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Guilt had never ridden well on the shoulders of Duncan MacLeod. It was always an emotion that belonged to someone else, a burden he could help to share, but never carried on his own.

Until now.

Now, guilt consumed him. Consumed him as a second Dark Quickening had consumed him only months ago. It had Quickened the demon inside him, so long held down after Richie's beheading, fed it off the destructive force of the Quickening's energy until nothing of Duncan MacLeod had been left.

But he couldn't accept that.

It had been him, and he couldn't stop himself. Nor could he forgive it. Methos had tried to help him, and MacLeod had only hurt him for it. He'd done unspeakable things to his Immortal friend, things that would have brought a blessed death to a mortal, but there had been no surcease for his friend until MacLeod?s rage had been sated, and Methos had escaped.

Methos.

His friend.

Methos.

His victim.

Methos.

The man he'd hurt so deeply, but loved so dearly.?

Methos.

Who had disappeared and not been seen since.

MacLeod reached for the only friend he had left, a glass decanter of Glenmorangie. Discarding the glass, Duncan tilted the crystal vessel to his lips and drank deeply. Wagner played on the stereo, one of the movements from Die Walkure and Duncan moved to rip the CD out of the player and shatter it in his hands. It had been a gift from Methos, and listening to it only brought back more pain, more memories. More regrets. The demon was gone, and MacLeod could barely believe it had been a part of him.?

If only the memories could have been banished so easily.

None of the operas he had soothed his spirit. The mellow scotch only stoked the fire in his belly that rose to burn his heart. There was a screaming in his head that would not go away, screams of anguish, of mourning, of pain, screams that MacLeod would never let out. Screams of regret that choked him, screams of desperation that smothered him. All fighting to get out, and demanding their due. All the screams blended into a single name.

Methos.

Going to the kitchen, MacLeod opened the refrigerator and dragged out the case of beer that stayed in residence for Methos' consumption. A scream did finally tear from his throat as he heaved the case towards the farthest wall, and Duncan was rewarded with the tinkling of broken glass, the explosions of beer and the pool of liquid that spread across his floor. The decanter of scotch soon followed, as did the glass he had been drinking from earlier. He felt a tingle, an Immortal tingle, and picked up his katana, hurling it to land in front of the door, so that anyone entering would trip over it and find him defenseless. He heard the grind of the elevator and turned his back to it, holding his arms wide in cruciform position, enhancing his plea for beheading. As the grate opened, he laughed harshly. "Go ahead. You can have it. Take my head."

There was a prolonged silence before the softly spoken answer came. "And what would I do with it, Mac?" A scrape on the floor as the katana was picked up, and after more silence, the dragon head poked him in the back.?

Duncan turned around, refusing to meet the eyes of the Immortal holding the sword out to him. Instead he accepted the sheathed katana, and dropped it onto the coffee table in front of the couch. "What are you doing here?"

"If you'd like, I can go."

"No."

"All right." The visitor walked over to the refrigerator, the door still standing open from Duncan's tirade. Bottles rattled, and then came the soft hiss of a screw-top being removed and flipped to the top of the fridge, pinging against other lids already in residence there. Duncan still had not moved, and so the other Immortal moved around him, to sprawl on the couch. "Mac."

"How can you be here?"

"Sit down, MacLeod." The Immortal waited for Mac to be seated in the chair across from him, katana and sword lying together on the coffee table between them. "This place is a pigsty," he commented softly. "Perhaps I should have come back sooner, but Joe didn't tell me what state you were in."

"You talked to Joe?"

"How else was I supposed to keep tabs on you, Highlander?"

That single comment seemed to break the brittle shell that held MacLeod together and he reached out blindly across the table, cutting himself on the sharp blade of the Ivanhoe, but he didn't feel it. "Methos." He couldn't figure out why, after everything, the old man still cared.

"I'm here, Duncan." His hand met MacLeod's on its quest across the coffee table. "I'm here."?

