Chapter Twenty

Duncan watched him go, stunned into immobility for a moment before he lauched himself after Methos. "Wait a minute! Methos!"

Methos kept walking and didn't turn around until Duncan grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

"You can't just drop a bomb like that and then walk away, dammit."

Methos struggled against the hold, then went very still and regarded him with an icy expression. "Actually, I can." He slipped away from Duncan's grasp and kept walking. "See?"

Old and fucked up? More like old and infuriating. "Methos!" Duncan growled. "What do you mean, it matters more now? What does?"

Methos stopped and turned around, his hands on his hips. "Forget it," he sighed. "I'm tired and sore -- walking in bare feet on this ground is no picnic, you know. Just drop it."

Mpande appeared from between the trees. "We got to get moving, 'mfaana." He looked from Duncan to Methos and shook his head. "'less you want to be sleepin' under a tree tonight."

Duncan knew he was right. "Come on, let's go." He stepped up to walk beside Mpande. "Did you find a good crossing?"

"Yebo, 'bout half a k downstream. But we gonna have to move -- we got maybe an hour's light left."

Duncan shot a look at Methos walking a careful distance away. Methos had a lot of excuses for what he had said, but none of them really rang true. He was going to get to the bottom of Methos' twisted psyche, it was just going to have to be later rather than sooner.

***

Methos sank down beside the fire, not bothering to suppress the groan as his sore joints finally relaxed. The battering he'd taken today -- hell, all week -- was going to take more than a few hours to recover from completely. But at least they'd found some shelter for tonight. And, much to his relief, his shredded clothing had finally dried after his impromptu dunking.

They made it to the cave before the pitch-dark night had fallen -- just. The first several possibilities had either been too wet, too small, or, on one stellar occasion, already home to a colony of bats who were predictably unimpressed about being disturbed. He would have thought twice about sleeping on a floor of ankle-deep bat guano, anyway. On the plus side, they had found a mongongo tree on the way and very soon they would be enjoying the roasted nuts.

The cave wasn't much, barely more than a shallow depression into the rock, going back about ten feet, and not quite high enough for Methos to stand upright after the first couple, but it was dry and empty and the sandy soil that covered the floor would be soft enough to make sleeping, well, if not exactly comfortable, not exactly torture either. Certainly he'd slept in worse places in the last week.

He really didn't want to start thinking about that again. He had problems enough to deal with right now. And there was problem number one, Methos thought as Duncan sat down by the fire, having just returned from making a trip to the nearest bush. Duncan hadn't stopped watching him all afternoon and the constant surveillance was driving him mad.

Or maybe he was already crazy. He had to have been to say what he did. Duncan wasn't an idiot -- he'd work it out soon enough and then things would be even more complicated. Hell, they probably already were. But if he kept worrying about that he'd be in danger of disappearing up his own arse, so he turned his attention outward again and looked around.

Mpande was nodding, almost falling asleep as he sat with his back against the cave wall near the entrance. The mongongos were set around the edge of the fire -- they'd been too hungry and impatient to wait for the flames to die down so they could roast them in the coals -- and Methos picked up a stick and began to roll the nuts away from the fire so they could cool enough to be opened.

"He's exhausted," Duncan said, with a tilt of his head in Mpande's direction.

"He's not the only one," Methos answered, the thought of it making him yawn. "He's a good man, though -- where'd you find him?" he asked, more to divert his thoughts than anything else.

"Grace Chandelle -- do you know her? He's a friend of her husband, Grant Montgomery."

"I've heard of her, but we've never met." The husband's name seemed familiar, too, but he couldn't place it at that moment. "What's the connection?"

"Mpande's ex-South African army, but these days he runs game safaris."

"Hunting or photographic?" Methos broke in. He'd picked Mpande as ex-army, but information about his traveling companions never went astray.

"Hunting mainly," Duncan said. "He's guided Grant on several trips over the years. About five years ago, on a trek in the lowveldt, Mpande was mauled by a leopard."

