"Methos?"
Stepping out of the elevator, Duncan MacLeod felt the distinctive presence of the oldest Immortal close by, but he couldn't see him. Which was odd, because the loft was one big room. He preferred to have maximum visibility in his living space, for both practical and aesthetic reasons.
Well, perhaps he was in the bathroom. Duncan went to the kitchen, laying his briefcase and keys on the counter. He took a beer from the fridge -- Methos was teaching him bad habits -- and flipped the top, sipping it.
"Methos?" The bathroom door was open. There was no one inside. Perplexed, Duncan went to the living room area and resolved the dilemma.
The world's oldest living being was crashed on the floor in front of the sofa. There was a book on the floor beside him, and his head was resting on a purloined couch cushion.
Duncan grinned and knelt beside him. At one time he might have thought it could be dangerous to wake this man, but Methos was no more dangerous upon gaining consciousness than he was at any other time. Which meant he *was* dangerous, just not unduly so.
Duncan had never seen him lose control. Ever. He shook a deceptively thin shoulder.
"Hi honey, I'm home."
"Lucy?" Methos opened his eyes, and put his hand on Duncan's chest. After a few seconds, he slid it down to his groin and rubbed gently. "Darling, you've changed."
"Get up, goofball," Duncan laughed. He lifted the hand to his lips and kissed it. "There's a perfectly good bed ten feet away from you, and a moderately comfortable couch right above your head. What are you doing down here?"
"The sun moved."
"You must have been born someplace very warm." Duncan wrapped both arms around the taller man and and pulled him close. "You're always cold."
"And you generate the heat of a small star." Methos lay against him passively, his head on Duncan's shoulder. His voice was a low rumble. "I keep telling you I'm not Egyptian."
"Whatever you say, old man." After a few more minutes Duncan let him go, then stood. "I'm starving. What do you want for dinner?"
"Are we cooking, ordering in, or eating out?" Methos followed him to the kitchen, where Duncan handed him the unfinished beer. He took his briefcase to the desk and opened it, sorting through several files.
"Whatever you want. I'm easy."
"No you're not. I worked hard to get into your bed." Methos drained the beer.
It was true. After Richie and Liam O'Rourke, Duncan hadn't wanted anyone near him. He definitely hadn't wanted a new lover. Methos had left him alone for a year, and then began his pursuit. Eventually -- reluctantly -- he'd given Methos a place in his bed with an option on his heart, but he was never certain if the attraction was physical or if the oldest wanted something more. They never talked about it.
After nearly six years of peaceful semi-cohabitation, neither of them was pushing for more. That told Duncan something.
"You're right," he answered, closing the briefcase and turning on the computer monitor. "I'm glad you went to the effort." The screen flickered to life and he saw that the internet was opened to page filled with medical terminology. "Did you want to bookmark this?"
Methos went to him and slouched on the desk. His grin could have meant anything.
"No, I'm finished there. It wasn't very useful."
Duncan went to check his email. Methos spoke up.
"Cheap Italian. And your service called."
"Cheap Italian?" Duncan picked up the phone and hit speed dial. He kept an answering service so that people could reach him wherever he was. It was more reliable than a cellphone, and he only gave the cell number to people that he actually wanted to call him.
The voice on the other end was smooth and cultured.
"Mr.Macleod? Yes, sir. A Mr. Peter Brighton called about an appraisal. He said that he was referred by Connor Macleod and he left a number where he can be reached."
He took the number and thanked her, aware that Methos was watching him. The older man waited until he hung up the phone.
"Cheap Italian," he repeated.
"You mean one of the mass market places," Duncan guessed.
"Right. They get busy on the weekends, though, so let's go." Methos slid off the desk, but Duncan caught his arm.
"Don't I get a welcome-home kiss?"
"You can have a welcome-home fuck if you want it." Methos came around the desk and approached aggressively. Duncan let himself be backed up until the carved wooden edge was cutting into his ass. He put his hands flat on the surface behind him and leaned back. Methos followed, leaning over him.
"What if I want more?" Duncan breathed. He could smell the beer Methos had drank and the singular scent of the oldest. his lover. It was part book dust, part shimmer-hot sunshine, and part exotic spice. Sometimes, when they were very close, Duncan swore he could smell the age on him.
"Tell me what you want, Duncan MacLeod," Methos whispered the words on Duncan's mouth.
"I... Methos..." It happened this way. Methos would get close and Duncan would forget what he wanted to say. He would forget everything.
"I thought so."
It wasn't fair, but at the moment Duncan was in no condition to complain. Methos kissed him deeply, hungrily, their tongues sliding together and he moaned, sitting on the desk, not caring that he was knocking things off. He spread his legs and Methos moved between them, pressing their groins together hard.
It only took Duncan a second to toe off his shoes, and then his hands were unzipping his trousers and he was pushing them off with the briefs, not caring that the silk was being wrinkled.
Methos was wearing baggy jeans and a sweater. He stripped them both off faster than Duncan imagined possible. Then his hands were on the inside of Duncan's thighs. He pushed them up and Duncan covered his lover's hands with his own and held them apart.
His abdominals strained to hold the position. He didn't want to lay back, he wanted to be able to reach Methos.
There was a tube of lubricant in the desk drawer. Over the years they'd begun appearing all over the loft. Duncan sometimes wondered what his cleaning service thought, but they had never said anything.
Methos used it quickly, just getting a bit in Duncan and some on himself, then he put his hands on the desk on either side of Duncan's hips and began entering him without further preparation.
Duncan hissed between his teeth, stoically taking the pain.
"Is it good, Duncan?" Methos nibbled his ear and then bit it as he pushed harder. Duncan answered with a groan, half pain and half need. "Do you want it?"
"Aye! Yes, Methos, I do!" He could barely form words; they sounded more like moans.
It burned, it ached, it felt like he was being split in two. Each time, every time. Ripped in half and put back together again by the same mouth, the same hands, the same cock.
He felt unbearably full, but had to resist the urge to bear down. That would only make it worse.
"*Methos*." he moaned, feeling the burn spread. His eyes stung.
"Right here." The man had the nerve to chuckle, and then he bit Duncan's shoulder. He broke the skin and Duncan grunted and then sighed as he felt a soft tongue licking the wound.
A last forceful push and Methos was all the way in. He paused, waiting for Duncan to adjust.
Duncan panted a little desperately, ready for the pain to turn. Any minute now the nerves would start to recover and he would feel something besides agony.
"Easy," Methos murmured in his ear, licking delicately around the shell. "Facile. Il se sentira bon dans une minute. Dans deux vous ne voudrez pas sentir toute autre chose." (Easy. It will feel good in a minute. In two you will not want to feel anything else.)
The sound of his favorite language made Duncan flush hotter. It was easier than breathing, letting his mind fall into the patterns of it.
Making love in French was something Methos had only recently started and it stunned Duncan how much he liked it. It made him want to be crazy. To lie back and scream 'take me!'. But he only had the breath to mutter.
"Aimez-moi, Methos. Aimez-moi." (Love me, Methos. Love me.)
As soon as he started begging, Methos started thrusting. Slowly, then with considerable force. Duncan was doubled up, his feet on Methos' chest, his hands on his own sex.
"More - harder - please!" Duncan gasped the words, not wanting it to end so soon, but then he lost sight of Methos as his vision clouded and his head spun. The pleasure was intense, it always was, and he missed the chance to see his lover's face when Methos came as well. He felt it, heard the deep rumbling moan, and the softly moaned words.
"Est-ce que ce tout est l…… est, Duncan? Entre n'y aura-t- il jamais plus nous mais ceci? Je vous donnerais mon coeur... " The meaning escaped him, his brain had shut down, and Duncan felt that he had missed something important. (Is this all there is, Duncan? Will there never be more between us but this? I would give you my heart...)
He felt that way almost every time they had sex. Like the answer to all his prayers was right there, just out of reach, and he couldn't figure out how to grab it.
Methos collapsed on top of him and Duncan's head bumped the computer, but he didn't care. He held his lover close as long as Methos would let him.
"Italian," Methos muttered, lifting himself off Duncan and pulling free.
"Oui." Duncan held onto him for one more minute, then Methos was completely free and moving toward the bathroom. Duncan sat up and brought his knees up under his chin. He was probably leaking all over the desk, but he didn't care.
He felt cold. Methos could joke about his warmth, but sometimes it felt like the oldest Immortal took it all when he took Duncan's body. Sometimes their loving left Duncan feeling cold and alone.
Methos would say he was brooding. The sex was good. It was great. But that didn't mean they had to spend hours cuddling every time they did it.
That's what Methos said.
Duncan told himself that he had no right to feel used. He enjoyed it as much or more than Methos did. Especially of it was judged on the level of control. Duncan always lost it and Methos never did. He just drove Duncan mad with want and made him come harder than he ever had before in his life.
So what was the problem?
Duncan slid off the desk, grimacing at the condition of his shirt. The tail had been caught beneath him and fortunately it had soaked up most of the seepage. He took it off and dropped it to the floor beside the trousers, then padded to the bathroom to join his lover in the shower.
He'd been hungry before, but now his appetite had faded. Just as well. Italian wasn't his favorite, though he did love the language.
***
"So what was the phone call about?" Methos swirled the last inch of wine in his glass while they lingered. The food was reasonable, the wine was good, and the music atrocious.
"Peter Brighton was a customer. Tessa and I found some pieces for him, years ago when we were just starting out."
"Anything in particular?"
Duncan picked up the bottle when Methos held out his glass, and refilled it while he answered. Their waiter hovered nearby. He was probably ready for them to leave, they'd hogged the table for a couple of hours now.
"Pottery. Specifically, Van Briggle vases."
"Never heard of them." Methos gave him the half-smile that meant he would listen to Duncan talk about it but it wouldn't make him any more interested. Old books turned him on, but otherwise... as the oldest human on the planet -- probably the oldest living thing -- he didn't have much interest in antiques. Being one himself might have influenced that.
"It's not remarkable, except for the depth and quality of the glazes." Duncan let it go at that. "Tessa enjoyed searching for them."
Methos drained the wine and signaled the waiter. Duncan paid with his credit card. They walked out together, and another young waiter -- a boy of twenty, if that -- winked at him. Taking in the multiple earrings and spiky hair, Duncan assumed he was gay and winked back. Just to tease. The boy blushed and a friend near him laughed.
Methos slid an arm around Duncan's waist and smiled at them.
Outside he laughed softly.
"Got them eating out of your hands, Highlander."
"He's just a boy. He saw you and probably thought I would be safe to practice on."
"He was right." Methos pressed him back until he was sitting on the hood of the T-bird. "You're mine."
"Am I, now?" Enjoying the public display of dominance, Duncan allowed himself to be kissed, there in the parking lot. But when Methos let go and got into the passenger's side, he almost shivered. He felt cold, again.
The drive home was silent. Duncan took a scenic route, wanting a bit of time to think. He ignored the way Methos played with the radio and just drove, quiet. Thoughtful.
There was a lot he knew about this man -- but so much he didn't. Was it possible to know everything? Was it even something he wanted? Or was it something he needed.
Just this afternoon, he'd been reflecting on how good things were between them. He was comfortable, it seemed that Methos was happy. As happy as he got. He made himself at home in Duncan's life.
More and more often Duncan found himself looking over at the other Immortal and wondering; who was he, really? What did *his* existence mean to the world? Why did he want Duncan to survive?
These weren't questions that had answers, so he did what he usually did when his head got in the way of his heart. They got home, Methos went upstairs to finish his lecture for his class the next day, and Duncan changed downstairs and put himself through a grueling workout.
By the end of it, he was drenched in sweat. His arms were trembling with fatigue and his legs felt heavy. The only thought in his mind was a plea for rest. Satisfied, he took a quick cool shower and went up to find Methos already asleep.
He slid into the bed and reached for him. He would be able to hold him for a little while before the Methos withdrew from the embrace.
Duncan had learned to let him go before that point, because it always hurt his feelings when Methos did that. Pulled away in his sleep.
