time on small talk these days.

"Just the usual 'MacLeod' thing," Methos smiled wearily. Duncan hadn't done anything unusual taking in his old acquaintance and looking after her. Not unusual for him anyway. For practically every other Immortal on the planet? That was a different story. "There's a woman, a woman he knew a few years ago."

"A few for you -- or a few for me?" Joe interrupted.

"1965--something like that. She just 'died' two days ago." Methos stopped and let Joe do the math. And speaking of unusual behavior...he had to wonder a little at his own. Since when was spontaneous sharing with Watchers in his own personal rule book? More of MacLeod's influence, no doubt.

"I take it she wasn't a little kid thirty-five years ago?" Joe leaned heavily with his bent elbows on the bar.

"Nope." Methos drained his beer and pushed the mug back towards Joe. "She was twenty-seven."

"Which means now she's--sixty-two?" Joe's voice turned questioning at the end as his face filled with the realization of all that implied. "Goddamn." He let out a low disbelieving whistle. "Is he gonna send her to holy ground? She hasn't a hope in the Game, has she? We had some figures--."

The obnoxious Watcher statistics. Methos shot Joe a poisonous glare, cutting him off mid-sentence. "She's in pretty bad shape -- I don't know what she'll do. Gods, Joe, tell me again why I put up with this?" The question was entirely rhetorical, Methos knew exactly why he stayed. And he would have put up with a great deal more than this to keep what he had, too.

"Beats the hell out of me," Joe answered with a sly smile.

Methos narrowed his eyes in Joe's direction and nodded towards the beer taps. "The answer, as always, to all life's dilemmas is more beer. Pour us another one, Joe."

While Joe filled a fresh mug, Methos thought. He wondered what was going on at home, and when exactly, for that matter, the loft had become home. He'd lived there for two years off and on -- more on than off if the truth was known -- and all of a sudden it was home? Perhaps it was Duncan who made it home, he mused as he took the beer from Joe with a murmured thanks and gazed into the froth. The only answers that he found there were the ones he already knew. Of course it was Duncan, who made it home, which was why he should have been there for his lover instead of hiding out here, propping up the bar, while Duncan dealt with his problem.

Methos tossed down the rest of the beer and caught Joe's eye as he served another customer. He waited until Joe limped down from the other end of the bar.

"Headin' off already?"

"Yeah, I better go see what's happening." Methos wasn't fond of the knowing look that Joe shot him in response to that. "Keep MacLeod from doing anything too stupid, you know?"

"Yeah, buddy--I know. See you 'round."

Damn Watcher saw entirely too much, sometimes. "Seeya, Joe." Methos pushed away from the bar and shrugged his coat on, checking the placement of his sword without thinking about it.

It was raining lightly when Methos went out the door into the dismal afternoon. He squinted at the sky and briefly considered waiting for a cab. He dismissed the idea in favor of walking and giving himself a little more time to think things over. Jamming his hands deep into his coat pockets and hunching his shoulders against the invading fingers of rain drizzling down under his collar, he strode off down the street in the direction of home.

He had two blocks left to walk, when he realized the mistake he had made.

***

Methos trudged through the dojo doors and headed for the lift, still grumbling to himself about the likelihood of a challenge in the six block walk between Joe's and the dojo. What were the odds of that? Not high -- except in the orbit of one Duncan MacLeod, he answered himself grimly. As he reached the lift and threw down the gate, he slumped against the wall and rubbed his hand tiredly over his face. It came away scarlet. Fuck. He looked down at himself -- blood was spattered over everything he wore and he'd been too out of it to notice. He'd been damned lucky not to pass anyone on the way home -- stumbling down the street covered in this much blood might have been a little difficult to explain.

His legs were still behaving a little oddly but he managed to slide the lift gate up and walk out under his own power.

"Adam!" Duncan cried out as he strode across the room towards Methos. "What happened?"

"Cut myself shaving," Methos growled, too strung out to play around. He dropped his coat on the floor and headed to the bathroom, only to have his path blocked by an angry and worried-looking Scot. "What?!"

"Who?" Duncan demanded.

"Does it really matter, MacLeod? Let me past -- I reek like an abattoir." He ignored the woman sitting silently on the sofa.

Methos slipped past Duncan and headed to the armoire for clothes. He grabbed the first sweats he could lay his hands on and shut the wooden door. He knew Sheila was watching him but he couldn't find the energy to care. She was MacLeod's guest and his bloody problem and Methos was too damn exhausted to worry about any of it now. He was walking back past the sofa when he noticed Sheila's horrified stare.

"Is this what it's like," she said at last, her voice awed and low, tinged with fear, "being Immortal?" She rose from the sofa and came towards Methos, who was suddenly mesmerized by the rapt horror on her face. "Is that really someone's blood all over you?" She reached out with a finger as if to touch him and he flinched, recoiling from her automatically. "Did you really just cut off someone's head?"

He could have been more gentle with her, definitely should have been more tactful, but he was filthy, exhausted, and impatient to be alone with Duncan and something about wide-eyed innocence in someone her age just rubbed him all the wrong ways. "Damn right," he answered coldly. "Welcome to the club. Don't worry, you'll be whacking off heads along with the rest of us in no time at all."

"Adam, that's enough!" Duncan growled, grabbing Methos' arm and propelling him into the bathroom.

From the corner of his eye Methos saw Sheila sink into an armchair and bury her face in her hands. A familiar sob rang out. Then Duncan shoved him inside the bathroom and slammed the door closed behind them.

"What the hell was all that about?" Duncan bellowed as Methos began to undress, too tired to really bother arguing.

"Too loud, MacLeod, I'm standing right here." He dropped his ruined shirt straight into the trash and lifted his gaze to meet Duncan's outraged glare. "Look...I'm sorry all right! I shouldn't have said that to her. You know how much I hate Quickenings. Damn things take forever to settle." He had to sit down to unlace his boots because his legs still felt like badly cooked linguini. His fingers weren't much better and he struggled with the knotted laces. "You know you could give me a hand here, Mac." Duncan's eyes remained stony and Methos shrugged minutely, pulling the boots off at last. It appeared forgiveness would not be forthcoming anytime soon. Methos stood up and wriggled out of his jeans, tossing them vaguely in the direction of the hamper. One last try.... "Going to join me then?" he asked softly as he turned on the water.

"I have to go see how Sheila's doing," Duncan answered cooly, as he turned and left the bathroom. The door banged behind him, the sharp sound echoing in the tiny space.

Methos stepped into the shower and winced as the water hit his skin. It wasn't like he hadn't handled a Quickening alone a time or two, he thought, flipping an obscene gesture in Duncan's direction and immediately feeling petty and juvenile for doing it. He'd just rather not do it alone if he had any say in it. An involuntary hiss escaped his lips as the heat of the water seeped into his aching flesh, relaxing it by tiny increments.

He scrubbed himself thoroughly; removing every trace of the dead Immortal from his skin as his thoughts kept flipping back to what was going on in the outer room. It had been a shitty thing to say to her, he knew that, but a small dose of reality never went astray. Mac didn't see it that way though, that was for sure. His protective instincts were on full alert when it came to this woman and Methos was just a bystander. So much so that Methos had been spared the third degree he usually received from Duncan whenever there was a challenge. For that he supposed he should be grateful.

A few minutes later when he emerged from the bathroom, dressed and somewhat more himself, he found them standing in the kitchen, drinking coffee if the aroma was any clue. Sheila had both hands wrapped around the mug and her freckled fingers tightened on it as Methos looked at her. Her eyes regarded him warily, with the look of a stepped-on puppy. While she looked as if she'd taken a shower during his absence from the loft and all the caked blood was gone, her soft, lined face was still puffy as if she'd spent the whole time crying.

"This is all very bad karma," she said out of the blue, pushing the glasses she probably didn't need anymore back up along her nose.

Methos looked at Duncan, ignoring the woman completely. "I'm sorry, okay?" He slipped past them both and grabbed a cold beer from the fridge. He cracked it open and leaned back against the countertop, chugging half of it in a few grateful swallows. "So what's the plan?" he asked, looking meaningfully at his lover. "She going to holy ground?"

"No she is not going to holy ground, pal," Sheila ground out. "And while you're at it, would you mind not talking about me as if I'm not here? I'm too old for someone who looks as if he's still wet behind the ears to be ignoring me like that."

"Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving," Methos tossed at her with casual venom, taking another long pull at the beer. "And what's wrong with going to holy ground anyway? I've always found it very useful, restful even. Well, maybe not the chanting."

"I don't do religion -- period," she spat back. "Organized religion has the greatest potential for evil of any force on the planet," she finished, sounding like a slogan at a street march.

"Sheila, you don't have a lot of choices here," Duncan said wearily, as if they'd covered this ground before. "If we get you to holy ground there's every chance you could live a long time. If you don't -- eventually you'll be forced to defend yourself or you'll die. That convent outside Paris is very beautiful. Won't you at least think about it?"

"I have thought about it, Duncan. I can't just turn my back on what I believe because I'm suddenly this thing that can't die."

Methos caught the pained look, before Duncan answered, "You aren't a 'thing', Sheila. Anymore than Adam is -- or I am. You're still a person, still a human being -- you're just something else as well now. How you use this gift is up to you."

She slammed the coffee mug down on the counter, slopping a little over the side. "Gift?! This is not a gift, Duncan. A gift would have been to let me die when I planned, to let me be with Laura. We were together thirty-seven years. Do you have any idea what that's like? To lose the one you love after that long?"

Duncan exhaled loudly and looked across at Methos, his eyes poignant in their silent plea. "No, I don't. I wish I did."

There was a long silence.

"But I do," Methos put in reluctantly. Damn MacLeod for making him do this.

"How old are you anyway?" Sheila asked sharply.

Duncan cleared his throat. "Umm--you don't usually ask an Immortal that, Sheila."

"Now you guys have etiquette, too? As well as all those rules? Well, hell."

