Until a Day After Forever

His feet hit the pavement with soft thumps that sounded loud in his ears. He
wasn't running as fast as he could. It was still raining, and the dark road
was slick and dangerous.

His breathing was deep and even, his arms close to his sides to conserve
energy. The katana in his right hand was so much a part of him that it
didn't
unbalance the run.


It seemed like miles of dark road sprawled out ahead of him.
Somewhere, there, up ahead, was a man that needed to die.

These things happened quickly. Two days ago Duncan MacLeod had been
going about his business, living his life, not looking for any challenge
greater than working on Richie's French. And tonight here he was, chasing
his prey on foot and praying silently that he would be in time.

The road curved gently. He saw a flash of something though the trees;
moonlight on steel? Edward Tomas carried an enormous bastard sword,
almost as long as he was tall. Its great length would easily capture and
reflect the moonlight.

A woman's scream ripped out, chilling him.

Was he too late?

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, to the rescue. Wouldn't Methos
laugh at this one?

Joe's voice whispered in his mind as he ran faster, casting caution aside.

"He likes to hurt women, MacLeod. He's never gotten past his mortal life,
when women were the property of the men and punished according to their
whims."

Don Edwardo Tomas had found someone new to hurt.

Duncan knew her. He'd met her yesterday, when he went looking forTomas to ask why he'd come to town. The Spaniard wasn't known as a
headhunter. It quickly became obvious that he hadn't realized he was in
MacLeod's territory.

Another scream. It was deserted out here. Tomas must have thought he was
safe from intrusion.

Duncan practically skidded around the corner, sword arm swinging wide for
balance. When he saw them it was exactly what he expected; Tomas had his
secretary spread out face down on the hood of his car, her skirt pushed up
over her hips. There was a torn scrap of pink on the ground.

He was raping her while she screamed and beat her fists on the hood of her
car. Tomas drove a Lexus, it was one of the first things Duncan had made a
mental note of; a gold Lexus with California plates.

From the road, Duncan had a good view. He could see them, but they
couldn't see him. Methos would have simply run the man through and then
chopped off his head, but Duncan couldn't do it. Even to this man.

"Tomas!" He bellowed, coming to a stop only a few feet away. "I've come
for your head!"

Tomas was a big man. He cuffed the woman casually and pulled free. Her
head bounced on the hood of the car, and she slid to the ground in slow
motion while he zipped up his slacks and turned to face Duncan.

"Just let me grab my other sword," he said with a smile, rubbing his groin
with satisfaction. "This is excellent. She'll be right here after I take
your
head, all warmed up and ready to go." He picked up his weapon from the
ground beside the woman.

"You'll no' touch her again." Duncan swore. Joe had broken the rules, again,
to tell him about Tomas, but he hadn't gone so far as to give Duncan any
hints of how good he was. He was older than Duncan, about twice his age, but
that didn't mean he was any good.

The giant sword gave him a hell of a reach, though, and he handled it as if
it
were a toy. He lunged at Duncan, who stepped back quickly. He was
watching, not letting his anger get the best of him. One of the first things
Connor ever taught him: lose your temper, lose your head.

"We don't have to fight." Tomas was smiling as he swung again. Apparently hethought that Duncan was afraid of him. "Let's call a truce and we can share
her? Do you know how warm a woman is when she's already filled with hot
jism? How slick she is inside?"

Duncan swallowed the nausea the words caused. He had planned to let
Tomas tire himself out swinging that big sword, but not if it meant he had
to listen to the man. So he went on the offensive, darting past Tomas, the
katana slashing the air in a complicated series of cuts meant to dazzle his
opponent and draw his attention. It worked, Tomas let his attention be taken
by the blade, and Duncan turned to take the advantage from him; a kick that
shattered a knee, then the leg-sweep and Tomas was on the ground, writhing
in agony.

"Nothing hurts like a knee," Connor had said once, and he'd been right. But
Connor was often right. Not always. Just often.

Thoughts of Connor rose to the surface as Duncan brought his sword up.

The words rasped from his lips -- was he really that tired?

"There can be only one."

Tired of pain and blood, perhaps.

Tired of missing the person he was closest to in the world, definitely.
Where the hell was Connor?

The Quickening swallowed him whole, and he didn't have a chance to move the
woman to safety. There was no telling what it would do to her in her
condition, but he couldn't help that now.

In the aftermath he sat on the wet pavement, his linen trousers soaked
through ,catching his breath. He checked her pulse; it was thready and
weak. She was going into shock.

Duncan pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911, then he lifted her and put
her in the front seat of her car. His T-bird was parked about four miles
away, in the trees. He covered her with his coat and then turned to the
problem of what to do with Tomas' remains. He didn't think the police would
take kindly to the headless corpse.

The river was only a few yards away through the trees, and the water flowed
fast here, fast and deep. Another of an Immortal's first lessons, wherever
he lived, was the best places to dispose of a body. He was lucky. This was
one of the better places on the river.
It only took a couple of minutes to carry Tomas and his head to the bank.
Duncan stuffed rocks into the man's shirt and tied his head to him with his
coat. The sword he would keep. It was too fine a weapon to throw into a
river. It would also serve as a reminder of the women he had saved from the
predator who had weilded it.

He had to wade out a bit to make sure the current took Tomas. The water
was icy; he felt his testicles draw up tight as it washed over his hips. He
let
the body go and watched with satisfaction as it sank. That one shouldn't
come back to haunt him.

He saw the flashing lights of the ambulance and police car. Now would be a
good time to run, but that wasn't in his nature. Slogging out of the river -
his Italian loafers were *ruined* - he made his way back through the trees,
taking the time to hide both swords. He arrived on the scene again just in
time to meet the ambulance as it screeched to a halt beside the woman's car.

It was a late-model Chrysler, dark green, and it glowed eerily in the
flashing lights.

Her face was thin and purple with bruises, and he stepped on her panties
when he came out of the woods.

Two cops, two guns pointed at him, and he stopped, suddenly worried.

With his hands up, Duncan spoke as calmly as he could.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod. I called you. The rapist got away - he went into the
river."

The best lies were based on the truth. Another thing Connor had taught him.

***

"I told you - I was out for a drive. I heard the woman scream." Frustrated,
Duncan put his hands flat on the table. The cuffs dug into his wrists. "I
found the man raping her and I chased him into the woods. He jumped into
the river -- I tried to follow him but decided that I couldn't catch him."

"Duncan MacLeod." The detective that faced him looked amused. A small
smile lit his dark face. "I've been reading about you. You've made a habit
of rescuing damsels in distress. But women seem to get hurt around you,
too."
"He's just a knight in shining armor." The second detective, a tall, thin
white man, walked around him, and Duncan tensed. He fisted his hands,
restraining his temper. "He's drawn to these women, Frank. Somehow he's
always there when one of them is in trouble."

"Nah. He's just an unlucky SOB," the black man argued cheerfully. "Always in
the wrong place at the wrong time, right, Duncan? What was your mother
thinking, naming you that? That's a pretty sissy name, 'Duncan'."

Duncan bit back a sharp reply. They'd had him in here for hours. A day or
more. He couldn't be sure. They would leave, and he would close his eyes
and try to doze off, and then they would come back. He'd made his phone
call, but Richie hadn't been home. Joe was out of town on Watcher business,
and there was no telling when Rich would get in. If he was hanging with
friends, it could be days.

He didn't know where Connor was. Germany, or England. Maybe New
York. If he got the chance, he could call Rachel and ask her.

"It's the name my mother gave me," he said now, with a sigh and a pang of
remembered pain. She had loved him til the end, not caring that he wasn't
born of her body.

"Your mother." The tall one, Bayliss, sat himself down on the table right
beside him. "I didn't think people like him had mothers, Frank."

"Of course they do. It's always the mother's fault, dontcha know."

"I'd like to make another phone call." Duncan snapped. He hadn't asked for a
lawyer, thinking that this could all be cleared up.

"You want a lawyer?" The black man leaned forward, his eyes intense.

"That's just gonna make us think you're hiding something. Duncan."

"Tell you what." Bayliss leaned over his face. He had sad eyes. "You tell us
what happened, from beginning to end, and we'll see if we can get you a
phone call."

"I've already told you what happened," he snarled, unable to keep it in.
"Tell me what happened to the woman."

"Her name is Stacy Petrie," Frank supplied helpfully. "But we know you
know that. We have a witness that says you visited the office she works in,just two days ago."

There wasn't anything he could say to that. He had been there, to give
Tomas a warning about behaving himself in Duncan's stomping grounds.

"Is she going to live?"

"What do you care? You want to have another go at her? We got the results of
the rape kit, you definitely finished the first time."

"I tried to save her," he'd been too late. He should have parked closer.

"What did you do, Dun-can? Hide your car in the trees, then walk down the
road and pretend to be stranded? This poor woman takes pity on you,
walking out there in the rain, and you repay her by raping her? A good
plan."

"Only why call 911?" Bayliss leaned back again, his face friendly, inviting.

"Did you feel guilty? Get a little too rough with her? We know you didn't
mean to kill her."

"So you called 911. That could make the difference between rape and
attempted murder," Frank said helpfully. "The DA will take it into
consideration, that you didn't mean to hurt her."

"It just got out of hand, right, Duncan?"

The words came at him in a wave, breaking and washing over him as he
fought the urge to answer.

"You just wanted a good time, a little fun. We understand. Every man
wants that."

"And when you saw what you'd done, you were sorry, so you called for
help."

"You are sorry, aren't you?"

"You do want to help her, don't you?"

"Shut up." Duncan growled out the words. He felt like Bruce Banner just
before the man became the Hulk - and Richie's comic-book fetish was going to
be the death of him now. "*Shut Up*."
"Ooo, touched a nerve." Bayliss stood up, his hands on his hips, grinning.

"Maybe he did want to hurt her, but he chickened out." Frank leaned way
back in his chair, his legs spread, a wide grin on his face. "Couldn't even
kill her, hm, MacLeod? Chickened out at the last minute."

There was a knock at the door. Another detective, a woman, stepped in and
handed a file to Frank. She gave him a look that made Duncan want to
throw up.

He was in serious trouble here. If the woman woke up, she would back up
his story, he was sure. But what if she didn't remember clearly? What if the
Quickening had fried her circuits? Sure, they could do a DNA test, but he'd
never heard of one being done on an Immortal. What would it show? Would his
be too similar to Tomas' for them to tell it apart? They probably carried
the same genetic markers. Joe had said that the Watchers were looking into
that question, but there was no way to reach him without getting him in
trouble.

He needed Connor.

He *needed* Connor.

Bayliss went around to read over Frank's shoulder, one hand resting on it
gracefully.

Duncan wanted Connor to be here.

He hadn't missed his teacher in months. The last time he had seen him was
after Tessa's funeral, when Connor came to Paris to take care of him. Then
he'd left again, the way Connor did. Headhunting.

"So, Duncan, tell me; do the women in your life always die mysterious
deaths?"

They'd gotten Tessa's file.

"I'm not answering any more questions until I get a phone call," he sat
back, hands in his lap. The cuffs chinked together gently.

"I guess he needs time to think about it," Bayliss said.

Together, the two detectives spread a series of photos out on the table in
front of Duncan. Just past the reach of his chained hands.
Stacy Petrie. Her violated, bruised body on a hospital bed. Pictures of her
private parts, the bruises on her face, her torn anus.

Duncan gulped bile, was certain he was going to vomit.

"Makes ya sick, doesn't it?" Frank mocked. "Think about how it's going to
make a jury feel."

"We'll go ask if you can have that phone call." Bayliss grinned, wolfish.

As they went out the door, Duncan closed his eyes.

***

He got his phone call, hours later. This time Richie answered. Duncan was
acutely aware of the two detectives hovering over him as he spoke.

