Chapter Twenty-seven
Duncan fought to keep the wings steady, tightening his grip on the yoke as the small plane shook with the turbulence of the dying storm outside. He was flying as much by the instruments as by the landmarks below; the clouds enveloped the plane more often than not. But they were heading east, slowly but surely. Methos was silent and tense beside him, working on establishing radio contact with the camp, and Mpande sat just behind, leaning forward to point out landmarks from time to time. Still the guide....
Duncan smiled to himself as the sinuous shape of the Zambezi appeared beneath them, snaking along the ground surrounded by a narrow verge of bright green. They were on the right track, finally. They'd left Angola behind at last and at that moment he couldn't conceive of a single circumstance that would ever take him back there.
He glanced at Methos again, just for a second. His eyes were fixed on the radio stack between them on the panel and he went on adjusting the channels as if Duncan wasn't there. Duncan waited for him to look up, to meet his eyes, even if it was just briefly. But Methos stayed focused on his work. Duncan felt the familiar tightening in his gut as he let his gaze skim over the whipcord lines of shoulders and back, the total concentration on his face in profile. His heart contracted with the intensity of emotion Methos always invoked in him.
Methos hadn't said much as they'd crossed the airstrip, wordlessly passing the woman's fallen body and boarding the small plane. Duncan hadn't really wanted him to say anything; he could still feel the small sting of his sharp words, laid over the top of all the other raw places inside him. He understood all too well the origin of Methos' anger. Standing in Allessandro's grasp with the blade at his throat, he'd seen the fear in Methos' eyes in the seconds before he'd fired the rifle.
The plane shook again and then in what seemed like the blink of an eye, they were out of the clouds and in the blinding copper sunlight of a summer sky. He blinked against the glare and checked the horizon, decreasing the altitude slightly and bleeding off speed. They should be nearing Lafabo camp soon, if Mpande's directions were as good as he claimed.
"How's the radio coming?" he asked Methos as he eased the plane down another two hundred feet. He could hear only too well that it still wasn't working, but listening to his own thoughts and the roar of the engines was starting to get to him.
Static crackled again. "Not good. Still having trouble getting it to transmit." There was a click and the static disappeared. Duncan looked over and Methos met his eyes for a quick, surprised second. "Or not." He depressed the transmit button on the mike in his hand and tried again. "Lafabo Relief Camp, radio check." There was no answer at first and he repeated the call a couple more times.
"Lafabo Relief Camp, we copy," came the reply at last. "Please identify."
***
A crowd had gathered beside the tiny airstrip outside the camp by the time Duncan brought the plane to a standstill and shut down the engines. He sat for a moment, squinting out the cockpit windscreen at them all. They were really here. And there were more people out there than he'd seen since he crossed the Angolan border. He spotted Daniel Mboku, head and shoulders above the crowd, one or two other familiar faces, but the rest were just a blur of color and motion.
Beside him he could feel Methos hesitating too. And while Mpande had stood up, crouching slightly in the cramped space, he hadn't made a move towards the door either.
"So, what're we waiting for?' Mpande asked after another few moments.
Duncan wasn't quite sure, but the world was feeling a little odd and out of focus. He shifted forward in his seat as if to stand but paused instead, catching Methos' eye. "Ready?" he asked, forcing a smile.
Methos turned his head and looked out the cockpit window. "A little overwhelming, isn't it?"
Duncan nodded. "Strange. A bit unreal," he replied and held out a hand, ostensibly to help Methos up, but far more because he just needed to touch him right now.
Methos took it, but didn't get up, and Duncan held onto him a little longer. He heard the door being unlatched and pushed open. "It'll take us a while to decompress," Methos said. "You know how it is."
"Yeah." Duncan slanted a look at him. Cambodia was a mere thirty years ago and the memories were all too clear. The last time he'd been in-country. It had been brutal, but this...this was something else entirely. "Been there, done that."
The corners of Methos' mouth flickered, but he didn't smile, not really. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
Methos looked down at their joined hands and raised an eyebrow at him.
"Sorry." When the hell did they go back to being so awkward with each other? Duncan let him go and stood up, almost banging his head on the low ceiling before he remembered to hunch over. He caught a flash of something unreadable in Methos' eyes before he rose and walked away. Duncan took a deep breath and followed him out the door and into the waiting crowd.
