Don't Dream It's Over
                                                

"I can't stay. It will never be right between us. You won't see me again. I will love you always, M."

Duncan read the note again for the hundredth time, even after three months it still stung how easily Methos had thrown their love away. The note was crumpled and worn, the ink smudged from constant handling. He smoothed the wrinkles before replacing the note between the pages of an Oscar Wilde first edition. Another day alone stretched out endlessly in front of him, the prospect as bleak as the ninety-three that had preceded it. The decision to excise Methos from his life had been a hard one, but at the time it had been necessary to preserve his sanity; his behavior after Methos returned from his abortive disappearing act was something he still found hard to think about.

Not that any of his so-called friends understood, he thought with a cynical twist of his mouth, they all seemed to have weighed in on Methos' side, ignoring the fact that the old man had brought it on himself. Even Amanda, he added bitterly, his erstwhile lover's defection still rankling. Joe wasn't any better -- the man was his Watcher for God's sake and all he could do was glare balefully at the Scot whenever Mac came into the bar, his formerly genial manner pared back to barely civil monosyllables. Still, it was Amanda who should have stood by him. Did three hundred and fifty years of friendship count for nothing? From what he could gather the answer was no -- the treacherous little thief was actually staying with Methos. Well they are welcome to each other, he thought with a savage kick at the sofa in passing.

***

Methos rolled over in his sleep, stretching his arm over the warm body beside him. In the confused moment between sleeping and waking he wondered briefly why the body wasn't large and brawny. Then, as his mind cleared, he remembered. His heart contracted with the thoughts, before he ruthlessly pushed them aside. He snuggled closer to the slender body, stroking a hand up the length of barely covered ribcage to the elegant neck, lifting the black satin strands lying against it to bare it for a gentle brush of his lips. She stirred, arching catlike as she pressed her rounded hips back into his groin with a purring moan. He drew a velvet earlobe into his mouth teasing it with his tongue as he sucked. Long black eyelashes flickered and opened and she turned her head to meet his lips with hers.

"Good morning," she breathed into his mouth.

"It's certainly starting to be, Amanda," he said and his hand closed over her porcelain throat, his thumb tracing the pulse point.

He felt the pulse quicken as she tilted back, pressing into his hardening shaft. Slipping his hand from her throat to one lush breast, he teased the claret-dark tip to aching hardness.

"Ohh, very nice," Amanda sighed and her hips rocked back against him once more. This is the way to wake up.

"Did you want something, Amanda?" he whispered into her ear.

"Depends. What"ve you got?" she teased back.

Grasping his erection, he rubbed the swollen head along her slick, wet folds, feeling her shiver slightly, "Only this."

"Well if that's all you've got, I...suppose...I'll...take...it. Ohh..." she gasped as his heated length slid inside, filling her deeply.

Methos steadied her hips with a firm, sure hand, as he began a slowly sensuous rhythm in long, easy thrusts. Amanda arched her back into the motion, riding the waves of sensation coursing through her. She felt his teeth graze her shoulder and gave a small shudder.

"Ohh Methos, just like that, don't stop."

He replied with a throaty little chuckle and increased the tempo slightly.

"Oh yesss..." she sighed.

Over and over again he thrust into her until Amanda's pale skin was flushed and sweat-sheened and she trembled on the edge of orgasm. Methos slipped his hand from her hip to circle a clever finger over her firmly engorged clitoris, sending her rushing to her climax, her strong inner muscles milking him. He let go finally, driving into her and filling her with his essence.

Amanda felt his spasms cease, felt him slump against her back, his arm heavy around her waist. She turned to face him and her heart cracked a little at the tear running away from one hazel eye.

"Oh Methos..." She caught the tear, erased it with a kiss.

"I'm sorry, I feel like such a shit, sleeping with you and wanting him." His eyes were desolate as they met hers.

"Neither of us is under any illusions about where we stand, you are my very dear friend and this is all nice," she paused at the quizzical eyebrow. "Well okay, better than nice, but it's MacLeod you love." She ruffled his soft hair affectionately.

"Why can't I forget him, Amanda? Life would be so much simpler." His voice was thick as she drew him closer and felt his damp cheek against her neck.

"You still love him--maybe you always will. He's a tough guy to forget.."

***

Duncan pulled on the practice gloves and stepped up to the speedball, beginning a steady rhythm. Soon the ball was a blur of motion under his fists. Relying on muscle memory to keep the timing, his mind wandered into dangerous ground. The image sprang to mind of Methos, wearing only Mac's 'borrowed' jeans, driving him back against the dojo wall in a sexually charged sparring session that had ended with Methos' blade at his throat. Suddenly the speedball flew out of control, the rhythm gone, his next blow finding only air. He grabbed the ball with both hands, resting his forehead against the smooth leather surface. Damn. The feelings that plagued him night and day were back -- the evil twins of regret and deep uncertainty.

It was the uncertainty that bothered him the most -- kept him awake until the small hours, robbed him of his appetite, sent him jogging at odd times. The uncertainty bothered him more than anything else because it was so unfamiliar. Duncan was used to knowing that his actions were right or wrong and accepting the consequences as they came. The not knowing was killing him in small, painful degrees. Had he done the right thing sending Methos away? Had he given up too easily? He was so unused to the feeling of quitting that he wasn't sure how to deal with it. His life was becoming rootless, purposeless -- everything he hated. It was long past time for action.

***

Methos arrived at the university, with barely a minute to spare before his first class. The buzz was an ill-timed and unwelcome intruder into his consciousness as he parked his car. Shit, not now. He didn't recognize it, so it wasn't MacLeod. Damn. He looked about surreptitiously, not seeing anyone nearby. Feeling the reassuring weight of his sword in its concealed space inside his coat as he carried it, he left the parking lot quickly, the buzz fading away behind him. Pushing aside the unease that always accompanied such encounters, Methos hurried off towards the lecture rooms.

"Good Morning Dr Pierson!" a trio of female students called out.

"Ladies..." He gave them a smile as he entered the room, finding it full as usual, Intro to Linguistics had rarely been so popular. "Not Doctor yet, remember? I'm still ABD, you know, all but dissertation. I still have to finish it." If I can ever concentrate long enough.

The rest of the day passed in the usual flurry of lectures, meetings and classes. As he climbed wearily into his car at the end of the day, he felt the buzz begin again. This is getting to be a habit. Still no challenger approached, and he could discern no lurking stalker in the shadows. More than a little uneasy, he drove out of the lot and headed for home. As he drove he remembered what Amanda had said as he'd left that morning. Damn He wasn't in the mood for the theater and the crush of an opening night was not his idea of fun at any time. He grimaced at the thought of having to wear black tie. You owe me big time for this one, Amanda. Arriving at his apartment, he found Amanda darting about half-dressed, the air fragrant with her perfume.

"Don't even think of weaseling out on me Methos, I can see it written all over your face. You promised -- and besides," she cooed, coming up behind him to murmur in his ear, "Armani make the nicest tux -- you'll love it."

"Sure I will," he replied with all the enthusiasm of a man on his way to the guillotine.

Amanda was in the living room, slipping on her shoes, when Methos re-appeared a short while later. Oh my... Duncan, you stupid, stupid man.

"Will I do?" he asked, head tilted to one side, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

She stepped up close to him and made a correction to an imaginary fault in his bow tie. "You will do very nicely, shall we go?"

                          ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

MacLeod wondered for the hundredth time why he was bothering to go to this opening at all. Because Claudia asked you to, and you don't have so many friends left that you can afford to alienate any, idiot. Utterly unenthusiastic, he finished dressing, the suit a little looser than he remembered. I must have lost a few pounds. Trying to muster up what energy he could, he left the dojo and headed to the theater.

Parking the T-bird some distance from his destination, due to the crowd, he walked the remaining distance. He felt the presences grasp at his mind and looked up sharply -- there they were across the street. Amanda, of course, looked stunning, her deceptively simple black dress clinging ripely to her curves, but it was Methos who took his breath away.  He'd never seen his (ex) lover in black tie before; the superbly cut suit accentuated the width of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, the length of his legs. He felt his traitorous sex twitch and fill slightly at the sight. He saw them glance about casually, then Methos spoke into Amanda's ear. They know it's me. And she laid her head on his shoulder briefly as they continued up the stairs into the theater and disappeared from his sight.

                             ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

"Is it him?" Amanda turned to him as they felt the buzz.

"Yes." Methos' face hardened and Amanda could feel the tension fill his body as she held his arm.

"It's not getting any easier, is it?" she whispered as she laid her head on his shoulder and squeezed his hand, as they entered the old Victorian building.

Duncan steeled his spine and followed them in.

Methos and Amanda sat in the front row, Duncan two rows back -- just close enough for the song of each man's presence to twine around the other's. Ever since Bordeaux they had been able to distinguish one another's presence from any other Immortal's, it had once been a comfort, now it tortured them. Seductively, their presences insinuated into every synapse and neuron, distracting them both until neither man could have given the slightest detail about the play if asked.

They rose at interval, turning to go to the foyer, when their gazes clashed. Methos' stomach plummeted to his knees, his breath sucking in involuntarily. Gods, he looks good enough to eat -- he's let his hair grow again, I always loved it long --his eyes, his mouth -- I could write volumes about the things I want to do with that mouth... no one should be allowed to look that good in a tuxedo... he smells unbelievable, citrus and spice -- I remember...

MacLeod was no less affected, from a distance Methos had been breath-taking, up close with the light shining on his raven dark hair, his lips slightly parted, those incredible changeable eyes open wide in surprise, Duncan was mesmerized. Damn it, Methos, why did you have to be so fucking beautiful?  He caught sight of the strong, elegant hands. Those hands, I love those hands... They're the first thing I fell in love with... The things he can do with those hands...  His pulse quickened at the memory and it took a conscious act of will to come back to the present. They stood there; consuming each other visually, for a long moment until the trance was broken by an impatient tapping on his shoulder.