"Richie?"

"Duncan, man, where have you been? We were supposed to spar today - I
went to the dojo and you weren't there." His 'son' sounded out of breath and
aggravated.

"I was arrested," he said it flatly, hoping the kid knew enough to not ask
any questions.

"Shit. Who should I call?" Good boy. He didn't ask any questions.

"Call Adam. Tell him to get in touch with Joe and find out where Connor
is."

"You want Connor?" Curious - Rich didn't understand the request. "I mean,
Adam's still in town. He can get you a lawyer and stuff."

"I want Connor."

"Mac, that could take days - I don't think anyone knows where Connor is!"

"Please, Richie," he closed his eyes and dropped his voice. "Just do what I
ask. Tell Adam to ask Joe where Connor is, and tell Connor that I need
him."

"But, Mac -"
"Richie."

"Mac -"

"Rich."

"Okay. I'll do it," he didn't sound the least bit happy about it. "Do you
need anything? Want me to come post bail or anything?"

Duncan glanced at the two detectives. They'd already commented on his
wealth. He was pretty sure bail wasn't going to be an option. Particularly
as
he didn't have a lawyer yet.

"Just take care of the dojo, okay?"

"Sure thing, Mac."

"Richie - thanks."

"You can thank me when this is all cleared up." Richie was being cheerful.
"Dinner at that steakhouse."

"You got it."

Duncan hung up the phone, and Bayliss lifted it from his hands.

"Feel better?" Pembleton asked.

"Ready to talk?" Bayliss asked.

"I want a lawyer," Duncan said. He bowed his head over his hands and
closed his eyes. "Get me a lawyer."

***

"I've heard about this judge, Mac. She's a hardliner." Seated beside Richie,
Joe leaned forward and added his two cents.

"It will be alright." Turned in his seat, his back to the judge, Duncan gave
Richie's shoulder a squeeze.

"What are you going to do if you have to stay in?" Richie was worried about
him, and it made Duncan smile.
"Not like Juvenile Hall, is it, Rich? I'll handle it," he glanced at the
door.
"I thought Adam was going to make it?"

"He's still trying to track down Connor," Joe said. Then the Judge's voice
called out a case number, and Duncan stood when his lawyer did. He didn't
know where Methos had found her, but she was one of them. So he didn't
have to worry about hiding that from her.

"In the case of the People Vs. Duncan MacLeod, charged with aggravated
sexual assault and attempted murder, how do you plead?"

Beth Warner, the lawyer Methos had fund for him, nudged him, and Duncan
swallowed, then spoke, probably too quickly.

"Not guilty."

It felt strange to be wearing his own clothes again. On Beth's advice he'd
had Richie bring casual clothes, not one of his best suits. After three days
in the county jumpsuit, anything was an improvement. She seemed to be a good
lawyer. It was something some Immortals did, especially if they were, as she
was, too small to play the Game well. They made themselves useful to the
Immortal community in other ways, with the hope that if someone came after
thier head they would be protected.

"The plea is entered. On the matter of bail?" The judge glanced around the
room. There were lots of people in the courtroom and Duncan was
embarrassed to recognize several that he knew, from the dojo and Seacouver
University.

The District Attorney, a tall woman with intricately braided hair and a
southern accent, spoke first.

"The defendant is accused of a vicious rape and the attempted murder of his
victim, your honor. He has the means and opportunity for flight. He owns
homes in Paris and Italy. The People request that he be held without bail
until trial."

"Counsel?"

"My client is being punished for the great sin of being wealthy, Your Honor.
He has no criminal record. He called the police and ambulance himself. He
has ties with the community, owns a business here, teaches classes at the
University. He will surrender his passport. He's not a flight risk."
The judge, an African-American woman in her fifties, looked Duncan over
carefully. He couldn't hide the anger in his eyes. Chained like a dog, kept
in
a cage, fed slop. And no one would listen to him. No one believed him.

Stacy Petrie was still alive, but in a coma. He did feel guilty about that.
It
might have been caused by the Quickening but he wasn't a rapist.

"I'm sorry, counselor," the judge said, meeting his eyes steadily. She
thought he'd done it. He could see it. "The defendant also has ties in other
countries, and his history seems to be murky at best. I want this brought to
trial. The defendant is remanded to custody. Bail is denied."

"Your Honor, I must protest!" He hadn't meant to speak, but the words just
blurted out.

"Protest all you want, Mr. MacLeod, but you're not getting out of my jail."

Duncan's heart fell as the prison guards came toward him again. He turned
his head, searching the crowd. Richie gave him an encouraging thumbs-up,
but Joe looked more serious. Where was Methos? Why hadn't he found
Connor?

Duncan hadn't done anything wrong. Was everyone treated this way? What
happened to innocent until proven guilty? Beth had warned him, but he'd
wanted to believe the system would work the way it was supposed to. Now
he was going to be stuck in that rathole of a jail for who knew how long.

Well, he had killed a man. It wasn't something they would understand,
though.

He stumbled as they walked him out of the courtroom. The guards caught
him, and he remembered how easy it would be to escape them. He could kill
them, kill himself, just let himself get hurt, make a run for it. Start a
new life.

No. He had to let this play out. If he escaped there would always be a
question. He would be a fugitive. It wasn't the honorable thing to do.

Somewhere inside him Edward Tomas was laughing.

***

The scent of urine was strong in his nostrils. As soon as he entered thecell
Duncan identified it and the source.

His bed. They'd pissed in his bed - again.

This had become a twice-daily ritual. After breakfast and lunch he would
come back to the cell he shared with five other men and find that someone
had urinated in his bed. The first time he'd been so angry he'd seen red. It
was only Connor's voice in his head that restrained him.

"Don't draw attention to yourself. When you're trapped, keep your head
low and your mouth shut. Our lives do not stand up to close inspection."

He couldn't fight back. If he got hurt, and someone saw it heal - he was at
the mercy of the system.

The greatest fear of all Immortals. While Steven King and Tom Clancy
wrote about secret government labs and blacklist projects, he and the others
like him took steps to protect themselves and their society. If anyone ever
found out, if they ever had real proof.... It would be all too easy to make
him disappear. Lose his paperwork. Cart him off in the middle of the night.
Do tests on him, reveal the existence of Immortals.
It would be the end of everything he knew. They would all be hunted like
animals.

He could only imagine the uses various Governments would have
for them, and he shuddered to even think about it. It wasn't going to happen
as long as he could prevent it. Even if that meant being taken for a coward
in this place.

As soon as his cellmates had realized that he wasn't going to complain or
fight back, they'd turned their attention to him with a vengeance.

Kicked in the hall, shoved in the showers, his food taken at meals, his bed
peed in.

Sometimes they made free with his body, touching him and saying things
while he went to the bathroom or bathed. As much as he hated it, he's only
taken two showers in the five days he'd been here.

It could be weeks until he went to trial. Months.

Duncan wasn't sure he could hold his temper that long.

"MacLeod," a guard called from the end of the hall. "You got a visitor."
He turned his back on his defiled bed and walked out of the cell. Who had
come to see him? Beth wasn't due until tomorrow morning, and that was just
for a check-in -- a 'hi-how-are-ya', she called it. She understood how hard
this was. Knew what he was going through. Joe had come a couple of times but
Duncan had told him that once a week was plenty. It was a long way for him
to come. And Richie only came in the mornings, before he had classes at
Seacouver University.

The University that had fired Duncan last week, almost as soon as he was
arraigned. They couldn't afford a scandal.

"In there." The guard directed him to one of the small rooms. Duncan closed
his eyes and sighed when he saw who sat at the table.

"Connor."

"Duncan."

His clansman ignored the guard that stood just inside the door. He rose from
his chair, walked over, and pulled Duncan into a tight embrace.

"*Connor*." Duncan clutched at him, suddenly overwhelmed. When he said the
name again, it was a sob. "*Connor*."

"Shh, m'cushla, there, I've got you, I'm here."

Duncan began to cry, quietly. He hadn't known how badly he needed this, to
be held, to be protected by someone older and stronger than he. How much
he'd needed Connor to come.

"What took ye so long?" He gulped the question between sobs. Connor's
hands rubbed at his head, Duncan pressed his face to Connor's neck.

"I'm sorry, Duncan. I was in Australia. I went walkabout in the Outback.
You've never seen such sunsets. I would have come sooner, if I had known."

"Connor - they -" He couldn't get out the words. The sobs were getting
deeper, making it hard to breathe.

Duncan hadn't cried like this since Tessa died. That night there had been no
one to hold him. He didn't really understand why he was crying now. This
wasn't the worst situation he'd ever been in. He wasn't hurt. Just his
pride.
His honor impugned.

"I know, Duncan." Connor's hands were gentle and soothing. "I'll take care
of it."

With his face pressed to Connor's neck, Duncan could smell him, and the
other man smelled like home. Duncan could almost imagine the wind
scouring the Highlands, could almost feel it, could smell it in Connor's
sweat.

He blinked and pulled his head away, trying to get a grip on himself. He saw
the guard roll his eyes at them.

"Duncan." Connor tilted his face up. "Let me look at you."

Obediently he met Connor's eyes, holding his breath to quiet the sobs that
were dying down. The storm was over.

Connor's eyes were so different from his own. They could be so hard, so
cold. But now they were warm and worried, the brown-gold radiating care
and concern. Love.

A thumb stroked his cheekbone, and Duncan raised a hand to catch
Connor's.

"Don't," he almost choked on the word. What was Connor doing? What was *he*
doing, holding onto him like a lost child?

"Are you alright?" Connor had always been able to read his face. Now he let
go of Duncan, slowly, and took a step away, his hands dropping to his side.

One lingered briefly at his cheek, and Duncan swallowed painfully.

"It's bad," Duncan said, looking around the room. There was the table,
bolted to the floor, and two chairs. A tiny window up high. He could see a
sliver on sunlight through it.

He missed sunlight.

Connor sat down.

"Tell me about it."

"I was driving..," he glanced at the guard. The man rolled his eyes again,
then stepped out of the room. Beth had said that they weren't bugged. Evenconvicts had a right to privacy.

"Fifteen minutes," the guard said, shutting the door.

Connor shook his head, reached for him, tugged on his hand until Duncan
took the other chair.

"No. Tell me," he ordered. It made Duncan smile, just for a second.

"It's hell in here," he sighed. "Like I'm caught in a nightmare. I keep
thinking I'm going to wake up, and then it gets worse when I do," he put his
hands on the table, dug into a splintery crack with a dirty thumbnail.

"I'm flying a specialist in to see the woman," Connor said, reaching to
cover that hand with both of his own. "From the Royal Hospital in London. An
expert in head injuries. A - friend."

Duncan understood the hesitation. Connor meant an Immortal. Maybe
someone who could help Stacy Petrie wake up. A Quickening was
dangerous for a mortal. There was no telling which was worse on her body
and mind -- the damage from the rape or the Quickening

"A doctor?" he asked, hesitantly.

"Yes."

"Her family agreed to that?"

"They don't know I had anything to do with it."

Duncan thought about it.

"Anne?"

"Yes. I tracked her down as soon as I got into town. She was appalled that
anyone could think you capable of rape, and she offered to help."

"So they think she arranged the consultation."

"The family doesn't know about your history with her."

"Good."

Duncan looked at their hands. He turned his over and grasped Connor's.
"I'm sorry I bawled all over ye," he said softly.

"You've never done that before," Connor observed. "What's different now?"

"I don't know." He closed his eyes. "I just - it's been hard, Connor. And I
was worried about yew."

"Not as worried as I've been about you. I took the Concorde back, and even
it wasn't fast enough." Connor chuckled, his trademark sound. "I was afraid
I'd find you on the front page."

"I've been keeping my head down."