Hopefully tonight he would be asleep himself before it happened.
***
"And now we're getting to the middle ages; the most overly- romanticized period of human history." Duncan was perched on his desk at the front of the lecture hall. He taught a full schedule now, and so had his own classroom, a great improvement. He went to the chalkboard and looked at the class. "Can anyone give me an example of a romanticized notion?"
They stared at him, silent. He sighed, and waited. The semester was only a couple of weeks old, he'd started them with the basic timeline and written history, now he wanted them to start thinking. Not the easiest thing to get a college freshman to do. Most of these kids were here because they had to take a history class, not because they were actually interested.
"Chivalry." Someone answered from the door. He looked over, startled, and saw Methos. Damn, he had to learn how he did that. The ability to 'mute' his Immortal signature would be a great advantage.
"Okay. Our guest says chivalry." Duncan wrote it on the board; in English and French. He liked to conduct the class in both, just for fun. "Anyone else?" He nodded at his lover, and he came in and took the empty seat at the end of the first row. It was always empty. Duncan had heard the students tell each other; Don't sit in *that* seat. That's where Professor Pierson sits when he comes into Mr.Macleod's class.
He wondered occasionally if their relationship was one of the reasons his classes were so popular. The University had never complained.
"Yes, Theresa?" He usually got their names right the first day. This girl reminded him, just a bit, of Amanda. It could have been the tall, slender frame or the short- cropped bleached hair. Or it could have been the attitude.
"The whole concept of virginity being such a great thing." It was a little rough, but he could work with it.
"The purity of women, yes."
They were getting into the spirit of it now. Several more suggestions came, quickly. When he thought he had enough of them he held up a hand.
"Okay. Now, how about the *realities* of the middle ages?"
Theresa answered right away.
"Women were property."
"Aye, children, too." Duncan drew a vertical line and started the new list on the other side of the board. "What else?"
"No plumbing."
"No medicine."
"No transportation."
"Yes, yes, and yes." He wrote those, then turned to face the class. Methos was smiling at him, slouched in his seat. "Adam?"
"No schools. No books."
"Trust you," he said with a smile. "But yes. No school and no books, not for any but the most wealthy or members of religious orders."
He glanced at his watch, though he knew time was almost up. Stepping back, he looked up at the board, and then glanced down at the student nearest him -- Theresa. She had written in all down. In English and French.
"First assignment," he said, and they groaned. He grinned widely. "It's on the syllabus. I want each of you to pick one of these topics -- from either side of the board -- and write me a 2,000 word essay. No bibliography, no research; just your thoughts on that topic and the realities of living in that time."
"Do we get extra credit for writing it in French?" a young man in the back asked with a smirk. Methos craned his head to see who'd asked. Duncan shook his head.
"Obviously you've been talking to other students. That opportunity has to be offered by your French teacher, not me. Now, if you wrote it in Aramaic, I'd give you an A off the bat." Duncan turned, with his hands on his hips, and rolled his eyes at the boy. "But I don't see that happening."
Several hands shot up, but he just waved at them.
"Dismissed. I'll see you next week."
As the students filed out around him, Duncan sat in the desk next to Methos'.
"I called Brighton this morning before you got up. He wants me to give him an estimate on his collection before he ships it to Southeby's for auction. You up for a quick trip to New York?"
A student stopped in front of them and Duncan held up a hand, waiting for Methos answer.
"I don't have any plans." Methos gave him the 'just a guy' face and nodded at the student.
"Yes?" Duncan asked the boy.
"When you said we'd get an A if we wrote it in Aramaic, did you mean that?"
Methos snickered. Duncan was taken aback. He'd never expected to find a student at this relatively small public school who spoke such an obscure language.
"*Can* you write Aramaic?"
"I was hoping I could get a B for Hebrew." The boy grinned, and his friends laughed.
"Get outta here." Duncan stood, scolding and laughing with them. "Or I'll change that to Scottish Gaelic!"
"But Duncan, no one speaks that anymore," Methos protested cheerfully.
"Vi non ho bisogno di alcun aiuto, uomo anziano." (I don't need any help, old man.) Duncan half-snarled in Italian. He put a hand on Methos' shoulder and squeezed. The small group of students watched closely.
"Wenn ich alt bin, was bildet der Sie, Kind?" (Who are you calling old, child?) Methos retorted, also smiling. He put his hand over Duncan's and they exchanged a glance.
This was far more affectionate than they usually were in public. It made Duncan worry.
"How romantic," one of the girls sighed. Another giggled.
"Don't let appearances fool you." Duncan looked at them. "He's calling me names."
"And you weren't? Un si grand menteur, Duncan MacLeod." (You're a big liar, Duncan MacLeod.)
"Don't tease the students." Duncan removed his hand and made shooing motions. "Out with ye. It's the weekend, don't you have plans?"
"Oh, yes, we're going to be studying, and writing that essay, Mr. MacLeod!" Theresa told him seriously. He didn't believe her for a minute.
"Out, out, out. I have a plane to catch."
They would have stayed and asked more questions, but he gave them that look, the one that made it clear he wasn't playing anymore, and they trooped out without any more fuss, leaving him alone with his lover.
"Why New York?" Methos asked. He wasn't showing any sign of being ready to get up, so Duncan went to his desk and began to gather his notes and jacket.
"That's where Brighton lives now. He couldn't find me since the shop closed -- he was very nice when I told him that Tessa was gone -- but he found Connor's webpage and called there, thinking it might be me."
"And Connor referred him to you."
"Connor doesn't know the first thing about twentieth century pottery." Duncan chuckled. He was ready to go and finally Methos rose. "You let yours go early?"
"It's Friday and a three-day weekend. You could have, you know."
"And ruin my reputation?" Duncan shook his head. "You're easy enough on them for both of us."
"They learn the languages, don't they?"
"Yes, they do. You're a good teacher."
"We both are," Methos told him as they walked out, and Duncan knew that Methos knew he was thinking about Richie. Good teachers don't kill their students, possessed by demons or not. But he let it slide. The easy feeling between them was too rare lately, he just wanted to enjoy it.
"So, will we see Connor? I've never actually met him." Methos said as they left the building. The campus was rapidly emptying.
"I think he's out of the country again," Duncan shrugged. He would like to spend more time with his clansman, but it never seemed to work out that way. Connor needed to wander the way Duncan needed to stay put.
"Perhaps he'll be back before -" As one they paused and turned toward the left parking lot, their heads aching, stomachs rolling. The distinctive signature of another Immortal was present, and close.
"Go to the car. He won't feel you." Duncan thrust his briefcase at Methos, but he didn't take it. "Adam, *go*. I need to know that you're safe."
"How do you know this fight is for you?" Methos snapped back.
"What are the odds?" They had been very careful to keep his Adam Pierson persona intact. One-time Watcher, researcher, possible new Immortal. That was all anyone, including the Watchers, should know. They didn't even have proof of a first death. As long as he kept his signature muted and stayed out of the way, he should be safe from challenges. "You know how I feel about this."
"I am *not* more important than you are, MacLeod."
"Yes, you *are*." The things this man had seen, the things he had done... They couldn't be lost to something as mundane as the Game.
A man came around the corner and Duncan dropped the briefcase. He slid one hand into his coat, ready to grab his katana. But this was still a public place, perhaps the challenger could be convinced to take it somewhere else.
"Identify yourself!" he shouted, his anger at Methos spilling over. It had been shaping up into such a nice night. A nice weekend, but this would take the fun out of it.
"I will not. You'll know me when you die on my blade, and not before." a male voice, a light tenor answered. The man stopped twenty feet away from them, separated from them by several vehicles in the faculty lot. Duncan stood straight and stared at him.
"That sure of yourself, are ye? Then there's no need to wait. I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and I would know whose head I'll take next."
"Not mine, MacLeod," the man laughed. "I'll be seeing you around. When you don't have quite so much -- company."
He walked backwards until he reached the corner and turned it. Duncan, his adrenaline pumping, was prepared to chase him, but Methos stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"Let it go, Mac. He'll show up when he's ready."
"What if I don't want to do this on his schedule?" Duncan snarled, pulling away from the hand. His body was well- trained; it had jumped to battle-ready in a matter of seconds and now he would have to deal with that state for a while, until he could calm down. "I have plans, Methos. I'm not going to sit around town waiting for him to show up!"
"Of course not," Methis said. He grasped Duncan's arm again and used it to pull him close. "We're going to New York."
"Me-- Adam." Duncan protested as arms were wrapped around his waist and he was embraced. "Not here."
"It's not like they don't know, mon amour."
A thrill shot through Duncan. Combined with the adrenaline from the confrontation, he wasn't in the mood to resist. He let Methos kiss him, and he kissed him back. Mouth open, his hands found the back of Methos neck and stroked there, gently, just barely holding his head.
"Suis-je votre amour, Methos?" He whispered when they finally broke for air. He stepped away, watching the other man's face close off. It became smooth, expressionless. "Methos?" He said again, more loudly this time. "Am I your love?"
"Who else would be, Duncan?" The smile he was given wasn't cold, but it was not that of a lover, either. "Come on." Methos leaned down to pick up his briefcase. "We've got to pack."
Duncan stood still. Methos took a few steps, then turned and waited for him. Duncan sighed, and shook his head, then made several long strides to catch up.
He'd pushed too hard that time. He knew it. But he wasn't sorry. There was something about the way Methos was acting lately. Just the past few weeks.
It wasn't unusual for the oldest Immortal to take some time for himself. He would tell Duncan that he needed to take a quick trip, take care of something, and off he would go. Duncan knew he should be grateful that he told him when he was going; that only started happening after they started sleeping together. Sometimes it was only a day or two, sometimes it was as long as a week. But Methos always came back. Looking drawn and tired, and Duncan always welcomed him back and didn't ask any questions. He knew, instinctively, that to do so would end their relationship.
He wanted this relationship. He was as deeply in love with Methos as he had ever been. It wasn't the same love he had shared with Tessa. Theirs had been the love of equals; despite his age and experience, her intelligence and natural talent had made her a perfect match for him. He still regretted her death with a deep, lingering pain that accompanied every thought of her.
He had so wanted to see her grow old. To give her children. Not his own, but they could have adopted. Or even used a donor so she could have them herself. Before her death he knew she'd begun to think of it.
Her career as an artist had been established, her reputation secure. She'd been only 30, with many years ahead of her.
He should have found a way to give her children.
He should have found a way to keep her alive.
"Duncan." Methos was speaking to him. He looked over, surprised to find that they were back at the dojo. "We're here."
Here. Not 'we're home'. Just here.
"I'll pack -- why don't you call the airlines and get us something out tonight or tomorrow morning," he said, climbing from the car.
"The fight will come when it's ready." Methos was catching him close again, trying to hold him. Duncan struggled without putting up any real resistance. He didn't know why these thoughts were suddenly filling his head. "Mac." Methos pressed Duncan's head to his shoulder and Duncan relented, letting himself be held and comforted.
He felt the urge to cry and forced it down, berating himself.
His relationship with Methos might be falling apart, but that didn't mean that he had to. He'd survived breakups before. And he could be wrong. With the oldest Immortal anything was possible.
Including the fact that he might be planning to leave. He would leave Duncan alone again, and he just didn't know what he would do then.
Without Methos, without Richie, without Amanda or Connor. It was like his last anchor in the world was threatening to abandon him. There was always Joe, but his friendship with the mortal Watcher had to be carefully managed.
Like a child, he wanted to cry. But he did not. He leaned into the embrace until the urge passed and then pulled away, and brushed his lips softly over Methos'.
"Thank you." he sighed. "I'm sorry."
Methos didn't answer. He just ran his hands through Duncan's hair, messing it up, and then smiled at him. It was a rather sad smile.
"I'll pack, you make the reservations. A good hotel, okay?"
"Okay," Duncan agreed, still off-balance. They went together up the to loft and the whole time he wondered what he'd done wrong. Methos acted like he loved him; but that didn't mean he felt it, did it?
