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What I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss and loss with store.

When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

– William Shakespeare

"Duncan..." His lover's name slipped from his lips, a nearly breathless, ecstatic gasp of need and pleasure. He pushed his hips back against the bed, and the slight shift was enough to allow Duncan to press deeper inside his body.

"God, Methos..." The Highlander's head fell back as he moaned his lover's name.

Methos was unable to resist the temptation to stroke the smooth skin of Duncan's exposed throat, and a desperate groan rose in his own as he felt his lover's cock brush against his prostate. That stimulation, combined with Duncan's hand enclosing his hot, aching organ, was almost too much to bear. Methos tangled his hands in the Highlander's thick hair, yanking the sensuous mouth toward his own. The older Immortal sucked gently on a lower lip before plunging his tongue inside Duncan's mouth.

Methos broke the kiss when he felt his body tense, staring into his lover's eyes as one final thrust sent him over the edge, hot liquid pouring over Duncan's hand. Duncan quickly followed, the tightening of his lover's body proving irresistible stimulation. Methos watched as the Highlander tossed his head back, his eyes closing as he moaned his completion before collapsing onto Methos' slick chest, tucking his head into the warm crevice between neck and shoulder.

Methos sighed with satiation and wrapped his arms around his lover, unwilling to part their bodies just yet. His eyes caught a glimpse through the porthole, and he smiled as he noticed that it was still dark outside. God, if anyone had told me six months ago that I'd be waking up in the middle of the night to find Duncan MacLeod's tongue in my ear, I'd have told them they were mad. Yet he was certainly old enough to know how quickly circumstances could change... usually for the worse, but on rare occasion, for the better.

MacLeod had emerged from his close call with Liam O'Rourke with a new lease on life, ready to put his guilt over Richie's death behind him, ready to embrace his friends once again. After Amanda had flitted off to wherever Amanda went, Methos and MacLeod had begun spending time together as they hadn't since before the entire Horsemen debacle. Their formerly relaxed and relatively easygoing friendship could never be recaptured, but the relationship had survived, rising like the Phoenix from the ashes of Bordeaux. It was even bolstered by their growing mutual respect based on an honest understanding of each other's pasts. MacLeod respected Methos' ability to adapt and survive over the centuries, to change with the times while retaining his humanity. Methos respected MacLeod, Boy Scout jokes or no, for his ability to remain true to his identity and his values.

Methos thought that he had long ago put aside his deeper feelings for MacLeod. He had even grown to accept the idea that his feelings would never be reciprocated, that friendship was the best he could hope for. Therefore no one was more surprised than Methos when a good-natured wrestle over a sofa cushion suddenly turned into something much more serious, their fingers meeting on top of the soft pillow, brushing against each other, the simple touch of fingertips and meeting of eyes igniting long-suppressed desires. Methos had truly thought he had been transported to a state of Nirvana when MacLeod kissed him for the first time...although he wouldn't admit it to anyone, he was fairly sure that he had passed out for a second or two. One minute he was sitting upright, wrestling for the cushion, and the next he was flat on his back on the sofa, underneath MacLeod's body, with no memory of moving--or being moved--into that position.

So friends had become lovers at last. Making love with Duncan was more than he had ever dreamed. Their lovemaking went beyond desire, beyond passion--it was, quite simply, the most stunningly sensual experience of Methos' life. When they were alone together, in bed, they were truly the only two people on earth.

Outside the bedroom, their friendship was strengthened by this new intimacy, their lives intertwining seamlessly. Methos had spent an increasing amount of time at the barge over the past few months, and for the first time in a long time, Methos had begun to admit to himself that he wanted more. As foolish and as dangerous as such an idea might be, he wanted a life with Duncan MacLeod.

He smiled again, stroking Duncan's soft hair. Finally, the Highlander's breathing slowed, and he shifted slightly, just enough to separate their bodies, before once again wrapping himself into Methos' long, powerful arms. "Good morning," he said with a grin.

"Good, indeed," Methos replied. "You're going to kill me one of these days, MacLeod," he murmured quietly.

Duncan looked up at him and smiled. "Maybe...but what a way to go."

He grinned in return and reached over to cup the beautiful face in his hands, his long fingers stroking every surface like a blind man. Their lips brushed lightly, a prelude to a warm, tender kiss, which was abruptly interrupted by the shrill chirp of the telephone.

Almost comically, they looked at each other, then at the phone. Duncan slid from the bed to answer, and Methos frowned as he glanced at the clock. Good news rarely arrived by telephone at 4:42 in the morning.

~~~~~~~

The news, by the time it finally arrived, was not particularly surprising. But the fact that it was expected did nothing to lessen its impact.

The predawn caller was a frantic Robert de Valicourt, nearly beside himself with worry. Gina hadn't come home last night. No, they hadn't quarreled. She had spent the previous afternoon shopping and had met a friend for dinner. The friend had left her at around eight in the evening and had arrived home safely.

But Gina had not.

Duncan swallowed the lump in his throat, kissed his lover, and left to fetch Robert from the château. Methos placed a phone call to the owner of a certain blues club, then made the bed and tidied the barge. A brief smile crossed his face as he picked up the clothes that had been scattered about the night before, then he frowned again as he thought of Gina. The oldest Immortal already suspected what the Watchers would report. While he was fond of Gina and would miss her, his thoughts were for Robert. And for Duncan.

He was pouring his second cup of coffee when they returned. Robert and Methos exchanged muted greetings while Duncan put their coats away and went to make Robert some tea.

Robert, Methos noted, was a wreck. He obviously had not slept and was babbling nearly incoherently. "This isn't like her, Mac. I'm sure this wasn't intentional...things have been great between us recently. Before she went out yesterday, we talked about going down to Normandy for the weekend...." his voice trailed off.

Duncan stepped behind his friend and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, looking up at Methos. "I'm sure it wasn't, Robert."

Methos met his lover's eyes. If Gina's disappearance wasn't intentional, that meant that she had been forcibly prevented from returning home. Or from phoning. Therefore, she had either been abducted, or...

The phone rang. The three Immortals looked over at the instrument, staring at it as if their collective psyches could force the device to deliver good news.

Duncan finally reached for it. "MacLeod," he answered tersely.

Methos knew immediately from the tone of Duncan's voice on the telephone. He dropped his eyes, unwilling to see the expression of pain that he knew occupied his lover's face.

"Robert..." Duncan began, approaching his friend and kneeling next to his chair. "Robert, it's bad news."

Robert de Valicourt looked into his friend's eyes; further words were unnecessary. "Oh, God, Mac...she's dead, isn't she. Gina's dead..." He began to sob uncontrollably, bending his head into the crook of Duncan's arm. Duncan looked over his shoulder at Methos, his coffee-brown eyes meeting a sympathetic pair of hazel ones. He knew that Duncan had loved Gina once, even if it had been a silly, superficial love, and she had remained a good friend throughout the years. He only hoped that amid concern for Robert, Duncan would find time to tend his own grief.

~~~~~~~

Duncan looked up as Methos entered the barge several hours later, returning from a grim errand. Based on the information that Joe had provided, Methos had gone to find out whether Gina's body was recoverable. He left Robert, slumped over with a glass in his hand, and approached his lover in the alcove as he stripped off his coat, enfolding the older Immortal into a close embrace.

"Mission accomplished?" he asked quietly.

Methos stepped back to meet Duncan's eyes, reaching up to brush a stray tendril of hair from his forehead. "Yes," he replied. "The body's now at a very discreet mortuary. We can plan a funeral whenever he's ready. I couldn't find her sword, though." He looked over at the despondent figure on the sofa. "How's he doing?"

Duncan shrugged, glancing over at his friend. "As well as one might expect, I suppose." He paused, watching Robert and empathizing with his pain so much it caused a physical ache. "God, Methos. Three hundred years. It must feel like half of his body has just been amputated." He had known many Immortal couples in his life; hell, he had been half of quite a few Immortal couples himself. But never a couple as committed, as right for each other, and as destined to share their lives as Robert and Gina.

"We've been together for three hundred years," Robert said. "I don't know how to be anyone except part of us...what if something happened to her, and I lost her forever? I'd go crazy, I couldn't cope."

"I know it, MacLeod." Methos' words shook Duncan from his reverie. He took Duncan's hand and threaded their fingers together, and Duncan almost felt the older Immortal's strength flowing into him. "How are you doing?"

Duncan shook his head, unable to bear contemplating his own emotions. Staying strong for Robert, being there for his friend--those were the best ways to honor Gina. It was what she would have asked of him if she had ever had the chance. He answered his lover with dropped eyes. "Me? I'm fine. Just worried about Robert." Keeping his voice low, he entered the small kitchen area, Methos following. "Joe faxed the report while you were gone," he gestured to a small sheaf of paper on the countertop. "I should tell Robert the news about the funeral." He poured another glass of Scotch and approached his friend.

~~~~~~~

Methos watched him move across the room, not believing his lover's "I'm fine" story for a second. He sighed inwardly as he picked up the report bearing the Watchers' symbol across the top of the page.

Preliminary Terminal Report

Subject:  Angelina de Valicourt;  a.k.a.  Angelina de Bergamo
Roster of Status: Change to inactive
Date:  March 24, 1999
Place: Paris, France
Victor: Currently unknown
Date of birth: 1589 (Bergamo, Duchy of Milan) 
First death: 1618 (Milan) 
First teacher:  Angelo Quattrocchi
Watcher: V. Pfeifer

Subject parted with her female companion in front of an Italian restaurant called La Firenza in the Latin Quarter at 21:40 local time. She proceeded across the Luxembourg Gardens, presumably toward the street where she had left her car earlier in the day. After leaving the park, she proceeded north on Rue d’Assas. Subject was challenged by an unrecognized Immortal as she entered an alleyway behind storefronts in the commercial district. Physical description of challenger: Caucasian male, approximately 1.8 meters, 77 kilograms, light hair, eye color unknown. Age at first death, approximately thirty years; dressed casually in the style of a young European male. No distinguishing marks visible. The challenger’s sword was an undistinguished, silver-hilted broadsword with guard, blade approximately 91 centimeters long. Unable to hear conversation between subject and her challenger, therefore unable to evaluate challenger’s accent.

Subject had the advantage at first—she was more confident and moved more quickly than her opponent, and she did not seem intimidated or frightened, although from her gestures, it appeared that she initially discouraged the challenge. Subject was able to parry her attacker’s blows easily. After approximately ten minutes the challenger appeared to tire and subject took the offensive, scoring glancing blows on her opponent’s chest and stomach. Pressing her advantage, subject was moving toward her opponent when she slipped and fell. (Later examination revealed that the ground was slick with automobile oil.) Although she recovered fairly quickly, her opponent seized the opportunity and stabbed subject through the stomach. The challenger took her head as she dropped to her knees...

Methos dropped the report back on the counter and poured hot water into a mug. He didn't want to read anymore. Despite the dry prose of the Watcher's report, the moral of the story hit home.

Gina hadn't lost because she hadn't trained enough. She hadn't lost because she was smaller or weaker or less skilled than her opponent. She'd lost because she happened to step into a piece of asphalt recently vacated by a leaky old car.

It could have happened to any of us, he thought. Wasn't that just precisely the point.

Life really was a bitch sometimes.