"Which makes you a target. I know." Connor did understand. They'd had
conversations about this before; the best way to deal with being trapped.
How to conceal themselves and still survive. Connor had experienced it
before, in a Mexican prison Duncan had saved him that time. A long time
ago, in the wild West.

They sat in silence for the next few minutes. Duncan was aware that time
was running out. He looked up and Connor squeezed his hand.

"Duncan, I've been thinking."

"Now we're really in trouble," he teased automatically, but his eyes held
Connor's.

"We've known each other a long time."

"Aye."

"I don't think I've ever told you how much I love you."

"Connor!" Not here, he didn't want to hear this now, in this place.

"No matter what happens, I will not leave you to rot in a prison someplace."

"*Connor*." If the guards heard that, what would they do? "I know ye
would not."

"I'm just telling you." Connor squeezed his hand again, and Duncan felt his
face go warm. "I've waited long enough, Duncan MacLeod."

All Duncan could do was laugh weakly.
"Your timing has always sucked, you know that?"

The door started to open. Connor stood and pulled Duncan up to him,
wrapping his arms around the younger Immortal and hugging him tightly.
Duncan held on, wanting to remember the feeling of holding and being held.

Connor.

"Break it up, lovebirds, time's up."

It was even harder to pull away, to leave Connor standing there with his
heart in his eyes, to know what he was leaving behind this time, and what he
was going back to.

"Duncan," Connor called just before the door swung shut. "I'll be back
tomorrow."

***

In his cell, Duncan methodically stripped the bunk, turned the mattress, and
put on the clean sheet and blanket before lying down on it, closing his
eyes.

He wasn't hungry, so he didn't answer the call to dinner, just lay there and
concentrated. He tried to hear Connor's voice in his head, tried to feel
Connor's hand in his own.

Tried to smell Connor's body instead of the rank stench around him.
After a while, it worked, and he drifted to sleep, actually resting for the
first
time since he'd been put in this dark place.


***

"Who is this man?"

Connor turned toward the new, hostile voice. The door of the private
hospital room had opened and framed two men. The first was black,
muscular, wearing a natty hat. Behind him was another man; tall, thin, with
sad eyes that seemed to look into his soul.

The first man had spoken.

"What is he doing here?"
"Mr. MacLeod is here to represent Duncan MacLeod's interests." Beth
Warner stepped up, spoke up. Connor flashed a smile at her. Immortal
lawyers were hard to find, and she was one of the best.

"MacLeod. What, you're cousins?" The irritated man came into the room
and stood by the bed, ignoring the fact that he was crowding the doctor.

"We're related," Connor said blandly. Beth gave him a long-suffering smile.

"Detective Pembleton, Detective Bayliss. This is Doctor Huang Nyoshita,
from the London Royal Teaching Hospital. He's a world-renown expert in
head trauma and coma. He just flew in to Seacouver to treat Ms. Petrie."

"We heard." Pembleton didn't seem impressed.

"Please, detective." Mrs. Petrie was sitting on the other side of the bed,
holding her daughter's hand. "I had my doubts when Ms. Warner suggested
this, too. I know she has an ulterior motive. But he's a good doctor, and
all I want is for my girl to wake up. I have four sons. Stacy is my only
daughter. She's the only one that lives close to me. I miss her so much."

"I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Petrie." Bayliss spoke up, going around the
bed to stand beside her, looking down on Stacy's pale face. "We're just here
to be sure that your daughter isn't coerced in any fashion."

"We're here to protect her," Pembleton said firmly. He gave the doctor a
look that clearly said 'get on with it'.

"I've been administering a series of nuerostimulants to Ms. Petrie." Dr.
Nyoshita said, his hand touching the patient's face, her arm, her hand.
"It's
similar to the treatment given victims of lightning strikes. We've had good
success with it in the past. I give a series of injections over a measured
time, and now the final injection."

"Is there any chance this will make her worse?" Pembleton asked. "Are you
risking her life here?"

"There is a very small chance that the treatment will cause a mild seizure,"
Dr. Nyoshita admitted as he filled the hypodermic, "If the damage is too
severe or extensive. In that case there's little chance she'll ever wake up
under any circumstances."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Bayliss knelt by Mrs. Petrie's chair.
"Have you been threatened or coerced by this man or that attorney in any
way?"

"Excuse me," Beth snapped. "Mrs. Petrie has made her own decision in this
matter. We weren't even present when she discussed it with the doctor."

"But you did bring the doctor over to consult," Pembleton commented, his
eyes hard on Connor's.

"No, Dr. Anne Lindsey invited him over."

"And she used to date MacLeod." Pembleton snorted. "A clear example of
her sterling judgement."

"And you had nothing to do with it?" Bayliss scoffed at Connor.

"I knew Dr. Nyoshita was the best chance we have to get to the truth,"
Connor answered.

"You want the truth?" The detective sounded like he wanted to laugh. "The
truth is that your 'relative' brutally attacked this woman and then he felt
guilty about it, so he made up this cock- eyed story that cast him as the
hero."

"Duncan is a hero, many times over." Connor knew he shouldn't say things
like that, but he was quickly losing his temper with this man.

"Yeah. Tell that to Tessa Noel." Bayliss smirked.

Connor had taken three steps forward before Beth restrained him with a
painful grip on his arm. Pembleton just grinned at him, mocking him.

"Looks like violence is a family trait," he told his partner, and they
exchanged knowing smiles. Connor fumed, but bit back the words he
wanted to throw.

The doctor paused and looked at Mrs. Petrie.

"This is up to you, ma'am," he said. "As a physician this is the course of
treatment I recommend. We've already begun noting improved brain wave
activity since it began. If I do not finish, I have very little hope that
your
daughter will ever recover."
Bayliss took the mother's hand.

"Do what's best for your daughter, not just what these people want. They
have their own agenda."

Everyone in the room turned their attention to the victim's mother. She was
getting old. Connor studied the lines around her eyes, the wrinkles on her
hands. She reminded him of his own mother, killed before his eyes.
Her eyes were pale blue, a bit foggy, but her voice was clear.

"I want my Stacy back."

"Do it," Connor told Nyoshita. The man hadn't been Immortal very long. His
first death had come during medical school. A scientist until the end, he'd
turned his attention to the particular problems of Immortality. He couldn't
study the Immortals - that was clearly too dangerous. But he could study the
effects they had on those around them, and the contortions the healing
sometimes put them through. After twenty years Connor was still fairly
certain that the Watchers hadn't tipped to him, and no one had ever come
looking for his head.

The doctor held eye contact with Mrs. Petrie just a few more seconds, then
injected the drug into the IV line. He cut the needle of the hypodermic and
disposed of it properly, then came back to the bedside.

"What's supposed to happen?" Pembleton sounded interested in spite of
himself.

"If there's going to be a reaction, it usually comes pretty quickly," the
Doctor said. "She probably won't be coherent, or capable of withstanding an
interrogation right away - not for two or three days, most likely. But she
should regain consciousness."

"When?" Connor asked, leaning closer. Pembleton put out an arm and
pushed him back, and Connor allowed it. For Duncan's sake. Getting
arrested for assaulting a homicide detective would not help Duncan.

"Soon. If it takes longer than twenty minutes, then I'll call it a failure."
The
Doctor gave the mother an apologetic look.


Twenty minutes didn't sound like such a long time. Pembleton took a call,
apparently from his lieutenant, and explained the situation to him, not
making an effort to hide what he thought of the whole mess. Connorretreated to a corner to lean against the wall and brood. If this didn't
work he would have to find a way to get Duncan out of jail before it went to
trial.

The easiest way would be a death, but it would have to be sufficiently
violent to make sure he didn't come back too soon. The length of time spent
dead was usually directly related to amount of trauma suffered during the
death. Perhaps Nyoshita could help him, give him some drug or something that
would keep Duncan dead long enough to let Connor collect the corpse.

They would have to leave and start over, but that was certainly preferable
to a lifetime spent in prison.

Then again, if Stacy died, Duncan might get the death penalty. But then
there would be years of appeals to wait through. He wasn't going to leave
his clansman in prison that long.

Something had happened to him, to Connor, during those months alone in
the Outback. There had been nothing around him but desert and animals and
sheer natural beauty. And none of it had been as beautiful as Duncan's
smile.

Connor was used to being alone. He didn't surround himself with people.
Mortal or otherwise. Duncan went to lots of trouble building families for
himself; Tessa, Richie, then Anne and Mary. Joe Dawson, Darius, Fitz,
Amanda and the one called Adam, who was more than he seemed. They
were the family Duncan had built for himself, here. He needed them.
Connor didn't need anyone. He needed to know that Duncan was alive, and
that he was well. That was enough.

At least, it had been. Now he found that the thought of leaving Duncan again
was painful. It squeezed his chest to think it, made it hard to breathe. He
didn't understand what had happened. What had changed. He just knew that he
couldn't wait any longer to tell Duncan how he really felt.

How much he wanted to be the most important person in Duncan's family.

He had no idea what his student would think of this declaration. They had
been raised in essentially the same culture, but Connor had been able to
leave behind those early teachings and Duncan hadn't. He still thought of
himself as Clan Chieftain, and applied those rules to his life. He might not
be able to find it in himself to love a man. To physically love a man.

He might not be able to see past Connor - his teacher, clansman, friend - to
Connor the man. The man who had been in love with Duncan as long as hecould remember.

"She's moving," Beth said quietly, tilting her head just enough to show that
she was speaking to him.

Connor pushed off the wall and took a step closer. Mrs. Petrie was speaking
to her daughter.

"Stacy? Stacy, my angel, please wake up. Can you open your eyes for
Mommy? Stacy, please. I'm so worried about you..."

Between the bodies around the bed, Connor saw the dark lashes flutter on
pale skin, and then the liquid, bruised-looking eyes were open, staring up.

"Stacy? Squeeze my hand, baby, please. Stacy?" Her mother begged quietly,
and Connor could see that she was crying, tears running down her face to
catch in the wrinkles.

"M- mom?"

Connor sighed deeply. The doctor began asking questions, checking the
patient gently, quickly. The two detectives were frowning at each other
across the bed.

Almost as one they turned their heads to frown at Connor. He glared back,
letting his hostility and hatred show.

It didn't matter now. The truth would out, and they would know how wrong
they had been about Duncan MacLeod.

***

The pillow over his face stank, but he tried to breathe anyhow. Tried to
breathe through the stench and the thick cotton, to suck in what little air
he
could.

He heard the muffled laughter of his cellmates, felt their hands on his.

Tugging at his zipper, slipping under it, their hands too hot on his flesh.

He bucked, wasting valuable air, struggling to get them off of him. But they
were holding his arms down, and pressing on the pillow and he couldn't see.

The pillow stank of piss.
Then suddenly, it was removed, and he gasped for air.

A guard was coming down the hall. He saw the sweep of the flashlight they
carried at night. It came into the cell, washed over the others -- all of
them
lying in their bunks -- quiet and still, and settled on Duncan's face.

"Go to sleep, MacLeod. No trouble tonight."

He managed a nod, his hands crushing the pillow on his chest.

He didn't want to cause any trouble. It was just getting harder to avoid it.

They would leave him alone until the guard was done with his rounds, and
then it would start again. He could fight them - they took him by surprise
this time, he'd fallen asleep. He was so tired; Night after night of staying
awake, always afraid to sleep. They surrounded him like a flock of vultures,
sensing his weakness, willing to play with him before they killed him.

Duncan couldn't fight back. If he did he would never get out of here. He
would hurt someone. He might kill someone. And if he got hurt and healed --
they would notice. They would talk. Someone would listen.

He'd never been fan of paranoia, but three weeks in the county jail was
changing his view. The rules were less strict here than in prison. The
guards
less concerned. Security was lax.