MacLeod's face had fallen, and at the touch of his hand, he looked up at Methos, a single bitter tear sliding down his cheek to splash on his turtleneck. "Why?"

"Because you need me," came the simple reply.?

The tears that MacLeod choked back threatened to well up into hysterically bitter laughter as he looked at the ancient Immortal, sipping a beer that had escaped Duncan's notice, their hands still holding tightly, but separated by so much more than the coffee table.?

"Come sit beside me, Duncan." MacLeod shook his head no. "I'm not afraid of you."

Duncan tried to pull his hand back, but Methos' firm grip prevented it, and the Scotsman didn't fight. "Maybe you should be." Though he would not admit it, he was afraid of himself.

"No." Methos sat up straight, and stared at MacLeod until the other man met his eyes. Brown Highland orbs scoured the green ones that stared unflinchingly back at him. Sorrow and sadness, pain not yet forgotten, those MacLeod expected. Alongside those, however, Duncan was shocked to find compassion, worry, and no small amount of caring. Hatred and fear were conspicuously absent.?

As Duncan studied Methos, the ancient Immortal studied the Highlander. Self loathing, despair and regret shone brightly. The sound of Duncan's plea for death echoed in Methos' ears, and hatred of the Quickening that awakened the dormant remains of Ahriman inside MacLeod hardened his eyes for a moment, though he fought hard to exile it when he felt Mac stiffen and withdraw.

"And so there it is," Duncan said softly, seeing the diamond hardness glittering in the other Immortal. "I wondered how long you could hide it."

"Mac?"

"It's all right, Methos. I expected nothing less." Duncan settled back in the comfortable chair, everything inside him gone as he collapsed in upon himself. "I hate myself; why shouldn't you?"

"Dammit, MacLeod, get hold of yourself!" Methos' thundering voice caught Duncan's attention sharply, seeing as how the old man never gave in to emotional impulses or fits of temper. "Thank you!" he snapped. "If I hated you, I would not be here, now would I? I would leave you to stew in whatever sauce you're simmering inside that thick Highland head of yours. But I am *here,* Duncan!" Methos closed his eyes and took a deep breath, stilling the temper inside him. When he was cool again, he opened his eyes and found MacLeod watching him. "Well?"

"I don't know why you're here," Duncan confessed.

Methos sighed. There was a lot of work to be done with Duncan, more than he'd realized when he'd finally called Joe and asked about him. All Joe had said was that Mac was keeping to himself; he doubted the Watcher knew the depths of MacLeod's misery. "I told you, Duncan. I'm here because you need me."

"But how? How can you be here? after? How can you stand to look me in the face?" Duncan's handsome face was twisted in agonized despair.

"I couldn't, for a while. I won't deny it, Mac, I wanted to despise you. I wanted to walk away and never see you again. But I couldn't abandon you. You're not the only one to have a bad Quickening, though yours was the worst I'd ever seen. I hate what you did to me, but I don't hate you." He reached out for Duncan's hand again, and finally the Highlander surrendered and gave himself over to the contact. "It has taken me this long to be able to not despise you, MacLeod. But I don't. There is a demon inside all of us; mine was Death and rode with the Horsemen. Yours was brought out by this Quickening. Maybe one day you'll realize this is how all of us live, even you, MacLeod. Fighting the inner demons that would devour us."

"I hurt you, Methos."

"Yes, you did."

"How can I live with that?"

"You're no different from me, Duncan. I live with the fact that I slaughtered tens of thousands as Death. You will find a way to live with this."

"No, this is different. Visceral. I look at you now and I can't live with what I've done." Duncan shook Methos' hand as he spoke. "I can't stand to touch you. I wanted--and now that's gone."

"What did you want, Duncan?"

"It doesn't matter, Methos, it's not going to happen now." Duncan tried to once more pull away from the old man, but Methos was having none of it. "Are you going to stay?"

"Yes."