~~~~~~~

MacLeod had tried to slip onto the barge silently to attempt to avoid disturbing his sleep, Methos knew. Not that it would work...even if he had been sleeping, the sense of presence would have brought him instantly alert. "Sorry," Duncan apologized, undressing in preparation for bed.

"It's okay. I wasn't sleeping." Methos replied. "How are you?"

Duncan shrugged. "Okay, I guess. Amanda came over--she's going to spend the night. We didn't think Robert should be alone at the château, but he won't go anywhere else." He disappeared into the bathroom, returning a few minutes later to slip into bed beside his lover. Sighing, he pulled Methos against his body in a tight embrace.

"I'm glad Amanda's there, Mac," Methos said. "But I asked how you were, not Robert and not things at the château."

Duncan looked down into serious gold-green eyes. "I'm fine, Methos. Concerned about Robert. I need to get the funeral organized so he doesn't have to deal with it...but that can wait until tomorrow. Right now, I want you." He kissed Methos' chin, slowly moving his mouth down his lover's sensitive neck.

"I'm here, Duncan," Methos said quietly, his body already feeling a flush of heat from the attention. He knew that Duncan's reaction was normal, to be expected, really--sex was one of the oldest reactions to grief; the need to affirm that one was alive was a powerful drive for desire. He could deny his lover nothing, and if it wasn't sex driven purely by passion for his body, that was all right, too. Satisfying his lover's emotional needs was even more important.

~~~~~~~

"Hey, Methos," Joe called cheerfully as the oldest Immortal emerged from a gray winter afternoon into the inviting warmth of the blues club. His expression quickly changed when he noted how tired and drawn Methos appeared.

Methos shed his overcoat as he approached the bar, plunking himself down on a stool. "Hi, Joe. How about a beer."

"We're not open yet, but for you I'll make an exception." The Watcher pulled down a glass and filled it from the tap, placing it before his friend. "You look like you could use it, buddy."

Methos half-shrugged. "It's not been an easy couple of days, Joe." When Duncan wasn't with Robert, he was making funeral arrangements or on the telephone with friends; he was still repressing his own grief. Methos had assisted as much as possible, but the entire situation was depressing, provoking memories of Alexa's death and its lonely aftermath. It also reminded him of an immutable fact: mortal or Immortal, nobody really had an accurate idea of how many days they had left to walk the earth.

Joe nodded, sympathetic. "I know it. How's Robert de Valicourt?"

"He's a mess, Joe," he replied tersely.

Joe poured a beer for himself. "I guess it can't be easy losing someone you've been with for three hundred years."

Methos took a long draught of beer before meeting his friend's eyes. "Losing someone you love is never easy. No matter how many times it happens, it kills you a little bit inside. Developing the kind of connection that Robert and Gina had...it's just more of a risk." Just one of many reasons I've never been in a long-term relationship with an Immortal before, he thought. And it seems I'm taking this incredible risk with someone who doesn't even trust me enough to let himself grieve in front of me. Yet he was not only risking his heart; he was risking his anonymity, his safe life outside of the Game, even his life itself. He suppressed a sigh of frustration as doubts began to assert themselves, as he began to consider questions about their relationship that he would rather leave unasked.

"How's Mac doing?" Joe asked, as if reading his mind. Joe was well aware of the profound change in the relationship between his subject and his good friend.

Methos shrugged. "Who knows. He's spent the last two days taking care of Robert, handling the arrangements for Friday, and talking on the telephone to what seems like half the Immortals on the planet. Taking care of everyone but himself."

"Well, that's Mac," Joe noted with a shrug of his own. "Always looking out for everyone else."

"Yes, it is," Methos mused. But who cares for the caretaker?

"Lots of people coming in for Friday?" the Watcher asked. He was referring to Immortals, of course.

Methos nodded. "Yeah, quite a few."

Joe asked, "So, are you going to the funeral?"

He polished off his beer and pushed his glass forward for a refill. "Planning to, yes."

"Really?" Joe sounded surprised, almost shocked. "With all those strange Immortals around? What happened to 'if they carry a sword and we haven't been introduced, I get shy'?" he asked.

The oldest Immortal again shrugged his patented shrug. "Some of them I do know. The rest I'll meet, and nobody but Mac or Amanda will know who I really am. Besides, it's Holy Ground. And MacLeod needs me." Even if he won't admit it to anyone, Methos thought, including himself.

~~~~~~~

Duncan set the food on a tray and adopted the most cheerful demeanor he could manage as he left the château's kitchen. "Supper," he said, approaching his friend.

Robert was sprawled out on the sofa in the main salon. "I'm not hungry, Mac."

"C'mon, Robert, you have to eat...."

"Or what, MacLeod?" the widower scorned. "I'll starve to death?"

MacLeod set the tray down on a side table and sat across from his friend. Robert looked terrible--Mac's efforts to persuade him to eat and sleep over the past two days had been unsuccessful. The Highlander's heart ached for his friend's grief, and he was frustrated by his own inability to do anything to ease his pain; yet he knew from his own experience that nothing, no matter how sincere or well-intentioned, could truly help. He felt a double twinge of grief as he recalled Richie's futile efforts to help him cope in the days after Tessa's death.

He leaned forward and looked at his friend. "Robert, we're Immortal, not invincible. The funeral's in two days. This is your chance to honor Gina and to lay her to rest. Are you going to be able to do that if you collapse from exhaustion first? Do you think Gina would want to see you in such a state?"

The Baron de Valicourt sighed. "Damn you, MacLeod," he said, reaching for the plate and beginning to pick at the food, unmindful of what he was eating. "I wonder if food will ever have taste again," he murmured, half to himself.

Duncan gazed around the vast salon. The old château seemed enormous without Gina's warm presence to fill its drafty, high-ceilinged rooms. "Maybe after the funeral, you should get away from Paris for awhile," he suggested quietly.

Robert snorted. "Be serious, Duncan. Do you really think I'll forget her if I go sit on a beach somewhere? She was part of me. As much a part of me as an arm or an ear. Now she's gone, and I'll never be whole." He set the plate down, curling into his own body once again.

"I didn't mean it like that," Duncan said lamely. Robert's words rang true with him; he felt the same way when he was with Methos--completed, as if a part of him always missing had been reattached. His face flushed under the impact of the realization. His relationship with Methos was still developing, finding its shape and contours...and they had yet to tread around delicate subjects like "love" or "commitment."

Sobs from the sofa jerked Duncan's attention back to reality. He quickly moved to his friend's side, unable to offer anything other than an arm around his shoulder, a quiet strength of presence. "Oh, God, Duncan," Robert gasped. "I can't do this. I never thought I'd lose her, not really lose her like this. How am I going to live without her?"

Duncan tightened his grip across his friend's shoulders as frightening, unbidden images crept into his mind. All he could offer his friend was the comfort of his presence, as Duncan had no answer to Robert's question.

~~~~~~~

Amanda hated funerals, and this one was a particularly painful affair. Over the past few days, Robert had progressed, if one could call it that, from emotional outbursts to tight-lipped silence. He stood alone near the coffin, looking for all the world as if his own soul were being buried with Gina's body.

Poor Gina. She wished fervently for just five minutes with the nasty little twerp who'd killed her, whoever the hell he was. Not even the Watchers knew--what the hell were they good for, anyway?

She looked around at the group of fifty or so mourners, focusing on the Immortals. Ceridwyn was there, and so was the petite blonde...what was her name? Kyra. Like Amanda, both had known Gina through Rebecca, all of them part of the relatively small group of female Immortals who managed to survive past their first few decades.

Duncan's old friend and former lover Grace Chandel had traveled to the funeral from her new home in Copenhagen; Grace knew Gina and Robert through Darius. Friends all, bonded by the common strangeness of Immortality, the funeral was a reunion of sorts, but a sad, painful one.

Amanda's eyebrows had lifted when she saw Steven Keane appear with a mortal woman on his arm. She wondered who had contacted Keane, but upon reflection, she supposed it wasn't surprising that he knew the Valicourts through his friend and teacher, Sean Burns. Despite his somber demeanor, Keane appeared peaceful and contented. He offered a quiet word to Robert, nodded politely in her direction, and studiously ignored MacLeod and Methos.

MacLeod and Methos. It was strange just how quickly she had begun to think of them as a pair. She had been neither upset nor particularly surprised when Duncan had somewhat awkwardly informed her that he and Methos had become lovers. It wasn't easy for her to admit that she couldn't offer Duncan the kind of relationship he needed, but she knew it was the truth, and she wanted Duncan to be happy. He caught her glance, and she smiled in return.

~~~~~~~

Duncan returned Amanda's smile with one of his own. He was pleased to see her, but wished it had been for almost any reason other than another funeral for a mutual friend. The service concluded, at long last, as each mourner filed past the casket to lay a red rose on top. Amanda approached Robert and held him tightly, Robert relaxing his stoicism and burying his head in Amanda's slender shoulder. Duncan looked on wanly--say what you would about Amanda, but when you needed her, she was there. He glanced around, looking for Methos, who had wandered away. Duncan spotted him talking quietly with Ceirdwyn, undoubtedly sharing memories of his old friend and her first teacher, Marcus Constantine...yet another dead friend. Duncan stopped briefly to greet Catherine Legris, the widow of his friend Anton. The de Valicourts and the Legris had apparently become good friends in the years before Anton lost his head to Xavier St. Cloud. Moving through the crowd of mourners, Duncan eyed the small pile of leftover roses, picked one up, and wandered away from the group around Gina's graveside.