"Nasty creatures, never liked them."

Duncan's mouth curled wryly, but he went on with his story: "Grant managed to shoot it and get Mpande to a hospital -- saved his life. I guess when Grant asked him to help, Mpande felt like he owed him. It would have been hard to make it this far without him, he's a damn good tracker."

Methos couldn't help but feel there was more to the story than he was being told, but that would keep. "And Grace?" he put in. He remembered the name from Duncan's chronicles, but he wanted to hear what Duncan would say.

Right on schedule, Duncan suddenly found the fire fascinating. "We were close once, a long time ago."

"And now?" Methos couldn't help but ask.

Duncan looked up, flames reflected in his dark eyes. "We're friends, Methos, that's all."

"And the husband? Grant?"

"I've only met him a couple of times."

That wasn't what Methos had meant. "No...is he one of us?" Out of habit his eyes flicked to where Mpande was sitting, but the tracker was out cold, curled up and snoring.

Duncan smiled. "No, he's not. Grant's just a businessman with...diverse interests."

Something about Duncan's phrasing piqued Methos' interest. "'Diverse interests'? That sounds...interesting..." he said, hinting for more information.

"I'm starving," he announced as he stood up. "Those nuts must be cool enough to crack open by now."

Methos didn't miss the conversational swerve. But he let it go for now, Duncan wasn't the only one who was starving.

Duncan picked up a nut and placed it on a flat rock near the cave entrance, took another small rock and brought it down hard until the mongongo cracked open, revealing the fragrant, creamy flesh inside. Methos' mouth watered.

Duncan handed him the first one with a broad smile. "Here, bon appetit."

Methos fell on it, devouring the large kernel in minutes, while Duncan kept on working at opening the rest. Methos took a couple over to where Mpande lay sleeping and nudged the tracker with his toe. "Vula amehlo, Mpande." Open your eyes. "Uyakuthanda ukudla?" Are you hungry?

Mpande opened his eyes and sat up. "Yebo." He reached out and took the mongongos from Methos' hand. "Ngiyabonga, Doc. Unjani?"

Methos nodded. "Ngiyaphila." Well, if not precisely well, then he was certainly better than he was.

"Kuhle," Mpande answered as he dug into the nut.

Methos went and sat down by the fire again, wolfing down another couple of the delicious nuts before he finally had to declare himself full. The days of starvation were not so far behind him -- the days ahead still so uncertain -- that he could fail to appreciate just how good it felt to have enough to eat.

Beside him, Duncan was eating quietly, his eyes fixed on the flames whenever Methos looked at him. He was beautiful, all bronze and gold in strong, pure lines, so beautiful it made an odd, sharp pain twist in his chest. It was so unfair. Duncan couldn't just be beautiful; he had to be strong and honest and terrifyingly vulnerable as well. It was too much, Methos conceded, too tired to fight the obvious truth anymore: he still loved him. Maybe even more than before.

It wasn't enough -- it wasn't even everything -- but he loved him. Hell, he'd even dreamed that Duncan had said he loved him too. Sleeping off the effects of the mine blast, hanging onto the security that was Duncan's big hand wrapped around his own, he'd dreamed of Duncan's voice in the dark telling him that he was loved, that he wasn't going to let him go this time. It was a sweet dream while it lasted, but he'd given up believing in his dreams a long time ago.

A dark, heavy melancholy weighed him down as he stared into the fire, watching the flames slowly die. Whatever Duncan needed, or thought he wanted, it wasn't real, it didn't belong in the real world. It was heat and lust, adrenaline and propinquity -- temporary and ephemeral. It wasn't anything that would survive the reality of their lives. They'd proved that already. Methos exhaled heavily and allowed himself one glance at Duncan and a moment to wish for things to be different. But just a moment -- he was too much of a realist to indulge in could-have-beens for too long.  He had been hopelessly in love before and survived, he'd make it through this too, in time.