He could have sworn there weren't this many people in the camp, as the crowd surged and enveloped them. He could see Methos, or the top of his head at any rate, as he was borne away by his friends, being hugged and cried over shamelessly. Duncan was being surrounded too, and the sense of claustrophobia was close to overwhelming with people he didn't know, or barely recognized, crowding close all talking at once.
He couldn't hear anyone clearly enough to give any more than a vague all-purpose response. He was being shoved and jostled in a sweaty sea of humanity. He had to stretch to his full height and lift his head to find even a breath of fresh air.
Everyone, it seemed, wanted to shake his hand, touch his arm, congratulate him on his success. They pushed up close around him, hot and damp with sweat and excitement. He caught a glimpse of Agustinho, his young assistant, through a brief gap in the surging crowd, but he was gone again before Duncan could do more than send him a brief nod and wave.
"People, people! Let them breathe," Daniel Mboku's strong voice rumbled above the noise. He was barging through the crowd, steadily making his way towards Duncan.
Duncan felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Mpande, a crooked grin on his face. "Bit fucking wild, Mac."
He could only grimace in reply. In all his thoughts of escaping Angola this sort of mob scene had never been in the scenario. Before he could say anything to Mpande, Daniel was there in front of them, a broad, white smile splitting his face and mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes.
He held out his hand. "MacLeod. Good to have you back."
Duncan took the hand and shook it, refusing to wince at the over-firm grip. "It's good to be back." Amidst the flurry of speculation concerning this man running through his mind he remembered Mpande standing next to him. "Dr Mboku, I don't think you've met our guide, Joseph Mpande. We couldn't have done it without him."
Mpande shook Daniel's hand. "He only says that 'cos it's true."
"Daniel," Duncan broke in. "I'd like to take Mpande down to the hospital. He was pretty banged up back there. Had a bad dose of malaria."
"Shit, Mac. I'm all right."
Duncan looked at him, cataloging the network of half-healed cuts and abrasions, the vague yellowness of his eyes that was a remnant of his illness, not to mention the other injuries he knew were there but couldn't see, and shook his head. "You need to see a doctor."
"I have seen a doctor!"
"In a hospital," Duncan insisted. "Just so they can check you out."
"You do look like you've been through quite a bit, son" Daniel put in. "Why don't you come with me and I'll take you down to the hospital? You too, MacLeod."
"That's not necessary, Daniel," Duncan answered quickly. "I'm not injured. But Mpande should definitely go."
"I'll be fine!"
Duncan clasped a hand over the other man's shoulder. "Mpande...you've been beaten, shot at, nearly blown up, had malaria and you've been living rough for the last two weeks. You need checking out."
"You do," Daniel agreed. "And as for you," he said to Duncan, "there's a debriefing in my office in three hours. I'll see you and Matthew there."
Duncan knew it was necessary, but his agreement was reluctant at best.
Mpande grumbled and scowled in Duncan's direction, but he let himself be led off towards the main part of the camp. Duncan watched him go, vague, unnamed anxiety curling in his gut. He looked around the crowd, which was dispersing now, with the excitement all but over. Methos was nowhere in sight.
Then he realized what was wrong. Methos' presence was gone from his senses and the absence was like a physical pain. There was too much unresolved between them, too much they still needed to work out, too much distance between them in more ways than one. And more than anything they needed some peace and quiet to sort themselves out and simply be together. It wasn't too much to ask, was it?
"So, how is he really?" a soft, Scottish voice said from behind him.
He turned and took a moment to connect the face and voice with a name. Anita something. Methos' Watcher. Anita MacKenzie. "Hello, Anita. He's fine," Duncan said absently as he wondered what she really wanted. "Alive, in one piece," he added dryly.
"You had people worried when we lost contact with you."
What was there to say to that? She was probably only fishing to fill in the blanks in 'Matthew's' chronicle, he thought tiredly. And he had no wish at all to have everything they'd been through – everything Methos had been through – documented, speculated over and dissected by the Watchers. Let them find out for themselves if they could.
"I'm sorry. I have to go," he said quickly, striding away and barely looking at the woman.