"Let me start cleaning."

"Go take a shower, Duncan. Change clothes." His critical eye swept over the rumpled appearance and the stubble. "Shave too, while you're at it." The mess was yet one more thing that was totally un-MacLeod. "I'll clean up."

"I can't let you do that."

"Do you want me to put you in the shower?" Methos asked patiently. He would if Mac resisted. Someone needed to take the Highlander in hand. Duncan gave in gracefully and silently moved towards the bathroom beyond the bed. "Oh, Mac?" MacLeod paused, waiting for Methos' next volley. "Don't forget to scrub behind your ears."

Methos was surprised by Duncan's next words, spoken as he disappeared into the bathroom. "I'm glad you're here, Old Man."?

As he listened for Duncan's shower to start, Methos busied himself picking up the remains of the case of beer. Tsking at the waste of good drink, he dumped the shards into the trash and looked under the cabinets to find a new case to start chilling as he heard the shower start. He mopped up the spilled beer and then swept up the last of the shards and the cardboard and dumped it all into the trash. He started tidying up, and then gave up, dropping back onto the couch. Something nagged at him, something that Mac had said earlier. Something about? it not mattering what he wanted. Pushing that to the back of his mind for his subconscious to work on, Methos sat back on the couch. Duncan's shower was still running, and not for the first time, Methos wondered exactly what he *was* doing here. Pushing that thought aside also, he got to his feet and went to Mac's dresser, laying out clean clothes for the Highlander to change into and moving the dirty ones to a hamper in the corner, then he straightened the bed. He headed to the kitchen, and rummaged around Mac's cabinets, finally finding everything to start a pot of coffee. And then he paused. Duncan was still in the shower. "MacLeod!" When he got no answer, he turned and headed back towards the bed, then towards the bathroom. "MacLeod!"

Methos stalked into the bathroom, ready to rail at MacLeod for not answering him. He was surprised to find the bathroom full of steam, piling out of the shower stall as he squinted through the frosted glass to find the Highlander sitting on the floor of the stall, his head resting on his knees, which he had drawn up to his chest. Methos opened the door of the stall and turned off the water, letting more steam out. MacLeod's dark skin was a burnished, coppery red from the heat of the water, and the wet, tangled length of black hair lay plastered to his skin. The old man put his hand on MacLeod's shoulder and then drew it back, almost burned by the heat. "Come on, Mac, out." He felt behind him for the towel rack and pulled down the first terrycloth towel he could find, and held it out. He felt MacLeod's hand wrap around his wrist, and fought down a wave of panic that grew in his stomach, instead bracing himself in anticipation of the other man's larger weight. Instead, he felt himself tugged forward and MacLeod's arms wrapped around him. No sound came from the Highlander and even as Methos struggled to get away, the arms squeezed him tightly and then let him go.?

The panic faded, and Methos knelt beside the shower stall, and wrapped his arms around MacLeod. "Come on, Highlander. I've got a pot of coffee going in the kitchen, clean clothes on the bed. I'll even put on one of those operas you love so well." With a little more urging, Methos got MacLeod onto his feet, and the towel around his waist. Mac took the towel and started scrubbing the water from his skin and shivered as he did. Methos left Mac standing in the doorway between bathroom and bedroom as he went to the stereo. His hand went for the Wagner CD case, only to find it full of shards. He flicked his gaze over his shoulder for a brief moment and then turned back, searching for another CD and coming up with Tristan und Isolde, another Wagner opera, this time one Duncan had purchased for himself about the same time Methos had purchased Die Walkure for him. Turning around, Methos found MacLeod unmoved from the place he'd left the Highlander, the only difference being that Mac's large frame was now dry and the towel was wrapped again around his waist. Methos studied the Scotsman. "MacLeod. Get dressed. Come and have some coffee with me."