"Enjoying the play then, Duncan?" Claudia looked up at him, an expectant look on her piquant features.

Mac tore his eyes unwillingly from his (ex) lover's face and turned to the young pianist. "Uhh, of course, Claudia, the play's wonderful. Your friends have done a great job on it. Give them my congratulations."

When he looked back again, Methos had gone.

 ***

"Did you know he'd be there?" Methos stormed in a fury at Amanda the second they arrived back at his apartment.

"Would I do something so underhanded?" Amanda was all innocence, her dark eyes wide and guileless.

"In a heartbeat, Amanda dear," he growled, not letting her get away with anything.

"Methos, I'm hurt," she pouted, wrapping her arms around him, pressing moist red lips to his neck.

"That doesn't work on me, Amanda." He pushed her away irritably.

"Hey! Don't get your boxers in a bunch, old man. I didn't do anything to you," she flung back at him, hands on hips, lying through her small, perfect teeth. She had concocted the evening's 'accidental' meeting in collusion with Claudia -- ignoring her innate dislike of the brash young Immortal. Amanda was tired of the stalemate between her two dear friends and determined to do whatever it took to end it.

He sat down, sprawling dejectedly into the sofa, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the collar, all the fight suddenly gone out of him. "I know. It's just seeing him again like that. He looked good, didn't he? A little thin, but good."

"When have you known Duncan to look anything but delectable?" Amanda slid in next to him, her legs folded beneath her.

"Damn him." Methos'smile was bleak, and he sprawled a little further into the chair.

The quiet scene was rudely interrupted by the intrusion of an Immortal presence. Methos and Amanda leapt from the sofa, reaching quickly for their hidden weapons.

"Damn, not again," Methos spat.

"What do you mean, again?" Amanda snapped as she checked the window and the fire escape.

"Someone was shadowing me at work today."

'Thanks for letting me know," Amanda hissed sarcastically.

"Hey, it could have been a coincidence," Methos tossed back lightly, as he opened the door and checked the hallway, finding it empty.

As rapidly as it had intruded, the presence melted away.

"Well, whoever it was, they obviously changed their mind." Methos turned as he closed the door, his sword resting casually on his shoulder.

"Any ideas?" Amanda asked as she returned her sword to its hiding place.

"None at all," he answered, secreting away his Ivanhoe, his offhand tone masking his growing disquiet.

 ***

MacLeod returned to his loft, having escaped the opening night party as soon as possible. An uncomfortable mixture of exhaustion and emotional tumult was making his head spin, clouding his thoughts. Stripping out of the evening suit, he headed for the shower. Soon the billowing steam was obscuring his vision and he stepped gratefully into the heat, letting the scalding water course over his body. He rested his hands either side of the shower head, the water hitting him in the chest. His mind kept returning to the evening's events. The only face he could remember, the only thing at all that sprang to mind, was Methos.

In four hundred years he'd had plenty of experience of losing lovers, but, for reasons he didn't dare examine too closely, this one, this unique man had become grafted to his soul, resisting all Duncan's attempts to wrench him out. I want him back. The thought filled his mind, almost surprising him with its intensity. Once begun, the thought was tenacious, growing and spreading to every corner of his consciousness, metamorphosing from a thought to a mission in a breathless instant. I will get him back. No sooner had he floated this optimistic bubble, than a pessimistic finger came to burst it -- a vision of Methos' stricken face as he asked, "Do I get a say in this, before you tear out my heart?"

That was going to be tough to overcome.

 ***

Methos glared at the alarm clock -- no fucking way -- before silencing the shriek with a sharp blow. It had been a horrible night, almost as bad as those first weeks after the break-up. Amanda had been sweet and solicitous but eventually he'd sent her to the guest room to sleep, for his sake as much as hers. The dreams were always the same, that terrible day when it had all come crashing down around his ears. He'd bounded up the stairs to the loft ready to apologize for running off and to tell Duncan he was sure now, sure about their future. In the nightmare Duncan drew his sword and plunged it through Methos' heart, dragging the blade down through his body, disemboweling him, bringing him to his knees before yanking the katana free and, by placing his foot precisely in the center of Methos' butchered chest, kicked him down the stairs. You don't need to be Freud to work that one out, he thought bitterly. Heart-broken, gutted, brought to my knees and kicked when I was down, sums up the whole catastrophe, really.

Too distracted to face a day of students' demands and problems, Methos made the easy decision to call in sick. After a masterful performance of death's door sound effects for the benefit of the faculty secretary, he pulled the covers over his head and managed a few healing hours of sleep. Around midday the peace was shattered by the shrilling telephone. Shit what now?

"Yes?" he snapped.

"Adam? It's Andrew, Andrew Miller, from the college?" his colleague's diffident voice stammered.

"Yes, Andrew, what can I do for you?" You tiresome little man.

"Can you come down to the office, Adam? There's somewhat of a problem," the man nervously replied.

"What sort of problem?" Methos was fully awake now. What the fuck's going on?

"You better come down, Adam, as soon as you can," Miller said and abruptly disconnected.

Thoroughly mystified, Methos threw on some clothes and left.

The nature of the 'problem' became blindingly clear when he arrived at the university. Emergency services' vehicles were everywhere and a pall of smoke hung over the campus. He left the car parked by the side of the road and walked quickly to the building that housed his office. Or had. Shit. The source of the smoke was this building, or what was left of it. There had clearly been an explosion of some magnitude, probably a bomb, the rational side of his mind concluded. The other side of his brain could only ask why. Almost definitely a bomb, Methos had seen too many wars and too many of the world's dark places not to recognize the signs.

From behind the police tape he could see the compete devastation at the center of the blast. The office was reduced to only burned and blackened fragments and the area surrounding showed evidence of having been hit with flying debris, he even thought he recognized a piece of his office chair speared into a nearby brick wall. His eyes lingered for a moment on the three plastic covered mounds lying on the ground, knowing them instantly for the bodies that they were. The sudden awareness of an Immortal presence dragged his attention from the horror. Shit, not again. Quickly he turned to look for the elusive Immortal, but all he saw was a swirl of a dark coat vanishing behind a fire truck. He almost gave chase, before his common sense reined him back. No, don't play his game.

Suddenly desperate for a beer and not keen to answer the questions of the police, Methos left, driving the short distance to Joe's bar. As he arrived at Joe's the unmistakable buzz of Duncan's presence stopped him cold. Just as quickly, the presence faded away. Well don't be obvious or anything, MacLeod. Feeling lower than ever, he shambled into the bar, sprawling dejectedly into his usual chair.

"Hey Adam, what's up?" Joe poured him a beer without waiting to be asked.

"Where do you want to start? The sleep I haven't had, the nightmares I have had, the explosion in my office, or the ex who can't stand to be in the same room as me?" Methos sank the beer in one long swallow as an end to his outburst.

"Wait a minute. Explosion -- what explosion? What the hell's going on?" Joe was in full 'Watcher mode' in an instant.

"I don't really know, Joe. All I know is someone's been following me, hanging about just close enough for me to know they're there, and then disappearing. Then this morning my office blew up. Maybe it's a coincidence, but I don't actually believe in coincidences."

Methos was doing an excellent impression of being coolly detached, but Joe wasn't buying it for a second. Joe asked the next obvious question: "What did the police say?"

"Well, I didn't actually hang around for the police." A sardonic smile spread over his face. "What am I supposed to tell them, anyway?" He spread his hands wide, "That maybe someone who can't die is trying to kill me? I don't actually know anything, anyway. It's all just theory right now." Methos sprawled even further into his seat and sighed.

"So was anyone hurt?"

"I saw three bodies at the site, maybe there were more, I don't know." Methos couldn't meet Joe's gaze, looking into the empty glass instead.

"You know MacLeod was here, just before you? He came in to ask me about you, see how you were. He said he ran into you at the theater last night." The Watcher was still uncomfortable getting in between the two volatile Immortals.

"It didn't stop him from sneaking out the back door, the minute he knew I was coming, did it?" the Immortal asked harshly.

"He said he knows you don't want to see him, that he understands."

"He understands That'll be the day," Methos answered sarcastically. "He's the one who threw me out on my backside. If he wants to know how I am, he can come and ask me himself. You can tell him that the next time you see him."

"Sure, okay. Whatever you want." Joe was not at all surprised by the vehemence of the response; the last three months had been hard to watch. He could only imagine how hard they'd been to live.

"Look, Joe, I've gotta go. I'lll see you later." Methos rose and fled the bar.

Methos breathed a sigh of relief as he arrived home to find Amanda lounging about in a shopping-induced state of bliss.

"Why the rush, Methos? Somebody giving away free beer?" she giggled.

"Very funny -- has everything been okay here? No unexpected guests?"

The laughter faded from Amanda's face as she realized something was definitely wrong, "Methos what's going on? Where have you been?"

So he told her.

'No I will not go! How many times do I have to say it? Would you go off if someone were threatening me? No you would not. And neither will I. Besides you don't really know there is a threat. It could just be some kind of weird coincidence; maybe someone else at the college has an enemy. You're not the only person in the history of the world to piss people off, even though I will admit you have raised it to an art form."

Amanda paused from the passionate tirade just long enough to let him sneak in a word. "Thank you so much. Yes, it could be a coincidence, but how many of the rest of the faculty have had as long as I"ve had to collect enemies? Then there's the matter of our mystery guest, showing up at the university and doing his disappearing act. It's too risky, Amanda, go back to Paris, go to London. Hell I'll give you the keys to my place on Bora-bora, if you'll just go !" Methos' frustration was growing by the second.