Methos' presence was still absent as Duncan made his way across the camp. It was mid-afternoon and the heat was at its highest, beating down on him, heavy and enervating. God, he needed a shower, food and sleep – and Methos. He walked past the storage buildings, past the hospital and up towards the staff quarters. Perhaps Methos was at the mess.
***
Methos had finally extricated himself from most of his crowd of friends and well wishers by the time he reached the front door of his quarters. A couple of die-hards would have followed him in if he hadn't insisted again that he was fine and no, he didn't need anything except a shower, a meal and great deal of sleep. And he didn't require their help with any of those, thanks all the same.
It was good to see them all again, but truthfully, he was feeling the absence of those who hadn't come back more acutely than he had since the crash. Faces who should have been there and weren't. Faces who now existed in his memories, more images to add to all the others, to fade too soon into a formless blur. He really needed to write all this into his journal. It had been too long and he missed it.
He shut the door behind him, leant against it and wondered again where Duncan had got to. Something – someone – else he missed. Which was stupid. They'd only been away from each other a bare half hour and he was already mooning over how much he missed the man? It had to be a side-effect of exhaustion.
His bed called to him, narrow and hard as it was but more than anything he wanted to get clean, and that would mean a trip over to the showers. He sighed, pushed away from the door and went to collect up some clean clothes. Shirt, pants, boxers, socks, his own boots, soap, razor – oh gods, yes – to get rid of this godawful stubble. He rubbed his hand over his chin and grimaced.
***
Methos wasn't at the mess; Duncan knew it the moment he came near. The atmosphere was resolutely presence-free, dammit. But the smell of food was too enticing to ignore, so he ventured a look inside. Some kind of celebration was in full flight in the large space and the noise and chaos was more than Duncan felt like enduring right now. But he was starving.... A thought occurred to him in time with the rumbling in his stomach and he headed around the back of the mess towards the kitchen instead.
A vigorous clanging and banging was coming from inside the kitchen when Duncan arrived at the door. The source wasn't apparent at first, but he kept looking until he saw the back end of a small, plump African woman sticking out of one of the industrial-sized ovens. He cleared his throat politely in the silence between a clang and a bang and she jumped.
The round little figure wriggled until it was free. She turned to him with a scowl on her face, until recognition dawned. "Tokoloshe!" she shrieked, scuttling towards him.
Duncan looked at her, baffled, until he remembered that was what she'd called him the first time he'd frightened her out of her wits. A devil. A demon. Ah, well, it wasn't the first time. He smiled and hoped it was reassuring. God only knew what he looked like after all that time in the bush. "Boa tarde, mama" he said.
She stopped three feet away and stared up at him, smiling so that her moon face creased and shone. "You found Dr B," she said happily.
"Yes. I did." It looked like Methos had won another heart. "And I'd very much like to take him some food. Would it be all right if I borrowed your kitchen?"
She laughed out loud and bustled him into the same stool he'd sat on the last time he'd been here. Obviously he wasn't going to be allowed to disturb her realm. Fair enough. Duncan sat where he was bid and watched the small dynamo rustle up enough food to feed an army. It might just be enough, he thought, his stomach rumbling again.
The cook must have heard it. Abruptly, she stopped in the middle of slicing thick doorstops of that well-remembered bread and hurried two slices over to him, all the while making that peculiarly African tsking noise of faint disapproval. Tscha-tscha-tscha...with an added sound in the back of the throat that he wasn't sure he could duplicate.
He felt about twelve.
But he took the bread and dived into it gratefully. It was every bit as good as he remembered and he fought the urge to groan out loud. He had to be hungry if he was getting this ecstatic over plain, unadorned homemade bread. It was polished off in a few ravenous bites. But he was still starving.
He watched her stuff all the food into a bulging handwoven basket and drag it off the kitchen counter. He jumped up to help her and she pushed it into his arms. It weighed a ton. "Obrigado, mama," he told her sincerely. "Tchau."
"You go, you feed Dr B," she ordered him.
My very thought, Duncan said to himself as he nodded and squeezed her plump hand. Feed him, take care of him, love him. I just have to find him.
***
Presence washed over him, deep and rich and resonant. Duncan smiled to himself; he'd found him. Less of an achievement this time, with far fewer places for him to be, but in itself not unsatisfying.