Duncan had his mouth open as if to answer, but Methos jumped in. "I'm a lot older than I look, let's leave it at that. And I've lost more people than I can count, more times than I can count, and I will tell you the only true thing that I know: the dead don't need us to die for them--they need us to live for them -- to remember them."

Methos looked up to find Duncan's eyes fixed on his, saw the absolute understanding there, and thought perhaps this was the most important gift their love had brought him, this deep understanding and acceptance that flowed both ways. It was a reminder too, of all they had lost on the way to each other, all the pain that had gone before and all the loves lost that had made them the men that they were. The residue of his anger just bled away.

A harsh sob close at hand shattered the moment and they turned towards Sheila at the same time.

"I'm sorry," she wailed, the tears flowing freely again. "I just can't...It's all too..." Then she was gone, fleeing into the bathroom and slamming the door.

Methos watched her go, feeling helpless in the face of her pain. Then Duncan was behind him, warm at his back, strong arms twining around him to hold him close. Methos covered them with his own and let himself sink back into their comfort, leaning his head back against the side of Duncan's.

"What the hell do we do now?" Duncan asked.

"Play it by ear, I guess. Maybe she'll change her mind about holy ground."

"I don't think so. She's completely against the idea. It's so bloody frustrating -- she won't even consider it to save her own life."

"Maybe that's it, maybe she doesn't want to live," Methos said quietly, turning in Duncan's embrace to face him.

"Maybe not right now, but when she gets used to the idea she'll see it differently."

Methos wasn't so sure but he let it pass. "What about the cabin?"

"It's holy ground."

"She doesn't have to know that. She's a newbie, she'll believe what you tell her," Methos answered off-handedly.

"Lie to her?" Duncan whispered. "Methos, I don't want to trick her into going to holy ground."

Methos shrugged and slipped away from Duncan's arms. "I guess she'll be okay here. What do you want for dinner?" He could see the wheels turning in Duncan's mind and knew there would be more, he just had to be patient.

"I'll cook," Duncan offered. "What do you feel like having?" He started rummaging through the fridge and Methos jumped up to sit on the countertop and watch him.

"Up to you."

Duncan stopping his foraging and looked back over his shoulder at Methos. "You're no help at all, you know." He smiled, but it was frayed around the edges and didn't fool either of them.

"I know," Methos answered mildly, picking up his beer and chugging the remainder.

"I suppose there's enough here for a stir-fry of some sort," Duncan mumbled as if to himself.

"Sounds fine." Methos was going to add more but at that moment, Sheila re-appeared from the bathroom, her eyes redder and puffier than before.

She looked every year of her age now. Dark circles hollowed her red-rimmed eyes and the blotches left in the wake of her tears only highlighted the pallor of her skin. She'd pushed the short strands of her gray and chestnut hair behind her ears, and it only served to highlight the softness of her jaw line and the disappointed droop of her mouth. If she had once been as beautiful as Duncan had described, there was precious little left of it now. He almost wondered how Duncan had recognized her at all.

Duncan went to her and Methos watched with his heart cracking a little as she fended him off, raising her hand to stop him coming any closer. She shied away from him and sank into the sofa, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

"Sheila, " Duncan began.

"Don't, Duncan, please. Just don't. I'll be all right. It's just going to take some time. I can't take any more sympathy right now, okay." She was holding herself in tightly; Methos could see it in the whiteness of her knuckles as she held onto her arms.

Duncan nodded patiently. "I'm going to make some dinner. Do you want some?"

Sheila shook her head. "I haven't been able to eat much since Laura got sick. I just look at it and even if I was hungry before, when I see food my appetite just goes away. I'm sorry."

She certainly looked as if that was the case, Methos thought. Even through the ill-fitting sweats he could see that the skin hung loose on her narrow frame -- as incongruous as if she was wearing clothes a few sizes too large. He could see the angles of her shoulders but the gravity pooled the loose flesh around her waist, just enough to throw off the proportions of her shape and make her look vaguely deflated.

"Was Laura sick a long time?" Duncan asked gently.

"Long enough -- five months. Ovarian cancer...by the time they found out, it was everywhere -- in her bones, in her liver...too late for them to do much more than watch her die. Slowly and painfully." Sheila's voice was tight and thin, almost unemotional in its flatness. "It isn't fair."

Duncan nodded. "It never is."

She shook her head minutely as if to shake off the memories and then in a slightly more animated tone said, "You go ahead and eat though. Don't let me stop you." She curled her legs up into the sofa and lay her head on the armrest. "I believe I'll rest a while."

Duncan nodded and went to the chest at the foot of his bed, retrieving a soft afghan that was folded there and bringing it to her. He settled it over Sheila and then turned away and went back into the kitchen. Methos looked on as his lover quietly moved around the small space, clearly trying not to disturb their guest while he prepared the meal. Methos glanced over at Sheila's sleeping face and saw that, for the moment at least, she seemed to be at peace.

Methos turned his attention away from her and back to Duncan. Heartbreak was coming -- as certain as an oncoming train. He could see the worry on Duncan's face now; creasing his brow in three little vertical lines between his eyebrows while Duncan concentrated on slicing the vegetables into small neat pieces. Wishing for the world to be otherwise was a futile waste of time, but if he could....

He slipped down from the counter at last, moving to stand beside Duncan. "Something I can do?" Methos asked quietly.

The flashing knife paused as Duncan turned liquid brown eyes in his direction, understanding of the double meaning in the question clear in his expression. "Thanks. You're here. That's enough." Duncan leaned in closer and kissed Methos' mouth softly, then he pulled back and tried to smile. "Although if you could get the wok down and put it on to heat up, that would be good too."

So the meal was made and eaten and cleared away in whispered silence with a portion put aside and all the while the woman on the sofa slept. Sometimes she slept so deeply her chest barely moved and she was pale as death. Duncan stilled in the armchair where he sat and pretended to read a book, watching her hawk-eyed until the telltale movement lifted her chest again. Sometimes she was restless, crying out unintelligible things, and Methos held his breath as Duncan hovered over her, shushing her in low tones, soothing her back to quietness. Methos just watched from behind the cover of his own book, taking it all in and not saying a word.

When at last Methos heard a stifled yawn coming from his lover's mouth and the pretense of reading became too tiresome to maintain, he stood and, taking Duncan by the hand, led him unresistingly to their bed. They turned the lights out as they went, leaving darkness behind them. They undressed in silence while their eyes spoke volumes, almost too much eloquence in Duncan's gaze for Methos to bear. Finally, they slid beneath the bed covers. Methos folded Duncan into his arms and held him close. And slept.

***

The light that streamed through the loft windows in the early morning was eerie -- pale and watery with the tail end of the storm. Methos blinked a wary eye at it and shifted closer to the warmth of his sleeping lover. The graceful, hard length of Duncan's body in his arms wriggled a little, sighing as he moved back towards Methos. Gods but he loved this, that small, satisfied noise Duncan made when his butt pressed up against Methos' morning hard-on, the warm, sleepy smell of him, the silky tangle of hair on the pillow teasing his nose.

But something was definitely not right, there was a discordant note playing somewhere, an absence.... Methos cast his senses around the loft, feeling for Sheila's insubstantial buzz. And found none. He extended the search to the furthest range of his ability, reaching down to the dojo and up onto the roof. Not there. Damn.

"Mac--wake up," Methos called as he rolled out of the bed. "She's gone."

Duncan was awake in an instant, vaulting out of the bed and looking around wildly. "Are you sure she isn't around somewhere?"

"See for yourself, Mac. I can't feel her anywhere, can you? She's not downstairs."

"Goddammit!" Duncan snarled as he pulled on a pair of jeans and sat down on the bed to stuff his feet into his boots. "Where the hell's she gone?"

"How the hell should I know!" Methos snapped back as he tugged on his own clothes. "Back to her house?" He'd known this would happen, the stupid bloody woman was probably already dead. Her own damned fault, but he knew that this would be another weight on Duncan's already-overburdened conscience.

Duncan finished tying his boots and stood. "Yeah, she might have. It's a place to start anyway."

A few minutes and they were dressed and heading out the dojo door. Duncan threw himself behind the wheel of the T-Bird and Methos jumped into the passenger seat. Duncan's knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he shoved the convertible into gear and peeled out of the alley. His face was tight and a crooked vein throbbed at his right temple, tension radiating from every pore. Not willing to add to it, Methos sat in silence, watching the city flash by and slowly morph into the suburbs once more.

A cold little part of himself, buried not at all as deep as he would have liked, wished that they would never find her, that she would simply drop off the map and leave them to wonder if she wasn't still out there somewhere, or if a headhunter had claimed her puny Quickening already. She never had a chance anyway, but another loss -- another failure to protect on top of all the turmoil of the recent years -- that could be the final straw. The anger was unreasonable, unfair, certainly unwarranted, but it was there nonetheless. Sheila was just someone Duncan knew a while back -- nothing to Methos at all -- but Duncan--somewhere along the way he had become essential. Damn the woman for putting him through this.

***

They were quiet against the throaty roar of the big car's engine. Methos sprawled deeper in his seat, gazing up at the cloudy sky. More rain soon. They'd have to put the top up. Perfect weather for this exercise in futility.

The house had been empty; a dusty, echoing shell of what had once been vibrant and alive. Worse than empty--dead. The only clue to Sheila's whereabouts had been the address of a bookstore that she and Laura had owned together. Methos wasn't very hopeful, but they really had nothing else to go on.

It didn't take much longer for them to pull up in front of the store and park the car. Laura's Books was a predictably eccentric-looking storefront settled comfortably between a coffeeshop and a store selling witchcraft supplies. Or at least what passed for witchcraft in this odd century. The bookstore itself was closed up, mail jammed into the slot and spilling onto the sidewalk.