After a short walk, he approached a smooth-polished granite headstone and knelt beside it, gently placing the rose across the grave. "I still miss you, Tess. Always will," he murmured quietly. Immortality had given him so many gifts, so many experiences and opportunities. But it had also forced him to watch so many loved ones die. Duncan thought of the group he had left at the graveside, his mind wandering toward those who had been present only in spirit, those who connected them to each other. Anton...Rebecca... Darius. Gina was the latest in a distressingly long line of friends and lovers that Duncan had lost in the past few years. Tessa, Fitz, Charlie, Brother Paul, the Galatis, May-Ling. As much as those losses hurt, the ones that ached to the bottom of his soul were the friends he had lost by his own hand--for good reason, like Michael Moore, Coltec or Brian Cullen--or not. Like Sean Burns. And Richie Ryan.

Death is a part of my life, he had once told Tessa. A part of it, yes, but not a part to which he had ever become accustomed. As he knelt beside Tessa's grave, for one unending moment the pure, unadulterated pain threatened to suck him in like a black hole, the feeling of desperate loneliness overwhelming his defenses. An utter certainty invaded his consciousness, the knowledge that he was destined to lose everyone he loved, mortal or Immortal...Joe, Amanda, Methos. He sat back and wrapped his arms around his knees as if for comfort, rocking slowly back and forth, unable to either contain or release the pain and the fear.

"Duncan." He started when he felt a firm, but gentle hand on his shoulder, quickly turning his head and blinking into his lover's concerned face. He hadn't noticed Methos approach. "Are you all right?"

Standing abruptly, Duncan nodded, shaking himself out of his reverie as he brushed off his clothes. "Yes...sorry. I didn't mean to disappear like that. I just saw the roses, and..." his voice trailed off.

"It's all right, Mac. I thought I might find you here. Sorry to disturb you," Methos said, his voice sincere and conciliatory as his eyes wandered over Tessa's grave.

Duncan's focus immediately narrowed to his lover, taking Methos' arm and turning him so their eyes met. "You never disturb me," he said simply. He pulled Methos into a tight embrace, unmindful of what any passersby might observe, as if holding Methos could bestow upon him eternal protection from all things evil.

After a few moments, Methos pulled his head back just enough to meet Duncan's eyes, his own narrowing slightly with vague suspicion. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Duncan swallowed and nodded. "Yes. Just thinking," he forced a smile. "Don't say it, yes, I know that always gets me in trouble..." He leaned forward, kissing Methos lightly on the lips, and then pulled away suddenly. "God, who's with Robert?" he asked.

"Amanda and some of the others are driving him home. Some of the visitors are staying at the château, and Amanda said that she'll stay awhile, get things organized and keep Robert company."

Relieved, Duncan nodded. "I shouldn't have just wandered off like that."

"Everyone understands, Duncan. You need to grieve for your friend, too. You've spent the last three days being strong for Robert...let someone else be strong for a while."

Duncan forced a wan smile. "I'm fine, Methos. Let's go home."

~~~~~~~

Duncan stepped out of the nightclub's doorway, looking around for Methos. Where was he? Frowning, he walked toward the side street where they had parked the car, wondering if Methos had simply strolled ahead. He stopped dead in his tracks as he heard the loud clash of steel on steel, and then began running toward the noise. As he turned the corner onto another street, Duncan froze in horror as he saw Methos stumble and fall, then reach for his second blade but fail to get hold of it. Their eyes met for one unending moment as Methos' challenger brought his sword high above his head and then crashing down on his lover's neck with lethal force.

He screamed in horror, his stomach twisting inside him as his emotions refused to process the information his brain had received, dropping to his knees and tearing hair from his scalp as the bright lightning flashes began...

~~~~~~~

"Duncan!" Methos took his lover's shoulders in his hands, trying to be gentle, but thoroughly shaken by his lover's piercing cries. "Duncan! Wake up!"

Duncan awoke with a start, gasping for air, his entire body tensing as he took in his surroundings. He looked up as if surprised to see Methos there, staring at him with wide-eyed concern. "Methos," he whispered quietly.

"Shhh, it's all right, it was just a dream..." Methos gathered the Highlander into his arms, trying to still the tremors coursing through Duncan's body.

"Methos..." Duncan said again, almost reverently. He slumped into his lover's arms, sucking oxygen into his lungs, unable to stop shaking.

Methos pulled himself up against the low headboard, pulling Duncan firmly against his chest and yanking the comforter up over them both before wrapping his arms tightly around his lover. "Shh, it's all right," he repeated, unconscious memories of comforting stepchildren similarly stricken guiding his soothing words and calm movements.

After long minutes, he finally felt Duncan's racing heart begin to slow. Methos kept murmuring softly to Duncan, encouraging him to relax, to go back to sleep. He held Duncan tightly long after he felt the younger Immortal's breathing become calm and steady. Sleep, Highlander, he thought. Rest. I'll keep watch tonight.

~~~~~~~

Despite his troubled sleep, Duncan awoke early, as was his custom. Ever so gently, trying not to wake his lover, he carefully disengaged himself from Methos' arms. He propped himself on his elbow, watching the ancient Immortal sleep, his heart surging with emotion. Methos looked so young when he slept, so innocent...and so vulnerable. For Duncan, affection always went hand in hand with his protective instinct.

He allowed his thoughts to wander to the nightmare. It had been horrifyingly real, beyond nearly any he'd experienced; when he awoke, he could barely believe that Methos was actually alive, holding Duncan in his arms. In the light of morning, the terror was gone, yet the dream's images still had the capacity to turn his stomach. His dream of Methos' death had been so much like Tessa's, far too similar for comfort.

~~~~~~~

It was all over, or so he thought. Pallin Wolf was dead, and Tessa was safe, on her way home to the antique shop with Richie. As much as he wanted to be with her, Duncan decided that he needed to see what was on Wolf's computer before the police discovered the body and investigated Wolf themselves. He had just settled down and begun scanning the file directories when shots rang out, the ear-shattering noise filling the quiet, still night.

Duncan did absolutely nothing for a single moment as his brain processed the sound and its possible meanings. Then he leapt from the chair and was down the stairs and out the front door in a matter of seconds. He ran into the street, but slowed his pace as his eyes processed the horror before him. His entire body shook as he knelt and gathered Tessa...Tessa's body...in his arms. He couldn't move, couldn't think, for long, agonizing moments, until he felt the presence of full-fledged Immortality from Richie Ryan for the first time.

The young man sat up slowly, his brain still trying to catch up with the events of the last few minutes. "Mac, I'm alive," he said, his voice registering surprise yet faintly subdued. "And the pain...it's going away."

Duncan nodded, trying to find his voice, knowing that whatever he was going through, he still had to help Richie get through this. "Wait another minute, and you'll be fine," his voice was hoarse.

Suddenly, Richie understood, and his voice conveyed his awe. "Then I'm like you...I'm Immortal."

"You always were," he answered.

Confused, almost suspicious, Richie asked, "You knew all along, didn't ya?"

This wasn't the time to explain. "Yeah."

The new Immortal's voice softened as he looked at the woman who'd been the closest thing he'd ever had to a mother. "Tessa?" His voice was hopeful.

A sob caught in Duncan's throat, and the tears began as he gasped, "No..."

Oh God, this is my fault, he thought as he wept. What was he thinking, not accompanying Tessa home? If only he had gone with them to the car, the presence of a second man might have prompted the killer to go elsewhere. If only he had been there, he could have put himself between the gun and Tessa. If only he had done the right thing, Tessa would be alive, and Richie would have had more time to mature before he became Immortal. If only...

~~~~~~~

Still propped on his elbow beside Methos, Duncan wiped away the tears that were running down his face. A day late and a dollar short, Kalas had once taunted him. That about summed things up. If only...if only...if only. Would he one day sit beside Methos' grave, wondering whether Methos would still be alive, if only he had done something differently? The parallels between his memory and his dream were apparent. Tessa's death had resulted from a random act of violence; in his dream, Methos' death was the result of a random challenge--the same kind of random challenge that had cost Gina her life.

Very lightly, so as not to wake him, Duncan brushed his fingers over Methos' soft hair. Poor Gina, and worse yet, poor Robert. He wasn't coping well at all. Three centuries together...even through the bad times, the squabbles and the difficulties, they were together, their love strong enough to carry them through. Duncan truly believed they would have stayed together forever, Gathering permitting. Could he deny any longer that he wanted a similar forever with Methos? A real relationship; a commitment to share their lives, so much more than the occasional fling that he and Amanda shared. Committed to an Immortal that he--Duncan could say the word to himself now--loved. The chance for forever. No more loneliness. No more loss. They might have three hundred years together, like Gina and Robert.

Or it might all end without warning--like Gina and Robert.

Losing friends held dear for centuries was bad enough. Could he cope with mourning the loss of someone who had been his lover and shared his daily life for hundreds of years? Was that a chance he was willing to take?

~~~~~~~

By the time Methos was up and around, Duncan had just finished his morning kata on deck and was making coffee in the galley. He was still unsettled and upset by his thoughts, but the workout had helped to provide him with some measure of peace.

"Morning," Methos said, reaching for a mug. He stared at the coffee machine as if giving it the evil eye might force the appliance to produce its bounty more quickly.

Duncan couldn't help but smile at his lover's typical morning demeanor, yet he quickly frowned when he realized that Methos was probably tired and hadn't slept much because of him. He reached across the counter, capturing silky black hair in his strong fingers, kissing Methos gently. "Morning," he responded. "I'm sorry that I woke you last night."

Methos shook his head, gesturing toward the coffee machine that had just ceased its gurgling. He waited for Duncan to pour and took his first sip of the hot liquid before answering. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Duncan," he said quietly. "Dreams are dreams, we can't control them." He settled onto a stool, watching Duncan prepare their simple breakfast.

Leaning across the counter to capture another kiss, Duncan replied, "Okay. But I'm still sorry that I woke you."

Methos nodded, and the topic switched to plans for the day and other typical morning conversation as they ate breakfast. When they had finished with the dishes, Methos asked, "So, what was it about, anyway?"

"What was what about?"

"Your dream."

Duncan stopped cold for a moment. "It was...it was nothing."