Methos hadn't been in his quarters when Duncan had come calling. Peering inside through the unlocked door, he'd seen the muddy boots he'd stolen for Methos lying haphazardly in the middle of the floor. Well, at least he had been there. He must have gone for a shower. And that was a damn good idea, Duncan had realized, imagining how putrid he had to be. He even smelt bad to himself. Definitely not very appetizing.
So, joining Methos in the shower had seemed like a very good idea. Leaving the basket of food on Methos' bed, it hadn't taken him more than a few minutes to grab his own gear and make his way to the amenities. Just in time....
To find Methos walking out the door, showered and shaved and looking a hundred percent better than half an hour ago. But still...damn. His disappointment had to have shown on his face. Methos' smile faded.
"Something wrong, MacLeod? You look like you just found out Santa Claus isn't real."
"You were quick," he blurted before he could think.
Methos mouth curled, giving the distinct impression of barely suppressed amusement. "Disappointed?"
Not any more. Duncan took a step closer. The awkwardness was all gone and here they were again, flirting as if it had never existed. "I left you something, in your quarters." He let his gaze wander all the way up Methos' long body, stopping at his eyes and holding them. "On your bed."
Fine, dark eyebrows elevated. "Did you now?"
"Give me ten minutes to shower and I'll come share it with you."
Methos didn't drop his gaze for a second. "I don't share at all well."
Duncan moved closer until they were almost touching. "Neither do I, but for this I'll make an exception."
And then he must have blinked, or else Methos was even quicker than he'd given him credit for, because all of a sudden Duncan found himself hauled inside the shower block, out of sight of any curious passers by, shoved up against the cinderblock wall with six foot of horny Immortal plastered all over his front, kissing him like it was an Olympic event. His clothes and shower gear were dropped to floor and forgotten.
Just as quickly, he was as hard as he'd ever been in his whole life. Too much denial, days and days of teasing, foreplay and interruptions, and now if he didn't get Methos naked soon, he was going to be the first man in the history of the world to actually die of blue balls. The fact that he'd come back from it was no comfort at all.
He clutched at Methos' back, at his ass, trying to tell him what he wanted without losing the delicious feel of Methos' mouth on his. A slick velvety tongue chased Duncan's into his mouth, and he sucked on it, quickly finding a rhythm. Methos was hard against him, moaning deep in his throat. Long hands came up to cradle his face, tunneling into his hair. Duncan held him tighter and spread his legs, pulling Methos in between them.
Footsteps crunched on the ground outside. They broke apart instantly, standing silent and breathless with their foreheads leaning together. Duncan didn't speak until the steps had faded away. "We should take this somewhere more private."
Methos rolled his eyes and sighed. "There is no privacy in this place. Trust me."
He was probably right. "But at least your place has a lock on the door."
"True enough. It's just never stopped anyone before."
"Methos, at this point I think I'm willing to risk it." Duncan grinned and hoped it didn't look too predatory. He went to step away from the wall. "Come on."
Methos pressed one hand against Duncan's chest. "Not so fast."
"What?" It was hard to keep the impatience out of his voice.
His nose twitched. "Do me a favor and take a shower first? And shave." Methos rubbed his chin where a fairly nasty case of bright red beard burn had disappeared seconds before. "I'll see you back at my place."
He had a point, but still.... "Or you could stay and wash my back for me." Duncan grabbed for him again only to have his hand batted away as Methos danced back out of reach.
"My place in twenty minutes," Methos said firmly. Then he was striding away, adjusting his pants and muttering something under his breath that sounded like 'incorrigible'. He didn't sound too upset by it.
***
Methos groaned and leant back on the bed with his back resting against the wall. "No more."
Duncan waved the last banana at him. "You sure?" They'd managed to put away what seemed a truly immense amount of food in a very short period of time; he wasn't surprised Methos was quitting.
"Not another mouthful."
Duncan shrugged and ate the banana himself. And if he noticed Methos watching his mouth while he ate, he was too much of a gentleman to comment on it. Yet. He swallowed and wiped his sticky fingers. Licked his sticky lips. And Methos was still watching him, desire fairly vibrating from his skin. Duncan pushed the basket, full of scraps and wrappings, off the bed and reached for him.