Methos unfolded himself from the T-Bird's passenger seat and came around the back of the car to walk beside Duncan as they approached the store. The lock on the front door looked simple enough and he turned his back to cover Duncan from view as he picked it easily. Methos let Duncan slip through the door first then, with a quick glance up and down the street, Methos followed him into the shadowed space. The air in the store was still, oppressive, heavy with the inimitable aroma of new books. The shelves were crowded with the sort of New Age nonsense Methos would have expected from a store like this and a small, sunken reading area took up one corner.

There. There it was at last -- the faint, teasing tickle of a new Immortal's buzz. Methos looked to Duncan to see if he felt it yet.

Duncan turned to him, hope in his eyes for the first time that day. "She's here," he whispered.

A pained, panicked moan from the back of the store told them where Sheila was hiding and they walked rapidly towards the sound. They found her in a storeroom, wild-eyed and disheveled, barely noticing their approach. When she did look up, she took one look at them and dissolved into tears again. He was getting really sick of that sound.

"Hey, Sheila," Duncan began, more gently than Methos could have managed at that point. "We've been looking all over for you. Why'd you leave the loft? It isn't safe for you to be out walking around by yourself right now."

"I just wanted to be somewhere that reminded me of her," she hiccupped. "This was so much Laura's place. She made it what it is, I was just along for the ride." Sobs wracked her narrow shoulders as the tears came again.

As she sat, crumpled on the storeroom floor between the unopened cartons of hardbacks, she rolled a small gold-brown rock in her hands. Methos looked at it more closely as he tuned out her crying jag. It was a small piece of amber, quite a beautiful one, the size of a golfball, with an ancient dragonfly preserved inside.

Sheila caught his gaze and looked down at her hands, sniffling back the sobs. "Laura loves -- loved this stuff. She has a collection of it in her office. She always loved how you could look at something thousands of years old that was just the same as the day it died."

Methos felt the warmth of Duncan's eyes on him and looked up into his lover's small smile. He returned it.

"Beautiful forever," Duncan murmured, his eyes holding Methos' fearlessly.

Methos raised a cynical eyebrow, but his mouth quirked into a smile all the same. The Highlander sure could pick his moments.

Duncan knelt down on the floor beside the woman, laying a hand on her forearm -- serious again in the blink of an eye. "Sheila, you need to come with us." He paused and looked up at Methos. "I have a cabin, out in the woods a few hours from here. You'll be safe there. You can rest, get back on your feet, and there are things you need to learn. A lot of things. Will you come with us, Sheila?"

She looked at him, gray eyes narrowing as they searched his face. She was quiet a moment before she answered, "Yeah. Okay...I guess that would be all right."

Duncan stood and helped her to her feet. Methos saw her carefully slip the piece of amber into the pocket of her sweatpants. Together the three left the store, locking the door behind them.

***

The shadows were long as Duncan parked the car under the spreading branches of an oak tree. The drive had been long and uncomfortably quiet. There hadn't seemed to be much to say. Not long after they'd finished picking up belongings from Sheila's house and the loft, Sheila had dropped into a coma-like sleep, much as she had the night before. Methos watched Duncan turn off the engine, lean over the backseat and wake her. She blinked and sighed, groaning a little as she sat up.

Methos unbent his aching limbs from the confines of the passenger seat and stood beside the car, stretching gratefully. MacLeod sure did have a gorgeous place here, he thought, gazing out across the lake to the island. Even with winter just over the horizon, there was a lushness about the island that winter's bareness couldn't diminish. Even the cabin itself -- Duncan must have added to it over the years; it couldn't possibly have been this large when he first built it. Methos found himself looking forward to staying there, despite the circumstances.

Of course, MacLeod had yet to mention to Sheila that this was holy ground. As far as he could tell, Duncan was taking the tried and true 'don't ask -- don't tell' approach to disclosure. A good idea and so far it seemed to be working. As long as she didn't ask. He wouldn't like to bet on Duncan lying to her straight out. Still, maybe she wouldn't ask. It wasn't a church or a convent, so maybe she wouldn't make the connection.

"You want to give me a hand with this?" Duncan rumbled close behind. "If you're finished daydreaming, that is."

"No problem." Methos smirked and slipped past his lover, letting their bodies brush subtly. He hooked a finger through the ring of Duncan's car keys and sauntered down to the boathouse. He heard Duncan's exasperated snort behind him as he walked. Too damn easy, MacLeod.

To Methos' surprise he heard Sheila laugh behind him, a small rusty sound that jarred in the late afternoon quiet.

"Mac--if you could see the look on your face just then... He got you good." She laughed again as she picked up a couple of grocery bags and began to carry them down towards the boathouse.

Methos saw the broad grin spread across Duncan's face; he only wished he could feel more hopeful himself. Still it was a start. He went into the boathouse to start loading up. They had a lot of work to do, and as pretty as Duncan was while working, Methos supposed he should help, at least a little.

***

"I haven't had you in forever," Duncan whispered as they edged around each other in the kitchen, ostensibly making dinner. "I want you."

Methos could feel the heat shimmering from Duncan's body as he passed. It was sweet agony not to be able to toss him down and fuck him through the floor. He forced his face into an expression of cool detachment. "It's far from 'forever' MacLeod," Methos whispered primly, with only a hint of a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. He drained the pasta. "You'll just have to wait. We have a guest to feed."

What little was left of the afternoon by the time they had arrived had flown by between the unpacking and the opening up of the cabin and showing Sheila around. Now the sun had set and the air had grown cold outside with the coming of the stars. In the cabin though, a huge log fire blazed in the fireplace and the living area was almost too warm.

Sheila seemed to be enjoying it here too; she had smiled more in the last few hours than he'd seen in the whole time that he'd known her. Though he wasn't fooled into thinking it was anything miraculous, it was at least, a start. She drifted over to where they worked in the kitchen. "You know what we need guys? Music. Got anything to listen to, Mac?"

Methos laughed out loud. "Don't ask him that, Sheila, not unless you want to get stuck listening to opera all night." Methos laughed again at the outraged face Duncan made.

"I don't just listen to opera. I like lots of different things," Duncan answered unconvincingly.

"Yes, Mac," Methos deadpanned, smirking at Sheila. "Come on, Sheila, I think I packed some CDs, you can come and help me choose."

"Sure," she said as she followed him into the bedroom.

Methos tipped the entire contents of a duffle bag onto the wide bed that he and Duncan would share. A stack of CD cases slithered out amongst a tumble of books and notepads and other assorted debris he'd swept from his desk in the rush to pack this morning. Her hand darted out and grabbed a couple of the CDs.

"Springsteen?" she asked with a brilliant smile that took ten years from her face.

"Yeah sure. Why not? It'll drive Mac nuts."

Sheila laughed shortly, then her face grew serious. "You don't really like me, do you, Adam?"

Methos was taken aback that she'd had the nerve to actually mention it. He wasn't surprised she knew how he felt, or thought she did, just that she had the guts to call him on it. "It isn't that I don't like you, Sheila. That's not it at all." His eyes skittered away from hers.

"Then what is it?" she asked in a small voice.

"He's had a bad few years. I don't want to see him hurt again." Methos dragged his eyes back to hers, searching her face for understanding. "I won't see him hurt again."

If she caught the threat in his last words she never let on. "You don't understand," she rasped out, tears welling again, "I was ready to die -- I wanted to die. Everything was all arranged," she swiped the tears from her face, "and now...there's nothing for me now."

"Do you know what some people would do to have what you've been given?" he asked, unable to stem the tide of raw pain and anger welling up inside, ruthlessly forcing down the memories.

"Yes!" she snapped defensively. "I know!" Her voice grew quieter and colder as she continued, "But I didn't ask for it. And I don't want it. If I could give it to someone who wanted it then I would. But I don't have that choice, do I?"

"No. You don't. The only choice you have is a very simple one: live or die. There are still plenty of ways to die -- even for an Immortal. I'm sure you could find one of them." He couldn't keep the contempt from his voice and didn't try.

"You don't understand!" she flung at him, her voice still wet with tears.

"Oh, I understand all right," he forced out between gritted teeth. "Better than you know. Do you know the second thing that I did when I met MacLeod? I tried to get him to take my head. Yeah -- I wanted to die! I was sick of it all, sick of the game, sick of hiding, sick of losing people and places and having lives spin by in a heartbeat and sick of being so damned alone. But I forgot one thing, Sheila, for a little while I forgot that no one knows what's going to happen next. I forgot that life will always surprise you, no matter how jaded you think you are. Everything changes and nothing is forever -- not even pain." The anger bled out of his voice and it became soft with the memories. "If he'd taken my head I'd have never had what I have now, I'd have never known this. And this was worth waiting for." And if that wasn't precisely the chronology of how it had happened, she would never know it.

"What was the first thing?" Sheila asked, tears spilling down her face.

"What?" His throat was thick with repressed emotion and he looked up to the doorway to see Duncan appear -- a concerned expression on his face.

"You said the second thing you did was ask Duncan to take your head. What was the first?"

Looking past Sheila, Methos' eyes sought his lover's. Duncan knew. The very first thing that Methos had done when he'd met Duncan was fall in love. Hopelessly, helplessly, all-the-cliches in love.

Duncan was smiling at him from the doorway with warmth and love and desire, and Methos felt his heart contract. Gods, he loved the man still.

"Dinner is ready," Duncan said quietly.

Methos nodded and went to him, conscious of Sheila brushing by him in the hallway, then not at all.  "How much did you hear?" he asked, standing close enough to kiss but leaving a hairsbreadth between them.

"Enough," his lover answered, a slow smile widening his mouth.

"You really shouldn't listen at doorways, MacLeod," Methos whispered, unable to stop his mouth curling at one corner.

"But I hear such interesting things," Duncan murmured, slipping his hands up Methos' arms to rest on his shoulders, squeezing gently.

"Don't believe everything you hear, either," Methos teased as Duncan's mouth descended on his.

