Kiss of Shadows

By esjay

Just because the water is still, doesn't mean there are no crocodiles.

Chapter One

The roar of the outboard echoed across the wide marshland, the one jarringly modern note in the ancient landscape. The riverbank disappeared into the marsh; water becoming land in a seamless progression of every shade of green he'd ever seen. Duncan was considering trailing his fingers through the cool, green, river water when he noticed the stealthy rise of a crocodile's eyes just above the waterline. He smiled, pulled his hand back from the water and concentrated on the stretch of river ahead of the boat.

This was a beautiful country, he thought as he squinted against the reflected glare of sunlight on water that flared while the river swirled and eddied around them. Beyond the river the forest stood, dark and impenetrable -- shadows shifting uneasily with the movement of the breeze. Like all of Africa, astonishingly beautiful, but with an undercurrent of danger. The boat swerved around the trunk of a long-dead tree that rose up from the water like an accusing finger and Duncan had to hold fast to the sides of the narrow boat to keep his balance.

He was sitting wedged into the bow end of the slender canoe-like boat as it knifed through the Zambezi, supplies and two boatmen crammed in behind. It had been a long and convoluted journey so far but it would soon be at an end. The trip had taken him from his home in New York to the organization's headquarters in Amsterdam. From there he'd caught a connecting flight to Johannesburg and another one to Zambia's capital, Lusaka. Then it was a bumpy jeep ride from Lusaka to the small town of Mongu where he'd met this boat that would take him to meet the jeep to go to his final destination.

Duncan rolled his shoulders a little, chafing at the almost four hours of confinement in the small vessel. He lifted his face to the flawless blue-glass sky, smiling at the warmth of the sun on his skin. The morning shadows were still long but the promise of the blasting heat to come was definitely there. He breathed in the clean, warm air and reveled in the vast difference from smoggy Lusaka. This was Africa for him -- the glossy hippos belly deep in the shallows, the tiny antelope springing away from their morning drink at the sound of the boat's motor, the lazy jump and flop of fat fish as they teamed around the weed beds. Perfect.

For all that he was cramped in the boat, for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, he felt free. He dragged in a lungful of marsh-scented breeze and let it go, sparking a long-dormant glow of well-being deep inside. He'd left his old self back in the States -- shed his skin like a snake and was coming here new and alive again. There was space around him here, space like he hadn't been able to feel even on the holy ground of his cabin. Space to breathe and move again. Space, distance, time…healing. Maybe in this place he could complete the journey.

It was hard for him to reconcile all this peace and beauty with what he knew he would find at the end of the journey. War -- or the leavings of it. Pain, misery, refugees and death. He'd had the required briefings, and God only knew the number of war zones he'd been in before, but every one had its own special horror. And just over the border, in Angola, there was a nasty little war being carried on -- against its own people. Years and years of it, until the misery and chaos of it boiled over pushing the people out of their own country.

So they came, in their thousands, over the border to the place where Duncan was headed now: Lafabo.

***

"What do you mean there's no penicillin?" Methos hissed at the nurse. "Are we or are we not a hospital? Get back in there and have another bloody look!" Methos lifted the filthy rag and, constructing a calmer expression for the benefit of the patient, took in the reeking wound, crawling with maggots. The worst thing was that the maggots were the good news, they, at least only ate the dead tissue. Even with the antibiotics, this man had little enough chance of keeping his leg -- forty kilometers of struggling through the mud on the badly slashed limb had seen to that. Without the drugs, though, the blade might as well have taken the leg right off for all the chance it had of being saved. Methos wondered how the hell the man had made it as far as this camp.

Damn machetes. The long, wickedly sharp blades were a favorite weapon of both sides of this conflict. The sudden amputation of an enemy's extremities was considered to be an effective method of discouraging their further participation in the war. And the purely pragmatic side of him had to concede that, by and large, it was. Men with one leg rarely returned to the fighting and it was difficult to load, aim and fire an Uzi with only one hand. The only things worse were landmines.