Methos moved into the living room, maintaining a façade of nonchalance as he leaned against the bulkhead, staring out the porthole. He watched the morning sunlight dance across the Seine for a few moments before he replied. "Really?" he replied. His voice was still light, but moving towards sarcastic. "Most dreams about nothing don't usually cause one to wake up screaming in the middle of the night."

Abandoning the dishcloth, Duncan approached the older Immortal, slipping strong arms around his lover's waist. "It was...it was just a frightening dream, that's all. I'm embarrassed to talk about it. Nightmares are so...childish."

"Nightmares often reflect our deepest fears, Duncan," Methos replied. Duncan felt a cold shiver down his spine at the truth of that statement, yet he forced himself to remain calm, now even more unwilling to tell Methos what his nightmare had been about. Are you trying to protect him or yourself?

Duncan pulled Methos close, drawing him into a kiss that began with warmth but quickly progressed to heat. Holding his lover firmly, he plunged his tongue inside the moment Methos parted his lips, suddenly desperate to taste him, to feel him.

~~~~~~~

Methos accepted Duncan's attentions for a moment before pressing him back gently. "Duncan," he began, catching his breath. Tumbling into bed now would not sufficiently address the issue, but gods...his mouth. For another moment he succumbed to the warm, soft pressure of Duncan's sweet mouth, feeling the unmistakable signs of his lover's arousal against his own hip.

As soon as Duncan tried to maneuver him toward the bed, Methos broke the kiss. He suddenly felt unaccountably angry that Duncan intended to sweep him into bed instead of answering his question. How dare this child try to manipulate him, to avoid the discussion he wanted and needed to have, with sex? The dream wasn't important--but MacLeod's easy willingness, his apparent need to keep his lover at arm's length was suddenly unacceptable. Taking what Mac was willing to offer was no longer enough.

He pulled away. "Damn it, MacLeod, no. You're not going to fuck your way out of this." He stalked away, needing to put some distance between them in order to maintain his resolve. His body was asking him if he was crazy for denying MacLeod, but his emotions were demanding nothing less.

Duncan blinked in surprise. "What?"

"You heard me." The distance across the narrow barge wasn't enough; he needed to get out of there, now. He walked toward the door, fetching coat and sword on his way.

"Methos--I don't understand." MacLeod was still standing where Methos had left him, apparently stunned by his lover's unprecedented rejection.

Methos paused at the door and looked back at MacLeod. "That, Highlander, is exactly the problem."

~~~~~~~

Wandering idly through the Left Bank, Methos smiled wanly when he found himself standing in front of Darius' church. He could almost see the priest standing calmly in the doorway, his hands tucked inside his sleeves, welcoming him warmly and inviting him inside for a cup of tea or a game of chess.

"Adam Pierson" had met Darius shortly after he had graduated from the Watcher Academy and begun his studies at the Université. Darius had been almost as much of an Immortal legend as Methos himself, and although he had known that he should probably stay clear of the former warrior, the opportunity to meet him had been irresistible. Staying clear of Ian Bancroft, Darius' Watcher, had been easily accomplished by entering through the sanctuary rather than the rectory

~~~~~~~

He wandered into the small church, looking around casually at the simple altar and wooden chairs. Neither seeing nor sensing the reason for his visit, he had turned toward the exit when a flood of Immortal presence washed over him.

When he turned, sparkling clear eyes met Methos' own, and for a moment, the oldest Immortal felt naked and exposed, as though he could not hide anything from this simple, gentle priest.

Darius smiled at him pleasantly. "Good afternoon," he said in his warm, lightly accented voice. "How may I help you today?"

For once, Methos was at a loss for words. "I...I'm not sure, I just--"

"Wanted to have a look for yourself at the crazy old warrior who became a priest?" Darius smiled kindly. "Or perhaps there's something else I can help you with. Either way, you are always welcome. Please, come and share a cup of tea."

Still at a loss for words, Methos followed Darius into the rectory, and a fast friendship took hold before sunset.

~~~~~~~

Methos smiled as he thought of Darius. When he had sought out the priest, he had expected merely to assuage his curiosity; he had been unprepared for the quiet yet compelling power of the man's personality. His presence had been as magnetic as Duncan's, in a very different way, and Methos' initial impression had been essentially correct: it was impossible to hide anything from Darius, and he had become the first person in centuries to know Methos' true identity.

Still gazing at the old stone church through the gate, the temptation to enter and attempt to recapture some of the peace he had previously found inside was irresistible. He moved quickly up the walk and through the low entrance, almost immediately regretting his decision when he felt the familiar tingle of another Immortal. The only other person in the church quickly turned, relaxing once the newcomer was identified.

"Adam," Grace Chandel said quietly.

Methos was relieved to discover the other of his kind was friendly, even on Holy Ground. Grace had been at Gina's funeral, but they had already known each other--or rather, she knew 'Adam.' They had crossed each other's paths in Darius' rectory several times during Grace's years in Paris.

He walked up the aisle towards her. "Grace," he said. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

She shook her head. "No, not at all...I was daydreaming, and when I sensed you...well, for a moment I thought..." She shook her head again. "Please, sit down," she said, patting the chair next to hers.

He sat, suddenly glad for someone with whom to share memories of Darius. He had always liked Grace, even though her unrelenting goodness, for lack of a better word, made him somewhat uneasy, and her unwillingness to carry a sword struck him as downright suicidal. "I feel him here, too," he said simply.

Smiling sadly, Grace looked over at him. "I can't help but expect him to walk through the rectory door at any moment."

He nodded. "I miss Darius dreadfully, especially at times...when I could use his advice." Methos studied her more carefully than he had at Gina's funeral. She looked different, a little tougher around the edges than she had been during her happy, contented years with her mortal lover.

She frowned, turning towards him. "What's wrong, Adam?"

"It's been a long week, that's all."

"Duncan?" she guessed, drawing a surprised glance from Methos. "He told me about the two of you on the way from the airport. I hope you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind. Not at all." He knew that Duncan had told Amanda--there had been little alternative, unless Duncan had wanted to invent an excuse to keep her from staying at the barge--but Methos hadn't known that Duncan had told anyone else. He was secretly pleased that Duncan was comfortable enough with their relationship to tell Grace about it.

"Let me guess," she smiled. "Duncan MacLeod's been in full Clan Chieftain mode, taking care of all and sundry. I imagine that would make for a long week."

He couldn't help but grin at her extraordinarily accurate description. "He's infuriating, Grace."

"Don't tell me...handling all the arrangements, worrying about everyone but himself, refusing to speak of Gina except to let others share their grief...how am I doing so far?"

If it weren't so painful, Grace's right-on-the-money description of the Highlander would be quite funny. "That's the hardest thing. He won't talk to me, won't share anything." He had no idea why he was confiding in this woman, but it was a relief to confess the feelings that had been building inside him all week.

"Adam," she said softly, taking his hand. "Do you mind hearing the observations of someone who has known Duncan for quite some time?" she asked gently.

He shook his head, meeting her eyes.

"For the first thirty years of his life Duncan was raised to protect and lead his people. That sense of responsibility is as much a part of him as his strong arms or warm heart," she began. "But you knew that already, didn't you? Yet think about what that means. When Duncan grew up, leaders were trained to always be strong for others, to never show fear or despair or even grief. In his Immortal life, he's always treated every innocent mortal as someone under his protection, even those like Tessa who were quite capable of taking care of themselves."

The temptation was irresistible. "What was she like?"

She considered. "Bright. Talented. Very sure of her place in Duncan's life. Not many mortal women would have gone out of their way to help their lover's old girlfriend the way Tessa helped me." Methos saw her brow wrinkle as she remembered. "The next time I saw Duncan, after...after I left Paris, was when he returned to bury her. There he was, burying the love of his life, and he scolded me for returning to Paris so soon after the trouble with the police." She shook her head. "He wouldn't talk to anyone about her. Not me, not Robert or Fitz or Gina. I wasn't sure that he'd survive; I thought he might go looking for a challenge and lose on purpose."

Methos frowned, picturing Duncan in the same condition that Robert was in now. A special level of hell for Immortals, forced to endure the death of loved ones again and again through the centuries.

Grace continued, "I'm not sure what happened, exactly. After the funeral Duncan retreated to the barge, alone, while the rest of us clustered around like a bunch of nervous hens. Finally, someone--Fitz, I think--tracked down Connor MacLeod. Connor went to see him, and Duncan left the next day. Connor never mentioned why, but I'm fairly certain it had to do with that boy who became his student..." she frowned. "What was his name?"

"Richie," Methos said. "Richie Ryan. He didn't make it, Grace...it's a long story, but he died almost two years ago."

Grace shook her head. "My. I had no idea. I haven't seen Duncan since the funeral. Tessa's, that is."

"It's a sad commentary when friends only gather for funerals."

"And Duncan's been to more than many, Adam, because he takes people into his heart," Grace said, patting his hand. "Come, let's walk."

Methos rose and followed the petite woman through the sanctuary and out onto the church grounds, breathing in the cool air. "I know it can't be easy for you when he closes himself off," she said, broaching the delicate subject. "But a lover who is his equal in every way is a new experience for Duncan. He probably thinks that he's protecting you."

He stifled an ironic laugh. "I don't need his protection." He frowned. "I just need him."

"He needs you, too," Grace said simply. "I could see it so clearly, Adam, in the way he looks at you. I have to admit, I was surprised, at first, when Duncan told me he'd taken a male lover," she smiled. "But when I saw you together, it was so obviously right. He needs your strength, he's just not willing to admit it to himself yet. His inability to open to you is just that, an inability. It doesn't mean he cares any less. Perhaps just the opposite." She stopped walking and turned to face him, taking both of his hands in her smaller ones. "Give him time, Adam," she said. "Loving Duncan MacLeod may not be easy, but it's worth it."

He dropped his eyes, smiling, a rare blush coloring his cheeks. "Thank you, Grace," he said sincerely, kissing her hands. Her words, although not enough to remove his doubts, offered a perspective that he'd needed to hear. He looked into her eyes, squinting as if trying to peer deeper inside. "You've changed since I saw you last," he said. "Have I?" she mused. "I suppose I have. Starting over in a new country wasn't easy. I even learned, after all this time, to protect myself," she added.

"Really?" he was surprised, but pleased.

