Chapter Eighteen
Duncan fell into the embrace, kissing Methos with every scrap of pent-up emotion he'd been suppressing for all this time...five days...five years -- five thousand years wouldn't have been enough for him to have Methos close. And Methos was kissing him back, his tongue thrusting strongly against Duncan's, his lips devouring him. Duncan's hands skimmed over Methos' chest, his shoulders, up to stroke his neck, relearning the shape of muscle and bone, love and contrition and promises in every caress. Damn, he was so beautiful.
Duncan hummed into the kiss as Methos touched him. Firm, sure caresses over his arms, snaking up into his hair to tangle in it briefly before slipping down to cradle his face. Something light and very large was expanding in Duncan's chest, filling him and easing his pain all at once.
Until Methos' hands slid down to Duncan's chest and pushed him away -- hard.
"No...," Methos breathed, still panting, his eyes hugely dilated. Duncan reached for him again and Methos fended him off. "No," he said more firmly.
"Methos?" Duncan's head was still spinning, his body aching for touch.
"No. Don't push it, MacLeod."
There was real distress in Methos' voice and Duncan found his hands curling into fists with the effort of checking the urge to reach out and comfort him. "God, Methos...I'm sorry. I thought you...." He trailed off into incoherence.
Duncan saw Methos pull himself under control, and the hardness grow in his eyes. "Yes, well you thought wrong," he snapped. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and Duncan's gut twisted some more. "I'm going to go check on the truck again." Duncan went to go with him, but Methos held up a hand in an unmistakeable gesture. "You can stay there."
Duncan sat back down and caught his breath. Dammit. He'd screwed up again. He watched Methos walk back over to the truck, rejection in every line of his body and yet Duncan wanted him still. More -- if that was possible. It was insane and probably hopeless, he admitted to himself, but there it was: Methos was it for him. He waited until the other man was beneath the truck before he followed.
"How is it?" Duncan asked, reasonably proud of the detachment in his voice. He could do this; he could talk to Methos and work with him to get them all the hell out of here without acting like a love-struck fool.
"It's not going to last very long, you know," Methos answered, his voice muffled as it came from under the chassis. "The gas will probably leak through the rubber eventually. But I think it's dry."
Duncan had figured as much, but they were still going to make better time in the truck than they ever could on foot. Even if they only got a day's travel out of the repair, that would give them a big advantage. "Risk we'll have to take, I'm afraid. Without the phone we're out of contact -- we can't arrange an aerial pick-up. We're going to have to get ourselves across the border." And the sooner they did, the sooner they could sort out this godawful mess between them.
"How far away are we, anyway?" Methos asked as he pulled himself out from under the truck and stood.
"A hundred miles, give or take." Duncan saw Methos' eyebrows lift and added: "We have some maps that...came with the truck. It shouldn't take us more than a few days."
Methos nodded, still wary and more than a bit distant. "Shouldn't the others be back by now?"
Duncan looked at his watch. It had been several hours since Mpande and Kumari had left, but he had no idea how far they'd have to go to try to find fuel. "There's no way of knowing how long they'll need. Mpande knows what he's doing, though."
"Where'd you find him anyway?" Methos asked casually as he brushed the dirt off the back of his shirt and pulled it roughly into place.
Duncan realized what Methos was doing: talking about everything and anything other than what had just happened, or almost happened between them. He didn't answer Methos' question; instead, Duncan went to stand in front of him and waited until Methos looked up from the ragged sleeve he was fiddling with.
Annoyance flashed across Methos' face. "What is it, Mac? I thought I asked you a question."
"Aye, but I had one I wanted to ask you first." His voice had gone low and rough again; it seemed to be the default setting whenever he came this close to Methos. "What happened just now, Methos?"
Methos' face went very still and cool. "Nothing happened just now."
Fine, if he wanted to play oblivious, Duncan could spell it out for him. "When I kissed you and you kissed me back."
"Oh. That," Methos replied flatly.
"Yeah, that. What's going on?"
"I think it would be abundantly clear to you by now that nothing is going on, MacLeod." Layers of meaning were clear in his frigid tone.
But Duncan was having none of it. "I want you back in my life, Methos." There. He couldn't say it any plainer than that.