There was no reason for him to go inviting trouble. It would find him soon enough anyhow if it wanted to.
***
"You don't look anything like your brother, Duncan." Peter Brighton's daughter, Samantha, was flirting with him across the table. She was close to his age -- his age before he died -- and pretty in an abstract way. He felt the warmth of Methos at his side and smiled back.
"When did you meet Connor?"
"I told Daddy I would help him with this auction. He gave me your name and I looked it upon the net. I felt pretty proud of myself when I found MacLeod Antiques here in New York, so I went to the store."
"Connor's in town?" Duncan was surprised. He'd called and left a message as soon as they got into town, but not received a call back.
"He said something about flying out that afternoon," she told him. Her eyes were sparkling with interest and Duncan sighed. He wanted to reach for Methos' hand, to hold it under the table, but that felt childish.
"I always seem to miss him." He said with forced cheerfulness, and picked up his fork to play in the remains of his pasta. Italian again, only this time the Brightons had chosen the restaurant. Far more expensive than what he and Methos usually enjoyed. They both preferred a more casual atmosphere.
"He sounded like you, though." Her smile was inviting. Duncan threw a glance at her father. He seemed to be enjoying the conversation he was having with Methos, unaware of his daughter's intentions toward Duncan. "Which of you is the elder?"
Beside him Methos laughed softly and Duncan had to grin.
"Connor is, but not by much." Relatively speaking, that is. Fifty years was almost nothing in Immortal terms. "We had different mothers and did not meet until we were adults."
"Your father got around, I guess." She seemed perturbed by the story.
"I suppose." Duncan ate another bite. It was cool now and the sauce had congealed. He drank some wine to cover the taste. Earlier the conversation had focused on the collection and he'd been more comfortable with that.
"But the two of you are close? He was quick to refer us to you."
"Connor's specialty is not American pottery." Methos spoke up and Duncan had to grin at that understatement.
"Not that it couldn't be. Connor is a gifted man. But more recent history doesn't interest him as much as the distant past," Duncan added.
"The lovely woman that works for him -- would that be his mother?"
"Rachel?" Duncan sputtered. How to explain? "No, they've been business partners for years." It was the best he could do.
"So he's not married?"
Ah, that was it. This young woman wasn't interested in him. It was Connor she was after. This could be a chance to cause him some trouble, but Duncan didn't really feel like it. Normally he would encourage her attentions, just to annoy Connor, but not now. Not when his own love life felt so fragile.
"Connor's wife Brenda died several years ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that." She leaned forward and Duncan groaned mentally. Here came the inquisition.
She was interrupted, thankfully, by her father's words.
"So, Duncan, how is your lovely partner, Miss. Noel? Did she move back to Paris and abandon you?" It had been a threat she'd made more than once, within his hearing. It was clear the man was teasing but truly curious.
Duncan felt himself go still, but he managed a small smile.
"Tessa - died, Peter. Almost ten years ago."
"Lord, we are just doing a bang-up job of stirring up bad memories tonight. I am sorry. She was so talented."
"Many of her works are still on display at the museum in Seacouver, where I live now." Duncan told him. He sipped wine, needing to do something to hide the shaking in his hands. To his surprise, Methos reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. "If you'd like to see them."
It shouldn't hurt so badly, not after so long. But he'd lost too many people too close together. The peace of the last few years had only just begun to help him start to heal.
"If I ever get up that way I will." The man looked subdued, and his eyes lingered on Methos' hand on Duncan's shoulder. "So that's why I couldn't find the shop. You closed it?"
"Yes, right after she died. It wasn't the same without her."
"And what do you do now?"
Knowing the man was just making friendly conversation didn't help. Duncan suddenly wished that this meal was over, that this job was over. He wanted to go home and hide for a few days, away from the world and the questions.
But he knew the questions would follow him. In his head. In the mirror. Whenever he looked at his lover.
"I run a dojo. Teach martial arts. And I teach history at Seacouver University. That's where I met Adam. He teaches languages."
"No more antiques?"
"Not for a while."
"Then I really appreciate your coming when I called. If I had known you were out of the business -" Peter shrugged apologetically. Duncan found a small smile to offer him.
"I do some private work, for old friends and customers. It's not an inconvenience."
He sat back, and slowly drank the last of his wine. Methos' hand was still on his shoulder and it felt good. Peter was looking for their waiter. Feeling the need to re-connect, Duncan turned his head and nuzzled the hand. Methos returned the affection by brushing his cheek with a finger.
Duncan glanced up to see Samantha's dark eyes watching them. She smiled, but it looked a little smug.
They left the restaurant and made arrangements to meet the next morning at Peter's home, where he kept the collection. Duncan hadn't asked why he was selling it. A little research had shown that his second wife, with whom he had bought the collection, had recently left him for a younger man. That was explanation enough for Duncan.
They were staying at the Hilton. Duncan had been surprised to find a room, but glad because it would make Methos happy.
"This good enough for you?" he teased half-heartedly as they went in, and Methos flopped on the large bed.
"Perfect, Highlander. You take very good care of me."
"Hmm." Duncan lay beside him, not bothering to take off his shoes or jacket. "I'd do more if you would let me."
Methos rolled to his stomach and propped his chin on Duncan's chest.
"You want to keep me as a boy-toy, Mac?"
"I want to keep you." Duncan ran his fingers through Methos' short hair thoughtfully. It was hard to keep his worries to himself. "Sometimes I think I would do anything to keep you."
Apparently startled by the words, or by the turn of the conversation, the oldest pulled away and sat up. He stared at Duncan.
"Where did that come from?"
Duncan sighed, and lay back, his hands beneath his head.
"It didn't *come* from anywhere. It's been here a while."
"Are you trying to tell me something, Mac? Because I'm not getting the message if you are." Methos stood and went to their suitcases, opening his. He pulled out his traveling bag and headed for the bathroom.
Duncan watched him go. The coldness he felt was growing stronger. It seemed like it was always with him now.
He was beginning to realize what it was. The understanding, the certainty, that one day Methos would leave him. Not because Duncan had done anything wrong or because Methos made a choice to do so; but because that was who Methos was. It was what he did.
They had been friends for more than a decade. Lovers almost as long. For a man who claimed his only goal was to survive, beside Duncan was not a safe place to be. It never had been.
Eventually the conflict Methos felt would have to be addressed. He wanted to stay, Duncan liked to believe that. But his instinct for survival was doubtless urging him to go. To get away from Duncan MacLeod and stay away, as far as possible.
It was only a matter of time.
Taking a deep breath, Duncan rolled off the bed and stood. For a second it was hard to catch his balance.
Brooding would do no good. There was nothing he could do to prevent the outcome. And what was it, after all, that he brooded over? The loss of a love affair? There were no promises between them. This was a convenient arrangement, no more. Good sex, friendship. A bit of love, maybe.
Telling himself that wouldn't make it hurt any less when it ended. But it wouldn't make it hurt any more, either. He thought he still had some time. To build up good memories that might support him in the end.
A workout would help put things into perspective. Loosen him. Warm him up.
He went to his suitcase and quickly changed into tight running shorts, a muscle-t and running shoes. The water started in the bathroom and he decided to go stick his head in.
Methos was lolling in the oversized tub. The scent of Jasmine hung in the seamy air. Duncan could see the faint sheen of oil on the surface of the hot water. It highlighted the smooth, pale muscles of his lover's body.
"Methos." He spoke softly, in case the other man had fallen asleep in the tub, something which had happened at home more than once.
"Yeah, Mac?" The long-suffering tone told him they were still at odds.
"I'm going to the gym to run a bit."
"Okay."
"You want anything before I go?"
"I forgot to grab a beer." Now the hazel eyes opened and blinked slowly at him. Duncan couldn't stop himself from grinning.
"Riiiight." He went to the minibar and took out two. There was a good selection of microbrews, he chose a label he recognized and took them back to the bathroom, opening one and handing it over.
Methos took it and swallowed a gulp, then eyed the other one still in Duncan's hand.
"You going to join me?"
It was a tempting offer, but Duncan shook his head.
"I won't be able to sleep if I don't work off some of that food." He stood the other bottle on the lip of the tub. "I might be a while." He turned to go.
Methos closed his eyes.
"I'll be here when you get back."
Duncan paused and looked back at him.
"That's good to know."
Methos didn't give any sign that he'd heard him, but he took another swallow. Duncan grabbed a towel and slung it over his shoulders and went into the hallway.
It was late enough that the only people he saw were late travelers that barely spared him a glance, to tired to care. The gym was empty. There was a pool next to it, separated from it by a wall of glass, it had a crowd of people. There was music playing, and a lot of shouting and laughing.
Duncan stepped up to a treadmill, one of a line of them facing a bank of television sets, all turned off. He left them that way, not needing the distraction. He was here to run. To work off the frustrations of the day.
He did his stretches quickly, then set the treadmill to level 7, increased the incline, and set to work.
His feet pounded in a satisfying rhythm. He'd once tried to explain to Methos what the attraction of running was -- no, he reminded himself. He was here to run, not think. He increased the speed of the machine and was quickly so preoccupied with putting one foot in front of the other that thought didn't have a chance.
His heart labored. His breath burned in his lungs. It felt good. He hadn't pushed himself on this level in a while. His usual routine was a good run, katas, and swordwork. Two hours daily, four on the weekends if he wasn't distracted. This was just punishment. Hard and harsh. To tire him out, to batter his mind into submission.
It worked. Soon all he could feel was the stride and the need to breathe. Air became thick and hot, he had to work to draw it into his lungs. Getting his legs up for the next stride became the most important thing. It dominated his mind.
He felt strong, and powerful, and alive.
He held onto the feeling as long as he could. When it finally began to fade he reached blindly for the control panel, realizing only then that he'd shut his eyes. There was sweat running down his face, he used the towel to mop at it so he could see the panel.
Thirty-two minutes? Surely he'd been running longer than that. After lowering the speed he looked around the room for a clock and saw that it had been over ninety minutes since he began. The machine must have reset at sixty.
He was gradually aware that he was hurting. It was painful to breathe. But as he slowed and his strides became shorter, that eased and he was pleased to find that he'd taken the abuse so well. His endurance was still up to par.
He slowed the machine further and dropped to a jog after another fifteen minutes. Ten minutes later he went to a walk. It was only then that he felt like looking around again.
It was only then that he saw he had an audience. Two, actually.
There was a line of people sitting on the other side of the glass wall, in the swmming pool area. They all had drinks and were toasting him. They looked young and they looked like they'd had too much to drink. One of the men gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and a couple of the women were making rather obvious suggestive gestures. Duncan stopped the treadmill and stepped off it at last.
It felt strange to be on solid ground again. He had to stand still for a moment until his got his land-legs back. His thighs quivered in protest when he went down for a stretch.
The other half of the audience was sitting on the floor a couple of feet away, his back to the wall. He was facing the cheering, laughing crowd but not looking at them.
In his jeans and baggy sweater he looked like he could be one of them.
Duncan stifled a moan as he stretched, touching his hands flat to the floor. His hair fell around his face, a sodden mass of curls. It was longer now than he usually wore it. Because Methos had once said he liked Duncan with long hair.
Finally he stood and looked at his lover, wiping his face again and then mopping around his neck and shoulders.
"Been here long?" The words rasped, his lungs ill-used.
"The last half-hour or so. I thought I might -" The man shrugged.
"Might what?" Duncan walked over and dropped to his knees in front of him. He was still a little euphoric from the run; that was what he told himself, anyhow, when he put his hands on the man's thighs.
"I don't know. Make it up to you?" Methos covered Duncan's hands with his own. Whistles and catcalls from the audience.
"Make what up to me?" Duncan asked gently. The confusion was clear on his lover's face. Methos thought he had done something to make Duncan angry with him, or hurt his feelings. He wouldn't begin to understand the conclusion Duncan had come to earlier in the evening.
"Whatever it is." Methos sighed and disengaged his hands. "It's late, Mac. Can we get to bed now?"