There were plenty of opportunities for a bunch of bored bullies to gang up
on what they thought was the perfect victim. Big and strong and a coward
that wouldn't fight back.

He might be able to grab a couple of hours of sleep before they came after
him again.

Duncan took the pillow they had been smothering him with, tucked it under
his head, turned on his side and closed his eyes. He brought his hands to
his chest, curling up as tightly as he could.

He tried to think about Connor. About what Connor had said. What he'd
meant by it.

But he was exhausted. Gradually the thoughts drifted to how good Connor
smelled, the sound of his raspy chuckle, and the strength of his hands whenthey pulled Duncan from trouble, time and again.

***

"Does that hurt, wuss?!"

Duncan sat in a corner of the shower room, head down, legs up, breathing
deeply. He reminded himself of all the reasons he couldn't kill this punk.

There were limits to what he was willing to put up with.

He'd snuck into the shower room during breakfast, thinking he could get in
and out without anyone noticing, but they must have been watching for him
to try. As soon as he got the water on they had filed in; seven of them. All
of his cellmates and a couple of buddies invited to join the fun.

The water running down his bare chest was tinged pink from his broken
nose. He had turned in a defensive stance, his back to the wall, and the
largest of them had thrown a punch that could have taken his head off. His
nose was healing, but he had to use both hands to cover it, to hide it from
them. They thought this was funny.

"I bet you're a fag, *Mac*."

Duncan watched with narrowed eyes while the shortest of them went around the
large tiled room and turned on all the faucets. The water sounded like
thunder, rushing through his ears.

Were they trying to drown out his screams?

"We saw that kid that came to visit you. He's cute. Your boy-toy? Or are
you his sugar daddy? You gots lots of money. You're a rich guy."

It didn't matter which of them spoke. There were too many for him to fight
off. He could hurt some, kill some, but there were too many. Maybe if he
just killed one the others would back off. But then he would have to deal
with the consequences of being a murderer.

He had no doubt the courts would see it that way. With his history and
training.

"A rich fag." Someone else said. A bare foot insinuated itself into his
crotch, nudging his testicles, and he lashed out a hand, grabbed the ankle,
yanked hard, sideways, leaning to avoid being hit by the body as the man
went down.
Someone yelled. Someone cursed. Someone kicked him in the side, hard.

"Fucking fag decided to fight back!"

"Guess he doesn't want to share."

The line had been crossed. There were things he wasn't going to submit to.
Groping, smothering, the occasional beating in the hall.... okay, he could
accept that.

Rape was something else again entirely.

Even as he rose to defend himself, the corner protecting his back and
limiting the number of men that could attack him at once, he thought briefly
on the irony of his situation. He'd tried to save a woman from being raped,
and was now a potential victim himself.

But he would go down fighting. It didn't matter if they saw him heal - he
was *not* going to let them touch him.

If any man was going to touch him with sex in mind, it was going to be
Connor. He'd figured that much out.

Then they were on him, big hands grabbing at him, by the arm, by his hair,
hauling him to his feet. He fought, kicking and punching, but he was
overpowered; a man holding each arm high on his back, another yanking his
head back at a painful angle, his hair ripping free of his scalp, the sound
almost audible.

Hands tore at his skin, tried to hold his kicking legs, clamped on his
throat
and cut off his air. They hoisted him high, on his back, and Duncan still
fought. He was going to make them kill him. He heard a howl as a foot
connected, heard the snap of bone as his arm lashed out and grabbed,
twisted. Then he howled as that arm was slammed with something -- kicked, or
what he couldn't tell, there was so much steam in the room he couldn't see
and his testicles were grabbed and squeezed and bile rose in his throat, the
agony overwhelming, nauseating.

With an effort that threatened to dislocate his shoulder he reached out
blindly and grabbed the nearest piece of flesh. His fingers dug in and
twisted brutally. He meant to tear off as much skin as he culd, rip off the
biggest piece of flesh possible. He kicked again. The water and steam
helped, he was slippery, and one of his legs came free. He kicked harder,felt it connect. The pain between his legs stopped abruptly, but it wasn't
much of a relief.

He was dropped suddenly. He hit the floor, hard, it was wet and cold and
oddly sticky, and he was moving back to the corner, slowly as his ribs tried
to heal.

The steam clogged his nostrils and thickened his lungs, but he peered
through it, crouched defensively. They weren't laughing anymore. There
was blood running from his fingertips.

His balls were a flaming agony. All he wanted to do was curl around them
and moan -- after he puked.

"You're going to pay for that, queer," the largest of them spoke.

They would have to kill him. At least he would get out of here then. Duncan
tried to straighten, but there was too much damage that hadn't healed. He
managed to get a hand on the wall. He tried to lever himself up.

"I'm going to shove my dick down your throat and let you choke on it."

Duncan shuddered. What if they didn't kill him? They could just hurt him
enough to keep him from fighting back. Then he would heal, and they would
know everything.

"Then we're gonna fuck you raw. Maybe your pelvis will break." Another
man smiled. Duncan could just barely make out his face. "I like that sound,
when the bones crack."

"Maybe we'll cut your balls off, since you don't use 'em." The threats got
more creative, and Duncan couldn't wave them off the way he should. He
was afraid, well and truly. Not quite terrified.

If he couldn't make them kill him, he would have to kill them. One way or
another, they would not touch him.

He forced himself up a couple of more inches, and then looked for his
chance. They began moving in again except for the two that were hanging
back, nursing their wounds.

Duncan found a positon that didn't hurt too badly. The wall was scummy,
his ass pressed to it. It felt unclean. He needed to cough, the steam was
too
thick.
Naked and vulnerable and alone, he was going to make his stand.

They were between him and the door, and the door was swinging open, in
slow motion as he rose and faced them again, ready for them.

A guard, weapon drawn, and then the two detectives - Frank and Tim.
Pembleton and Bayliss. His accusers, his jailers.

"Back away from him!" Bayliss had his weapon drawn, too, and he was
pointing it at the other prisoners, not at Duncan. He had a moment to scan
himself; some blood, but no sparks of healing. He was okay. It looked like
he hadn't been hurt yet.

Pembleton reached across the empty space, holding out a hand.

"Mr. MacLeod - if you could come with us, please."

Duncan swatted the hand away and straightened, uncomfortably aware of
his naked state.

"Where's my attorney?" He demanded, not trusting this even a little bit.

"We owe you an apology, sir." Bayliss spoke as Pembleton extended his
hand again. Other guards were coming in and starting to herd the other men
out. It was loud; Duncan winced. Men were shouting and protesting and
blaming each other.

He was so tired.

"Stacy Petrie has regained consciousness. She corroborated your version of
the story." Pembleton said.

"So?"

"So you can leave. The charges have been dropped, and we owe you an
apology." Bayliss didn't quite shrug, and Duncan understood that this was
all he was going to get from these men.

That and the hand that was offered to him.

"Take my hand, MacLeod." Pembleton smiled gently. "Your friends are
waiting for you."

Duncan looked down at his hand, noticed the blood on it. The water wasstill running. He stuck his hand under it and watched the blood wash away.

Then he reached out and caught Pembleton's hand, taking a step.

He stumbled. Exhaustion caught him.

"Is he hurt?" Bayliss asked, coming up on his other side, throwing a towel
over him, getting a shoulder beneath his arm.

"I think he's just tired," Pembleton said. Duncan thought he saw a smile
exchanged between the two detectives, but he couldn't be sure. He was
working hard to stay on his feet. It would be bad to go to the doctor now.

He just had to stay on his feet long enough to get to Connor, and then
everything would be okay. Connor would take care of it.

"Connor," he whispered.

"He's waiting outside. Do you want me to bring him to you?" Pembleton
asked, still holding his hand. Bayliss was helping him walk. It was hard to
stay upright.

Shock, his mind said. He was in shock. He must have been hurt worse than
he'd thought. He couldn't let them know.

"Yes, please. Connor."

Carefully, he took unsteady steps until he could almost stand on his own.
Bayliss didn't withdraw his support, though Pembleton reclaimed his hand
and walked behind them. Along the hall the others were being cuffed and
chained to the wall.They shouted and jeered at him, but Pembleton stared
them down.

He was an innocent man, and now they all knew it.

Innocent of rape, anyhow.

He felt a sudden insane urge to shout 'It was the one-armed man!' just to
see what they would say.

Had to be Connor's influence.

***

In the privacy of a visitor's room they brought him clothes and they broughthim coffee and they brought him Connor. He sat beside Duncan and dried his
hair with a towel while Duncan drank the coffee and half-listened to what
the detectives had to say. Connor had told them that he wouldn't sue for
wrongful arrest if they just dropped the charges, and he agreed with a nod.
He stood, not caring that they watched, and got dressed. Connor had brought
worn jeans and a thick cashmere sweater, soft and warm. Connor helped him
dress, buttoning the fly-front jeans when his hands shook and fussing with
the shoulders on the sweater until it hung right. Duncan didn't care that
Connor was acting like a mother-hen. He liked it, and he didn't care that
anyone else saw. Especially those two.

His worn hiking boots, and his coat. He could tell by the weight of it that
the sword wasn't there.

It was still in the woods where he'd hidden it, with Tomas' bastard blade.

They would have to retrieve it soon.

Pembleton made apologetic noises. It was clear that he wasn't really sorry.
He believed he had acted in good faith and that any other cop would have
done the same thing, presented with the same circumstances.

Sadly, Duncan had to agree.

"You ready to go?" Connor stood in front of him. The detectives waited.

"My hair's a mess," he said, idly.

"I forgot to bring a clip for it." Connor shrugged, and used one hand to
push the wet mass back from Duncan's face.

Pembleton looked thoughtful, and then dug into his own coat pocket, coming
up with a flat silver clasp. He held it out to Connor.

"My wife's. She took it off at dinner the other night, and didn't have her
purse."

There was a hint of a smile on his face, as if it were a pleasant memory.

"Thank you." Connor accepted it. He stepped behind Duncan and gathered
the curly hair into both hands, then smoothed it as best he could before
trapping it at the base of Duncan's neck with the clip. "I'll see that it's
returned."

"Either way." The detective frowned. "There will be a meeting with the DAsoon. You two aren't planning on going anywhere?"

"Just home, detective." Duncan sighed and leaned back slightly into
Connor's strength. "Just home."

***

"Duncan?"

Connor's voice roused him from the deep sleep he'd been enjoying. With a
sigh Duncan rolled over and pushed his head up off the pillows. It was hard
to wake up. He didn't want to, not yet.

"Duncan?"

"Yeah, Connor." He lay his head back down and closed his eyes.

The bed sank with the weight of his friend. A hand touched his back, rested
lightly.

"I found them, right where you said they were. The hand-and-a-half is
remarkable."

"Thank you," he didn't open his eyes, just shivered slightly and snuggled
his head deeper into the pillows. His pillows. For a long time they had
smelled faintly of Tess, but that was gone now. They smelled of detergent
and his musk.

Not of piss and sweat.

"You going to get up today?" The hand on his back exerted a little more
pressure.

It was late afternoon. He'd been sleeping for most of the four days since he
got out. He'd asked Connor to call the DA and put off the meeting with
them, then asked Beth if he had to be there at all. She'd said no,
apparently
confused by his desire to avoid it altogether.

Last night Connor had ordered pizza and they'd eaten together in Duncan's
bed, watching a football game on television. Duncan had dozed off during
the second half, with Connor's hand on his leg, warm and secure.

When he woke a while later Connor had moved to the couch, and Duncan
had missed him.
"I'm tired, Connor," he whispered, not understanding it himself. It just
seemed like too much work to get up and get on with his life. Soon. He
would do it soon.

"Richie wanted to know if you were going to make it to the lecture tonight.
He knew you wanted to see it."