"And when did you decide that?" Methos hissed. "When you accidentally ran into me at the camp? Or when you were busy avoiding me for five years? Not good enough. Has anything really changed?" He looked Duncan up and down derisively, while Duncan struggled to put his churning emotions into words. "No. Look -- I'm grateful," he spat, sounding anything but, "that you dragged yourself all over Angola to find me, MacLeod...but I'm not that grateful." Methos shoved his hands in pockets and sauntered off, leaving Duncan stunned at the anger and venom -- not to mention the goddammn unfairness -- of Methos' words.
Duncan aimed a vicious kick at a piece of fallen roofing and strode off to take out his frustrations on the truck's motor. Maybe a couple of hours' hard work on the old vehicle would make the urge to strangle a certain very old man less tempting.
***
It didn't, Duncan decided as the wrench slipped again and he scraped all the skin from his knuckles again. "Fuck!" he yelled, itching to toss the damn thing across the room. He couldn't concentrate properly with Methos echoing in his head. He couldn't even see the old man; he was around though, his presence jangling along Duncan's already scrambled nerves. He'd kept himself out of the way since his little outburst, probably to avoid risking a wrench being aimed at his head. The way Duncan felt right now, that was possibly a very wise move.
Things had changed; everything that had happened since the first day he'd set foot in the camp had changed him -- changed everything. Even before then, for five years he'd been lonely, looking for something -- anything -- that would mean as much to him as Methos did. He hadn't found it.
And okay, he'd fucked up really badly five years ago and Methos had every right to be angry with him, but what the hell was he playing at now? Did he want him back or was this whole dance back and forth just some intricate torture designed to punish him for his mistakes? If it was, it was fucking unfair.
He'd been afraid five years ago -- hell, he was still afraid -- but now, at last, he wasn't going to let it stand in his way. Not this time. Never again. Now if could only get Methos to believe that. He tightened the last bolt, ran a cursory eye over the motor to make sure he hadn't left anything undone and slammed the hood shut.
The fire was almost out when Duncan walked back over to it, just one thick log still smoldered, licked with the occasional flame. It really should have been dowsed already, but with one thing and another it hadn't been. He picked up the bucket of loose dirt Mpande must have left for the purpose and poured it over the fire, grimacing at the last puff of smoke that rose like a signal into the sky.
Methos appeared in the doorway opposite him, slouching irritatingly against the wall. He looked up at the rising smoke.
"You could have put this out, you know," Duncan said and tossed the bucket down.
Methos shrugged, ratcheting up the annoyance factor considerably. "Sorry," he said, patently insincere.
Duncan began packing up the scattered belongings around the campfire, stuffing them into the two packs with more force than strictly necessary. He wanted to be ready to move out the second the others came back and the truck was refueled. Methos was watching him; Duncan could feel the eyes following him without even looking up.
But he looked up anyway. Methos was watching him, as enigmatic and unreadable as ever. Duncan went on packing up; there was nothing he could say to Methos at that moment that wouldn't make things worse. He knelt down by his own pack and tightened the straps, suddenly remembering something that made him almost smile.
Duncan opened the pack again and took out the spare machete he'd been keeping for Methos, slipping it from its leather sheath. He stood up and turned towards the other man. Methos was still watching him, still standing in the doorway as if he wasn't sure he'd stay, as Duncan walked over to him, carrying the machete with the blade flipped up behind his arm.
Methos stiffened slightly as he approached and Duncan's gut twisted. The bland expression never altered, but all the same he could feel Methos' wariness increase. It hurt, even more than he'd expected, to see how Methos distrusted him. But he'd climbed Methos' walls before -- he was betting he could do it again, given the chance.
Duncan stopped a comfortable distance away and held out the machete -- handle first, the blade pointing back at his own belly. Methos didn't move to take it, but stood, unlikely marble statuary amongst the rubble of the church, forcing the words from Duncan's mouth without ever saying one.
"I thought you might be able to use this." Methos still didn't move. "It's not as good as a sword...but it's sharp and...." God, Methos, just take the damn thing and let me stop babbling like an idiot.... Duncan opened his palm and let the machete balance on it -- making it an offering now. "And maybe you'd feel...better if you had a blade of your own...."