"Sure." Duncan stood with a groan and held out a hand. Methos took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.
The oldest looked over at the squealing, cheering, very drunk crowd.
"No." Duncan said, smiling suddenly. "Don't even think about it."
"And why not?" Methos smiled back. A very evil smile that promised to embarrass a certain Highland lad.
"Because I sai-"
Before Duncan could finish his protest Methos had him in his arms and was kissing him.
And it was so sweet. So tender and gentle that all he wanted to do was kiss back, for as long as he could. This was all he wanted out of life. Right this moment, he would happily have given up any notion of honor or responsibility. If it could guarantee that Methos would stay a part of his life.
But there were no guarantees, he remembered as the other man finally pulled away, with obvious reluctance.
"Unless you plan on letting me have my way with you right here, we'd better go," Methos murmured, and Duncan grabbed his hand. For one brief moment he wanted to. Wanted to fall to his knees and open himself to his lover right here. In front of God and everyone. Let them say what they liked. If that was what Methos wanted.
Methos smiled, as if he understood what Duncan was thinking.
"We have a very nice bed upstairs."
Duncan nodded. The feeling passed. He missed it almost instantly.
Together they went upstairs. The crowd behind them booed.
They got a couple of funny looks from the people they passed. Duncan knew he had to look a mess, soaked in sweat and trembling. His muscles were quivering from the abuse he'd he'd put them through. Soft tissue strain like this didn't heal promptly. Faster than a mortal's, yes, but not like something life-threatening. He didn't mind, really. It was good, sometimes, to have a taste of mortality.
People could also have been staring because they were still holding hands. Not normally demonstrative in public, not with this lover, Duncan found that he was enjoying the chance to just hold hands. To feel that affectionate connection.
An elderly couple got into the elevator on the fourth floor. Duncan and Methos were standing to the right, next to the control panel.
The gentleman grimaced and turned to face the back of the elevator. His wife sighed and reached rather reluctantly past Methos to push the button for the tenth floor.
Methos didn't seem to notice her. He stepped closer to Duncan.
"Whatever I did." He leaned until his mouth was close to Duncan's ear. "Whatever it was, Highlander, I'm sorry."
Duncan sighed and half-turned to lay his head on Methos's shoulder. He closed his eyes and fought down the urge to cry. There was nothing to cry about. He was with Methos now and that was all he had ever asked for. He had no right to want more.
"You didn't do anything, muileach," he said quietly. Maybe he should have offered more, said something else; tried to explain. But the words didn't come. So he sighed again and closed his eyes, dragging a deep breath into aching lungs. Methos' scent filled him.
"Do you *mind*?" the woman snapped. "Some of us prefer to not witness perversion."
"And some of us prefer beauty to ugliness, but we allow you to live unremarked." Methos answered without heat.
The husband turned at those words and his anger was obvious.
"You're disgusting! Keep your filthy mouth to yourself!" He got close to his shocked wife.
"I'll tell you what's disgusting." Methos was gathering anger now, and Duncan opened his eyes, slipping an arm around his waist. Not to flaunt anything, but so he could restrain him if it came to that. "That prejudice like yours is allowed to exist. Why don't we just lock up everyone that doesn't meet your standards?" he snapped. "Oh, but what would you do without someone to look down on? What would you do without someone to hate?"
"We don't hate you, *God* hates you!"
"*God*?" Methos laughed out loud. "God hates us? Did he tell you so himself? He hates money-changers, too. And women with short hair. Didn't you read that in your holy book?"
The woman had very short, carefully coifed silver hair.
The man was clearly gearing up for a spiteful comeback, so Duncan took matters into his own hands; he yanked Methos to him and kissed him. Not brutally, but with the same tenderness his lover had shown him in the gym. A tenderness often sorely lacking from their lovemaking.
"Hm?" Methos seemed intent on pulling free and continuing the exchange, but Duncan held him tightly by the shoulders and jostled him back to the wall, working on changing his mind. "Mmm." He felt the long, slender hands close on his hips and knew he'd succeeded.
"This is outrageous! I will complain to management!"
Engrossed in the kiss, Duncan ignored him and was happy that Methos did the same.
The car stopped but they didn't. The door opened and the couple got out, leaving them in peace. When it closed again Duncan broke off the kiss, just far enough to breathe, and Methos was smiling at him.
"We'll be arrested," he predicted.
"For whot?" Duncan asked. He was distracted by the soft pressure of Methos' hands on his waist, by the urgent pressure of his cock trying to escape his shorts.
"Attempted murder," Methos answered, his tongue flicking out to taste Duncan's lips. "We *were* trying to give him a heart attack, weren't we?"
"No. But we could try to give one to each other." Duncan claimed his lips again. He savored the surrender when Methos let him lead it, let him push the slender man against the wall and hold him there while his hand roamed beneath the baggy sweater.
The car stopped again and the doors opened. Someone giggled.
Abruptly Methos pulled away. He touched Duncan's face lightly.
A young woman in a swimsuit was holding the door open.
"My friend called me down to see the show, but then she called to say I missed it. Guess I'll have a story to tell her," she drawled in a distinctive Southern accent.
"Glad to entertain." Duncan said archly. He got out, tugging on Methos' hand. "Don't get your knickers in a twist." She was laughing at them as she got on and the doors closed. "I just wish I'd brought a camera..."
They stared after her for a moment.
"Well," Duncan said, at a loss for words.
"Yes, well." Methos seemed to agree. "I say we go to our room and continue what we started?"
"I would like that," Duncan sighed, and looked at his friend. "I would like that verra much."
The silence that came between them when they stepped into the room was awkward but bearable. Without discussing it they both began their bedtime rituals. Duncan showered quickly, and by the time he was done Methos was already in bed. The oldest was propped against the headboard, writing in a journal, when Duncan exited the bathroom, still naked, his skin flushed from the hot water. He'd dried his hair with a towel, so it was still damp and it curled a bit around his face.
Methos had turned off the lights and opened the drapes on the balcony window to let in the lights of the city.
As soon as Duncan came into the room Methos closed the journal and set it aside. He folded back the covers on the other side of the bed and opened his arms, a more enthusiastic invitation that he usually offered. Duncan slid into the bed, and into his arms, and lay still, allowing himself to be held.
With his head on Methos' chest he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the here-and-now. Live in the moment. Methos was gently stroking his hair with both hands, tenderly untangling the few small snarls left. It was absurdly hard for Duncan to relax in the face of such affection. Their lovemaking was generally aggressive and athletic. He couldn't help but think that this sudden change for the romantic did not bode well.
"What are you worrying about now, MacLeod?" There was no censure in the tone. A touch of amusement, but mostly Methos sounded - sad.
"I'm only tired," Duncan told him, unthinking of how it might be taken. When Methos immediately stopped petting his hair he tipped his head back to look up at him. "Not too tired for that." Duncan tried to sound convincing, because he did want to make love. Especially if it was going to be gentle and sweet. If the two of them could do gentle and sweet.
That would be really nice.
"Are you sure? You gave yourself a bit of a beating downstairs."
"Aye." Duncan slid a hand down Methos' side beneath the covers and caressed his thigh, not wanting to start off with the big guns. "I'm sure. But I would like to take it slow, if it's alright with you."
"I can do slow." Methos' grin was almost threatening. Duncan frowned, and squeezed a bit.
"I don't mean 'drive-me-crazy-and-make-me-beg' slow, old man. I mean 'I-really-want-to-be-with-you' slow."
Methos stared. His eyes darkened and Duncan was afraid he'd crossed some well-guarded border. Was he asking too much? Putting too much into it?
"If that's what you want, Highlander." Methos wasn't smiling. His expression was shuttered, and Duncan felt a sinking in his stomach. He had pushed too far. He should have left things the way they were.
Sex between friends who probably loved each other as opposed to sex between two people deeply in love with each other. The problem was, he knew he was in the latter category, and he was fairly certain Methos was still in the first.
He brought his hand up and spread it on Methos' flat belly, the skin sinfully soft under his callused fingers.
It might be the only chance he would have to do it this way, so he forced a smile and answered, "That's what I want, Methos."
"Then that's what I'll give you." Methos cradled Duncan's head between his hands and pulled him up so that they could kiss.
He was true to his word. He didn't try to overwhelm Duncan with sensation or to take over control of the lovemaking. They exchanged kisses, hot, open-mouthed, but still gentle. They kissed while Methos stroked Duncan's back and kneaded the mounds of his ass. They kissed while Duncan moaned into Methos' mouth and teased his nipples.
They kissed far longer than they normally did. Duncan thought perhaps he could come just from being kissed. With Methos' hands wandering his body, gently stroking and inflaming, he wondered why they hadn't done this before. It was so good to be held and petted and cradled, and to do those things in return. He had a chance to enjoy how well Methos fit against him, how well they moved together.
The candlelight flickered over them and he pulled away for a moment, just long enough to store the image in his memory -- Methos, on his back, lightly sweating. His mouth looked swollen from being kissed, his chest was flushed. His eyes glowed golden in the light.
Then he was pulling Duncan back down and rolling them over and Duncan went with it. He settled on his side and arched back into his lover, asking for more, but gently. Always gently. And Methos surprised him by having oil ready, by preparing him carefully, as if it were a first time and not one of hundreds.
A last time. Duncan tried not to think it, but the thought intruded anyhow. It made him need more. He pushed back on the fingers inside him, moving more vigorously, and Methos stopped him with an iron hand on his hip. His breath tickled Duncan's ear as he whispered.
"Slowly, Highlander. We do this slowly, remember? It's what you wanted."
Duncan wondered if it was what Methos wanted. If he had ever wanted it like this.
He was afraid to ask.
It was okay to be selfish, just this once. To say what he wanted, needed. It was a sign of how close they had become, despite their differences, that Methos would do this for him.
"Yes," he breathed a reply, sliding a hand down his own chest, fingers travelling the ridges and valleys of his own stomach before reaching his aching cock. "It's what I want, Methos."
He circled his cock with thumb and forefinger and stroked lightly, taking the edge off but not raising the intensity. With Methos' fingers inside him and his breath warm on Duncan's neck, he felt he could be happy just like this.
Methos nuzzled underneath his hair and began kissing the back of his neck. He didn't bite; he kissed, he licked, he nibbled. It made Duncan shudder and moan. The fingers were removed gradually, and he felt the hard, hot heat of his lover's cock poised to enter him.
Methos bit just a little bit, right at the base of Duncan's neck, as he began to press entry. Duncan groaned. It felt delicious. To be filled so completely, his body opened to the invasion, softening to make it easier. He shifted his upper leg forward a bit and was rewarded by the entire length slipping in. He groaned again, and reached back for Methos. He caught his lover's head to his neck with one hand, his hip tight with the other, and held him there.
"Just -" he groaned again. "Just be still. Let me feel you, for a minute."
"Yes, Duncan." It sounded like Methos sighed. Duncan was too wrapped up in what he was feeling to worry about it, but he couldn't tell if it was a happy sigh, a contented sigh, or an annoyed one.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"Anything for you," Methos whispered back, and Duncan stiffened. He hadn't expected a declaration, but this was the closest he'd ever got.
After an unmeasured time, his body wouldn't let him be still any longer. He gave up the closeness with a groan that was almost a sob, and released Methos' head and hip, reaching to stroke his own cock while Methos began to pull out. He did it slowly, but steadily, and then pushed in again the same way. Duncan shuddered hard.
"Again," he demanded, breathlessly.
Methos kissed the back of his neck, and Duncan felt his smile as he did it again.
True to his promise, Methos kept it slow and steady, letting the pleasure build in waves that washed over Duncan periodically. He wrapped an arm over Duncan's shoulder, his hand sliding up to lightly encircle his neck from the front. His other hand came over Duncan's hip to cover the hand Duncan was stroking himself with. He tangled their fingers together and Duncan let his head fall back to rest on Methos' shoulder as the other man scooted up in the bed.