A shift and a wriggle and a fair amount of accidental rubbing later, he had Methos arranged along his side so they lay face to face, chest to chest.
And Methos yawned, wide and long, mumbling, "Sorry," halfway through.
Duncan forgave him, mostly because he looked so damn...the only word for it was cute. Though he'd never tell Methos that – something told him it wouldn't go down at all well. All the same, he thought he was being particularly considerate in waiting until Methos was finished before he finally kissed him.
Less ravenous than before, slow and sleepy and sensual, with the rough edges filed off so each taste and touch and appreciative murmur flowed into another. And eventually Methos stopped responding altogether and his eyes drifted shut. Duncan kissed him one more time, tucked Methos' head into the curve of his shoulder and let him sleep.
He was pretty sure he'd be forgiven the hand he slipped up inside Methos' t-shirt to rest in the center of his chest, over the few scattered hairs that grew there. Under his hand, Duncan could feel the slow, steady heartbeat, its rhythm infinitely soothing. The last tense places in his body let go and languid heaviness took over, the world slipping away as sleep claimed him.
***
Someone was kissing him, Duncan realized as he hovered still on the edges of sleep. Someone who really knew how to kiss. "Methos," he mumbled, shifting in the bed to arrange the long body on top of his own. No one else had ever kissed him quite like this. Duncan wrapped his arms around his lover and kissed him back.
"So you are awake..." Methos murmured, dropping sharp little kisses along Duncan's jaw.
"No, I'm dreaming."
"Good dream?"
Rhythmic suction on his earlobe woke him up a little more. "Mm-mmm...." He slid his hands down to Methos' ass and rubbed up against him.
Methos nibbled his way back along Duncan's jaw, all the way around to his other ear. Duncan turned his head to encourage him. And spotted the small travel clock Methos had on a rickety table next to the bed.
"Damn!" he groaned.
"Already, MacLeod? I'd have thought a man your age would have more self-control." Methos was teasing, but he wasn't going to think it was so funny in a moment.
"We have to go." How long had he been asleep anyway?
Methos didn't move except to thrust down onto him one more time with a slow, measured roll of his hips. Duncan felt his control cracking. "No...I think the word you want is come – not go," Methos whispered. "We have to come." His hands were busy lifting Duncan's shirt and his tongue darted into Duncan's ear.
Duncan shuddered and wished he'd never seen the damned clock. "Methos, we were supposed to at a debriefing with Daniel ten minutes ago. We have to go." Duncan grabbed him and manhandled him off onto the side of the bed.
Methos narrowed his eyes at him. "Of course we do," he grumbled, standing up and adjusting himself in his pants. "Why am I not surprised."
Duncan rolled off the bed and straightened his own clothes. He was definitely going to be finding out soon if it was possible to die of blue balls.
"You realize we're never going to get a minute's privacy in this place," Methos said and took a long drink of water from one of the bottles Duncan had brought.
The sensuous way he did it was no accident at all, overt to the point of caricature, with Methos tipping his head right back and working his throat. For a moment Duncan thought it entirely possible he'd come in his pants.
Instead, he glared at the old hedonist and stalked to the front door. "We had more than a minute and we spent it sleeping. Now we have to go to the debriefing."
Methos set down the water and grinned at him. Duncan tried to will his stubborn erection away before he embarrassed himself in public. It wasn't going to be easy. Methos' eyes crinkled; he looked like he knew exactly what was going on. Shaking his head helplessly, Duncan held open the door.
"I know who I'd rather be debriefing," Methos said with a hot and impenitent grin as he walked through the door, goosing Duncan as he passed.
And he calls me incorrigible.... Duncan smiled as he followed him out into the bright sunlight.
***
"By the way," Duncan said, coming to the end of telling his part of the story to Dr Mboku, "that plane out there was 'borrowed' from UNITA. I don't know what the Zambian authorities will want to do with it, but I'll leave that in your hands, Daniel."
Daniel nodded, not looking overly surprised that they'd stolen the plane. He hadn't seemed overly surprised by anything Duncan had told him so far, but then he'd been doing some heavy-duty editing of the actual events. The facts and only the facts. Methos had added the bare bones of his capture and imprisonment, but Duncan knew all too well there was a lot he didn't say. He didn't blame him, the sooner they put all this behind them the better. They were back, they were safe and well and if the internal scars took a little while to heal, well, it wasn't like they didn't have time.
