LUCIFER FALLING

by Kitty Fisher

Morning was never the best part of Joe Dawson's day; especially mornings he had to be at work before the bar was even open. Paperwork. Jesus, it was a pain. Grimacing to himself, he pushed the stack of papers away, wondering why it all took so long, and why it was all so incredibly boring. What he needed was another coffee. Something to keep alert enough to actually get some more done. He reached for his cane and slowly stood up, sighing, then picked up his mug.

Turning, he stopped in his tracks, as the street door opened, streaking daylight into the shadows. If he felt surprise, or anything else, nothing showed on his patient face. He merely straightened, watching calmly as the man threaded his way slowly through the tables, his long black coat wrapped tight around his body, as if he was cold to the bone.

Joe nodded once as he approached, waiting until he was close before he spoke. "You survived then."

Methos, Immortal and some–time Watcher, seemed to consider blankly, then he simply nodded.

"Macleod isn't with you?"

Another slight head movement, this time accompanied by a soft, "No."

"But it all worked out then?" It was a question, one that wouldn't have to be asked with such uncertainty were it not for the misery clear in his friend.

Methos took a sharp breath, then sighed, a weak smile ghosting around his mouth. "You could say that."

"Good. Want a coffee?"

Another nod.

Joe pushed past Methos and went over to the coffee maker behind the bar. He put two mugs on the counter, then reaching for a jug, poured, whilst covertly examining the subdued figure before him. He was frowning. "Adam, when the hell did you last eat? You look thin as my stick!"

"I'm all right, Joe." On the customer side of the bar, Methos gave a small shake of his head. Then he looked down, staring hard at his fingers where they were linked together, resting on the counter. "I'm just fine."

"Yeah!" Joe gave a wry snort, then asked doubtfully, "and the plan really worked?"

"Yes." Impatience there.

"And Mac understands?"

Methos blinked, his face pallid in the artificial light. "No, I don't think you could really say that." Finally, he lifted his head, though his eyes were closed for a long moment. Then, they opened and he met Joe's steady, sympathetic gaze. "In fact, I think he still despises me." He considered, then gave an awkward shrug. "Maybe he even despises me more than he did, I don't know."

"He always was a fool."

"No, Joe. That he isn't."

Joe laughed, as if at a bad joke. "Tell me another one! I tried to explain a few facts of life to him..."

"You didn't tell him what I was planning?" Methos stopped abruptly, visibly taking control of the momentary panic. "No, you couldn't have done. He'd have said something."

"Adam, come on now, you're not making sense. I did as you asked, I didn't give your scheme away. I did defend you though, I couldn't have him listening to Cassandra, could I!"

"No." He closed his eyes again, his mouth twisting bitterly.

"Adam, for Christ's sake, what is all this...you're acting as if someone died."

"Three people died, Joe." Methos answered softly. "One I despised, and have done for three thousand years, one I liked and yet who I killed myself, and one...well..." He grimaced.

"So Mac killed Kronos."

"He did."

"Even though he didn't know the truth about you and Kronos?"

Methos shook his head slowly. He leant heavily against the bar, the knuckles of his hands white where they gripped together.

"Not about back all those years ago?" Joe took the slight movement for a negative. "Or here?"

"I didn't tell him! What do you think I'm made of?" Methos blinked, the skin around his eyes pinching. "But, since he took Kronos' quickening, I should think he knows everything..." his husky voice tailed off.

"What has he said?"

"Nothing."

Joe shrugged. "Well then!"

"He didn't need to."

"Come on, you only have to explain things.."

"Oh, I can see that!" Methos straightened, all hauteur and pain.

"Why not — he understands that sometimes you have to do more than you want, more than..."

"No! I'm not talking to him, of all people, about this. And even if I did, as he knows everything... Bloody hell! No way." His hands parted, then slammed back down on the bar.

Joe softened his voice, sympathy wasted as Methos still wasn't meeting his eyes. "Tell me, what's he said?"

"He didn't need to say anything. He just knew..."

"Did you stay and talk to him at all?"

"No really. I tried, but every time I looked at him I remembered what he knew about..." Methos blinked, utterly distraught, then tried again, "he knows..." With a soft sound of utter distress he broke off, words strangling in his throat. He backed away, incoherent, a hand over his mouth, then suddenly turned on his heel and headed with long strides for the wash–room.

Joe watched him disappear through the swing–door, and shook his head, knowing for certain he was glad to be mortal. One lifetime was enough, how any of them dealt with the added weight of ten or a hundred of the same was a mystery. That this one was still sane...well, he wouldn't have laid money on his own state of mind after so long. With a sigh he unhooked his stick and, with a nod to an employee to take over behind the bar, slowly walking after his friend.

He was in time to hear the cistern flush. Leaning against the wall, propped on his stick, he waited. After a while a forlorn Methos emerged from one of the cubicles and headed for a sink, studiously ignoring the mirror that hung on the wall.

Joe watched him, then asked gruffly, "Are you going to tell me about it?"

Methos was splashing cold water onto his face. He rinsed out his mouth, spat. Then again. Finally he looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his face grey, thousands of years shadowed in his eyes. "No."

"Is it that you loved Kronos?"

"You do like to cut to the chase, don't you?"

"Did you?"

Methos shuddered once, then answered softly. "Once, maybe, though that was in another country; besides, the person I was then is dead."

"It was certainly a hell of a long time ago!"

"Indeed."

He shrugged again, leaving Joe unsure if he was just being humoured. Joe poked at a loose wall–tile with his stick. "Well, did Kronos love you?"

Methos sighed, and answered, his voice very weary, very patient. "I thought I said I didn't want to talk about this?"

"And I thought I'd just ignore you."

After a moment, Methos gave a grudging smile, though it lasted only a second. Then he answered gravely, his eyes averted. "I don't know. Probably not. Though he cared for me, for a while, in his own peculiarly possessive way."

"He can't have been all that pleased to find you so changed. What did he do?"

"You don't want to know..."

Joe waited a beat, the images his head conjured making him understand the despair in his friend. Very quietly he asked, "What did he make you do?"

Methos' face grew pinched, the bones almost carving through the skin. "When, Joe?" His voice was bitter edged. "Back in the barbaric mists of time, or here in civilization?"

Joe ignored the bitter irony. "Either, both..."

"Hell!" He looked as if he was going to be ill again, but he steadied, holding on hard to the sink. "Joe, I..."

Joe watched the mirrored despair, seeing a young man at the limits of his strength, feeling so much older, like a father, which was crazy. A father whose son had been abused, yet whose anger couldn't be allowed to show. He shook his head. "Come on, lets get out of here. My office is out back, you need something to eat."

"No thanks."

"You need something or you'll fall over."

"I'll survive."

"Yeah, you might. It'll be less painful with food though — I hear starvation's a nasty way to go. How did you get here?"

"Air France."

"I didn't think you walked!" Joe pulled the door open, held it open, though Methos tutted and with weak courtesy ushered him through first. "Didn't they feed you?"

"I was ill most of the way — told them I'd eaten some bad bouillabaisse. I won't be welcomed with open arms by that cabin crew again."

"Then you need something, come on."

Joe led the way through the bar, taped music flowing low and melancholy around them. The office was tucked just at the back of the stage. Spartan and efficient it contained a desk, a couple of chairs and a battered old couch. "Make yourself at home, I'll organise some food."

"Thanks." Methos eased himself down into the soft arm–chair and settled back, his eyes closing almost immediately.

Joe watched his friend, and let himself be glad that Methos had survived. He looked very young, very worn. It had been an exacting month; whatever Kronos had done, it couldn't have been easy, or kind. He wondered what it would be like, knowing that Macleod knew all of that, every nuance of that sick bastard's memory there for Mac to inspect and judge. Macleod the moralist. Shit. Facing him, knowing all that, couldn't have been easy either.

"You going to watch me until I fall asleep?"

Joe started at the dry question. "No. What about some lunch, soup or something?"

"No." Methos opened his eyes long enough to grimace, then apologetically half–smile. "But thanks for the thought."

"What about a drink then?"

"Tea would be nice." Methos' voice was slurring.

"Tea?"

"Mmm."

Joe stayed where he was for a little while longer, watching as Methos slid into sleep. Methos would be fine, physically, after enough rest, that much was more than certain. Mentally? Well, Joe had known him for a long time, yet he had never seen him this despondent, this disturbed out of his usual equilibrium. Methos the survivor, crumbling because one of his kind didn't have the grace to see that need often outweighed morality.

Macleod was an idiot.

Joe sighed. Sorting this mess out would take more than a cup of tea — which was the only thing Methos had asked for. He straightened slowly, bones aching, both real and imaginary. Tea. Well, there had to be some around somewhere.