Panting through his open mouth, Duncan let himself be limp. He let himself be held, and led to the release his body was seeking. When Methos stopped thrusting he moaned a protest, turning his head, trying to see the other man's face.
"Shhh, Duncan," Methos crooned, there was no other way to describe it. "Trust me, Highlander."
"Yes," Duncan gasped. He wanted to. He needed to. "Yes."
Methos was pressed so tightly against him that Duncan could feel his lover's balls warm on his ass. Methos' cock was firmly planted on Duncan's prostate.
He began to move, not stroking in and out, but undulating. Moving his hips in circles. It made his cock rub right on that spot, and Duncan felt himself flush hot. He lifted his leg, crooked it, and tried to open himself further, to let Methos in deeper.
His entire being was focused on that movement, on that pressure inside him. He was vaguely aware that he was moaning continuously, the sound only broken by gasping sobs for air. Methos' hand on his cock stopped stroking and he circled the head with his fingers repeatedly while Duncan gripped the base. He was getting a little frantic. It was intense, too intense. He'd never felt anything like it.
He should have known he was in over his head.
"Let it come, Highlander. Let it happen." The whispered coaxing was the final straw. At last the wave crested and Duncan felt his body go rigid with anticipation as the heat gathered low in his belly. Then it rolled through him and out of him and Methos had the head of his cock cupped warmly in his gentle hand and Duncan came until he thought the top of his head had come off.
He lay, unable to breathe, the aftermath almost as powerful as the orgasm had been.
Methos dropped a light, sweet kiss on his cheek, thrust three times and came himself, almost an afterthought. He groaned once, deeply, and his arms tightened around Duncan, holding him as close as possible.
"Methos," Duncan said finally, into the silence.
The man stroked his hair away from his face tenderly and Duncan felt tears well in his eyes; foolish, sentimental, childish. He swallowed twice, trying to bring himself under control.
Was this why they never did it this way? Was it too close to what he wanted, but was convinced he would never have? Did Methos know? Had he been sparing Duncan this?
There could be no answers to questions he wouldn't ask. He tucked his head down, letting his hair fall forward again to hide his face, and wrapped his arms over Methos' where they held him.
This would have to be enough. Somehow, he knew it was all he was going to get.
He wouldn't be asking for it again.
Methos freed an arm long enough to cover them, and then returned to holding Duncan. Exhausted by the day, and the workout and the emotions, Duncan lay in his arms heavily. Sleep crept up on him and he didn't fight it the way he had fought the tears.
He didn't know when Methos slid from his body at last. Or when he slipped from the bed and blew out the candles.
When the door opened and closed Duncan sat up, and stared into the darkness, faintly lit by city lights.
He could just make out the features of the room.
He quickly noted that his suitcase now sat alone.
Still he didn't let the tears come. There was no use in it. He'd done what he'd done, and now he had to live with the consequences. There was just something inside of Methos that made him need to stay separate. Duncan had gotten too close. He'd known he was going to, and he'd done it anyway.
Though he did not cry, he didn't sleep any more that night, either. He lay curled on the bed, the raw scent of sex in the air around him, and breathed in the touch of Methos left on the sheets and pillows. And on his skin.
***
"So where do you want to start?" Samantha Brighton stood beside him in a storage room of Hallow House, the mansion Brighton had restored over the years. Duncan had been grimly amused to realize that it stood on Holy Ground, having once been a convent. At least no one would take his head while he was working. That made him more comfortable with taking off his coat and leaving it with the butler in the front hall. Peter had left for his office, giving Duncan the run of the grounds and his daughter as an assistant.
"Is any of it crated?" The collection seemed to take up one whole wall, on shelves and tables. There were boxes stacked under the tables.
"No, Daddy wanted to do this part first. We can crate it as we go, if you want, or you can just do your thing and we'll have someone in to do the manual labor later this week."
Duncan glanced at her over his shoulder, trying to determine whether she was taunting him or not. This morning she was wearing jeans -- designer jeans, but jeans -- and a couple of t-shirts, layered, with her flat tummy showing. There was a ring in her navel.
"I'll pack it. That way I can be sure nothing will get confused."
She held up a ledger.
"You want me to document?"
"Sure." Already he was tired of playing games with her. If that was what she was doing. He'd spent so much time in Methos' company the last few years, that it was possible he'd forgotten how to interact with normal people. Methos was as far from normal as you could get. "I'll just start at one end of the wall, and work my way across. Are there packing supplies here?"
"In the boxes." She nodded.
"Okay." Duncan put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath. He surveyed the wall.
This was turning out to be a much larger job than he'd expected. It was Saturday morning, he had to be back to work on Tuesday. He would have to make progress quickly.
"On second thought, why don't you help me pack?" He needed to get back to the U on time. In case Methos - no, he was being foolish. Methos would come back when he was ready, Duncan knew from experience that he hadn't just gone home.
"Sure." It seemed she couldn't decide if she was pleased by that or offended. He didn't care, as long as she got her share done.
He didn't regret taking the job. It was just the sort of thing he needed to distract him from Methos' defection. The worst part was not knowing if, or when, the other man would come back. Normally he only stayed away a few days -- a couple of weeks at the most -- but things between them weren't normal right now. He felt responsible, but he also felt that it was wrong to keep hiding his real feelings to protect Methos.
He went to the table and picked up a small vase. It was only four inches high, with a wide curved lip, and the glaze was a matte black so pure that it seemed to absorb the light around it. Duncan whistled softly, recognizing the value of the piece. Van Briggle's black was one of the rarest and most desirable colors.
He flipped open one of his resource books, he'd brought several, and got to work.
It went fairly quickly once he'd started. Many of the pieces have been valued before and he only had to adjust for the current projected market price.
There were many exquisite pieces. He would have to ask Brighton if he were willing to sell one or two before the auction, Duncan would like to buy them. The first 4" black vase and a larger 10" vase in green-and-pink with the famed Iris pattern that was so difficult to find. Tessa had liked it.
A servant brought lunch, roast beef and turkey sandwiches on nutty dark bread with pasta salad. Duncan ate as he worked, not wanting to take a break until he'd made some significant progress.
It was a pleasure to handle beautiful things. There was music from a small stereo, suprisingly, it was opera, which made the atmosphere that much more pleasant. Duncan found that he could slip [Duncan slipped] into a mood and a pattern: pick a piece, study it, touch it, stroke it. Look it up, price it, tell Samantha. Wrap it, pack it, mark the box, and on to the next one. No hurry, just steady, steady. Occasionally he gave something a price higher or lower than she expected, and she told him so with a lift of her eyebrows or a questioning look, but she didn't argue.
It was getting on toward dinner when she started talking.
"So where's your boyfriend?"
Duncan stilled for a moment and then returned to what he was doing, answering as matter-of-factly as he could.
"Adam decided he needed some time to himself. He took off this morning."
"Does he dump you frequently?" She smirked when he looked at her.
"He didn't dump me. He just needed some space."
"I can't imagine why, with an ass like yours at home."
Startled by the vulgarity of the comment -- not to mention the intrusiveness – Duncan turned around, carefully cradling a larger vase against his chest.
"If you have a problem with my current sexual orientation, I'd be happy to request another assistant from your father. There's no need for us to spend any time together at all."
"Then he'd scold me for not being helpful," she shrugged. "I just think it's wrong. What right do you have to go against the natural order of things?"
Duncan sighed and turned back around, not answering her question.
"Besides, isn't he a little young for you? How old is he anyhow? Nineteen? Twenty? Not any older than twenty-two, I'm sure."
"He's older than he looks." This wasn't an area anyone had ever commented on before, but it was something Duncan had thought about. What did people think when they saw him with Methos, who, in his 'Adam' persona, looked barely over twenty, definitely not old enough dating a man apparently thirty-five. He didn't really care what people thought, never had, but he liked to avoid conflict when he could.
"Not by that much." She made a sound of mockery. "So, you're the bottom, right? I've always read that in these relationships it's usually the one that looks dominant that takes the woman's part."
This was too much. Duncan set the piece down and turned. He wanted to grab her arm and shake her, but managed to restrain himself.
"For the record -" he paused, closed his eyes briefly, and drew strength from inside. "We are not women; therefore there is no 'woman's part'. What my lover and I do in bed together is no one's business, and particularly not yours. If you canna keep yer thoughts to yerself, I will call your father and tell him that I canna complete this job under these circumstances." He was distressed to hear how much his accent slipped, proving he was more upset than he'd thought.
"Geez Loiuse," she held up both hands defensively. "I was just trying to make a little conversation. "You don't have to take it so personally."
"It *is* personal," he snarled. "That's the whole bloody point!"
"I was just curious -- I've never met a gay man before. Not face-to-face, exactly. I mean, not where I could talk to him..." she trailed off as Duncan began walking toward the far door. "Where are you going?"
"I'm done here." Duncan didn't look back. He didn't need this. "I took this job as a favor to an old customer, not because I need the money. I'll call your father tonight, and tell him that something came up."
"You can't go!" she almost wailed. "He'll get pissed at me and take my damned car away again!"
Duncan stopped and faced her.
"Samantha, you're what, thirty? And still living at home under Daddy's roof? Under his rules? Why don't you get a job, get a bloody life?!"
"As long as I do what he wants, I'll never have to work," she pouted.
"Fine," Duncan snapped. "I won't mention your behavior to him. But if I come back to finish, I don't want you anywhere near me."
"He won't understand that -"
Duncan was out the door before she could protest further. A servant brought him his coat and showed him the door, and he climbed into the rented SUV with a deep sigh. He was disappointed, in himself and the world. He could have handled that better.
He could have handled so many things better. Why did he have to ask for something Methos couldn't give? Why couldn't he have left things the way they were?
He wanted a chance to explain.
Well, he had the time. He could always hunt Methos down and sit on him until they talked it out. Duncan was willing to give him space, to keep things friendly, anything Methos wanted, as long as he stayed a part of Duncan's life. As long as he said he would come back again eventually.
That's what he wanted to do. It felt like the right thing, deep inside.
He started the truck and drove back to the hotel. He would check out, call Joe to see if he knew anything, and go to the airport to see what he could find. He knew a couple of kids at the University that could hack the airline computer if it came to that.
He would find out where Methos had gone and follow him. Find him and make him listen to what Duncan had to say.
Peter Brighton wouldn't be happy about it, but Duncan would make it up to him.
***
"There are several sitewatchers assigned to JFK," Joe told him on the phone three hours later. Duncan was sitting in the airport parking lot on his cellphone. "But I can't just start asking around, Mac. When Adam left the Watchers, he made some promises. If I start tracking him someone will notice, and his integrity will be questioned. I don't have to tell you what can happen to a Watcher that doesn't keep his promises."
It was too early for Dawson to be up. He'd turned the day- to-day running of the bar over to Mike last year, and now considered himself semi-retired. It was hard for Duncan to think of him that way. And he was only partially retired from his day job; he was still Duncan's Watcher full time. He still made the trek to Paris every year when Duncan did, though they no longer traveled together. It had become too dangerous for them both.
There had been a time when Duncan would have bought a third plane ticket for this trip, and booked a second hotel room, just so Joe could come with them. They would have caught a show on Broadway and visited Central Park, because Joe liked those places.
That time was long past. Ever since O'Rourke, Duncan made an effort to keep the most vulnerable of his friends out of the line of fire. If that meant they couldn't be friends the way they used to; he accepted that. Especially these last few years. As long as he had Methos beside him he could manage without anyone else.
The Clan MacLeod had shrunk substantially. It was sad, but necessary.
"I understand, Joe. I was just hoping that someone might have recognized him. He was a Watcher, after all."
"But he left us to start an affair with you," Joe answered. "It didn't do anything for credibility."
"And eventually someone is going to twig to the fact that I didn't teach him swordsmanship out of the need for a sparing partner."
He heard Joe's sigh and wished he hadn't brought that up.
"If I'm lucky, it'll happen after I die," Joe told him roughly. "I don't need that kind of hassle in my life at this stage."