Duncan's mouth was sweet and delicious, flavored faintly with the malt of the beer they'd been drinking while they cooked. His tongue pressed for entry and Methos opened to it, warmth unfurling deep in his belly. He sank against Duncan, deepening the kiss and wrapping his arms tightly around his lover's waist. For a long moment he loved Duncan with the touch of his mouth. Then with a last sucking nibble on Duncan's bottom lip, and conscious of the woman's presence not far off, Methos reluctantly pulled away.

"I did, you know," Methos whispered.

"I know," Duncan smiled. "Me too." He laid his head on Methos' shoulder and Methos held him close.

"Uhh...wasn't there somewhere we were going?"

Duncan lifted his head and stepped back. "Dinner. The kitchen?" He smoothed his hands over his hair, tidying the loosened strands of his ponytail.

Methos tugged his sweater back into place. "Yes, dinner." He sent Duncan a look that left no doubt as to what dessert would be. Duncan just held his eyes and regarded him hungrily.

A sad, jangling guitar chord spilled through the room, announcing the Springsteen CD Sheila had put in the player.

"We'd better..." Duncan murmured.

"Yeah," Methos agreed, following his lover back into the kitchen.

The sauce was simmering on the stove and the pasta was keeping warm in its pot. The heavenly, timeless scent of warming bread spilled from the oven. Methos breathed it in and smiled as Duncan caught him in the act.  They eased around each other, were easy with each other, as they set the meal out on the table and called their guest to it. Soon they were seated and eating, an uncomplicated quiet settling over the table.

Springsteen played on repeat in the background, and gradually Sheila seemed to relax. She even ate a little. The wine flowed freely and eventually, as dinner was finished, the conversation became more and more animated. Then out of the blue, there came one of those silences that fall upon conversations from time to time -- a wide, echoey silence pregnant with possibility.

Sheila put down her wineglass, looked at Duncan and asked in a strained voice, "I have to ask you something, Mac. Do you remember that night in the park? When I got high and raced you across the grass and that Chevy nearly ran me down, but you pulled me out of the way?" She didn't wait for an answer but continued as if she expected none. "I can't work it out. You said you knew one day I was going to have this Immortality thing. Why didn't you let me run in front of that car? Why didn't you just let me die then?"

Duncan went deathly pale.

"It wasn't my choice to make," he said, at last. The pain in his voice was almost palpable.

"But you did choose -- you pulled me out of the way. In that moment you chose for me to live. Why? If I had to be this way, why couldn't you have let me die back then?" There were tears in her voice and she dropped her gaze, staring down at her hands. "It's all right for you -- you're going to be thirty forever. You and Adam will both be handsome and strong -- and in love -- as long as you live.

"Look at me, Duncan -- I'm old-- And the one woman I ever loved isn't going to be Immortal with me. I don't stand a chance in this game of yours, even if I – if I...." The flood of words stilled and Sheila sprang out of her chair, knocking it to the floor behind her. She looked at them, her face pallid and stricken, then fled.

The slamming of a door down the far end of the cabin punctuated the stunned silence.

Duncan looked shell-shocked and Methos waited, bracing himself for the storm. But it never came.

"Did I do the wrong thing back then, Methos..." Duncan asked.

Methos had never heard so much uncertainty in Duncan's voice and it tore at him to watch Duncan doubt himself so. He reached out and caught up Duncan's hand, folding both his around it. "You could no more have let her get hit by that car than you could have pushed her in front of it. She's angry and in pain and she wants to lash out, that's all."

"But she is right -- my actions condemned her to this. If I'd let her die then none of this would be necessary."

"Or she could have gone on to live to a ripe old age and died in her sleep and never become Immortal. Or she could have become Immortal then and died in the Game the very next week. There are a million different ways her life could have gone, and you aren't responsible for any of them."

"That doesn't make it any easier."

"It's done, Duncan. It's past. There's nothing either of you can do now. You know that."

"I know...." Duncan picked up his wineglass and glared broodily into it, before draining it and setting aside. "But how can I teach her well if she resents me? She needs to learn how to survive, Methos. This is going to make it damned difficult."

"You'll manage," Methos assured him. "You always do."

Duncan frowned and stood up, pulling another bottle of cabernet from the rack against the wall. He stayed silent while he opened it; his brow creased in the worried look that Methos knew so well. The cork came free and Duncan refilled both their glasses, sitting at last. "I'm not so sure." Duncan trailed off and was quiet. Methos filled the gap by sipping slowly at his wine, waiting. "There may be a solution we haven't thought of," Duncan said at last. "You could teach her."

Shit. "No, MacLeod, I'm sorry. I can't. Not a good idea at all. No."

"But you could do it. You've got a lot you could teach her."

"I'm not disputing that," Methos replied with a deliberately arrogant tilt of his head, "but she's yours."

"But she needs you."

"I don't want to teach her, MacLeod!" Methos hissed, not wanting to raise his voice too loudly. "Get that through your skull! You know I don't take students."

"Methos, please." Duncan reached across the table and took Methos' hand in his, placing his other hand on top of both. "Methos, she'll never be able to physically match other Immortals. I could teach her to use a sword, but even if she wanted to learn that, I don't think it'd do much good. But you--you can teach her how to survive -- how to avoid a fight. I think if she can learn that from you, she might make it. It would at least give her some chance. Please, Methos?"

It took all Methos' strength to resist the plea in Duncan's voice. "No. I'm sorry, Mac, I just can't." He pressed Duncan's hand gently. "Don't push this, please."

Duncan nodded, as if he'd expected the response all along. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure we'll manage." He shrugged as if the question had been of no importance at all. "It was just a thought."

"It'll be fine. You'll work it out with her. She couldn't have a better teacher than you." He paused, looking deep into the dark eyes. "Thanks for not pressing it." Methos slipped his hand from Duncan's grasp and picked up his wineglass, draining the remainder. He looked more closely at Duncan and frowned. "Come on, you look exhausted. Come to bed." Methos stood and held out a hand to Duncan.

Duncan was exhausted, Methos could see it in every line of his lover's body. They walked together to the bedroom and Methos turned to him, unbuttoning Duncan's shirt and pushing it off his shoulders to slip down his arms and drop to the floor. Methos stepped away to lose his own clothes and when he had, Duncan had turned down the covers and was sitting naked on the side of the bed. Methos slipped in from the other side and drew Duncan to lie in his arms, soothing him with soft strokes to his face and chest. A quiet energy flowed around and between them, all the sharp edges of need and desire filed away, leaving only warmth and comfort.

"Methos?" Duncan began, his voice rough and low.

Methos was almost asleep but he managed a "Mmm?"

"Don't go anywhere."

He still wasn't quite awake and it took him a minute to work out what Duncan was talking about. "Wasn't planning to."

"Good." Duncan turned over and pulled Methos close.

He wriggled until he was comfortable, his head pillowed on Duncan's broad chest, strong arms circling him. "We aren't like them, you know," Methos murmured sleepily.

"I know," Duncan whispered.

Methos hoped he did.

***

"Hold it up, Sheila!" Duncan's voice echoed from the clearing to the cabin door where Methos stood watching. "You can't defend yourself with your sword way down there."

Methos slouched against the doorframe and pulled his thick robe around himself more tightly. It was really cold and the sun was barely over the treetops, but the two out on the grassy clearing looked as if they'd been at it for hours. Labored breath puffed from Sheila's mouth as Duncan took her through her first sword lesson. He could see she was trying and no one was bleeding, so maybe Duncan had been wrong about not being able to teach her anything.

A delicious aroma teased his nose in the chill morning air and he breathed it in gratefully. The coffee was ready. Methos turned away from the lesson and went back inside. He filled a large mug with the steaming brew, added milk and sugar, and drank deeply. In the distance he could still hear their voices as the lesson continued. Duncan's voice rose to that commanding note he heard so rarely and Methos, intrigued, went to have a look. He settled down at the top of the steps still holding his coffee mug, and watched.

Duncan was taking her through basic parries. "No! You brace the sword with both hands as you invert it when you're blocking. You hold it with one and..." his katana flashed out of nowhere and knocked the light sword from her hand, sending it tumbling to the damp ground, "and you'll lose it. Now pick it up and try again."

Methos saw the look that crossed her face and was briefly glad it hadn't been aimed at him. Still, she didn't appear to have given up yet and that was good. She snatched the sword from the ground and held it before her clumsily -- fumbling the grip before finding a solid hold on it. Duncan walked her through the basic drill again. Cut down on the backhand, cut down on the forehand, block a low blow with an inverted blade, raise it to block a head-high one. Over and over again, while Methos sat and watched.

Methos sipped at his coffee and made a face. Damn, it had gone stone cold. How long had he been sitting here anyway? Sheila really hadn't made much of an improvement in all that time either. He watched her fumble a simple parry. Who was he kidding? She hadn't made any. If anything she was worse, exhaustion taking hold and making her movements slow and sloppy. It was too hard to watch anymore and it was cold and he needed a shower and some actual clothing. Methos gave up and went inside.

He stood a long time beneath the scalding spray, thinking. Bloody MacLeod. He hated feeling like this, really detested the queasy heaviness lying in his gut as he thought about the 'lesson' going on outside. So Duncan had been right. So what? That didn't mean it was Methos' responsibility to go leaping into the void and teach her himself, did it? Of course not. Sheila wasn't his student to teach. Not even his friend.

And she was probably screwing up on purpose. Unless she'd undergone a major attitude adjustment in the night, Sheila would still rather be dead.

He stepped out of the shower and dried off. The prescient feeling of doom that had been lurking in his gut since this had all started, intensified. He pushed it aside. Duncan wasn't walking away from this mess and so he supposed that meant he wasn't either. He'd fought far too hard for Duncan to give him up now. So there was only one thing to do. Damn it all to hell.

***

Sheila was on the ground, sobbing and clutching her left arm above the elbow when Methos walked out the back door of the cabin again. Duncan was standing a few feet away, looking on with his face pale and unreadable. Methos took a deep breath, pushed down his misgivings and went to join them.

He walked up close to Duncan and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you go take a break, Mac. Go get some coffee. I even left you some."