At last Methos reached out, barely looking at the weapon, his eyes fixed on Duncan's instead. Beautiful eyes, moss-green in the shadows. Duncan stood frozen, his arm extended until he could feel the blood pounding beneath his skin. Methos' fingers brushed his palm as they curled around the machete handle and Duncan felt the touch ripple through him in a warm, shivery wave.
He realized that he was still standing with his arm stuck out like a fool even as Methos plucked the sheath from his other hand and slid the machete inside. Duncan let his arm fall and stepped aside as Methos shouldered past him with a clipped, "Thanks," as his only reply.
Duncan was turning, seemingly helpless to stop himself watching Methos move across the room, when he became aware of the sounds coming from outside.
***
Methos clipped the sheath to his belt as he ran towards the open side of the church where he could hear the raised voices, pushing his unruly emotions to the back of his mind, where they could damn well stay. He'd been avoiding thinking about Duncan all this time; he could bloody well do it for a bit longer yet. After all, he'd done harder things. Lots of them. He just couldn't remember any at this very moment. Which was probably just as well -- he had plenty to occupy him in the here and now.
He couldn't make out what was being said outside, but the urgency in the tone was all too clear. As he left the church he saw Kumari and Mpande running between the ruins of the village huts. Mpande was still lugging one of the jerrycans, but Kumari was unencumbered, except for the bag she carried everywhere she went.
Mpande thrust the jerrycan at him as soon as he came close enough. "Fill her up, Doc, we got to get outta here."
Duncan was at his side a second later. "Mpande, what the hell's going on?"
"Company, closing in fast!"
Fuck. Methos turned on his heel and ran for the truck, the full jerrycan slowing him down, but not much. The metal bit into his fingers as he hefted the can -- another pain to ignore. He heard Duncan curse as he ran past, beating Methos to the truck by several steps. Duncan unscrewed the gas cap and waved Methos on impatiently.
"Come on! Hurry up!" Duncan shouted. He looked past Methos. "Mpande! Get the gear!"
Methos had the jerrycan open and was pouring the contents into the tank the minute he reached the side of the truck. He snatched the gas cap from Duncan. "Get the others in -- get ready to start it up." Duncan didn't reply but he ran around the other side of the truck and the chassis dipped as he climbed in. Diesel spilled down onto the ground and Methos swore under his breath. He saw the Sangoma race past him and jump up into the passenger side and on his other side Mpande threw the gear into the back of the truck then followed her in.
At last all the gas was in, and Methos flung himself and the can into the truck, smacking straight into Mpande. Shit.
"It's in -- get it started, Mac! Let's go!" He still couldn't see anyone coming, but the sooner they got the hell out of there, the happier he'd be.
Duncan tried the ignition. The motor ground and complained but did not turn over. Methos could hear him swearing under his breath in a steady stream of half a dozen languages as he tried it again and again. Methos' heart was hammering and sweat was stinging his eyes as he hung out the window, craning his neck to see if anyone was coming yet. No one -- not yet. The dry, flat sound of the motor not turning over made Methos look back across at Duncan.
"Shouldn't we be getting out of here?" Methos asked, not bothering to conceal the strain in his voice.
"Won't fucking start," Duncan growled back, pumping the gas pedal and turning the key again. He looked at Mpande and asked him, slightly more calmly, "How many -- how far away?"
"Small troop, Mac. Same as before -- maybe...fifteen, they gonna be here any minute now. What you thinking?"
Duncan opened the door and slipped out, pausing to look back at Mpande. "Pass me the Armalite, give the other one to Matthew. You get behind the wheel and keep trying to get it started. We'll hold them off."
Mpande bent and picked up the rifles from the truck's floor, handed one to Duncan but held onto the other. "How 'bout I come with you instead?" The doubt was all too apparent in his voice.
Methos didn't particularly care who went and who stayed behind as long as someone did something and soon. But Duncan clearly did, he leaned across and grabbed the other rifle out of Mpande's hand and disappeared around the side of the truck. "Come on, Methos."
Methos jumped down from the cabin and met him at the back, taking the gun from him. "You know, that's the second time you've called me by my name in front of them," he said as they strode to the open side of the church and split up, each taking one side, by wordless agreement.