Though there had been times today when he'd doubted it. The memory sent a chill fingering over his skin, despite the warmth of the fire, and Methos shivered. He didn't want to start agonising over that again -- didn't even want to think about it. Shoving the thought into a box in his mind marked 'maybe never' and rubbed his hand over his face. Shit, he was tired. He stifled a yawn with a hand that felt like lead.

"Go on," Duncan said quietly. "Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

"Wake me in a couple of hours and I'll relieve you," Methos answered as he stood.

"I'll be fine."

Methos turned on him, unaccountably angered. "We both need to rest, MacLeod," he snapped. "And I don't need coddling." He stalked away -- remembering to duck his head beneath the low ceiling -- and found himself a patch of ground to sleep on, at the back of the cave.

He was annoyed, but not surprised, to see that Duncan followed him in. Methos ignored him and began to arrange the cave soil into a facsimile of a headrest. His skin prickled at Duncan's nearness, but he still jumped a little when a hand settled warmly on his shoulder. He didn't turn around but he felt Duncan kneel beside him anyway. When it came, Duncan's voice was low and careful.

"There's a difference between coddling the weak and looking after the people I care about, Methos. You know that." Without waiting for an answer, Duncan squeezed his shoulder gently, stood and walked away, leaving Methos sitting on the ground grasping vaguely for a response.

It was no good, he was too tired and the snappy comeback sector of his brain was worn ragged. Fuck it. He really did need some sleep, he thought as he made himself as comfortable as he could on the hard ground, still wondering at how such small words could fluster him so.

He'd expected to dream -- thought himself prepared for it -- but even long afterwards he found himself astounded at the ability of his own subconscious to torture him.

Paris sunshine on his back and well, if there wasn't a spring in his step, there damn well should have been. The stairs down to the Seine were a bitch to navigate, as always, but today he wasn't going to let it bother him. No, sir. The last couple of days had been godawful, but they'd come out of it fine, all four of them alive and well and that bastard, O'Rourke, had been sent to hell where he belonged.

It had scared the shit out of him to see Mac offer himself to save his life, but he was hoping the 'never again' meant he'd never have to go through that again. But with Mac, who really knew? Still, he'd seemed much better last night, hopeful and alive in a way he hadn't been in months. He didn't want to imagine his life without Mac in it either.

The barge was quiet as he walked up to the gangplank, but it was early yet, maybe Mac was still in bed. He paused for a moment with one heavy foot still on the cobblestones, wondering whether it was too early for an unannounced visit. Nah...he'd knock first, and besides, Mac was gonna love this news.

Couldn't stay long though, he thought with a glance at his watch, he had to meet Methos in an hour or so -- work on that Chronicle. Damn, he was gonna miss the old bastard when he disappeared again.

He made it up the gangplank, a lot more steadily than he'd made it down the night before, he thought, grinning at the memory, balancing himself on his stick as he stepped onto the deck. It sure was quiet down there. He walked around to the door and knocked. And waited. And knocked again, harder, and this time the door swung open.

Mac couldn't have been far away if he'd gone out and left the door unlocked, he thought, edging carefully down the steps that led into the barge's tiny living area. Maybe he'd just gone for a run. He was so busy concentrating on not falling ass over tit making it down those damn narrow stairs, that he was at the bottom before he noticed that he wasn't alone.

Oh shit.

Two small men, oddly dressed and strangely similar stood before him, Spanish rapiers in their hands. His gut turned ice-cold and if he could have fled, he would have. But legs of plastic and titanium wouldn't carry him fast enough, not up those damn stairs, not when there were two Immortals watching him silently, with their heads cocked at identical angles and long, elegant blades glittering in the sunlight through the portholes.

He gripped his cane harder and stood his ground. He hated this, hated this sense of helplessness with a passion that made him lash out angrily. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing on MacLeod's barge?" That they were friends never entered his mind, Mac's friends didn't greet you with drawn swords and eerie, calculating looks. He hadn't been watching MacLeod all these years without learning that look.