Duncan caught his eye and held the look for a moment. Methos smiled back easily and patted the muscle under his hand. Duncan nodded and went inside.

Methos turned his attention to the woman sitting sobbing on the ground. "Healed yet?" he asked sharply.

Sheila looked at the bloodied skin beneath her hand and then back at him, nodding quickly, still sniffling.

"Right. Get up then," Methos ordered, wholly unaffected by the hurt look on her face. "And you won't need that," he added with a small sneer for effect as she went to pick up her discarded blade.

She looked even more confused. "But I thought--Mac said--"

Methos cut her off impatiently. "Don't think. Just do as I say for now. And I am definitely not Mac."

Gray eyes narrowed poisonously in his direction as she stood and faced him. Good, at least she still had the energy to be pissed at him.

"All right," he began. "There are things that I can teach you, that Mac can't. Won't. Sneaky underhanded tricks that will get your arse out of trouble every time if used correctly. That is, if you're interested in surviving?" he raised an eyebrow at her and waited.

She shrugged. "I guess so."

"Well, at least that was somewhat honest." He seriously doubted she'd been as honest with Duncan. Still, it was better than last night. "Come on--let's take a walk." Without waiting for her to answer, he strode off around the side of the cabin towards the lakeshore. After a moment he heard her jogging to catch up to him. She was out of breath when she caught him a few paces later and it briefly crossed his mind that she really needed to work on her fitness if she was serious about surviving. Of course, that remained to be seen.

Time to start with the basics. "Have you ever fired a gun, Sheila?" Methos asked as they walked along the shoreline. The sun was higher now in the clear sky but no warmer and the wind that whipped across the lake held real bite. Methos hugged his leather jacket closer around himself and looked at her when she hesitated to answer.

It took a few more steps before she did. "No. I hate guns. I suppose next thing you're going to tell me that I need to learn to use one."

"Well yes, if you want to keep your head. Which brings up a very good question: do you want to keep your head?"

"I'm trying Adam, really I am." She sighed and looked down as she walked. "It's just really hard you know... It's like there's this thick glass wall between me and the rest of the world. I just can't break through it."

"It doesn't last. That's all I can say. It does get better... in time."

"And I have that, don't I--" she asked with a wry twist to her mouth.

He quirked half a smile back at her. "If you keep your head."

There were still shadows in her eyes but she nodded and forced a semblance of a smile.

Here. This looked as good a spot as any. They had reached a wide clearing backed by thick forest. Methos drew his pistol from the small of his back and checked it. "Okay," he said, handing it to her cautiously. "Let's see what you can do." He moved around to stand behind her. "You need to turn off the safety first." He pointed to the button and she pressed it tentatively, starting a little as it clicked. "Now pull back the slide." Methos placed his own hand on top of her clammy one and showed her how. "Now just point it your target and gently squeeze the trigger. That big stump in the middle there looks about man-sized." He pointed to the remains of a lightning-struck ash.

The short, sharp bark of the semi-automatic was shocking against the forest quiet. The stump remained stubbornly untouched but a small flock of birds gusted out of a bush on the far right hand side of the clearing. She emptied another six shots in the general direction of the stump but nothing even came close to touching it. Sheila let her gun hand drop, pointing the barrel at the ground dejectedly.

"Don't be so disappointed. Most people can't hit the side of a barn with a handgun when they first start, especially from this distance."

"I know, I know, it takes time, right?" she shot back impatiently.

"Well, yes," he answered mildly. "But standing closer works too." With his hand in the small of her back, he propelled her gently over the twelve of the fifteen feet that stood between them and the tree stump. "Now try to hit it."

She fired again, this time from only three feet away. A pale chunk of long-dead wood went spinning into the long grass.

"Someone gets close enough to lay a blade on you, they're close enough for you to hit them with a bullet. You're going to want to practice a lot, but you'll be fine. Do you remember how to put the safety back on?" She depressed the button hesitantly and went to hand the gun back to him; still holding it like it was a live snake. "No, you keep that one, get some more practice in. If you're serious about avoiding fights then a gun's going to have to become your new best friend. Later on, Mac or I will show you how to look after it properly."

"So that's it then. I just shoot them and run away. That's your whole answer," Sheila snapped.

His boot knife was in his hand and against her throat before she could even blink. She stumbled back and fell heavily to the grass, fear in her eyes as he fell with her, the blade still pressed to her skin. "No no no!" he shouted. "Where's the gun?"

It was lying impotently on the ground next to her right hand and Sheila turned to look uncomprehendingly at it and then turned back to face him. "I-you-- you took me by surprise. You jumped on me!" she threw in indignantly. "What was I supposed to do? Shoot you?"

Methos hauled himself away from her, shaking his head in disgust as he stood up and resheathed his blade. "Yes! That's exactly what you were supposed to do. Someone comes at you with a blade, you have to defend yourself, no matter who they are. You have to practice and practice, not just out here, but here," he tapped a hard finger against his own forehead, "in your head. You have to go over and over scenarios in your head until defending yourself becomes second nature. The weapons of your defense have to become an extension of yourself. So until they do, you practice, practice, and practice some more."

Sheila stood at last and dusted the grass from her jeans, glancing at him uncertainly. "Okay," she said slowly. "What do we do next then?"

"The next thing is that I go back to the cabin to talk to MacLeod and you stay here and practice shooting a bit longer," he answered in a tone that brooked no discussion. "But you'll need more ammunition." He dug another clip from his jacket pocket and showed her how to reload, nodding curtly when she finally managed it by herself. "Right then, I'll see you later." Methos shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away.

There were a lot of good reasons why he didn't take students.

***

Duncan greeted him with breakfast and a brilliant smile, both of which were exceedingly welcome. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until that very moment. For either of them. As a reward for both, he stepped in close to his lover and wrapped himself around Duncan's solid warmth, holding him close.

"Thank you," Duncan whispered, brushing a stubbled cheek along Methos' face until their mouths found each other. Duncan kissed him thoroughly until Methos was limp and breathing raggedly in his arms.

Methos found himself deposited on a barstool next to the kitchen counter, still a little dizzy. "Wow. Whatever I did, remind me to do it again."

"You know--taking over teaching Sheila for me." Duncan smiled again and slid the plate in front of Methos. "So where is she? I made breakfast for her as well."

"She's practicing," Methos answered as he wolfed down the eggs, almost groaning out loud with pleasure.

"Out there -- alone." The plate Duncan was holding clattered as he sat it heavily on the bench.

"Yeah, so?" Methos forked another mouthful of egg into his mouth. "Mmm...these are remarkably good, Mac."

"So, don't you think you should have stayed with her? You are her teacher, after all."

Duncan's voice had that tone in it that bypassed the rational parts of Methos' brain and went directly to the reflexive parts. The parts that were still twitchy and raw from his impulsive behavior a little earlier. He carefully put down his silverware and leaned forward on the kitchen counter, narrowing his eyes at Duncan. "No," he began quietly, "You are her teacher -- I'm just the sap who got stuck with her when the going got a bit tough." Methos' voice never rose above a whisper but he watched Duncan recoil as if he'd been slapped.

"That was unfair."

"And treating me like shit because I leave your protege alone for five minutes wasn't? She's an adult and an Immortal and she's on holy ground. How much trouble can she get into -- really?"

Anger flared in Duncan's eyes for a moment, before he sank back to lean against the kitchen bench and looked at the ceiling. "Sorry." He shook his head. "It's just so bloody frustrating. She hasn't learned a damn thing, no matter what I try." Sighing exasperatedly, he looked back at Methos. "How'd you do?"

"Not much better," Methos admitted, catching Duncan's hand and tugging until Duncan stood in front of him.

"So we just keep trying," Duncan said, settling his hands on Methos' shoulders.
 
"What else is there?" Methos said lightly before he pulled Duncan forward so that he stood in the space between Methos' spread legs. Duncan's arms came around him, warm and safe and Methos laid his head against his lover's broad chest. Duncan's hands were stroking down Methos' back, soothing away the anger and the tension with each circling touch. Methos felt himself melting into Duncan's heat.

Methos leaned back and looked up into Duncan's eyes again; he could feel Duncan hardening against him, feel the need growing in them both. Duncan slowly bent his head and kissed Methos again, slow and deep. After a long, delicious minute Duncan eased away, his eyes fixed on Methos' again, his pupils huge with arousal.

"The gunfire's stopped, she'll be back soon," Duncan said quietly, a little out of breath. "I think I'll go catch up with her." A frown pulled at his swollen mouth. "We need to get on with her sword lesson anyway."

And Duncan would worry about Sheila until he knew for sure where she was. Damn. Methos exhaled loudly and stood. "Come on then," Methos sighed affectionately, "you won't be happy until you know she's okay." He stood, resting his hands Duncan's hips and stepping in close, smiling as he felt him shiver. "Or we could go finish this first..." Duncan frowned again and pulled away. "Thought not," Methos shrugged easily, not really expecting any other response.

Duncan walked to the door and grabbed his jacket from the hook on the wall beside it. "Come on, Methos, stop fooling around and let's go," he growled as he put the jacket on.

Methos slipped into his own jacket and followed him out.

***

"She was practicing just here," Methos said as they rounded the corner of the path that led to the clearing where he'd left her.

Duncan didn't answer immediately and Methos watched him bend to the soft dirt of the trail, pressing a fingertip into the impression of a shoe. Methos squatted beside him to look.

"She's headed off down that way," Duncan said at last, pointing off down the trail that led into the interior of the island. "Not long ago."

Methos looked at the imprint; the damp loam had not had time to dry and the edges were still sharp and clear. "Yeah," he agreed. "Not ten minutes ago. Come on then."