"I think we've got bigger problems than that right now, Methos," Duncan shot back tersely as he pressed himself against the crumbling wall. He didn't look terribly sorry, and he did have a point: they had a lot more to worry about than whether a couple of civilians heard a name that would in all likelihood mean nothing to them. Provided they even lived through this. Methos was still pissed about it though. Bloody MacLeod. But anger was good...a whole lot safer than the other things he'd been feeling.
He adjusted his grip on the rifle and copied Duncan's stance, tuning out the sounds of Mpande working furiously on the truck behind them. He leaned out and scanned the sparse bush that surrounded the abandoned village: not a sign of the soldiers yet -- if they were coming at all. He bent his head to wipe the sweat from his face on his sleeve and continued to keep watch.
"Anything?" Duncan hissed, not turning away from his own watch.
"Not yet." From the corner of his eye he saw Duncan slip across to the other entrance to the church. Methos kept his focus firmly on the bush in front of him.
Then the branches moved, off over to the right, perhaps the wind, and Methos held his breath, waiting for another movement to tell him more. There it was -- a shiver of the bushes resolving into a single soldier appearing at the edge of the village. Fuck. Methos looked over to where Duncan stood and signaled frantically. But Duncan wasn't looking; he was frozen in place watching out the doorway with his back to Methos.
Goddammit. Methos bent and picked up a chunk of broken brick, hurling it -- not without a certain perverse satisfaction -- at Duncan's back. It hit: right on target. Duncan spun around to face him, the look on his face almost making Methos smile, despite the urgency of the situation. He signaled again, pointing out towards the village, glanced back outside, then raised four fingers for the number of soldiers he could now see. No doubt there were more he couldn't see.
Duncan nodded and ran back. Methos turned his attention back to the advancing troops. Wearing fatigues and berets, they were probably FAA -- not that it mattered much. They'd be headed their way soon enough now that they were close enough to hear the noise of the engine grinding as it refused to start. Methos gritted his teeth and lifted his weapon, flicking his eyes quickly to Duncan and back again.
They were both in firing positions now -- waiting for the soldiers to come closer, pass by, do something. More soldiers stepped out, caution in every movement as they scanned the area. One amongst them signaled, sending pairs of men out in a search pattern, Methos guessed. Not the best thing, from where he stood. They needed the troops out in front, where they could see all of them -- not spread out all around where they could surround the church easily.
Without waiting for Duncan, who'd catch on in a second, Methos fired. He hit a soldier on the far edge of the group, a clean headshot that dropped the man where he stood. True to form, Duncan started firing a heartbeat later. The return fire came thick and fast, the opposition regrouping in front of the church as Methos had anticipated. Not very bright, guys.
A few tried to scout around to either side of the building, but they fell before they could get too far, sprawled haphazardly over the muddy ground. Methos tried to fire conservatively, tried to stay calm and focused, and not let the panic he could see in front of him affect his judgement. So far he was winning, on all counts. He fell into the familiar place inside himself where there was nothing but cold, clear concentration.
The dry, chemical stench of gunpowder was high in the air, stinging his eyes, and the noise felt as if it was making his eardrums bleed. But he kept firing, ignoring the discomfort. Until the trigger clicked flatly and he realized he was out of ammo. Damn. He'd been so focused on what was happening out in front of him, he hadn't realized how much he'd gone through. Stupid.
He circled back around to the truck, trying to avoid the field of fire pouring through the side of the church. They sure weren't worrying about conserving their ammunition. It was smacking into the walls, unceasing volleys of pure noise, only missing the truck because of the angle it was parked at. He made it to the truck with his heart going almost as fast the gunfire and startled Mpande as he appeared beside the driver's side door.
His hands flew back from their grip on the wheel. "Fuck, Doc! Scare a--"
Methos stopped him with a hand on his arm. "How much more ammunition have we got?" he asked quickly. "I'm out and Mac can't be too far off."
Mpande opened a pocket in his bush jacket and handed Methos a couple of clips. "More in the back. Go -- I'll bring it out."
Methos grabbed the two clips from him and took off back to the front of the church, reloading the rifle as he went and stuffing the spare into his pants' pocket. He was firing again even before he reached his post.