Thankfully the mines all lay on the other side of the border. There weren't a lot of things that could make Methos' mouth go dry with fear but the thought of a simple walk from A to B turning into the explosive separation of his body parts was one of them. Still Zambia was considered safe enough. Which was why, he thought as he tidied up, so many came here.

Every day it was the same, more and more refugees, fleeing the civil war that ground on just over the border in Angola. Some days it was a trickle, some days a flood. Every day he wondered what had possessed him to come. It had seemed an answer of sorts at the time -- a solution to the interminable introspection that was swallowing him whole. Now he wasn't sure why he was here -- only that he couldn't walk away now.

Some days he called himself every kind of fool for taking this on again. Going back to medicine had not been on the agenda, after all. Nevertheless, in the aftermath of all the losses of the last few years, somehow it seemed the thing to do. It felt right. That in itself was rare enough, not much else had felt right in the last few years. And he didn't regret it -- not really, for all that he bitched and moaned about the conditions and the chronic lack of supplies, Methos was proud of the work they did here. And it really was the last place anyone -- anyone at all -- would think of looking for him. Going back to medicine after Joe's death and the breakup with Duncan had been a good idea, most of the time he thought that joining the relief effort was too.

"You know that shouting at her won't make it reappear for you," a soft African voice murmured close by his ear.

"Daniel!" Methos exclaimed warmly, turning to look briefly at the newcomer, before returning to his exam of the patient. "How are you? When did you get in?" It seemed like the camp director been away for ages. Methos could barely keep up with his comings and goings anymore. But, what the hell, a good pair of hands was always welcome. "Pass me some of that tape, would you?" Methos asked as he slid an IV cannula into the patient's vein with the ease of long practice. Daniel handed him a neat length and Methos secured the thin plastic tubing. Methos looked across at other man and narrowed his eyes. "Where's the supply truck, anyway?"

The nurse reappeared, apologetically holding up not the penicillin but two vials of another antibiotic. "Hey Dr B, will flucloxacillin do instead?"

"Yeah, I guess, thanks, Paulina. Could you put it up with a liter of saline?" As almost an afterthought Methos added, with what he hoped was a charming smile, "And I'm sorry I snapped." It never did to antagonize the nursing staff.

"De nada," she smiled in return and went back to her work.

"Still as charming as ever, Matthew?" Daniel asked with a sarcastic grin lurking around his mouth.

"You know me, Mr. Congeniality."

A low chuckle rumbled out of the big man's chest. "Yes, well.... You've got a new logistician coming in today, so I thought I should be here to welcome him. He'll be taking over, now that Simeon's gone back home. Seems like an okay fellow; I met him in Amsterdam before he came out." Daniel looked at the watch on his wrist and frowned. "I have to meet him down at the river and show him around. He should be here any time now. Try not to scare him off too quickly. You know we need all the help we can get. And your supplies will be here this afternoon, they had some problems with the truck."

Daniel was halfway out the door when Methos turned to look over his shoulder and said, "Just as well. Does he have a name then? This okay guy? Just so I'm nice to the right one."

Daniel paused for a moment, closing his eyes briefly. "Umm...MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod."

Methos' teeth bit clean through the inside of his lip and his mouth filled with the metallic tang of his own blood, but he kept his face studiously expressionless.

***

Duncan jumped from the jeep and hauled his heavy pack out and onto his shoulder. He walked quickly across the dusty road to where the administrator stood waiting. He stuck out a hand and had it immediately enfolded in a firm grasp.

"MacLeod, welcome to Lafabo," Daniel smiled.

Duncan returned the handshake and the smile. "Good to be here, Dr Mboku."

"Call me Daniel, please."

"Mac." He turned to look at the camp that sprawled out in front of him and was struck by the apparent permanence of the place -- roads, buildings, water supply, and of course, row upon row of makeshift blue plastic tents. Relief camps had come a long way since Cambodia.

"I'll take you to have a look around the hospital and camp after we get you settled here, Mac," his host said.

Duncan turned and had to look up to smile at the tall African man. "Thanks, Daniel. It's a little different from what I expected--" Duncan stopped when he noticed a group walking towards them from the quarters that stood a few hundred yards away in the opposite direction to the sprawl of the camp. The group came nearer and a wash of Immortal presence made his mouth go dry in sudden panic. No. It can't be. Not here. He knew that vibration like it was part of himself. Because it was.