Joe let himself out of the office, closing the door quietly. He hesitated there, leaning his weight on the dark corridor's wall. It was a conundrum, trying to work out what to do. His immediate reaction was to call Macleod, and trust the two Immortals to work it all out between them. After all, he and Macleod had spoken hurriedly only the day before, and Mac had asked then if Methos was around. Joe had been too happy knowing that both his friends were still alive to question why Duncan thought Methos had left France. And, what with Mac being in such a hurry to get off the phone, Joe had hardly thought any further. Life had taken over his thoughts until the moment Methos had walked into the bar looking shadowed by demons. Now, with the enlightening benefit of hindsight, it was possible to read all sorts of meaning into that quick conversation; that enquiry. For that was what it had really been — Mac trying to find Methos.

A call now wouldn't hurt, surely? Was it even possible to make the situation worse? Probably not, though Methos would most likely leave if he knew what Joe was doing.

Unless by coming here he'd actually wanted Macleod to catch up with him. There was a possibility. He was devious enough, both consciously and subconsciously. Joe grinned to himself. Devious enough when he was capable of thought. At the minute, he was asleep, so deeply he was almost unconscious, and it looked as if he hadn't been thinking straight since the death of the other horsemen. So maybe it was time to call Macleod, find out what he had to say about all of this. Maybe even tell him about the visitor, if the vibes were right.

He went slowly back out into the bar, called over one of the staff who was wiping off a table, readying the bar for morning opening. "Pete, have we got any tea around?"

"I'll look some out for you — you want me to make it now?

"No. Just check we've got any, if not, go round to the store and buy some, will you?."

"Sure, what sort?"

Joe looked blank.

"You know, fruit, or spice, or..." Pete ran out of alternatives. "Whatever."

"Oh, just plain tea."

"Sure."

"Thanks. Everything going all right out here?"

"No problems so far." Pete grinned, walking off to serve a customer as Joe laughed. There were no certainties in this trade, that was for sure. There was never any telling how many people would decide to visit the bar at any given time, never any guarantee that there wouldn't be trouble. Not that there often was, but anywhere drink was served had a share of drunken fools and volatile arguments. People were often just as difficult as Immortals.

As his office was in use, Joe used the phone tucked at the side of the bar. He settled on a high stool and dialled. It was always faintly disconcerting that a call to Paris was no more difficult to place than one to New Jersey — and sometimes was easier. Joe punched in the numbers, waited for a few rings, then the familiar voice answered, sounding sleepy. Joe didn't bother to announce himself. "Did I wake you?"

"No, Joe, I'm always awake at..." there was the sound of a watch being fumbled for. "...three in the morning! What's happened?"

"Calm down, everything's fine."

"What then, did you forget the time difference?"

"No..."

"Feel like maybe I needed an early morning wake–up call instead of my beauty sleep?"

"Shut up, Mac." Joe was almost laughing. "You know you don't need any beauty sleep — and yeah, maybe I did forget the time."

"I knew it."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes." There was surprise in the answer. "Why?"

"Just curious."

"Oh, I get it, you're checking up on my sex–life now. Very sweet of you, Joe, but tonight I'm all alone."

There was warmth and amusement there, and maybe a hint of effort behind the apparent relaxation, as if it was all somehow an effort. Dawson paused, wanting to clear his throat nervously, his own attempt at normal conversation drying on his lips. He coughed and asked, "So, how's things?"

"You ring me up in the middle of the night to catch up? Joe..."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. Everything is...fine."

"Any more about the Horsemen?"

Silence. Then — "I told you, three of them are dead."

"Did you kill Kronos?"

"Yeah."

"What about Methos?"

"He's alive, I told you that as well." Duncan paused, the silence broken only by satellite echoes on the line. "That's about all there is."

"You and Methos, did you fight?"

"No."

Joe heard the surprise. "Mac, I didn't mean with swords!"

"No, we didn't as much as argue over who paid a restaurant tab."

"Yet he just didn't stick around?"

"Mmm."

"Without having talked?"

"What is this, Joe? The Spanish Inquisition?"

"Maybe, though it is real hard to use red–hot pincers over the phone." Joe waited for the snort of laughter, then asked the question this had all led up to, "Would you want to talk to him?"

"Yes. Though, as I don't know where he is, that might be a bit difficult. Unless you've heard something?"

The question was simple, yet Joe was sure he could hear something close to desperation under the words. He chewed his lip for a second, then took a gamble, trusting his own intuition. "Mac, Methos is here."

"What! But, I rang yesterday, and you hadn't seen him..."

"I hadn't then. He walked in an hour or so back — looking like death warmed up."

"Jesus! Like death... Don't tell him that, he might not react too well."

"Because of what he was?"

Silence. Then Duncan asked slightly breathlessly, "You know about all that?"

"Some of it. I know about the Horsemen, and some other stuff that happened; Methos told me a while back. He says you know even more." Joe took a deep breath and considered crossing his fingers. "Mac, he thinks you despise him."

"Despise... He said that?"

"Yeah. He started to talk about it, about you and Kronos, then he threw up."

"Damn..."

"Do you despise him, Mac?"

"No."

"Why didn't you tell him."

I didn't get a chance! We buried the bodies then he was gone, disappeared before I really had a chance to say anything."

"He's here, Mac."

A long pause, then, "Is that an invitation from him?"

"No, from me. And he won't be here for long, I can tell you that. I reckon he's only stopping off to say goodbye. As it is, if he realises I've told you, he'll be off as fast as he can."

"I'll be there. Can you keep him until tonight? I'll be in then if I can, otherwise it'll be the morning."

"Keeping him might be easier said than done, but I'll do what I can."

"Thanks, Joe. Really."

"Yeah, yeah!" Joe growled at the phone. "Just get here, or there might be nothing to visit other than me!"

His only answer was the off–key tone of a disconnected line.

Joe gently replaced the handset in its cradle and had a hollow pang of doubt. Well, it was done, so that was that. Whether it was right or wrong, only time would tell, but at least Macleod had seemed positive. In fact he had been actively eager.

It could all have been much worse, the Highlander could have simply told him to call back when Methos was gone. Joe sighed to himself, unsure why he felt it was so important that the two came together and resolved their differences. Though the differences appeared to be mainly on Methos side, otherwise why would Mac be so eager to get here?

Unless it was for Methos' head.

Joe frowned as the thought skittered into his mind, then he immediately dismissed the idea as ridiculous. If Macleod had any agenda for Methos, death didn't seem to appear on it, or he would have settled the matter months ago.

Unless Kronos had changed all that.

Joe let that one wander around in his thoughts for a bit, then shook his head, sure he was over–complicating the issue. He called himself ten different kinds of fool, and manoeuvred himself off the stool. It was getting busy and there were things to prepare for the evening performance. He started making lists, though he did make a mental note to be sure that Methos was awake and alert when Macleod finally did turn up.

* * * * *

Hours later, after query upon query and scarcely a moment to himself, Joe decided enough was enough and left his staff to it. They were efficient enough, and besides, if some crisis did come up, it wasn't as if he was going to be far away.

Relying on Pete's good graces, he rustled up a tray of food, complete with tea and, with the same amiable young man as porter, finally went back to the office. He presumed Methos was still asleep, he hadn't emerged all afternoon. The door opened silently as he turned the handle, and he peered around it. Methos was curled deep into the big arm–chair, his coat wrapped about him.

Joe, as quiet as he could, walked inside and gestured for Pete to leave the tray on the desk. He waved his thanks and ignoring the curious looks cast at his visitor, closed the door as his employee left.

Methos was really sleeping like the dead. Not even when Joe dropped his stick did he wake, or even twitch. Though from what he knew of his friend, if another Immortal came within the range of whatever it was they used for radar, he would soon rouse.

Joe awkwardly picked his stick off the floor and wondered. Five thousand years old, and all it would take was a sharp sword and all of it would be gone. Good job Methos was safe here — as safe as it ever got. And, from the depth of this sleep, that was something which Methos clearly felt. The thought made Joe smile, proud in the trust that this man bestowed on him.

Five thousand years. As old as civilization, more or less. It was crazy. More than crazy — sad. He stared at the sleeping face and realised an old blues riff had played its way into his head, one as melancholy as rain in autumn, and he almost laughed out loud. Hell, if the old man knew what he was thinking, he'd never hear the end of it. Joe tutted wryly to himself; if there was one thing this guy really hated, it was to being taken too seriously.

"Hey, Methos..." Joe leant down stopped, just before his hand made contact in order to shake him awake. He frowned as the sleeper twisted suddenly, a soft sound slipping from his tightly closed mouth. "Methos?"

But the nightmare was making the long body twist in the chair, pulling the ascetic face into a mask of misery. Joe reached out and touched the skin of one hand, repeating the softly spoken name, "Methos..." And ended up flat on his back as an arm hit out violently.

Mildly stunned by surprise, he lay where he was.

"Joe..?"

"You awake?"

"Yes. Yes, I must be. Hell, I'm sorry! I must have been dreaming..."

"I noticed."

"I didn't know who you were."

"Good. Now get me off the floor, will you?"

"Sure, sure." Methos wiped a hand over his face and slightly unsteadily got to his feet. "Come on." He moved so he was at Joe's back then putting both hands under his arms levered him upright. They stood quite close for a moment, Joe turning to ask a silent question. Methos sighed, rubbing a hand through his short, cropped hair, "I am sorry. I haven't been sleeping all that well of late."