But Amanda -- whose stubbornness was second only to the Scot's -- was immovable.

"It's your head," was his only comment.

"Exactly." Amanda had the last word -- for the moment.

 ***

MacLeod picked up the newspaper at the end of his run the next morning. The story of the explosion at the college was on the front page:

"The identity of the fourth victim has yet to be positively confirmed. Sources within the police department say that the body, which is believed to have been dismembered by the force of the blast, will need to be identified through dental records.”

"Oh please, no." The plea escaped from a throat suddenly tight with fear.

He wasn't far from Joe's apartment, he realized quickly. Sprinting the half-mile or so, he arrived at the apartment just as Joe was leaving, almost colliding with him in the doorway.

"Watch it, MacLeod!" the watcher's gruff voice barked. "What're you doing here anyway?"

"Joe have you seen Methos? Do you know about this blast at the college? Is he all right?" The questions came flooding out in a torrent.

"I don't get it, MacLeod, you toss him out without even hearing his side of the story, you don't speak to him for three months but now you've come around twice in two days to see how he is. Am I the only one who sees something wrong with this picture?" Heavy sarcasm overlaid Joe's reply.

"For god's sake Joe, is he all right?" The desperation on Mac's face gave Joe a pang of remorse at his harsh words, but only a small one. 

"He's fine, he wasn't even there, he took the day off. You still haven't answered my question, MacLeod. What's it to you, anyway, haven't you done enough damage? Have you any idea how hard it's been for him - how hard it's been for all of us - to watch him grieve over what happened?" and he stopped for a moment, thinking of all the late nights he'd sat and watched his old friend try to drown his pain. "And now what --  you decide you're still hot for him, and it's all on again? Think again, pal. It won't be that easy." Joe steadied himself on his cane as he glared at the highlander.

Duncan was shocked at the cold fury behind Joe's voice and even more shocked at the truth so brutally presented. "I know. I've acted like a complete and utter bastard through all of this. I should have given him a chance to talk…I should never have just thrown him out. I was an idiot, and now he'll never forgive me. How could I have thrown away the best thing that's ever happened to me?" he breathed deeply in a desperate effort to contain his emotions. "It was all my fault anyway, it was my stupidity that made him run off in the first place. But I'm too late aren't I, Joe?" Duncan slumped against the wall, staring off into the distance, the bitter truth hitting him as he spoke.

Joe wasn't letting him off that easily. "Yeah, well, it's not the first time you've been a fool, probably won't be the last. Question is, what are you going to do about it now?"

"Yeah, that's the question all right."  The one I haven't worked out the answer to.

***

Methos was having the dream again, the nightmare of breaking up with Duncan, only this time it seemed his subconscious had refined the torture further. As he ran up the stairs, he realised that he couldn't recognise Mac's presence, couldn't differentiate it from any other immortal's. The buzz was there unmistakably, but it could have been anyone. He had a moment of deep confusion as a banging and crashing infiltrated his nightmare and then he was awake. He rolled frantically off the bed, reaching for his sword as he hit the floor. The sight of the intruder made the events of the last few days click into place like a coffin lid closing.

"Callum O'Neal." He grasped the hilt of the Ivanhoe in both hands, "Aren't you dead yet?" Methos sprang to his feet, "Been up to your old tricks with incendiary devices have you?" Get him talking, wait for a chance. Where the hell's Amanda?

"Feeling the pressure, eh Adams, gettin' worried? Good. I've waited a hell of a long time for this. Shut yer hole and put up yer blade, bastard!" O'Neal yelled as he advanced on Methos, swinging his broadsword in a low horizontal arc.

The ancient parried the blow, turning his blade so that the tip pointed at the floor, bracing his legs to absorb the impact. Methos raised his sword, circling it anti-clockwise over his head using the return momentum to slash a long wound across O'Neal's chest from right shoulder to left. Part of the ancient's mind coolly registered the dissection of an artery as it spurted bright red in time with his enemy's heart, before the immortal healing took over.

The challenger grunted with the pain, but wildly thrust his sword point towards the elder, trying desperately to impale him upon it. The ancient immortal was inside O'Neal's guard in a second, taking control of the line of defence, forcing the other man onto his back foot, the Ivanhoe a silver blur that sliced at the muscle of shoulder, flank and thigh. Soon pools of blood lay congealing on the polished wood floorboards, the coppery stench strong in the small room. From some deep reserve of energy, O'Neal managed to block the killing blow when it came, a wide arc of death screaming towards him in slow motion. Encouraged by this small success, the heavier man tried a combination of diagonal slashes, slicing down from the right and left in turn, surprising Methos with his stamina.

With a crashing thud the elder was flat on his back, winded and dazed, realizing foggily that he must have slipped in a puddle of blood. O'Neal smirked triumphantly as he raised his blade for the final stroke, but Methos still had one last card to play. As the challenger stepped closer to finish the fight, the ancient lifted his weapon and sliced it deeply into the calf muscle of his assailant, opening the leg like an obscenely grinning mouth. Pulling the blade towards the bone, Methos felt the strong fiber of the Achilles tendon resist and then give with a faint popping sound. O'Neal finally howled in agony, unable to stand and he collapsed onto the floor, blood gushing from him once more. The old immortal was struggling to stand when he sensed an approaching presence.

"Amanda?" he rasped, still struggling to fill his lungs.

"Methos? What happened?" She entered the room finally, "Oh, is this the tiresome little lurker? Well you look like you have it under control. I'll just go and take cover before the fireworks start, shall I?" Amanda was cool as ever, on the outside at least, and she left the room again.

Methos had managed to stand and had his sword raised to finish the battle. He felt the presence return and looked up to see Amanda re-appear, her hands held above her shoulders, a darkly wry expression on her face.

"Uh Adam? We have company," she tossed her head at the small figure standing behind her, gun in hand.

"Adam is it now? Still shit by any other name still fuckin' reeks," the mortal woman threw at him in a strong Irish accent. She nudged Amanda into the room to stand alongside Methos who still held his blade ready to take his opponent's head. "You drop yer sword or I'll drop you, bastard."

"Tsk-tsk Callum, breaking the rules. Tell me this, even if I was stupid enough to put down my sword what's to stop you from shooting me and taking my head anyway?" Methos' lightly chiding tone was belied by the point of his blade poised at O'Neal's throat and the cold glint in his eyes.

"What and have yer girlfriend here take mine while I'm down?" O'Neal growled angrily.

The woman raised her revolver and released the safety, pointing it at Methos' head.

"Take him and get out. Go on O'Neal, get out. It appears you get a reprieve for today at least." He gestured with the point of his sword, "Come near me again, though and you'll think this was just a light sparring session." Chilling menace filled Methos' voice as he moved only just enough to allow the defeated challenger to rise from the floor, still limping from the only partially healed wound.

Keeping the blade between the retreating couple and himself, Methos did not relax until the presence had faded completely away. Then he sank exhausted onto the corner of the bed, resting the point of the Ivanhoe on the floor.

"You want to tell me the story now or later old man?" Amanda demanded.

"Later." Never?  "Where were you anyway? It's four in the morning." Methos deflected the question neatly.

"Nightclubbing and what's it to you, ‘Dad'. So the story? Hmm?" Amanda was too old a hand at evading questioning to be put off so easily.

"If you must know, I met the delightful Callum O'Neal, in Switzerland. He was hiding out after some business involving a shipment of currency, a robbery and some rather stereotypically repulsive criminal types. He was in a little village outside Lausanne when Byron and I ran into him. You never met Byron, did you? He could be well, somewhat impulsive," the ancient's lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. "He and I arrived in the village, Byron challenged O'Neal, and they fought. When it looked like Byron would lose -- he was only very young at the time and O'Neal was already about four hundred -- I interfered. I shot O'Neal and shortly after, by some coincidence, the police caught up with him and he spent the next twenty years in prison."

"I can't believe you interfered like that," Amanda broke in.

"I loved Byron, I couldn't stand by and see him die like that," and his voice caught over the words.

"But you let Mac take him. You didn't try to get between them," Amanda trod the dangerous ground cautiously.

"People change. The Byron I'd known was long gone, poisoned by life, madness, drugs - I don't know." Even now the memory of that time was sharp-edged and painful and he pushed it aside with a facility born of long practice. "The charming Mr O'Neal vowed revenge, yada, yada, yada…Which brings us to today's little contretemps." Methos finished with trademark sarcasm.

"Will they be back?"

"I doubt it. He's basically not very bright. He'll run and hide, plot my downfall for another time." Methos dismissed O'Neal with a careless shrug.

"I hope so," she was unconvinced.

Suddenly Amanda stiffened, turned and raced for the nearest sword. Methos sat frozen, unable to respond for a long moment. He recognised the presence, but he never thought to feel it coming through his door again.

"Well hello, MacLeod," Amanda dropped the point of her sword but not the frosty glare.

"Hello Amanda, I know he's here. Can I see him?" Without waiting for an answer he strode through the smashed door. "What happened here?"

"Unexpected guests." Amanda replied shortly, wanting Methos to explain it himself.

Walking into the bedroom, Duncan was stopped short by its horrific state. Blood decorated the walls in graceful arterial sprays, pooled on the floor in darkly glinting puddles, the scent hanging in the air like an acrid mist so thick he could taste it as he breathed.

"Christ Methos it looks like an abattoir in here!" His relief at finding Methos unharmed mingled with his shock to drain the color from his face.

"Sorry MacLeod, it's the maid's day off," Methos was nothing if not quick on his feet.

