The Company of Lovers.
 
We meet and part now all over the world;
we, the lost company,
take hands in the night, forget
the night in our brief happiness, silently.
We, who sought many things, throw all away
for this one thing, one only,
remembering that in the narrow grave
we shall be lonely.
 
Death marshals up his armies round us now.
Their footsteps crowd too near.
Lock your warm hand above the chilling heart
and for a time I live without my fear.
Grope in the night to find me and embrace,
for the dark preludes of the drums begin,
and round us, round the company of lovers,
death draws his cordons in.


The Company of Lovers., Judith Wright.











Now


"Methos is dead."
 
The explosion was massive and yet somehow less than the Watcher had expected. Methos' quickening, the likes of which the earth had never seen, should have different -- more special -- but instead it was just another quickening, larger than most but just another quickening all the same. That it could only have been Methos was clear, his challenger was much too young to have caused such an eruption. The Watchers sat high on a nearby hill, their binoculars trained on the old barn below. All that remained now was to see who would walk away.
 
As the echoes died away there was a second wave of lightning that threatened to complete the destruction of the decaying building. Arcs of fire shot skywards, a danse macabre of deadly beauty that lit the deepening shadows.
 
"MacLeod."
 
The single word, laden with meaning, was all the Watcher needed to say. He knew that the Highlander would never allow his lover's killer to walk away with Methos' quickening. That in the face of losing everything that Methos was and had been MacLeod would set aside his scruples and act to reclaim Methos' energy. The challenger was dead.
 
Seemingly unending waves of pure energy tore through the barn, sparking along the roof iron and lighting small fires amongst surrounding dry grasses. Eventually the lightning ceased and silence leaked like tears over the scene. Still the Watchers waited. Another hour passed, the embers died down and as the Watcher walked down to the scene he was silently grateful that this momentous event had taken place in such an isolated place and the grieving survivor would not have to hurry away.
 
A stooped figure emerged from the ruins and painfully trudged towards them. Tears dug channels through soot-dusted cheeks and the eyes were desolate.
 
"Methos is dead." Duncan MacLeod's voice was possibly the saddest sound the Watcher had ever heard. "Would you both just go? Let me look after him now. You can come back for... the--" a pause as if the words hurt him, "the other one later." He turned his back on them and walked slowly back to the barn.
 
The Watchers nodded silently and left, still awestruck by what they had witnessed. Since Adam Pierson had been 'outed' as Methos, his Watcher had been kept busy day and night following the endless stream of challengers eager to try for the head of the world's oldest Immortal. Maeve Kincaid's spiteful parting gift to the world had been to spread the news of Methos' identity and location as far and wide as possible. Now, a month after her death, the former Watcher had her wish -- Methos was dead.
 
***
 
Joe rode the lift up to the loft with his heart still swollen and bruised with grief and guilt overlaid with a vague cloud of disbelief. Over and over he replayed in his head the previous night's phone report from his field operative.
 
"Methos is dead."
 
Of all the things he had expected to hear that night, that had been the last, the most remote thing from his mind. Guilt twisted his gut, flooding sickly through his system. He could have stopped this, he should have been able to stop this and now it was too late. Sorry, buddy. Just damned inadequate words, and yet what else could he offer? Nothing Joe said or did could change things now. But if only still banged around his head with every beat of his heart.
 
Joe grieved for Adam Pierson who he'd first known as a brilliant researcher and new Watcher. A good friend, even if he had concealed his true self at first. He grieved for Methos, who in spite of five thousand years of life had never forgotten how to live. The man who had loved Alexa, who had cared enough risk his life to save Amy's, whose sharp wit and offbeat intelligence had never ceased to amuse and amaze. The man who had loved MacLeod so fiercely he'd refused to run any more.
 
Last of all, Joe grieved for MacLeod; the Highlander had once more lost his lover, the latest in a long line of devastating losses. This one would be the hardest yet, Joe feared. From what he'd seen, Mac's love for the old man had been close to obsession. The lift reached its destination; the Watcher hauled the gate up and stepped out.
 
Mac sat, strangely calm, on the sofa where Joe still half-expected to see Methos sprawled. His face was drawn, dark shadows bruised his eyes, and he glanced listlessly at him when Joe spoke.
 
"How are you doin', Mac?"
 
Duncan looked up but his eyes darted away from Joe's. "I'll live." There was a long pause as MacLeod breathed deeply. "How are you?"
 
Joe opened his mouth to speak but no words came. He sat down heavily instead, with a look of helpless concern at his friend. This eerie calm couldn't be healthy and yet who could know what was normal in such a situation? So far so good though, at least Duncan wasn't showing any signs of going off the deep end -- yet.
 
"I'm going to have the memorial service the day after tomorrow," MacLeod said as he stood and walked to the window, gazing at the street below.
 
"Will everyone be able to get here time for that?"
 
"Almost everyone Amanda called can make it, not that there are very many. She'll be here herself later today."
 
"It'll be good to have your friends around you. Times like this..." Joe trailed off as he was unable to finish the thought. .The one question he hadn't asked wouldn't wait any longer: "Did you? I mean...have you? Where's..."
 
Turning from the window, MacLeod cut him off, "You mean have I buried him? Yes, Joe. He told me long ago where he wanted to lie if it came to that." He sucked in a shuddering breath, his eyes filling for the first time since Joe had been there. "Leave it be, Joe."
 
Joe would have liked to know but he let it go, "Sure, Mac."
 
MacLeod levered away from the window where he'd been leaning and ambled across the room, falling into a graceless sprawl in the sofa, looking for all the world like the image of Methos. Quickenings were damn strange things at the best of times, and who knew what a five thousand-year-old quickening could do to a person, Joe mused. All that power, those memories and history floating around your head, what must that be like?
 
The eloquent eyes filled again and in a broken voice Duncan rasped, "I'll be all right, Joe." MacLeod leaned forward and raked the tangle of hair away from his face. "I just need to be alone for a while."
 
"Mac—" Joe started, very much unconvinced that was good idea.
 
"Just go, Dawson!" Duncan snapped, turning away.
 
There was something else going on; Joe hadn't watched Duncan MacLeod all these years without learning something about the man. There was more to this than met the eye. But now wasn't the time to push it. Instead he said, "Okay, Mac, take care. I'll be in touch." His own grief very much unalleviated, Dawson went back out the way he had so recently come.
 
***
 
Amanda smoothed her skirt over her thighs and took a deep breath as the lift groaned and made its way up to the loft. She didn't want to be here, didn't want to be doing any of this, it was all too awful. The world just wouldn't be the same without Methos in it. She blinked as tears stung her eyes again.
 
Duncan was lying on the sofa when she hauled the grate up and stepped out into the loft.
 
"Amanda." He didn't get up.
 
"Duncan, I came as soon as I could. I still can't believe it." She rushed to him, kneeling beside the sofa and laying her hand on his chest. "How are you doing?" Tears threatened to overwhelm her again and she blinked them back.
 
"It doesn't seem real." He dropped his forearm over his bruised-looking eyes, hiding them from her sight.
 
She slid her arms around him and lay her head on his chest, "Oh, sweetheart, this is just so awful. I still can't believe it."
 
Duncan's voice was odd -- strained -- as he rasped, "Believe it."
 
It was too much; the tears she'd been holding back since Duncan's call flooded down her face. As she sobbed, she remembered back all those years to the first time she had ever met the remarkable man she would later know as Methos. Such a long time ago, and yet it stuck out. Partly because it had been the beginning of a golden time for her, partly because it was one of the few secrets she'd kept from MacLeod. She'd never told him and as far as she knew, neither had Methos. It was something that she'd treasured, and as her sobs eased, the remembrance of that time began to soothe a healing balm over her spirit.
 
Then
 
**Rome, 1510**
 
Amanda drifted through the Campo dei Fiori oblivious to the sights and smells of the marketplace. She had trusted Paolo, curse him, and now everything she had worked for, all the security she'd schemed for, was gone. Not for the first time in not quite seven hundred years, Amanda was friendless and broke.
 
Perfect! To cap off a truly awful day, another Immortal was approaching and that pig Paolo had stolen her sword along with everything else she owned. Damn. She looked about surreptitiously hoping to pass unnoticed in the milling throng. Amanda slipped between Mario's stall piled high with fragrant oranges and Franco's table of melons and she could feel the presence still behind her; she sped up a little, then smack; the filthy cobblestones were in her face and her hands and knees were scraped and bruised. The heel of her boot had caught in the hem of her dress -- sending her tumbling to the street. The presence intensified and as Amanda struggled to untangle her legs from her long skirts a pair of well-shod feet stopped in front of her. With a sinking sense of doom, she looked up, taking in long legs, slim hips tapering up to square but slender shoulders and finally an angular face set into an amused smirk with hazel eyes glinting in malicious pleasure.
 
"What are you doing down there?" the stranger purred in a ripple of flawless colloquial Roman.
 
Amanda replied, in the same language, with a few anatomically impossible suggestions finishing in, "Vaffanculo, stronzo!" Which only seemed to amuse him more.
 
He laughed and lounged against the broad trunk of an elm tree, watching her as she stood.
 
Amanda's temper bubbled dangerously high and she narrowed her eyes at the leccare la figa, "Is this a challenge or not?"
 
"A challenge?" he laughed derisively. "Dear girl, do you even have a sword in that outfit?" The hazel eyes flicked boldly over her, but it was more parody than proposition.
 
"Do I look like I've a sword? If I did you can be sure that you'd be a lot shorter by now!" Amanda stamped her foot impotently and whirled away, slamming straight into a solid figure.
 
"Eh, bagascia, where's my money? You got my rent? You owe me for two months, putana!" The landlord was large and furious and he grabbed Amanda's shoulders in a painfully tight grip and shook her until her teeth rattled.
 
"Signor DeLuca...I...Paolo...Let me go... Bastardo!" Her fists beat ineffectually against the massive chest and she brought up her knee towards his groin but he twisted easily to avoid it.
 
"Steady, friend. I don't think you'll shake it out of her." The strange Immortal laid a hand on the landlord's arm, and asked in a conciliatory tone, "What does she owe you anyway?"
 
The man answered with a sum of lira, which was tossed to him without another word. Seemingly satisfied, the mortal lumbered away.
 
"You didn't have to do that. I could have taken care of it," Amanda snapped.
 
"Of course you could. And if you try very hard, perhaps you can fly also?" her rescuer replied with completely unnecessary sarcasm.
 
"Well, thank you, I suppose." Spinning on her heel, she strode away before this irritating man could decide exactly how she could repay his generosity.
 
He fell easily into step beside her assessment in his narrow green-gold eyes, "You know, I may have something that you'd be interested in -- if you're short of cash?"
 
Amanda's eyebrow rose as she shot him a cynical glare. "Oh, really?" She knew it -- nothing was free. Still, he wasn't exactly grotesque...
 
The stranger snorted inelegantly down his impressive nose, "Lovely as you are -- no. Not that." He smirked again. "An artist friend is in need of a model. He has a commission from the Pontiff and he's in need of inspiration. I think you may be just what he's looking for."
 
It could have been worse, a lot worse, and not for the first time Amanda thanked the lucky star she'd been born under. "I suppose I could meet with him." She smoothed her tumbled hair back into order as she followed him out of the marketplace. It could be a good opportunity -- if it was true.
 
He led her silently through the twisting cobbled streets -- they were almost the same height and yet she struggled to match his long legged stride. Stupid shoes. Stupid cobblestones. Eventually, he stopped at a large rambling house and ushered her in before him. Finally. And the house looked prosperous enough.
 
"Michel, come look what I've brought you," he announced exuberantly.
 
The Immortal pulled the burly artist into an affectionate embrace and Amanda could have sworn the artist replied with a whispered, "Caro..."
 
So that was the way the wind blew...
 
"I'm sorry," her rescuer detached himself from his friend's arms to look at her, "I'd introduce you but you've neglected to tell me your name."
 
"As have you..." she countered with a raised eyebrow, "I'm Amanda."
 
"Indeed you are, bella, and this mannerless scoundrel is our Dottore, Marco Starraci," the artist clapped a massive scarred hand onto the other man's shoulder, "and I am Buonarroti, Michelangelo Buonarroti. Come, we paint while the light is good, si?"
 
Now
 
That chance meeting had begun such a wonderful time, 'Marco' had drifted from their lives not long after, but Amanda had stayed in Rome, sitting for Michelangelo sometimes and rebuilding her fortune by fair means and foul; reminding herself to never again trust smooth-talking Venetians named Paolo. She'd never seen Methos again until that day Duncan had introduced them in Paris. She'd been too surprised to mention their brief association and he'd never brought it up -- perhaps he'd forgotten. With sudden vehemence she wished he were here so she could ask him if he remembered Michelangelo, and her, and that golden summer in Rome.
 
The thought sent such an arrowhead of pain through her that the tears flowed hot and fast once more. Somehow she'd ended up lying on the sofa, pressed along Duncan's side, wrapped in his arms while he held onto her like a drowning man. Amanda snuggled closer to his reassuring warmth and her lips sought his almost automatically. He returned the kiss and for a long moment their mouths met in the old familiar way. Then Duncan froze. Amanda lifted her head to look into his face.
 
"I'm sorry, Amanda, I can't." Tears glistened in his eyes and sliced at her heart.
 
"Don't be sorry. Be glad you loved him. He loved you -- a hell of a lot." And she laid her head on the broad chest again and listened to the steady thump of his heart.
 
"I know -- if he hadn't he'd still be here."
 
"Darling, no -- don't think like that. It wasn't your fault."
 
"He refused to leave. He wouldn't go, even when the challengers were coming every day. He refused to even talk about running. Even though he'd taken more heads in the last four weeks than he'd taken in the last four hundred years. Do you know how much he hates taking heads?" He felt her nod. His careless use of the present tense had choked her throat with tears and she could not speak. "He always says that there's not enough room left for new Quickenings." He caught himself . "I mean...you know."
 
"I know, darling, I can't believe it either. I still expect to see him sauntering through the door, hear him bitching about the cold or the beer or the music." Tears flooded to her eyes once more, but she swallowed them down, she'd indulged herself enough.
 
"Amanda?" Duncan's voice was curiously tentative, "Why did you come? Don't get me wrong, I appreciate it, but why now? You didn't come for Tessa or Richie or even Darius when they died. You didn't even come for Fitz and he was your friend. Why Methos, Amanda?"
 
"I loved him." The words hung in the air, suspended like disbelief. "Not like I love you, but in my own way I loved him. Do you understand?" She pushed an errant sable curl away from his eyes, as she looked into them a little uncertainly.
 
"How can I not?" His arms tightened around her and the tears in his voice broke her heart again.
 
***
 
That night he dreamed of Methos. He dreamed of the last time that he'd held that strong, slim body, the last time they'd made love...
 
He'd woken early with the sun glimmering through the loft windows and lighting the curves and hollows of the beautifully proportioned man beside him. Methos lay, face down, completely nude -- they'd kicked off the covers during the quickening-restless night. Duncan rolled up onto an elbow, content for the moment just to look. God was really showing off when he made you, beautiful man. Unable to resist for another second, he reached out to stroke featherlight, down the twin columns of muscle either side of the long spine. Methos gave no sign that his sleep was disturbed, save a tiny purr in the back of his throat. It was inevitable that Duncan's mouth would follow where his hand had led.
 
Beginning with his lover's strong muscled neck, he nipped and sucked at each clearly defined vertebra, making love to each small bone in turn. Suck. Bite. Lick. By the time he reached the vertebrae between the winged shoulder blades, he realised with a knowing snicker that Methos was awake -- twitching and moaning softly beneath him. As Duncan reached the dip of the lumbar spine, his lover was clearly awash with desire, his pelvis tilting into the bed, legs slipping apart slightly. With infinite patience, Mac continued down over the tailbone, pausing at the cleft between the high buttocks.
 
"Ohh, Mac...yes..."
 