"You whacked anyone else?"

"No one else has been near enough. Sorry. You okay?"

"A bruised butt, nothing serious."

Methos turned away and sat down on the edge of the chair, his face in his hands. When he spoke his voice was muffled. "I shouldn't have come here..."

Still standing, Joe looked down and asked, "Why did you?"

Thin shoulders sketched a shrug.

"Whatever your reasons, Methos, I'm glad you did."

"Really." Irony again.

"Yeah. Even if you do plaster me all over the floor." He rubbed delicately at one hip.

Methos lifted his head from his hands. He was still very pale, pinched, the skin around his eyes fragile. "Shall I apologise again?"

"No. I thought you might try laughing, for a change." The darkened eyes flinched. Joe muttered something under his breath, then asked, all brisk efficiency, "Hell, you still want that tea?"

Methos closed his eyes in an approximation of a man being offered his heart's desire. "Please."

"There you go." He nodded to the desk smugly. "There's a sandwich as well, some potato–chips, a little salad. Eat what you want."

Methos stood up, absent–mindedly easing the muscles in his neck, then went over to inspect the food. His stomach gave a loud rumble, and he looked down at in almost comical surprise. "Guess I must be hungry!" He grinned over his shoulder.

"Eat up then. Hope the tea's okay."

Methos inspected the cooling cup of hot water, then picked up off the saucer the tea–bag by its little piece of string. If he fantasised about a tea–pot, or boiling water, or tea–leaves, he didn't show Joe. Merely raising a brow the other man couldn't see he dropped the bag into the water. "Thanks, Joe. This is great."

"I still think a beer would have been easier!"

"But at the moment, let me tell you, I really appreciate this." Methos was dunking the bag by its little tail of string, in and out of the water. Which even after concerted effort was still only just about the colour of pale gold. At least it would be hot...

"Sit at the desk, take your time." Joe settled himself on the couch that ran against one wall. He watched his companion circumnavigate the desk and sit down as if every bone ached. "You all right?"

Settling into the chair, leaning his elbows on the desk, Methos considered, his head tilted slightly to one side. "That depends on whether you want truth, or a social nicety."

"Oh, truth, every time!" Joe grinned at the disbelieving look he got from under Methos' brow. "Well..."

"Exactly." He took a bite of sandwich, chewed, swallowed, then took a sip of the tea. Only then did he answer. "I'm tired, Joe."

"Its been a rough few weeks."

"Understatement!" The flash of dark humour was soon gone. "But I mean really tired. I want to live, so badly...but... Hell, I just wonder sometimes if it is all worth it."

"After so long, it must be!"

"After so long..." Methos stared at his plate. "I don't know." Then he took another bite, as if suddenly ravenous.

"Why don't you tell Mac what you feel for him?"

Methos shuddered violently, the tremor running fast through his body then going, leaving him pale, ashen; the sandwich in pieces where his fingers had torn through it. "I might have done, once. Not now..."

"Because of Kronos."

"Because of Kronos." He nodded slowly in affirmation.

"I still think you should talk to him."

"Yeah, I know you do. But you don't have all the facts, you don't know what it was like." He lowered his hands, brushing bread off his fingers. "And you have no idea what Duncan thinks."

"Prove him wrong." Joe leant forward, eager to convince.

But Methos picked at the ruins of his meal, his long fingers wrecking it even further. "How can I, Joe? When all he knows is the truth."

"To hell with Kronos!" Joe thumped his stick on the floor, utterly frustrated at he ability these two had to misunderstand each other. Hell, he'd never seen himself in the role of match–maker before, but such unhappiness was painful to watch. And someone had to do something to sort things out. "I don't think it matters a damn what you did with that worthless bastard — I don't think Mac can care either!"

"No?"

Was there hope in that word, or simply suppressed ridicule? "No. He cares more for you than that." If anything, Joe was certain the Immortal before him blushed, his cheeks tinting a pale red.

"I don't think so."

"You think too much, that's your problem, Methos." Joe shook his head in disgust. "You think too fucking much."

"Sometimes it is difficult not to." Methos took a deep, unsteady breath. "It could all have been so different."

"Yeah, I've said that one myself a few times." Joe pushed himself up from the seat. "I'm having a drink, want one?"

"Yeah, why not." Methos slumped back in the chair, then reached forward and picked a sliver of lettuce off the plate and popped it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully.

"Malt or bourbon?" Joe was standing by his private stocks. "or I can get you a beer if you'd rather."

"No. Malt's fine."

"There you go — Tallisker."

Methos gave him a sour look over the glass. "Thanks, Joe. You making a point or something?"

"No." Disingenuous, Joe sat down and took a sip of his own drink. "Mac gave it to me, he says it's from his clan country."

"It is."

Joe waited, sipping happily. "Good isn't it?"

A soft sigh drifted across the desk. "The best, Joe. The best..."

They drank for about an hour, hardly talking, each involved in his own thoughts. Then Methos yawned, widely, and Joe noticed that his eyes were red rimmed again. "Hey — you get back to sleep."

"I should go..."

"Why, for chrissake? Settle down here, you won't be disturbed."

"You sure?"

"Don't make me mad!" Joe tutted to himself and watched as Methos stood up, very slightly unsteady. "Come on, give me a hand."

Methos came and stood at his side, slid an arm under his and levered him upright. "You okay to work?"

"I can handle a guitar after a bottle of malt, let alone half!"

"Sorry!" Methos grinned.

"And do you think I have employees if not to deal with the punters."

"The best way." He smiled, warmth and easy humour crinkling his eyes. Then, suddenly, he was serious. "Joe, do you think I should have said something to Macleod, before all this?"

"Damn right." Through the merry haze of malt, Joe tried to sort his thoughts. "He wants you as bad as you want him, he was like bear with a sore head so long I nearly set the two of you up on a blind date!" Joe laughed wryly, shaking his head in bemusement. "You know, in the army I had a rep as a homophobe. I wasn't, but rumour's a funny thing. Anyway, I wonder what they'd think of this, me trying to get you two sorted!"

"Laugh. I don't know."

"Neither do I. But get yourself sorted out, Methos, okay?"

"Yeah!" Methos waved an airy hand around, the gesture only just too expansive for a sober man. "I'll just tell him what I feel and wait for my head to leave my body." He stopped then, and his shoulders slumped as if in defeat. "What if I'm wrong, Joe? What if I may as well be dreaming?" He smiled lopsidedly. "After all, have you seen him date a guy? He might be really straight."

"Yeah, yeah. And what are you, mister ancient? Gay, straight, bisexual? They're just labels. Mac's what he wants to be." Joe snorted in bemusement. "Christ, you'd think the two of you could have a few more skills at this sort of thing, after practising for so long!"

"That's the trouble, Joe, I haven't been doing any practising at all. And now its too bloody late."

"It is never too late, surely you understand that?

"Do I?" Methos sank back onto the couch Joe had vacated, his face troubled, maudlin. "Maybe."

"Go to sleep. This is just the whisky talking."

"Talking profoundly..."

"Yeah, through its arse. Sleep well, I'll be back at when I've closed up." Joe unhooked his stick from the back of a chair and went towards the door.

"Thanks..."

"No problem, Adam. Anytime."

"What would I do without you?"

"Pay for a hotel!" Joe laughed, warmed when Methos softly followed suit. "Go on. There's a comforter behind the end cushion."

"Night..."

Joe let himself out of the office, totally confused as to whether he'd done the right thing in getting Macleod over. Still, it was done. And Methos couldn't get much unhappier than he was, that was for certain.

* * * * *

Hours later, well past midnight, no longer even a little bit drunk, Joe Dawson said good night to the last of his staff to leave, and locked up for the night. He yawned widely, and ran a hand through his hair. He felt exhausted, as if someone had stolen all his energy. Well, that would teach him to drink too much whisky so early in the day. Though at least his head didn't ache too much anymore — thank the lord for Tylenol.

The conversation with Methos had been worth a little suffering though. He was someone who rarely spoke of what he really felt, and it had needed the malt to loosen things up, let him talk. Though it hadn't been the most optimistic conversation in the world, that was certain. What was needed was Macleod here, now. Though the likelihood of him getting here before tomorrow was running out.

With a sigh Dawson slipped the keys into his pocket and, with one last look around the empty bar, headed for the office and his friend. He was only half way there when Methos emerged, blinking sleep out of his eyes. "Hi, Joe — what time is it?"

"Midnight. You feeling better?"

"Much. I'd love another cup of tea though, for some reason I'm really thirsty." He grinned.

"I wonder why! Come on, you can help me make it."

"I knew there'd be a catch."

"Always."

"Mmm, I've found that out."

"You'd be bloody naive if you hadn't, come on."

Methos followed in his wake across the bar. They were half–way when a loud banging at the door stopped both men in their tracks and Methos felt the first insidious curl of awareness at another Immortal's presence. He turned to Joe and raised an eyebrow, his face expressing something close to resignation. "Macleod?"

Joe admitted, "Yeah, I called him."

"Well, I didn't think he was here on the off–chance for a beer!"