"Not that much."

"Your secretary called. She wanted to know if they should find a sub to
cover your classes for the rest of the semester or if you'll be back next
week."

The University had sent a large, expensive flower arrangement and a note
signed by the Dean himself; soon after Stacy Petrie had been interviewed on
a local morning show. She had called him soon after her release from the
hospital -- Connor had give her their number and thanked him for saving her.
Duncan had tried to downplay it, and asked her to keep his identity a
secret, a request she had honored despite the TV personality's sly
questioning.

It seemed that someone at the University had put two and two together,
though, and he'd recieved the flowers, a written apology, and the offer of
his position back. Full reinstatement.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"I'll call her tomorrow." There were so many things he could put off until
tomorrow.

Connor leaned over his face and spoke into his ear. "I'm worried about you."
His breath made shivers run down Duncan's spine.

"I'm just tired, Connor," he said it with a hint of protest.

"You need a change of scenery." Connor's hand rose and gave him a swat on
the bottom. Duncan jerked, then glared at him. "I mean it." Connor glared
back, clearly pleased with this reaction. "I'm taking you away for the
weekend."

"I don't want to go anywhere." Duncan grumbled.

"You don't want to do anything but sleep." Connor stood, his arms crossed
over his chest. "I'm going to make some calls, then you're going to showerand I'm going to pack and we'll go."

"What about the dojo?"

"Richie will be happy to look after it."

Finally Duncan opened his eyes and raised his head, meeting Connor's stare.

"Connor, I'm alright. I just want to rest a bit longer."

"Then I'll find a really nice place for you to rest." Connor turned his back
and headed for the elevator, ignoring the look Duncan directed at his back.

"You'll no' bully me into going, Connor MacLeod!"

Connor just laughed and got on the elevator, leaving Duncan to flop down in
the bed and pull the covers over his head, grumbling.


Two hours later found him in the passenger seat of his own car -- retrieved
from police impound by Connor that morning -- sitting with his head down,
hands in his lap, not speaking. He was angry. Connor had relented about the
shower but badgered him into coming.

No one but Connor could make him do anything he didn't want to. Not even
Amanda.

And he did not want to do this. What was the point of going somewhere
else? He'd still feel the same way. Still be tired. Still be angry.

Still be afraid.

Connor didn't know that, and Duncan had no plans to tell him. He had come
close -- too close to losing something precious to him. A privacy, a right,
that he had always taken for granted before.

He knew it was true, but had never expected to have it applied to himself.

The sheer weight of numbers will always win in the end. No matter how big
or how tough you are, there's always a breaking point.

He didn't think he was broken. Bent a little. Slightly damaged by weeks of
humiliation and abuse. He just needed time to think about it, to reintegrate
his self-image.
If they had not come in when they did; what would he have done?

Killed as many as he could. Fought as hard as he could. Now he
understood, as he hadn't before, how a woman could fight to the death
before allowing herself to be raped.

And he understood how sometimes, no matter how hard you fought, you
couldn't fight hard enough.

Like fighting with Connor. He couldn't fight hard enough to win this one
because he wasn't fighting for the right thing. Connor was worried about
him and Duncan was -- Duncan was tired. He needed to let Connor win.

He hadn't been hurt. He might not have been. Chances are that once he'd
killed a couple of them the others would have backed down. That was the
way with packs. He'd probably been in no real danger.

As long as he'd been alive.

Connor drove fast, but carefully. He looked over at Duncan every once in a
while, but didn't say anything. He had packed for both of them, not asked
Duncan to do any more than come along. When they got to the airport he
reached over and laid his hand on Duncan's knee and smiled when Duncan
covered it with his own.

"It's a short flight," he told him, but Duncan didn't even ask where they
were going.

He slept on the plane, too.

***

In the taxi, cruising the streets of Las Vegas, he woke up a bit. Stared
around at the bright lights and neon, the wildly dressed people and bizarre
gimmicks.

They were staying at the newest hotel. It loomed against the skyline like
some mammoth, sleeping beast. Duncan grinned when they pulled up in
front of it.

Up, up, up, ten stories, twenty, thirty. At the very top, a room with a
fantastic view and a balcony meant for the brave. Duncan went out on it
while Connor ordered dinner and tipped the bellboy.

Connor put away their bags and came out to stand beside him. After aminute Duncan leaned over against him. Connor put an arm around his
waist. Duncan made a quiet noise and leaned closer. Connor hugged him
and pressed his face to the top of Duncan's head, smiling into his hair.

They stood there until the waiter brought dinner.


"Oysters, Connor?" Duncan raised an eyebrow.

"They didn't have any haggis," he replied, testing the wine while the waiter
looked on. He took a sip, nodded, and waited for their glasses to be filled,
then lifted his to Duncan. "To rest."

Duncan smiled, a little sadly, and answered the toast with his own glass.

"To peace."

They drank. Connor nodded at the door, and the waiter left, closing it
behind himself.

"Steak and oysters in Las Vegas. I haven't been here in a hundred years,
Connor."

"I know. I was with you. Remember what the streets were like?"

"All mud and muck." Duncan grinned and took a deep swallow of his wine,
then lifted an oyster, leaning over to slurp it down raw. "It stank," he
said
between chews.

"It's gotten a lot prettier."

"It's gotten a lot gaudier, you mean." Duncan seemed to be relaxing. He was
eating, playing with his steak, cutting it into little bites and nibbling on
it between oysters. When Connor looked at the plate, more than half of the
two dozen he had ordered were gone.

"Save some for me," he reached over with his fork, but Duncan speared one
and offered it to him.

Connor looked at his friend. The ache was still in the liquid brown eyes,
but there was happiness there, too. He took hold of Duncan's hand and leaned
over to suck the oyster off the fork. Duncan grinned widely.

"Tease."
"Never."

Still holding the hand, Connor ran his thumb over the wrist and settled on
the pulse, stroking it tenderly. Duncan shivered, he saw it, and then gently
pulled his hand free, reaching for his wineglass.

"What are we doing, Connor?" The words were soft and curious, not
accusing.

It was important to Connor that he said 'we'.

"Taking a vacation," he answered, getting another oyster for himself. He
chewed and swallowed before he continued. "Just the two of us."

"My last vacation was with Tessa."

"You're due another one."

Duncan looked at him with his eyes half-closed, his lashes hiding his eyes.
Connor felt an instant hardening in his groin.

"If you say so."

Connor had almost given in and ordered strawberries and cream for dessert,
but had remembered that Tessa had liked that. So he'd been more practical
and got plain cheesecake. That was the way they both liked it. It was good,
though he'd had better, and it went really well with the last of the wine.

"Sometimes they go to a lot of effort to complicate the food," Duncan said,
as if he'd read Connor's thoughts. "This is the way I like it. Plain food
cooked well."

Steak, potato, salad, oysters. Wine. Cheesecake.

If Duncan couldn't see what he was trying to do, the man was blind.

Ah, but Duncan knew. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the last inch of
wine in his glass, and looked over the room.

It was large, easily half the size of the loft. Floor-to-ceiling windows
were
draped with cream-colored silk, the floor itself covered with ankle-deep
carpet, a darker cream. He hadn't checked the bathrrom yet, but hewas
certain it would be as sinfully luxurious as everything else.
The furniture was beautiful, solid oak, pieces he could have sold. Heavily
carved, the wood polished to a high shee. The sofa and chair looked deep
and inviting.

The bed itself was a king-size. Draped in heavy silk with at least twenty
little pillows atop it, it called to him.

"There's only one bed," he said at length.

"I noticed that." Connor scooped the last bite of Duncan's cheesecake up
and blatantly stole it.

"Hey!"

"I can order more if you want it." Connor drained his glass, then eyed
Duncan's.

"You could order more wine, too," Duncan observed dryly.

"It would take too long to get here."

"Probably." Duncan shifted, leaned over, and held the glass to Connor's
lips. "Drink."

Connor closed his eyes, and drank. Duncan's finger was at the rim of the
glass -- he slipped his tongue out and tasted it with the last sip.

"Connor."

He opened his eyes, and smiled at his friend. His student. The man he
loved.

"Do you know how long I've loved you?" Connor held his hands out, palms up,
demonstrating their emptiness as Duncan drew back, set the glass on the
table.

"I could guess." Duncan was looking serious.

"Longer than that," Connor told him.

"Then why did ye wait so long to tell me so?"

"I haven't wanted you as long as I've loved you. Wanting you -" He waited
for that to sink in, saw Duncan's eyes widen slightly, his lips parted."Wanting you is almost new."

"Like the last fifty years or so?" Duncan asked, smiling at him.

"Yes. Like the last fifty years or so." 'New' was relative.

"Connor..," he sounded so unsure. Connor stood and went around the table to
stand behind him resting his hands lightly on the broad shoulders.

"You're still tired, Duncan. Let's go to bed and get some rest."

The cart was pushed into the hall. Connor sat and read on the balcony while
Duncan showered in the ridiculously extravagant bathroom.
It was the first time he had showered alone since he got out. Before, Connor
had come in and sat with him. Not looking at him, or really even paying
attention to him. Just keeping him company.

This time he hadn't followed Duncan in, and Duncan thought he knew why;
the chance that he would confuse this sybaritic experience with the jail
shower-room was remote. In here he had heated marble floors, enormous
towels with thick nap edged with imported French lace. The door of the
shower-stall was crystal clear, delicately etched with the hotel's logo. The
bath products provided where from London and Paris. Thier scent tinted the
air perfectly.

He felt comfortable, and at ease, so he took his time, soaping himself with
the rich lather. He let himself enjoy the feel of his hands on his body; the
slickness of the soap bubbles, the heat of the water. The smooth coolness of
the shower door when he pressed his back to it. The strength of his own
hands.

It wasn't erotic. It was comfortable. Like regaining a part of himself he
thought he had lost. Connor had known what he needed, when Duncan
hadn't know himself.

When Duncan came out, a cloud of steam following him, he sat on the bed
and tried to comb his hair into order. It objected more strenuously than
usual. He was about to give up and just sleep on it tangled when he felt
Connor come up behind him.

The older Immortal took the comb from his hands and quickly coaxed the
wet strands to behave. He combed through them patiently, using his hands to
untangle the meanest snarls. Then he sat and stroked it for a few minutes,
running his fingers through the drying curls before he gt up and came around
in front of Duncan. He on his shoulders, lying him back on the bed.
Duncan looked up, saw Connor's familiar lopsided smile, and smiled back.

"Go to sleep, Duncan. I'll be in soon."

"Aye, Connor," he was sleepy. But it was a different kind of sleepy. A
better kind. His belly was full, he was warm, and he felt safe. It was not
something he thought about often -- whether he was safe or not. Duncan
MacLeod worried about the safety of others, not his own.

But even the alpha wolf needed some to look after him once in a while.

Right now he was safe, and he could feel it.

He looked over at Connor. He could see his back, see his arm move as he
turned a page. Duncan lay on his side, and watched the lights twinkle over
the city of neon and watched Connor turn pages. He was almost asleep
when a thought occurred to him.

"Connor," he called out, quietly.

"Duncan?" Connor half-turned in his chair, smiling at him.

"Goodnight, Connor."

"Goodnight, Duncan." Connor chuckled. Duncan closed his eyes.

He could hear Connor turning pages.


Sometime later Duncan felt the bed shift, a hint of cooler air coming in
under the covers. He turned away from it and felt Connor slide in.
Half-awake, he turned over again and slid an arm over the other man's chest,
making his head comfortable on Connor's shoulder.

"Sleep, Duncan." Connor wrapped an arm around him, kissed the top of his
head. Duncan smiled, then pressed a chaste kiss to the bare skin he was
using as a pillow.

"Aye, Connor. I will."