"Are you all right? What happened here? I heard about the explosion at your office…" MacLeod trailed off as Methos stood and stalked towards him

"And what MacLeod? What are you doing here really? As you can see, rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated. What is this anyway- a gesture of concern and at this late stage? Really, highlander, I might start to think you care. Only I don't see how I could possibly be that deluded!" Methos hissed defensively.

"Please Methos, you've every right to be angry but I need to talk to you. I've been doing a lot of thinking. I made a terrible mistake in not listening to you that day. You've no idea how sorry I am.  No matter what I said or did, I never stopped caring about you. I need you to believe that. I was wrong. I don't know how else to say it. I WAS WRONG. I acted like a fool, a stupid unthinking, moronic fool. I accept total responsibility for this whole mess. Is there anything I can say or do, that will fix this? Is there any way you'd give me another chance? Please?" The admission laid him bare, stripped away any remaining pretence or artifice, leaving only the pure essence of the man - open and vulnerable and it melted a little of the ice around Methos' heart.

"There you go with the guilt again, there's plenty of blame to go around. I don't know what to tell you, MacLeod. I just don't know if I could take the risk again. I feel like we broke something -- something essential -- I don't know if it can be fixed. I wish I did," he paused and wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. "Do we have to talk about this now? I'm not exactly at my best." He finished on a shuddering breath, adrenaline and emotion conspiring to leave him shaking, a fine tremor consuming his slender frame.

MacLeod looked at him, really saw him for the first time since he'd entered the room. He saw the man he loved -- loved with his whole being -- half-naked, pale, shaking, blood smeared, but with fierce pride keeping his head up and his back straight - and all he wanted to do was take him in his arms and bolster Methos' strength with his own and never let him go.

"MacLeod it's after four in the morning, why are you here?" Methos' rational tone broke into Mac's reverie.

"I saw the lights on…I've been up all night, walking, thinking, wondering what I could say to you that could possibly help you to come back to me." Duncan looked into the eyes of the man who had been his lover.

"And what did you come up with?" Methos could only manage a strained whisper.

"That there really isn't anything I can say, except the one thing I haven't yet said - I love you. I never stopped. I can't change what happened, what I did, or what you did. I can only look to the future and hope we have one -- together. I want it -- you decide if it's what you want too." Methos watched in stunned silence as Duncan turned and walked through to the living room.

Amanda confronted him there, "I hope you know what you're doing MacLeod. He's been through a hell of a lot in the last few months. You've no idea how close to the edge he's been," she glared at him, daring him to refute her statement.

"I know it's been hard for him, but at least he's had you. Who have I had? He's the one who ran out and you and Joe have acted like I'm the bad guy. Do you know how alone I've been?" The heavy brows contracted as the remembered pain became flesh once more.

The pain on his face sent an arrow of guilt straight to her heart, but she wasn't letting him off yet. "He told me what happened that day, MacLeod. You've been as alone as you've wanted to be. No, don't look so wounded -- I invented that look. You could have talked to any one of a dozen people. You do have more than your fair share of friends. But did you go see any of them? Did you go to Glenfinnan and visit Rachel or go see Ceirdwyn in Paris or Carl in the islands or any of your other friends? No. You stayed right here in town, brooding and licking your wounds, doing your world-renowned version of self-flagellation." Her eyes flashed fire as the long-restrained words poured out.

The harsh words cut deeply, even as he recognised the truth of them. "You missed one thing Amanda," he broke in somberly, "None of those friends are anywhere near as important to me, have shared as much of my life, as you. The only thing that's hurt anywhere near as much as losing Methos has been losing you. You've been my closest friend the largest part of my life, you left a big hole when you went."

"I'm sorry, Mac, I've missed you too. But I was so mad at you - you were so unfair to Methos, and he was so hurt. I guess I just felt like he needed me more than you did, I always think of you as being so strong." The combativeness drained out of her slight frame and she leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted.

"I haven't felt very strong lately. God Amanda, when did this all get so fucking complicated? All I want is to have him in my life, to love him as much and as long as I can. Why does that have to be so hard?" Lines of pain and exhaustion etched themselves into his face, aging him for an instant.

"I wish I knew, honey, I wish I knew." Amanda pushed away from the wall and went to him, folding her arms around him as he enclosed her in the circle of his.

After a long while Duncan pushed away from her, dropping a light kiss onto her hair. "Take care of him, okay? I should go. I'll talk to you later."

As he walked through the door, as emotionally shredded as he was, there was also a tiny seed of optimism taking root somewhere deep inside and he felt better than he had in days. Amanda watched him go, pleased that at last the tension appeared to be easing.

 ***

Well okay, maybe he meant what he said yesterday. Methos strolled into Joe's, a quiet thrill of apprehensive expectation lurking somewhere in his stomach. He'd felt Mac's presence as he approached the bar and half expected it to disappear as it had before. To his pleased surprise it had remained resolutely immobile.

"MacLeod." A careful friendly-but-not-too-friendly greeting.

"Adam." Not using his real name made it easier somehow, kept the turbulent emotions at bay.

Methos settled on a barstool and ordered from the bartender, Joe apparently being elsewhere. Moments turned into awkward minutes.

"Pool table's new," Duncan offered into the silence.

"Hmm? Yes," Methos replied vaguely.  What's this? A conversational gambit?

"Feel like a game?" Duncan turned to face Methos for the first time since he'd entered the bar.  Say yes, Methos, anything to bridge this godawful uncomfortable silence

There was a pause of several long seconds as the elder absorbed the look in Mac's expressive eyes, "Okay, why not."

As they played the icy distance between them thawed some more. They began to talk, a little desultorily at first and then slowly, very slowly with more feeling and animation. The talk was inconsequential in subject, friends in common, books, how much the game of pool had changed since it was invented -- but it was the simple act of talking that was important to each of them.

At closing time the conversation staggered to an awkward standstill once more.

Methos spoke first, "I guess I should be going then."

MacLeod looked across the pool table, his eyes sliding up to meet Methos', "I'll call you, okay?"

The ancient's head tilted to one side and he smiled a little -- at once very young, "Yeah, that would be okay."

 ***

Methos was still asleep the following morning when the phone rang, "Mmm?" he answered sleepily.

"Methos," the bass tones sent a shaft of unexpected pleasure straight through him, "It's Duncan."

As if anyone else could make me feel this way just by saying my name.

"Methos," Duncan paused, suddenly nervous, "I was calling to ask you to have dinner with me tonight at the loft. Would you, please? It'd mean a lot to me. We could talk. Or just eat. Whatever you want. "

There was a small silence as Methos processed the implications of setting forth on this particular path, before his caution and his rationality were overwhelmed by desire, need - and love. "Sure MacLeod, why not. What time would you like me to come?"

How about right now? "How about seven? Is that okay?" MacLeod was so on edge he could feel a cold drizzle of sweat running down the center of his spine.

Right this minute would be better. "Fine, seven it is."

As he put down the phone, Duncan realized his hands were shaking and he gave a self-mocking snort of laughter You are so desperate. Shaking his head at the things one does in the quest for love, he went to get started. He threw himself into the task with his usual energy and enthusiasm but less than his usual level of concentration which made cleaning the loft a far more hazardous task than it would be otherwise. It's a good thing I'm immortal, or I'd be half dead by now, he thought as the third life-threatening injury of the day healed in a river of sparks. The cooking went less than spectacularly too. His thoughts refused to settle on the job at hand, continually jumping back to the previous night at the bar and the promising start that it had been. But eventually the preparations were complete and the hour was upon him.

 ***

Time had performed strange contortions throughout Methos' day, slowing down and speeding up in inconsistent rhythms. He was short-tempered and irritable too.  He growled at the repairman when he finally showed up to fix the ruined door. He hissed at Amanda when she teased him about his date. He hurled his thesis notes across the room when he found himself reading the same paragraph for the fourth time without understanding a word. Inevitably though the time passed and he was ready to go, dressed with more than his usual care in a black silk shirt buttoned to the neck and well-cut black trousers. He gave himself a mocking grin as he looked in the mirror  Who are you trying to impress?

Methos had a moment of deja vu as he entered MacLeod's building, remembering both his dreams and the last time he was here, but he made a conscious effort to push aside the past and succeeded. Taking the elevator, he was first greeted by Mac's presence, then by the man himself.

A tiny hissed inhalation marked MacLeod's surprised pleasure at the Methos' appearance. The unrelieved black highlighted the ivory skin to flawless purity and stole all the gold and brown from his eyes leaving them glowing green. The silk draped sensuously over the sculpted chest and shoulders distracting MacLeod from his habitual good manners and making him stare. How am I going to get through tonight without throwing myself at him?

"Everything all right, MacLeod?" Methos was just as overcome by Duncan's appearance, he simply had more practice in hiding his thoughts. Mac looked even better than his normally edible self in a burgundy red linen shirt open at the neck, the color flattering the darkness of his skin, with loosely tailored trousers hanging low on narrow hips, his glossy hair smoothed back into a silver tie.  I am in so much trouble.

"Hmm? Yes, of course, come in. Can I get you something?" Duncan blurted quickly.

You -- stripped, oiled and brought to my tent  "Beer would be good," he managed to answer.

Glad of something practical to do, MacLeod retrieved the drinks from the kitchen and they sat, the ancient claiming his habitual seat sprawled on the sofa, Duncan perched on a barstool. The Scot was having great difficulty maintaining any semblance of rational conversation, one look at the elder had turned his thought processes off. Standing in front of him the man had been incredibly desirable, sprawled bonelessly across the leather sofa exuding raw sexuality from every pore he was virtually irresistible.