Duncan cried out, making Methos falter in the rhythm of his offensive. He was hit, but not badly, blood pouring from his forearm where a round had torn the skin. Their eyes met for half a second, then Duncan shook the arm as if the wound was just a papercut -- and went back to firing. Methos turned back and did the same. A part of his mind that wasn't concentrating on keeping them all alive
The gunfire kept coming; the soldiers had moved back under cover of the trees but the fire kept on -- relentlessly. Sweat was running down Methos' face continually now, the flood of saltwater just another thing to sting his eyes and blur his vision. The constant percussion of the rifle as he fired it was making his fingers numb, but he had to ignore it, had to keep on firing, because it was the only chance they had to make it out of here. Unless they got the truck started.
Methos jumped as something touched his shoulder. Fuck. He spun around and almost fired, catching Mpande's grim face just in time. Methos pulled the muzzle away from the other man's chest. "Shit! Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Mpande had the clips in his hands and Methos snatched them and stuffed them in his own pockets. He looked back out at the enemy soldiers, taking aim more carefully. Mpande was still there. "How's the truck coming?"
Mpande didn't need to answer, because at that moment, the truck kicked into life.
"What the hell?" Methos whipped around towards the sound. Kumari was behind the wheel and she had the truck started, revving it then throwing it into gear and reversing straight at them. "Mac!" Methos yelled above the noise of the truck and the gunfire that hadn't let up for a second.
Somehow Duncan heard him, he spun towards them, saying something Methos couldn't hear as he stepped out in front of the oncoming truck, waving his arms in a useless attempt to get her to stop. But the truck kept coming, picking up speed, lurching out the opening and Methos and Mpande jumped aside as it passed them. What the fuck? The shots from outside grew even more deafening, volley after volley hitting the truck, but not slowing it down in the slightest. Oh fucking perfect. The bloody woman was stealing the truck. He hadn't seen that one coming.
Methos looked back for a second to where he'd last seen Duncan, his gut turning cold as he saw him lying on the ground just behind the broken wall. With a glance towards to the disappearing truck, Methos launched himself across the field of fire, stumbling and falling at Duncan's side.
"Mac?" He shook Duncan's shoulder and grimaced as his hand came away bloody. Damn, Duncan was hit and a look outside told him not all the soldiers had followed the truck. Methos called out, "Mpande!" and tossed his rifle over to him, picking up Duncan's discarded weapon and firing a few more rounds out into the bush. Beside him he could see Mpande doing the same.
Duncan stirred and tried to sit up. "What the--" Methos reached a hand and helped him up to sit against the wall, careful not to touch the injured shoulder. "I thought she said she couldn't drive," Duncan muttered.
"Yeah, well I think we can be fairly sure she was lying about that," he answered tightly. From where he knelt next to Duncan, Methos took aim at a soldier running from cover to head around the back of the church and brought him down easily. There couldn't be many more left, surely. He dared a quick look back at Duncan. He was a complete idiot for worrying, the man was Immortal after all. But then when it came to Duncan he was a complete idiot. "Are you healed yet?" he snapped.
Duncan groaned and tried to stand up, still holding the injured arm protectively. "Are you this sympathetic with all your patients?"
"You aren't my patient." Another burst of shots out into the bush with no clear target in sight.
"Thankfully." Duncan flexed the injured arm and Methos saw he was moving it a lot more freely. "What's going on?"
Methos caught a flicker of movement and took aim at it. He couldn't tell if he'd hit anything. "Okay...let's see..." he began, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm in his voice. "More bad guys out there than good guys in here, our weapons are down to two rifles with limited ammunition, a handgun and three machetes, we have no food and all our other supplies just went out the door along with our only means of transportation. I'd say we're reasonably fucked -- wouldn't you?"
"God, Methos -- you're such a pessimist."
"I think the word you want is realist," Methos shot back, his eyes still fixed on the bush where gunfire was still coughing out sporadically.
A warm hand settled on the center of Methos' back and breath brushed his ear as Duncan leaned close and said, "Time we got out of here, then, don't you think?"
Methos refused to think about how easily -- hell, how eagerly his body responded to Duncan's touch, because it was really starting to annoy the crap out of him. He shook off the hand. "All reasonable ideas gratefully accepted." And if that sounded as pissy as he thought it did, well too bloody bad.