Parting Methos' ass with gentle hands, Duncan continued to lick down the deep valley as Methos' hold on his self-control weakened further. As his tongue teased, flickering over and over -- exploring every tiny wrinkle, every minute nerve ending -- Methos' moans grew louder; then Duncan slid his tongue firmly inside.
 
"Mac...I can't...Mac...please!"
 
Duncan was certain by this stage that if his hands hadn't held his lover's hips securely pinned in place, Methos would have had him flat on his back and screaming for mercy in ten seconds flat. As it was, Methos' head thrashed from side to side and he ground his cock against the mattress, frantic for release. Still Duncan's tongue laved at his lover's ass until his own need for completion drove him to reach for the lube. A small shudder ran through the slender frame as the cold gel hit heated flesh and when Duncan's finger slipped inside, all vestiges of control flew away.
 
"I need...fuck me...fuck...me...now..." he gasped breathlessly.
 
Making Methos beg to be fucked, shattering that cool composure and making him squirm and writhe in desperation was a heady power trip and Duncan enjoyed it a little longer, as he twisted and scissored two, then three fingers into the tight channel. Finally, MacLeod moved to place a pillow under his lover's hips and cover him with his body. Methos arched his back and spread his legs wider. With a long, slow, smooth motion Mac sheathed himself inside the heat and waited, murmuring darkly into Methos' ear.
 
"Is this what you wanted, lover? My cock so deep in your ass you can taste me? My hand on your cock, feeling how hard you are?" His hand slithered under to keep the promise. "Do you want it?" He ground his hips even closer.
 
Methos squirmed back against him, clearly past coherent thought altogether. "Yesss!" the word was hissed from between gritted teeth and finally Duncan began to move.
 
With one hand braced on Methos' shoulder he thrust into the tight channel over and over. Fire and hunger and need licked at his spine, driving him further into a place where there was only this.
 
"God, Methos, I could fuck you forever."
 
With a sharp guttural cry, Methos bucked upwards a final time and Duncan felt the hot rush flow over his hand as Methos came with his whole body. The sight, the sound, even the smell of Methos as he came, sent Duncan flying after him into a climax so intense it was more like several. For the longest time he couldn't let Methos go, held him close wanting to absorb every detail, every inch of this man he loved beyond reason and life and death.
 
***
 
Amanda let herself into the loft around ten the next morning. She'd offered to stay, but he'd insisted on being alone. So she'd spent the night in a sterile hotel room with only her memories for company. As she entered the apartment, she found Duncan on the couch again, idly twirling a long feather between thumb and forefinger, a sad smile on his face. He'd barely noticed her approach.
 
"Duncan? What's that?" She wouldn't lecture him about ignoring her presence -- it wasn't the time.
 
"Just a souvenir from the vacation, I picked it up on the beach. There was a pair of sea eagles there that we watched sometimes. Methos told me that they mate for life." His eyes slid away. "It was the closest we ever came to promising each other forever that day." He placed it carefully back in his pocket.
 
"How are you doing today?" Amanda asked as she came and sat next to him on the sofa.
 
"I'll live...what about you?" he answered quickly.
 
"Still can't believe it's real. Are you ready for tomorrow?" Amanda reached out her hand to gently grasp his.
 
"We all need a chance to say goodbye."
 
***
 
"Connor, thanks for coming," Mac greeted his kinsman as he disembarked from his flight.
 
"Of course, Duncan. Where else would I be at time like this? How are you?" They strode through the crowded airport towards the baggage claim to collect Connor's sword and suitcase.
 
"It's all still so unreal, you know?"
 
"Only too well, my friend, only too well." Connor picked up his luggage and the two men made their way from the terminal. "What will you do now? Will you stay here?"
 
Duncan thought for a moment, debating what to tell this man whom he trusted as much as he trusted himself. "I'll be leaving soon after the service, as soon as all our business is finalised. I... don't know yet where I'll go." It was as much as he could say.
 
They reached the car and drove away from the airport parking lot in silence.
 
"Do you want to tell me how all this happened?" Connor asked. "I mean you never told me that Adam was Methos. That I can understand -- in your place I'd have done the same thing. But the rest? How did it happen?"
 
Duncan glanced over briefly. He couldn't give Connor much, but he could give him this. "It's a long story, hold on and I'll find us somewhere we can talk" Turning down the next side street, Duncan took a winding route out of town. 
 
They stopped on the way at a liquor store, to pick up a bottle of single malt. Duncan parked the T-Bird at a small park near a hilltop just out of town. They left the car and walked a short distance with Duncan leading the way to a spot he knew of, where they could drink, talk and be undisturbed. There was a clearing beneath some trees in a far corner of the park and it was there that they headed. The store didn't run to Glenmorangie but it was good enough to loosen his tongue and set the conversation rolling.
 
Duncan settled on the ground, Connor beside him leaning his back against a tree. Connor cracked open the bottle, taking a hefty swig before passing it on to Duncan.
 
"I should start at the beginning, I suppose. You know that we went on vacation not long ago?"
 
Connor nodded but didn't reply. That was all right; Duncan knew he was still more than a little uncomfortable with the fact that the love of Duncan's life had turned out to be a man. But he'd never said anything. Now it was Duncan's turn to leave things unsaid.
 
"What you don't know that the Watcher who'd been stalking us followed us there and I had to kill her to stop her from killing Methos. There really wasn't any other way, but for a lot of reasons we decided to come back early. We didn't tell anyone we were coming...we thought we'd surprise them. It was a mistake." Duncan looked off into the distance and took a long swallow of the scotch. "Maeve Kincaid, the Watcher, had sent word to every head-hunter, every Immortal with a reason to want his head, that she could find. Telling them that Adam was Methos and where to find him. It was her insurance, you see. Even if she failed to kill him herself, she could count on the sheer weight of numbers against him to finish him off. So they came: one after another after another. I tried to take at least some of them but he wouldn't let me."
 
"He hated taking heads -- hated it desperately, hated the Quickenings and the more he took the worse it was. Do you know that between when we arrived back and the day that he...died, Methos took twenty-five heads? Have you ever even come close to taking that many in a month? I know I never have. It made me sick just to watch what it did to him...taking in all those hunters... That last challenger was only a youngster, maybe a hundred at best and he took five thousand years of skill and experience just like that." Duncan snapped his fingers before taking another long drink.
 
"It was his time, Duncan. We all have one. Even Immortals...even very old Immortals. It's hard for those of us left behind, but we go on. Be glad you had such a love, however briefly."
 
"Yeah, I know." Duncan tilted the bottle and let the liquor burn a fiery path down his throat to his stomach, trying to burn away a little of his guilt.
 
Silently he sat, reliving that day four weeks ago as clearly as if it had been happening right in front of him.
 
Then
 
The plane touched down smoothly and Duncan squeezed the hand beneath his before leaning across to press a lingering kiss to his lover's mouth.
 
"Getting a little adventurous with the public displays of affection, aren't we?" Methos' lip curled at one amused corner.
 
"I love you and I don't care who knows. Is that so terrible? Besides we have done slightly more adventurous things on planes during this vacation, in case you'd forgotten."
 
The tiny hint of color on the tips of Methos' ears was the only clue to his reaction to this memory. "Well, if we don't get off this plane soon they're going to want another fare from us, so let's keep the reminiscences to a minimum for now, shall we?" He rose from his seat and turned to face Duncan, catching his eye with a look that took all the sting from the rebuke.
 
Duncan smiled back and changed the subject, "We should give Joe a call when we get home -- he'll be surprised that we're back so soon. I really thought we would have heard from him by now."
 
As they disembarked an impish grin grew on Methos' face. "I'd love to see Dawson's face if we just walked into the bar when he's sure we're still a few thousand miles away."
 
"Sure, why not? Let's go home first, though. I could really use a shower."
 
"Now isn't that a good idea?" Methos replied with barely concealed lust glinting in his eyes.
 
They arrived home, parking the T-Bird in the alley and hurrying up to the loft. They managed to wait until the luggage hit the floor before they fell upon each other like starving men. Methos grabbed Duncan, cradling his face in his hands as his mouth greedily devoured him.
 
"I thought you wanted a shower?" Duncan managed to gasp as Methos' teeth found his neck. Fuck, that was good.
 
"Mmm? Shower? Oh yes..." And Methos nudged Duncan towards the bathroom, slipping the shirt from his shoulders as they went.
 
Duncan made short work of his lover's shirt and his hands ran eagerly over the lean torso as Methos backed him up against the wall outside the bathroom. He pulled his lover's hips closer so their groins rubbed aching erections in close opposition. Ecstasy spun out in long endless moments as they kissed, savouring the sensation of being home, in the place and in each other's arms once again.
 
"Still not in the shower, Methos," Duncan breathed.
 
"Getting there...what's your rush? It's not like either of us is going anywhere..." Duncan's breath caught in his throat as Methos' tongue flickered into his ear. "We have time..."
 
"Make me wait to have you and I'll go quietly insane," Duncan murmured against Methos' ear, while he unzipped Methos' pants and released his straining cock.
 
Methos leaned forward into his hand. "Maybe I won't make you wait that long." His hands drifted down to free Duncan's cock and stroke it firmly as he captured his mouth once more.
 
Eventually they bumped their way into the bathroom, losing the rest of the annoying barriers that lay between hands and skin. They stepped into the steaming spray and Methos backed Mac into the wall once again, trapping him there with his body. They kissed in infinite minutes as the spray misted around them, shutting out the world. Mac bent his head to taste the faint saltiness of the warm droplets running down Methos' corded throat, feeling the thrum of pleasure rumble under his tongue, the warm slick smoothness of skin under his fingertips, the roughness of hair against his cock. Duncan groaned out loud as Methos sank to his knees and took his shaft deep into his mouth, Duncan's hands tangling softly into his lover's hair.
 
"So good..." Duncan leaned his head back against the tiles, eyes going unfocused with pleasure.
 
A long fingered hand lazily trailed up Duncan's inner thigh and stopped to caress his balls, the other hand drifting over his ass to stroke between his cheeks and tease at his entrance.
 
"I want you..." Duncan rasped.
 
Methos slipped the shaft from his lips and looked up with stripped-bare desire in his eyes. "You have me." He swallowed the shaft again to the sound of Duncan's moans.
 
Time lost all meaning as Duncan rode endless waves of sensation, Methos' mouth teased and sucked and tasted and those fingers -- oh God, those fingers -- they were everywhere. One wet digit slipped inside him and curled against his prostate and he thrust more urgently into Methos' mouth.
 
"I want you," Duncan whispered as he pulled Methos to his feet. "Inside me."
 
Duncan tugged Methos close, wrapping him in a passionate embrace, hands, mouths, and bodies creating a wild maelstrom of sensation. He turned to face the wall, Methos' mouth on the back of his neck sending darts of electricity directly to his cock. The scrape and rattle of a lid being opened told him that Methos had found the oil.
 
"Ohh...yes." Two oil-coated fingers slipped inside him and slid unerringly to his most sensitive spot. "Ohh, Methos..." Another hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it in sure rhythm. "Oh, please...yes." A blunt nudging at his entrance held the promise of fulfilment and he arched back into it, spreading his legs apart. "Methos!" A single slow lunge and Methos was inside him, filling him, narrowing the world to this moment in time.
 
With almost painful deliberation Methos pulled back, then equally as slowly rocked back in again, then repeated the motion, over and over until Duncan was almost frantic. He ground back against his lover and thrust forward into the hand that contained him. So close... Then there were too many sensations to process, cool tile against his face, the strong hand pumping his cock, hot water streaming over his body, smooth skin slipping sensuously across his back, Methos so deep inside -- going deeper with every thrust.
 
Then sharp teeth bit into the junction of neck and shoulder sending him screaming into orgasm, tumbling out over the waterfall into space. Methos followed him into oblivion with a hot rush of fluid and garbled words of love and they sagged against the shower wall, gasping for breath. Strong gentling hands stroked over the planes of Duncan's back and shoulders, soothing the aftershocks. The cooling shower spray was a shock after all the heat and the only thing that could tempt him away from Methos' arms.
 
They were dressing, taking their time, enjoying bantering back and forth, teasing one another when Duncan noticed Methos staring at him with the look of a man in the desert regarding a cool spring. "What? What have I done now?"
 
Methos cocked his head to one side with a wry little grin, "I'm glad we're back. I love you, you know."
 
Duncan smiled, "Yeah, I know, I love you too."
 
It wasn't until sometime later, in the street outside Joe's, that it all started to fall apart. They were walking around the corner when the buzz hit, Methos, always more sensitive to these things, froze a split second earlier and Duncan saw the reaction flit across his lover's features.
 
"Just keep walking, Mac," he hissed under his breath as they kept on walking.
 
MacLeod hesitated, torn between looking for the mystery Immortal and not wanting to spoil this day with fighting and death, but the presence faded as they walked on and he shook it off as a coincidence.
 
It wasn't.
 
Joe took one look at them and in barely concealed horror said, "What in the hell are you two doing back here now?"
 
"Well, I feel welcome. What about you, Mac? I know I said he'd be surprised -- but this?" Methos sniped as they entered the bar.
 
"Joe? What is it? What's wrong?" Mac shot a silencing look at his lover, he was suddenly very worried; Joe's behaviour was strange to say the least.
 
"You guys aren't supposed to be here for another week! Come out the back," Joe growled tersely.
 
This is going to be bad, MacLeod thought with a sinking heart as he followed Joe's halting steps into the office.
 
Joe turned to them after he shut the door, "I really wish you'd called me first, I mean -- wasn't that the plan? All hell's been breaking loose the last couple of days. You shouldn't be here, Methos. Neither of you should."
 
"You want to tell us what the hell is going on, Joe?" Duncan asked, his gut cold with fear.
 
"There are at least a half a dozen head-hunters in town as of yesterday. The worst of which is Max Kyriacou. He's here, he apparently knows 'Adam' is Methos and he wants your head," he finished with a significant look at Methos that Duncan didn't miss.
 
"Well, I didn't think he wanted to take me out to dinner. Of course he wants my head. He's been after it long enough. He's outside, you know."
 
The simple conviction in the statement chilled Duncan to his core. "Kyriacou? I don't know him. Who is he, Methos? How do you know him?"
 
"He's a blast from the past, that's all. I've managed to avoid him for, oh, about a thousand years now. Some people never give up. Talk about obsessive." Methos really wasn't convincing anyone with his wearily offhand manner. "You'd think he'd have gotten over it by now..."
 
The buzz returned, stronger than ever. Duncan looked at Methos, silent communication passing in the glance.
 
"No, Mac, I fight my own battles. You should know that by now. If I have to I can take Kyriacou. He always was more bluster than skill." There was confidence in Methos' words but Duncan could see a trace of something else hiding in the hazel eyes.
 
"Joe? How did this Kyriacou find us? It's not exactly common knowledge that Adam is Methos."
 
"It is now," Joe answered sadly.
 
"Maeve?" Duncan didn't really need to ask.
 
"Yeah." The Watcher turned away, shaking his head.
 
The presence grew stronger still; "I killed her, you know." Duncan shot a hard look at his mortal friend as they made for the door.
 
"Saves me the trouble," Joe snapped, bitterness in his voice.
 
The Greek was waiting in the bar, lounging carelessly against the doorway. "Yasu Methos, ti kaneis?" he drawled lazily. The Immortal was tall, expensively dressed and good-looking in a smooth Mediterranean way, but there was an air of casual cruelty in the liquid brown eyes and a subtle harshness around the full mouth.
 
"Milateh Anglike?" Methos inquired sarcastically. "I believe you do speak English, Max, so get with the time and place." Methos threw the words at Kyriacou with barely concealed disdain.
 
The Greek nodded. "Very well. Hello, Methos, how's things?" There was something in the way he looked at Methos, familiar and proprietorial, his eyes boldly skimming the elder's frame, that gave Mac the impression of less adversarial relationship sometime in the past.
 