"You can't run away forever. And he does want to talk to you."

"But do I want to talk to him?" The question was almost aimed at himself, but after a second, Methos sighed. "Go on, Joe, let him in before the neighbours complain about the noise."

As fast as his halting stride would allow, Joe went to the door and unfastened the bolts. He pulled the door open and Macleod slipped inside. It had been raining, his leather coat glistened under the electric lights, his tied back hair sparking broken pin–points of brilliance as he moved. He looked tired, his chin unshaven, his eyes very sombre as he stared at Methos.

Joe wondered if either of them was aware he was still in the room. He looked between them and shook his head. "I'm going home. If you want anything, sorry, all the coffee machines are off, but you know where the kitchen is. Just don't kill each other — my insurance isn't up to it!" He waited a moment for any response, but when neither man even looked at him, he gave in and left them to it.

Methos, standing alone in the wide room, his shoulders slumped, blinked as Macleod paced slowly towards him, unbuttoning his coat as he moved. It seemed as if he filled the room, not just from physical power, though he had enough of that, but with his presence, the force of character that made eyes turn. He was a beautiful animal, graced with both intelligence and integrity; an altogether overwhelming combination. Methos slid his hands deep into his pockets, and tried for nonchalance, ignoring the speeding of his heart and the sudden dryness of his mouth. "Hello, Macleod."

"Methos."

"Good journey?"

"No."

"Me neither. I've had worse though."

"You would have."

"I suppose I would." Methos acknowledged the hit with a nod.

"Why did you leave?"

"I didn't realise you wanted me to stay."

"Guess I should've tied you down." Macleod's sudden, vicious anger filled the room.

Methos flinched, swallowing hard on bile. Unwilling to show comprehension of what the other man meant, he asked, "Why?" Though he needed two stabs at the word before one emerged coherently.

"One, because you wouldn't have been able to run away, and two, because you would have enjoyed it!" Macleod almost spat the last, fury bringing him a step closer.

Methos took a long indrawn breath, his head tilting back as shoulders almost locked with tension. "Kronos' memories."

"Yeah, what d'you expect after I killed him?"

"This. Nothing but this." This anger, this hatred, was only his just desert. Methos gestured emptily, his hands falling loosely at his sides.

"Yeah."

"Do you want my head?" Methos dragged strength from nowhere, and met Macleod's eyes. "Is that why you came here?"

"No."

"Oh." Methos blinked in surprise. "Then..."

"I want you to tell me why."

"Why what?" Methos' voice was very soft as he passively accepted the anger being flung at him.

"Why you let him treat you like that! Why you were such a damned coward!"

"And you wonder why exactly I left France." Methos laughed, the sound a dry rattle in his throat.

"I went looking for you, but you'd gone. There were things left unsaid!"

"Unsaid?" Methos stirred himself, finally letting the words bite home. "You said enough. Every time you looked at me you spoke volumes! I left, Duncan, because I didn't want you preaching at me." The last was almost shouted, anger suddenly there to match any Duncan could find.

"How did you know I'd preach?"

"Because, you are you! You haven't a clue about what it was like for me, you just judge by your own standards, ones that would have got you killed."

"And yet you survived."

"Yes, heard this before? — it is what I do best!"

"And you'll do anything to make sure of it."

"Yes."

"Even be his...his..."

"Slave. That's what I was. He captured me, he liked me, I was careful to make him understand how useful I could be, I ended up riding with him, and sleeping with him when he wanted me. I was as equal as he wanted me to be, and after a while, yes I enjoyed it. Can you even begin to imagine what it was like, finally having some measure of power? No, of course you can't — you've never been without it, have you, no one ever enslaved the warrior Macleod, did they? Lucky you didn't live a few thousand years earlier!" He caught hold of his anger, breathing hard. "I killed, hunted, and lived for the Horsemen — for Kronos. And yes, I was bloody good at all of it. I was even bloody good in bed. You see, everything I told you was true." Methos shivered as the anger spilled away, leaving his voice hoarse and cracked. "It was all as simple as that."

"Sleeping?" Duncan ignored most of what Methos had said, fixing on one detail. "I don't see much of that, you were avid as a fucking rabbit!"

"Avid." Methos suddenly relaxed, a bitter smile tearing his face across. "Yeah, once I'd got used to being raped, being made love to was a pleasant change — and before you quibble, after what I'd been used to it was love — so I suppose you could say I was avid. You know — he was the first man to ask me what I wanted, to consider that I might be a better bed–mate if I actually had a chance of enjoying being there." Methos watched revulsion slip across Macleod's face. He stopped explaining, and sighed. "I told you that you wouldn't understand." He turned away, heading slightly unsteadily for the bar. A hand on his shoulder stopped him, the touch like fire in his veins.

"What about now, not all those thousands of years ago. What about when he found you, stabbed a knife through your heart and gave you the choice of being his companion or dying, what about then — you loved it! You didn't even have to think twice!"

There was no thought behind the action, simply blind rage. Before he knew what he was doing, Methos had lashed out, turning on one heel and punching Macleod as hard as he could, the feeling of flesh colliding with flesh utterly, insanely satisfying.

Taken by surprise, Duncan crashed into a table, splintering it into pieces before he fell heavily to the floor, lying there in a sprawl of broken wood, his coat open around him, sword glinting, docile at his side. After a long breath, he climbed to his feet, then slid his coat off, tossing it, and the sword it held, across a chair. He gave a feral grin. "Just so you don't misunderstand anything." Then without warning, he was grappling close, skill and fury taking Methos down hard.

Face twisted away from the floor, Methos by necessity held still, his throat a hairs–breadth from being broken. Sweat lay slick along his jaw, highlighting the bones of his face; his skin was very pale, his eyes without hope. The image of Macleod pressed along the length of his back was something that recurred in fantasies. But not like this, not like this. Despair was bitter herbs, burned in his mouth.

"Did it turn you on when he used the chains? I thought you looked a bit he worse for wear when you came to the dojo, but I didn't realise it was because you'd just been well and truly fucked! He was a sick bastard — but an inventive one, I'll give him that."

The hands tightened imperceptibly. Deprived of movement, of air, pain spiking through his back, Methos still managed to laugh. "Oh, think what you want of me, Macleod. I don't give a damn!"

"Don't you. Did you want me dead? What was it all about, all the games, all the tricks?"

The room darkened at the edges. Want Macleod dead? What a pathetic joke. Methos tried to explain but gave up, Macleod wouldn't want to hear the answers anyway.

"I know what you want, or is it need? Shall I fuck you here?" He thrust down with his hips into the curve of Methos arse. "Would you scream my name the way you screamed his if I beat you, if I hurt you enough?" Duncan was shouting, his whole body an instrument of his anger, his pain. "Was that all you wanted? I could have done that, I could!" He broke off, the words choking in his throat and his muscles tightened. "Methos...I loved you!"

The declaration, sharp as a knife twisted deep into flesh, was the last thing Methos heard. Startled by Macleod's words he moved a millimetre too far. And slumped in Duncan's arms as, with a soft, sickening crunch, his neck succumbed to the pressure.

Appalled, shocked out of anger into something closer to sanity, Macleod slowly relaxed his hands, peeling them away from skin, seeing the dark bruises they left behind. He swallowed bitterly, stunned to realise that he was hard, so aroused he was close to coming. Like a scalded animal he was away from the body, on his feet, turning away, hiding himself, denying everything. He staggered to lean on the bar, every muscle shaking. Only after a seemingly impossible time, the need faded, leaving an ache in his groin, a hollow pain in his gut and his mind in turmoil. He wiped a shaky hand over his mouth and slowly straightened, turning.

Methos was there, sprawled untidily on the floor. He was still quite dead.

Duncan stared at him, and the wanting was still there, his own need allied with Kronos'. That he could imagine such things, want to inflict such things on that long, supple body... It was so wrong... He had always prided himself on being a considerate lover, never hurting more than the rough–and–tumble that good sex necessitated. Now, he saw in his mind Methos on his knees, a practise sword–fight lost, Duncan's blade at his throat, and, well what he wanted to do was inhumane. Worse. Most appalling of all was that he knew Methos would respond, would love it all. As he had with Kronos, as he would again...

Shuddering with distaste at his own obscene desire, Duncan ran a hand over his own mouth and concentrated on breathing deeply and calmly. It was ridiculous, these thoughts were simply echoes from Kronos. Deeper breaths... Kronos was sick... Slow, even breaths... There, that was better.

He still wanted Methos with an edge of need that hurt, but he was sane enough to know that the need was his own. He had left Paris so determined to be reasonable. Reasonable... That was such a joke! But there was no blaming anyone else, not even Kronos. The fantasies that populated his mind belonged to that evil bastard, the wanting didn't. Couldn't. Because he had wanted Methos from the day they had met, loved him for almost as long. Now, all he could feel was unbearable anger at himself, for not having settled the issue months before.

Before what had been clean desire was muddied by Kronos memories.

It had been uncertainty that stopped him. Allied with maybe a certain cowardice of his own. Now he was paying the penalty for such indecision.