"So what's for dinner?" Methos asked. There's a safe subject, food. No need to think of the time I covered him in fudge sauce and whipped cream. No need at all. Too late.

Me? "Uhh, pasta, just something simple." Mac swallowed the rest of his beer and moved into the kitchen to check on the meal.

Methos watched him go, his eyes glued to the tightly muscular behind  Want. An involuntary noise escaped his throat as an errant wildfire flamed in his groin.

"What was that? Did you say something Methos?" Duncan asked distractedly from the kitchen, where he was putting the final touches on the meal.

"No, just uhh clearing my throat. Can I help with something?" Hold your shirt, your pants, any appendages you'd care to name?  He rose from his sprawl and ambled over to MacLeod, just close enough to inhale the intoxicating scent emanating with the heat of his body. Oh this was a mistake, he smells even better than he looks.

"No I'm fine, you can take a seat if you like."  I have somewhere you can sit.

MacLeod managed to strangle his inner voice long enough to dish up the pasta, salad and bread and pour the wine without any embarrassment. Methos accepted the food, grateful for the distraction from his noisy internal monologue. It didn't last long. The second he looked up from his plate, his heart was stopped by the sight of Mac's fingers slipping up and down his wineglass, tracing the contours. Need.

Duncan was faring no better. Sitting across the table from the most sensual man he had ever known was an exquisite torture. Methos ate like he made love -- with a focussed enjoyment of every taste and texture. MacLeod watched avidly as a forkful of pasta entered the ancient's mouth, forcefully reminded of other, more personal items slipping into that satiny orifice. The elder made a small sound of pleasure as he ate, and Duncan's toes curled in his shoes as a wave of arousal shot through him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  It's way too hot in here.  Mac drained his wineglass in a gulp, heedless of the taste of the fine wine he'd gone to such pains to select.

The ancient was fully aware of the effect he was having on the Scot's self-control and was enjoying the sense of power it gave him. It pleased him that he wasn't the only one struggling to maintain his equilibrium. Things were a long way from being resolved but talk was highly overrated at times.  Times like this.  He glanced across at Mac to find the dark chocolate eyes fixated on his face, a look of ravenous hunger clear in them, the pupils huge.

Methos recognised the yearning written so clearly across Duncan's features, it was the same feeling he'd been walking around with for the last three months. But simply wanting something (or someone - a treacherous voice in his head added) didn't necessarily mean having it wouldn't be painful or dangerous. No matter how much he ached with an exquisite hunger of fingertips to take that beautiful face between his hands and press his lips to that perfect, ripe, lush mouth, and part the warm flesh with his tongue slipping into the moist, satiny depths to duel with its velvet-rough counterpart. No matter how bereft his skin felt, yearned for the touch of strong callused fingers tracing the lines of muscle and sinew, the tactile memory so real for an instant he could feel a hand slip over his thigh. No matter how his blood rose and coursed in response to the mere thought of having this incredible man needy and begging for him just to touch him, to release him, to end his sensual torture. Methos' breathing quickened with the thoughts of his mutinous sensuality as it warred with his rationality.

Duncan watched transfixed as the conflict travelled across his love's face, watched the growing signs of arousal, Methos staring at him as if hypnotized, his pupils so dilated his eyes were almost black, his breathing shallow. He is so beautiful. Don't rush him. There was an endless moment hanging suspended as their gazes locked and the silence was deep and profound. Neither man could draw breath as they each declared their desire in the wordless, breathless minutes. Each battered heart quickened and banged as the adrenaline of anticipation hit like a drug. The clatter of Methos' fork as he dropped it on to his plate broke the silence and galvanised Duncan to action.

Rising from the table, he stepped around to stand in front of Methos, hands outstretched in invitation. Methos lifted his eyes to meet Duncan's again as he reached up to clasp the hands and stand only inches from the heated body. Slowly the heads tilted and the bodies leaned and then by some mysterious alchemy they were kissing. Red wine flavored tongues danced in a sensuous tango that escalated to a desperate tarantella as the passion flared.

Wresting good sense from the control of his need, Duncan broke away for just long enough to ask, "Are you sure this is what you want, Methos?"

In a husky voice that sent shivers of anticipation down Mac's spine he replied, "I've never wanted anything more." And he leaned into Duncan's mouth once more.  I have missed this .

With infinite finesse the kiss went on as their hands moved to touch and explore the thinly covered steel of chests and shoulders and then bare the smoothly heated skin underneath. As Duncan slipped the shirt off Methos' arms he moved his mouth to the alabaster column of his lover's neck, running his tongue along the snaking vein that pulsed under it, tasting the faintly salty essence, biting gently above the ridge of the collarbone, the answering moan music to his ears. Methos pressed more urgently into the solid body, his hips writhing and rubbing, trying to assuage the growing ache.

"Keep that up and this will be over very quickly," Mac rasped, turning his attention to the lobe of his lover's ear, sucking it in a rhythm that sent arrows of fire directly to Methos' groin.

"You say that like that's a bad thing," the ancient gasped as his hands cleverly divested MacLeod of his trousers. "It's been a long time."

"Too long," Mac agreed as he reciprocated, pushing the pants down over Methos' ass, using the opportunity to reacquaint his hands with the high muscled globes, stroking them, pressing them forward so the burning erections pressed together. He paused and caught the ancient's gaze again, "Come to bed?" he asked with the faintest trace of uncertainty underlying his words.

"Oh yes…" Methos whispered as he melted into Duncan.

Unwilling to lose contact for a moment, the two immortals slowly shuffled across the room, caressing and kissing all the while. The snails-pace desperation of the embrace continued, both men unwilling to hurry, savoring each tiny nuance of taste and touch, sight, smell and sound with the craving born of long abstinence. But at last they reached the bed, tumbling untidily across the covers.

MacLeod stared down into the hazel eyes that shone with such hunger, and lowered his mouth once more, his tongue slipping out to flicker over the thinly sensual lips that parted in wordless invitation. The kiss deepened once more, only breaking when Methos raised a bent knee and flipped Duncan onto his back, reversing their positions. With a tiny triumphant grin escaping from the left corner of his mouth the elder slithered down his lover's golden brown body. Pausing with his head on Duncan's heaving chest, he teased a flat brown nipple to aching hardness with tiny nibbles of serrated teeth, the small nub rising to meet the tongue that curled around it.

Instead of continuing the downward path, as Duncan expected, Methos dropped a trail of moistly heated kisses on the hot dusky flesh where chest became shoulder, over the shoulder and down the arm, biting and sucking. Mac shivered as the waves of sensation threatened to overwhelm him, his other hand running rampant over the flawless back. As his lover's small sharp teeth attacked the tender skin inside his bicep, his hips bucked up off the bed pressing his desperate cock into Methos'. The clever mouth reversed its path, winding tortuously over the sensitised skin to travel down the ridged landscape of ribs, teasing and tickling.

Methos' mouth reached the flat plain of Duncan's stomach and he groaned loudly as once more the lips travelled away from the where his shaft lay throbbing. Mac's hands grasped and pushed at his lover, his hunger for release raging out of control. Small whimpers of desperation escaped from Duncan as he clutched at the sheets, his head thrashing from side to side. The ancient smirked a little at Mac's distress, clamping down firmly on his own control. Again Methos roved up the long torso, over the sternum to the pulsing hollow at the base of Duncan's throat. His tongue dipped pointedly into the indentation, laving the skin minutely. Needy hands grasped at Methos' hips pressing them down into his own, an involuntary thrusting motion out of his control.

"God, Methos, I can't stand it…I need…ohh," Mac became almost incoherent as shockwaves of pleasure spread through his system with every touch.

Methos was no less affected, this was what he'd wanted, fantasized about through the long months of separation, to have Duncan beneath him begging and needy, desperate for release. Prolonging the ecstasy could wait for another time, the time for finesse and long extended foreplay was not now, he abandoned his idea of a slow sensual feast in the time between one breath and the next.

"What is it you need, love?" his emotion-roughened baritone asked.

Duncan's eyes opened wide in a soul-deep stare, "You…inside me…now…" His breath came in shallow gasps through parted swollen lips - he needed to be filled, to have Methos deep inside him, feel him at his core.

Dropping a final kiss on to that irresistible mouth, the elder slid down to where the rigid cock lay bobbing at his every move. The highlander, with a moan that dripped carnality, spread his legs and raised his knees, leaving no doubt as to where he was desperate for attention. Methos smiled slightly and reached for the oil, hoping it was still in the same place and it was -- right where he left it. Warm oil-slicked fingers probed and then entered, one then two, twisting and parting, stretching and stroking, thrusting. MacLeod reached down to where the merciless hand worked at his flesh, wrapped his hand around the wrist and pulled it away.

"I…need…you. Now Methos. Fuck me now." His eyes never left Methos'- the need burning in them seared the ancient to his soul.

"Do you want me?" the simple words were a purring caress as the elder caught hold of his lover's hands, pinning them behind Mac's head.

"Yes. Now." The fierce need in Duncan's voice and eyes broke through the last of Methos' control and the long-banked fire flamed furiously.

Methos pressed his hardness against the puckered opening, the sight and sensation of the head disappearing inside, impossibly erotic. Rocking forward he filled the small space, and paused.

Duncan's eyes were unfocussed and his breath ragged as he waited for Methos to take them both to completion, a wordless cry torn from his throat as his love began at last to move. Slow, sure strokes in and out, filled him to his limit, stretched him, drove him beyond the realm of sanity. One second he was suspended, hanging in space, the next he was free-falling, Methos' name on his lips. The sight and sound and feel of his lover where they joined at his core sent the ancient tumbling into outer space after him.