At the moment when their lives collided and time stopped the air was still and shrill with the high-pitched shriek of cicadas, the cloudless sky burned while the smoke-scented breeze tugged at hair and clothes. There were other people there, but for the life of him Duncan could not acknowledge their presence. They were shadows -- insubstantial as ghosts compared to the sight before him. The breath caught in his throat and the bag slid from his shoulder and dropped from his nerveless fingers.

Methos.

He looked wonderful -- that registered first and sent warm fingers curling around Duncan's heart. Whatever damage Duncan's actions had caused, it had not dimmed his aura and for that he was glad. Methos' skin glowed pale gold with the sun. Perhaps the line of his cheekbone was less sharp -- an extra pound or two gained that made him look even younger than the last time Duncan had seen him, when the tension of that time had kept them both greyhound thin. His hair was a little longer too, he noticed, as the breeze ruffled it, long and silky-looking with unexpected curling waves. If he'd expected to see anything in those incredible green-gold eyes, it wasn't what he could see there now; a warm mix of emotions too complex to separate, but none of them condemnation.

"Duncan."

Unbelievable to find him here -- here of all places. When Duncan had made his plans to come to this place he'd had no thought of this. When he'd volunteered his services it had been another way to fill the loneliness that had become his life. A way to turn the aching void into action that could do some good. He had never, ever thought that here, in the middle of Africa, a million miles from everything they'd known together, the great wheel would turn and their lives would intersect once more.

"It's good to see you."

"And you." Incredible understatement. It really was Methos. No illusion. No other voice had ever done that to his heart. From the first moment he'd heard it, that beautifully accented baritone had resonated through him at a frequency that unlocked his every barrier. Nothing had changed.

And the voice held no rancor. That was the most singular thing. After the awful thing he had done, Duncan expected to hear bitterness and derision, coldness and disdain but instead the voice, like the eyes, was wondering, gentle and as precious to him as desert water.

"Come. Walk with me. I'll show you to your quarters." Astonishingly familiar; that touch. Years fell away in the space of the second it took for Methos' hand to close around Duncan's upper arm.

Some part of him that still existed in the greater world remembered to pick up his baggage from the riverbank before walking, still dazed, beside the figure that had haunted his dreams for five long years. Voices followed them, Duncan recognized a questioning note in one, but could not rouse himself to answer it.

"Christ, Methos, it's good to see you," Duncan managed to rasp.

Methos looked at him and smiled, as broad and as beautiful as any expression he had ever seen on that wonderful face. Hope leapt in Duncan's heart.

Methos turned them down the fork of the path that led towards what passed for the staff housing. They were using an abandoned village and the huts were largely constructed of bits and pieces of found materials, haphazard and idiosyncratic. Duncan smiled as he saw the Coca-Cola sign that comprised half the front wall of one hut. Methos stopped in front of the second one.

"This one's for the 'new guy', which I suppose must be you." Methos opened the door and motioned Duncan inside first. "You're lucky, you haven't a room-mate at the moment. Don't count on it lasting, we all have to share eventually," Methos added in a wry tone.

As Duncan went inside the little room he passed close by Methos, breathing him in as he went. The scent slithered through his body and unfurled low in his belly. Too soon to want so intensely and yet he did -- every cell in his body sang with it. He heard the door close softly behind him, the rattle of a bolt being slid into place. There was something he needed to say -- that he needed to make right between them before anything else was said or done. Easier to jump in now with his back still turned, to speak without seeing the look it brought to Methos' face.

"Methos -- I'm sorry." Incredibly, arms were snaking around him, turning him, enfolding him in their strength. Duncan could only return the embrace, tight and desperate.

"It doesn't matter. You're here now...."

Long hands stroked down Duncan's back, granting him a forgiveness he knew he didn't deserve. He let himself bathe in it for a long moment, nonetheless, before guilt sent him pushing free, hurling himself to the far side of the room. "How can you say that after what I did? How can you just say that it doesn't matter? Aren't you angry?"