"Just dandy, thanks. You're looking so well," Methos answered in a tone that wished the Greek merrily to hell.
 
"And will you introduce your 'friend'?" he sneered.
 
Duncan opened his mouth to speak but his partner beat him to it. "No. Can we get on with this? Some of us have lives to go to," Methos finished impatiently.
 
"And some of us don't," Kyriacou returned with a smug incline of his head.
 
"We'll see about that won't we?" And Methos led the way out of the bar. He stopped in the street and turned to Kyriacou, "Well," he sighed in exasperation, "where and when do you want to commit this lunacy?"
 
"It is your town, you may choose, if you wish." The threat lay shallowly beneath the stiff formality of the Greek's words.
 
"You're altogether too kind." Sarcasm oozed from every syllable as Methos glared at the challenger, death lurking in his eyes. "There's a warehouse at the docks -- number five. Meet me there." Methos caught Duncan's eye with a single glance and together they strode away.
 
Duncan looked across to Methos as they walked. Why push this? Did he really need to know? Methos was clearly upset by whatever memories the reappearance of this Kyriacou had evoked. Every line of his lover's body was tense -- a muscle clenched in his jaw and his shoulders were held stiffly as he moved.
 
"Yes." Methos spat the answer to the unasked question.
 
"Yes what?" Duncan asked carefully, now was not the time for a heated confrontation.
 
"Yes, we were lovers if you can call it that. Isn't that what you wanted to know? There was a time Kyriacou used to fuck me pretty much any time he felt like it and I lay there and took it as my due. It was dark and rough and mercenery and not anything you'd recognise as a relationship. It was over a thousand years ago and yet if I close my eyes I can still smell the earthen floor in my face as he rutted me into it. Is that what you wanted to know, MacLeod?" Methos stopped in the street and glared at Duncan with his hands on his hips, as if daring him to take up the fight.
 
"I don't want to know anything you don't want to tell me, Methos. And I'm sorry that he hurt you." He reached out to stroke a hand down his partner's arm. "But it's in the past and we're leaving the past behind us now, remember? Our problem now is this challenge; don't let the memories distract you from fighting your best fight."
 
Methos drew in a shuddering breath as he regained his composure. "You better hope your credit cards are paid off, MacLeod -- I am going to need so much beer after this." He smiled ironically and continued to walk down the street.
 
Duncan followed him, smiling -- now that was a lot more like Methos.
 
"Not going to run?"
 
"Not this time, no. For Kyriacou, it's past time. He's a hunter, Mac, he won't quit until one of us is dead and besides," he added with a rueful quirk to his mouth, "we've done enough travelling for one day."
 
The Greek was waiting for them inside the warehouse when they arrived, looking relaxed sitting on a box, the coat and waistcoat of his three piece suit folded neatly beside him and the sleeves of his immaculate white shirt rolled to his elbows. A two-handed broadsword leaned against the crate, catching the light filtering through the holes in the roof on its intricately worked hilt.
 
"Sas efkharisto, Methos. Thank you for coming." He looked over to where Duncan stood tensely by the door. "I'll try not to keep you too long."
 
"Oh, you won't need to worry about that, Kyriacou. Goodbye," MacLeod shot back icily.
 
"Ah...when you two are finished can we get on with this?" Methos inquired from the other side of the warehouse. He'd removed his heavy overcoat and held the Ivanhoe easily before him in one hand.
 
"Certainly," the challenger replied with a salute of his sword.
 
They met in a pool of light in the center of the floor and Duncan watched with his heart in his mouth as the fight began in earnest. The Greek began aggressively, with deadly accuracy in every blow, but Methos parried and stood his ground.
 
"Getting sloppy since we last met, hey, Max?" Methos taunted as he turned the fight back on Kyriacou, slashing a long shallow cut to the challenger's sword arm.
 
The Greek grimaced in pain and changed his sword to his left hand while the wound healed; Methos nodded in recognition and changed hands also.
 
The clash of metal on metal rang and echoed through the empty building as the fight went on. Kyriacou scored a close hit to Methos' right side above the waist, and Duncan's heart leapt for a second as the bright blood welled to fill the wound. He remained silent, however, unwilling to risk breaking his lover's concentration. Methos gave no sign that he was affected and continued on, undermining Kyriacou's defences. A long series of forward thrusts drove the Greek Immortal back toward the far wall of the warehouse, parrying desperately. The challenger was far from beaten, though, and just as Methos committed to a high horizontal slash, Kyriacou dropped to one knee and thrust his sword point into the muscle of Methos' thigh. Methos stumbled a little and whirled away.
 
"Now who's getting sloppy, eh, Methos? Perhaps you've been spending too much time otherwise occupied?" He cocked an arrogant eyebrow towards where Duncan stood; then Kyriacou drove Methos back once more with a combination of cuts and thrusts that had the ancient scrambling to parry them.
 
"What are you doing here, anyway, Max? Surely you have other interests besides taking my head?" The conversational tone of Methos' voice was at odds with the cold killer glint in his eyes.
 
He's enjoying this. The thought flew into Duncan's head, startling him as he recognised the truth of it. No matter how much Methos protested that he disliked the game -- this was the part that he loved, the strategy, the exhilaration of the chase, the satisfaction of outmanoeuvring his opponent.
 
"Naturally. But when presented with such an opportunity -- how could I resist? I've waited a millennium for this; Athens will just have to do without me for a little while." Kyriacou grunted with effort as he blocked a huge slashing blow at the level of his neck.
 
"Oh, I think they'll have to do without you for a bit longer than that." Methos ducked under a head-high swing from the Greek, spinning quickly and cutting a long, deep trench through the challenger's stomach as he turned.
 
Kyriacou looked down, horror on his face as his own intestines bulged from the wound and he reached down a hand to hold them in. Methos pounced on the break in the Greek's concentration and thrust the point of his sword through Kyriacou's chest, ripping his blade away with a savage pull. As the Greek Immortal's life bled away with each beat of his ruptured heart the last words he ever heard were in the language of his homeland.
 
"Andio, Kyriacou." Methos swung a massive backhand blow, separating the Greek's head from his neck. Goodbye.
 
The Quickening, when it came, was big and brutal. Duncan winced in impotent sympathy as his lover fell victim to the lightning. For what seemed an eternity Methos was wracked by the waves of energy as it pulsed through the air. His body spasmed and convulsed until Duncan was certain the slender frame would snap with the effort.
 
At last the mist settled and the bolts of lightning died away, he ran to where Methos lay gasping for breath. He kneeled beside him, tremendously relieved to be greeted by Methos' usual lopsided grin.
 
"You okay?"
 
"Give me a minute and I will be."
 
Duncan slipped a hand under his partner's arm, helping him to his feet, then tugging into his arms and holding him tight, letting the solid reality of Methos' body reassure him. After a moment Methos pulled away, bending to retrieve his sword.
 
"Methos?"
 
"Don't fuss, Mac, I just need to walk it off. I'll be okay." He walked to where Kyriacou's sword lay on the warehouse floor, still smeared with Methos' own blood, grimaced at it and picked it up. "C'mon, we better get out of here."
 
Duncan recognised the effort it took for Methos to walk in his usual loose-limbed manner, but refrained from commenting. Methos would confide in him, or not, as he saw fit and questioning him while the quickening was still raw would only lead to conflict anyway. So he remained silent as they walked to the car and still said nothing as they drove away, only glancing from time to time at his lover. He headed back to the loft and as they pulled up outside Methos spoke at last:
 
"This is going to get worse before it gets better." And he carefully unfolded his long frame from the T-Bird and reached into the back to collect the coat-wrapped bundle of swords.
 
Duncan said nothing, but followed Methos up to the loft.
 
***
 
Now
 
"Duncan? Hey, Duncan?" Connor's voice broke into his reverie, dragging him forcibly back to the present. He came back unwillingly, in the past he had Methos with him, could still hold him in his arms; the present was just a fucked-up mess.
 
"Sorry, must've drifted off. You know how it is." He looked at the scotch bottle -- it was almost empty. "Did we do that?"
 
Connor smiled his ironic smile and slapped Duncan on the shoulder; "The 'we' was mainly you, my friend. But never mind you looked like you needed it. Besides," and he flicked an eyebrow briefly skywards, "it's not like it's going to kill you— Hell, Duncan, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."
 
"Just leave it, Connor. It doesn't matter." Guilt was a cold stone in Duncan's chest, almost crushing him with its weight. The temptation to tell Connor the truth had never been so strong. Maybe he wouldn't judge you for it. Well, no more than you deserve. The urge to unburden himself to this man he trusted so well surged high and strong within him and he needed an almost physical effort to resist it. He emptied the rest of the scotch down his throat in a vain effort to burn away the pain.
 
"Come on, Duncan, let's get going. It's getting late."
 
"Yeah." He hauled himself unsteadily to his feet and followed Connor back to the car, tossing him the keys. "You drive."
 
Connor raised his eyebrows and looked surprised, but said nothing as he caught the keys and got into the car behind the wheel.
 
***
 
Then
 
"So where do you want to go?" Duncan asked his lover, picking up his suitcase from where he'd dropped it by the door. After Kyriacou he was sure Methos would want to leave town.
 
"Go? Who says we're going anywhere? Do you want to go somewhere, Mac?" Methos sighed as he gratefully sprawled onto the couch, swinging his feet up. "Be a lifesaver and toss me a beer?"
 
MacLeod stopped what he was doing and turned to his enigmatic lover, wondering what the hell was going on. Nevertheless went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of bottles. He passed one to Methos and stepped back to lean against the bench, watching his partner warily.
 
"Will you stop looking at me like that please, MacLeod? I haven't gone mad or taken a bad quickening or anything melodramatic like that. Just not doing any running today, okay?" Methos upended the bottle and took a long swallow.
 
"Methos, you've run thousands of times for reasons less compelling than this. Why stop now? Now when half the Immortal world knows where you are and every ambitious head-hunter with a sword and a plane ticket is headed this way for the sole purpose of liberating your head from your body. At the very least you should be headed to the island -- to holy ground -- even if it's only for a while until we work out what to do. I don't know what you're thinking about."
 
"Is it inconceivable that I might not want to run? That I might be tired of running? That you aren't the only one capable of standing and fighting? That I might find you and our lives here worth sticking around for? Thanks a lot, MacLeod." Methos scowled as he sank deeper into the sofa and quickly polished off the remainder of the beer.
 
MacLeod retreated in silence. He'd be damned if he could ever figure Methos out.
 
***
 
Now
 
Amanda was waiting for them when Duncan and Connor entered the loft. Duncan looked even more shattered than he had before and Connor's face was as stern as she'd ever seen it. Not for the first time she struggled with the urge to flee and not come back until this whole nightmare was just a vague, sick memory. It was all a little too...real -- not to mention ugly.
 
"Well, hello, Connor MacLeod." Amanda's smile was arch as she sashayed towards them, her first instinct to lighten the mood. "Long time no see."
 
"Amanda." Connor took her hand as she offered it, an answering smile playing about his lips. "You're looking good."
 
He really was a darling man. They didn't see nearly enough of him. She was so caught up in stroking her thumb over the back of his hand and enjoying the heat in his eyes that she didn't notice Duncan in the kitchen until she heard the clink of the beer bottles.
 
She turned away from Connor and turned to see Duncan standing in front of the fridge, two beer bottles held between the fingers of one hand and his shoulders shaking silently. Oh, Duncan. Her heart broke for him all over again.
 
Sliding away from Connor's grasp, Amanda went to him, draping herself over the broadness of his back and shoulders. "Darling?"
 
He shook her off and slammed the fridge shut. "Don't, Amanda. Please."
 
He turned around and dashed the tears from his face with the back of his hand. "Connor? Can you please take Amanda out for dinner or something? I'll see you at the service tomorrow."
 
It hurt being pushed away like that, but then Duncan had never been good at letting others see his pain. A glance up at Connor told her that he was at as much of a loss as she was. She raised an eyebrow at him and he nodded back.
 
"All right, sweetheart, we'll go." Impulsively, she threw her arms around him, hugging him tight. "Courage, darling. It won't always be this hard."
 
"No," he answered, his voice mirroring the utter bleakness of his face. "It won't be."
 
***
 
Then
 
The day after Kyriacou's death they were woken early by the sense of another Immortal prowling around downstairs. This one was just an ambitious youngling, barely fifty, vicious and skilled for his age but Methos took him in the dojo without raising a sweat.
 
"Well, that didn't hurt too much," Methos quipped as he recovered from the Quickening. "Although we will need to replace the lights in here."
 
"Not the first time, nor the last." Duncan smiled, covering his relief at the outcome of the fight. Then growing serious, he said, "Are you sure you don't want to go to the island for a while? You know they aren't going to stop coming."
 
"No." Methos straightened from where he sat on the wooden floor and went to Duncan, slipping his arms around him. Duncan could almost feel the Quickening energy pulsing beneath his skin as Methos pushed him against the wall. "No, I have other things I'd rather do, actually." Methos caught Duncan's hands and pinned them to the wall as he leaned in and forcefully captured his mouth, rushing into a passionate kiss that left Duncan's head spinning.
 
After a moment, Duncan reluctantly pulled away, "You can't distract me with sex, you know. I know what you're up to--" His voice caught in his throat as Methos' teeth found the soft skin below his ear. "Besides, the body?" He nodded towards the leather-clad figure on the floor, surrounded by a spreading crimson stain.
 
Methos shrugged and sullenly turned away. "Save me from practical men."
 
They disposed of the body and cleaned the blood from the floor. Duncan, still trying to fathom his lover's changeable behaviour, watched him from beneath his eyelashes as they worked. Methos seemed to have returned to his usual manner, relaxed and slightly amused at Duncan's ill-disguised attention, but nonetheless unaffected by the two Quickenings of the past twenty-four hours. Duncan pushed aside the worry and tried not to borrow trouble.
 
"Now can we get back to what we were almost doing before you came over all boy scout-y?" Methos asked as he tossed aside the cleaning rag and stepped up close behind Duncan, the hot breath brushing the back of his neck sending a bone-melting languor through every limb as he pressed back into the hard body.
 
Oh yes.  Long-fingered hands slipped up under his sweater, tracing eccentric patterns over his ribs, running over the swell of pectorals, tunnelling through the hair on his chest, thumbs rubbing small lazy circles over his nipples. He sighed and his head dropped back to lean against the side of Methos' head. Methos' hands trailed lower, following the arrow of his hair, and then Methos continued with his mouth what he'd begun with his hands, his lips leaving trails of fire over Duncan's neck.
 
"Mmm...don't stop...." Methos stopped anyway.
 
The buzz took Duncan off guard. For half a second he was so lost in Methos' touch; it was Methos who reacted first, pushing him aside and reaching for the Ivanhoe that still rested against the wall.
 
No, not again, not so soon. "Methos, wait!" But it was too late, the presence grew stronger and a woman appeared in the doorway -- a familiar figure that made Duncan's heart sink.
 
The woman stepped in to the dojo. Tall and athletically slender, her dark hair brushing her waist, a warrior's pride in the set of her head, she glared at them with undisguised contempt.
 
"Alex? What in the hell are you doing here?" Duncan couldn't believe that she could be here for Methos, there must be some other reason.
 
"It's funny, isn't it, the things you find out in a Quickening?" She walked towards them -- confidence and deadly intent in every long-legged step, "I took this guy's head yesterday and what do you know, he was here looking for Methos, the same piece of shit I've been after for almost my whole life -- more than nineteen hundred years. Coincidence? I don't think so -- fate works in strange ways."
 
"You shouldn't be here, Alex--"
 
She broke in, "You should have stayed in Paris. What are you doing here with this -- monster? Do you know who he is?" She drew her sword from beneath her leather jacket, never for a second taking her eyes from her target. "Do you know what he has done? He was one of the Roman scum who destroyed my people. Do you know what they did to my tribe, MacLeod? They slaughtered every last one of us, in the end I was all that was left of an entire tribe. And he was with them -- Methos!" She spat the name as though it was a curse.
 