Duncan sucked in a breath and held it for a moment. The reality of Joe dying was becoming closer every year and he wasn't ready to face it. It seemed like every time they spoke lately, the mortal man mentioned something along these lines. Duncan wanted to know if something had happened, if Joe had found something out, but he couldn't bring himself to ask. If Joe was sick, then Duncan would have to become involved. He would do whatever it took to keep his friend as long as he could.
It wasn't like he could just step back into the life he'd had before, though, was it? So, again, he didn't ask.
"I'll call you once I know where I'm going," he said. "Save you the trouble of tracking me down."
"I'd appreciate it," Joe drawled. He'd once expressed to Duncan the inherent illogic of trusting the Immortal to report his activities when Duncan resented the Watchers as much as he did. But this way he didn't have to go chasing after him, which was probably the best thing all around. "Talk to you later." It seemed he was ready to get off the phone, but then he spoke up again. "Oh, yeah, Mac?"
"Yeah, Joe?"
"Connor went to Scotland. Next month is Heather's birthday."
Duncan resisted the urge to smack himself. How could he have forgotten?
"Right, Joe. Thanks for reminding me."
"Anytime, Mac. Anytime." Dawson hung up without saying anything else.
Duncan sat for a moment, eyes closed, the phone pressed to his forehead.
Of course. How could he have forgotten? Connor had spent nearly forty years with Heather. Had the kind of relationship Duncan had searched for, the kind he'd hoped to have with Tessa.
It was unlike Connor to be predictable, but he did return to the Highlands every once in a while to celebrate that love in memory.
So, Duncan was on his own. All he had to do was figure out which name Methos had used, and which plane he'd gotten on. Of course, which airport he used was also going to be an issue...
Hah. He could find that out quickly enough. He called the hotel.
"This is Duncan MacLead. I'm at JFK, about to catch a flight to join my companion Adam Pierson; he wanted me to check something for him, but I didn't get all the information before he had to go into the conference he's attending." Probably too much information, but he'd never become an accomplished liar, something he was perversely proud of, despite the difficulties it could create in his life.
He'd called Methos his companion before. It didn't fit right, but it was better than 'boyfriend'. Way better than 'boytoy'.
"Yes, of course, Mr. MacLeod." He knew the man had looked him up in the computer now and registered his credit card status. More and more these days people that didn't know him judged him on his wealth and not his character, but he'd let it slide this time. "How can I help you?"
"Adam had to leave early this morning," he was guessing at the time, "he took a cab, but he can't remember the name of the company. He thinks he left his sunglasses in it."
"Ah, yes. Just a moment, let me ask the doorman."
Duncan silently blessed Methos' laziness and grinned.
"The doorman put him on the LaGuardia shuttle. Would you like me to call them for you?"
"No, just give me the number, I wouldn't want to take up any more of your time."
"It's no bother, Mr. MacLeod." The man rattled off a number, and Duncan said thank you and goodbye and hung up. He didn't need the number. He knew which airport Methos had flown out of and that was where he was going next.
As he drove out of the JFK parking lot, he considered the idea that Methos had only used that shuttle as a decoy, to throw him off the trail. But Methos didn't know Duncan was following him. After all, Duncan had never followed him before.
Maybe Methos had wanted him to?
The thought was so stunning that he sat through a whole green light, with horns blaring behind him, as he absorbed it.
What if one of the reasons Methos left was to test Duncan? It fit completely with the way the oldest's mind worked. He couldn't just say something, he had to be sure of it first.
It usually worked this way; Methos left, sometimes warning Duncan first, more often not. He dropped off the face of the earth for days or, rarely, weeks, and then he returned. Each time he left, Duncan missed him and Duncan worried about him. Each time he returned, Duncan made certain that he slid right back into his spot in Duncan's life without the slightest bit of turmoil.
Maybe Methos wanted some turmoil?
Duncan always said he missed him. He tried not to make too big a deal of it, but he always found himself making an extra effort to spend time with Methos whenever Methos came back.
He pressed the accelerator, ignoring the angry sounds from the cars behind him, and laughed quietly as he headed for the Interstate.
Methos wanted Duncan to follow him. Wanted Duncan to find him. Well, at least, Duncan thought he did. Maybe. And when Duncan found him, maybe then Duncan could say what he'd wanted to say last night and Methos wouldn't run away. Because Duncan had followed him.
The airport would be a real trial. There was no way to predict where Methos had gone or what name he was using. But Duncan was better at cloak-and-dagger than the old man thought. He'd learned something during all those years with Amanda, after all.
He laughed a little bit more, and drove a little bit faster. The sooner he found him, the sooner he could say what he needed to say.
***
"Duncan MacLeod." He answered the satellite phone with a touch of irritation. The last three days had been - well, the less said the better. Now that he'd finally picked up Methos' trail again, he didn't much feel like being distracted from his mission.
Find Methos, tell Methos.
"Mac?" He could barely hear the voice, but thought he recognized the strong new York snap.
"Peter Brighton?" Just to be sure. The University had called twice. His classes were being covered by TA's, Adam's, too, but those in charge were somewhat less than pleased with the projected return date of two of the most popular professors.
"Yes, yes. MacLeod, what did you do to my daughter?!"
"Your daughter? Samantha?" He remembered exchanging harsh words with the woman, but sleep had been a rare commodity in the past few days as he followed up on lead after clue after hunch.
"Yes, Samantha! She's moved out! She gave me back the Mercedes I bought her! She's going to *college*, for Chrissakes'!"
"Oh." He hadn't expected to have any effect on the woman, much less a significant one. "I have no idea, Peter," he told him. The jeep bumped and he winced. There wasn't a lot of padding on the ancient seat. Only for you, Methos, he said silently. Only for you would I be out here, doing this. "Um - aren't those good things for her to be doing?"
"No!" It was clear Peter wasn't taking his daughter's belated enthusiasm for independence well. "I *liked* having her live here with me, Duncan. I liked having her around."
"Peter, she's your daughter, not a pet." Oops. Too much, maybe.
There was silence on the other end of the line.
"But I'll miss her, MacLeod." Duncan hit the brake and juggled the phone as he bounced. If the map the guide had given him was close to correct, he was in the right place.
A vista of poverty stretched out before him. There were lines of mud brick shacks in rows. It was eerily quiet.
"She's still your daughter, Peter," he told the phone. He had never been close with this man. They had barely been acquaintances, so many years ago. In the wake of his unwanted divorce, Peter Brighton was lonelier than Duncan had thought. "Make an effort to keep her as part of your life, and I'm sure she'll welcome your help."
"MacLeod, what do you mean by that? Mac-"
Duncan turned off the phone. The last thing he wanted was to be interrupted by it right now.
He clipped the phone to his belt and climbed out, shutting the door carefully to avoid a slam.
He sighed and closed his eyes. He could feel Methos. Feel him close. His buzz was muted somewhat, but not altogether.
Duncan looked around again. There were signs of life among the shacks, a few people peeking out windows, dark eyes watching him warily.
This was Kiriman. A small settlement in rural Bangladesh. Duncan didn't even want to think about what it had taken to get himself here. The number of people he had bribed, the smirk on the face of the pilot that had flown him illegally over the border. The only reason Duncan had trusted him was because, two days ago, the man had done the same for Methos.
Well. He would have to quit believing that his lover ran off like this to laze about and enjoy the good life. For the life of him, Duncan couldn't imagine what had drawn the world's oldest man to this God-forsaken place.
Judging by the strength of the unmuted buzz , Methos was tired, and about fifty yards away.
Duncan shrugged to settle his coat on his shoulders. He was getting a bad feeling about this. Suppose Methos wasn't here by choice? There were so many things he didn't know about his lover's past. For a while there it had seemed that every time he turned around he was learning some new unpleasant fact.
One thing he was sure of; he wasn't going to just go barging in as he'd originally planned. That had been before he saw this place.
Before he smelled it, and tasted it in the back of his mouth. Despair had a sour flavor. He'd tasted it before.
The buzz became stronger as he slogged between shacks around the back of another row. There were people on this side; even a few children, playing half-heartedly in the stinking mud. They looked at him with protruding eyes that matched their sad tummies, stick legs stretched out in front of them.
They didn't seem disturbed by his presence. They scarcely seemed to see him at all.
Duncan crept to the back of the shack. He was absolutely certain that Methos was inside it. But why didn't the other man come out? Why didn't he react to Duncan's presence, which he must feel? It wasn't like he could be upwind or something; it was there.
This more than anything convinced Duncan that something was wrong.
The shack was built of flimsy material. Its original form was undetectable. There were cracks in the roughly formed walls. Duncan got close enough to look into one.
He pulled away, and then looked again. Were his eyes playing tricks on him?
Methos sat on the floor beside a woman, who lay on a rough bed of rags. There was an electric lantern illuminating the dim interior.
The woman was obviously, visibly gravid, and, in fact, seemed to be in the last stage of labor. Methos was holding her hand as he knelt between her legs. Duncan couldn't see his other hand, it was at her crotch, the view blocked by Methos' body. The hand that held the woman's was taut with tension, and covered in blood.
The shack had a dirt floor and no furniture at all. Methos had no medical supplies with him. Duncan was going to go around, go in and help, get the new mother and infant to a hospital, or at least someplace *cleaner", but then the woman moaned, a low animal sound, and Methos spoke.
"It's coming. It's almost over. Your child will be here soon." He spoke in English, though Duncan realized there was almost no chance the woman understood him.
She moaned again, and her voice rose quickly to a piercing scream. Duncan flicnhed, and then flinched again when he felt something touch him. He looked down and saw that a child was touching his leg. Not to offer comfort, or ask it; it seemed he- she? - it just wanted to touch the fabric of his jeans.
The child didn't react at all to the tide of screams coming from inside the shack. No one did. The most shocking part of the whol ething was what Duncan knew. He knew the woman was probably Moslem - 80% of the population here was - why was Methos alone with her? Where was her husband, her family?
Duncan forced himself to look away from the doomed child that touched him, and back into the shack.
Methos was holding an infant. It was thin and it arched in his arms, almost violently. It did not cry.
He scooted on his knees around the mother and held the baby close for her to see.
"Look," he said quietly. The screams had stopped, and Duncan hadn't noticed. "Look at your daughter."
The mother tipped her head obediently, and reached her hand weakly, fingers ghosting over the torso of the squirming newborn.
"Would you like to hold her?" Methos asked, and it sounded *wrong* to Duncan. The way he said it, the way it felt.
The mother reached with both hands and Methos gently laid the baby, naked and covered with blood and the by-products of birth, into her arms.
She stared at the baby, and for the first time her face showed an expression other than terror.
She smiled.
It didn't make her beautiful. She was gaunt and bloody and her body was twisted painfully.
She smiled at her baby. And Duncan was so caught up in the moment that he didn't see what Methos was doing.
Not until he saw the glint of metal and saw the flash of the blade as the man he loved took a large knife and, with one sure slash, opened the vein in the mother's leg.
She screamed once, but the new pain, on top of the birth and starvation, was too much. Methos moved back up to her head to catch the baby just before it fell from her arms.
Duncan gasped. He heard the ocean in his ears. The world tilted beneath him, and he was suddenly adrift.
Nothing he believed was true, and nothing he knew was right.
It was the end of the world, and he'd lived to see it.
He slid down the side of the shack, face pressed to the crack, watching the blood pour from her body and puddle on the dirt floor, adding to the slime and filth already there.
Somehow he knew that Methos was wrapping the newborn in a towel he produced from a pocket. That he was tucking the baby into his shirt and buttoning the coat over it. He even knew that Methos had left the shack, eventually.
In a fleeting moment of awareness, he *knew* that Methos had not known he was there. His lover had delivered a baby, killed the mother and walked away, all without knowing that Duncan had watched him do it.
What could this *mean*?
Duncan sat in the refuse behind the shack long after night fell.
The child that had touched him sat beside him for a while. Then something moved her, and she got up and went away. Duncan sat.
He looked into the shack at the woman. Methos had left the lantern. Apparently he wasn't worried about leaving fingerprints or being tracked.