They continued on down the trail, passing through the cool, dark corridor of trees. It was narrow -- in most places not wide enough to walk two abreast -- so he let Duncan walk in front, pausing as Duncan bent occasionally to examine the tracks. They were quiet as they walked, the silence of the forest seeming to discourage sound. Without warning, Duncan stopped and knelt on the ground, glancing about him uneasily. Methos stopped beside him and followed his lover's gaze. The tracks petered out on the thick carpet of pine needles that covered the forest floor. The path ahead forked and Sheila could have gone either way.

"Damn," Duncan muttered as he stood up and brushed the pine needles from his jeans. "We'll have to split up." He pointed down the left-hand fork of the trail. "I'll go this way, you can take the other."

Methos nodded and headed off down the right-hand fork. He rounded a bend in the trail and felt the buzz teasing at the edge of his senses. Methos stopped, listening hard between the noises of the woods to find the one that did not belong. When he found it -- a small, sniffling gasp, all but undetectable in the whispering breeze -- Methos turned off the trail towards a huge fallen tree lying prone in a clearing.

Sheila looked up at Methos almost blankly as he came around the tree towards her. She sat cross-legged on the leafy ground, her back towards him. He might as well not have been there for all the attention she paid to his arrival. When Methos came nearer he saw the reason why.

Sheila had a pocketknife in her hand and was quietly and calmly slitting her wrist. He watched her watching the blood run out into the ground in front of her. Her face was still, as if she was meditating and deep in a trance. Only her hands moved, scoring deeply up the length of her wrist, then as the healing sealed the wound, beginning again. Just a little self-mutilation to get you through the day...

Sheila showed no reaction, although at this short range, she had to be aware of his presence. Methos laid a hand firmly on her shoulder and she jumped, dropping the knife and looking at him guiltily.

"What do you want?" she asked sullenly, glaring at him before turning away to gaze out between the trees.

Methos looked out in the direction of Sheila's gaze. She had picked a good place to sit and contemplate the world, if that was what she was doing, while she tried to bleed herself dry. The forest opened out before them and between the trees he could see the jagged mountains reflected in the lake's glossy surface. Oil-black rocks glistened at the shoreline and, as he watched, Methos caught the glittering arc of a fish jumping high out of the water. In the blink of an eye, all that was left was the concentric ripples spreading across the smooth water.

"Duncan was worried," Methos answered tersely. "He was wondering where you were. Do you want him to know what you've been doing here?" Methos' voice grew tighter and thinner and he let it, not caring that Sheila's eyes filled with tears as she looked at him. Some reaction had to better than that dead-eyed apathy. "He actually cares whether you live or die. Even if you don't. He'll be here in a minute -- you'd better think fast."

Resignedly, Sheila folded the knife and shoved it into her pocket. She stood, wobbling a little before she walked slowly down to the water's edge and bent at the waist, washing the blood from her hands. And not a moment too soon.

"Here you are," Duncan called brightly as he walked up to them. "What are you doing, Sheila? I thought you were coming back to the cabin."

Sheila continued to look out into the lake, not turning her head as she answered, "I needed some time by myself, you know..."

Methos watched Duncan's face fall a little, and he opened his mouth as if to question her further.

"Right, then," Methos broke in impatiently. "We can go continue our lesson now -- you've got a lot to learn and I haven't got all year to teach it to you." He went to Duncan, stopping a breath away and looking into his lover's eyes. "Go on back to the cabin -- chop some wood or something." He smiled with what he hoped looked like conviction. "We'll be fine."

Fine. Sure. No problem. And when Methos recovered his clearly absent sanity he might be able to explain to himself why he had just voluntarily put himself back in this situation. Methos shook his head at his own weakness. Duncan looked at him strangely but said nothing; merely leaning across and pressing a brief, devastating kiss to Methos' mouth and a quick squeeze to his hand, then slipping away down the path they'd just walked. Methos watched him stride away -- all flawed and beautiful and as dangerous to him as anything in his life. Ah yes, that was why he'd done this -- as if he could ever truly forget.

Sheila was waiting at the fork in the path. "Which way?" she asked sullenly.

Methos ignored the tone. "Back to where we were before," he ordered gruffly. He stalked past her without another word.

She glared at him darkly as she caught up.

***

Sheila was still glaring at Methos when they returned to the cabin late in the afternoon. It had been a long, hideous day and Methos was tired. Tired of teaching, tired of Sheila, tired of the great bloody outdoors -- of everything in fact.

He had spent the past several hours going over and over a few of his favorite methods of avoiding confrontation, including some basic self-defense moves that he thought she could handle without too much difficulty and few really dirty tricks that were useful in a tight spot. He'd spent a long time drilling into her the importance of constant awareness of her surroundings, constant planning ahead for every contingency.

Methos doubted if any of it had really sunk in. Right now she was too grief-stricken and depressed to take in much of what they were teaching her. He only hoped that in time Sheila would do better. For Duncan's sake as much as anything.

Duncan was waiting for them as they trudged up the cabin steps, a worried look on his face and the aroma of something hot and delicious feathering out on the warm air that drifted out the door with him. Methos managed a smile and a hug for his lover.

"You all right?" Duncan asked, smoothing a thumb over the tense lines of Methos' forehead. His hand was warm and smelled of fresh herbs.

Methos brushed a not-quite-chaste kiss over Duncan's mouth and answered, "Later." He really needed to talk honestly with Duncan about what was going on with Sheila but it was a conversation he really wasn't eager to have.

***

It was an odd night, that night before it all went to hell. Sheila was talkative and animated, but Methos knew it was a brittle, forced brightness that only went skin deep. He wondered what Duncan saw. They all laughed too much, ate too much -- drank too much. Springsteen revisited segued into Simon and Garfunkel and Methos laughed out loud at Duncan's stagey groan. Sheila had a wide smile and a pink blush in her cheeks but it was as artificial as the laughter that rang out at the slightest provocation, more a function of the alcohol than any true change of heart. But Duncan seemed drawn in by it.

"Do you remember that party, when that guy, what was his name--Gary? Something like that. Anyway whoever it was, he swore on his mother's grave that Jimi Hendrix was going to show up and every time someone came through the front door the whole room went still," Sheila said, chuckling as she drained yet another glass of wine.

Duncan threw his head back and laughed. "And then Laura wanted to know if Martin Luther King was going to show up too, because that seemed about as likely..."

The laughter that had been flying about the room stilled. Duncan looked stricken at his blunder and Methos caught his eye with what he hoped was a reassuring look.

"She always was too smart for all of us -- never would stand for any bullshit," Sheila answered, smiling tentatively as if it hurt her face to do so.

Duncan put down his wineglass and took her hand from where it rested on the table. "I'm sorry she's gone, Sheila. Laura was a good person. I was fortunate to have known her."

For a moment it looked like Sheila would dissolve into tears again -- her chin wobbled and her eyes filled but the storm never came. "I was the lucky one -- to have had her as long as I did. Now it just feel like part of me's been amputated." Methos refilled her glass for her and she took it, looking grateful for the distraction. She wrapped both hands around the glass and Methos followed the line of her gaze to the window, beyond which lay the night.

The very dark night, Methos noticed, slipping from his chair to walk over to the window. He heard a faint rumbling in the distance and shivered as an icy-damp finger of breeze sneaked through the gap beneath the window. "Rain's coming," Methos said very softly. He turned to go into the kitchen, ostensibly for more wine. A heavy sense of melancholy had settled over him and suddenly all that Methos wanted was to take Duncan to bed and lose himself in the warmth and comfort of his lover's body.

Methos' mind kept darting, unasked, back to the lesson that afternoon. What an unmitigated disaster that had been....

Methos looked at her lying on the ground and snarled, "Get up! I can teach a ten-year-old to master this move. If you would put the slightest bit of effort into it, you might learn it too. You grab my upper arms, slide your foot behind my leg, lock your hip and push. Simple!" Sheila had become more and more listless and uncooperative as the afternoon had worn on, following his instructions only minimally.

She struggled to her feet, not answering back except with the resentful glare she had fixed on his face. Dusting the dirt and grass off her jeans, Sheila wandered over to a large boulder and sat on it, looking at Methos as if daring him to say something. Which of course he did.

"What do you think you're doing? I didn't say to take a break. Come on back here, we still have a lot to cover." Methos stalked over to her, his hands on his hips.

"No. I'm done with it. I don't care any more. I can't do this."

"Oh well," Methos began with casual sarcasm, "you'll make a nice little snack for some headhunter. Hope he makes it quick. They don't always, you know." It was cruel, but it would be crueler still not to acquaint her with reality.

Her eyes grew fearful; they searched his silently for a long moment. "You could do it," she asked at last. "Would you do it, please? You could make it quick."

"No!" he shouted, suddenly furious with her. "Do you have any idea what that would do to Duncan? He cares about you -- although for the life of me I can't understand why. He's doing everything he can to make sure that you learn the skills you need to survive and you want to turn around and stab him in the back by doing this? And worse, you expect me to help you? You're insane."

Sheila hung her head and looked chastened. "I'm sorry, Adam. I didn't think of it that way. I'm sorry I asked. We can go on with the lesson now if you want?" she offered with a cautious smile.

Methos wasn't buying the contrition wholeheartedly -- it was far too quick. "No, I've had enough for now, I'm going back to the cabin. Go or stay, I don't care."

He caught the glare she shot at him as she left the rock and followed. He really needed to talk to Duncan about this.

He really needed to talk to Duncan about this.

But then Duncan was laughing -- perhaps Sheila had said something funny while Methos was away with the pixies -- but Duncan was throwing his head back and his laughter echoed around the big room. There was something about Duncan happy and laughing that was utterly entrancing, almost enough to drive out the lurking darkness. So instead, Methos got lost in the brilliance of his lover's eyes as they glittered at him across the table. He brought the wine back to the table and sat down again, bringing his chair a little closer to Duncan's, so he could feel the heat of his lover's body all along his side.

They sat and talked and drank and laughed until Sheila's chin slipped for the third time from the hand it was resting on and she jerked upright, grinning foolishly. "Wow, I'm beat," she slurred, shaking her head. "I guess I'll be heading off to bed, guys. G'night." Sheila pushed away from the table and walked unsteadily down the hall.