Duncan shook off his disbelief at the identity of the latest challenger and answered her at last, "I know exactly who and what Methos is, Alex. He isn't the man he once was. But if you push this he will not stand aside for you and I will not ask him to. Do you understand? Be very sure you're ready to die, Alex, because you will."
 
Methos had been silent throughout this heated exchange; an inscrutable look on his face as Duncan defended him. Finally as Duncan paused, he spoke, "Friend of yours, Mac?"
 
"Old acquaintance from Paris. Alex Raven, meet Methos." Duncan felt odd introducing them as they stood with bared swords, bodies tensed for battle. 
 
They nodded at each other, but neither backed down.
 
"Ready to die, Alex Raven? Last chance to walk away, now or never." Methos' voice was cold and Duncan could see the flint hardness in the chameleon eyes.
 
The breath stilled in Duncan's body as he willed her to walk away, to take this chance she was being offered and live another day. Not that he really believed for a second that she would, he remembered her as one stubborn woman.
 
"You've got a lot of lives to pay for and I've never yet walked away from a fight. Why would I start now? MacLeod I'm sorry he's your...whatever, but I won't back down. Say goodbye to him." She pointed at Methos with her sword, "I'll see you outside in the alley, Methos." Her mouth twisted around his name like it was tainted with poison and she whirled away and stalked out the door.
 
Methos went to his lover, a plea for understanding in his eyes, "Mac? She's not leaving me much choice--"
 
Duncan cut him off. "I know. I love you. Be careful." And with his heart thumping desperate double-time in his chest he watched Methos go.
 
The metallic clang of the swords as they met kept Duncan rooted to the spot. When did this all get so fucking complicated? Alex wasn't a close friend, not even one of his long list of ex-lovers, but if the circumstances had been reversed and she'd come to him asking his help to fight an old enemy, he'd have given it without a second thought. Now all he could do was stand impotently by while she tried in vain to behead the love of his life. It bothered Duncan, more than he cared to admit, that all he really wanted was for Methos to finish it and come back to him alive and unharmed. At last he tore his feet from the floor and went outside.
 
She was clearly a strong fighter; to have survived for as an Immortal woman for as long as she had, she would need to be. But even so, Methos had millennia of experience over her, not to mention innate strength and skill and it showed. Alex was splattered with her own blood, evidence of healing cuts all over her body. Methos lunged at her, looking to finish it quickly with a thrust to her chest, but she ducked out of the way and surprised him with a solid, well-placed kick to his stomach. Methos grunted and Duncan saw him swallow hard.
 
She danced in close again and Methos barely avoided her sword as it whistled past his ear. He turned to let her slip by him and as she did his sword followed her, such a small movement and yet it took her down -- her left hamstring cut in two. Alex Raven fell to her knees, struggling to rise with every ounce of strength she possessed. She opened her mouth to speak but the words never came; Methos swung his sword in a silver blur of death, slicing cleanly through the elegant neck and with an obscene thud her head fell to the ground.
 
The mist was beginning to curl around his feet when his eyes met Duncan's. Just a second's glace between them, but more than enough for Duncan to read the flicker of uncertainty in his lover's eyes. Even now, after all this time and everything that had happened between them, Methos was still uncertain of his place in Duncan's heart. The realization cut deep. Then the lightning struck and Duncan could only stand back and watch as the storm took Methos in its grasp. 
 
Then it was over. Duncan went to him without hesitation, knowing what a delay could cost him. Trying not to look at the fallen body, Duncan dropped to his knees beside his lover and tugged him close, feeling the tremors still quaking the lithe frame.
 
"I had no choice." Methos spoke as if the words themselves hurt him.
 
"I know." Duncan kissed the pulse at Methos' temple as his hands rubbed circles over Methos' back. "She didn't give you any choice, I'm sorry she's dead, but I'm not sorry you're alive. Does that make sense to you?" Duncan pulled away a little to look into his love's eyes.
 
Methos inhaled a long deep breath as he returned the look, "Yeah," was his only reply as he folded himself back into Duncan's arms.
 
Awareness of the unpleasant reality of the situation came to Duncan first and he whispered, "I should call Joe, the Watchers can arrange to clean this up. He needs to know what's going on. Let's get inside." He stood and half-lifted his lover to his feet and they walked back inside the dojo.
 
***
 
Now
 
Duncan tossed the empty scotch bottle across the room, heedless of it smashing against the brick wall as he stumbled to the kitchen to find another drink. No more scotch, the beer was long gone. He rummaged through the freezer, dragged the icy bottle from its hiding place, twisted off the lid and poured it down his throat; fire and ice competing to burn through to his guilty heart. Dear God, what have I done? The pain refused to stay buried, no matter how much alcohol he poured on it. Guilt intruded into his consciousness and stuck there, torturing him.
 
***
 
Then
 
That third head seemed to take something out of Methos, leaving him stunned and a little vague. It wasn't difficult, then, for Duncan to convince him that a couple of days on the island were in order. Methos was still worryingly quiet and passive when they arrived at the riverside and left the car to find the boat to take them across to their sanctuary. Winter was in the air. The chill wind whipped through them as it came across the water and Methos huddled deeper into his overcoat, shivering. Duncan rowed the canoe up to the small jetty and as he stepped onto land the comforting sensation of holy ground rose up to greet him.
 
"You go on up to the cabin, Methos. I want to make sure we've got plenty of firewood laid in for tonight." With that MacLeod walked around the side of the building, still brooding silently over his lover's behaviour.
 
Methos, uncharacteristically, did as he was asked.
 
It was late that night, when they'd finally settled in and eaten a simple dinner in front of the blazing fire that Methos seemed to come out of the fog in which he'd been drifting. Duncan glanced at him and noticed the familiar slow smile spreading over his face, lighting the amused twinkle in his eyes. Duncan returned it, grateful for any sign of normality.
 
"You're back then?"
 
Methos looked puzzled. "Back? Did I go somewhere?"
 
"You've been off with the faeries for hours. I was getting worried." Duncan rose and went to sit next to his partner, sliding an arm around him.
 
"You worry too much." Methos was trying to sound offhand but there was a note of stress in his voice that Duncan didn't miss.
 
"They're not going to stop coming."
 
"I know," Methos sighed.
 
Then Methos turned to him, a simple question in his eyes, and they kissed, long and soft and reverent. Their lovemaking was slow and tender that night, spun with sighs and knit with simple longing. After the last echoed cry had long died away and Methos slept wrapped in a blanket by the fireplace; Duncan sat watching his lover. If he could only keep him here, on holy ground, he would be safe forever. But that was no solution -- Methos would never be content to be shut away. There had to be a way, some way to keep Methos safe and alive that would also allow them to stay together without making him feel trapped or stifled. But every solution fell apart in his hands as soon as he examined it.
 
MacLeod, tired of the endless circularity of his thoughts, stood and drawing a heavy quilt around his naked body, went outside to sit on the porch. He settled onto a bench and looked up at the stars. They were so bright and clear here, away from the lights of the city and they were so close he felt as if he could reach and pluck a handful as a gift for the man who'd given him so much. He sighed and drew the quilt tighter around himself as the cold crept in.
 
The door opened and Methos walked out, glowing pale in the bright starlight. "Why the heavy sigh?" he asked, his voice gravely with sleep.
 
"Just thinking." Duncan held open one side of the quilt, silently inviting Methos to come into it with him. "I thought you were asleep," he said as Methos huddled in close against him with Duncan's arm wrapped securely around his waist.
 
Methos leaned his head against Duncan's shoulder. "I was, but I felt you leave. Is something wrong?"
 
"No, just thought I'd come look at the stars. They're always different out here, brighter, more like the ones I remember from when I was a boy keeping watch on the sheep." MacLeod's hand found Methos' chest and stroked the warm, smooth skin as he spoke. "I wished on those stars for you, Methos, though I didn't know it then. I wished for a love that would be strong and brave and stand beside me as my equal in all things, a love to last me all the days of my life. It only took four hundred years to come true, but you were worth the wait." Duncan held Methos a little closer as the words hung in the air.
 
Methos' voice cracked a little when he finally replied, "As were you."
 
***
 
It was four in the morning when they came. Duncan had finally coaxed Methos to their bed three hours before and he was fast asleep with Methos' back reassuringly warm against his own. The intrusive presence hit and Duncan was awake in a second -- adrenaline surging through his body. Beside him, Methos was rolling out of bed and they scrambled for the swords that lay beneath the bed and hurriedly tugged on clothes.
 
"It's holy ground. They must know we can't fight here," Duncan whispered as they crept through the cabin, looking for their mysterious intruders.
 
"Who says they want to fight here? If I wanted me dead I'd do exactly this: I'd wait 'til I was complacently asleep on holy ground, shoot me, drag me away from said holy ground and take my head," Methos hissed as he found the pistol he had hidden in his backpack and tucked it into his waistband at the small of his back.
 
Duncan couldn't believe it but Methos was grinning as he spoke, an ironic quirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. The man was unbelievable; he actually looked like he was pleased to be proven right. They continued to search the cabin and the buzz remained strong.
 
"Can you tell anything about whoever it is?" Duncan asked under his breath as they went. Methos' ability to differentiate Quickenings went so far beyond what MacLeod could do; he was constantly awed by it. 
 
"Two I think. Strong, reasonably powerful -- can't really tell anything else. Outside? Yes, I'm pretty sure they're not in here. You know, MacLeod, you could learn to do this if you applied yourself." And again, Methos smiled that infuriatingly unworried grin.
 
"Yes, Professor," Duncan quipped.
 
"That's right, Professor Pierson's school of Quickening divination. Now if you're quite finished admiring my many talents, I suggest we go find these gate-crashers and teach them a rather permanent lesson." Death lurked in Methos' eyes, hiding behind the insouciant humor.
 
"Let's go get them, then." The familiar adrenaline was beginning to surge in Duncan's blood in anticipation of the fight. Whoever they were, they'd have to be good to take both Methos and him. Very bloody good.
 
"This will work better if I'm in front when we find them." Methos raised an eyebrow significantly and touched the butt of the gun.
 
Duncan nodded briefly, understanding, but not liking it one damn bit.
 
The intruders were waiting as Methos and Duncan burst through the door, one with a drawn sword and the other with a pistol trained on them. Two men, of Asian appearance, one older appearing and barely average height, the other a little taller and seemingly quite young; Duncan recognised one of them instantly, and his fist clenched around the hilt of his sword as anger flashed through him. The familiar one took aim and clicked off the safety of his weapon and Duncan froze, standing close behind Methos, his hands spread but not raised. Methos merely stood casually, leaning on his sword as if he'd expected exactly this outcome.
 
"Drop your swords -- both of you!" the man ordered.
 
Duncan and Methos complied, letting their swords fall at their feet. 
 
"Kiem Sun?" Duncan's voice was tight with outrage. "How can you do this? You were once a man of honour." Duncan raised his hand a little as if to emphasise his words, the other hand went behind Methos.
 
"And you were once a man -- not the whore of this creature," Kiem Sun sneered. "Shoot them both, Zhi-heng!"
 
Duncan slipped the pistol from where it rested in the small of his lover's back and, before their assailants had even registered its presence, he double-tapped a heart shot into each man and watched them fall with a quick, hard sense of satisfaction.
 
He turned to Methos as they removed the weapons from the proximity if the fallen Immortals. "I can't believe Kiem Sun would turn on me like this. He was my friend. I spared his life years ago and this is how he repays me?"
 
"Well you know what they say -- no good deed goes unpunished. Find something to tie them up in case they revive while we're taking them across the river." Methos was all business as he removed their weapons and rolled the dead Immortals over.
 
"I won't take their heads while they're out." Duncan grabbed a length of rope from the porch, tied the men securely and shot a hard glance at his lover.
 
"Did I suggest it? I do know how you feel about things like that. We'll do it your way if we must. Any preference?" Methos turned to Duncan and lifted an eyebrow, barely hiding his exasperation.
 
"Kiem Sun -- he's crossed the line now. Come on, let's get them off holy ground."
 
They dragged the bodies to the boat and hauled them in. The extra weight made the small craft sit lower in the water as they rowed to the mainland leaving the island sanctuary behind. Duncan jumped out as the bow nosed up onto the boggy shore. He pulled the boat more securely onto the bank and tied the landing rope to a tree. Together, he and Methos heaved the still bodies up the bank to a flat patch of ground. Methos, distrustful as ever, patted them down searching for concealed weapons. With good reason as it turned out: Kiem Sun had a second blade against his back, much the same as the one Methos himself habitually wore. Zhi-heng was hiding a second automatic in an ankle holster.
 
"Well, well, well, the things you find." He smirked as he tossed the blade into the river and slid the pistol in against his waist, replacing the one that Duncan now held.
 
The sun was barely over the horizon when their younger prisoner revived, jerking and straining at his bonds. Then, before Duncan could free the first, the other man was back -- sullenly glaring at his captors.
 
"This is what he's brought you to? You would take the head of a bound and unarmed man?" Fury burned in Kiem Sun's eyes as he struggled to free himself.
 
"Wasn't that what you had planned all along?" MacLeod asked as he roughly turned his former friend over and sliced through the ropes, then stepped back as the man scrambled to his feet.
 
Methos took the cue and freed the other man. "Fortunately for you, my friend is an honorable man. If it were up to me we'd have been enjoying your undoubtedly pathetic Quickenings by now. But today just happens to be the one day of the year when I do what he wants -- so you got very lucky. You'll get your fight -- one on one, by the rules. Understood?" He picked up Zhi-heng's sword and tossed it to him and Mac followed suit with Kiem Sun's.
 
Duncan had to know. "Why, Kiem Sun?" he asked. "Why Methos? We are not your enemies."
 
"With his power I will be the last. I will be unbeatable," he answered as they briefly saluted with their swords and began the fight.
 
Methos tapped his sword against his opponent's, giving a short nod towards where Kiem Sun stood facing Duncan. "I think your friend there has designs on your head, Zhi-heng."
 
"Yes, well, wanting and having are two very different things, as I suspect you know, Methos," Zhi-heng returned with a tight, humorless smile creasing the narrow lines of his thin face.
 
Methos replied with a smirk of his own and the fight went on in silence.
 
"I think he's onto you, Kiem Sun. It might not be so easy to get your hands on all that power after all," Duncan taunted as he drove his opponent back with a combination of diagonal slashes that the other man scrambled to block.
 
"With your quickening, Highlander, I can take him. He was my student five hundred years ago and I doubt very much that he has learned much since. He is a convenience, nothing more, as I suspect you are to the old one there. Do you fight all his battles for him? Or does he keep you only for his bed?"
 
"It is you who know nothing," Duncan threw back calmly as he blocked a waist-high swing from the challenger, feeling it reverberate through his body. "You aren't worth the time it'll take to kill you."
 
Duncan replied to the blow with a high backhand cut that caught the challenger across the bicep of his sword arm, almost making the Chinese Immortal drop his sword. Duncan pressed the advantage and bore down on Kiem Sun with a vicious series of cuts and thrusts that pushed him back into the rough ground at the edge of the clearing. Kiem Sun groped at the back of his shirt for the second blade, fear seeping into his widening eyes as he realized it was gone.
 
"Lose something?" Duncan taunted coldly.
 
Kiem Sun didn't reply, but merely set his jaw and continued to parry Duncan's strikes, growing more desperate with each blow. Once Kiem Sun was pushed onto the uneven ground it was a simple matter for Duncan to unbalance his opponent and send him tumbling backwards to the ground.
 
"You should have stayed on your own holy ground, Kiem Sun. Playing with roots and herbs would have been far safer." Barely constrained anger simmered beneath the words and Duncan raised his katana high above his head. Without another word he swung the blade down, taking the head from the body cleanly. Kiem Sun's power entered Duncan's body in an angry rush of heat and pain that knocked him off his feet and sent the katana skittering from his grasp. Then he knew no more as the wild torrent claimed him.
 