She nodded. "You know who insisted? Gina. She came to see me in Copenhagen after she and Robert returned from their latest honeymoon. 'You've been lucky too long, Grace,' she told me. 'These young Immortals will fight anyone they think they can beat. They have no conscience...you have to learn to protect yourself.' So, finally, I did."

The grim irony of Gina's message was lost on neither of them.

~~~~~~~

Methos pulled into the drive, stopped the car, and jumped out. Mac hadn't been at the barge, but the château was a safe guess, and the drive had given him time to think. His heart felt lighter, thanks to his talk with Grace--he was ready to talk to MacLeod, ready to try and explain his reaction that morning.

He saw Robert de Valicourt approaching as he neared the old château, the younger man's stormy expression matching his black coat. Methos sympathized with Robert's pain, and he tried to reach out without intruding upon his grief.

He paused as the younger man approached. "Hi, Robert. I was just looking for Mac--"

"Pierson, I need you to do something for me," Robert said, his voice low and urgent.

"Anything I can," he answered, sincere, but immediately somewhat cautious. Robert and Duncan had been friends for centuries--what did Robert want from him that he couldn't ask from MacLeod?

Pain-filled blue eyes looked into his own. "Take my head," he said. "Please, I beg you."

Methos shook his head. "That's not the answer--" he began.

"It's the only answer," Robert interrupted. "Don't you see? I can't live like this."

Methos sighed to himself, trying to decide on the best approach. "It's difficult, I know, the most difficult part of Immortality--but suicide's no answer. You need help, Robert," he said, trying to reach the younger man. "Let's go inside, talk to MacLeod and Amanda--" He moved toward Robert, trying to turn him back toward the house, but Robert pulled away from him, suddenly drawing his sword and lunging in Methos' direction.

He jumped back, snatching his own from its hidden sheath. "Robert! Are you mad?"

Robert merely growled and came at him again, his face red and his eyes dilated with pain--and incomprehensible anger.

Methos parried the blows, considering escape, but loathe to turn his back on his unpredictable opponent. "Robert! This is madness! Stop it!" he shouted. Robert ignored him and continued to attack. After a few minutes of only reacting defensively, millennia-old instincts kicked in, and Methos returned the parries with offensive moves of his own. It quickly became apparent that Robert had been waiting for this moment, as it took only a feint that any novice could have avoided, followed by a shoulder thrust, to disarm the crazed Immortal and drop him to his knees.

Methos stood over him, his sword pointed at Robert's neck, pity and anger tempering each other.

"Do it," Robert gasped. He stared at the ground, avoiding Methos' eyes.

"This is a mistake," he replied quietly.

"I can't do it, Adam. I can't go on without her. I thought perhaps I could. I was wrong."

"Why me?" he asked, curious.

Robert looked up and met his eyes. "Because I can't ask MacLeod or Amanda. I've known them too long, been through too much with them to ask. And Grace...she could never do it." His eyes were locked with Methos' now, pleading. "Please, Pierson. I could challenge a stranger, but I don't want my Quickening to go to some headhunting punk. MacLeod knows you, trusts you, that's enough...please. Do this for me," he begged.

Methos shook his head, but didn't remove his sword from Robert's neck. There had been times when he had wanted to die and other times when he had been prepared to die, not because he'd wanted to, but because he had been certain that it was unavoidable. On one of those occasions, he had offered his head to a do-gooding Scottish Boy Scout--and against all reason, all common sense, his offer had been declined. We'll find another way, MacLeod had told him. And they had.

On the other hand, Robert was dangerously unpredictable...a potential danger. Maybe--

"Adam!" An angry shout jerked his attention away from Robert, and he looked up to see MacLeod stalking toward them, the breeze lifting his duster behind him like an angry black cloud. "What the hell--don't kill him!" he shouted.

Robert, believing that MacLeod had just prevented Adam from fulfilling his wish, groaned and covered his face with his hands. Methos let his sword hang slack at his side, the fury at MacLeod's presumption slowly building inside him. His mind snapped back to the Luxembourg Gardens and the fight with Steven Keane--if you do it, Methos, I swear it--you face me. Once again this presumptuous infant was ordering him around, attempting to control him--and they were lovers now, dammit. MacLeod was supposed to trust his judgment--to trust him.

MacLeod approached, and Robert scrambled to his feet and dashed back toward the house. "Robert!" he shouted, to no avail. "Methos, he's not in his right mind. Whatever he did--"

"Don't you think I know that, you fool?" Methos spat. He was furious, he was hurt, and he couldn't decide which emotion was stronger. Out of habit, anger took over.

"Don't you think I know that?" he repeated quietly, his tone laced with sarcasm. "But if he really wants to die, MacLeod, you aren't going to stop him. He'll find someone to do it." MacLeod's face clouded over, recognizing the truth in those words. "What if he's so reckless he manages to take someone else along with him--like Amanda or Grace?"

"Methos--" MacLeod was uncertain now, and Methos could tell that he was already regretting his knee-jerk response. Unfortunately, Methos was uninterested in MacLeod's regrets at the moment.

"Since you obviously don't trust me," Methos continued, "just for your information, I wasn't going to kill him. This time." He glanced up at the cloudy sky, the pain of MacLeod's instinctive reaction lancing his heart. "You know, I came here to talk. Talk about things like communication and trust. What a joke." He turned away, sheathing his sword as he strode quickly toward his car.

"Methos!" MacLeod shouted after him.

He merely shook his head, unable to cope with MacLeod's emotions as well as his own. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

~~~~~~~

"Are you out of your stubborn Scottish mind?" Amanda demanded. She was exhausted and short-tempered. They had chased down Robert and cajoled him into swallowing sedatives--a temporary but effective solution--and MacLeod had just finished relating his argument with Methos.

Duncan sighed and moved to the bar to pour himself a drink, avoiding her eyes.

"What the hell makes you think you can treat him like that, MacLeod?" She knew her voice had taken on the high-pitched tone that only surfaced when she was truly exasperated with her erstwhile lover. She was surprised at her own reaction, wondering why his troubles with Methos bothered her so much. What she and Duncan had shared together was wonderful, it always had been, but they both knew that forever wasn't for them. But Duncan and Methos--possibly the strongest of Immortals and the oldest of them--that carried "forever" potential, and Amanda wanted Duncan to be happy, dammit. But whether he wanted happiness for himself was another story altogether.

"He's not one of your mortal lovers, MacLeod, and he's not your student. You can't treat him like that," she continued.

Duncan swallowed some of his drink and sat down across from her. "Treat him like what, Amanda? It didn't look good from where I was standing." He sounded unconvinced.

"Treat him like you don't trust him, like he doesn't know what he's doing. Treat him like you know what's best for him and everyone else. Treat him like he's not strong enough to handle your problems as well as his own."

The last comment seemed to give Duncan pause. "What?" he asked quietly.

"I'll bet you haven't talked once with him about how much it hurt to lose Gina, have you?"

"They're my feelings, Amanda. He can't fix it for me."

She rolled her eyes. "No, he can't, but at least he can share it. Is this a familiar concept to you? Sharing things with the person you share your life with?"

He didn't answer, sitting silently, and she continued, "You've always held back from me, MacLeod. But we never had that kind of relationship. What I didn't know was that you held back with Tessa and Richie, and they were as close to family as I've ever known you to have."

"What are you saying?" he looked at her, mystified, but clearly feeling the unavoidable emotional reactions that any invocation of those two names produced.

Amanda bit her lip, wishing she hadn't spoken. Richie had wanted that conversation to remain just between the two of them

~~~~~~~

"Then why didn't he tell me to stay?" Amanda demanded. She turned away, suddenly interested in Cory's interior decoration. It wouldn't do to let Richie think this was important to her. After all, it really wasn't, was it?

"C'mon, you know that's not Mac," Richie replied. "He...he does things for the people he cares about. He shows people that he cares about them. Telling them, well, that's not his strong suit. Except for Tessa, and not even her, sometimes."

She turned back toward him, curious. "What do you mean?"

Richie looked down at his shoes. "I mean, I probably shouldn't be telling you this..." he sighed. "But sometimes he drove Tessa crazy because he wouldn't admit how he felt. Like when Darius died. She knew it was tearing him up, but he kept pulling away, he wouldn't talk about it with her. She knew it was just the way he was, but it was tough for her to accept."

Amanda's brain began to process what Richie was saying, and she had the distinct impression that she wasn't going to like her conclusion.

Richie continued, "He did the same thing with me when...when she died. He wouldn't talk about it, kept it all to himself. I knew it was just a Mac thing, but...I wish we could have talked about her. It would have been easier, maybe. I don't know." His gaze caught hers, and she saw the pain reflected there. "Anyway, it's not you, okay? And it doesn't mean he doesn't want you there. It's just tough for him to say so."

She knew he was right, and suddenly she felt petty and demanding--unattractive qualities that had no place in her relationship with Duncan. She hugged Richie. "How did you get to be so smart at your age?"

The young man blushed. "Just lucky, I guess."

~~~~~~~

Duncan shook his head, wanting desperately not to believe what she was telling him. "He told you all this?"

She met his eyes again, and her own were bright with tears. "Yes. The last time I saw him in Seacouver, the summer before he--" she cut herself off, and a knifelike pain jabbed Duncan's stomach. "During that whole Cory thing...we talked. About you."

He stood and walked to the bar again, supposedly to refill his drink, but truly because he did not want Amanda to see the pain he knew was shadowing his features. He swallowed one shot of Scotch and poured another. Learning that he'd done even more to cause pain to Richie and Tessa was almost too much. "Amanda..." he began, his voice raspy and harsh.

She reached out for him, grabbing his hands in her smaller ones. "Duncan, please," she pled. "I didn't tell you this to give you more fodder for the great Scottish guilt inventory," she said, forcing a faint smile out of him. "They understood it was part of who you are, that you were brought up to hide your feelings from those around you."

Amanda took his chin in her hand, raising his face to meet her concerned eyes. "But you don't have to do it anymore, Duncan. Methos is strong, he's been around a long time," she said, but the comment only reminded Duncan of his nightmare and his fear. Amanda continued, "Let him be there for you, let him share your life. It's all he wants from you, you know."