The men didn't answer, but leaned close to one another and spoke softly in an odd patois of languages. He recognized a few words here and there, but nothing that gave him a second's comfort. Fear began to hum inside him, taut as an overdrawn bowstring. He was thinking about trying to make it back up the stairs, even if he had to drag himself up by the hands, when they nodded once, exactly at the same time and turned back to face him.

He'd thought his blood couldn't get any colder, but now it was ice. They split up, coming at him from either side and the indecision snapped, then everything happened very fast. He hung onto the stair rail and struck out with his stick, knowing it was useless, knowing that if Mac didn't come back soon, then he wasn't going to be able to stop them doing whatever the hell they wanted. The stick struck steel and broke in two.

First bright pain through his ribs: adrenaline blooming with the blood that leaked down his side. A blow to his face, knocking him down, boots driving into his gut, into his belly, making him gasp and retch. Oh fuck... Hands on his collar, dragging him up again, but no time to lock the damn legs into position and he fell, his head thudding against the wall before he hit the floor, twice-damned legs twisting beneath him. Cursing the day he'd stepped on that damn mine.

Down again and his blood on the floor, on the wall, swords cutting into him again. Christ, how did they stand this over and over? Trying to yell, his voice just a hopeless croak and no one was coming, he was on his own and there wasn't a goddamn thing he could do. Swords slicing through his clothes now and over his skin, blood gurgling in his throat. Dying....

But not dead yet. Hitting out with a fist and the sharp crack of knuckles on jawbone. Take that, jerkwad. Backhander to his face, that snapped his head back into the wall, the barge spinning as his guts heaved with the taste of his own blood. Dull percussion as a sword point found the plastic casing of his left leg. Hah! Can't hurt those, fucker. Spitting blood back in their faces and trying to laugh at their shock.

Holding him down now, wheezing for breath with a boot on his throat, while a sword snicked over his hips, his waist, cutting his pants, the straps to his useless legs. And then they were gone, his legs hauled away and tossed across the room, thudding against something hollow when they landed. Not giving up yet, kicking out with a bare stump -- teach you to try that shit, fucker. Boot on his neck grinding down harder, choking him.

Grabbing at the leg, fingers hard and desperate, tearing, twisting, looking up into the strange pale of face of his death. Air, shit, he needed to breathe, his lungs were burning, eyes popping, the room going dim, but he surged and twisted and, finally, pulled away from the boot that held him down. Rolled onto his belly, air wheezing into his lungs, wet with blood, coughing it up. A sword in his back, deep this time between his ribs and the sick, pumping flood of heat over his skin. Odd rhythmic splatter against the wall behind him, but no time to wonder at it, because they were dragging him, one on each arm, back up the steps to Mac's bed. Thump, thud, thump with the echo of his head bouncing against the wood.

On the bed with a sword at his throat and this was all just a dream -- had to be a dream -- he wasn't going to die like this.... Odd, blank faces leaning down over him, chanting something he couldn't understand. The sword bit deeper and that was his blood flooding out all over Mac's bed, the pain almost nothing compared to the fear. Disbelief slipping away. This was it, this was really it, he was really going to....

Methos tore himself out of the dream, sitting up and gasping for breath. Arms came around him, and he fought them, still lost in the nightmare.

"It's all right," Duncan's voice was quiet and steady, "it's me." The arms closed tighter around him, dragging him close to Duncan's broad chest. "You were dreaming...."

"Joe..." Methos choked out, trying to calm his shuddering breaths, trying to pull himself together, knowing how close he was to losing it completely, "dreamt I was Joe. Oh, fuck." He buried his face in Duncan's shoulder and let the scalding tears flow, washing the grief and the fear away in long, shuddering, silent sobs.

Duncan held him, one hand on the back of his neck, the other rubbing circles into the center of his spine, not saying a word except with the touch of his hands and the strength of his body. And for a long time they stayed just like that, wrapped around each other, Methos letting his pain wash over Duncan. But even tears were not infinite and after a while the flow ceased and he pulled his face away from Duncan's sodden shoulder.