MacLeod looked at the outfit that Methos had chosen for him, and tossed it aside, opting instead for a fresh black turtleneck and a crisp new pair of black jeans. Methos watched closely, expecting barefoot, but MacLeod pulled on socks and a pair of boots, tugging the legs of the jeans over the boots and then he reached for the glass bottle on top of the dresser.?

The old man saw the label on the bottle and sprinted to take it out of MacLeod's grasp, and the Highlander gave it up without a fight. "No more of this," Methos said, setting the Glenmorangie bottle in the bathroom sink. "I think we've had enough of that for now, let's try coffee instead." He looked back and MacLeod was binding his hair back in a long ponytail, and then tucking it away. The stubble still grew on his cheekbones, and Methos sighed, but let it go for now. He knew he'd have to find something to prod MacLeod into action soon. The only thing that Methos took comfort in was the fact that MacLeod seemed to listen to him, though that worried him too. He studied the total package that MacLeod presented. Dressed completely in black, his hair pulled away from his face and down his back, the only skin that showed was his face, as though he was trying to fade into the shadows. "You're starting to worry me, Duncan. Say something."

"Thank you for being here."

"Well, now, that's more like it. And you're welcome. Now, come on. Coffee awaits."?

"Methos?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry about before. I didn't mean to upset you."

Methos was genuinely puzzled, and then as he noticed MacLeod's hands clasped behind his back, he realized what the Highlander was talking about. "No, Mac, it's okay. You just took me by surprise, that's all. Nothing major." To prove his point, he walked forward towards MacLeod, his arms inviting the embrace.?

Duncan was hesitant at first, but when Methos paused inside his personal space, unmoving, he wrapped the smaller man in a fierce embrace. He felt Methos stiffen, and he eased the pressure of his arms. As a result, Methos relaxed and Duncan kept his arms firmly around Methos. He felt Methos' arms come around him, and he sighed, gathering Methos as close as possible for a single, brief moment, and then relaxed again. He drew in a deep breath, scenting as much of his friend as possible before reluctantly loosening his arms.?

As though sensing that MacLeod needed this, Methos refused to let go, and was quickly rewarded with MacLeod sweeping him into another tight embrace. This time, the panic didn't well in his gut, the fear didn't bring chills to his skin, and Methos tightened his own grip on MacLeod. He felt Mac's head coming to rest on his shoulder, and let his head lean against Mac's. "You see, Mac? I told you. I'm not afraid of you," he whispered into the Highlander's ear.

"You should be," came back the muffled reply. "I couldn't stop it. I loved you, and I couldn't stop hurting you. I couldn't stop the fury inside me."

Suddenly the comment that MacLeod had made earlier--*I can't stand to touch you. I wanted--and now that's gone*--made sense to Methos. He didn't let MacLeod go, fighting as the Highlander tried to pull away. "MacLeod, listen to me. Listen to me!" Methos raised his voice just enough to grab Duncan's attention. "I'm not afraid of you, because that thing that hurt me is not who you are. Look at me--*us*--and tell me that there's fear in my eyes as I hold you."

"What if the next Quickening brings it out again? Or the Quickening after that?" Duncan couldn't raise his head to meet Methos' eyes. "I'd rather have my head taken now than to risk that? thing inside me coming out again."

"You are the MacLeod, are you not? Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod? How many times have I heard that? Duncan MacLeod is no coward." Duncan finally stopped struggling and simply held tightly to Methos, listening to the older and wiser Immortal. "Trust in me when I tell you that creature will not be seen again. You may feel his influence when you are angry, you may lash out and yell at someone you care about but never again will the things that happened with me happen again."

"But how can you be sure?"

Methos rubbed the Highlander's back in comfort. "Because I'm an old man, remember? I've seen things like this happen before. I know what I'm talking about. A normal Quickening isn't going to bring this thing out in you and if it does? then I'll share it with you again. We'll share the Quickening and I will be here to help you through it. I didn't let you go through it alone last time, Highlander, and I won't let you do it this time." Duncan didn't answer that, but Methos felt the relaxation of the larger frame against his. "Now, about that coffee?"