The room was bright with sunlight when Duncan woke. Connor was still
beside him. During the night they had changed positions. Now Duncan was
spooned around Connor's sleeping form and it felt good. His morningerection was snugged tightly between the curves of Connor's ass and his
hand was over Connor's heart, its steady beat a calm metronome of peace.

He bent his head and kissed the back of Connor's neck. The other man
stirred, and Duncan did it again. Then he began to gnaw on it lightly,
sucking just hard enough to bring blood to the surface.

Connor moaned softly.

Would he be vocal? Duncan had heard Connor make love before.
Sometimes they had been in the same room. They had never gone so far as
to share the same bed or woman, but it had been close a few times. Wilder
times. Connor was usually loud and enthusiastic, especially compared to
Duncan's quieter style. He liked to soak up the moment, to sink into the
lovemaking, while Connor was more rough-and-ready.

He bit a little harder, and Connor moaned again.

Then he slowly turned over until he was facing Duncan.

"Good morning, Connor." Duncan propped his head up and smiled at him.

"Duncan." Connor was grinning at him.

The grin faded as Duncan leaned in to claim a kiss. Connor grabbed the
back of his neck and pulled him down, kissing him hard. Duncan willingly
moved closer so that their bodies were pressed together. He felt that Connor
wanted him as much as he wanted Connor.

A tongue teased his lips and he parted them. Connor groaned as he
searched in Duncan's mouth, aggressively seeking out every sweet spot and
exploiting it. Duncan moved against him, lazy and confident. He let
Connor kiss him, let Connor plunder his mouth and enjoyed every minute of
it.

When Connor finally had to break for air, Duncan licked his lips, and then
licked Connor's.

"We taste good," he decided.

"You're going to kill me," Connor accused.

"Never."

"I know."
They kissed again, more gently this time. Sweeter. With the certainty that
this was what they both wanted, and that they had the time to do this right.

They both were panting when Connor broke away again and rolled to his
back. Duncan copied the motion and they lay side-by-side on the big bed.

Connor took his hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the palm, then lay
their clasped hands between them on the bed.

"Ah, Connor." Duncan sighed.

"I know, Duncan."

They lay quiet, enjoying the closeness. Duncan catalogued the sounds
Connor made. He already knew them; Connor's breathing, the way his feet
shifted as he rested, the soft sigh he gave whenever Duncan touched him,
stroking his hand with a finger. These were all Connor sounds.

To Duncan, they sounded like home.

There was a knock at the door. Duncan raised his head, looked over at
Connor.

"Breakfast." A woman's voice called gently.

"I ordered it last night," Connor told him.

"Then I guess we better get up," Duncan said, but made no move to do so.

"I think we already are." Connor gave him a meaningful look, and Duncan
glanced down at his boxer briefs, which did little to restrain his
still-hungry
erection. Then he glanced at Connor's boxers, which were also tented.

He snickered.

Connor eyed him warily.

Duncan flopped back on the bed and burst into laughter.

Connor let go of his hand and climbed out of the bed, giving him the look
that saints reserve for fools, and went to the door, grabbing a robe on his
way.
Duncan was still laughing when Connor, robe safely belted, opened the door a
crack and told the woman to leave it in the hall, they would get to it in a
moment.

"So is this all we're gonna do today?" Duncan lifted his head from his arms.
The sun was hot on his back, and it felt wonderful. Seacouver was damp all
year round, and cold a lot of the time. It had been a long time since he
laid in the sun for an afternoon.

On the next lounge chair, Connor lifted his sunglasses and gave him a look.

"Was there something else you wanted to do?"

"Not really." Duncan put his head back down and closed his eyes again.

"Your back is getting red." Connor commented. Duncan heard a page turn in
his book.

"Mm-hm," he felt loose and sleepy. There was a drink on the ground beside
him -- when he lifted it the ice was melted and he frowned at it, holding it
at eye level. "Connor?"

"Yes, Duncan?" He could tell by the tone of voice that Connor was smiling.

"Could you get me another drink?"

"Is there something wrong with that one?"

"It's watery."

There was a pause, then the sound of Connor shifting.

"I remember a time when you drank water from a muddy river and were
glad for it." The voice whispered in his ear, and Duncan shivered. Not
from cold in the sunlight, just a little thrill from Connor's voice.

"I remember, Connor," he turned his head and smiled at him. Connor smiled
back, sighed, took the glass, and rose from his crouch.

If Duncan waited long enough a server would have wandered by, but he
wanted Connor to get it.

So Connor did.

Duncan watched him walk away, studying Connor's backside speculatively.Connor had chosen simple black trunks, not too loose or too tight, to
compete with Duncan's own white speedo, which Tessa had bought for him ages
ago. He didn't wear it often. Not because he was body-shy, not at all, but
because he was usually more energetic where water was concerned. It was
perfect for lying in the sun and maybe a lazy dive or two, but wouldn't
stand up to a ten-mile swim in the ocean, which was his usual preference.

Hanging out by a pool was a novelty.

But, he mused, Connor certainly looked nice. Duncan shifted slightly to
bend one leg up a couple inches to relieve the pressure on his growing
erection, and he closed his eyes again. His memory replayed the morning in
his head. Kisses, and more kisses, and breakfast, and more kisses. Just
kisses, but the memory of them combined with the thought of Connor's ass
was making him hard.

After a little while he twigged to the fact that Connor hadn't come back.

"It shouldna take so long to get a drink," he mumbled, lifting his head
reluctantly. He looked over at the bar, on the far side of the pool, and
frowned.

Connor was sitting on a stool, chatting up a couple of blondes in string
bikinis. Two drinks sat on the bar in front of him, complete with straws and
little umbrellas.

"Hmph."

Duncan snorted, and pushed himself up off the lounger. His towel stuck to
his chest and he peeled it off absently, his gaze fixed on his lover

Connor felt Duncan coming closer, and smiled. One of the blondes, Terry or
Katy, he couldn't really tell them apart, glanced past him and her face
broke into a wide grin.

"Look, the other one! We really have to buy you guys a drink."

Duncan was just close enough to hear her, and he came up behind Connor,
put one arm over his shoulder, and reached for the nearest drink with the
other hand.

The hand on Connor's chest spread possessively. Connor swallowed a snort and
turned his face into Duncan's chest, just long enough for a nuzzle. The
thick hair was warm and smelled faintly of salt.
"You got me a drink, Connor?" Duncan asked as he took out the umbrella
and sipped.

"Aye, Duncan," Connor smiled up at him. Duncan's accent grew suddenly
thicker as he smiled back.

"What took yew so long?"

"Well, that sucks," one of the blondes said loudly. Connor glanced at her
and gave a half-shrug.

"You could have *said* something." The other one glared at him.

"I was enjoying the conversation," Connor told her. He covered Duncan's
hand with his own.

"I hate looking like an idiot." Terry snapped. She seemed truly angry, and

Connor felt mildly bad about deceiving her. He'd meant to tease Duncan, not
hurt anyone's feelings.

"It's no' like we're wearing a sign." Duncan told her. He leaned into
Connor's back and Connor wondered how he'd walked around the pool with that
erection and not come out of the rather small swimsuit he wore.

"Look, Terry, we were just flirting. You've got to stop taking this all so
seriously. It's supposed to be a vacation," her friend told her.

"Some vacation. We get robbed, the hotel loses our reservation, and the best
looking guys in the place are gay."

"You were robbed?" Duncan asked.

"Duncan," Connor said, a warning note in his voice.

Katy rolled her eyes and sighed.

"*Yes*. At the airport. Somebody got to our bags before we did. All out
travelers' cheques were taken, and our tickets."

"At least you had travelers cheques," Connor said. He tightened his hand on
Duncan's.

"But we lost our tickets for the shows we were going to see, and they won't
replace those." Terry looked unhappy. Connor thought she might cry. "I savedall year for this vacation and some selfish scumbag ruined it. All he's
going to do is scalp those tickets and all I can do it sit in the hotel room
and be mad at him."

"No, we're going to have as much fun as we can," her friend told her. "We
are not going to sit up there and pout. There are still cool things to do."

"Whatever." Terry grimaced at Katy and turned away. "It was nice meeting
you, Connor."

"You too," he watched her walk back to her lawn chair, where she stretched
out and put a towel over her eyes.

"Which shows were you going to see?" Duncan asked Katy.

"Just the usual. Siegfried and Roy, one of the big revues. We bought tickets
for a plane ride over the Grand Canyon, too. It's not that big a deal accept
that we can't afford to buy more tickets at the last minute."

"I'm sorry." Connor offered.

"I'm sorry she told you. Now you're gonna think we were trying to pick you
up so you could take us places. It's not like that, really."

"I believe you." Connor told her. He stood, his arm sliding around Duncan's
waist.

"I better go talk to her before she works herself into another funk." Katy
gave them a smile. "It really was nice meeting you. You two are the
best-looking things out here today."

Connor turned and looked up in time to see Duncan grin at her.

"What about yesterday?" he asked, just to stir up trouble. She smirked at
him.

"Yesterday there was this absolutely gorgeous Amerind guy, with hair down to
his waist.... I think he was a Chippendale dancer."

Connor laughed as she walked away, grinning at them over her shoulder.

Duncan leaned down and pressed his forehead to Connor's.

"Vanity, thy name is --" he sighed, and chuckled.
"You ready for lunch?" Connor asked.

"Where do you want to go?" Duncan seemed unwilling to move. He shifted
closer to Connor, leaning over him, putting a hand on the bar. Connor leaned
back and smiled, enjoying the attention.

"There's a nice seafood place in the hotel."

"Do I get lobster?" Duncan asked, his tongue teasing his own lips.

"If you like." Connor was finding it hard to breathe.

"Can I get anything I want?" Duncan leaned in closer. The hand on the bar
slid to the back of Connor's neck.

"Aye." Connor said softly, and he knew that Duncan wasn't asking about
lunch. "Anything ye want, Duncan."

"Hmm." Duncan waited a minute, then closed the distance and kissed him
once, quickly, before pulling back. "Let's go, then."

"Tease," Connor grunted.

"Never," Duncan told him, his dark eyes serious.

They did indeed have lobster for lunch. Lobster salads, with hot bread and
more wine. They chatted a bit. Knowing each other so well, there was
always something to talk about. The upcoming election -- as an upstanding
citizen, Duncan MacLeod voted. Connor thought it was a waste of time,
since the American government really didn't have much effect on the life of
an Immortal. With a maximum of eight years in office, anything a President
managed to do was usually undone in the next administration.

"But what if they find out about us? If the wrong man is in office it could
be a lot worse than if the right man is president," Duncan argued.

"I don't think any president is going to be able to prevent a disaster if
they
find out about us," Connor countered. "They don't have enough power to
protect us, even if they wanted to. They're just men; they'd be as
threatened
by it as everyone else."

"Not everyone is threatened, Connor."
"The majority of people are frightened," Connor shrugged. "We would be
just one more thing to be frightened of. Can you imagine what the religions
would make of us?"

"I don't want to think about it," Duncan said crossly, looking at his hands
while he shredded the last of the rolls.

"Duncan?" Worried by the tone of voice, Connor reached over the table and
took his hand. "What's bothering you now?"

"Remember what we were taught as boys, Connor? To lie together with
another man is a sin. It's wrong, and unnatural."

"I thought you'd outgrown that early teaching." Connor sat back, feeling an
emptiness well in his stomach. Suddenly the good food felt like a cold lump,
and he was afraid he would be sick. To have everything he wanted, and then
to lose it because of some church teachings. He put his hands in his lap and
pressed one of them to his stomach, willing it to calm.

"I know it's not really like that, Connor." Now Duncan was looking at him,
worried. "It's just hard to reconcile what I know now with what I believed
then."