And Duncan looked so happy and relaxed that Methos couldn't bring himself to kill the mood by talking about Sheila's state of mind. It was too hard a topic for this late at night anyway. Tomorrow would be soon enough. She looked so much better tonight, that he was almost convinced that today was just the turning point. Almost.

Then Duncan wasn't laughing anymore but looking at Methos with hunger and desire and all Methos could think was, how did you ever get to be mine? He leaned in to capture the smiling mouth with his own.

"Love me?" Duncan asked as he eased away from Methos' kiss.

"Always," Methos whispered, hooking a lock of hair back from Duncan's ear so he could press his lips lightly to the fine, soft skin there. And he did love Duncan -- it was the words that were hard. But if the words were difficult, then showing him was easy.

"Now," Duncan answered, his voice deep and breathless, as his hands slid up Methos' chest to rest on his shoulders. "Love me now."

Oh yes.... Methos stood and held out a hand to his lover. Their eyes locked as Duncan stood and soon after their mouths and their bodies too. It took a long time to travel the short distance between table and bed. Methos had the quite irresistible urge to press his lover up against the wall several times during the short journey -- a need so overpowering that he almost took Duncan where they stood. It had been so long. Finally they tumbled, naked and sweating, into the soft warmth of their bed. The storm began to rage outside, but inside it went all but unnoticed.

***

It was still raining when Methos woke the next morning. The temperature had dropped too, he noticed as he ventured an arm out from beneath the covers. Too cold. The arm was quickly drawn back in and wrapped around the sleeping heat of the other man in the bed. Duncan made a soft, pleased sound as Methos wriggled closer, spooning himself around Duncan's body. Methos let himself float in the sensation -- not taking it anywhere -- just letting the feel of Duncan in his arms wash over and through him like a warm ocean, driving out all the cold there had ever been.

The nightmares had come back in the small hours of the morning. Methos' heart had cracked as his lover had cried in his sleep for a boy dead at his hand and a woman who'd died in his arms. Methos had held and stroked Duncan out of the dream and back to real sleep, then lay awake for a long time, turning it all over and over in his mind.

He must have slept again because, the next thing he knew, he was lying on his back in the bed and someone very gentle was tracing a fingertip over his face. He opened his eyes and found Duncan looking straight into them...and smiling as if he'd found something with which he was very pleased.

"Good morning," Duncan murmured, bending to kiss Methos' mouth. "Getting up?"

Methos blinked wearily and turned his head to look out the window. "Raining."

"Mmm...'fraid so," Duncan answered, sending goosebumps down Methos' spine with the hot breath so close to his ear.

"Too cold...wet out," Methos mumbled through the fog of sleep and incipient arousal. "Later." He rolled over in the bed and heard Duncan chuckle as he rolled away and out of the bed. "Back here!" Methos ordered sleepily, frowning at the removal of all that warmth and adoring attention.

"Some of us have things to do, Old Man. Sheila's gone for a walk or something. She isn't in the house anyway. I'm going to go track her down, make sure she's okay in all this rain. Some of the trails aren't very clear and it's worse in the wet. Won't be long and maybe I'll make breakfast for you when we get back." Duncan's voice faded away with the soft snick of the bathroom door closing.

A little while later the door re-opened and woke Methos from the light doze he'd fallen into. Lips brushed his cheek and Methos turned towards them, opening his eyes and frowning as his searching mouth met only air.

Duncan was grinning at him from beside the bed, looking fresh and edible in blue jeans and a cream-colored sweater, his hair curling damply around his shoulders. Methos had a sudden urge to drag the clothes off with his teeth. "Back soon," Duncan called, opening the door. In a second he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of his soap hanging in the air.

Methos pulled the covers more snugly around his shoulders, wriggling into a more comfortable position in the bed. He fully intended to take advantage of the peace and quiet and catch a bit more sleep while he could. Well, that was the intention anyway. Methos closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come back to claim him. And waited... Damn.

It was no use. The silence of the cabin was so deep it was worse than noise. There was no way he was going to be able to go back to sleep now. Thank you very much, MacLeod. When I get my hands on you.... Methos tossed off the covers with an impatient noise and climbed out of bed. A shower and coffee then.

A half hour later saw Methos standing in the kitchen looking out the window into the iron-gray morning, sipping his coffee. He was feeling odd -- a bit at loose ends. Duncan and Sheila were still out there somewhere, in the rain and wind. He was sure that they'd be back any minute.

***

It was the storm, of course -- that was his first thought when Methos heard the whip-crack of the lightning. Then the tremors rolled through the cabin and he knew just what it was. He'd been feeling that sensation for five thousand years now. He knew it as well as he knew the touch of the sun. It wasn't lightning -- it was a Quickening. And this one was on holy ground.

Methos' stomach roiled as his coffee mug dropped from nerveless fingers and smashed on the floor unheeded. He flew down the back stairs, taking three at a time and not pausing for a second as he hit the ground. He took off at a run across the grassy clearing at the back of the cabin and bolted desperately down the trail that led through the forest towards the blast site. The ground still shook and the arcs of energy still danced in the sky as Methos ran, refusing to even consider the implications of so much Quickening being released.

He wouldn't think about the probable source of so much power. The loss of Duncan -- his Duncan -- his beautiful, powerful, too-damn-good-for-me, lover -- was something he just couldn't think about.

He'd thought that they'd have longer...

No!  Starting down that track would only lead to thinking about that thing that he refused to think about. Methos was so busy reining in his thoughts that he missed how the pelting rain had turned the trail's clay soil to a greasy mess. He slipped, his right foot flying out from beneath him and his right knee slamming hard into the ground. The pain was almost welcome -- a distraction from the noise in his head. All the things he couldn't think about. He forced his body back into the motions of running and continued on down the path.

Wherever it was, this thing that had happened, it looked like it was as far from the cabin as it was possible to be. The rain was driving harder now; dripping into his eyes and making the ground before him blur and jump. His clothes were drenched and heavy, dragging at his arms and legs. Methos pushed it all aside and kept running. The lightning was still leaping into the iron-gray sky when he dared a glance at it.

As Methos came nearer, the ground rocked beneath his feet like a ship in a storm. Not an earthquake though. This violence came from a far more esoteric source. He'd never known why and certainly not how, but the earth itself seemed to revolt against this violation of the rules. Quickening energy released in the presence of another Quickening on holy ground. It didn't matter that there hadn't been a challenge. Methos rounded another bend in the track and there it was.

The epicenter.

Complete devastation, utter destruction lay before him. Whatever had happened here had unleashed an unspeakable force here. Dead center a circle of burned, blackened ground struggled to smoke in the rain. Trees lay flattened against the ground around it, like a house of cards toppled by a careless child. The Quickening had stopped as he'd rounded that last bend in the trail and now there was only the faint lingering buzz in the air to mark its passing. But he could see no one -- feel no one -- and the knowledge hit him hard. Methos looked about him wildly, searching for a place to start looking, some clue as to where Duncan was.

But there was nothing.

Slowly, square foot by square foot, Methos began to search, hauling aside logs and debris, fighting off the rising panic with every beat of his heart. The rough bark tore at his hands and soon he was leaving bloody smears over everything he touched, but he couldn't care about that now, because someone had died here and he couldn't rest until he found Duncan. What he would find when he did was something he couldn't let himself think about.

Small, animal noises forced their way out of Methos' throat as he kept on searching; he ignored them like he was ignoring everything else that didn't matter. The pain, the cold, the rain that sheeted down and made his vision blur -- they were all irrelevancies. The minutes ticked by in his head and still there was not a flicker of presence or a single sign of a body.

The panic was becoming harder to contain with every log he pushed aside, every branch and boulder. But he wasn't giving in to it yet, nor would he until the second he held Duncan's dead body in his hands, saw the severed head with his own eyes. The thought shuddered through him -- cold when he thought he couldn't be any colder.

His thoughts were becoming slippery -- dangerous and obstructive -- and Methos felt himself shutting down in response, working on automatic now. He never knew how much longer he worked, digging with his bare hands through the devastation, before his fingers closed around cold flesh.

His heart stuttered, torn between leaping back to life and stopping in dread.

It was an arm. Duncan's arm. Methos would have known the feel of that skin a thousand years and a million miles away. Quickly, he began to clear the wreckage away, digging deep into reserves of strength left long untapped. Duncan. He'd found him and in a minute or two he would know.... Methos found himself holding his breath.

He pulled against the sucking mud with a last, desperate tug and Duncan's body came free, slithering out so suddenly that Methos fell backwards, still clinging to Duncan's arm, the heavy body (deadweight) landing on top of him. Cold, cold flesh pressed him down and Methos clung to it, clinging to the last moments of ignorance until he could put it off no longer. He rolled the body off him and made himself open his eyes.

Ohgod ohgod ohgod....

Intact. Beautiful head on beautiful shoulders. Still out to it, but that would only be temporary. Methos found himself gasping, almost hyperventilating as he took in the sight of Duncan's body. Relief flooded through him and made Methos want to cry, or shout, or dance, or something equally insane. Instead, he hauled Duncan into his arms and sat in the mud with his unconscious lover cradled against his heart and the rain pelting down from above.

The rain mixed with the thick mud covering Duncan's face until it ran away like tears. Methos pushed the filthy tangle of hair out of Duncan's eyes and waited for the slightest sign that would mean Duncan was coming back to life. But he could be patient now, the urgency was fading away, he'd been granted a reprieve beyond anything he'd expected. And he was grateful. So he waited.

It was still raining an eternity later when Duncan heaved and jerked in Methos' arms, gasping back into life. Dark-amber eyes flickered open, slow to focus at first, then gradually, finally, focused on his own.

"Hey," Duncan whispered, barely audible above the wind. Memory washed back into his face as Duncan groaned and tried to sit up. "Sheila -- she's gone." He sank back into Methos' arms.