Methos smiled with gentle humor as he lounged back against the door. "Do you want me to be angry?"

"But I ran away. I left you without a word -- just that damned note." Duncan heard the puzzlement in his voice, a shade short of a whine and shuddered at himself.

"And a very comprehensive note it was too." The smile twisted at one corner. "Yes, Duncan, of course it bloody well hurt -- I won't pretend it didn't. But I understood then and I do now." He pushed away from the door and walked across the room towards Duncan. "Do you?"

Nothing for it but the truth. "I -- I thought I did. But now...? All I know is I've been walking around these last five years feeling like a part of me was missing." Duncan welcomed his love into his arms again. "And now it's not." Damn it, tears were welling up in his throat; he didn't want to start crying like a fool, but it was all too much and all he could do was hold Methos to him as close as possible and bury his face in the curve of his shoulder.

God...how had he survived this long without this? By some alchemy of wishes and dreams Methos was kissing him and all Duncan could do was kiss him back. Hands on his face, stroking his skin, thumbs brushing away the tears, bringing him back to life. Lips against his own, coaxing them to part, slipping a satin tongue between to tangle with his. The body pressed against his was hard and wanting, Duncan moved with it, restless and needy. Desire, as hot as Quickening fire ripped through him and Duncan pulled his shirt open and let it slip to the floor. Duncan groaned aloud as Methos' hand slipped between them and smoothed a palm over the hard outline of his cock.

And it seemed his body knew what was going on, even if his mind didn't. Duncan's hips rocked forward, pressing into the touch that knew him so well. His legs wouldn't keep him upright and he staggered back until they tumbled into the hard narrow bed that would apparently be his. Methos went with him, the heat of his body the only real thing in the world. The kiss went on unbroken, more urgent by the second.

It was surreal almost, to step from the small boat that had brought him down the river, to arriving here and then to fall into this. So unreal to find Methos here at all and then to find this un-thought-of forgiveness waiting in his arms.

Then Methos was rocking against him -- with him -- and all Duncan knew was how very much he wanted this. Delicious heaviness pressed him down; the solid reality of Methos lying above him was almost too much to take in. Duncan pulled Methos even closer and the answering moan sent a bolt of pure pleasure resonating through Duncan's body. He slipped his hands down to angle Methos' slender hips more closely to his own. God yes, right there… The hard ridge that was Methos' cock trapped between them was rubbing over Duncan's and suddenly control was a very tenuous thing.

Duncan gasped and Methos' mouth left his, soft lips and sharp teeth traveling over the skin of Duncan's jaw and down his neck, nipping, licking, sucking. All the while their hips ground rhythmically together, sending sparks flooding through him, lighting his body. It had been so long and he had missed this so much. Overwhelming, how this need between them had not dimmed in all this time. Then clever fingers eased his zipper down over his aching flesh, and slipped inside his clothing, banishing every thought but one. He gasped and pressed upward as the fingers curled around him.

"Don't say no," Methos whispered, close by Duncan's ear as his hand began to move. "I need you...."

"Yes," Duncan rasped, as if there had ever been any question of it being otherwise. "Please...." Hot fingers danced across his flesh and Duncan thrust helplessly into them. "Methos." His whole body was singing with need, fully alive at last.

Duncan pushed a hand down between their bodies and freed Methos' cock, his hand curling around it lovingly. It was hot and silken and as familiar as a well-loved dream. Methos leaned down and covered Duncan's mouth with his own and Duncan surrendered gratefully to the kiss. His free hand slipped up to curve around Methos' nape, holding him near, holding him as close as their mouths could be, as deep as the kiss could be.

Methos shuddered against him.

Duncan moaned and shifted beneath him, so that their cocks were aligned. He loosened his grip on Methos' shaft so that they could link their fingers together, stroking in time. They kissed and stroked their cocks feverishly and the world seemed to disappear in the face of  mindless, desperate need.

And it didn't matter to Duncan that they were still mostly dressed, or lying on a hard narrow cot on the near edge of a war zone. All that mattered was that by some immense cosmic coincidence they were here, together, and Methos had forgiven him for the awful thing that he had done to them both.