The doctor had been quiet throughout their story, nodding and asking the occasional question, but otherwise saying very little. Duncan had seen him watching Methos most of the time with questions in his eyes. Uneasiness swam in his stomach. Something was going on.
There was a harsh scrape of metal on concrete as Daniel pushed his chair back and stood up. "Thank you for coming to see me, both of you. It's good to have you both back safe and sound." The words were friendly enough, predictable, but there was definitely something underlying his tone. "MacLeod, would you mind waiting outside for a moment? I need to speak with Matthew alone."
The unease sharpened, but he looked at Methos, catching the almost invisible nod he sent. "Fine," Duncan said. "I'll be right outside."
He walked out and closed the door behind him reluctantly, curious to know what was so secret Daniel couldn't say it in front of him. Duncan found himself pacing back and forth as the time ticked by. Twice he heard Methos' voice rise sharply and it was an effort not to go barging back into the office just to make sure he was okay. But, he reminded himself, Methos wouldn't thank him for it and it wasn't like there was anything going on in there that Methos couldn't handle on his own.
So, he waited, feeling his store of patience run dangerously low, until finally the door was flung open and Methos stalked out. He would have gone straight past if Duncan hadn't reached out and grasped his arm. "What happened? What's the matter?"
Methos rounded on him, fury in his eyes. He tugged his arm away. "I'm going to be formally questioned concerning the death of Djube Hussuf," he ground out. "Apparently I'm suspected of murdering him."
Duncan couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What the hell? Why?" This was insanity.
"He," Methos flicked a contemptuous hand towards Daniel's office, "says there's some kind of evidence they found during the autopsy."
"But--but that's crazy," Duncan blurted. "Allessandro killed Djube."
Methos raised a cynical eyebrow at him.
"Wait here," Duncan told him, unable to stand still a second longer. "I'm going to talk to him." He didn't wait for his reply, but strode back into the office, slamming the door behind him. Shock flashed across Daniel's face and he jumped to his feet as Duncan approached.
"What the hell do you think you're doing accusing Matthew of killing that pilot?" Duncan shouted. "We told you who was responsible for that."
"Yes, I know what you told me," Daniel said, his inflection making Duncan's hands fist at his sides. "It's just not backed up by the evidence."
"What evidence?" Duncan demanded. There had to be some mistake. Or something more sinister.
"Matthew will be told of that when the Zambian police arrive to interview him tomorrow. Until that time he is to stay within the camp and not attempt to leave for any reason. And he's not to have any patient contact in that time."
An excess of disbelief was making Duncan's head spin. "And me?"
"You were in camp when Djube was killed, you aren't under any suspicion."
"Matthew shouldn't be under any suspicion either – he didn't kill that man."
"I'm a doctor, MacLeod, not a policeman. That's not for me to decide."
"I thought he was your friend! How can you do this to him?"
"It's not something I enjoy," Daniel answered, the first flickers of temper appearing at last. "But I'm responsible for the position of this organization in Zambia. I not only have to respect the law, I have to be seen to respect it. We're guests in this country. We have to open and accountable, if we aren't we could easily find ourselves no longer welcome. My personal feelings can't come into it. I have to look at the big picture."
In his head, Duncan knew what Daniel was saying was right, but the anger would not leave him. "You're wrong," he insisted. "Matthew is innocent. We both know that." He couldn't stand still any longer and he spun on his heel and strode from the office. There had to be some way of getting to the bottom of this before the police arrived. As much as he wanted to believe they would be fair and impartial and investigate thoroughly, he was reluctant to put much faith in an overworked and under-resourced system.
And the more he listened to Daniel, the more doubts he had about the man. There were agendas and motivations running beneath the surface of everything he said. Duncan wondered if Methos had the same impression.
Methos was lounging against the wall outside the office when Duncan found him. To anyone else he might have looked nonchalant, but Duncan knew better. "This is insane," Duncan blurted as soon as he was close enough.
Methos flicked a look at him. "You sure about that?"
"Yes! Dammit, Methos, you didn't kill that man." What was going on in that convoluted mind now?