He didn't know how Methos had gotten here. He hadn't seen another vehicle, or heard one start up. This place was deathly silent. A fitting tomb.
Duncan knew what was happening to him. He'd been on autopilot before. He knew that he had to get up, to call the authorities, to report what he had seen.
He couldn't do it. It wasn't because he didn't think they would care. He knew they wouldn't. That shouldn't have mattered, and it didn't.
It was that he didn't care. He'd taken one too many blows to his worldview in the last few hours. He would have prefered being hit in the head, if given a choice. A roundhouse punch to the heart was too painful to be borne. Especially when it came from the person you loved above all others.
At last, he began considering his options. What could he do?
Surely Methos had a reason for this. An explantion. Doubtless it would be one that made Duncan feel even worse, but there had to be one. The oldest among them did nothing without a reason. With only the rarest of exceptions, it was a reason that would benefit *him*.
>From watching the birth, Duncan was positive this wasn't the first time Methos had done this. It had all been too slick, too planned. That meant that Methos needed that baby for something.
Duncan shuddered suddenly and turned his head, falling forward and catching himself on his hands as he vomited into the mud.
Far too many possibilities had opened to him with that thought.
He had wondered how Methos had survived so long; oh God, did that baby have something to so with it?!
It was so horrifying that he found his feet. He stood, wiping his mouth the back of his hand, and walked.
Whatever Methos was going to do, whatever he wanted, needed, planned to do to that helpless innocent, Duncan was going to be there to stop it.
Then he would take the man's head, and try to live with himself for as long as it took to find someone to kill him.
His eyes searched the piled ground for signs of Methos' trail, and he found them. There weren't many size elevens in this neighborhood, and fewer Timberland hiking boots.
If he had to kill Methos -- and at the moment it seemed the only rational response for any God-loving barbarian -- then he hoped Connor would have the heart to kill him. He didn't want to waste hiss Quickening on some viscous headhunter, especially after he added Methos' power to it, and he refused to live with that inside him. Connor would be able to handle it.
The trail was easy to follow. Methos was making no effort to hide his tracks. He probably felt safe; there was little chance of being punished here, for this crime. These people were worthless to their society, except as cannon fodder. No one would miss one woman who somehow managed to carry her pregnancy to term but died anyhow. No one would miss another starving child that didn't get a chance to grow up.
There was, miraculously, a few pathetic trees growing on the edges of the dump. Duncan followed the tracks through them, and found himself in a much smaller and slighter better shanty-town. It was just as quiet here, everyone asleep or dying or both.
The thin wail of a newborn roused him from his unintended reverie, and he headed for the last shack on the end. It had a door, and seemed to be lit from within.
This time Duncan approached with less caution. He didn't care if Methos felt him, if Methos heard him.
He had his hand on the hilt of the katana, the weight of it strangely uncomforting this night.
It was a better shack, but still a shack. The baby's cries stopped, and Duncan thought his heart would as well, but when he got close enough to peek in he was startled by what he saw.
Methos sat on a low chair, the baby wrapped warmly in a blanket, a little hat on its tiny head. It was striped red- and-white, just the sort of thing a baby should wear.
He was rocking his body slowly as he tried to coax the infant to suckle from a bottle he held.
Understanding that the baby was safe for the moment, Duncan let his eyes wander the single room. There was a gasoline-powered heater. Collapsible camping furniture; the chair, a cot, a low table.
There was also a campstove, and a pack beside it that he assumed held food. There was a can of solid fuel burning and a pan of water on the stove. Duncan thought he must have heated the bottle.
A small plastic bin held bloody water. There were several small towels piled beside it.
He had bathed the baby and now he was feeding it. Crooning to it. With the same voice he used when he comforted Duncan. MacLeod had only heard it twice, but he recognized it. The low, soothing sound that might have meant love.
Duncan was deeply, desperately confused.
In the face of this confusion, he wanted to retreat. Go away, go home, pretend he hadn't seen any of this. That he had never smelled or tasted this place.
Only, Methos still had the baby, and no matter how kind he was to it at the moment, there had to be something deeper going on here. Something darker.
With his sword held low, Duncan pushed through the flimsy door.
Methos jumped up like he'd been hit, turning and crouching and reaching for his coat on the other side of the room all in one movement. His body was folded low over the now- crying baby, protecting it.
He froze and said something in a language Duncan didn't understand.
"What?" Duncan asked stupidly.
Methos straightened slowly, both arms around the baby, automatically rocking and soothing her. She continued to wail, apparently heart-broken by the interruption of her first meal.
"I said, what in God's name are you doing here, Highlander?" Methos repeated in slow, stilted English.
Duncan was sure he'd never seen anyone so angry, not in all of his four hundred-plus years.
It oozed off the older man, visibly. Duncan had to work hard to resist the urge to step back, even though he was the one with the sword.
He'd wondered a few times what it would be like to have 5,000 years focused on him. Most of the time, he only got bits and parts of Methos, and he'd known that. So he'd wondered.
He wasn't wondering that anymore.
Now he was wondering if he would survive it.
"I followed you." Truth, truth, truth.
Moving slowly, Methos shifted the baby so that he could lean over and pick up the bottle. There was a thick cloth spread over the floor. Duncan hadn't noticed it before because it was the same dark brown as the dirt.
He watched while Methos dipped the nipple of the bottle into the boiling water, then blew on it to cool it before offering it to the baby again. She grunted and waved her tiny fists and sucked fiercely.
"What the fuck is going on, Methos?" Duncan let the tip of the katana sink to the floor, but he didn't put it away.
With a sketched version of his usual 'just-a-guy' shrug, Methos straightened his overturned chair with one hand. He somehow wrapped his other arm around the baby well enough to keep her secure against his chest and keep the bottle in her mouth, and then he sat down.
"Why in the world would you follow me?" he answered the question with another one.
"I thought - I thought -" it all seemed so god-damned *stupid* right now that Duncan couldn't even say it. Romantic bullshit. "I don't know."
"You thought I wanted you to," Methos laughed. It was utterly without humor. "I knew getting involved with you was a bad idea. It just never occurred to me you'd go to this length."
"Don't change the subject, Methos. Whatever my reasons were, they aren't important any longer. This -what you've done -- this is so far out of the realm that I can't begin to discuss it." Duncan's temper was rising.
"Then don't." Methos took the bottle from the now-drowsy baby's mouth and sat her up in his lap, expertly draping a towel over his hand before he began patting her on the back. She drooped, half-asleep, as he burped her gently.
She was tiny. Duncan was astonished that something that small was so alive. He remembered when Mary had been born, how frightened he had been for Anne, but even Mary had been bigger than this scrap of humanity.
"Give her to me." He made a decision, and stepped forward aggressively.
"She's going to spit up all over you," Methos said softly. Duncan felt something twist inside himself, but reached for her anyhow.
Methos let her take the baby from his arms. He leaned back in the chair, his hands between his knees, and watched while Duncan lay the baby on his shoulder and resumed the burping.
Methos' eyes were blank, his face unreadable when he spoke again.
"You watched?"
Duncan refused to look at him. He nodded.
"All of it." It wasn't a question. Duncan didn't try to answer one.
"I can just imagine what you thought I was going to do with her," Methos' voice cracked low, cutting Duncan like a whip. "Witchcraft, Duncan? Perhaps Satanism? Oh, I know; Thuggees."
Duncan felt the little chest lurch with a burp, and stopped patting. She whimpered, a kittenish sound, and he began to rub her tiny back tenderly.
She quieted. One of her fists somehow got into his hair and she held on with more strength than he would have thought such a tiny being could possess.
Methos was just sitting there. Duncan stood, swaying slightly, the baby sleeping on his shoulder.
And he realized what he was feeling.
He had to turn slowly, so he didn't wake her, but when he did, his eyes landed on Methos with hot accusation.
"She's one of us."
When Methos looked up at him, Duncan recognized, for the first time, what he was looking at. He recognized the creature in the eyes of the man he loved. Had loved. Did love.
He was talking to the *oldest living thing on the planet*.
It was hard to breathe. Without a sound he went to his knees, only vaguely remembering that he held a newborn infant, and that that infant was sleeping. That she was fragile and vulnerable and couldn't be dropped.
He did not drop her. It must have been divine intervention, but he didn't drop her.
The urge to bow his head to the floor was overwhelming.
"Get up." A boot nudged his knee, ungently. "You bloody fool, *get up*."
That was asking too much. But Duncan did force himself to *look* up.
At eyes that weren't *even* human.
At eyes that were far *too* human.
"You thought you wanted to know, Duncan MacLeod," *Methos* crooned in that lost voice that seemed to come from millennia ago. "Now you know. What do you think now?"
"I'm going to be sick again." Duncan whispered, and promptly was.
Methos rescued the baby from his trembling hands, and carried her over to the cot, where he lay her down while Duncan retched helplessly, bile running from his mouth, burning his throat, clogging his nose. For a moment he thought he was going to choke on it, the spasms were so powerful.
Then large hands closed around his head and tipped it to the side and something soft wiped his face, taking the time to squeeze the foul fluid from his nostrils and he could breathe. Gasping, choking, but breathe.
As soon as he thought his body would obey him, he scrambled away from Methos and pressed his back to the coarse wall.
He now knew the definition of terror. He'd thought he'd been afraid before, but he had been very wrong.
Methos crouched, the towel still in his hand, and looked at him.
"What, Highlander?"
The ancient creature had gone back into hiding. But Duncan had seen it, Duncan *knew*.
"You -- you're -"
"Everything I was yesterday, and last week, and last month." Methos spread his hands and gave a bashful smile. It fit his face like he'd been born to it. Duncan found himself struggling for air again. "No more and no less than I always was, Duncan. No more and no less."
"Ye are more." Duncan snarled. "Ye are -- *unnatural*!" He spluttered, the hypocrisy of the statement escaping him in the heat of the moment. "You are no' human!"
"Ah, but I am." Methos looked over at the baby, and then back at Duncan. He sat, folding his legs neatly, his hands in his lap, fingers laced. "There's the great secret, Duncan MacLeod. We all are. Human."
"We're Immortal," Duncan spat. "I am, she is, you *are*."
"We're humans." Methos repeated, as if he was talking to a disbelieving child. "Each and every one of us. Conceived of mortal mothers with mortal fathers, birthed by mortal bodies."
"Immortals don't *have* mothers." He couldn't accept this. Wouldn't.
"Yes, we do. I knew yours." Methos' gaze was steady and kind.
"Did you kill her?" Duncan moaned, bringing his hands up to hold his head when it seemed it would spin off into space. "By the Gods, Methos, did you *kill* her?!"
"Yes."
The simple answer was enough to trigger another bout of dry-heaving for Duncan. This time he was too weak to resist the hands that held him, the cloth that cleaned him, by the time it was over.
"It's not me," Methos said kindly. "It's her. She's drawing on your Quickening. The longer a newborn is exposed to an Immortal, the stronger they become. I try to give them all at least a few days, to get them off to a good start."
"This is insane," Duncan gagged. His head was in Methos' lap and that was the last place he wanted to be, ever again.
Methos rubbed his back, much as Duncan had rubbed the baby's.
"It is that." He said it like it was taken for granted. Like this was normal.
"How long?" Duncan needed to know, with a sudden urgency. "*How*?"
"Lie still and I'll tell you a story." Methos patted him and then began to stroke his hair. It made Duncan shudder, and he stopped. His hands moved to lie still on the neutral ground of Duncan's waist.
With an effort, Duncan made himself be still. His nose was still burning from the stomach acids he'd tried to exhale, and he couldn't smell the man that held him.
He was very, very glad of that.
"Two thousand years ago, Highlander." Methos began quietly. "Two thousand years ago and change, I was Death. I rode with my three brothers and together we brought pain and suffering to the world. It was glorious."
Duncan shuddered.
"Then, one day, completely out of the blue, something came to me. A gift. I didn't want it."
Duncan waited, unwilling to hear more, unable to make him stop.