But when had Methos ever judged him, ever held it against him whatever awful thing he did? He killed Byron -- Byron, who Methos had loved -- Methos forgave him, eventually. He knelt before him and begged Methos to take his head after Richie's death and Methos still forgave him. Not even his culpability in Joe's murder was beyond Methos' forgiveness. The depth and scope of his love had always stunned him. Methos only played at detachment, the few that he loved, he loved well.

Duncan's body tensed, five years of denial, five years of hurt and pain and loneliness melting away and the reality of having Methos in his arms spreading through him in a warm flood. Methos, quite possibly the only person he had ever loved to this degree. As his orgasm coiled sweetly between his legs, and his hips rocked against those of the man above him, Duncan felt the unfamiliar sensation of joy driving back the shadows.

Methos was close too, Duncan could feel it in the rapid breath into his mouth, the fervent grinding of narrow hips into his. Then Methos' mouth was leaving his to blaze a trail of fire down along his jaw, his ear, his neck…

Sharp teeth sank into the skin just below Duncan's ear and tipped him over the edge. He took Methos with him, free-falling, spinning out of control into a climax so shattering it was as if every bone in his body had been instantly liquefied.

Methos slumped over him, a languidly delicious weight to be gathered into his arms and held safe. He slipped a little to the side and Duncan pulled him close, reveling in just how perfect it felt to have the silky, dark head snugged against his neck. Methos stroked down Duncan's chest in a contemplative rhythm, incalculably soothing.

"I never stopped missing you, Methos," Duncan murmured, his breath lifting a skein of dark hair on Methos' forehead as he spoke. "Not ever. No matter where I was or what I was doing. I wrote you letters, many times, trying to explain to you -- to myself -- why I walked away, but I never sent them. I wouldn't have known where to send them anyway." Duncan tilted his lover's head back, capturing his mouth once more in a kiss more sweet than sexual. And when it ended, Duncan opened his eyes and found himself drowning in a gaze deeper and more dangerous than the Zambezi. "I'd almost forgotten how beautiful you are," Duncan breathed.

Methos closed his eyes and tucked his head back into the curve of Duncan's shoulder as if the declaration embarrassed him. "I'm glad you came, Mac," he said in a quick, quiet voice as if he was admitting to a crime. Just as quickly, he turned his face to Duncan's chest and pressed a kiss there. "I missed you..." Methos whispered and lay his cheek over the kiss. "I must be slipping -- how did you manage to find me?"

Oh, Christ. The pit of Duncan's stomach turned cold, and he could not prevent the stiffening of his spine as he heard the question and understood its meaning. "Methos…I didn't -- that is…I wasn't." Duncan slid his arm from beneath his lover and sat up with his back against the wall, ready once more to cut out his heart with the truth. "Methos, I thought you understood, this was an accident, finding you here was all just a...coincidence. A wonderful coincidence, but..."

Methos' expression cut to the bone. Disbelief, pain, and betrayal washed in and out of the pale face. Duncan watched in horror as those beautifully expressive eyes turned cold and hard. Duncan steeled himself for the verbal flaying that was sure to follow.

Instead, a fist battered the door, as loud as thunder against the expectant silence. "Dr B? You in there? Dr Vandermeer says she needs you back up at the hospital!"

"Just a minute, Tin!" Methos called and Duncan marveled at the self-control that allowed him to answer so calmly. Then Methos turned to look him in the eye. "So what was this, then?" he hissed, all but leaping from the bed, pulling his clothes back into order with rough, hasty tugs. "Just a good opportunity for a free fuck? A tumble for old times sake? What are you even doing here?" He snatched up Duncan's discarded shirt from the floor and wiped the mess from his skin with quick, angry swipes before hurling it at the bed.

Duncan stood, too, walking towards him with hands outstretched. "Methos, please. Listen to me, I'm sorry. I thought you understood. I never meant to hurt you, you have to believe me."

Methos paused on his way out the door, turning on Duncan and hissing: "The road to hell's paved with good intentions, isn't it, MacLeod. Enjoy your stay."

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

Continued in Chapter Two Back to Main Page Back to Contents