"We don't have to do anything else," Connor spoke quietly, but fiercely.
"Whatever you want, Duncan. You set the limits."

"Like I could," the other man sighed, releasing the mangled roll and dusting
crumbs from his fingers. "Don't worry, Connor. I love you and I'm going to
make love with you. I want it so badly that I don't think I could say no if
I tried."

"Really?" Connor looked at him, hardly believing what he'd heard.

"Truly." Now Duncan was teasing him. He smiled and Connor's stomach
liked him again. "I'd like to look around a bit. Do ye want to come with, or
catch up to me later?"

It only took a minute of thought to understand that Duncan wanted some
time alone.

"I have to make some plans for tonight," he said. "I'll meet you at the
Luxor? In the lobby, two hours?"

"Perfect." Duncan got up, came around the table, leaned in and kissed him.
"Then we can go on that roller coaster at the Stratus."

"The one on the top of the hotel?" Connor blinked.

"It's not like it can kill us if we fall." Duncan winked at him, then
straightened and sauntered off, ignoring the disapproving looks some of the
other diners were throwing at them. Connor grinned, raised his glass in a
toast to Duncan's ass, and drank. He had things to do in the next two
hours.

***

Duncan looked over at Connor and had to smile.

His friend was as enthralled with the extravagant magic act as any child in
the packed theater.

When the tiger roared from beneath the red silk curtain and the magician
vanished beneath it, Connor reached for his hand and held it tight. Duncan
leaned closer, slipping an arm around Connor's shoulders, and kissed his
neck. It made Connor tip his head, leaving more skin available for kissing,
but he didn't look away from the stage.

The show was good. Duncan had never gotten the hang of figuring out how
fancy illusions were done -- How much could you train a tiger to do
anyhow? -- and he was far more interested in kissing Connor's neck. He
glanced over the audience as he did, though, just in case he was offending
anyone or had any trouble to look out for, and he blinked when he saw the
two blond women, Terry and Katy, watching him.

His face heated as they smiled and gave little waves. Connor lifted a hand
and touched Duncan's hair, an apparent hint to continue, but Duncan sat
back after nodding to the women.

"Connor?" he whispered, but the people around him shushed him. Duncan
leaned closer and Connor leaned into him. "Connor..."

"Not now, Duncan."

"But, Connor." Even as he spoke he knew it was a lost cause. Trust Connor to
take the girls' sob story seriously. He probably bought them tickets, at
scalper prices. He'd gotten the tickets for himself and Duncan, so why not
grab a couple more?

Connor took his hand and covered Duncan's mouth, his eyes still on thestage.

"Mmmph!" Duncan said, indignant. Connor grinned at him.

The illusion was finished. The curtain was whooshed off the cage with a
whirl, and the tiger was gone, replaced by the second magician who had
been locked in a trunk at the other end of the stage the last time Duncan
looked. Connor took his hand away to applaud enthusiastically, and Duncan
just smiled at him.

He was as much the child of primitive Scotland as he had ever been. It
pleased Duncan to see that joy alive in his lover.

During the intermission, they mingled. There was an older gay couple,
dressed rather flamboyantly, that came over and chatted with them for a few
minutes. Upon hearing that Connor was an antiques dealer, and that Duncan
once had been the same, they launched into a monologue about their hunt for
the perfect sideboard for their foyer. Connor listened with a polite smile,
and Duncan surreptitiously rolled his eyes, all while making polite noises.

"It's so nice to see such a handsome young couple so willing to be out
together in public." The elder of the two commented. He was a dapper
sixty-something. "Francis and I have been together for nearly thirty years,
and we've had our share of the bashers."

"As long as you keep to yourself and you're polite, most people won't care."
Francis chimed in.

"I don't care." Duncan said firmly, slipping an arm around Connor and
moving closer to him.

"But you have to be careful." Charles nodded wisely. "Be careful who you
tell."

It was clear to Duncan that these two had never had to tell anyone. They
were so obviously gay that to consider otherwise was ludicrous.

"They're the tough guys, dear." Francis told Charles. "I'm sure they can
handle any trouble that comes up. Remember those sailors we tangled with,
back in '68? Oh, they thought they were something special. But we put them
in their place."

"And put us both in the hospital." Charles chided.

"We can take care of ourselves." Connor said, and he laughed his littlelaugh. Francis gave him an odd look and took a step back.

"It's time to go back to our seats, dear," he told Charles, who protested.

"I've only had one glass of wine..."

"That's the limit now, and you know it. The doctor said one glass per
day..."

Connor looked at Duncan.

"What did I say?"

"I think that for a minute they saw how dangerous you are." Duncan
answered, his hand running up and down Connor's ribcage.

"I slipped." Connor smiled at him, covering the wandering hand with his
own. "Do you think I'm dangerous, Duncan?"

"Not to me," Duncan smiled, feeling like he could breathe for the first time
in weeks. He was free. Life was moving on. "Never to me."

"Aye, Duncan." Connor lifted the hand and kissed it before abandoning him to
get another brandy. Duncan was nursing his double shot of single malt, and
turned too quickly when he felt someone come up behind him.
Terry jumped back, fear in her eyes. He settled down, drawing in the fight
reflex and smiling at her. Tessa used to tell him that when he smiled like
that
he could charm the habit off a nun.

"Sorry," he offered. "You got tickets, I see."

"The hotel!" She sounded so pleased. "The manager came and told us that
he was sorry our vacation was ruined. He said to pick the two things we
wanted to do most and that the hotel would get us tickets."

Connor, Duncan thought. You dog.

The dog appeared at his side, sliding seamlessly back into the embrace they
had previously shared. He brushed Duncan's lips with his own, and Duncan
swallowed hard.

"How long have you too been together?" Katy asked, all friendly now.

"A verra long time." Duncan answered.
"You're not that old."

"We have been together since we were both young." Connor told her. "We
were both kicked out of our homes, and we found each other."

"Because you were gay? That's awful."

"Because we were different." Duncan said, giving Connor a warning
squeeze. "Because we were different."

"It's so sad that things like that still happen. How old were you?" Terry
asked. Duncan reflected that personal privacy had gone the way of the dodo
in the talk-show era. People seemed to think that everyone wanted to air
their dirty laundry in public.

"I was eighteen." Connor answered.

"That's not so bad, then."

"I want to get another drink before the intermission's over." Katy said
suddenly, tugging on Terry's arm. "Talk to you later, Connor."

Duncan watched her pull her friend across the room and stop in just the
right location to hijack a group of good-looking guys with military
haircuts.

"About those tickets, Connor..."

"Ah, Duncan." His lover flung an arm over his shoulders and began steering
him through the crowd back to the theater. "Don't ever change."

After the show they walked the town a bit. The lights were amazing.

Duncan didn't like the crowds much, actually neither of them did. So they
kept to the fringes, and kept their arms around each other and just enjoyed
everything from a safe distance.

It was getting late when they saw the pirate ship battle, and later still
when
they wandered into a little caféé and ordered coffee.

They held hands across the table as they sipped. Connor was leaning back
comfortably, while Duncan leaned forward. Occasionally he brushed his
thumb over Connor's palm.
"Disgusting queers." A man and his woman walked by, and Connor couldn't
restrain himself.

"Bite me," he called after them cheerfully.

"Connor." Duncan wanted to scold, but couldn't find the heart for it. Connor
looked very happy. Very pleased with himself.

"Yes, Duncan?" He tipped his head back and gave Duncan a stare that tried
to set his trousers on fire.

"I was just thinking." Duncan gave his hand a tug, then lifted it and kissed
the tips of his fingers one by one.

"And what have you been thinking about, Duncan MacLeod?" The words
were spoken low, in a tone of voice that sent tingles up Duncan's spine. He
held the hand to his lips as he spoke.

"What are we doin' here?"

"Vacation, remember?"

"I'm all for the vacation part." Duncan felt a shoe sliding up his calf and
he
grinned. "But what about after the vacation. We'll have to go back
someday."

"Monday, actually. I have a meeting I can't miss."

"Then what happens when we go back Monday?"

"What do you want to happen?" Connor leaned forward, clearly more tense.

"After Tessa I swore I would wait before I got involved in another serious
relationship." Duncan sighed.

"But you've been involved with me for nearly four hundred years." Connor
said, softly now. The change from seduction to worried lover was so fast
that Duncan didn't see it accomplished.

"I know. You're different. But what are we going to *do*, Connor?"

"Buy a house? Get a dog? We'll do whatever you want to do. Duncan," he
drew the name out, and brought their clasped hands to his side of the table,lifting them and licking delicately at Duncan's palm. He shivered. The heat
in Connor's eyes made feel cold just because he wasn't touching the him.

"Yew could move in with me," he gasped.

"Or you could move in with me."

"I've got the dojo -"

"I've got the store -"

"That store is a monument to the past, Connor. I don' belong there with
Heather and Brenda and Rachel."

"Rachel adores you."

"She's your daughter, Connor. I have a son."

"Who hates me."

"Richie does no'!"

"Can I get you anything else?" The waitress hovered on the edge of the
aisle. She was clearly fascinated by the conversation.

"A minute of privacy might be nice," Duncan snapped.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. I was just thinking; if you really
want to be together, you have to go someplace and do something you both
like. The rest will take care of itself."

"Hmmph," Duncan complained.

"Out of the mouths of babes." Connor told him. He took a fifty out of his
wallet and handed it to her. "We're fine here."

Her eyes widened. "You - you want change back, right? I'll have to go to the
register to get it- "

"No change." Connor closed his free hand over hers and curled her fingers
over the money. "You gave good advice. The tip is yours."

"Wow. Cool!" She stuffed it into the zippered pocket on her jeans as quick
as she could. "Sure I can't get you anything else? Some pie, or cheesecake?"
They exchanged glances.

"Cheesecake," they said at the same time.

"Plain, with strawberries, blueberries, turtle or peanut butter?" She beamed
at them.

"Plain." Duncan said, shaking his head. Connor was laughing.

"Plain," he agreed.

"Okay, two plain cheesecakes." She turned around. "I'll get it right here!"

"What was that all about?" Duncan asked Connor who, was intent on
inspecting each and every one of Duncan's fingers on his right hand with his
tongue.

"Hm?"

"What advice did she give that was worth a forty-seven dollar tip?"

"Forty after the cheesecake."

"Connor."

"I think I'll start a new store. I've been meaning to turn the other one
over to Rachel. She's been running it pretty much on her own anyhow."

"A new store? Seacouver doesn't have much of a market for quality
antiques."

"But the collectors go where the merchandise is. You've still got a lot in
storage, right?"

"Aye. From my - our - the store I shared with Tessa."

"So we can start one together. You can run the dojo, and I'll have fun with
the store."

"But where will we live?"

"Well, your building has four floors, right?"

"Aye." The cheesecake appeared in front of them and Duncan lifted a fork.
He was unwilling to let go of Connor's hand. Their connection felt tenuousat the moment, and he didn't like it. "The second and third are unfinished,
though."

"Then I'll use them. We can get an architect, design the space. And live in
your loft."

"Are you sure that's what you want to do, Connor?" Now he drew his hand
back, staring at the other man.

"Positive." Connor picked up his fork. "Eat, Duncan, it's late. I'd like to
get
some sleep before dawn."

"It's barely one o'clock."

"I have plans." Connor looked up and told him, with a half-smile on his
face.

"Plans." Duncan grinned slightly. "What kind of plans?"

"The kind that might keep us awake until dawn."

"I'm done." Duncan stood, leaving half the cheesecake on his plate, and
grabbed Connor by the shoulder, almost lifting him out of the booth.

"I'm not!" Connor protested. "I like cheesecake."

"Then I'll feed it to you." With a glance around Duncan picked up the
slice -- Connor had hardly started on it -- and held it out to him.