"It hit me literally like a brick. One of those heavy mud- and-straw ones we used for houses so long ago."
He paused. He seemed to be waiting for something. Duncan had nothing to give.
"It was like getting kicked between the eyes by a large horse," Methos continued at last. "One minute I was Death, and the next I was, *somehow*, the oldest Immortal. And I learned what that meant in the span of an instant that lasted forever."
Like this night. Duncan just wanted to go home, to drink himself into a stupor and wake up to convince himself he'd dreamed all of this.
"The thing is, you can't un-know something," Methos sighed. "I would have tried if I hadn't understood from the beginning that it's not possible. Once I knew, I knew. Once I was, I was."
He paused again. Then he traced the curve of Duncan's jaw with one fingertip. Duncan shivered involuntarily.
"On that morning, somewhere in the world, someone older than I died. And I became the oldest. And I inherited the burden."
He nodded toward the cot, where the baby made hardly a noticeable bump.
"It can be a beautiful thing, of course, but it is above all a burden. *The* burden."
"I don't understand," Duncan whispered desperately.
"Of course you don't. You're barely out of infancy yourself, MacLeod. How can you expect to understand my life?"
"Tell me." As afraid as he was to know, not knowing would be worse. If he was going to survive this with his mind intact, he would have to understand it first. Already he could feel the tethers of reality slipping their moorings. He thought he heard Tessa's voice, calling to him sweetly. "*Please*," he begged shamelessly.
"I will try." Methos said.
Duncan waited. Tessa's voice was stronger now. He could picture her face as she called his name, from their bed, at the store. She was waiting for him.
He wanted to go to her, but Methos began speaking at last.
"I've done some research. Several lifetimes' worth. And the best I can do to explain it is like this; we are a mutation. A genetic mistake that only seems to appear in certain populations under certain circumstances."
Duncan made a sound; even he didn't recognize it.
"They are always poor. They are frequently on the verge of starvation. And they alwaysdie moments after the birth. They die in agony."
"Ma, ma, mothers..." Duncan gasped. When had it become so hard to breathe?
"Yes. The mothers. Our mothers." Methos kept talking, slow and steady. He didn't seem to notice that Duncan was slowly dying in his lap. And he wasn't sure he would come back from this one. "Over the years I've managed to identify several specific genetic disorders that seem to be involved in the mutation, and several traits that can be identified as a result of it."
His hand patted Duncan's head.
"The most obvious one is the over-active adrenal gland. It gives us our strength, the ridiculously strong sex drives, and it makes us sterile. Female Immortals don't have the monthly cycles of normal females because of the testosterone that works so well with the adrenaline. The extra testosterone has pretty much the same effect as the adrenaline. Both combined make us rampantly aggressive."
"Quick - quicken-- " if he was going to *die*, he *would* understand this first.
"We store energy that others can't access." Methos shrugged lightly. "I didn't say it was a perfect theory, Duncan. In the last two thousand years, since this burden was given to me, I have delivered seven hundred and ninety-three Immortal children. We all know that we have to die a violent death for the Immortality to kick in, and it has to be after puberty has begun, even if it has *barely* begun. The hormones clearly trigger it."
Duncan would have moaned, but there was no air left in his lungs. Methos patted him again.
"It will get better in a few minutes. She's sleeping pretty deeply now, it should drop off."
That did not make Duncan feel any better. At this moment death was looking pretty appealing. Particularly if it would be permanent, and he wouldn't have to deal with this increasingly unreal situation.
In his mind, Tessa was beginning to get frustrated with him.
"There's one thing I want you to know." Methos was shifting him, putting Duncan's head on the floor, moving away and standing. He stared down at Duncan, and Duncan flopped, like a dying fish. "I would have told you. If you had lived long enough. I was going to tell you. I was looking forward to it. To having one other person who knew. Who understood."
He dropped his head until his chin touched his chest.
"It would have made me happy to tell you, Mac."
He turned his back on Duncan at about the same time Tessa got demanding and Duncan closed his eyes and went to her.
Life left him in a sweet, welcome rush.
***
Duncan raised his head cautiously.
It didn't hurt. It seemed to still be firmly attached to his shoulders.
So. He lived.
What the fuck was he supposed to do now?
For starters, he looked around.
He was somewhere else now. Unless he was hallucinating -- a real possibility under the circumstances -- he was on a bed. In a reasonably-priced hotel. Or motel, more likely.
There was a second bed a few feet away. The covers were mussed.
He was alive, and he felt Methos coming. Duncan sat up.
The door opened, and Methos came in. The baby was in a little carrier-car seat on the other bed.
"You're awake. Good, just in time." The man *bustled* in. "I thought you were going to miss it, and there was no way you'd believe me when I explained."
"Explained what?" he felt thick and stupid. Had he dreamed it? Any of it?
"It's a good thing I didn't tell you about this before." Methos gave him Adam's grin, from Adam's face. "Having you dead for a week has been less than helpful."
"I've been dead a *week*?!"
"She didn't mean it." Methos bent his neck and kissed the top of the baby's head. "But I *am* glad you're back. I haven't named her yet, I was rather hoping you would want to. Poor thing has been called 'baby' since she was born."
"Name her?" Duncan said faintly. Methos was gathering things, packing them up. Duncan was aware that he was naked, and clean.
"Before I give them up, I name them." Methos said, as if that were obvious.
"You named me?" It was a jump in logic that he regretted as soon as he made it.
"'Duncan' is a strong, masculine name. It suits you." Clothes were thrown at him without malice.
"You named me." Duncan repeated, musing. He dressed slowly, not trusting his body after the extended death, but he felt fine. He felt good. "Where are we going?" he asked, and then thought that perhaps he should have asked where they were first.
"The airport. Her new parents are meeting us there to take her home. The paperwork's been done, they're very anxious to meet her."
"Parents?" Duncan picked up the two suitcases when Methos pointed at them. Methos was carrying a maroon diaper bag with a faint embossed pattern of - teddy bears?
"I only deliver them, Duncan, I don't raise them. And there isn't always time to find good homes for them. I've delivered a baby while being hunted more than once. One of the good things about 'modern' society is that there are agencies set up that want to find babies for people, and a lot of them don't care where those babies come from."
Duncan caught up with him in the hall; Methos had walked while he talked. The new boots Duncan wore were the right size, but stiff.
He looked over Methos' shoulder at the sleeping infant and marveled at the change in her.
In only a week she seemed to have gained ten pounds. Her skin was dusky and flushed with health. Her hair fluffed around her round head in cute little curls.
She was wearing a yellow onesy -- Duncan had learned the word from Anne -- and she looked too perfect to be real.
"Think of a name, Highlander." Methos told him when they climbed into the taxi. It turned out that the baby-carrier in his hand doubled as a car seat. He strapped her in with amusing care while the taxi-driver rolled his eyes at them. "She's going to need one fairly soon."
"Won't the - the parents want to name her?"
"It's a condition of the adoption." Methos grinned at him. Adam's grin, Adam's face. It was disconcerting. "I do free private adoptions for carefully chosen families. They don't complain about the names."
Duncan, still searching for an anchor in the new world he'd rejoined, sat silent for the rest of the ride.
In the first class waiting room of a major airline, two men waited. As soon as Duncan and Methos walked in, Methos carrying the baby and Duncan her things, it was clear who they were.
They stood and stared as if they were afraid to come closer.
"I chose them because of you, Highlander." Methos leaned close enough to tell him quietly. "Because of what you and I found together. I've never given a baby to a gay couple before."
Duncan swallowed heavily. He wasn't ready to go there. He didn't think he ever would be.
Methos was no longer just the old man, in his mind. Now he knew what Methos was, and he'd seen who he was.
He didn't think he could love something so different from himself.
"Are you Michael Angelis?" the younger parent-to-be asked.
Caught off-guard, Duncan snorted at the name and smothered it in a cough. Methos threw him a dirty look and stepped forward, holding out the baby to the shorter of the two men, who was dark-skinned and of Asian descent.
"Yes, Hyuang. I am so glad to finally meet you. And you, Jonathan." He offered a hand and the taller man; blond and athletic, shook it, but his attention was on the Asian man and the baby.
"Oh, she's beautiful." Hyuang had tears in his eyes. Jonathan reached around him to touch her, and began crying. "Isn't she beautiful?"
Methos watched them. He watched with a certain stillness that Duncan thought he might understand.
He went to him and stood beside him, to watch with him.
After several minutes of pure emotion, Hyuang looked at Methos.
"So, what is her name? I hope it's something as beautiful as she is."
Methos looked at Duncan. Duncan met the eyes of the man holding the baby.
"Tessa Noel." He didn't know what he was going to say until the words left his mouth. "Tessa Noel."
"Tessa."
"Tessa Noel, Tessa, Tess, Tessa."
They tried it out and she stirred. Both men broke into tear-streaked smiles.
"It suits her." Jonathan said.
"Yes," Methos agreed, watching Duncan. "It does."
There were last-minute papers to sign. Duncan watched the way Hyuang cared for the baby while Jonathan took care of the details. They seemed to work well together as a team. Methos gave them a short lecture and answered a couple of nervous questions, but it was plain that these men had prepared themselves for this day. They were ready for a baby.
When the flight attendant came to get them, Hyuang kissed her face and handed her to Jonathan like it had all been planned ahead of time. It was so natural that Duncan felt like he might cry, too.
He was startled by the hug the short man launched at him, and couldn't help laughing when Methos got the same treatment. The two new parents practically danced onto the airplane.
Duncan watched it take off, Methos by his side.
"Where are they taking her?" he asked when he could no longer see the plane. "San Francisco?"
"Blech, no." Methos touched his shoulder and they started walking out. "Their first stop is to the Embassy to get her a visa. Then they'll take her home to Idaho. Hyuang is a radio DJ and Jonathan is a radiologist. They both have families there that are very supportive of the adoption, so they'll have plenty of help."
"Sounds like you know a lot about them."
"I work hard to find the best families." They were out in the main entry now. Duncan paused and gave Methos a hard look.
"So what happened to Richie?" He hadn't spoken the name in years. Richie hadn't ended up in a good family with aunts and uncles and cousins to love him.
Methos sighed.
"He was born in a hospital, Mac. It was all I could do to get close enough to make sure he *lived*. Short of kidnapping, there wasn't anything I could do. He was adopted right away, but those parents died only a few months later."
"You could have told him that. It would have meant the world to him." Duncan said, unwilling to forgive.
"And explain it how?" Methos shrugged. "I know why you came after me, MacLeod, and it was sweet, in a juvenile, pathetically romantic way. But now you know, so we don't have to pretend anymore. You aren't ready to accept me, and I can't live with anything less."
He paused. Duncan stood in front of him. He couldn't think of anything to say. He hadn't made any decisions.
When Methos looked up again, there was a shadow in his eyes that reminded Duncan again of what Methos was, and what he wasn't.
He was not 'just a guy'. He never had been.
Duncan had been in love with someone that didn't exist.
"I can't accept anything less, Highlander," Methos repeated. "Not anymore. Not from you."
With that he turned abruptly and walked away, melting into the crowd so quickly that Duncan lost sight of him before he even realized it.
This time, Duncan did not follow him. Didn't even consider it.
Instead, he went to the nearest telephone, his satellite phone had apparently been abandoned in Bangladesh, with the jeep and his clothes. He started making calls.
He had a job to get back to, two of them in fact. The University and Peter Brighton. The student he'd left in charge of the dojo had no doubt had some kind of panic attack when he hadn't come back on time.
He had a friend that he owed attention to. If Joe Dawson was going to die, he was going to do it after Duncan made sure Joe knew how much Duncan cared for him.
Most of all, he had a life to change. Parts of it needed cleaning, parts of it needed to be removed. And parts of it just needed to be understood.
As he waited for the first call to go through, he noticed a calendar on the wall behind a ticket counter and idly counted backwards. The date he came up with made him smile.
Tessa Noel had been born on Heather MacLeod's birthday.
What better omen for her than that?