Duncan knew she was right, and he was grateful for her insight. Despite the frivolous façade she displayed to the world, Amanda had a core of caring and compassion that he valued deeply. He leaned over and kissed her very gently on the lips before tightly wrapping his arms around her slim frame.

~~~~~~~

Hours later, Duncan sat alone in Darius' church. I wish you were here to talk to, old friend, he thought. What would Darius say to him if he were here to listen to Duncan pour out his heart? He would smile when Duncan told him that he wanted Methos, wanted him to stay and be a part of his life. When he told him that he was in love. And Darius would frown, concerned, when Duncan said that he was afraid to tempt fate by admitting his feelings. Afraid that because of loving him Methos would become the occupant of another grave. Afraid that if he really shared that part of himself where he kept pain and grief, he would be incapable of coping with the loss.

So, Duncan, what you're saying is that by keeping the most vulnerable parts of yourself hidden away, you're preparing for the loss before it happens.

Yes, I suppose I am.

But this lover is Immortal.

He could still die, Darius...just like Gina.

Yes, and so could you.

True, but...

But what, Duncan? Darius would smile. Do you want to live your life based on what might happen a hundred or a thousand years from now? Give up the happiness you could enjoy, the love you could share?

Of course not...

Then you've answered your own question.

I've lived this way a long time. I can't just...change.

Don't you think that Methos, of all people, understands that?

Suddenly, it was Amanda's voice in his head, echoing Darius. Methos is strong. He's been around a long time. He remembered what Richie had told her--how much he had hurt Tessa by not sharing his grief over Darius.

Duncan had a sudden image of himself sitting beside Tessa's grave, talking to her, telling her how much he missed her, how tired he was of the losing friends and lovers. Here he was, talking to Darius' spirit again. What was the matter with him--why did he need to wait until someone was dead before he could really talk to them?

~~~~~~~

Methos sat alone at the bar, listening as Joe strummed a slow, mournful blues rhythm, singing about the gamble known as love. Ironic, and it suited his mood perfectly. He had come here after his argument with MacLeod, and after rebuffing Joe's attempts at conversation, the Watcher had left him alone with a bottle of bourbon. Nasty stuff, but highly effective at numbing the sharp edges of...everything.

Perhaps it was a just punishment for his past deeds, he thought in an uncharacteristic moment of self-pity, that he would be allowed to approach that which he desired most, but he would never really be allowed to enjoy it for any length of time. It was an apt analogy. He hungered for MacLeod like Tantalus hungered for the fruit and water that were forever out of his reach.

But he was unwilling to accept...crumbs. And without a relationship based on trust--and equality--that was all he had.

The telephone on the bar rang, startling him. He glanced across the room at Joe, still on stage, and reached for it. "Le Blues Club," he answered. His voice softened when the caller identified herself. "Hi Amy, it's Adam Pierson here...one moment, let me get him. Joe, it's Amy," he said, unable to suppress a grin at the expression of sheer joy that crossed his friend's face. He chatted with her briefly while Joe approached, handing the cordless over and sliding down the bar a bit to allow his friend some privacy.

He was genuinely happy for Joe. He and Amy had begun to work things out, to find common ground upon which to build a relationship. His mood immediately sobered again as he despaired of the possibility of ever finding such ground with MacLeod.

Duncan had avoided a serious relationship with a mortal since Tessa's death. He couldn't take another Tessa, he'd said. And yet, Methos thought, he treats me just like he'd treat a mortal.Romantic, strong, wonderful Duncan, always protecting me from evil, be it a nasty guy with a sword, his own sadness--or my own darker nature. The bottom line was that Duncan couldn't protect him from any of those things, and he didn't want to be protected, anyway. He just wanted Duncan to show a little faith in him now and then.

He glanced up as Joe hung up the phone with a smile on his face. "She's coming up from Lyon next week," he said.

Methos' face softened again. "That's great, Joe."

Joe looked at him a moment, as if he wanted to say something but thought the better of it. He returned to the stage, and a few moments later, blues filled the air once more. Joe chose a lighter tempo this time.

He had just begun to play when the phone rang again, and he frowned. Methos waved him off and reached for it. "Le Blues Club," he answered.

"Adam? Is that you?" the feminine voice asked.

"Yes, it's me, Amanda. No, I don't know where MacLeod is," he said tiredly.

"I wasn't calling for him. Look, Methos, he's really upset about your fight," she said.

Methos rolled his eyes. What was it with MacLeod, anyway? He didn't seem to have any trouble confiding in Amanda, despite her well-known proclivity to tell tales out of school. "Yeah, well, that's too bad."

"Don't be like that," she said.

"Don't be like what?" he retorted.

"Don't act like you don't care," she replied. "I know you do."

He took a deep breath. He knew Amanda meant well, and this wasn't her fault. "It doesn't matter if I care."

"Yes, of course it does. God, how did you two survive so long? It's a toss-up as to which of you is more thick-headed. He loves you, you idiot. Look, when he finds you, just listen to him, okay?"

His mind was still spinning with the L-word, but he managed to answer, "It doesn't matter, Amanda...there's more than..." he couldn't bring himself to say the word. "It's not enough."

He could hear her exasperated intake of breath. "Fine, Methos, whatever. If you want to let your ego get in the way, it's your call." She hung up.

Methos wished for a good old-fashioned phone he could slam down with a satisfying thud. Instead he had to settle for an unfulfilling click of the cordless phone's off button. Amanda was an infuriating busybody, anyway. He poured more bourbon into his glass but had only swallowed one burning gulp when the phone rang again. He grabbed it.

"Grand Central Station," he snapped.

A pause. "Adam?"

A combination of joy and fear burned through the lining of his stomach along with the bourbon. "MacLeod," he managed.

"Look, I'm sorry about before. Can we talk? Alone?"

He paused to pull himself together before he answered. Nothing had changed, dammit. MacLeod didn't trust him. Hell, he probably wanted to see him to end it between them, and that was a scene he'd rather just avoid. "I don't see what there is to talk about."

"Please," MacLeod said simply. "Will you come to the barge?"

Methos surrendered. "Half an hour," he said tersely.

~~~~~~~

"I'm sorry, Methos," Duncan began. "You were right about Robert, but I didn't want him to die." He looked over at Methos, who was calmly gazing out the porthole, his face placid and unreadable. The only clues to his emotional state were the tight, faintly visible lines surrounding his mouth.

"MacLeod...this is about more than Robert. And you still don't see that."

"Yes, I think I do," Duncan answered. "Please, come and sit, all right?" he asked reasonably.

Shrugging noncommittally, Methos sat in the chair across from Duncan.

Now that he could see the old man, Duncan almost regretted that he had asked him to sit. This might have been easier if he couldn't see Methos' reaction. He took a deep breath before continuing. "This--us--everything--it's still new to me."

"And now you realize it's all been a mistake? Fine," Methos nearly leapt from his chair. "Have a nice life, MacLeod. I'll see you around." He turned toward the door.

Duncan jumped from his chair and went after him. "Methos! No! Will you stop that?"

"Stop what?" he asked as he turned.

"Stop assuming that you know what I'm going to say. Please, will you sit down and just listen?"

Frowning, Methos sat, suspicious eyes fixed on him.

"What I wanted to say..." Duncan looked down at his hands, "was that these past few days have taught me a lot...about us. About what you mean to me. And how afraid I am of losing you."

Methos' voice lost the edgy tone it had carried just moments before. "What do you mean, lose me?"

"Lose you because I'm demanding more than you want to give. Or..." Why was it so hard to admit? It was as if giving voice to the nightmare would somehow cause it to come true. "Losing you the way Robert lost Gina. That's what I saw in that dream." Suddenly, the emotional upheaval of the past week caught up to him, and his voice caught in his throat. "It wasn't supposed to be like that for them, Methos. They're Immortal. They were supposed to be together until the end." His voice thickened with emotion, and he was no longer able to suppress the sense of loss he'd been hiding away since the moment of Joe's phone call.

Duncan didn't realize that Methos had moved to his side until he felt strong arms around him, long fingers pressing his head against a firm chest. He fought the urge to pull away, to assert his strength. Suddenly he wanted--needed--to share the ache inside of him. The calm reassurance of his lover's presence allowed a dam somewhere deep inside to burst, and suddenly the tears flowed down his face, his heart aching with grief as he truly acknowledged Gina's loss. Methos comforted him, as he had after the nightmare, murmuring quietly and holding Duncan until the storm had passed.

Finally, Duncan pulled away and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Methos rose briefly to pour two glasses of Scotch, then returned to the sofa and handed one to Duncan. "It's okay," he said quietly. "I'm glad you finally let it out."

"I am, too," he said. "Thanks for letting me...do that." He still felt slightly embarrassed.

Methos just shook his head, a slight smile on his lips, and to Duncan, the realization suddenly became crystal clear. This was what Methos had wanted from him, the emotional honesty he had been denying to his lover--to both of them--since Robert's first panicked phone call.

"Why did it take you a week to cry for her?"

Duncan drank and set the glass on the table. "I don't know," he admitted. "I guess it's easier for me to cope with everyone else's feelings besides my own. I'm just figuring out how much I want this...us...and the thought of losing it...losing you..."

"None of us really know how much time we have, MacLeod, mortal or Immortal. Darius told me once..."

Duncan couldn't help but smile, remembering his "conversation" with Darius just a few short hours ago.

Methos noticed the change in his expression. "What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. What did Darius say?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"He said there are only four ways to deal with loss. Either you never let anyone close enough to risk it, you resist bitterly and have to cope with grief anyway, you let it drive you mad...or you learn to accept it and value what you have while it's here, even knowing that pain may follow. I've tried all four in five thousand years, and none but the last lends itself to living. Just existing." He paused, his eyes meeting MacLeod's. "I don't need your protection, Highlander, not from the Game and not emotionally, either."

MacLeod nodded. "I know it."

"We have to be equals, Mac. You have to trust me, to believe that I'll make the right decisions. Otherwise we've nothing more here than...two friends sharing an entertaining roll in the hay."

"And if we are equals? Then what are we?"

"I guess that depends on you."

"I do trust you...and I want you here, Methos. With me. All the time. Us...you...it's what I want." He couldn't form the word, couldn't say aloud what he was feeling, but looking into Methos' eyes, he saw that he didn't need to.

Methos smiled, a simple, genuine smile that nearly broke Duncan's heart. "It's what I want, too," he said simply.

Duncan's body instantly relaxed, the passion returning to his rich brown eyes. "I can't promise to change overnight. Richie once told me that he wasn't in the 'asking for help' habit, because he was used to relying only on himself. I guess I'm not in the habit, either. But I promise to try." He took Methos' hand idly in his, stroking the palm with his fingers.

"Believe me, Duncan," he couldn't keep the smile from his tone, "I know that changing isn't easy. Trying is all I ask." He reached for Duncan's head, tangling fingers through thick locks of hair before sharing a soft, gentle kiss. "The good news is," he whispered, "we have plenty of time to work on it."