As he recovered his senses his first thought was to search for his lover. Painfully, he lifted his head and was rewarded by the sight of Methos using a huge two-handed back-swing to cleave Zhi-heng's head from his shoulders, a triumphant yell escaping with the effort. The head rolled away down the sloping bank even as the energy began to erupt from the body. For the fourth time in less than two days the wild rush of the quickening caught Methos in its thrall. For many long anxious minutes Duncan waited while the energy pulsed through his lover's frame, wondering all the while how much more he could take.
 
 ***
 
Now
 
Amanda had Connor with her when they found him in the morning. Duncan was passed out on his couch, surrounded by a litter of broken glass and bottles. Dried blood smeared the kitchen floor in tracked reminders of his drunken barefoot travels. The stench of stale alcohol permeated the air, making Amanda wrinkle her nose in distaste. So tacky and so very, very sad.
 
"Have you ever seen him as bad as this?" she asked Connor as they picked their way through the bottles.
 
He shook his head. "Never."
 
Amanda put her hands gently on Duncan's shoulders, "Hey, sleepy-head! Come on, wake up!" She shook him a little harder, but still there was no response.
 
"This isn't good, we could have been anyone. He didn't even stir when we came in. I should have stayed last night -- anything could have happened. The hunters could still come after him -- he does have Methos' power now." Connor sat down and prodded him again.
 
"Maybe that's why they haven't. He was the best even without Methos' Quickening. Now that he has it? I don't think there are many insane enough to try."
 
"It only takes one, Amanda. Here, help me wake him up. Duncan!" Connor slapped him hard on the face. "Duncan! Wake up!"
 
Finally Duncan began to come back to consciousness, his eyes flickered open for a second then he groaned and dropped his forearm over them, as if the light was painful. "Go 'way..." he mumbled.
 
Connor persisted in slapping his face. "Duncan! I'll not leave you alone until you wake up, so come on..."
 
"What are you trying to do anyway? Kill yourself? I mean, getting as plastered as that with no one to watch your back is just plain suicidal." Amanda was becoming increasingly angry as the implications of Duncan's behaviour sank in and her voice rose as she spoke. "Or maybe that's what you want?"
 
Duncan groaned again, his eyes flickering open, but failing to connect with hers. He dragged one hand through his greasy hair and swung his feet to the floor, sitting up with yet another moan. For such an attractive man he really did hung over very badly, Amanda thought, seconds before Duncan clamped his hand over his mouth and dashed for the bathroom. Ick.
 
Connor watched him go -- an unreadable expression on his face. "Do you know how much you need to drink to get a hangover as bad as that?"
 
Amanda was in the kitchen looking at where the liquor had formerly been stored, "Yeah, about as much as there was in here until last night." She sighed and looked seriously at him. "Connor, he will get himself killed at this rate. A one-armed man with a pocket knife could take his head the way he is right now. What are we going to do?"
 
At that moment Duncan emerged from the bathroom, still drying his face on a towel. "You don't have to do anything, I'll be fine. Granted, getting that drunk alone wasn't smart, but I survived. Still got my head, even if it does feel a little larger than I remember." He smiled weakly at his attempt at humor. "Methos always says --" Suddenly, the color fled from his face and he sat down heavily. "Never mind."
 
Amanda sat down next to him, "The service isn't for a few hours yet and we still need to go to the airport to pick up Gina, Robert and Rachel. They're all arriving on the same flight from London. Connor and I will get them," she paused and laid her hand on the side of his face, "and you can have some time to pull yourself together, okay?" Amanda brushed his cheek with a kiss. Okay, so he smelt awful but she still loved the big idiot.
 
"Okay." He still wouldn't look her in the eye. "Thank you."
 
"We should go, Amanda." Connor stood near her and held out a hand to help her up. She took it with the briefest of sparks flashing in the look he sent her. "We'll be back soon, Duncan," Connor finished with a final worried look at Duncan.
 
As they walked to the lift, she glanced back at where Duncan sat. More than awful, he looked positively guilty. She'd know that look anywhere. Now what the hell would he have to feel guilty about?
 
***
 
Then
 
Methos was different after Zhi-heng's quickening.
 
Duncan waited for the storm to end; he sat on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing shivering a little in the early morning chill. When Methos finally wrested control of his body from the Quickening's power, Duncan smiled and walked towards him. Relief died stillborn in his chest. Instead of the answering smile he expected or even the familiar half-grin that tugged at his heart, there was instead a contemptuous anger underscored by a trace of fear. Something alien was stealing into Methos' whole aspect, altering him visibly.
 
"Methos?"
 
Methos glanced around hurriedly as if panicked by the sound of his own name and began to reply in a language Duncan couldn't identify, his eyes wild with fury.
 
Duncan went to him, putting his hands on the wide shoulders while his heart hammered in his chest. "Methos, what's wrong?"
 
Methos leapt at him -- all quick, deadly grace and economy of motion. In the blink of an eye the long fingered hands were around Duncan's throat and he fell to the ground, Methos straddling his chest intent on choking the life from his body. Duncan arched desperately off the ground trying vainly to throw his lover off. The hard fingers merely dug more deeply into his flesh and his vision began to grey at the edges. He tried frantically to speak but could not draw the air. In a last, dying burst of energy he brought up his fist and hit Methos in the face with all the power he could muster -- a sickening crunch of bone answering the blow. Methos fell back; blood streaming from his nose and Duncan scrambled to his feet, unable to assimilate what had just happened.
 
But it wasn't over.
 
With the same hard expression on his face Methos swept his right leg in an arc along the ground, knocking Duncan's feet from under him and diving onto him again, Methos' solid weight pressing him flat to the earth. The confiscated pistol reappeared in Methos' hand and he held it to Duncan's temple with his finger poised on the trigger. Duncan froze, looking into those eyes that usually looked back with such love searching for the merest flicker of the Methos that was his, and finding none.
 
"Methos...please...don't do this. Put the gun down, Methos, please? I can help you--" he stopped short as he felt the figure on top of him change subtly, his Methos flowing back into being once more.
 
Methos looked with horror at the gun in his hand and dropped it as if it was red-hot. He collapsed against Duncan, shaking and sodden with sweat. Duncan slipped his arms around the man he loved and rolled them both so that Methos lay on his back on the soft earth. Confusion and disbelief warred in the hazel eyes as Duncan watched him, stroking sweat-soaked spikes of hair away from the pale forehead, feeling the broad chest heave for breath under his.
 
"It's okay, Methos, shh now. It's okay, be still now. You're safe. I'm here..." He went on talking, mostly nonsense, but the sound of his voice seemed to soothe his lover and after what seemed an age some semblance of normality crept into his expression.
 
"Shit, did I just...? Oh Christ, Duncan—"
 
Duncan cut him off, "It's okay, it's over now. It wasn't you."
 
"But it was. Don't you see? It's in me." Utter hopelessness in his face and his voice.
 
MacLeod felt his heart break. "No."
 
The answer was a whisper of distilled pain, "Yes."
 
Duncan found himself unable to answer and in silence they returned to the island. Soon after he found Methos curled into the sofa, in a sleep so deep it was closer to coma. Conflicted and worn, Duncan went outside -- a deep yearning for peace and tranquility eating at his soul. There was a solution to all this, there had to be. It only needed to be found.
 
In the end finding the right questions to ask was harder than answering them. For a long time Duncan walked in the pine-scented forest, heedless of the distance covered while his thoughts whirled chaotically. Finally, clarity descended as if the universe itself clicked into place and as he walked amongst the ancient trees, he asked himself, "What wouldn't you do? Is there anyone you wouldn't hurt? Is there any length you wouldn't go to if it meant that you could keep Methos safe and with you forever?"
 
The answer was there before the questions were completed, searing his mind with crystal clarity. No. If it meant turning his back on everything he had and everyone else that he had ever loved -- he would do it and count the cost light. The decision made -- he returned to the cabin and found his lover just waking, stirred by the return of his presence.
 
"Hey." Methos smiled at him and sat up -- a little subdued but otherwise looking more like his usual self.
 
"Hey, yourself. You okay now?" Duncan sat down beside Methos, careful not to crowd him. "That was a little intense out there, before."
 
"I am sorry for that, Mac, I wish it had never happened, but I don't want to talk it to death. It is what it is. Quickenings and I have an unpredictable relationship. It's a small part of why I stay out of the game -- or try to." Methos' face became shuttered once more and he glanced away.
 
"I think I know the rest." Mac's voice was low as he tried to look Methos in the face.
 
"Oh yes?" Methos' scepticism was clear.
 
"Part of you loves it. The chase, the strategy...the power of life and death. I see it in you when you fight. There's a part of you that glories in it -- revels in it."
 
"He's always there you know," Methos paused but Duncan stayed silent, willing him to go on, "he's there at the back of my mind, telling me how easy it is, how good it feels, " he swallowed hard, "how good I am at it. He's not always this raucous, but the more Quickenings I take the louder and more powerful he seems to become."
 
"The Horseman," Duncan replied evenly without emotion.
 
"He rattles his chains louder with every quickening. It becomes harder and harder to resist his seduction -- and he is seductive, MacLeod -- make no mistake. The layers of myself that rest above him are brittle and fragile at best. Every one of those four heads in the last few days put cracks in those layers that will take me more time than I have to mend. They're not leaving me a lot of choice: become him again or die. I won't choose to die." Methos' shaking hand closed around Duncan's.
 
***
 
Now
 
"Duncan, it's so good to see you. But such awful circumstances..." Gina de Valicourt took Duncan's hands in hers and kissed him on both cheeks. She was palely beautiful in unrelieved black and genuine tears of sorrow stained her cheeks.
 
Duncan found himself wishing it was all a nightmare so he'd have some hope that none of it was real.
 
"Thanks, Gina. Thanks for coming." He bent down to her, returning the kiss, feeling like Judas.
 
Sunlight bursting through the rainbow tones of stained glass painted the interior of the small church with warmth and color. Yet it might as well have been the merest cold sepia-toned shack for all the comfort Duncan derived from it. Just when he thought this masquerade could not possibly get a fraction worse, there was a new level of hell to which to descend.
 
Dawson was crying, the narrow trickle of tears running into his beard unnoticed. Christ.
 
So few to mark the passing of one so old -- the Watchers and the Immortals stood around the churchyard, each tiny group knotted to itself, sliding wary glances across the sanctified ground. One man crossed the divide.
 
"Mac, how're ya doin' man?" the Watcher asked, his gravel voice thick with emotion.
 
"I'm okay, Joe. How are you? I'm sorry I haven't been around to talk to you. But well..." he trailed off lamely.
 
"Yeah I know. I still can't believe it, he was so full -- of life, of everything -- you know? I'm gonna miss the old guy, even if the bar might finally start making a profit," Dawson joked grimly, swiping the tears away at last.
 
"Duncan? Are you ready to start?" Amanda surprised him, coming up from behind.
 
Ready? He would never be ready for what he was about to do.
 
***
 
Then
 
"Another way? What are you talking about, MacLeod?" Methos asked wearily as they sat down again.
 
"Methos needs to die," Duncan answered, more sure than ever it was the only solution.
 
"I think I just said that's what I won't choose to do. Have you listened to a word I've said?"
 
Emotional exhaustion was deepening the lines of Methos' pale face and Duncan couldn't play word games any more. "We'll fake your death. Then you and I will ride off into the sunset." Duncan sent him a quick smile as he spoke.
 
Shock and disbelief tore across Methos' features, "I considered that and rejected it days ago. I don't think you understand just what you're suggesting, Mac, what it would mean..."
 
"You're wrong. I know exactly what I mean and what we'll have to do. I think it's you that doesn't understand. I love you -- above and beyond anything I ever dreamed of feeling -- and if I have to sacrifice everyone and everything else in my life to protect you -- then that is precisely what I will do." Duncan gripped his lover's shoulder until his knuckles turned white.
 
"You say that now, Highlander, but what will the Clan Chieftain do without his clan around him?" Methos' hand reached out to stroke the side of Duncan's face with sad resignation in his eyes. "I can't let you do that; eventually you'd hate me for it." He peeled Duncan's hand from his shoulder, enclosing it in his cool, firm grip. "No. Let it play itself out. I think I want to stick around and see what happens this time." Hazel eyes fluttered shut, closing Methos' soul to his view.
 
"No! Methos, you don't understand what I'm saying to you. Nothing I've ever known comes close to what I have with you and I will not willingly let that go. I will not. Don't ask me to. Let's do this, please. We can do it -- we can make the whole world believe that Methos is dead, then they'll stop coming and you'll be safe." Duncan could hear the pleading note in his voice, understood on one level how simplistic his idea sounded, but the knowledge came from too far away to touch him.
 
"No."
 
***
 
Now
 
Arms folded around him and Duncan jumped a little, dragged back to the present. "Rachel, it was good of you to come." He returned her hug, feeling like the worst sort of scum. Only a thousand regrets, Methos? How did you come so far with so few?
 
"Oh, Duncan, I'm so sorry. He was a fine man. A rare soul."
 
Words choked in his throat and he could manage was, "Yes."
 
The others gravitated to him -- Gina, all tender sympathy and solicitude; Robert, standing solemnly beside his wife; Amanda watching him with tear-glossed eyes; Joe standing behind leaning on his cane like he'd stood for too long and the pain in his stumps was competing with the pain in his heart.
 
Connor rescued him; saved him from being brought completely undone by the sympathy of his friends. "We're ready to start, Duncan. Will you speak first?"
 
God forgive me.  On leaden feet, he trudged to the lectern and turned to his friends, the people he'd come to betray. It would be easier to face a room full of challengers than this heartfelt expression of love and sympathy; a sword through his gut could hurt no less. He cleared his throat and began.
 
"He didn't want to leave us, he fought desperately against it for so long. But in the end, even strength such as his had to falter and now we are the worse for his not being here."
 
He went on but his mind seemed to float above his body -- the unreality of the situation finally hitting home and the words continued without his conscious input, while his mind drifted back...
 
***
 
Then
 
"You'd rather become him then?" Duncan spat coldly as he withdrew his hand from Methos' grasp. "Is that what this is really about? You don't give a damn what I want -- about us -- you want to be him again. 'Death on a Horse', is that it? I'm just sorry Kronos isn't around for you to complete the picture." Anger, hot and sweet, curled into Duncan's gut.
 
"You fucking bastard," Methos hissed. "You don't even know what you asking of me, do you? All you can see is how this affects you, how to keep what you want." Methos stood and stalked to the huge front window, turning and leaning against the frame. "You are such a child, MacLeod. The minute I disagree with you, you invoke bloody Kronos. Can you comprehend that I might not want to do this for your sake? Despite what you think of me, I love you. I love you so much it's completely and utterly terrifying to me." Emotion overwhelmed his voice at last and the final words were nothing but a rough whisper. "If we do this we'll end up hating each other, maybe not right away, but some day. There'll be no escaping it."
 
Duncan could see the tremors wracking the finely drawn frame; see the pale skin turn even whiter under the force of his attack. You really are a bastard, MacLeod.  He went to Methos, gently grasping his shaking shoulders and him against his chest, folding him into a silent embrace.
 
As the man in his arms began to melt against him -- the tremors subsiding -- Duncan finally told him what it all came down to: "I can live with your hate, I cannot live with your death. Nor you becoming it."
 
***
 
Now
 
MacLeod stumbled from the front of the church to his seat, gratefully accepting Amanda's hand as she slipped it into his. They watched as Joe limped slowly to the front and began to speak. He spoke of friendship, of unexpected gifts, and of love. Words beautiful in their simplicity. An unlikely calm flowed into Duncan's tortured mind as he listened, then a memory followed, vivid as hallucination. Methos, lit by flame like a pagan god, looking at him with such unabashed honesty as he spoke of the depth of his love for Duncan.
 