"I'll see what I can do." Duncan had the balls to sound warmly amused, damn him. And why was he was even thinking about that when there were still half a dozen soldiers outside trying to kill them?
The firing outside paused and the silence that followed was thick and heavy. Methos looked at Duncan and tilted his head towards where Mpande still crouched by the other side of the fallen wall. Duncan nodded once in reply and without a word they rose and ran across to him. A burst of gunfire followed them, but they made it without getting hit. Just as well, too, he'd already been shot too many times this week.
Mpande drew back from the wall and ceased firing. "Well, Mac?" he said. "This is all a bit of a bloody mess." Methos rolled his eyes and bit back a comment about stating the incredibly obvious. "What you wanna do?" Mpande asked, reloading his weapon as he spoke.
"If you can find somewhere to hide and we let them shoot us, they'll give up and move on," Duncan said. "We just don't have enough ammunition to shoot our way out."
Methos blinked twice and rubbed his ear. Clearly he'd died too many times this week and it had damaged his brain because he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "You told him?"
Duncan looked sheepish, which was so appropriate Methos didn't know where to begin. "Well, yeah. I didn't exactly have a lot of choice in it."
He wanted to smack him. "Ever considered just having t-shirts made up? It'd save you a lot of time. I know a guy who could do you a good deal--"
Mpande cleared his throat, managing to sound impatient.
"Well, if you've got any better ideas...now's the time," Duncan growled. "If you've got any."
"Has anyone considered simply sneaking out the back door? It does seem a little less risky -- not to mention less painful." Methos looked at the door in question somewhat more pointedly than strictly necessary.
Duncan didn't like it, that much was clear from the frown on his face. But after a moment or two, he nodded. "All right. How do you want to do it?"
That was easier than he'd thought it would be. "I'll stay and cover you two while you make for the door. Sound simple enough? When you're out, I'll come after you."
Duncan shook his head. "No, I'll stay and cover you."
Methos didn't want to smack him anymore, now he just wanted to impale him a few times. "Whatever! I don't care. As long as we get the fuck out of this church."
"Well, at least we agree on something. I'll see you out there." Duncan shouldered his rifle and turned away.
Methos headed out towards the door with Mpande close behind. Duncan was back to shooting at the soldiers, although from what he could hear, the return fire was less than what it had been. He reached the door and paused, taking a deep breath and scanning carefully for signs of company. The village looked as deserted as ever. Mpande pointed out a direction through the ruined huts that looked like it led straight into the bush.
Methos gave a small nod and, silently, they ran through the village. The beating of his heart was almost as loud in his ears as the gunfire behind him and he found himself tensing in anticipation of the white-hot rip of a bullet hitting him. But none came. He let Mpande lead the way, winding past the derelict huts with their thatch falling away in scabrous chunks.
They left the shelter of the village after a minute or so and Mpande broke into a full run to cover the open space between the village and the bush. Methos kept pace with him easily, but he still felt his heart hammering when they finally stopped behind a huge termite mound. They were far from away safely yet. And where was bloody MacLeod, anyway?
He'd lost Duncan's presence when they'd left the village. Now he waited for its return. Methos only hoped he had the sense to get the hell out of the church now that they were away safely. But all they could do for now was wait. Methos sat down on the damp ground and tried not to grit his teeth so he could catch his breath.
It took longer than he'd thought -- or perhaps it was just the tension he couldn't seem to banish making time stretch, elongating every minute past its natural span. Come on, Mac. He was getting impatient, and not just because he was itching to get out of there. The waiting and the silence were giving him too much time to think, something he'd been avoiding all day so far, ever since he'd woken up in Duncan's arms -- even more so since that kiss. Warmth flushed through him at the memory. He banished it ruthlessly.
At last he could hear the gunfire slow and stop and Duncan's presence prickled back along his senses. Completely disproportionate relief filled Methos as he stood up and peered around the side of the mound and caught a glimpse of Duncan running through the bush. "He's coming," he said unnecessarily to Mpande, now standing beside him.
Duncan hadn't even raised a sweat when he finally made it to where Methos and Mpande waited. And Methos found that even that, today, was something that annoyed him. He had his mouth open to say something sharp and witty and utterly at odds with how he really felt about Duncan when, behind them in the distance, a massive explosion rocked the ground beneath their feet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~