~~~~~~~

Two weeks later

Methos laughed aloud as Robert finished his tale of an adventure he and Gina had once had in Tangiers. He caught the Highlander's eyes, which were gazing at him with both appreciation and desire. He smiled in return, adding a demure nod to acknowledge Duncan's lustful thoughts. Soon, Highlander, soon...

Duncan's appreciation was partly due to the fact that it had been Methos' idea to persuade Robert to venture into Paris for an evening at Joe's club. Happily, the outing had gone well. Robert seemed a bit more himself, dancing with Amanda and sharing small talk with his friends. Now it was well past last call, and the club was rapidly emptying out.

Methos stood, stretching his long frame. "How about I go get the car, while Duncan pays the check?" He grinned at his lover.

Duncan grumbled good-naturedly. "Always Duncan paying the check. Hrmph...one of these days..."

Amanda joined the fray. "Well, we all have to be good for something, right, Adam?"

"Look," Robert said, immediately drawing the attention of his friends. "I just want to--to thank you all, for everything since...for everything. I don't think I'd have made it through this without you."

Amanda smiled and covered Robert's hand with hers while MacLeod reached around to quickly clasp his shoulders. "You'd have done it for any of us," MacLeod said.

Robert swallowed. "I hope so. You all really are better friends than an old robber baron like me deserves." They fell silent for a moment, none of them really knowing what more could be said.

Methos finally broke the silence. "I'll meet you out front in five minutes." Parking was scarce around the club, so the foursome had carpooled from the Quai de Tournelle. With a last quick smile at Duncan, he slipped outside into the cool evening.

Methos almost whistled as he walked briskly down the sidewalk. He hadn't been this content in...well, in a long time. MacLeod had been as good as his word, slowly developing the habits of sharing his life with another person. Methos was delighted by the effort and reveled in Duncan's love...there was no denying any longer that love was what it was.

He smiled to himself, thinking that Duncan was due a reward for his efforts. Perhaps later he would...

Methos stopped dead in his tracks as he felt the presence of another Immortal. His friends? No. From the opposite direction, he saw the man now. With a build similar to Methos' own, the man looked as if he'd died for the first time in his late twenties and kept in good shape.

The stranger spoke with an indistinct European accent. "Sebastian King," he said, drawing a sword. "And you are?"

"In no mood for this," Methos snapped. "I have friends waiting."

The man smirked. "Well, I suppose they'll be waiting longer than they'd planned, won't they?" He backed into a narrow alley just off the street, beckoning Methos to follow.

Methos glared at him, drawing his own blade. He was still prepared to try to talk his way out of the situation--until he glanced at the other man's sword. It was a short blade--too short for a man of his height--and it looked familiar. A fiery, raven-haired woman in a red suit, standing in the doorway of the barge with her sword drawn, ready to kill the man who'd attempted to take her husband's head... Methos began to advance slowly, his anger starting to build as he realized that he had been challenged by Gina de Valicourt's killer.

~~~~~~~

Duncan grew concerned when Methos didn't arrive more than ten minutes after he'd left, so the three Immortals started to walk toward the car, hoping to meet Methos along the way. Duncan's walk became a run when he felt Immortal presence and heard the unmistakable sound of steel meeting steel.

When he approached the alleyway, Duncan's heart almost stopped, certain that he had come upon his nightmare. But his lover was holding his own--more than that, he had the upper hand, and Duncan forced himself to remain still and silent, lest he distract the older Immortal.

"Duncan..." Amanda and Robert approached, quickly taking in the scene. All three stayed back, surely sensed but not yet seen by the combatants.

Methos looked uncharacteristically angry, nearly feral, as he stalked his prey, moving with the purpose and stealth of a jaguar on the prowl. The blond man was starting to move sluggishly, tiring, and Methos played with him like a cat torturing a mouse. Finally deciding to end the battle, two quick feints caused his opponent to overreach; a thrust to the chest was rapidly followed by a backhanded swing and the thump of a head hitting the ground.

Finally looking up, Methos saw his friends and opened his mouth as if to speak just before the Quickening began, the light flashing from the dead Immortal's body in white-hot pulses.

"Oh, God," Duncan heard Robert's gasp and turned towards his friend, whose eyes were glued to the dead Immortal's hand. "That bastard had Gina's sword!"

Both Duncan's and Amanda's arms instinctively went around their friend's shoulders, futilely attempting to temper his grief; it had begun to subside so recently, but was now flaring up again with a stunning vengeance. As the Quickening subsided, Duncan released Robert and approached his lover. Kneeling beside him, Duncan gently helped Methos to his feet.

"Mac," he said, still trying to catch his breath. "This is the guy..."

Duncan nodded. "I know. Robert recognized the sword."

Methos took a few more deep breaths, letting his body relax in Duncan's arms. He bent to retrieve the sword then slowly approached Robert. By tradition--and default--the winner of a challenge became the owner of the loser's sword. The oldest Immortal swiped the blade across his jeans before handing it to Gina's husband by the hilt. "This is yours," he said quietly.

Robert's eyes filled with tears as he took the sword. "Adam..." he began, at a loss for words.

Methos shook his head, silencing the younger man. "Robert...I felt her. Gina loved you more than life itself, with her last thought and final breath." He reached out and clasped Robert's shoulder. "Know that. Remember it always."

Robert nodded wordlessly, the tears flowing down his cheeks as he looked from his friends to the sword in his hand. Duncan took a deep, much-needed breath and swallowed back his own.

~~~~~~~

They returned to the barge only a few minutes later, leaving immediately at Robert and Amanda's insistence. They had promised to deal with the body and find their own way back to the Quai to retrieve Robert's car.

"Let me get you a drink," Duncan said, pulling Methos' coat from his shoulders and hanging it near the door. He removed and inspected Methos' broadsword; it required cleaning and sharpening, but it could wait until morning. Methos merely nodded and collapsed onto the sofa, closing his eyes.

Duncan cast a glance in his direction as he slipped into the galley, noting that Methos had been very quiet since leaving the alleyway. He leaned against the cabinet for a moment, allowing his own feelings to sweep over him for a moment. God, I really thought it was my nightmare, he reflected, recalling the momentary terror that only the realization of such a horrific dream could evoke. He tried to shake away the chill as he poured double shots of his best Scotch into two glasses.

Duncan handed Methos a glass and set his own down before kneeling to remove his lover's walking boots.

As he worked the stubborn knots in the leather bootlaces, he looked up at Methos, searching his unreadable face. "Are you okay?"

Without opening his eyes, Methos smiled. "I'm okay, Duncan. I'm alive. How are you?"

Finally yanking the boots from Methos' feet, he answered, "I'm fine." The lie was out of his mouth before he even thought about it, and when his guilty eyes looked up, Methos was staring down at him with something between a smirk and a smile on his face.

"Try again," he said ruefully, reaching down to pull Duncan up and next to him on the sofa.

"Okay," he took a deep breath and looked away. "The truth is that when I saw you fighting in that alley, for a few seconds I was so scared you were going to die that my heart was in my throat. It's still beating at about a hundred miles an hour."

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Methos teased gently. He placed his hand on Duncan's chest. "A good strong heart it is."

"No, it wasn't so hard." A smile returning to his lips for the first time since hearing the clash of swords, Duncan looked back at his lover. Methos' eyes were bright, full of life and desire. He moved his own hand down to the bulge in Methos' jeans, noting, "My heart's not the only thing going strong." He caressed gently, and for a moment Methos' eyes closed, relaxing under his touch.

But only for a moment. Duncan was not certain how he ended up on his back and underneath a very aggressive old man. Instinctively, he started to push upward, to meet the force Methos was displaying with force of his own, but Methos pulled away and met his eyes.

"No, Duncan..." Methos said forcefully, grasping both of Duncan's hands in his own and pinning them above his head.

Duncan barely had time to breathe, much less think, as his mouth was plundered thoroughly, Methos' tongue invading, probing, seeking every surface. Methos was always an enthusiastic, responsive, creative lover, but in their short time together Duncan had never experienced this Methos--aggressive and predatory--and also unbelievably sexy. Was it the Quickening or something else that had brought this side of Methos to the fore?

Suddenly, Methos stopped kissing him and backed away from the sofa, dragging Duncan to his feet beside him. Long fingers threaded quickly threaded through Duncan's hair, pulling his head back so that Methos could more easily attack his neck and throat, alternately biting and kissing, sucking and licking the tender flesh. Duncan's mind was still swirling with the speed of Methos' actions. He slid his arms around his lover's back and down the slim, firm body to rest on Methos' waist.

Methos stopped and pulled his mouth away, and his eyes met Duncan's. If the hazel pupils had been smoldering before, they were now on fire, hot with need. The long fingers remained wrapped around his neck. "Duncan," he said, his voice low, "Bed. Now."

Duncan swallowed, both aroused and vaguely uncertain. He could sense what Methos wanted--control. The control he hadn't been able to exert in order to avoid King's challenge. The control he hadn't had as the Quickening surged through him, electrifying every nerve ending in his body. The control they so often did not have over the events and the people in their insane Immortal lives.

But Methos could have that control now, if Duncan would permit it. If he were willing to surrender himself to another. As much as his mind rejected such ideas, his emotions could not so quickly discard youthful teachings about masculinity and a man's proper--dominant--role with his partner. And he knew that what Methos sought was different from games with Amanda or play-acting with other female lovers.

The stakes were higher, yet never had the potential rewards been as sweet.

One more glance into the wild eyes caused a surge of emotion through Duncan's entire body. Desire, love...and trust. The decision was made without conscious thought as he nodded, "Yes. Bed."

Methos' hand moved from Duncan's neck to his fingertips, quickly guiding him to the raised platform at the rear of the barge. Standing near the bed, Methos reached for him again, yanking his shirt open and off his shoulders, running long fingers down his chest. Duncan closed his eyes, his arms wrapped lightly around his lover's waist, when more stimulation in the form of Methos' hot, eager mouth quickly followed. Lips and tongue probed, demanding entry, while at the same time Duncan felt his belt sliding off. His slacks were opened, but not removed, and Methos' hand moved to cup his arousal.