Unwilling to part for a second, they lay wrapped in one another's arms, breathing and sanity slow to return to normality. Methos curled into Duncan's side, his arm draped over the broad chest softly tracing a whorl of hair with a fingertip. The highlander's square palmed hand rested on his lover's pale hip, caressing the fine, smooth skin.

"I have missed this so very much," Methos began as his fingers brushed languidly over MacLeod's chest.

"So have I." Duncan drew him a little closer.

"Do you think we're rushing it?" The ancient's elegant hand skimmed up to rest against the Scot's stubbled jaw.

"No." Mac hooked a finger under Methos' chin and lifted his face so he could look into the hazel depths.

"But this part has always been good, it's everywhere else we run into problems," Methos was almost unwilling to say the words and looked away.

"Only good?" Duncan teased, deflecting the unanswerable question.

"Outstanding, amazing, mind-blowing then. Can we have this discussion without my having to bolster your already healthy ego?" Methos asked indulgently.

"It's only really healthy when you're around." Duncan's arm tightened around his lover once more.

"Why is that?" Methos murmured against the solid chest.

"Because, O Center of my Universe you are quite simply the best thing that has ever happened to me. You make me feel ten feet tall and bullet-proof." Duncan's lightly playful tone camouflaged the deeply felt sentiments.

A small glow of pleasure settled in Methos' chest at the description Mac used. "That doesn't answer the question though, does it? Can we make this work outside of the bedroom?"

"We were doing okay before I went away," Duncan was reluctant to even think about that time in their lives.

"That was a few months, I'm talking about a bit longer than that. Aren't you?" Methos turned a little to look into Mac's face.

"Of course I am. Methos don't ever doubt that what I want is to be with you and love you as much and as long as I can," Duncan met the gaze evenly, "But the harsh truth is that there are no guarantees. I can't promise unblemished bliss for all eternity, but you know I'll give it a damn good try."

Methos noted the ‘for all eternity' part and tucked it away for future examination, "That's all either of us can do, I only hope it's enough."

"It will be if we want it to be," MacLeod replied with certainty.

"Do you?" Methos had to be sure.

"More than anything, and you?"

"With the length and depth and breadth of my soul."

They lay in silence then, the language of hands and eyes and skin all they needed.

***

The shrilling telephone woke them the next morning, ripping the lovers from their sated peace. Mac answered it:

"MacLeod."

"Well don't we sound happy this morning?" Amanda teased archly.

"Uh-huh, why shouldn't - I be?" Duncan almost dropped the phone as Methos slipped down to take advantage of the highlander's morning erection, their gazes locked over the expanse of muscled flesh.

"How's Methos?" Amanda asked in an innuendo-laden tone.

"He's umm, got his mo-hands full right now." His rapid breathing almost betrayed just what Methos had his hands full with. The elder grinned wickedly and bit gently at the base of Mac's shaft, making him yelp.

"Is everything all right, MacLeod?" Amanda was almost certain she knew what was going on, the picture in her head leaving her a little weak at the knees.

Methos sank his mouth down over the urgently straining organ swallowing it until his lips touched the springing curls, his tongue swirling as the salt-musk pre-cum leaked into his mouth.

"Everything's fine, ahh, uhh, better than fine," Duncan gasped as a clever finger wriggled into his ass to curl against the sensitive prostate at the same time as the talented mouth began to slip up and down in a steady rhythm. Amanda was saying something but he couldn't concentrate, his whole body was focussed on the mouth that encased him and the finger that stroked the pressure point deep inside him.

The sensations became too much and he came in a rush, his orgasm sending creamy fluids jetting down Methos' throat. He dropped the phone, Amanda forgotten, as his hips bucked and heaved in the waves of climax. Methos lifted his lips from the flagging shaft, his tongue snaking out to re-capture a tiny droplet from his lower lip. He calmly picked up the phone.

"Amanda? Hello," he began smoothly, his eyes still trapping Duncan's.

"Well hello, you bad old thing, what were you doing to poor Mac? He sounds positively wrecked. And you stayed the night, does that mean all is forgiven?"

"Nothing he didn't enjoy, yes and we're working on it. In that order."

"Well don't do anything I wouldn't do -- that leaves you plenty of leeway. I'll see you later, old man." She finished with a lewd chuckle as Methos put the phone down.

"That was a very bad thing to do!" Mac rose up on the bed and crash-tackled Methos onto the mattress, looming large over him.

Methos snickered evilly, "You didn't look like you minded a whole hell of a lot."

"That's not really the point, is it?" The Scot was trying for outraged innocence, and falling well short of the mark.

"And the point would be…?" Methos' eyebrow shot skyward.

"I can't remember, shut up and kiss me." MacLeod ended the discussion to everyone's satisfaction.

Very much later, the immortals managed to disentangle themselves long enough to leave the sanctuary of Duncan's bed.

"I should go home for a while, there's a few things I need to take care of and I could do with a change of clothes." Methos said as they sat in comfortable silence over coffee.

Duncan frowned, "I hoped we could spend the day together. We've spent so much time apart, I just don't want to let you out of my sight yet."

"Now Mac, I'm only going down the road to my place for an hour -- not Antarctica for pity's sake." Methos was determined to set his boundaries at the start and not let MacLeod's over-protective tendencies extend to him. "I'll be back shortly, I promise."

And bestowing a slow burning kiss on his favorite mouth, Methos left.

Duncan whistled, hummed and generally smiled to himself as he bustled about the loft. He felt as if he was wearing a neon sign above his head saying "I'm Happy!" Methos was back, back in his bed, back in his life, back in his heart where he belonged. All was right with the world. He tidied the loft, smirking a little as he changed the sheets, remembering how they got into such a state. Then still bursting with energy, he went downstairs to work out. He found it hard to concentrate as he moved through the familiar exercises. Every so often he would find himself staring into space, a silly grin on his face, remembering something Methos had said or done last night.

After a while he gave in and settled for going for a run. Pounding along the pavement at a steady pace Mac found that while the tumult of thoughts didn't cease, at least running was something he didn't need to concentrate too hard on. As he finished the three-mile circuit he was buoyed by the thought that by the time he got home Methos would be there. The first minute twinge of concern pricked at Duncan's heart when he re-entered the dojo. If Methos was upstairs, he should be able to sense him by now.

Duncan refused to let the dark thoughts into his conscious mind. Methos said he would be back and he would. If they ever had even the slightest chance of a future he had to trust that. Four hours had passed and sent Mac from airborne bliss to tense expectation and he was heading for full-blown brood. The ‘what-ifs' were multiplying in the dark corners of his mind, like so much vermin.  What if there's been a challenge? What if he's hurt? What if he's dead? What if he's run- Duncan strangled the last thought new-born, he wouldn't allow that into his mind, couldn't countenance the idea.

***

Methos woke slowly, floating up through clouds of fog so thick that penetrating them was an almost physical act of will. His eyelids opened over sandpaper eyeballs, but his sight was blurred like oiled glass. A vague nausea lurked in his stomach, his limbs were leaden and boneless, the sensation -- unpleasant as it was -- was not unfamiliar, but placing it was beyond his current capacity. He attempted movement, and was dully surprised to find his limbs bound. With grating slowness his head cleared, a degree of clarity returned to his eyesight. He was able to look around, but he could have been anywhere -- the room was dark and small. How the hell did I get here?

The last he remembered, he'd got into his car, put the key in the ignition… What happened then?  There was a partial recollection of a stabbing pain in his shoulder muscle, a sense of someone in the back seat of the car, someone mortal and then blackness…With sudden clarity he recalled the last occasion he'd felt this way. Shit. The last time he had felt this utterly crappy was sometime back in the early 1970's -  Heroin. Oh fuckin' joy. Some asshole's shot me full of heroin. What the hell's going on?

The approach of an immortal presence further complicated matters Shit! One thing after another.  Scrambling clumsily in his bindings he wriggled against the wall, leaned back into it and pushed himself up to standing. Light entered the room with the immortal and he groaned with recognition.  This could be bad.

"Callum O'Neal. What a surprise, I thought you'd be halfway to Rio by now. What a pity you're not." Methos hissed venomously.

"Adams you're gonna regret the day you fucked with me," O'Neal answered menacingly, producing the baseball bat he held hidden behind his back.

"I think I'd remember if I'd had that dubious pleasure," Methos threw out the insult and braced for the inevitable retaliation.

He didn't have to wait long. O'Neal swung the bat hard and low, catching Methos in the left shin. The crack of the bone snapping was shockingly loud in the small room. The ancient went down silently, head bowed. O'Neal, apparently satisfied for the moment, left. Methos lifted his head, glaring after the retreating figure, death in his eyes. He gritted his teeth and reached his bound hands up under the back of his sweatshirt, wincing at the shooting pain from his shattered leg.

Reaching into the inverted holster at his waist he hoped O'Neal's search hadn't been too thorough. Yes.  The long bladed dagger was still there. Its razor-sharp blade soon sliced through the ropes around his wrists, then sawed through the bindings around his ankles. The pain in his fractured tibia was immense; the deformed bone pressing up against the skin, the foot lying at an unnatural angle. Fighting the rising nausea and the blackness that ate at the edges of his consciousness, he sat still for several long minutes as the healing took over, the bones straightening with a nerve-shattering agony that made him wish briefly for unconsciousness. Slowly the pain ebbed and the nausea eased and Methos was able to stand once more.  O'Neal, you are one very dead man.

***

Amanda felt the approaching buzz and moved quickly to the door, sword in hand, opening it to a wild-eyed MacLeod.

"Have you seen him? Has he been here? Have you heard from him?" The words tumbled out even before he was through the door.