No, Methos was paying. Duncan forced himself to focus on the still body. His instinct was to leave, though that smacked of running, and he knew that never solved anything. With resignation he sighed, knowing that whatever had happened, or was going to happen, what he wanted was here, lying still and dead and as utterly desirable as he had ever been.

At least Kronos had good taste. The thought made him smile resentfully.

He eyed the still form, managing to do so almost impartially. Methos would hurt when he came to, when life poured back into the damaged body and the cracked bones. Perhaps what was needed was to bring this back to normality. Or at least normality of a sort. Joe had mentioned tea, hadn't he? Yes, that would be good for a sore throat. And it would give him something to do — something that didn't involve thinking, or looking at the long–limbed sprawl in front of him.

Macleod crouched down and gently moved the body onto its back. he touched his hand to the silent face. There were dark shadows under the closed eyes, ones that looked like they had been there for a while. He couldn't remember when he had last seen Methos looking well; there had been so much pain. An image of this man tortured by the barbarian, and loving every moment of it, flooded shockingly into his head. His cock flexed hopefully. Ruthlessly, used now to the immediacy of the visions, Duncan suppressed the stolen memory. He was still aroused though. Sickened by himself, he stood and, with one last glance behind him, headed for the kitchens.

The simple task of preparing tea was a balm to his overstretched nerves. He made it the English way, with boiling water, though the lack of a tea–pot almost derailed his plans, a jug having to make do on its stead. By the time he had laden a tray with cups, he had even managed to convince himself that everything could be worked out.

But when he returned to the bar, the floor was empty. He gaped like the village idiot, then, carelessly putting the tray down on the nearest table, he called out, "Methos?" Running now, he checked the wash–room, the office, the cellar. Nothing. Back in the bar he found the keys and went to the exit, pulling open the door. Outside, the night was stormy, the pavements gleaming wetly under the streetlights as rain sheeted down. There was no sign of Methos, the street utterly deserted.

Back inside, Duncan stood quite still for a moment. The bar was a mess, though he'd make it up to Dawson later. Reaching down he picked up his coat and slipped it on, touching his sword for reassurance. Where to look first? Joe's. Methos might well be there. And if he wasn't? Well, if anyone would know where he was, Joe was that person. If he could be persuaded to tell, of course.

Duncan locked up securely and left, his shoulders hunching in his coat as he tried to avoid the rain

* * * * *

Joe hadn't even made it as far as his bed when incessant ringing of his door–bell brought him grumbling to answer the summons. After a quick check through the spy–hole, he sighed and pushed back the bolts. "You wanted me, Mac?" Joe sighed and stood back to let Macleod in. He was wet, harried.

"No, I want Methos. Where is he?"

"Not here, pal!" Joe muttered something that might have been both obscene and improbable, then asked baldly, "You lose him again? That's what I call damned careless."

"I thought he might be here..."

Duncan was quartering the apartment, when he disappeared onto the bedroom, Joe called out, "You really expect him to be in my bed?"

Macleod came and stood in the doorway. "I don't know..."

"He's my friend, Mac. Just that, nothing more." Joe watched the shifting emotions and sighed. "I want some coffee — how about you?"

"Yeah, please. And Joe, I'm sorry..."

"Don't even think about it." Shaking his head in bemusement Dawson went into the kitchen.

Suddenly unsteady, all the determination that had brought him here draining away, Duncan sat down heavily. He stared at his fingers, the memory of bone cracking as he twisted that long neck past any measure of tolerance shuddering through him.

Christ, it was all such an unbelievable mess.

He ran his hands down across his knees, as if drying his palms. He had felt life departing the body, the bone breaking with a sound like tinder catching light, the feel shuddering through his own bones as Methos died.

Yet Methos had started it all. Started everything with his inability to trust Macleod with the knowledge of Kronos, of who he was and what he meant. Methos should have let him help, seen him as more than a pawn to be manipulated, to be stood in the way of Kronos' black king.

Manipulated, and he hadn't seen any of it. Not until after the event, when it was always so easy to be wise. His own lack of perception stung. Attraction had blinded him, there in the way Methos moved, in the way he managed to sprawl with such inviting abandon across Duncan's bed. All that long body on show, but never offered any further.

Not that Duncan had tried. Which, in light of what he now knew, he should have done. He should have just taken what was on offer, not troubled over it at all. He now knew Methos would have responded, would have wanted anything Duncan could offer. Would have wanted more. He closed his eyes and immediately he was seeing through Kronos' eyes, seeing that long body naked, chained to metal. Blood covered the back he was pressed against, slid viscous between sweating skin and skin. Pleasure, wicked ecstasy was wild in his blood, power shocking in its intensity as Methos whispered his name again and again — Kronos...

He dug his fingers into the muscles of his thighs, cursing softly, hard as iron beneath his jeans despite the sickness that curled in his belly.

"You okay?"

Duncan started, unaware until the words were spoken that Joe had even come back into the room. The vision was gone, lust dead in his blood. He bit down on shame and watched as Joe put down the tray he was carrying and then sit down wearily. Only then did he feel strong enough to talk. "Yeah, I'm fine." Macleod was surprised at how hoarse his own voice sounded.

"Here, drink this."

Duncan took the proffered mug and sighed thankfully as the smell of whisky hit him through the coffee. "Thanks, Joe."

"No problem. Tell me, what did you do to make him go off in a snit again?"

"Killed him."

Joe closed his eyes briefly, and sighed in deep resignation. "I see. Well maybe he wasn't in a snit — maybe he was just really pissed at you! I thought you to were meant to be talking!"

"We don't appear to be very good at talking, Joe."

"I'll say!" Joe took blew across the surface of his mug, carefully examining the choppy waves he'd created in the coffee. "Well, what are you going to do?"

"I've no idea."

"That's helpful!"

"Yeah..." Duncan shrugged miserably. "Joe, I really didn't want to hurt him, but I was so angry. I still am!" He hesitated, then asked painfully, images from Kronos past flashing strobe–like through his thoughts, "Do you think this is a dark quickening?"

Joe shook his head in denial. "No. If you had seen yourself as you were then, you wouldn't even ask."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Joe sipped his drink. "It was quite different — ask Methos."

"Ask Methos?"

"Yeah, or Richie." It was clear Joe would say no more, his face was closed off, his thoughts secret. "Anyway, I couldn't have talked to you like this if you were influenced by a dark quickening — you'd be trying to rip my head off!"

"Sorry..."

"Don't apologise — I was just telling you, not raking up old guilt."

"But I can feel him — Kronos — really strongly." Duncan relaxed his shoulders slightly, easing them in a circular motion. "I guess it'll just take a while for him to fade."

"Yeah, you've assimilated so many others, you'll manage."

"I hope so," Macleod answered with heartfelt sincerity.

"Anyway, just how old was he?"

"I don't know exactly, but thousands of years, maybe almost as much as Methos."

"You ever taken anyone that old before?"

"I don't think so — at least none who was quite so powerful."

"There you are then." Joe drained the last drops from his mug and reached forward to put it down with a clatter. "Now go home Mac, I need my beauty sleep, even if you don't."

"Whoa! Hang on — I'll go home in a minute, but what do you mean?"

Joe scratched his fingers through his beard before answering. "The older the quickening the stronger it is — which is why Methos is such a prime target, yes?" He waited for Macleod to nod. "And you haven't taken a quickening that old in a long time, if ever. So, it's just taking you longer to absorb, or deal with in whatever way you guys do. Seems reasonable to me." He smoothed the disturbed bristles down.

"Yeah, it is..."

"Good. Now did I mention sleep, or was I imagining things."

"I'm going, Joe." Duncan began to stand, then paused, perched on the edge of his seat. "What do you think I should do?"

"Simple, go find him and this time talk to him without losing your temper."

"I didn't..."

"No? You want to blame Kronos for that little fracas?"

"No." Duncan took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Okay, so I lost my temper — but I tell you Joe, this has been enough to try the patience of a saint!"

"Something you certainly aren't."

"No." Duncan made a half–hearted gesture of exasperation. "I never pretended to be."

"No." Joe nodded agreement. "And even if you did kill Methos, at least you left him his head."

"I wouldn't have taken..." He shook his head in horrified denial.

"He got right under your skin, I'd bet. He's good at that. He made you angry, confused and lord who knows what else..." Joe settled back again — resigned to more discussion. "That's more reaction than most people get out of you, apart from maybe Amanda."

"That's different,"

"Is it?"

Duncan slowly looked up, and stared at Joe without blinking, his eyes angry and his mouth sulky.

"Well?" Joe prodded.

With a sigh Duncan closed his eyes, then nodded, as if answering some internal question. "No, not really."

"Then go and talk to him — properly!"

Duncan gave a small, humourless snort of laughter. "I would, except there's one problem — among the many — he didn't exactly leave a forwarding address. I don't know where he is." He hesitated, then asked with complete sincerity. "Joe, I don't want to hurt him, I promise. If you know where he would have gone, please tell me."

"You think I'd know?"

"You're his friend, maybe the only person left he really trusts. He must have said something about a bolt–hole — we all have at least one."