"I've killed a lot of other people." Methos pushed away from the wall and began to walk slowly back in the direction they'd come.
Duncan matched his pace. "So have I. We do what we have to do to survive. Self-defense isn't murder. Defending the innocent isn't murder. We'll get to the bottom of this," he said, more confidently than he felt. Proving Methos' innocence was going to be a hard task, given that Methos himself was the only living witness and this 'evidence' – whatever it was – had to look pretty compelling for the organization to have called in the police. Of course it would, given that it was a set up.
"Glad you're sure," Methos answered dully.
There was something wrong about Methos' demeanor. Duncan would have expected biting sarcasm, indignation, something other than this tired flatness. He stopped and grabbed Methos' arm, turning so they were face to face. "Methos, what is it? What's wrong?"
Methos didn't meet his eyes. "You know the really ironic part of all this?" He didn't wait for an answer. "The really ironic part is that I probably should have killed him. He was dying and help never would have got there in time to save him from anything but a lot of pointless suffering. And if I had, if I'd given him a merciful overdose of morphine, then none of this would be happening."
Duncan wasn't so sure that Methos was making a lot of sense. "Someone's determined to set you up – it wouldn't have mattered how the pilot died. They still would have found a way to do it." And he was starting to think he knew who that someone might be.
"You sound very sure," Methos said in the strangest tone, as if there was a question hidden deep inside the four small words.
Duncan stopped and placed himself directly in Methos' path. "I am sure," he said as confidently as he could. "I know you didn't do this and we're going to find a way to prove it."
Methos didn't reply straight away, his eyes searching Duncan's face; for what, Duncan didn't know. Duncan returned the look, not letting his eyes waver for a second, willing Methos to see the faith in them.
The long mouth compressed, then the corners curved up just a little. He nodded as if a decision had been made. "All right then," Methos said. He sidestepped and shouldered past Duncan. "You coming?"
Duncan hesitated for a moment, drawing a deep breath and feeling confused and relieved at the same time, as if he'd passed some kind of test without ever knowing what the questions were.
He watched Methos striding away from him across the dusty brown ground and hurried to catch up with him. Methos had his head down, hands wedged into his pockets, his eyes fixed on the ground ahead of him. Duncan nudged him with his shoulder as he drew level. "Trying to run out on me?" he joked.
Apparently Methos didn't think it was very funny. "Because that's what I do, right?" he snapped.
Once again Duncan stepped in front of him and blocked his progress. "Hey," he told him gently, "I didn't say that. I'm not the enemy here. I'm on your side, remember?" Methos didn’t reply and Duncan added a little less gently and more irritably, "I thought we were past all that."
Methos looked away and then back at him. "We were – we are. Sorry." He raked a hand through his hair.
"Good, because there's something else we really need to talk about," Duncan said, taking Methos' arm and steering him a little forcefully towards his quarters.
"What? Now?"
"Yes," Duncan insisted. "Now."
Methos tugged his arm free, but went along anyway, grumbling under his breath. Duncan led him through the rows of blue plastic shelters, through air thick with woodsmoke and the scent of a thousand unwashed bodies, past the throngs of refugees, many of whom called to Methos and would have stopped them to chat if Duncan hadn't kept Methos moving with a hand at the small of his back and a friendly but distant nod to ward them away. He could feel the ire growing in Methos; sense the tension rising in the thin frame, but they needed to talk and they really didn't need to be interrupted. Explanations would have to wait until they could speak in private.
***
Methos let himself be herded through the door of Duncan's quarters, mystified and pissed in equal parts. "So, give." He leant with one shoulder against the wall and watched Duncan bolt the door.
"How well do you know Daniel Mboku?" Duncan asked as he turned around.
Well, that was pretty low on the list of things he'd expected to hear. "I've known him since I was first recruited to come here."
"What's your impression of him?"
"He's a good doctor – knows his stuff – but he's a politician at heart. Mac, what's this about?" Duncan clearly thought he knew something that Methos didn't. It was surprisingly irritating.
"Do you think he could be involved with the diamond smuggling?"
And today was proving to be the day for surprises. He fought the urge to shoot an answer back and thought hard instead, going back over what he knew of Daniel. "I doubt it," he said after a long pause. "But you can never tell. He doesn't strike me as someone motivated by money, but there could be other considerations, besides that."