Methos nodded, hanging on to Duncan greedily and looking back towards the center of the destruction. The rain had extinguished the smoldering wood and now it was just a black circle from which all the other devastation radiated. He could guess what had happened but there would be time enough to find out the details when he got Duncan back to the cabin. But first...Methos bent his head to press a grateful kiss to his lover's mouth, whispering, "Don't ever do that to me again."

Duncan grimaced and coughed dryly. "Not really my idea."

"How did she...?" Methos couldn't complete the question.

Duncan shook his head. "Not now," he rasped.

The thought tripped through Methos' mind that that was how they'd got into this situation in the first place, but he let it go in favor of struggling to his feet and reaching down to help Duncan up. They really needed to get inside and out of this rain. Mud made Duncan's hands slippery as Methos pulled him to his feet, but he held tight, stealing another hug as Duncan fell forwards into his arms.

They stood there a few minutes longer with the rain pouring down over them, gratitude pouring through Methos with a warmth that almost displaced the cold. At long last, Methos stepped back from the hug and, letting Duncan take his hand, set off slowly down the trail back to the cabin.

***

Methos pushed the bathroom door closed with his foot, keeping the heat in as he tried not to spill the steaming mug of brandy-laced tea he was carrying. Duncan was sitting in the tub, the water lapping around his chest. His knees were drawn up in front of him and his head rested on top of them. Duncan lifted his head, turning weary eyes towards Methos as he entered. Methos passed him the mug and sat on the side of the tub as Duncan gingerly sipped the hot tea.

They still hadn't talked, not really. The long walk back had been slow and difficult, not very conducive to heart-to-heart conversations. Methos had been far more focused on getting them both under shelter and out of the storm. It had increased as they walked, ice-cold needles of harsh, driving rain that stung his skin. It pelted at the windows still, but now it insulated them from the world outside.

"She hung herself, you know," Duncan began, not looking at Methos but keeping his eyes fixed on the mug he was holding. The lack of emotion in his voice told Methos all too clearly how hard he was trying to keep it together. "It must have been some kind of razor wire -- something like that. I got there; she had a rope in the tree, something metal around her neck. Where would she have got razor wire from anyway?"

Duncan didn't wait for an answer but plowed on as if talking to himself, his tone still worryingly flat. "When I got there she...smiled at me, really smiled, as if she was as happy as she'd ever been, and then she kicked away the big log she was standing on." Duncan stopped his grim narrative and took a deep drink of the tea and when he spoke again his voice was rougher, painful sounding. "The wire sliced through her neck as if it was butter...and then the explosions started. She just blew apart -- I've never seen anything like it. It knocked me down and then something landed on top of me and it sounded like the earth was screaming with the Quickening as it went into me. " Duncan stopped and took another long drink, even though it had to be scalding hot still. "I should have told her about the island being holy ground. Maybe then she wouldn't have...."

We'll never know," Methos answered noncommittally, a bad taste creeping up the back of his throat to spread through his mouth. "There's no way to know." There was no more to say and the small room was quiet.

Finally Duncan spoke. "Methos, where'd she get the wire?" he asked flatly, his eyes on the far wall.

Methos sighed. It was all going to come out and it wasn't going to be pretty. "It was probably mine," he said at last, avoiding his lover's eyes. "I made some up into a garrote a while back -- little wooden handles and everything -- and I was trying to teach her to use it yesterday. She must have taken it when I wasn't looking."

"You mean you didn't put it away safely?" Duncan looked at him, accusation hidden in the depths of his shadowed eyes.

"How the hell was I supposed to know she'd use to kill herself?"

"You should have known! You're five thousand years old! What good is that if you haven't learned anything?!" Duncan shouted, his hands blanching around the mug.

"It doesn't make me psychic!" Methos yelled back.

"It didn't take a psychic to see how troubled she was. I can't believe you let her get her hands on something so dangerous." Duncan's voice dropped and almost faded away.

"I knew she was worse than she was letting on. I hoped she would get over it," Methos answered tersely. "I thought she was getting better. Hell, you saw her last night! If I'd known she was going to kill herself I certainly would have mentioned the fact that we're on holy ground." Methos took another deep breath and tried to let the anger go. "Anything could have happened," he swallowed over the memory of his panic and forced the words out. "You could have been killed. Surely you know that I wouldn't risk that."

"I'm never sure what I know about you, Methos," Duncan shot back coldly.

Well, that said it all. The anger Methos had thought he was rid of flared quickly. He stood and stalked to the door. "When you decide, you can come find me." Methos threw the door open so hard it nearly bounced off its hinges. "Or not." He stopped and turned to face Duncan again, anger seething out between his words. "For your information, Sheila did ask me to take her head and I told her no, in no uncertain terms. I thought that was the end of it."

"Well you thought wrong, didn't you?" Duncan spat. "I can't believe you kept that from me too!"

"What do you want me to say, MacLeod? That I was wrong? Yes! I was wrong about her. Just remember I wasn't the only one!" He stalked out and slammed the door shut behind him.

He made it as far as the living room when he heard the sound of the bathroom door crashing open. Duncan appeared, dripping wet, rubbing a towel haphazardly over his skin as he walked. "Don't you walk away from me like that!" he bellowed.

Methos' hand itched for something to throw at him. Instead, he pulled his anger into a cold, hard shell around himself and drew his shoulders back. "Something else you wanted to say?"

"I can't believe you didn't talk to me about her!"

"We never talk about anything, why should this be any different?" Methos asked, surprising even himself with the coldness of his voice. Before he really knew why, he was walking out of the room and out of the cabin.

The tiny back porch was damp and rain blew in from time to time, but Methos ignored it, and his discomfort, staring out into the endless storm, thinking, wondering if they'd ever manage to work this out.

***

What seemed a long time later, but might not have been at all, Duncan appeared at his side. He was dressed again, but his hair still curled damply around his shoulders. He lay a tentative hand on Methos' arm and said, "Will you come back inside?"

It was too soon, and the pain inside him was still too fresh. Methos shook off Duncan's hand and looked pointedly away. Duncan made an impatient sound and withdrew, leaving Methos to his damp misery. The door banged and Methos went back to staring out at the rain. They really had to fix this, but just how was eluding him at present. Fuck it. He gave up torturing himself with it and simply stared out into the rain as the chill settled deep into his bones.

It really was a long time later when he finally dragged his cold and aching body back inside the cabin. Duncan was sitting on the couch by the fire, reading. The stiff, proud line of his neck told Methos all he needed to know of Duncan's mood. Methos passed him by and headed to the shower without a word. Damn, damn, damn.

Methos had showered and dressed and was sitting on the side of the bed tying his shoes when he saw it. There on the dresser, placed right in the center where no one could miss it, was Sheila's piece of amber. He felt his heart slide down to his stomach as he stood and went to it, almost without consciously willing himself to do so.

The ancient stone was smooth and cool in his hands as he rolled it between them, thinking. The insect preserved in the resin was contorted in its death throes, perfectly preserved at the moment its life had ended. And there the metaphor fell apart: they weren't frozen at the time they died, no matter what lies their faces and bodies told.

Change, adaptation -- they were so much a part of his life that sometimes it seemed they were the only constancies. For a while there he'd thought the man currently sitting out there cursing his name might have been another. And now...? Now he should probably be packing his bags, only he found the urge to flee was strangely absent.

He slipped the stone into his pocket and left the room.

"That was unfair, before," Duncan said quietly, stress still underlining his words. "We talk all the time."

Methos looked at him slowly. "Do we? Really?"

"Of course we do. We talk about everything." Duncan made a semblance of a smile. "Sometimes I think I'll never shut you up long enough to get a word in edgeways."

Methos stared at him for a long moment, weighing his words and the consequences. "That's why you've been pretending for the last two years that you don't have nightmares every other night," he said at last.

"It's not every other night and that's different," Duncan shot back defensively.

"How?"

"I...I...didn't want to worry you -- I thought I could deal with it on my own -- hell, I can deal with it on my own."

Methos raised an eyebrow and looked at him, and waited. Duncan wasn't an idiot, he'd make the connection soon enough.

He saw the penny drop. "Oh. And you thought...." Duncan went to the couch and sat down heavily.

Methos went and sat with him, the residue of his anger bleeding away in the space of a breath. "Yeah." Duncan's arm came around him and Methos didn't resist -- didn't even think of trying. "I'm sorry about Sheila," Methos offered, leaning into the embrace. "I know you liked her."

"And you didn't," Duncan replied, turning to look him the eyes.

Methos paused. "It wasn't ever that...you do know that, don't you? I just didn't want to see you hurt. You take on so damn much, sometimes."

"I don't think she ever really wanted it to end any other way, you know. She just couldn't deal with the reality."

"Can you?" Duncan frowned at him and Methos went on, "Can you deal with the reality of who you are? Who we are?"

"Of course I can!" Duncan shifted away from him, dropping the arm he'd had around Methos' back and turning to face him.

"Then why are you still having nightmares about every damn thing you think you did wrong, all the way back to Glenfinnan?" Methos asked evenly.

Duncan pushed up off the couch and stalked away to stand at the window. Methos followed him, stopping close by Duncan's shoulder to stare out into the gray half-light.

"You are the only one who expects you to be able to fix everything for everyone, Duncan."

The sentence seemed to hang in the air between them for a long moment, before Duncan said, "If I can't use what I am -- who I am -- to make things better, then what's the point of it all?"

Methos turned and leaned back against the windowsill so he could see into Duncan's face. Gods, he was so beautiful, inside and out. And he was asking a question to which Methos had never found any satisfactory answer. He said at last, "I told you once that I didn't have any answer to that. I still don't. I'm sorry. Perhaps the point for you is that you try."

"And you think that's enough?"

The pain on Duncan's face was more than Methos could bear and he moved forward and into his arms until they were holding each other close -- no distance between them at all.

"It has to be."

The silence that followed was wide and deep; the only reply that Methos could hear was the strong beat of a generous heart.