"Sorry," Methos said, swiping the lingering wetness away from his eyes.

"Don't be," Duncan told him. "It's okay."

Methos tried to pull out of Duncan's arms, but he held on tight. "You can let me go now," he said, his voice still a little thick. "I promise not to fall apart. Again."

"What if I need this too?" Duncan whispered.

"Oh." Methos was sure there was something he should have been able to say to that, he just couldn't think of it right now. He let himself sink back into the comfort of Duncan's embrace, holding him just as tightly, giving now as well as taking.

"I don't think I've ever been as scared as I was today," Duncan murmured, his breath warm against Methos' ear. "I thought I'd lost you for real."

A branch in the fire cracked, the sound ringing out sharply and they both turned to face it. "I should take the watch," Methos said, banking down the tumble of emotions rolling around inside him. "You get some rest." He dared a small whisper of a kiss to Duncan's cheek as he pulled out of his arms and stood up, almost forgetting to duck his head.

Duncan stood too. "I'll come with you."

Methos was too wrung out to argue. He didn't reply, but picked up his rifle and made his way to the cave entrance, Duncan close behind. They settled down side by side, their shoulders pressed together and the weapons laying on the ground close at hand. They didn't speak, and Methos found himself staring out into the inky night, wondering if he might have been wrong. After a while, Duncan's head leaned onto Methos' shoulder and he finally slept.

***

Mpande was awake before the dawn was more a faint gray light in the sky. Methos glanced over at him, gave him a short wave before resting his hand back down on Duncan's hair. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Duncan's sleep had become so deep that his head had slid from Methos' shoulder to his lap and Methos had left him there, absently stroking the thick hair from time to time as he watched over him.

Mpande's answering smile was cut short as he focused on the man all but curled up in Methos' lap. He frowned and turned away, disappearing around the side of the cave, presumably to take a leak. Methos sighed, yet another problem to deal with, although hopefully, this one would be a little easier than most they'd faced so far.

He nudged Duncan's back. "Mac -- wake up."

Duncan was awake in an instant, sitting up and reaching for his rifle. "Is everything okay?"

"Almost everything. But your Zulu friend seem a little put out by your sleeping arrangements."

"Ah." Duncan looked around. "Where is he?"

"Gone for--okay...here he is." The tracker appeared back at the front of the cave. Mpande wasn't the only one who needed to piss, but Methos decided he'd stick around and hear what Duncan said first.

"Morning," Duncan said cheerfully to Mpande, as he stood up. Methos stood too, but he lounged against the cave wall rather than cross to the tracker as Duncan did.

Mpande grunted a greeting and picked up the empty gourds, turning to head down to the creek.

"Wait a minute, Mpande," Duncan said, putting himself in the other man's path. "Is something wrong?"

"Sies, man, it's nothin'." Mpande shook his head and stepped around Duncan.

He looked across at Methos and shrugged. Methos was inclined to let it go, but he'd never known Duncan to give up on anything...except, perhaps, him. Cheerful thought for this early in the morning. "Are you sure?" Duncan persisted.

Mpande angled himself away from Methos and looked up at Duncan with his face as hard as Methos had ever seen it. "Are you and him...?" he made a familiar gesture to complete the question.

"Fucking?" Duncan asked mildly, though Methos knew better than to trust that tone to last. Duncan looked back over his shoulder towards him and sent him a crooked smile. "Not currently." He turned back to face Mpande. "Does it matter?" he asked with a shrug.

Methos almost laughed at the series of expressions that traveled across Mpande's face -- but only almost. As inconsequential to him as Mpande's feelings about their relationship (whatever the hell that was) would normally be, they still needed the man to help them get the fuck out of this hole of a country. It would be a whole lot easier if they didn't have to deal with outright hostility as well.

Finally, Mpande settled on an uncertain smile. "Nah...I guess not." He cocked his head and looked quizzically at Duncan. "You like that shit?"