"All right."

Methos had a feeling he could have asked MacLeod for anything and gotten it at that moment. "And we need to talk."

"I know."

Methos contented himself with the sparse verbal replies, gratified that finally MacLeod was talking again, no matter how little it might have been. "Coffee first."?

A few moments later, MacLeod and Methos were settled across from each other in the living room, sipping from two identical mugs of coffee, both a shade of hunter green that appealed to Methos especially. "Methos?"

"Drink your coffee, MacLeod. How you can *not* be drunk is a miracle beyond me." Methos sipped from his own mug between words, as he adjusted himself on MacLeod's couch. "How many bottles did you go through?"

"I didn't count."

"Joe says you've barely left here in months."

"Had no reason to leave," Mac replied into his cup.?

"Well, now you've got a reason. Tomorrow we're going to Joe's. And sometime later, we'll go and see Richie's grave. I know you haven't been."

"You'd go with me?"

"Of course." A long silence stretched between them, and finally Methos decided it was time to take the bull by the horn. "What happened to Die Walkure?" he asked, pronouncing the German flawlessly.

Duncan studied the dark pool inside his coffee cup, as though he were a scryer seeking an answer from the liquid in his mug. "It hurt to listen. I had it on earlier and? I couldn't stand it. I had to get rid of it. I think I broke it."

"You did, but it's no matter. I'll buy you another to replace it." Methos put his mug down. "I still don't understand why." He did, but he knew Mac had to frame these things for himself.

Tristan und Isolde had ended, and Duncan watched as the other Immortal picked up the remote and restarted the soothing music. As Methos' eyes were turned away from him, finally Mac found the freedom to answer. "It reminded me of you. Of the things I'd done to you. The remembering was too painful to bear." Methos nodded in silent understanding, urging Duncan to continue talking. "I usually love the music; tonight it only jangled my nerves, put me even more on edge than I have been. Nothing worked; this only made it worse because it had been a gift from you. I'm afraid I also destroyed your beer supply."

"There was another case under the cabinet, Mac, I just put it in to chill. Nothing that couldn't be fixed." Then Methos asked another question. "Had I been another Immortal, and not a friend, would you have truly let me take your head?"

The answer came instantly, and it chilled Methos to hear it. "Yes. I would have. Without a second thought."

"Would you now?"

The answer was just as chilling. "Yes."

"Why?" The old man reached for his coffee with a shaking hand.?

"I told you before, Methos. I don't know if I can live with this thing inside me. Not when I have so much potential to harm someone so dear to me."

Methos' cup clattered to the coffee table. "Dammit, MacLeod, now is not the time for doubts or pity. I have forgiven you, I have no doubts that this thing is stuffed so far under your repressive control that it will never see the light of another Quickening again in your existence, so why can't you see this!" He was more disturbed by the thought of MacLeod's willingness to lose his head than he would have admitted.

"All I can see is the harm I did you," MacLeod answered softly. "It's all I've been able to see since?. It's all I've been able to see."

"Then see something else, Highlander! I don't want you to lose your head! I like it where it is, on your shoulders!" Methos strode angrily to the coffee pot, and refilled his cup, then brought the pot to MacLeod and refilled his as well. "Why do you get to be the martyr again, MacLeod?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you do. Instead of cleaning yourself up and finding a way to deal with the thing that happened, you drop yourself into a depression and lay in this decaying rot hoping for another Immortal to come and take your head, is that it?" He set the pot back on the base and settled back into the comfortable reclining sprawl he'd been in before. "You don't find a way to deal with the problem and the pain, you just wait for someone to end it. That sounds like being a martyr to me, MacLeod." Methos drank from the fresh cup of coffee. "That's what you always do."