"Methos? But isn't he with you? I just spoke to him at your place this morning. What's going on?" Not again, Methos, I'll kill you myself if you've gone again.

"He was coming home for a few things, and then he was supposed to be back hours ago. Are you sure you don't know where he is?" A distinct note of desperation had crept into Mac's voice.

"You don't think he's run off?"

"NO! I do not think that, Amanda. He said he'd be back and he will -- if he can."

"A challenge?"

"Well that's the most obvious explanation, when an immortal goes out and doesn't -- oh God -- I can't even think about that. If I lost him now…I don't know how I'd live." MacLeod's deep voice cracked and he sat heavily into the sofa, suddenly surrounded by the scent he would always associate with Methos.  Be alive, Methos.

"Call Joe, ask him. If anyone can help he can." Amanda was suddenly hollow with dread.

He made the call. Joe, unfortunately had pulled ‘Adam's' watcher for the night when he heard about the possible reconciliation, hoping to give the two some privacy. The watcher promised to make a few calls, see if there had been any challenges he hadn't yet heard about.

"He's been around a long time, MacLeod, he can take care of himself. Don't worry so much. He'll be fine."

***

The buzz sounded its warning in his head again and quickly he moved to stand beside the door. The other immortal entered, sword in hand. Methos lunged a split second too late to disable him, catching O'Neal instead in the upper part of his sword arm. The Irishman spun around, blood streaming from the laceration, loathing plain on his face.

"You heal fast Adams. Not that it'll help you in the end." O'Neal raised his sword, looking to impale him on it, unaware that Methos was not as vulnerable as he thought.

The elder used the careless over-extension to his advantage in a heartbeat, he ducked his head and, rather than turning away from his attacker as would be expected, moved in close. Methos managed to slice a long, shallow wound through O'Neal's abdomen with the dagger before he was pushed back into the dark of the room.

"Adams you're gonna love what I've got in store for you," the Irish immortal taunted as he circled the room cautiously.

"Let me guess, you're going to cut off my head?" Methos replied sarcastically, keeping his distance.

"Better than that. The cops are gonna find you here with the remains of a very large shipment of high-grade heroin. You'll be locked up, for at least as long as you got me locked up, you bastard. You might also be missing a few of your favorite body parts into the bargain. And we'll be long gone, enjoying all that profit." He snickered as he lunged once more towards Methos.

Very imaginative, dickhead. Take you long to come up with that one?  Catching his attacker's sword arm in his left hand, Methos slashed the dagger through the forearm separating the muscle neatly.

The useless arm forced O'Neal to hold his weapon left-handed, and the change made him clumsy and vulnerable. Methos came in close again, under his guard, blocking the coming thrust with a hand to the shoulder. O'Neal wasn't finished by a long shot -- using his superior weight he threw Methos off before he could drive the dagger home, the elder landing in an untidy heap across the room.

"You sure you don't want to try for my head instead, O'Neal? Might be more interesting." The ancient rose easily from the floor, brandishing the dagger in complex, hypnotic patterns tossing it from hand to hand.

"You're no older than me, probably a lot less heads too. Why shouldn't I just leave you to rot in jail, like I planned?" O'Neal was confused; did this idiot want to die?

Methos noted the confusion on his opponent's face and gloated inwardly.  That's right, fool, you wonder if I'm mad, wait till you hear the next bit -- you'll come in your pants.

"You know Adams isn't my real name O'Neal," he began softly, his mouth in a mirthless half smile. "I've gone by many over the years but everyone seems to know the oldest of them. Perhaps you've heard of me… I am Methos," and he inclined his head in a small bow.

***

Unable to sit and wait, Mac and Amanda were reduced to driving aimlessly, trying to catch a sense of Methos' presence. The thoughts torturing Duncan swung between a desperate need to find him and a gut-deep fear of what he might find if he did. Up and down the city streets they drove with MacLeod's senses straining fruitlessly for the faintest trace.

"Do you have any idea how much I love him, Amanda? He's part of me, if I lost him now -- I don't know what I'd do. We're so close to working it all out. I've never loved anyone the way I love him, it's the strangest thing. He's prickly and secretive and sarcastic and I never know where his head is but he's a part of me I can't imagine being without." He almost felt as if he was talking to himself, working it out in his own head as he continued to drive.

"Yeah I know MacLeod. I can see it in your face, hear it in your voice every time you talk about him." There was a tiny trace of sadness in her voice, a wistful tone that caught his attention.

"Amanda we've never really talked about how you feel about Methos and me. I mean you and I were lovers for such a long time, and now…" he trailed off, unsure how to finish.

"And now you want him and only him for the rest of your life, is that about right? I'm happy for you -- both of you. I only wish…" Amanda looked away, unable to articulate the empty feeling that ate at her.

"You wish you had someone too?" MacLeod guessed at the source of her vulnerability.

"Don't be silly Mac, I was going to say I only wish we could hurry up and find this guy of yours, so I can get on with my life." Amanda's lighthearted reply had a brittle edge and Duncan wasn't fooled for a second. They drifted into a tense silence once more as each was occupied with the dark thoughts that crept in unbidden.

"This is pointless, we've been driving for hours - we'll never find him like this -- he could be anywhere. I think I'll head back to Joe's -- maybe there's something we haven't thought of yet." Mac turned the T-bird around, anxiety sitting high in his throat.  Be alive, Methos.

***

"Methos?" The immortal's tone was incredulous, "He's a myth, no-one could be five thousand years old, it's not possible."

"Ah, but what if it's true? Wouldn't you like to get your hands on so much power? Come on…have a try. Think of all the quickenings I've taken in my life." The ancient's tone was soft and seductive, drawing the other into the thrall of his voice.

O'Neal could no more resist the temptation of Methos' head than he could resist gravity. He lunged forward, sword back in his right hand, the muscle healed but still painful. Methos almost laughed, some days it was just too easy.

"Come on then, let's see what you've got, ‘Methos' if that's really who you are." O'Neal blustered.

"Ready when you are, boy," Methos' condescending tone was meant to infuriate and succeeded.

***

"What about this guy that tried for Methos' head at the apartment the other night? The one that bombed the college?" Amanda suggested as she and Mac walked into the bar.

"What guy? I haven't spoken to Methos since the day of the bombing. Was there a fight?" Joe asked quickly.

"Irish accent -- had a mortal woman with him. She was a frumpy little thing, a real disaster. It was one of those O'something names -- O'Brien, O'Keefe, O'Reilly? No. Wait a minute…O'Neal! That was it -- Callum O'Neal," Amanda finished triumphantly.

"O'Neal? Wait a minute, I had a report from one of my guys about him, I haven't read it yet with all this going on. Hang on a minute." Joe scrolled through the database on the laptop computer behind the bar, "Yeah, here it is. O'Neal, Callum - guy's a drug importer, real scumbag  - last seen at those old warehouses down by the docks. You know the place MacLeod, not far from where Methos got barbecued that time."

"Yeah I know it." He gathered up his coat and went to leave.

"Hang on a second MacLeod, you're not going without me. He's my friend too, you know." Amanda grabbed Duncan's arm, for once letting the barriers down, all the pretence of shallowness and self-absorption melted away, "Please Mac, you shouldn't go alone you - don't know what you'll find." And that was what frightened her more than anything -- what Duncan might do if Methos was indeed dead -- the despair in his eyes that she'd seen earlier had chilled her to the bone.

"Come on, then," MacLeod agreed grudgingly.

***


"He's alive. I know it. I can feel it. I can feel -- him," MacLeod tried to explain his certainty as much to himself as Amanda as they approached the warehouses, having parked the car in a secluded laneway. "When we shared the quickening in Bordeaux we didn't just gain the ability to recognise one another from any other immortal on the planet, we have a connection, a -- oh God!" He fell to his knees unable to continue, as Amanda could see the distant flashes of lightning in the windows of a warehouse some distance away.

"Is it him? Can you tell if he's…?" Amanda couldn't finish the sentence, as she struggled to help Duncan to his feet.

"I don't know there's too much energy, too much quickening," he panted as he stumbled towards the building, his face grey.

They were within several yards of the warehouse when it began, a series of small bangs at first, not unlike fireworks. Then the stolen explosives O'Neal had hoarded were set off with a single ear-shattering blast in the firestorm of the quickening. Debris rained down around them forcing Amanda and Duncan to weave and duck. Glass showered down on them from the shattered windows. An immense piece of roofing iron clattered to the ground inches from Amanda and Duncan pulled her away, barely in time. Blue arcs of lightning rose from the fire and smoke in deadly beauty. The explosions collapsed the roof and it fell, smothering the worst of the flames, taking the rest of the structure with it. As quickly as it had begun it was over -- an eerie silence all that remained.

The two immortals stood for a few seconds in stunned shock as they viewed the devastation.

"He's in there somewhere, I've got to find him. Don't just stand there Amanda, help me," MacLeod demanded as he searched the rubble.

"Mac, I can't feel anyone there. Are you sure you-"

He rounded on her, grabbing her shoulders with steel hard hands, eyes blazing in fury and for the first time in their long friendship she feared him for a moment, "He's here! If you don't want to help me then get the fuck out of here!" He turned from her and continued to search.
 
"Of course I'll help you, MacLeod, calm down. We'll find him."  You only get away with pulling stunts like that buddy, because I know how desperate you are. Please be alive, Methos.

They tossed aside sheets of corrugated iron, wooden beams, odd pieces of rubble but still could not sense any immortal presence.

"Here help me turn this over, Amanda, grab the other side. I think there's something under this one." They grasped either side of the piece of wooden wall and flipped it.