He heard Duncan give a low, throaty chuckle, but he didn't actually give Mpande an answer. Probably just as well. Methos gave a short laugh of his own and said, "Come on, you two. Enough chattering -- we need to get a move on."

Duncan nodded and clapped Mpande on the back. "We do. Mpande? Were you going for water?"

"Yeah, Mac." Mpande flicked a dubious look at Methos as he passed, but said nothing.

Methos pushed away from the wall and strolled over to kneel by the fire. The air was still cool from the night and much of the forest before them was still deeply shadowed. Duncan came and knelt beside him.

Methos slanted a look at him. "Not currently?" he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"That's what I said," Duncan returned in much the same tone.

"You're assuming rather a lot."

Duncan's voice was more sober as he answered, "Not assuming, Methos -- hoping. How many times to do I have to tell you I want you back in my life before you believe me?"

Methos had no answer for that, except to say, "Give me time, Mac," as he got up and walked away.

***

Yesterday's fear was still with Methos as they left the cave and crossed back over he creek. His heart beat a little faster and he had to wipe his hands on the sides of what was left of his trousers more than once, but surreptitiously -- Duncan was bound to notice and start to worry again. He didn't need that on top of everything else. He found himself watching the ground, far more than he should, watching for Mpande's broad footprints in the sandy soil and placing his own in them carefully.

The morning cool was still burning off with the rising sun and he didn't need to be psychic to know that today was going to be another scorcher. They still had a hell of a long way to go. And they had to stay clear of the roads and trails that would have made their path a lot quicker and easier -- that was going to slow them down even more.

Duncan was walking behind him, some unspoken arrangement placing Methos in the middle yet again. It should have bothered him more than it did, he supposed, but at the moment he was taking all the safety he could get -- there was little enough to be had after all. That thought was making him edgy, multiplying the fear prickling down his spine and he clamped down hard on it and forced it away.

Methos kept his mind, and his feet, carefully under control and soon fell into the rhythm of the trek, concentrating fully on his surroundings and the job at hand.

***

They continued to follow the creek, heading south-east with the flow of water and land. The creek eventually merged with a river and they continued to follow it. The route was going to take them far south of the border crossing nearest the camp, if they kept going that way, but at the moment, it was the safest and the easiest route out of there. And it kept them close to a water source.

The downside of that was that it had the potential to bring them into closer contact with the locals than Duncan would have liked. Heavy fighting in Moxico had decimated the civilian population, but there were still isolated pockets here and there. So, he wasn't surprised to hear the sounds of human voices floating across the wide river.

As they'd done a couple of times already that day, all three of them ducked down behind the bushes. Duncan peered through the leaves, trying to get an idea of the size and identity of the group. They'd stumbled onto what looked to be a small camp, tents were pitched by the riverbank and he could see tools and outdated machinery here and there being used by young African men.

Judging by the type of machinery he could see, they could only be searching for diamonds. It was too good an opportunity to pass up -- he had to get in there and see what he could find out. There were only two things standing in his way: actually getting in there without being shot, and telling Methos what he was going to do -- also without being shot. Duncan wasn't kidding himself that either one was going to be easy.

A hand tugged on his arm and he looked away from the camp. It was Methos, looking seriously impatient. "Come on, MacLeod. It's time we were getting out of here."

Duncan shook his head. "Not yet."

"What do you mean, not yet?" Methos hissed. "Let's go."

"Give me a few minutes."

"Are you insane? To do what?"

"I need to get in there, take a look around."

"For what? Decorating tips?"

"You sure that's a good idea, Mac?" Mpande put in quickly. "There's no guarantee they the guys you looking for."

"Looking for?" Methos said dangerously.

Duncan hadn't thought that amount of outrage could be expressed so quietly, but he was wrong. And Methos had his hand on his machete. This was really getting out of hand.

It was time to come clean.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Continued in Chapter 21          Back to Main Page            Back to Contents