Methos had expected rage, prepared for physicality, even another attack. He was unprepared for the silent deflation of the man across from him. "You're right, Methos. As always. I hoped that if I stayed here long enough the entire world would forget about me and what had happened, when all along, I was the one who wanted to forget. Forget everything. And I couldn't. I tried to forget. I tried to leave this place. But every time I tried, something stopped me, and I couldn't do it. That's why I'd hoped you were another Immortal come for my head, so finally, it would be over and I could forget." MacLeod dropped his head into his hands. "Forget the evil. Forget how much I hurt you, forget how much I loved you, forget what I wanted before and can't have now. Just? forget everything. No matter how much I drank, I could never find the place where I could forget everything." He wrapped his long fingers around the coffee mug, absorbing the warmth of the hot drink. "Tonight I found it, but it didn't last."

"Where, Mac?"

"In your arms," Duncan said softly. He still had not raised his eyes to look at Methos. "When you held me, let me hold you. Then everything was gone and for a few minutes it was as though there was a chance that things could get better, and maybe there was a way to get past this between us. And then I had to let you go and the illusion ended and the despair came crashing back down all around me, and all I wanted was to forget again."

Methos got up from the couch and walked to the chair that MacLeod had sunk back into. He knelt in front of the Highlander and wrapped his arms around MacLeod's waist, pulling him forward, his head resting on Duncan's chest, listening to the eternal heartbeat. "Highlander. Promise me that you will keep your head on your shoulders."

"Will you stay?"

"As long as you want me."

"Then I promise. I will keep my head on my shoulders as long as you will stay with me and help me."

Methos knew what it cost MacLeod to ask for help. His pride had finally lost, and Methos felt no joy in knowing it because of the price both men had paid. "Duncan MacLeod, the only Immortal in existence who does not see the forest for the trees."

"What are you talking about, Old Man?" Duncan's arms were tightly wrapped around Methos once more, and the puzzlement was clear in his voice.

"You're bloody dense, MacLeod, and so am I. I finally figured out what you've been talking about all evening. I love you, Duncan, or I wouldn't have come here." Duncan's grip on the other Immortal became almost bruising. "Mac, let go. Not so hard." The grip eased, and Methos' heart fell back to normal. "Give us both some time, MacLeod."

"What is time, to an Immortal?"

"Don't get philosophic on me, Highlander."

"I'm sorry."

Methos shook his head. "Will you move to the couch, please? The floor is killing my knees."

Duncan rose and moved to the couch beside Methos. "I can't? touch you. Not that way. Not yet."

"I'm not sure that I could let you," Methos admitted frankly. "I said give us time, MacLeod." He watched MacLeod take up almost the entire couch with his larger frame, and instead of sprawling on what remained of the couch, he sprawled out on MacLeod. Both sets of clothing provided safety barriers for both men while still allowing for a feeling of personal closeness. "But this, I think we both need."

Duncan nodded in agreement. "Methos? I loved you before this. I wanted to know your body, but not that way, not the way it happened."

"I know. I wanted you too, Mac, and a part of me deep down, an ugly part of me that I wish had died with Kronos and the others, wanted it from you in spite of all the rage and pain? or maybe because of it. Yours was not the first Dark Quickening I have ever witnessed, but it was the first where I did not take the head of the Immortal who tried to hurt me. I was glad, MacLeod, a part of me was glad it was your body taking mine, even though the thought of what was happening made me ill." Methos shivered and this time was glad of the tight grip of his Scottish friend. "I still want you, but I can't let you touch me. Time, Duncan."

"Time we've got." He made no move to disturb Methos. No move to kiss or caress. Neither wanted that ? not yet. Until tonight, MacLeod hadn?t allowed himself to want anything in a long time. But now? he wanted--he needed forgiveness. Not from Methos as it turned out ? he already had that. But from himself.

MacLeod sighed and held tightly to the man resting over his heart. He would never forget what had happened, what he had done, but with Methos at his side, he hoped that one day soon he?d be able to forgive himself.

The End
Jan. 2002