"Loving you and being loved by you transforms me, changes me, lifts me above what I am. You are my love and my heart and my soul, Duncan MacLeod."
 
The voice was so clear in his head that Duncan almost turned to look for the source. Warmth like an embrace stole around his defences and briefly overrode the pain. We'll be together soon...
 
***
 
Then
 
"Are you sure? Absolutely sure?" he searched Methos' face for any shadow of doubt.
 
Utter, eerie calm was all he could see there as Methos answered, "Never more sure of anything."
 
They stood, on holy ground for the last time, preparing to leave and return to the city. Duncan held Methos close, his arms around his partner's narrow waist.
 
"Then we'll go back and face this together, no matter what the outcome. You know that you can change your mind any time?"
 
"You'll be the first to know. Do you understand why I have to do this?"
 
"Yes." Duncan inclined his head until their foreheads met. "Love you."
 
"Always."
 
***
 
Now
 
Cassandra swept into the church; a flurry of red and gold and a glossy flood of hair. The Immortal heads turned first, alerted by her presence, the Watchers shortly after, disbelief clear in their faces. Duncan stood wearily. He'd been wrong -- this day could indeed get worse.
 
"Cassandra." He stood in the aisle between the pews and faced her.
 
"Is it true? Is the last Horseman really dead? Or is this another of his tricks?" She tossed her hair back over her shoulder with a flick of an impatient hand, then she continued -- her voice low and deadly. "Where's the bastard buried, Duncan? I've come to dance on his grave." 
 
"You'll never know." He sighed heavily. "Why are you here? Did the fact that you weren't invited not tell you something? You're not welcome here, Cassandra, not if you're still angry with him."
 
"Angry?" Her tone was utterly incredulous. "Anger doesn't even come close to what I feel about that murdering, raping bastard!"
 
"Yes, he told me..." Duncan trailed off, unwilling to go further in such a public forum.
 
An oddly plaintive expression stole over her face. "What did he tell you about me?"
 
Duncan looked about uneasily, "Can we talk about this in private?"
 
The angry pride was back in a flash, "No! I'm sure everyone here knows what went on. Let's have it, Duncan. Let's hear what that monster had to say."
 
"You still can't accept what we... were to each other, can you? I loved him, Cassandra. If he was a monster, then mark me as one too. Our lives are as one now." He paused, reining in his emotions so he could again speak. "If you must know, he said that he was sorry."
 
"For what? For enslaving me? For murdering my people? For raping me?" The scorn grew with every question and she stepped nearer and nearer to Duncan until he could feel the desert wind of her breath on his face.
 
"No. For making you love him."
 
The simple statement seemed to becalm her, taking the wind from her sails. "I never loved him," she whispered.
 
A faint smiled crossed the Highlander's face. "He said you'd deny it. Haven't you lived long enough to know that you can't change what is done? He said to tell you that it would be easier to recall the wind, than to try to take back the acts of one's hands or the words of one's voice, and as futile to try. But he regretted it nonetheless. Can you leave it, Cassandra? Walk away and live your life?"
 
"I'll walk away, but forget it? Or forgive him? Not in a million years. I will always remember what was done to me, to my people." She straightened her thin shoulders and looked him in the eye.
 
He returned the look, staring into bottomless green pools, clouded with obsession. "That is your choice and your loss, Cassandra. I don't think there's any reason for you to stay, is there?"
 
She couldn't resist a final barb as she whirled and stalked off. "He was using you, Duncan. You do know that? He never loved you. He wasn't capable."
 
Duncan turned his back and walked away. The truth was in his heart. It had not always been an easy love -- in fact sometimes it had been incredibly hard -- but love it was: the deepest and most all encompassing of his life.
 
***
 
Then
 
"Methos..." His lover's clever tongue delicately traced the outline of Duncan's ear and combined with the hot breath feathering against his neck to send a bolt of pure arousal directly to Duncan's cock. Large hands settled on his hips, holding him at precisely the right angle for a promising bulge to rub sensuously over his ass.
 
It had been ten days since their return from holy ground, the situation was tense but, so far, Duncan thought that Methos was dealing with it better than either of them had expected. The challengers still came, an average of one every day and Methos had taken every one of them. The Quickenings were becoming harder and more unpredictable but still Methos seemed to be holding it together. Duncan struggled to maintain some semblance of normality in their lives and control his overwhelming urge to lock Methos up somewhere and take over the challenges for him. It grew harder every day.
 
They were standing in the loft's kitchen and Duncan was trying to put together a simple lunch for them, or at least he had been until Methos had decided to suggest something much more diverting. Food utterly abandoned, Duncan pressed back against the hot, hard body that stood so close behind him, his heart skipping double-time in anticipation.
 
"Yes, Mac?" Teasing laughter was hiding in the elder's voice.
 
"What are you doing?"
 
Long fingers walked across the front of MacLeod's loose sweat pants, wrapping around what they found there. "Making you incredibly horny?"
 
Duncan turned to face his mercurial lover. "Well, in that case," he returned the wicked grin on Methos' face with one of his own, "the least I can do is return the favor." And with his hands stealing up to pull Methos even closer, Duncan dipped his mouth to nip softly at the smooth skin of his long, pale neck, moving unerringly to the one spot guaranteed to make Methos helpless with need.
 
"Oh good..." Methos breathed as he leaned in even closer, trapping Duncan against the
countertop so he could feel the swell of Methos' cock against his own.
 
They kissed then, light, teasing and playful. For a long time they stood in simple enjoyment of lips and tongues and the myriad sensations they could evoke. Methos broke first, and with a deep throaty chuckle he slid Duncan's t-shirt up his chest, his mouth lowering to graze Duncan's nipple with the just the promise of his sharp little teeth. Duncan found himself shuddering under the onslaught. He slid a hand between them and found the hard ridge of Methos' erection clearly outlined in his snug jeans and traced it with his fingers. Methos moaned a little into Duncan's mouth as his palm rubbed firmly over the hardness.
 
"Bed?" Duncan whispered on a breath.
 
"I think I'll keep this meal for the kitchen, if you don't mind." Methos wore that maddenly teasing grin once more as he pushed Duncan's pants down and guided him up to sit on the island bench.
 
Then he took Duncan's achingly hard shaft between his lips, circling the head and swirling his tongue over the glans with light teasing touches. Duncan was too lost in the rush to reply. Methos had the most incredible mouth. Increasing the pressure a little, he sucked the just the head into the warm slickness. Methos' hands were caressing Duncan's tightening sac as his mouth drove him to the edge of abandon. He watched the glossy dark head bob over his cock, sucking and teasing until he was trembled with the force of his need and his breath was coming in ragged gasps.
 
Methos released the shaft and met Duncan's eyes from beneath curling eyelashes with a smile escaping the corner of his mouth. Then he was back -- nibbling softly along the sides of Duncan's shaft, smoothing long wet licks around and around, slowly moving up to the tip once more. Dropping a soft kiss onto the glistening head, Methos changed direction, tracing the snaking vein that ran along the underside with the point of his tongue. With lightly feathering touches that seemed to burn in their intensity, Methos' tongue continued to travel downwards over Duncan's balls, flickering rhythmically. Duncan leaned back on his elbows and spread his legs. the breath stilling in his throat, as Methos' tongue lapped at the smooth skin of perineum and promised more. But the inveterate tease had other ideas; he lifted his head, a laugh lurking about his face as he saw Duncan's distress at the denial. 
 
"Now where did you leave that olive oil, MacLeod?" he asked with a wicked snicker as he straightened and looked around to his right, "Ahh, there it is. Extra Virgin, hmm..." He faced Duncan again with an ironically raised eyebrow. "Perhaps not."
 
Duncan's answer, barely formed on his lips as Methos began to use the oil, became a sharp gasp of pleasure. A drizzle ran coolly over his cock and Methos smoothed it over with a sweep of his hand. Then another rivulet ran over his balls and trickled between his cheeks. Duncan leaned back onto his elbows and moaned softly as his lover's long fingers worked the oil deep inside him.
 
"Oh, Methos, just like that," he groaned as he spread his legs further apart.
 
"Was there something that you wanted, Mac?" The mock-innocence of the tone wasn't lost on him.
 
Duncan's eyes closed as he writhed against the pleasuring hand. "Mmm..."
 
Methos' fingertips found Duncan's prostate and rubbed gently over it. At the hiss of breath and the deep moan he asked again, his voice sandpapered by desire. "Tell me what you want."
 
Duncan opened his mouth to speak but the warning buzz of an approaching Immortal cut him off. They froze for a second. Damn it. With a sigh they separated, pulling clothes hastily back into place, Methos wiping the oil from his fingers with quick, rough movements. Desire evaporated like mist in the sun.
 
It was the fifteenth challenger since the nightmare began and sick dread settled in Duncan's gut as he looked at his lover. "Let me...please?"
 
"They don't want you, they want 'Methos'," his lover replied flatly as he collected the Ivanhoe from under the sofa. "It's a tough job but somebody's got to do it. Time to go to work."
 
The grim joke and its accompanying tight smile did nothing to alleviate Duncan's concern as he watched Methos become the warrior once more. This long-denied aspect of his personality thrived on the conflict, the battle, and the proximity of death. There was a swing in his step and a glitter of bloodlust in the ancient eyes as Methos went to meet his next battle.
 
It was another old one. His presence confirmed that -- it was strong and harsh in the Highlander's head as he snagged his katana and followed Methos down to the dojo. Two Immortals awaited them. The first was a solidly built man, broad-shouldered and tanned, not tall but with the confident carriage of an experienced fighter. The other man seemed younger both in appearance and manner; he stood close and a little behind the other, deferring to him silently.
 
"Kasdorf," Methos said as the four came face to face.
 
"Dr Adam Steiner, or should I say Methos, how good to see you again. It's been what, six hundred years?" Silken menace purred in the challenger's faintly accented voice as his eyes narrowed.
 
"Five hundred and forty-seven since Heidelberg, but who's counting? Long enough for you to have forgotten that I let you off lightly last time we met, obviously. I'm a busy man, you know how it is -- things to do, heads to take -- so can we just get on with this debacle?"
 
The flippant answers seemed enrage the German Immortal and he went to draw his sword, only to be restrained by his companion's hand on his arm. "Hans, be careful," he warned softly.
 
Surprisingly the older man acceded, "Ja, Gunther, ich weiss." The reply was an intimate whisper, barely audible to the others.
 
"So Kasdorf -- student or just a pretty pet?" Methos threw in with an arrogant glance over the young blonde Immortal's muscular frame. "Maybe we'll keep him when you're just a sorry memory, I'm sure we'd find some...use for him." A predatory grin spread over Methos' features.
 
Methos couldn't resist stirring the pot, so bloody theatrical, Duncan thought, as he noticed the reckless mischief on his lover's eyes. MacLeod could almost hear Methos' voice quoting: 'Anger is a poor ally in battle.'
 
Predictably Kasdorf's rage grew exponentially with Methos' innuendo; he tossed his coat aside revealing a bastard half-sword with an ornate hilt in the baroque style.
 
"Now, Methos!" the challenger bellowed, beckoning with a roll of his hand.
 
If Methos was worried about facing this Immortal he was hiding it well, Duncan thought as he stood aside, keeping a wary eye on the younger man who stood nearby. The metallic ring of the swords echoed through the room as the battle began.
 
"So, Gunther, why did he come? Do you know?" Duncan kept his tone casually conversational as they watched the duel.
 
Methos scored first blood with a simple undercut.
 
"Ja, he told me. This 'Methos' -- although he wasn't called that then -- stole his woman when they were at the medical school together in Heidelberg. They were supposed to fight but this coward lured Hans into a basement, locked him in and left him there rather than fight him like a man," the young man sneered.
 
The German was being lured into a typical Methos trap: Methos faltered, drawing him in.
 
"Hell of a reason to commit suicide," Duncan observed coldly. "He's getting his fight now. Do you think he'll find it's been worth it when Methos' blade is at his throat? How old is Kasdorf anyway?"
 
Methos fell backwards as the German loomed over him.
 
"Nine hundred and fifty-two," Gunther announced with not a little note of pride.
 
Methos' sword was deep in the center of Kasdorf's gut before he had a chance to flinch.
 
"Old enough to know better really, don't you think?" Duncan said over the young man's strangled cry.
 
Methos rose from the floor, his sword still buried deep in the challenger's body, his eyes fixed on the dying man's face. With one hand braced on Kasdorf's shoulder Methos wrenched the Ivanhoe roughly from the German's body, took aim as the man swayed on his feet and with a massive backswing sent his head tumbling across the wooden floor in a soaring fountain of arterial blood.
 
Duncan restrained the distraught young Immortal with the katana poised over his chest. "Don't even..."
 
For the fifteenth time in less than two weeks Methos' body was battered by the turbulent energy of the Quickening. As the mist enveloped him and the lightning arced wildly between him and the fallen challenger, he was thrown to the floor, falling heavily against a nearby weight bench with a sickening thud. Duncan winced at the pain that his lover would inevitably suffer when the Quickening storm was finished. Finally the light and smoke withdrew their hold and Duncan ran to Methos' side.
 
"Methos...can you hear me? Come on, time to wake up." Duncan gathered his lover into his arms protectively.
 
Gunther sank to his knees beside his fallen teacher, tears in his eyes. "He dies for this," he sobbed.
 
"Don't be a stupid boy. Isn't one death enough, do you really want to join him? Take him and go. Count yourself lucky to live another day," Duncan growled as he glared across the body of his still unconscious lover.
 
The boy wrapped Kasdorf in his own coat, collected the head and dragged the corpse from the dojo, leaving a bloody trail behind him.
 
Methos stirred a little in Duncan's arms as they half lay, half sat on the dojo floor, moaning softly, shifting closer into his embrace. Duncan felt himself respond almost instantly, his cock twitching and filling as his senses were filled with Methos. The warm length of graceful muscle and bone heavy in his arms, the scent of fresh sweat on the flawless skin, the thick eyelashes against the sculpted cheek, all this and more enveloped his senses as he held his partner close. He lowered his mouth taste his lover's lips. A pleased grin tugged at Duncan's face as strong arms slipped around him and drew him closer, responding passionately to the kiss.
 
Suddenly the creature in his arms tensed, changed perceptibly, and the flow of pleasure and energy that had been pulsing between them became a turbulent whirlpool. The soft pliant mouth became hard and demanding -- consuming roughly where moments before there had been a gentle sharing. Adrenaline pumped into every cell in Duncan's body, as Methos became a stranger once more. Each quickening had been so very different, the person Methos had been after each head changed with it -- this time the change was extreme.
 
Reflexively, Duncan pushed away, putting distance between him and whoever Methos had become this time. Methos, catlike, was on him in a second, wrestling him to the floor and making his ears ring with a well-placed right cross to his jaw that snapped his head back. Without even thinking about it, Duncan swung back catching Methos high on the cheekbone, splitting the skin. Duncan rose and ran for where the katana lay on the floor, another foot and he would have reached it, but Methos tackled him sending him crashing facedown to the floor.
 
Vice-like hands gripped his shoulders, and with another teeth-rattling thud he was flat on his back on the floorboards; Methos scrambling to sit straddled across his stomach. The Ivanhoe appeared in Duncan's line of sight, making his already racing heart jackhammer in his chest. Wordless threat clear in the narrowed eyes, Methos raised the sword and rested it at Duncan's throat. Cold steel became his universe -- a few inches of metal against his vulnerable skin and that was all. For a long minute his breath heaved in rapid gasps.
 
Then, his hand still on the hilt of the Ivanhoe, Methos confused him by rising to his feet, the tip of the steel still firmly pointed at his neck. Seeking reason in the hazel eyes, Duncan instead found menace shifting into something else entirely; something that looked a great deal like hunger, possession and desire.
 
Methos spoke at last, but it was as unlike him as someone using his voice could be. "Lie still!" he ordered.
 