Joe sipped his coffee and considered. He believed Duncan about his intentions, absolutely. But did Methos want to be found? That was a difficult question. "Duncan, go home. Let me sleep on it. There is somewhere, but..." He shrugged apologetically.

"Joe, it's okay, I understand." Duncan stood up. "Sleep on it. And, if you talk to Methos, tell him I'm sorry."

Joe smiled softly. "Yeah, Mac. I will. Though, knowing him, he understands that already."

"Yeah." Duncan nodded, then turned towards the door. "I'll let myself out. 'night, Joe. I'll call by in the morning."

"Yeah. Duncan?"

Macleod paused by the door, his eyes expectant. "Joe?"

"Where'll you be?"

"Oh, at the dojo."

"Fine." Joe cleared his throat, a frown pulling his brows together. "Remember something, when you find him, will you. That there are two sides to every story." He shrugged in a sort of awkward apology. "Not that I want to tell you your business."

"No problem, I appreciate it, honestly."

"Well then, there's something else. Treat him softly, he's more..." Joe searched for a word, knowing all of them were wrong, deciding hurriedly on one more emotive than he would have liked. "...fragile, than he lets on."

Duncan's mind flashed to one of Kronos memories, but he only smiled tightly and replied, "I'll remember. Good night."

Joe listened as the door clicked shut behind the Highlander. Then he sighed wearily to himself and rested his head on the back of the couch. It was all such a tangled web, one he wasn't sure he was helping to untangle at all. Perhaps it would have been better to leave them to it. Then he remembered the depth of misery Methos had been in when he arrived back from France, and knew at least that he hadn't made anything worse than it already was.

Slowly he gathered himself up and stood, heading for the bedroom and as many uninterrupted hours sleep as he could get.

* * * * *

Duncan Macleod wearily let himself into the Dojo. It was almost morning. He'd tried the last place Methos had stayed, but there was no–one there. He closed the door, locked himself in and with a yawn pushed through into the gym. It hadn't really been long since he last was here, but it felt a lifetime so much had happened. Walking across the wooden floor, not bothering with lights, he smelled the same smells that always spelled out this home, wood polish, soft leather and liniment. Dust too, though that could soon be dealt with, if he was going to be here long enough to bother. Everything here was the just how he'd left it, and without looking he knew the living quarters upstairs would be the same. Richie hadn't been here, the equipment was all undisturbed, and Amanda was far away. There was no one else. He headed for the elevator, faintly disquieted at the thought.

He touched a hand to the slatted door, but didn't pull it up. Instead, he paused for a moment in the shadows, then went around to the stairs and with heavy feet walked up.

Another yawn cracked open his face, one that almost dislocated his jaw as, half way through, completely off–guard, he felt the sudden dark excitement of another Immortal's presence. One he recognised without any doubt.

Methos.

The sense of relief was appalling.

He bounded up the last few steps, despair and exhaustion sloughing from his shoulders. Only to pause suddenly at the door, his fingers reaching to feel the sword under his coat. The metal was cold against his skin. He brushed the tips of his fingers against where it waited, smooth and indifferent and utterly patient, but didn't draw the steel out. Instead he opened the door, not surprised to find it unlocked.

"You could teach Amanda some tricks." Duncan stepped into the room, addressing his words to the person as yet unseen. "I suppose you've been a burglar as well as everything else." The words were regretted as soon as they left his mouth.

Silence.

"Methos, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Methos?" Everything was dark, but it only took a moment for Duncan's eyes to adjust, enough light filtering through from the street for him to finally place where the other Immortal sat. "Shall I turn a light on?"

A rustle of fabric, followed by what might have been a sigh. "If you want."

Duncan stepped across to a small lamp and reaching under the shade clicked it on. Light blossomed across the room, reaching the seated figure on the couch. He watched as Methos winced and averted his eyes. He was still wearing the same dark clothes he had been in earlier, and must have come straight here. Duncan cursed the impulse that had taken him to Joe's apartment. He should have been here, should somehow have known. He took another couple of steps towards the seated figure. "Are you okay?"

Very slowly, Methos lifted his head and faced him. His lips thinned in consideration, then he nodded once, though there really was no confidence in the affirmation.

"I'm sorry about killing you..."

Heavily, as if weighed down, Methos shrugged. "You didn't. Not really. I did it myself."

"If you're going to be exact about it, maybe, but it wouldn't have happened if..."

"Macleod, stop it."

Halted by the jaded voice, Duncan was silent.

"Sit down." A hand was arced through the air in invitation. "There's a bottle open on the table, and a glass there somewhere." I was going to wait for you, but you took too long."

"I went to Joe's."

"You thought I'd be there?"

Duncan heard the amused understanding and decided to ignore it. "It seemed a possibility." He sat down on the edge of the seat and, reaching forward, poured himself some wine, though he had to drain the bottle to get half a glass.

"Maybe. Though I thought that Joe might've had enough of our troubles. I came here. Waited for you."

"Are you very drunk?"

A long, owl–like blink answered the question. "Joe says he can play the guitar better after a bottle of malt. I don't believe him."

"Neither do I." Now he knew, Duncan could hear the faint slur that blurred a voice he'd always considered beautiful. He looked around carefully, then saw the two empty bottles on the side. He faced forward again, his eyes tracing the easy slump which seemed to fit Methos to the couch as fluidly as water. Desire shadowed his thoughts, pursuing him like a traitor. "I thought you might want revenge for me killing you."

"No."

"Just that? Just, no?"

"What else do you need, Duncan Macleod?" Methos sighed, closing his eyes, his fingers loose around the glass in his hands.

"Nothing, I suppose."

"Good." His face clouded. "Who am I, Macleod? I thought I knew..." Pain shivered across his face, then he blinked, the moment of revelation gone. "And I'm very tired." He yawned widely. "And I was going to have so much to say to you."

"You're very drunk!"

"Yes, and it is infinitely better than being sober." He half sat up, mild interest on his face. "Unless you do want my head, of course, then I suppose I would be stupid to be here. Do you want my head, Macleod?"

"No, you're safe."

"I thought so." And he lay back with a sigh that was already part of a dream.

Duncan just caught the glass before it slid to the floor. He straightened, and looked down at Methos, utterly perplexed. It was very late, and he was tired himself. The bed called invitingly to him across the room, as did the sleeping body, though he resolutely ignored the latter siren–call. Methos would be comfortable enough here, tipped so he lay flat and covered with a blanket. Or should he carry the sleeper over to the bed, take the couch himself. They could share the bed, it was certainly big enough.

It was a tempting image, but was it the wise thing to do? They could sleep, then wake up and make up between the sheets? Once, before Kronos, that was exactly what he would have done in this situation. Now he was unsure, and that uncertainty made him angry again, fury bubbling up from somewhere within him, from the dark place he refused to acknowledge.

Cursing softly he turned on his heel and, ignoring Methos completely, pulled off his own clothes and climbed into bed. It was cold enough to make him shiver, the discomfort merely making his anger burn all the brighter. Pummelling the pillow he tried to settle, then forced himself to lie still. Methos began to snore, very softly. Strangely enough, after a while, the noise was soothing enough to lull Duncan to sleep.

* * * * *

Methos awoke from a night overpopulated with dreams and, for a split second of time, had no idea at all where he was. Then, as reality caught up, he groaned miserably.

"Here, you might like this."

The dry voice brought him upright from where he must have curled in the night. He blinked to clear his eyes, and there was Duncan, a mug of coffee, steaming and aromatic in his hand. "Thanks."

"I've showered, so..."

Methos took the hint. He climbed to his feet and, pausing only to pick up the coffee–mug, went off to the bathroom.

A voice called after him, "I found some clothes that should fit, they're on the side, along with a clean towel..."

Methos muttered a thank you and disappeared behind a firmly closed door.

Half an hour later, finally having chosen to take a bath instead of a shower — one sight of the wide, luxurious bath all the persuasion he needed — he emerged, clean, shiny, and all together more fragrant, wearing black jeans and a loose sweater that bagged conspicuously around his thin body. He placed the empty cup down next to Duncan where he sat in the kitchen. Morning sunshine flooded in from the high windows, the day bright and lovely. It was a day to be happy in, a day to love being alive. There, he remembered the sentiments, at least.

"You want something to eat?" Macleod scarcely looked at him, the paper open before him clearly fascinating. "I had muesli and some fruit."

The voice was cold, but there was an offer of treaty there. Methos was about to make a face, then thought better if it. If this really was the beginnings of a truce, he liked it. "Fine!" He slid his hands into his jeans' pockets.

"You can have eggs, bacon, whatever you want."

"Toast would be good, and maybe some tea."

"You'll be asking for Marmite next! How long did you live in England?"

"Long enough."