Amanda's breath hissed in her throat, and she turned away for a moment -- there was a boot, a black leather hiking boot poking out from the edge of the rubble they had just uncovered.

"Methos?" MacLeod rasped, as he frantically threw aside the pile of debris.

"It's not him, Duncan." Amanda's voice was oddly expressionless.

"How do you know? You can't see enough to tell," he continued to dig at the wreckage.

"Because Methos is over here." The simple statement should have filled him with joy but the tone of her voice sent a chill through him.

The familiar spiky black hair was all that they could see, framed by the devastation -- no other part of the body was visible. It was too much for Amanda and she turned her back again, unable to face it. Mac's vision swam as he pushed aside the remaining rubble. Be alive, Methos, please?

There was a sudden flooding back of the presence as Methos choked back into life, gasping and coughing in his prison of debris. Duncan and Amanda frantically dug the wreckage away and lifted him free. MacLeod was so overcome with relief he was unable to speak, he could only sink to his knees and wrap his arms tightly around his lover.

"Uh Mac I'm rather fond of breathing. You want to let me get some air?" Methos joked as he covered his own relief.

"I thought you were dead -- I thought I'd lost you forever -- just when we were going to sort it all out…" his hands that had been busy brushing away the dust and fragments clinging to Methos' face, stilled and cradled it instead, "Do you have any idea how much I love you?" and his lips pressed against the elder's, sweet and undemanding.

The wail of distant sirens interrupted and the immortals struggled from the ground and fled the scene. They made it back to the T-bird and to Amanda's amazement; Duncan tossed her the keys and slid into the back seat with Methos.

"You drive."

"Sure, no problem." Who are you and what have you done with the real Duncan MacLeod?

He couldn't stop touching him. Duncan was so unbelievably, absurdly happy to have Methos in his arms once more that he couldn't help stroking his hands over the planes of Methos' face, over his neck, his arms as the ancient leaned into him, still drained from the force of the quickening.

"I'll bring the car back sometime tomorrow, okay Mac?" Amanda wasn't above taking advantage of Duncan's preoccupation as she let them out of the car outside the dojo.

"Mmm? Whatever…" he replied absently. 

By the time they walked through the dojo Methos was fully recovered from the worst after-effects of the quickening. He was left only with the excess of energy frequently associated with the experience. They were barely into the lift when Methos grabbed Duncan and, pushing him against the wall, captured his mouth in a sizzling kiss. MacLeod could only respond as Methos drew him into the whirlpool of desire. Methos' hands were everywhere -- his chest, his neck, running over the growing bulge in his groin. By some magic his shirt was open and Methos' hands were on his skin, moving quickly, desperately rubbing, squeezing, caressing.  All the while the heated lips sucked and slipped over his, turning Duncan's blood to liquid fire.

MacLeod's hands slipped under Methos' sweatshirt, lifting over his head and tossing it into the corner. The elder's hot hard body crowded him up against the wall of the lift, pressing their burning erections together, tearing a groan from Mac's throat that was swallowed by his lover. Methos' hands roamed down to open the highlander's jeans and free the trapped tumescence that sprang into waiting hands that stroked and teased. The pants fell away and Duncan toed them off with his shoes. As Methos' mouth roved lower to feast on the younger man's sweat-glossed neck, Duncan deftly slipped the remaining clothing from his lover's slender body.

"The bed…?" he managed to breathe.

"Can't wait…have to…have you…now," Methos gasped raggedly. The quickening energy pulsed through his body setting his nerves on fire, making him desperate for completion.

They sank down to the floor in a tangle of lean strong limbs, still joined at the mouth. Tearing away finally, Methos turned to take Duncan's cock deep into his mouth, moaning out loud as he did. That's it fuck my mouth, push it into me…oh yes. MacLeod moved closer to where the pale shaft gleamed enticingly, he curled his body slightly and sank his mouth down swallowing until he had taken it all, his head full of the scent of his lover's body. He reached between the elder's long legs, a questing finger massaging the perineum, seeking admission to the intimate opening, and slipping inside, feeling the muscles twitch. So hot…so tight.

MacLeod pulled back a little until only the head of the penis remained in his mouth, he swirled his tongue around it, the tip dipping into the sensitive slit and then sweeping around the corona, before sinking down over it once more. Fuck, Methos, you taste so good.  Meanwhile, Methos had moistened two fingers in saliva and pre-cum and slid them deep into Duncan's tight hot passage twisting and scissoring, as he continued to suck, his mouth slipping quickly up and down the shaft. Duncan pushed back on the hand, grinding his ass into the pressure. That's it lover, fuck yourself on my hand…so good. Mac thrust back and forth between the mouth and the hand, overcome with the jolting pleasure that assaulted him. He swallowed convulsively dragging Methos' cock so deeply into his throat, that he felt the muscles contract around him. Between the sensation of sucking and being sucked, entering and being entered, it wasn't long before the gathering tension overwhelmed them and with earth-shattering intensity they came together, each hurling their essence down the other's throat. For a long minute they lay panting on the floor, each one resting his head on the thigh of the other.

"Do you think we could get off the floor now?" Duncan managed at last.

"I am physically incapable of independent movement until further notice," Methos announced loftily, a wicked grin on his face.

"I'm not carrying you, pal. I've done that once this decade and that's all you get. Sorry," Duncan teased, "Only once per decade."

"So I guess I'll have to stick around at least another decade," Methos answered as he sat up, all the amusement gone from his voice, quite another tone altogether replacing it.

"This floor is bloody hard -- and cold. Come to bed?" Mac rose and extended a hand to Methos, helping him up.

Once in the bed Duncan sat leaning against the headboard with his arms wrapped loosely around Methos who lay in the vee of Mac's bent legs, his head resting on the highlander's solid chest, feeling oddly secure and cherished, the turbulent energy of the quickening finally settled.

"I'd like it if you did…" Mac began a little tentatively.

"Did what?" Methos had an idea but he wanted to hear Mac say it.

"Stick around, stay with me, as long as you want. I don't want to crowd you or smother you. I just want -- need to be with you. I love you Methos. Stay with me?" The highlander's tone was soft and laced more heavily than usual with the accents of his origins as he stroked a gentle finger along the strong jaw line.

"You know there's nothing I'd like more. But wanting it doesn't make it right… doesn't make it easy." Methos leaned into the large firm hand that brushed the side of his face.

"I know it won't always be easy, but don't you feel it's right? I can't imagine feeling this way about anyone else - the last three months have taught me that. I missed you so much I felt like part of me was missing -- and it was -- you're a part of me Methos, part of my heart, part of my soul. Won't you stay and be part of my life?"

There was a pause as Methos threaded his fingers through his lover's and then he replied, "Can I ask you something Duncan? What did you think when I didn't come back today? Honestly?" He feared the answer, but to hide from the truth now would be insane.

"First, I thought you were just late, you're not exactly famous for your punctuality. Then I was sure that something must have happened to you, and it was a knife in my gut. Poor Amanda, I think she was worried I'd do something stupid. Does that answer your question?"

"And you didn't think, even for a second, that maybe I'd disappeared again on purpose?" He swivelled around to look Duncan in the eyes; the highlander was an appallingly bad liar.

"Okay maybe for half a second, but then I realized that I trusted you, I believed you when you told me you'd be back and I knew that if you could, you would." Mac leaned forward and punctuated the answer with the barest brush of a kiss across the elder's lips. "What about you? Can you ever forgive me for the way I acted that day? I can't even think about the way I behaved without feeling ashamed. I threw you out without giving you the first chance to defend yourself, not to mention what I did before that." He turned his head, unable to meet the searching gaze.

"Do you still feel as if you raped me? You know, I never did. Sure it was harsh, angry sex, but you know me well enough to know that if I'd had a problem with it, you'd have been flat on your back in about three seconds. If I'd thought you were going to beat yourself up over it, I'd have put an end to it straight away. I just thought it was something you needed to get out of your system, so I let you go for it. It was…interesting to see you lose control completely like that -- you do it so rarely." Methos laid his hand against Duncan's face, and stroked a thumb over the beautiful mouth. "As for throwing me out, I won't say that didn't hurt me terribly -- because it did. But it's in the past and if we're ever going to have a future, we have to let go of the past. That was what I was coming to tell you that day -- that I can let it go. I was sitting on a beach in South Africa-"

"Hang on, when were you in South Africa? I thought you went to New Zealand." MacLeod broke in.

"I did; it's a story for another time. Anyway, I realized that unless I let go of all the things that make me want to run I'll spend my whole life running.  I ran because I was afraid. I was afraid of how much I felt for you, how much I wanted it to be forever - you know I've never been seriously involved with one of us before. For too long now I've spent my life ruled by my fears. On that beach I realized I'd rather spend it with you, for as long as we have. So yes, I will stay with you, Duncan…I love you too."

The lovers' mouths met in a quiet kiss of forgiveness given and promises made with full hearts and open eyes.


Back to Contents

Don't Dream it's Over.

There is freedom within
There is freedom without
Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup
There's a battle ahead
Many battles are long...
But you'll never see the end of the road
When you're traveling with me.

(Chorus)
Hey now, hey now, don't dream it's over
Hey now, hey now when the world comes in
They come, they come to build a wall between us
We know they won't win.

Now I'm towing my car
There's a hole in the roof
My possessions are causing me suspicion
But there's no proof
In the paper today
Tales of war and of waste
But you turn right over to the TV page.

(Chorus)

Now I'm walking again
To the beat of a drum,
And I'm counting the steps
To the door of your heart.
Only shadows ahead
Barely clearing the roof
Get to know the feeling
Of liberation and relief              

(Chorus)

(Neil Finn, Crowded House)
Words used without permission.