"Methos," Duncan whispered. "You don't have to do this. I—" In a blur of silver, the blade was back at his throat. Duncan swallowed the rest of what he was going to say.
 
"Be. Silent," Methos growled, pressing the blade harder against Duncan's skin. He held the blade paused there, while Duncan watched him silently, looking for any trace of the man he knew.
 
And found none.
 
Finally, the sword slid down his body. With infinite patience and precision Methos used the blade to shred every last piece of clothing Duncan was wearing, slicing it from his body. Small shivers of fear ran through him as the cold steel moved over his skin -- tracing along his arms, his legs, up the center of his abdomen -- dark creeping menace in every touch. The fear was melding with something else though -- something seductive and unfamiliar stirring in his soul. Something that he didn't want to examine too closely. His eyes never left Methos', the green-gold depths trapping him as effectively as any binding. Finally all Duncan's clothing lay in shreds around him and Methos' eyes roved possessively over his body. Then the blade was at Duncan's throat again and his blood seemed to roar in his ears.
 
"On your knees!"
 
Duncan complied without really knowing why, arousal and fear pounding in his groin. Without any further words, he reached up to open the bulging jeans that filled his vision. Methos' cock sprang free, bobbing in time with the rapid beat of his heart. It was fully erect, reddened and shining with a drop of pre-cum already. Methos' hand stretched out to rest in his hair, the gentleness of the act confusing him for a brief moment. Duncan had almost come to believe that the threat of violence had passed when the hand on his head tangled into his long hair as if to stroke it, but then it closed and Duncan hissed a sharp breath as Methos grasped the handful tightly.
 
"Suck."
 
With Methos' sword resting on his shoulder MacLeod's hands were shaking a little as he grasped the shaft and guided it to his lips. There was no finesse -- no technique involved here, Methos' cock pushed between his lips and thrust roughly, fucking Duncan's mouth. Desire, crude and primitive, was licking through his body as his lover tugged harder on the handful of hair and the fleshy tip of the shaft bumped at the back of his throat, the salty tastes of skin and pre-cum only adding to his torment.
 
The sword clattered to the floor, startling him a little, but his focus was quickly dragged back to the hot shaft in his mouth as the thrusts grew harder and faster. Methos was coming, and tears sprang to Duncan's eyes reactively, as the hand in his hair gripped tighter and the bittersweet fluid shot down his throat. Swallowing convulsively, his hands grasped more firmly at Methos' legs, steadying himself as the intensity threatened to overwhelm him. As the final drops were swallowed away, he lifted his gaze to look into his lover's eyes. Methos was watching him intently with that soul-deep stare MacLeod knew so well, the one that made him feel as though there was nothing about him that this man couldn't divine -- no secret he could keep private under its onslaught. But the expressive mouth was drawn into a cold little smile; as if what he saw in Duncan's eyes amused him a little.
 
"Do I need the blade?" Menace and arousal roughened Methos' voice.
 
Duncan swallowed hard, his blood racing in heady mix of fear and desire. Desire won. "No."
 
"See that I don't." Death lurked smirking behind the words.
 
Duncan lowered his eyes. Whoever this was, it wasn't his Methos, and his gut grew colder as he wondered how far this Methos would go. But as long as they both lived through this it would be all right. For now, he would ride it out. Then a vicious push saw Duncan sent sprawling across the floor to land lying on his side.
 
Methos followed him to the ground and turned him over to lay facedown, his hands rough and proprietary as they pinched and rubbed at random. As he was turned over he dared to resist, pushing away a hand that pinched excruciatingly hard at his nipple, only to be hit again with a blow across his head that sent showers of stars floating through his vision.
 
"You do what you're told -- when you're told, boy. Nothing else," Methos growled. "Now lift your arse up -- no, keep your head down."
 
Duncan complied in silence, his arousal escalating with every word, every touch. A careless hand slid arrogantly down the cleft of his buttocks, finding the oil from their interrupted lovemaking still there. Methos rubbed lazy circles into the oil, snickering under his breath as Duncan arched into the touch and a moan escaped before he could stifle it.
 
"You are an eager little whore, aren't you? Someone's trained you well. If you're very good I might even keep you alive for a while." All the while Methos' hands were igniting the nerve endings in every part of Duncan's body that they touched. Surely only his Methos knew how to touch him like that.
 
He groaned out loud again as a finger slid into him. The sound was quickly cut off as Methos slapped him a stinging blow.
 
"Silence! Not one sound unless I command it. Do you need me to hold the sword to your throat while I fuck you? I am going to fuck you, you know. Right in this tight little hole. Will you keep silent then, I wonder? With my cock buried inside you? You can't wait for it, can you?" Methos' other hand stroked roughly over his aching shaft and he gritted his teeth to keep quiet as the pleasure grew. "What about when you're desperate to come and I say no? Will you stay silent then?" The silky toned voice never rose a single decibel as Methos slid his finger in and out of Duncan's ass.
 
Duncan clenched his teeth and nodded once.
 
Every crude question, every threat only added to his excitement and a distant part of himself wondered at the perversity of it. Unable to see Methos, all Duncan's perception centered on his skin as he felt him move behind him. He felt the knock of a hard knee as it pushed his legs apart, then the smooth slip of thighs between his and the rough grasp of hands on his hips holding him steady. Then conscious thought was driven away with a single rough push as Methos sank into him. He bit down hard on his lip to stop himself from crying out in a tangled knot of pleasure and pain.
 
Methos had entered him with a single movement and virtually no preparation. The residual olive oil eased the way a little but still the entry of the large cock stretched him so quickly that a starburst of fire shot up to his shoulders. Breathing deliberately and rhythmically, he tried to silently overcome the pain; he was under no illusions as to the deadly seriousness of Methos' threats. Pleasure overtook pain as his body adjusted to the size of the familiar invader. Then the cock inside him was moving so deeply and nudging his prostate in just the way that always brought him so close, so quickly, and the rampant arrogance of the act itself touched such a nerve within him that his own erection burned with need.
 
Never in all their time together had there been this harsh possessiveness in Methos' touch, in his expression, in his voice. It had always been a mating of equals, matching strength for strength, need for need, passion for passion. But this dark rough possession was new and as Duncan gave himself over to it, the forbidden thrill of being so much clay under this man's hands just added to the fire burning beneath his skin. The fear he felt as Methos balanced on the utmost edge of real violence only aroused him more. He could only respond with a vague sense of wonder that he should find such complete submission so darkly enticing.
 
Methos continued to pound against his ass; he could feel the slap of the heavy sac against his flesh, and it only added to the sensual torment. Then a hand reached down slipping over his flank -- treacherously gentle -- and wrapped around his aching shaft and it took every last scrap of his self--control not to just let go and come.
 
"Not until I give you permission, whore." And a menacing squeeze punctuated the words.
 
Methos continued to roughly fondle Duncan's shaft as he thrust.
 
"You're mine now, boy -- don't ever forget that. Your body belongs to me, to do with whatever I choose. If you come it is because I wish it. If you live it is because I wish it. Whose are you?" The relentless pounding paused for the briefest moment. "Say it!"
 
"Yours..."
 
Methos' pounding became even more rapid and with a rush the hot fluid was spurting into Duncan. He wanted so desperately to come, to satisfy this need that tore at his flesh, but he waited in silence, the harsh sound of his gasps the only noise he made. The thrusting stopped slowly, Methos giving a final rough grind against his body that threatened to send him careering completely out of control, but he waited. His body began to tremble uncontrollably and Methos pulled away from him quickly, the hasty exit leaving a sharp, hot stab of pain and he welcomed it -- embraced the agony as a counterpoint to the overwhelming pleasure.
 
"On your back," Methos commanded as he stood and picked up the Ivanhoe.
 
With his blood thundering in his ears Duncan did as he was told, all the while watching for the first sign that Methos was going too far. As dread and need warred for supremacy in his body, he watched as Methos slipped the sword very lightly over his skin -- glacier-slow -- down the arrow of hair that bisected his stomach, too lightly to break the skin, down to the hair at his groin. His shaft lay still throbbing with unfulfilled need and Methos lay the flat of the blade against it. The cold steel should have diminished the burning desire but instead the danger only inflamed it more.
 
"I want to see you come now, whore." Methos' order was a silken whisper, dark and loaded with the promise of violence.
 
Without another touch, another word, Duncan thrust up against the cold steel and plummeted headlong into completion, hot fluid spilling hotly over his belly. He was so lost in the utter all-encompassing pleasure of the moment that he allowed a single word to escape his lips in the hazy aftermath of the orgasm.
 
"Methos..." he whispered as his hand closed around the hilt of the Ivanhoe where it lay on the floor.
 
In the space of a heartbeat, the bright blade was buried in Methos' chest.
 
***
 
Now
 
The wake was held at Joe's of course. Everyone who had attended the memorial service came back to bid farewell in the way Methos himself would have chosen. Duncan sat at a table near the bar, trying to hang on to a shred of sanity as his friends determinedly tried to ease his pain. He could barely look any of them in the eye; the weight of his deceit was so heavy.
 
"What are you going to do about Adam's friends at the college, Mac?" Joe asked. "Do they even know he's dead?"
 
"He took a leave of absence when all this started. So no, they don't know. It's easier just to tell them that he's gone overseas and won't be back, rather than explain why there's no grave, no death certificate -- you know the drill, Joe. With them not here we were able to give him his own name at the memorial. That was important."
 
"Yeah, I guess. Still can't believe he's really gone. It just doesn't seem real."
 
"Joe, please..." Duncan's voice was an abraded rasp as his friend innocently tortured him.
 
"Jesus, Mac -- I'm sorry...I didn't mean--"
 
Duncan cut him off, "Leave it be, Joe, please?" He got up from the table and walked away. He couldn't take much more of this.
 
And, Christ, Amanda was drunk. As drunk as Duncan had ever seen her and to his mortification she was telling Gina de Valicourt in a thinly disguised stage whisper all about the time Methos and Duncan had taken her to bed with them. Gina to her credit was doing her best to hush the flow of reminiscence, while still listening avidly, but Amanda was in full spate and would not be easily quieted. Connor was sitting at the next table with an evilly amused smirk, half a bottle of whisky in front of him.
 
"Duncan, come sit with me," the other Scot called. "Amanda is telling the most fascinating story." He chuckled deep in his throat, "Did you really? Both of you at the same time?" At Duncan's embarrassed nod, he gave a short laugh. "Good for you." Then Connor grew somber. "Time to remember the life, my friend. You've marked the death, now remember the life. Yours and his." He paused, pouring shots into glasses; "Have a drink?"
 
"I think I drank enough last night to last me another four hundred years. I'll pass thanks, Connor."
 
"If you're sure." Connor downed both drinks in quick succession. "So you gonna tell me what's eating you?"
 
"My lover just died, Connor, what else would there be? Isn't that enough?"
 
"I don't know but something's not right." Connor narrowed his eyes, looking sideways at him. "Maybe it's nothing."
 
"It is nothing -- go back to eavesdropping on Amanda. That ought to keep you amused for hours."
 
"Duncan?"
 
The tone of Connor's voice had changed subtly and Duncan turned to look at him. "Yes?"
 
"About you and Amanda..."
 
Duncan met his old friend's eyes honestly; "She's been my friend almost as long as you have, and I love her dearly for that, but nothing else -- not any more -- not since Methos. Well...except for that one time and we were all pretty drunk. Amanda's always been a free agent; I've never had any real hold on her. For what it's worth I think you'll make a good couple. She'll certainly keep you on your toes." Duncan smiled genuinely for the first time that day and it felt strange to the muscles in his face -- unfamiliar.
 
"Thank you."
 
"Thank me again when she 'borrows' your credit cards for the first time." Duncan smiled once more, this time the sensation was a little less disconcerting. He sat, then, in brooding silence, drifting backwards again.
 
Then Robert was speaking to him but it was like trying to hear underwater -- he could see the mouth moving but no sound penetrated. Duncan shook his head, trying to clear the fog.
 
"Sorry, Robert? What did you say?"
 
Robert smiled a little sadly at him, pity in his eyes, "I was saying that you should come back to Paris with Gina and me -- stay with us at the chateau for a while. You shouldn't be alone. Paris will be good for you, just like old times."
 
"Thanks, but I can't. I won't be staying here but I won't be going to Paris either."
 
Robert looked confused, "But what will you do, Duncan? Where will you go?" He stopped and turned to call to his wife, "Gina, my love, come here. Duncan says he's leaving. Come and tell him he should come stay with us in Paris."
 
Gina hurried over from the table where she had been sitting with Amanda, "Of course, darling. Where else would you go, Duncan? You need to be around people who love you right now. You can't just go off on your own." She caught one of his hands in her small one and pressed it gently, looking up into his eyes with an expression that would have broken his heart if it wasn't already. "Let us help you, Duncan, please?"
 
"I'm sorry, but my mind is made up. I'll be leaving as soon as all our business interests are finalised. It's what I need to do." His voice held a great deal more conviction than his heart at that precise moment.
 
Amanda was weaving an unsteady path towards the group. "Duncan? You're leaving?" She swayed a little on her high heels; "If you leave me can I come too?" The sway reached the point of no return and she pitched forward into his arms, "Oh. Hi, there..." She looked up into his eyes and gave a crooked smile as her eyes filled," You're always there to catch me when I fall. What am I going to do without you? Don't go, please, Mac? Not you too..." She began to cry again, sniffling into his shirt.
 
It was all too much. "I can't...please...don't," he heard himself babble. Oh God. "Connor can you take her home, please? I have to go." He handed Amanda to his friend and fled. A snickering voice in his head taunted him as he fled: You did this; this is all your own fault. How does it feel to be the architect of your own destruction?
 
***
Then
 
Duncan looked at his dead lover on the floor, and shivered. He swallowed hard and retrieved the sword, unable to look at the wound it left. Naked, cold, smeared with semen and utterly shaken, Duncan turned away from Methos and went upstairs. He showered, standing for a long time beneath the scalding spray trying to work out how to deal with this latest twist. For a long time he had known, on an intellectual level anyway, that Methos had once been a very different kind of man and yet to be confronted with the living, breathing embodiment of that man was a completely different story.
 
With a sudden flash of insight Duncan realized that he hadn't truly appreciated the journey his partner had made until this very moment. In a strange way the whole ugly incident had revealed something so infinitely valuable to him, he was very nearly grateful that it had happened. Methos had evolved to be the man he was now -- not by any trick of fate or luck or heritage but through a long and painful process of living, experiencing every aspect of his being. How Methos would react to the incident when he regained consciousness, he couldn't be sure. All he did know with absolute clarity was that Methos' actions had not been within his control and, better than anyone, Duncan knew how that felt.
 
As he turned off the water he felt the return of Methos' presence. In spite of his resolution not to over-react to the situation, prickles of dread crept over his spine. Would he be his Methos again or some other relic of times past come back to torment their already complicated lives? Duncan drew a deep steadying breath as he wrapped a towel around his hips and left the bathroom.
 
Methos was waiting for him, an expression of deep conflict settled across his face. "I suppose it's too much to hope that," he gestured vaguely, "all that was just one of my nightmares?" Duncan opened his mouth to speak but no words would come. Methos shook his head. "This can't go on."
 
***
Now
 
He held the sword to the vulnerable neck, right at the spot where his lips had so often drawn shudders and sighs of delight. Such a beautiful throat, pale and smooth, with that prominent larynx that begged for the touch of a tongue or the graze of teeth, bared to the kiss of steel instead. Methos kneeled motionless -- head back, his eyes closed and wearing an expression of stoic acceptance. Duncan waited, poised in time, waiting for...something. As if drawn by an invisible force, the katana swung back in a flat arc and sliced forward cleaving the unresisting head from his lover's body.
 
Duncan woke -- a scream trapped in his throat, sweat pouring from his skin. He'd left the bar and walked the few blocks back to the loft in a guilt-ridden fugue after the scene at the wake. Collapsing into bed, he'd been sleeping fitfully until his subconscious had thrown this torture at him, again.
 