Duncan opened his eyes to find Methos' closed, his head dropped back, exposing the soft skin of his throat as he traced Duncan's hard sex with his fingertips. A sound escaped Methos' throat, a sound indicating passion yet nearing pain. The hands moved from Duncan's groin to his shoulders, applying the slightest of pressure, yet Duncan knew what his lover wanted and needed from him.

He dropped to his knees, ignoring the twinge of his own arousal and opening the fly of Methos' black jeans with quick, economical movements, lightly grasping the narrow hips. Methos groaned again, his fingers once again entangling in soft, thick hair as Duncan's tongue traced every contour of his cock. He knew that Methos' arousal had almost reached the point of pain, and as the hands pressed him closer, he opened his mouth and swallowed the hard, beautiful cock before him.

"God, Duncan," Methos gasped, pushing his hips forward against his lover's face. Duncan sucked and swallowed against the pressure, using his tongue to stimulate the head while allowing Methos to set the pace. His hands dropped away, and Duncan became a vehicle for his lover's pleasure as Methos thrust roughly into his throat, his release beginning moments later.

Duncan swallowed the hot fluid, his own arousal becoming more pronounced as he listened with pleasure to the low moans of Methos' orgasm. He kept sucking and licking steadily, mouthing the still partly aroused cock until Methos' grip on his head loosened, and he was gently pulled away.

Methos pulled Duncan closer for a moment as his breathing slowed, hugging his lover's head against his hips, and Duncan could still feel the heat and desire pouring out of Methos' body. Another tug on his hair and Duncan was standing again, enjoying a somewhat less harsh but no less passionate kiss. Methos traced his hands across Duncan's chest, pausing only to elicit a gasp by pinching his lover's nipples.

A firm hand pushed Duncan backward, and he dropped to the bed. Their gaze never breaking, Methos quickly shed his clothes and bent to strip Duncan of his slacks. Methos watched him from the foot of the bed, his eyes raking over his lover's body for long moments like a wolf sizing up a rabbit for dinner. Duncan couldn't suppress the groan that escaped his throat as Methos stroked himself, his erection rapidly lengthening again. Duncan's hand reached for the center of his own as yet unsatisfied desire, but Methos snarled and pounced on him, roughly pushing the hand away.

"All mine, Highlander," he said as he roughly took Duncan's hard cock in his hand. He refused Duncan the rhythm he needed, tracing the weeping tip with his thumb, his touch enough to tease and tantalize, but not enough to satisfy.

"Oh, God," he panted, squirming under Methos' grip.

"Not yet," Methos replied, releasing Duncan's cock to quickly grasp both of his wrists and press them above his head.

"Mmmmm..." Methos purred. "I love you like this, Highlander. You look so beautiful. Stretched out on your bed for me. Gasping and moaning for me. What do you want, Duncan?" he asked, pressing his hips against Duncan's weeping erection. "I know what I want..."

He wants it all, Duncan thought, reading the emotion as well as the sexual desire in Methos' eyes. He wanted Duncan to relinquish control, but more urgently, he wanted Duncan to confess his decision to do so. You talk a good game about equality and trust, MacLeod, now prove it, his lover's eyes seemed to say. If you love me, surrender.

His fear at the overwhelming intimacy Methos was demanding battled with his soul, his nakedness and his aching want rendering him more vulnerable than if a sword were at his throat. But his reticence deserted him as Methos' mouth found his neck again, teasing upward as far as his chin, but refusing the comfort of a kiss. Methos paused over the spot on Duncan's neck where his pulse throbbed, kissing gently, then tracing the flesh with his tongue before sharply biting the soft skin.

Duncan jerked and groaned again, his hips seeking the friction of his lover's body. Methos tsked, lifting his head to peer into Duncan's eyes. As predatory as his eyes seemed, he also appeared to be completely under control. "I asked what you wanted, Duncan. I didn't say you could move."

"I want..." he gasped. Pride, honor, inhibitions, all slipped away under the heat of Methos' passion, his uncompromising demand that Duncan surrender completely to him. I want to be yours, I want you to love me forever. "I want you to fuck me."

A smile played across the oldest Immortal's lips before bending to grant the long, hot kiss he had previously denied. "Oh, yes," he breathed, "but not quite yet."

Duncan let his wrists go slack under Methos' hand, signaling that he would keep still, allowing Methos to use both hands to run down his flanks and back up to his chest. Duncan had to fight the urge to wrap his arms around the slender form on top of him, starting to move before remembering that he was supposed to keep still. The motion prompted a look of warning.

"Don't make me tie you down."

Duncan shuddered, both at the thought and at the sensations transmitted by the lips now teasing his nipples. Methos continued moving down his body, leaving tiny bite marks behind on his stomach. The urge to move his hips as Methos licked the underside of his cock again was irresistible, prompting yet another dangerous glance. Duncan tried to force himself to remain still, but the feel of Methos' hot, wet tongue playfully licking his now painfully erect sex was nearly unbearable. The stimulation was constant yet fell just short of the friction and rhythm he needed for release. Almost dizzy with the attempt to remain still, he couldn't keep himself from moaning, which only seemed to reinforce his lover's attempt to drive him slowly insane. Fingers began gently stroking his balls, a light tickle added to the already unmerciful cock teasing.

"Methos...please..." he begged.

"Please what?" came the reply between long, slow licks up and down the length of his cock. He gasped again as Methos briefly sucked the tip into his mouth, tonguing the weeping slit.

"Please, no more...I can't stand it...oh, God," Duncan moaned as his lover's tongue traced his balls. He clutched at the sheet underneath his hands in a desperate attempt to keep still.

Methos paused and looked up the length of Duncan's body. "What do you want, Duncan?"

Hold me forever. Never die. Never let me go. "Fuck me, Methos. Please. Fuck me, and let me come," he grated out.

Methos slowly crawled up his body, looking for all the world like a leopard quite certain that his prey was cornered. "Are you sure?" he asked, spreading Duncan's thighs further apart and settling his own body between them.

"God, yes, please..." his eyes nearly rolled back in his head as Methos pressed their groins together. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Methos reach for a tube from the nightstand, and he nearly wept with relief.

"Look at me, Duncan." Methos was kneeling between his spread thighs, coating his hard cock with lubricant. "You have no idea what it does to me to see you like this," he said, slipping one finger inside of Duncan's body, prompting yet another low groan and a nearly futile attempt to remain still. Methos slipped his arms underneath his lover's bent knees and then reached over to kiss him again.

Duncan took the kiss desperately, drinking from Methos' lips and tongue. He gasped under his lover's mouth as fingers were added and continued to probe, his breath becoming ever more harsh and labored, moans and whimpers combined with rasped attempts to draw much-needed oxygen into his lungs. When the fingers slipped from his body he almost cried, both from the deprivation of the stimulus and in anticipation of the pain and pleasure soon to follow.

Methos' eyes met his once more, but Duncan needed no further prompting. "Please, now...I need you...fuck me..."

Methos' eyes closed for a moment before returning to Duncan's mouth, and Duncan felt both his lover's cock and tongue enter him at the same time. Tears of relief slipped from his eyes and the fabric clutched in his hands nearly burned with friction from his twists of the innocent linen. Methos pushed deep inside, burying his cock completely with a moan. Duncan cried out as Methos pulled back before roughly thrusting into him again, another cry escaping him as he felt the ecstatic brush of the hard cock against his prostate. Oh, God, Methos had made love to him before, but never like this, never on top of his spread-eagled and desperate body. Never before had Duncan been able to watch the flushed cheeks and heat-filled eyes above him, never before had he been able to see Methos' hips as they drew back before pounding into him once more.

His own cock was untouched except for the occasional friction of the body above it, and yet Duncan quickly felt his long-denied release building toward its peak. It took only one more brush of Methos' cock deep inside his body to reach release. Exposed, humbled, utterly naked, Duncan cried out Methos' name as he came, the thrusts inside of him unabated for long moments until his lover joined him, his cries stifled by the hot mouth on his as both of them shuddered and struggled for enough air to remain conscious.

When Duncan's senses allowed him to perceive the world with some normalcy again, their bodies had separated, but Methos was still between his thighs, watching him intently. His eyes had changed once again; the predatory Methos had disappeared, leaving only his caring lover behind. He reached above Duncan's head to move the stiff arms down to his sides, rubbing gently to soothe the tight muscles. He slipped from the bed to return a few moments later with cloths and a glass of water that he pressed into Duncan's hand while he gently cleaned them both.

Duncan's body was still shaking, trembling with the emotional, as well as physical, release. He drank gratefully and then set the glass down on the bedside table. He reached one hand up to trace the edges of his lover's mouth, tenderly, almost uncertain that he was really there. A part of Duncan was still unsure the entire experience hadn't been a dream. He couldn't fathom how easy it had been to let go, to surrender to Methos. He had thought that it would be so difficult, but he had been utterly, totally wrong. It had been more than easy. It had been...joyful.

Methos stared into Duncan's eyes, searching. "Are you all right, Duncan?" he asked softly.

"It was...incredible," was all he said.

His lover relaxed, kissing his fingertips, then tenderly invading his mouth before pulling away so their eyes could meet. "She loved him so much, Duncan..." Methos said quietly, speaking of Gina's Quickening, just now settling inside of him.

The unspoken words lingered between them a moment, and Duncan smiled as Methos pulled him close, spooning against his back. The Highlander turned his head back for a slow, gentle kiss.

~~~~~~~

Methos watched his lover fade into sleep. Duncan will probably never know what he's given me tonight, he thought. It was more than he would ever truly deserve and so much more than he had ever hoped for.

He watched Duncan, tendrils of hair curling around his face, long lashes fluttering against his closed eyes. He wondered what destiny had in store for them, if they could survive what it brought. If the fates were kind they might share countless days together, lifetime upon lifetime, futures without end. The world's oldest cynic was tempted to scoff at his own romantic notions, but the idea of forever with his beautiful Highlander was too tempting, too irresistible. Damn the fates--they would survive somehow. If he'd learned one thing in his long life, it was that a little love, a little faith, and a little determination went a long way.

"I'll see you in my dreams," he whispered in his lover's ear, pulling Duncan's body just a little closer against his own.

~end~

Originally published in Futures Without End II, February 1999.