"Me too." Duncan stood up, almost smiling and pottered over to the toaster. He set about making breakfast for his guest, filling a pan with water. The whole scenario had a faintly false feel to it, as if he and Methos were acting out a morning they had already lived through, one where they were still easy friends, before Jacob, before Kronos. It was pleasant enough, despite the hollowness, and he for one didn't want to rake up the anger which surfaced so easily these days. It had been hard to admit his own weakness, harder still to see that so much dark rage lived within himself, rage at what he was and what he had been forced to do simply to survive. Though he had never subjugated himself to another the way Methos had. Anger stabbed through him as a memory, sharp as a colour photograph, slid insidiously into his mind. Methos, how could he have done such things, allowed — damn him!

"Duncan."

"What?" Macleod replied sharply. Then realised that water was cascading out of the pan he was trying to fill, spilling everywhere, splashing himself, the work–surface, the floor. Hurriedly he turned off the faucet, putting the pan aside, his gaze firmly averted.

"Hey, we can talk if you want. It doesn't have to be tip–toed around, you know..."

"It?"

"Okay." Methos took a deep breath. "Kronos."

The name hung between them, and all the ease evaporated as if torched in gasoline.

Methos breathed in hard, his nostrils flaring slightly. Truth finally had to be spoken. "I knew I couldn't take him, not and remain sane. Too many of the memories were too close, too..."

"Appalling?" Duncan supplied the word, weighting it with derision.

"If you like."

"Yet you thought I'd be able to deal with them without any inconvenience, so you manipulated me into killing him."

Methos almost snapped back with a defense of himself, but truth was truth, so he simply admitted, "Yes."

"And trusted that I would have the strength to withstand the evil in him?"

"Yes."

"Well, lucky I did, isn't it?"

"I knew..."

"How could you! I can still feel him, like evil echoing inside me." Duncan turned and bitterly glared at the other man.

"I'm sorry..." Methos shook his head in wretched denial; while a faint thread of prescience made him cold with unease.

"I know what you did..."

"Duncan, I can't help what I was." It was a plea, almost silently uttered.

"Maybe not." Duncan seemed to hesitate, then he straightened, arrogance masking his face. He asked, cruelty quite conscious in his words, "I was wondering, just out of curiosity, do you get off on normal sex as well as pain?"

Despite his best intentions, Methos flinched. He hesitated, then found a stumbling reply of sorts. "Is that any of your business?"

"Yes."

Methos looked briefly for humour, and found only contempt and unsettling intensity. Considering, unsure of what he should say, of what would be believed, Methos buried his own reaction and answered, weighing every word. "I have liked all sorts of things. Pleasure can be found in the strangest of houses."

"So I noticed."

There was derision again. With a sigh that had him momentarily inspecting the ceiling, Methos bit down on his first choice of explanation. Mild anger dispelled any unease, making him ask sweetly, "Haven't you ever spanked Amanda when she's wanted you to?"

"And when she hasn't, but that was different."

"Was it?"

"Yes. Spanking is one thing, what you did with him was..." Duncan made a face and turned away, every line of his body taut. Then without warning he was back, a flush darkening his cheeks, finger pointing hard at the other man. "You know what's worst? The fact that you didn't ask."

"What?" Lost completely, Methos involuntarily backed away.

"You wanted me, didn't you." It was a statement, one that needed no reply as Macleod was already answering himself. "You did."

"So you're saying that I should have told you?" Methos made no attempt to disguise his incredulity, though he desperately tried to hide his dismay.

"Yeah."

"What should I have done, Macleod, seduced you? Are you saying you'd have done anything but laugh, politely of course, but nevertheless turn me down?"

"We'll never know will we."

"No." Methos found himself backed up to the wall, the intercom digging into the back of his neck. "We won't."

"I wanted you, you know that? Loved you. Then you found Alexa, and then there was Jacob... Then there was Kronos." Duncan almost spat the word into Methos' face. "But think on this, if we had got involved, if you had really been honest with me, then maybe you could have trusted me as well and told me about the Horseman."

Methos was glad of the wall's support, for some reason he had begun to shiver. "I couldn't have told you, I still wish you didn't know."

"Why? I could have helped, done something." He shrugged hopelessly. "Stopped you from having to go with them, from having to do..."

"Stop it Macleod!" Methos was having trouble breathing; all his emotions were clouded, twisted into a storm that had no focus. "Why do you think I didn't tell you? I couldn't bear the thought of you looking at me as if I was scum."

"I haven't!" Duncan leant a hand on the wall to the side of Methos' head. "I think Kronos was scum. Despite everything you were to him, at least you left him eventually — though fuck knows why it took you so bloody long!"

Methos raised his head, his eyes harrowed. "I did leave him. I broke up the brotherhood and destroyed everything he wanted. Yet I couldn't kill him, not then, not now, not even when he came and found me. I thought for so long that it was over, that I'd left it all behind. I should have known better, my nightmares should have bloody well told me that!"

"I could have helped." Duncan insisted stubbornly.

"Maybe. I am sorry."

"Are you?"

"Yes. For all of it," Methos answered softly. He stared into the deep eyes, seeing anger and pain, betrayal and desire. Something else as well, something he couldn't quite recognise. Then Duncan blinked and the prickling unease faded.

Before Methos could move though, before he had even thought of trying, Macleod came even closer.

Methos could feel breath, warm against his own skin, he could see a slight line of sweat where dark beard was beginning to shadow the curving upper lip. So close. He tried to move but was stopped by a move that brought the lips close to his own. Trapped by the wall, by the man, by his own long suppressed desire, he could hardly breath, knew he was trembling beyond any hope of concealment. Then lips brushed against his skin, warm, soft and tender, delicious. A thousand dreams shifted into reality. Methos closed his eyes, his mouth yearning forward...

Then Macleod laughed softly, and memories shattered like knives through his mind. He'd been here before, knew this intensity, this avaricious, uncompromising sensuality that layered so seamlessly through the beguiling charms of Macleod. It was like offering a starving man food, but coating it in acid before he could eat. The choice was pain either way, but would the burns be shallow, or deep enough to kill?

Shaking his head in denial, Methos began to say something, but a hand stroked his shoulder, each finger delineated in fire, and sense slid away in a rush that put heroin to shame. This was what he wanted, every sane desire he had ever felt on offer here, but twisted out of true by the shadow of Kronos. Not that it mattered, really. If he burned, he didn't care. This was worth it... As the hand slowly trailed down to his chest, he could hardly breath. When it touched his nipple he was moaning softly in need. Acid was burning his body from the inside as the fingers squeezed, such pleasure, such frightening pleasure...

"Duncan..." Methos shook his head, every claim he had ever laid to eloquence ashes in his mouth.

"Methos?" Duncan's mouth was smiling lazily, twisting into the thin shape of another's.

"Stop this! You don't have to be like him. Please, what you remember is wrong...I..."

Methos got no further, a wide mouth covered his own and every though fled. This was what he had craved the way a blind man wishes for light. This was everything he had dreamed, everything he had denied himself. Pressed hard into the wall, the solidity of Macleod's body weighted into him, the line of thigh warm against his own, the flat belly just curving away, hardness finding answering need in his own groin, Methos shuddered. Macleod was just tall enough, just big enough, for Methos to feel helpless, to feel — even against his will — all the dark pleasure in submission that Kronos had so painstakingly taught him.

Fear shimmered into lust. This was sick, obscene, appallingly wrong, but he let sanity fall away. His mouth, without volition, was open, being devoured, plundered, as strong hands took his wrists and held them tight against the plaster above his head. The mouth was smiling around the kiss as a thigh arrogantly pushed his legs apart and pressed up, pain there with the pleasure. The storm had closed in, leaving nothing but this moment in time, this man, this need. Methos knew himself to be nothing but what this man wanted, a submission he had never felt with Kronos leaving his knees weak and his will broken in shards to lay at Duncan's feet. He wanted to please, to do anything, to crawl across broken glass to press his lips to warm skin. If existence had a meaning it was here, it was now...

As if sensing the change, Duncan broke the kiss and, with his head nuzzling the long throat, murmured softly, "I knew you wanted this."

Methos nodded, speech an alien concept. Sharp teeth were chewing gently at his skin and clothing was only an irritation to be rid of as soon as possible.

"I'm glad I won — to the victor the spoils, eh, Brother!"

It was as if every drop of blood Methos possessed was replaced by ice. He stilled in shock, horrified, his eyes wide with painful recognition. A shading of Kronos within Macleod he could have dealt with, but his? Slowly he shook his head in denial. "No..." For Methos, it was if a dead man stared out of his friend's eyes, and at once he knew that the man who held him was not merely shadowed by another, but possessed.

"Methos, this is what you want, isn't it."

Despite the fact that the words were not a question, Methos swallowed and shook his head in denial. "No, Macleod..."

"Come now! I remember everything, and now I want this too!"

"No. You don't want this, Duncan. I can't..." Methos struggled to free himself, but the strong hands were holding him fettered in place. "Believe me, I don't want to be hurt!"

"Oh, yeah!"

Methos whimpered as a hand went unerringly for his balls and squeezed. Pain skewered from his gut to his head, the world turning to a harsh vision of scarlet and grey.

"You see, Methos, I don't believe you. Cassandra said you always lied, and she was right. Even Kronos knew that — he trusted you about as far as he could throw you, though he loved fucking you so much it didn't really matter!"