***
Then
 
"I met the Horseman today, didn't I?" Duncan asked as he sat facing Methos at either end of the long sofa.
 
They didn't touch -- hadn't since Methos' return to the loft; he was quiet and reserved, tension holding his spine straight and his neck stiff as if Damocles' sword hung over his head.
 
Methos looked almost surprised at the form of the question. "That's an incredibly generous way to put it, Duncan, considering..." there was the vague gesture again, "but yes, that was him. Charming fellow, visits me in my dreams sometimes, just to keep me on my toes."
 
The bleak irony was delivered with such a desolate look that Duncan ached to hold him and banish his pain, but he held back -- needing to resolve this first. But the words were slow to form and he was silent longer than he had intended to be.
 
Methos misread the silence. "I'll get my things and go. I'm sorry, Mac. I...well...oh, nothing--" He rose from the seat, keeping his eyes carefully averted.
 
Duncan's voice sounded stark to him in the long silence that followed. "He isn't you."
 
Methos turned wearily towards him. "We've been here before, MacLeod, I was that man three thousand years ago -- just as I was that man an hour ago. That was me -- no doppelganger, no evil twin. I have no excuse for what I did to you -- just give me a minute and I'll be out of your hair for good."
 
The shimmer of tears in his lover's eyes nearly brought Duncan undone. "Methos, please...don't go. Sit down and talk to me?" He held his hand out to his lover. "Please?"
 
Methos relented reluctantly and sat but didn't take up the proffered hand. "Mac, can we just finish this cleanly? I don't know how much more I can take."
 
"Two questions, if the answer to both is yes then I won't stop you if you really want to leave. Firstly, were you in control of what you were doing after you took Kasdorf's head? And secondly, is what you did any worse or any more in your control than anything I did when I took the dark Quickening?" His gaze met Methos', unflinching.
 
The silence lengthened, stretching out between them in infinite strands of time. Conflict, pain and a trace of amazement flowed in and out of Methos' expression. Duncan waited.
 
"No." Methos retreated into himself visibly and his voice was quiet. "But, Mac -- Duncan -- that's not the point."
 
"Yes, that's exactly the point. It wasn't really you was it? He isn't you, not the Methos that lives here and now on the verge of the twenty-first century. You are the sum of all your experiences, all your lives -- not just the Horseman. That's who you are now, Methos. You told me that once, remember? It's true. I don't want you to go, Methos, please don't. Stay here; think about what you want. I have some things to do downstairs." Duncan stood and left the loft, fear buzzing in his head as he rode the lift down to the dojo.
 
Mechanically, Duncan began to clean away the evidence of the beheading and all that had followed. His mind skipped away from the carnage in front of him and instead tried to come to some sort of understanding of his reaction to all that happened there.
 
***
Now
 
The morning after the wake Duncan was bruised and brittle, short tempered with the lawyers he went to see, and sarcastic with the storage company clerk who questioned his orders. At one point he would have liked nothing better than to simply walk away from the lot and disappear into the sunset. He was in the loft packing books into boxes when the lift hummed and the lack of a warning told him that it was most likely Joe on his way up to visit.
 
The lift groaned to a halt and the Watcher stepped out. "Hey, Mac."
 
"Hey, Joe, what's up?"
 
"Thought I'd see what you're up to, check in, you know..." He limped across the room and sat in the chair opposite Duncan, eyeing the boxes. "You're packing?"
 
"Yes." He offered no other explanation, but kept loading the volumes neatly into the cartons.
 
"You wanna tell me where you're going? Or do I have to wait and find out from my field guy?"
 
"I wanted to talk to you about that, Dawson. I need a favor." Duncan stopped what he was doing and looked at his friend, a query in his raised eyebrows.
 
"Come on, Mac, I can't do that -- pull your Watcher? The council'd really have my head if I did that. What's the big secret? You've always had a Watcher before, it's never stopped you from doing anything you wanted." Joe's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward in the chair.
 
"I need this, Joe. Just give me a chance to be by myself, really alone -- okay?"
 
"Somethin's going on here, man. Are you bein' straight with me? What's this really about?" Suspicion hardened his mouth and put an edge to his voice.
 
"I need you trust me, Joe. I can't explain it, but it's important. Please, Joe?"
 
Joe avoided the question. Instead he looked more intently at the open carton in front of them. "Those are Methos' books, what are you going to do with them?"
 
"Storage for now. Why?" Duncan closed the box and sealed it with a long strip of tape.
 
"There's a lot of interest at headquarters in Methos' death, whether he left any diaries," Joe looked significantly at the Scot, "journals etcetera..."
 
"I'm sorry, Joe, no. They can't have them. I promised I'd always look after them if something happened to him. There are personal things in there, things he didn't want the Watchers to know about. I won't have his life reduced to an exhibit in that mausoleum," Duncan shot back wearily as he finished labelling the carton and slid it away from Joe.
 
"Hey, fair enough -- if it was me I wouldn't want that bunch going through my private thoughts either. Make sure you keep them in a safe place," Joe cautioned. Then he paused. "So how are you doin' today? Really? The grey eyes searched Duncan's face.
 
"Really? I'll be okay, eventually. Don't worry about me. What about you? How's everything?" Duncan was worried about the effect all this was having on his mortal friend. Guilt slid coldly up his throat.
 
"I miss the old guy. I just never thought it could happen to him -- not after staying alive all that time. I thought he'd be dodging his beer tab and slouching all over the bar until long after I'd given up the ghost -- you know?" Dawson rubbed the flat of his hand over his face, trying to hide the moisture that glistened in his eyes.
 
"Yeah, I know." He tried a smile, but it felt as phoney as it was. Then he froze and stiffened, frowning.
 
"What is it?" Joe asked, though he had to know the answer well enough.
 
"Company." Duncan rose, picking up his katana.
 
The lift creaked and groaned and disgorged its contents, the elder Highlander.
 
"Connor," Duncan managed a weak smile, "come in and sit down."
 
"Hello, Duncan -- Dawson how are you?" Connor nodded at him warily.
 
"Fine. Look, Mac, I'll be going. Take care, man." Joe levered himself up from the low chair in the ungainly way that always made Duncan itch to help him, even though he never would.
 
"You too, Joe. Thanks for coming." He watched as Joe slowly made his way to the lift for the last time. But there was one more thing he needed to say. "Joe? Methos always said how much your friendship meant to him. He would have wanted you to know that." Goodbye, my friend.  
 
"Thanks, man." Joe's voice was rough as he hauled the gate closed and disappeared from sight.
 
Connor, true to form, launched straight into the reason for his visit. "So what's this I hear about you taking off for parts unknown? It's a bit soon for that, isn't it?"
 
"Connor..." There was a warning note in Duncan's pronunciation of the name.
 
"Duncan..." Connor echoed, with a tiny mocking accent.
 
"Just leave it, okay. I know what I'm doing. I told you days ago I'd be going -- I thought you understood that." Leave it, Connor, please? Just let me go. If you knew how I've lied to you...
 
"I thought it was just the grief talking. You need your friends around you now. Besides, where will you go?"
 
"Travelling. Moving around -- I haven't done that in a very long time and now there's no reason not to. Can you just wish me well and leave it at that, Connor? How's Amanda this morning?" Duncan changed the subject with a strong sense of relief.
 
Connor looked a little embarrassed. "She's still in bed, actually. She couldn't face coming down here...says you would understand."
 
"Amanda doesn't do goodbyes well, never has. She knows how I feel about her and vice versa. I'll see her again -- one of these days. Always do. Watch out for her for me though, Connor, all right?" The words caught a little in Duncan's throat, as the finality of his decision loomed large in his mind.
 
"Of course. You better keep in touch, laddie or I'll come looking for you, understand?"
 
"Laddie? That's enough of that nonsense," Duncan joked, though he couldn't force the smile to reach his eyes. "I'll be in touch -- but it may not be for a while, so don't worry, okay?"
 
"Look after yourself." Connor grasped his forearm in a warrior's salute. "Safe journey."
 
"Aye."
 
An hour later, Duncan looked around the empty loft, without all their belongings it seemed huge -- a vast echoing space that retained nothing of the love story that had once been played out within its walls. That part of the past was only in his memories now. The arrangements made, the end was now only a short time away. He'd been here for so long, the loft and the dojo held so much of his past -- he had only to close his eyes to see Richie raiding the fridge or Charlie's challenging glare across the dojo floor or even Anne, what a mistake that had nearly been, -- and Methos...
 
So many lives, so many deaths....
 
And now it was over.
 
***
 
Then
 
"Something's got to give, Methos. We can't go on like this."
 
"Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I'm happy about what just happened? Do you imagine for a second that I enjoy having my body taken over by that...that?" Methos pulled away and Duncan watched him draw himself in tightly, almost shaking with the effort of it.
 
Duncan went to him, folding him in his arms and holding him close. "I know..."
 
Methos pushed back and looked him square in the eyes. "You can't know. Not really." Duncan lifted an eyebrow. "Okay, maybe you can. But there's no holy spring for me -- there's nothing for me...." He paused, dragging in a deep breath. He was watching Duncan's face for...something. Lifting his hand, Methos traced one finger down Duncan's cheek, a deep sadness in his eyes. "I think it's time," he said, his gaze unwavering. "Time I died."
 
***
 
Now
 
Duncan left the aircraft gratefully after the long flight and even the past year of planes and trains and cars and late night border crossings couldn't dim his excitement. Melbourne, Australia. Not long now. Joy was bubbling up inside his chest and quickening his blood. MacLeod almost floated through customs and into the crowded terminal. After a short delay at the rental car desk, he was on his way. Not even the heavy peak hour traffic could put a dent in the pleasure of expectation as Duncan drove through the city. Eventually the traffic thinned and he left the vast sprawling city behind him. Scenery of incredible beauty was utterly wasted on him as he drove single-mindedly through the hot, dry afternoon. He passed dramatic coastline, red cliffs rising beside the road, grey sea tossing white foam over oily black rocks. Soon he was driving along a long winding road at the edge of a massive cliff with the ocean boiling and tossing far below. The sharp salt tang of the sea was too strong to ignore and MacLeod wound down the car window and let it fill his head, suffusing his body with a sense of well-being that he'd been missing for a long time.
 
After about four hours on the road MacLeod looked for a place to pull over. Spotting a white Range Rover parked between the road and the cliff edge, he turned off the road, pulled up behind it and left his car. Walking towards the other vehicle, Duncan's heart stilled in his chest and his skin turned hot and cold, a crisis of wishes made real. Then his pulse shot from racing to subsonic in the space of a second. A tall man with short clipped dark hair lounged against the tailgate of the Rover. Long-legged and elegant in a dark grey suit; small silver rectangular framed glasses obscuring chameleon eyes with hugely dilated pupils -- the only thing betraying the intensity of his excitement. They paused, facing one another for a brief frozen moment, before the irresistible attraction drew them together.
 
Duncan crushed him into a fiercely passionate embrace. Breathless, endless, trembling, tender, fervent, sweet, homecoming kisses followed. Kisses of mouths and dreams tongues and wishes and lips and promises. Hands cradled and gentled and relearned the never-forgotten pathways of curve and hollow. Bodies pressed and melted and warmed. When Duncan finally paused for breath he couldn't tear his eyes from Methos' and for a limitless unguarded moment he stood staring at his long-lost lover, absorbing the reality. 
 
"So you missed me a little?" Methos asked with a wry little grin.
 
"Every second of every hour of each one of the last three hundred and seventy-two days," MacLeod whispered with his hands slipping over Methos' wide shoulders.
 
"Was that all it was?" Clever fingers wafted up Duncan's spine headed unerringly for the small knots of muscle left tense by long hours of expectation.
 
"I don't think I've ever lived a longer year."
 
"Was it as hard for you as it was for me? It felt like there was too much space around me, like a phantom limb pain -- only it was you that was missing and not just a leg or an arm -- and it never went away, not for a second." Methos was still pressed against Duncan and his voice was a breathy whisper into the Scot's ear, then he leaned back to look into his lover's eyes.
 
"I never want to be away from you for that long ever again. It may be years before I can let you out of my sight at all." Strong brown hands cradled the angular face and thumbs brushed the lines of cheekbones.
 
"It may be years before I let you out of my bed." Methos leaned in and caught Duncan's lips again and the passion flared quickly as his tongue flickered hotly.
 
As the sea breeze whipped around them and the cool shadows lengthened, they kissed for what was either an eternity or the beginning of one. A car zipped past -- a long blast on the horn reminding them that they were still in the public eye -- and they broke apart with their eyes still locked.
 
"You cut your hair again, it's really short." A hand slipped up the back of Duncan's neck to caress the newly shorn spikes and then flip a finger through the loose curl hanging onto his forehead. "I like it, it's different -- cute."
 
"Cute," Duncan snorted, unimpressed. "What about you? What's with the suit? And glasses? Actually, I kind of like the glasses -- they make you look...intelligent. Not sure about the suit though." He grinned at his partner waiting for the comeback, loving the way they clicked back into place like the two pieces of a whole that they were.
 
"Look intelligent?" Methos' eyes narrowed behind the unlikely glasses. "This coming from the under-educated, over-opinionated barbarian."
 
Methos' feigned indignation only made Duncan smile wider. His gaze flicked over Methos' shoulder to the vehicle behind. "A white truck? How very un-Meth--"
 
Methos cut him off with a finger to his lips, "Uh-uh-uh. No. Don't say it. He died, remember?" He extended a hand in mock greeting. "Matthew Stanton, pleased to meet you."
 
Duncan caught on and took the hand, "Ian MacKenzie, pleased to meet you too."
 
"Ian, huh? I suppose I can get used to that, or I can call you Mac."
 
"It was my father's name."
 
"I know, it's a good one. Strong. Suits you."
 
"Matthew? Not bad I guess...Goes with them out there..." and he turned and pointed to the huge basalt stacks rising out of the ocean in a wandering line down the coast. "They're called The Twelve Apostles, aren't they? Is that why you wanted to meet here?"
 
"It's beautiful," Methos said, tracing one finger down Duncan's cheek until he felt his skin heat. "Isn't that reason enough?"
 
"I missed you so much, don't let's ever do this again. Please?"
 
"For as long as I have -- you're stuck with me."
 
"Come and sit -- watch the sunset with me, tell me everything that's happened to you this past year." Duncan smiled invitingly as he tugged Methos forward to sit with him on the edge of the cliff.
 
As Duncan watched the sun melt into the sea in a fiery wash of purple, pink and gold with his lover beside him he listened to the tale of his long, haphazard journey and of his plans for their next one, beginning with tomorrow's long drive west into the desert. Duncan listened, letting the soothing baritone wash over his mind healing the raw spots left by their long separation. The sun finally disappeared from view and they were shrouded in the sudden darkness after the long twilight. They sat in silence for a while, content to absorb the moment, and his memory slipped back to the last day; the day the charade had begun in earnest and the decision became irrevocable.
 
Faking Methos' death had been surprisingly easy; it was the rest he'd been unprepared for, the looks in his friends' faces, the sick feeling of betrayal he still felt. Woefully unprepared for the enormity of sloughing off his whole life and putting it in the hands of this one man. This man. Duncan tightened his arm around Methos and tried to let the past go. Whatever it had cost him, there had been no other choice worth making.
 
He would live with what he had done.
 
The wind skimming across the ocean felt like it had blown straight from the Antarctic and Methos shivered against Duncan's side. "Time we were on our way?" Duncan asked.
 
"Yeah, we've a long way ahead of us and there's a bed with our names on it for tonight, down the road in the next town." Methos stood and offered Duncan a hand up.
 
"Why didn't you say so? Let's go." Just the thought of a bed and Methos and him in the same room made Mac's blood race. He took the proffered hand.  A long way ahead of us...
 
"Follow me..."
 
And they drove off into the night.
  

The End

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