"Duncan." Connor sounded surprised, and amused. "You amaze me."

"Eat, Connor. Eat while yew walk."

They left the cafe with people staring after them as Duncan fed Connor the
cheesecake bite by bite down the sidewalk.

***

When they entered their hotel room, Connor motioned to Duncan to go first.

He did, stepping inside, but then he turned and stared at his lover.

"Did you do this?" he gestured expansively.
"That depends. Do you like it?" Connor shut the door and stood with his
hands on his hips.

"Do I *like* it?" Duncan took a few more steps into the room.

Every horizontal surface except the bed held flowers. There was a silver ice
bucket on a cart by the bed, with a bottle of champagne and two fluted
glasses waiting for them. The scent was mild, not overpowering, but the
sheer profusion of them was overwhelming. There were roses, lilies, orchids
and carnations, with so many shades of green framing them he couldn't start
to pick them out.

"Yes." Connor came up behind him put his arms around Duncan's waist, and
propped his chin on Duncan's shoulder. "Do you like it?"

"Aye, Connor." Duncan turned in his embrace and leaned in for a kiss. "I
do."

"Then of course I did."

They kissed again. They kissed for a long time. After a while Connor
thought that he should touch Duncan, so he began unbuttoning Duncan's
shirt. And Duncan returned the favor. Then trousers were being undone,
loafers kicked off, and they stood in a heated embrace, kissing, kissing.

"I can't believe how good you taste." Duncan muttered thickly, both hands
framing Connor's face. "Why didn't we ever do this before?"

"The time wasn't right."

"Fitz asked me, once, and I told him no." Duncan took a step back, sorrow on
his face. "I told him that I couldn't think of him that way."

"Did that hurt him?" Connor let him go as Duncan backed further away.

"I think so. Yes. He blew it off - Fitz never seemed to take anything too
hard."

"He was your friend and he wanted you."

"I only want you, Connor." as if to prove his words, Duncan slid his briefs
off, and bowed his head. His hands were clasped by his sides.

"I love you," Connor whispered. He reached into the nearest arrangement
and pulled out a long-stemmed red rose. Such a mushy fool he was turninginto. As he walked over to Duncan, he peeled off the thorns. Then he
walked around the other man.

"Connor," Duncan sighed.

"Duncan," he answered. He took the rose and ran it down the curve of
Duncan's spine, smiling at the shiver that followed the feathery touch.
Slowly, with infinite care, he painted Duncan's back with the rose, turning
it
as he stroked, imagining the beauty of the painting he would create if he
could.

Duncan made a low humming noise, and Connor smiled. He ran the flower
lower, over the curves of Duncan's ass, and down his thighs. He smiled
when Duncan's knees began to bend.

"*Connor*," Duncan moaned.

"I like the way you say my name. Have I ever told you that?"

"No, Connor."

"Say it again," he leaned close, reaching around with the rose and using it
to tease Duncan's nipples to hard peaks.

"*Connor*."

"Say it again."

"Connor, please."

"Please what, Duncan MacLeod?"

"Please - kiss me. Touch me. Don't tease me anymore." Duncan was
shivering harder now, and Connor didn't want the pleasure to become pain.
He stepped back and used Duncan's arm to guide him to the bed. He pressed
Duncan backwards and the younger man pulled Connor down on top of himself.
They both moaned at the contact.

"Get these off." Duncan was squirming, trying to get Connor out of his
boxers and Connor rose just long enough to get free. Then they were
naked and they were together and they were hungry.

The tenderness was still there, but now there was an edge of need. They
pushed against each other, hands roughened by sword callouses wanderedfreely, and their tongues tangled while their teeth clashed. Connor found
that Duncan grunted, and Duncan found that Connor's moans were even sweeter
than he'd imagined.

"Wait - stop - Connor, wait!" Duncan tried to lift him off when he was close
to bursting, and Connor objected. He dove in for another kiss but Duncan
avoided it, and held him tightly, not letting him move, using his legs to
capture Connor's and hold him until he was still.

They lay, panting harshly, until Connor could talk.

"Why did yew stop?"

"I want more, Connor." Duncan lifted his head with both hands, his grip too
tight to be comfortable. He stared into Connor's eyes.

"I will give you anything you want." Connor told him, rising from the
embrace. "Just let me get something..."

"No, Connor. I want to give to you." Duncan sat up and followed his
movement, keeping a hand on Connor's back while he pulled a sack from
under the bed and opened it, pulling out a tube of lubricant and a package
of wipes.

Connor looked back over his shoulder, wondering if he was understanding
correctly what Duncan was offering.

Duncan was flushed, his chest still moving visibly, his nostrils flared as
he
sucked in air. His mouth, always so soft and inviting, looked bruised. His
hair was tangled and falling into his eyes, the simple black clasp he'd put
it
in only holding a third of it now , at a crooked angle.

"Duncan," he had never considered this. Never thought that Duncan would
make this offer. "I've done it before."

"So?"

"It's something I want to give to you."

"You will. Next time." Duncan gave him a brief, shy grin. Connor grabbed
the tube and crawled back up the bed to wrap his arms around his lover
again.
"You're sure?"

"*Connor*."

"I love the way you say my name."

Reassured that this was what Duncan wanted, he pushed him back down on the
bed and covered him again. Duncan lifted his hips when Connor grabbed a
pillow, which was then stuffed beneath them.

Connor fumbled with the lubricant. His hands were shaking.

Duncan reached up and touched his face and smiled at him, his dark eyes
almost black. He lowered a hand and started to stroke himself lightly.

Connor put his hand over Duncan's and touched his cock for the first time.
"When did you get circumcised?" He was surprised to see that.

"Hm - About two hundred years ago. It was so in style." Duncan shrugged.

"I was having a problem with the ladies -- they didn't like the foreskin.
Thought it was dirty."

"Who did it?"

Duncan raised an eyebrow at him and Connor groaned.

"I'm afraid to ask."

"Rebecca. I got good and drunk, Amanda held me down, and Rebecca did
the snip. They thought it was a great lark."

"I bet it hurt like hell." Connor stroked the smooth head with wonder.

"I was afraid it would grow back." Duncan rolled out a deep chuckle.

"Do you regret it?" Connor petted him, touched him, let his fingers delve
downward into the darkness between Duncan's thighs.

"Not really. It was a foolish thing to do, but there haven't been any ill
affects."

"Did the women like it better?" Connor teased.

"It doesn't matter what they like." Duncan reached for him, used his hand onConnor's wrist to push Connor's hand down, to his ass. "Does it bother
you?"

"Not in the least." Connor chuckled. "Just don't ask me to make the same
fashion statement."

"Never." Duncan spread his legs wider and Connor began working the first
finger into him. "Just the way you are, Connor."

Connor leaned over him to kiss him some more.

He took his time with the preparation. Someday they could skip this step if
they wanted to, but tonight it was important. He wouldn't hurt Duncan any
more than he had to. But it still felt like a very long time until Duncan
was
ready. They kissed and Duncan stroked first his cock, then Connor's, and
then back to his. He touched him everywhere, even insinuating the tip of his
finger into Connor's ass, which made him gasp and moan and break the kiss
for a minute, resting his forehead on Duncan's chest while he grasped at
control.

"Yew should turn over," he told Duncan at last.

"I want to be able to kiss yew."

"Aye." That was what he wanted as well.

Connor lifted Duncan's legs over his shoulders one at a time. The younger
Immortal stared up at him, his eyes liquid and luminous. Connor held
Duncan's hip with one hand and his own cock with the other and Duncan put
both hands flat on Connor's chest, one over his heart.

"Now, Connor. I canna wait any longer."

"Aye." Connor couldn't get any more words out.

He didn't need them. Duncan accepted him gradually. It hurt, he saw the
grimace, heard the exhalations as Duncan bore it, and then he was inside
Duncan and they were still, panting.

"Ye feel good," Duncan said with a shudder.

"Duncan." Connor leaned over, which pushed him in deeper and made
Duncan grunt, and then they were kissing again and Connor began to move.
He made short, choppy strokes at first, but things smoothed out. Duncan
lifted his hips into a stroke and felt the tingle as Connor hit his prostate
and
he bit back a moan and moved into the next one and then they were moving
together.

Duncan wrapped his arms around Connor and pulled him closer, and higher, and
deeper, and Connor moaned helplessly, losing the careful rhythm he'd set.

"Yes, Connor, like that. Make me yors," Duncan whispered into his ear.
"Make me feel yew."

"Duncan," Connor gasped. "Duncan!"

"Aye, Connor," Duncan grunted and twisted, his hips lifting higher in an
effort to get Connor even deeper. "'Tis Duncan ye love."

"Love." Connor moaned, and Duncan wiggled a hand between them to grab his
own cock. It was slick with sweat and pre-cum and he was so close --

Connor moaned low and deep. It drew out to become a howl. Duncan felt
his body shudder, and the way Connor clutched at him, and Duncan's
orgasm rushed him like a tidal wave. He was vaguely aware that he
screamed, and then he was squeezing Connor like an oversized stuffed toy.
He had his legs wrapped around Connor's waist and there wasn't anything in
the world that was going to make him let go.

"Kiss me," Connor gasped, and Duncan did, opening his mouth and reaching
blindly for Connor's. Their tongues touched, played in the open space
between them as they panted. Duncan could feel Connor's heart pounding like
a freight train.

He could feel his own, too.

Duncan could feel Connor still inside him, a welcome intrusion, a feeling of
fullness that he wouldn't have thought could be this pleasant.

This close, this excited, Connor's buzz crept over his skin and made it
tingle.

"Connor," he gasped, making one hand let go of the man so he could bring it
up and grab the back of Connor's neck, which was slick with sweat. "Do ye
feel it?"
"Duncan." Connor kissed him again, and again, and again. They couldn't
seem to stop. "Duncan MacLeod."

"It feels like magic, Connor." Duncan breathed, pressing Connor's face to
his neck as he relaxed his legs. They had shoved the pillow right off the
bed.

He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The tingling sensation
grew. "I like this."

"So do I." Connor chuckled from the vicinity of his chin. "Hold me tighter,
Duncan."

Duncan shifted and repositioned his grip, getting arms right 'round Connor
and hooking a leg over both of his.

"Aye, Connor," he sighed. The tingling was beginning to fade. He felt awake
and alive an energized. "I will."

"Do you love me, Duncan MacLeod?" Connor raised his head just enough to look
him in the eye, their faces no more than an inch apart.

"Aye, Connor." Duncan laughed deeply. "I do."

"Will yew always love me?"

Duncan raised a hand and tenderly traced Connor's features, lingering over
his lips and stroking across his stubbled jaw.

"Aye, Connor," he sighed. "I will."

"Thank you." Connor lowered his head and kissed Duncan's neck.


It was enough to lay there, tangled in the embrace, for as long as they
could.

Duncan let his thoughts wander, and they came back, as they so often did, to
the choices he'd made in his life.

Many had been good. Some had been misguided. Some had been just plain
wrong.

All of them found their way back, one way or another, to the man in his
arms.
There was no way to predict how long they would stay together. They knew
better than to promise each other forever. But maybe they could promise
until. Until the end of the Game, until the end of one lifetime, until the
end of a year. The season. The month. The week.

Until whenever Connor decided to go walkabout again and Duncan decided that
he couldn't go with him.

Only now Connor could come back to him. To them.

For as long as it lasted.

He remembered the old bonding ceremony. The one they used in the
Highlands before the Christians came and changed everything.

"For a year and a day, and however long it shall last," he spoke the words
aloud; whispered them, really. Connor stirred in his arms and he soothed
him with light touches and a kiss to his cheek. Yesterday he had been the
one tired, and now it was Connor's turn to rest.

However long it should last.

************************

(the end -- happy birthday, mama)

           saraid@wf.net