He was thinking back to that overheard conversation again, hearing Karen Vandermeer's feline voice dissecting Daniel's family history. '...His father was very high up in the PAC in South Africa back in the sixties. Trained in China with the communists and everything, just like the UNITA guys and all the rest of those terrorists.' He shook his head, looking up to find Duncan watching him closely. "Why? What do you know?"
"The day before I left, I saw him arguing with one of the transport drivers, then he took a parcel from him and stuffed into his pants like he was trying to hide it. It looked...suspicious."
"And you think it was a package of diamonds?" It could have been any number of things, Methos knew, but the evidence was beginning to stack up.
"There's no way to be sure. I think we should confront him and see."
"Not yet."
"Methos! If he's setting you up, we don't have much time. The Zambian police will be here tomorrow. If he's cooked up evidence against you, then...." Duncan trailed off and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "We have to sort this out now."
"Not. Yet," Methos repeated. If they went rushing headlong into accusing Daniel before they had hard evidence it could all backfire, badly.
Duncan frowned, opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. "What do you want to do, then?"
Methos covered his surprise at the back down by crossing the small room and sitting on the bed. "I think we need to wait and see what we're dealing with. If Daniel is involved, there's every chance he's not in it alone. Did you know they're throwing a welcome home party for us tonight about seven o'clock?"
"Might be a good opportunity to check out the lay of the land," Duncan said.
"My very thought." Despite all the problems facing them, it felt undeniably good for them to be on the same side, to be working together instead of against each other. A little of his pleasure must have shown on his face, because Duncan looked a question at him, a satyr's smile on his lovely mouth. It was all too obvious what he was thinking. "MacLeod..." Methos said in mock-exasperation. "Don't you ever think about anything else?"
He stepped closer, stopping to loom over Methos still seated on the bed. "Tell me you aren't thinking the same thing," he rumbled. "We have two hours."
Methos leant back on the bed and answered with his eyes sliding slowly up the length of Duncan's body, lingering for a moment just below his waist before continuing up to meet his eyes. They were dark with lust already, soft and beautiful as they refused to waver. "We're alone," Methos said, his voice far rougher than he'd expected.
"I'd noticed," Duncan replied, tugging off his t-shirt and tossing it to the floor.
The chinks of light filtering through the gaps in walls and windows lit his body until it looked like polished bronze, tempered by the fire of their experiences so that the muscles bunched and rippled beneath a fine layer of glowing skin. Warm, soft skin, Methos found, laying his hand on the flat of Duncan's belly.
Duncan laid his hand over Methos', lacing their fingers together. No urgency this time, just the slow, sweet sensation of swimming through honey. Duncan drew their hands away from his body and eased himself down onto the bed, taking Methos down with him. He should have been able to hear the noise of the camp, the sound of the tin roof ticking with the relentless heat, something, but at that moment all Methos could hear was the rasp of their breathing and the furious pounding of his own heart.
The pounding on the door made him jump so hard his forehead slammed into Duncan's. "Fuck!" Methos hissed under his breath, stars floating in front of his eyes.
Duncan twisted away from him to yell at the door, "Who is it?"
"Mr Mac!" a young African voice called. "Mr Mac!"
Methos sighed. "I knew it was too good to last," he muttered while Duncan vaulted off the bed and grabbed his t-shirt from the floor.
"We'll pick this up later, I promise," Duncan whispered, bending close to Methos' ear. "But I should see what he wants."
Methos thought dark thoughts about the hapless young man on the other side of the door and scowled in his general direction. But he hauled himself out of the bed and straightened his clothes.
Duncan pulled the t-shirt over his head, combed his fingers through his hair and waited for Methos before he slid the bolt back. The door swung open and a young man burst in. Methos had seen him around the camp, but didn't place him straight away.
"Agustinho?" Duncan said. Methos could hear the unsaid, 'What the hell are you doing here?' hidden in his tone.
The young man glanced across at Methos. "Good, Dr B, you here too. They need you both up the hospital."
Premonition jangled Methos' nerves. "What is it?"
"Why?" Duncan said, almost at the same time.
"There's been an accident."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~