"It was all power to him, Macleod." Methos fought the pain, fought to find the sanity in the Highlander's mind. "Just power..."

"And lust. God, you were good..." He grinned, the predator fulfilling its fate.

"I just stayed alive!" With the world darkening, Methos knew he had to do something, he didn't want to be on the floor, not now, not with so much of Kronos alive in Macleod. Taking a deep breath, fighting through pain, he twisted slightly and finally freeing a hand, fisted a hard jabbing punch under Macleod's ribs and was free.

Falling away from the wall, away from clutching hands, Methos reached hopelessly for a weapon. One on one he was no match for Macleod, he was lighter, his skills less well honed, less practised. He was reaching for a knife when a tackle took him down. He twisted, crashing into the floor, head and shoulders colliding sickeningly with something solid. Only fear kept him conscious and fighting. Two fingers headed for Duncan's eyes, but found his forehead, the hand then forced away so sharply, twisted so mercilessly, that a bone snapped dryly. Methos cried out. His only answer was a laugh so appallingly reminiscent that he shuddered, the nausea burning in his gut not simply from pain.

"Duncan..." Methos stuttered the name as automatically his hands blocked a move towards his throat. "You are Duncan Macleod... of the Clan Macleod...you are not...like...this..."

He found a hold and used it, levering until he had the possibility of escape. Somehow he used it, punching hard into the close face, scrambling away, right arm dragging useless at his side.

Clumsy, he reached for a kitchen knife from the block, the smallest one fitting into his palm, coming free as he turned, fear making him fast. But not fast enough. A casual twist of his arm had him gasping, sinking to the floor, diving into agony. Kronos had been right, he wasn't used to pain anymore.

Something that looked as if it was about to be proved yet again. The knife was in his hand, but his muscles refused to obey. He shuddered as Duncan pulled him upright, his arm thudding against something, making the world darken. He knew he was being carried him into the living area, cried out softly as he was dropped carelessly onto the bed. The knife was gone, dropped unheeded somewhere on the way.

Macleod had hardly broken a sweat. "There, we might as well be comfortable."

"Duncan..." Methos tried to crawl off the bed, but a booted foot placed heavily in his groin held him breathlessly still.

"Methos."

The word even had the inflection Kronos had always managed to bring to it. Methos tried again to reach the man who had been his friend. "Duncan, this isn't you!"

"No?" There was a smile spreading across Macleod's face, though it was hideously wrong there. "How do you know?"

"Because I know you. The Macleod I know wouldn't behave like this. He wouldn't..."

"Shut up!"

"Mac, I..." The boot kicked down, taking all thought away in a blinding flash of pain that had Methos clawing at the bed–clothes.

"You know nothing. You are nothing...Brother!" Duncan, eyes utterly cold, utterly devoid of anything but the dark glint of Kronos' victory, started to unbutton his own shirt, peeling the silk from his body and tossing it carelessly aside. Only then did he move his foot.

Released, Methos could do nothing but curl onto his side, his hands clutched between his legs. He was ice cold, shivering. After a moment, from somewhere he found the strength to look up, and saw Duncan standing over him, naked to the waist, his hair unbound around his shoulders. There was blood on his face, bruises already healing that Methos had no memory of inflicting. He tried again to reason, but the whisper was far too soft, "Macleod...?"

"Don't say anything."

A hand tried to weave its way into his hair to tug his head back, but it couldn't get a good enough grip. "Please don't do this."

"I told you to be quiet!" An open–handed slap reinforced the command, slamming Methos into the bed. Duncan slowly unbuttoned his pants, letting them fall to the floor, pushing his shorts down, stepping sideways and kicking the clothes away.

Methos stirred, blearily opening unfocused eyes. He tried what was meant to be fast movement, hoping to make it to the floor, to the door, anywhere that would offer escape. The idea was fine, but nothing worked, his muscles all turned to water, his equilibrium shot. Instead of being off the bed and gone, he was tripped, crunching hard to the floor. For a long moment he lay still, face pressed into the rug, dust and blood acrid in his nose; he was almost sobbing for breath. Then, very slowly, he turned, rolling awkwardly onto his back. He sifted slightly and, miracle of miracles, felt the knife he had dropped, hard as hope under his back.

Duncan though had one of his own, and a single slice ripped apart Methos' sweater, baring his chest, a careless ribbon of blood tracing the path of the blade. His jeans lasted a second longer, but the steel was sharp, and Duncan's hands strong, ripping the thick cotton apart to bare the skin underneath.

No longer afraid, for now he knew exactly what he faced, Methos retreated into the cold place he knew so well inside himself. He had been here too often to fight. He lay quite still, letting the hot gaze devour his body, seeing the reaction that brought a tear to the slit of Duncan's arrogantly erect cock. Methos closed his eyes in despair, turning his face away, his face wet with what might have been sorrow. It had all been over, yet now Kronos had to be fought all over again. Worse, there would be Duncan, when this was over and he was himself again, which he would be... Methos couldn't even begin to think of that.

The knife cuts were healing, but when Duncan dragged him over to the bed they opened again and Methos groaned helplessly, blood spilling as he was moved. Tethered by his own clothes tangled around his ankles, Methos let himself be limp, letting this dark shadow of Macleod work for its pleasure.

Methos was shoved carelessly onto the bed, one arm remaining twisted under his back, not that Macleod cared. He stripped the jeans away and straddled the still body, pressing a knife blade to one flat nipple. All Methos could smell was blood, and black, ruthless desire. It smelled of home...one he had never wanted to return to.

The blade cut down, making the corners of Macleod's mouth smile. "This was what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Resigned, Methos kept his own counsel.

"You don't have to say anything, I know...I've always known. From the day I found you as a slave and watched as you killed your master. You pretend to be different, but you're not." He pushed Methos' legs apart and settled there, his hard cock jabbing into the bruised mass of genitals. There was no lubricant handy, and it was clear he wasn't going to bother to find any. The knife skimmed lower, scraping skin as it passed, stilling against the curving line of ribs, just above where the concave stomach fluttered as Methos tried to breath. "You're a whore, Methos, the oldest whore in the world — and you're all mine!" His cock slid down, searching blindly. When Duncan closed his eyes, Methos twisted sharply, bringing the knife from behind his back with all his anger and pain and fear behind it, killing Duncan with a sure blow that took him straight in the heart.

Surprise was the single emotion on Macleod's face as he died. He coughed, then toppled slowly forward, his hair spilling haphazardly around them both. But it was the knife Macleod held in his own hand that upset all of Methos' calculations. Methos' eyes widened in disbelief, then he shuddered as the blade slid home, making him remember all over again exactly why he hated dying.

* * * * *

As so often in his life, pain was the first sensation he felt on waking. For a moment he was lost in time, unsure where he was, where he lay, or whose blood was drying on his skin. Unsure if he was a prisoner, a victor, a refugee, or simply lying bloodied and damned by less than simple pleasures. The images were all there, taking his breath away, taking their time to process across his thoughts as his body burned with healing.

With a cough he came truly alive, gasping as his body told him that it never got any easier; that he'd died often, recently, and that the pain was simply his due.

He remembered then. Kronos, a ghost at the feast, returning. Macleod dead, taken by Silas and Caspian. Except he had lived, survived, and all the grief had been rendered joyously to nothing, for Macleod lived.

As, maybe, in some vile way, did Kronos.

Methos opened his eyes, swallowing dryly, nausea making him cling to the soft cotton on which he lay. The world span wildly for a moment, then blessedly stilled. He groaned softly, wretchedly and finally tried to move, only then realising that more than weakness held him trapped. Macleod was lying, heavy and awkward, across his body, and the knife that had taken his own life was still embedded in his side. Pulling a trapped arm loose, Methos pushed himself free, sliding stiffly across the bed, trying to take only shallow breaths around the blade. Free from the pinning weight, he lay quite still, staring blindly at the ceiling. He was going to hate this, remembered the feeling all too well. It had to be done though. Awkwardly, he reached for the knife. Grasping the handle he almost blacked out again before, with a racking shudder, he quickly tugged it free, falling back, cursing without subtlety in a long dead language. He lay very still for a long time then, waiting for the pain to leave him in peace. After a while it did, and he breathed easily, licking dry lips.

Slowly, he propped himself on one elbow.

The knife was dark, his own blood still wet and glistening on the fine–honed steel. There would be little left of his clothes, quite clearly he remembered Duncan stripping them away, the knife cutting through cotton and skin with equal facility. He wondered if Kronos' memory had told Macleod what to do, how to bring most pain, how to enforce the present with the brutal weight of the past.

Maybe. Or maybe Duncan Macleod liked knives too.

It was an intolerable thought. Ridiculous as well. Though his hands around the knife were still white knuckled, his face grey. He stared at the slender blade, then, hard as possible, threw it, hearing it clatter away, oblivious to where it landed.

By his side, Duncan was growing cold, his body twisted onto one side. It must be close to midday, for the light pouring in from the windows to highlight the long limbs, the sleek muscles, was warm, bright. The long dark hair was wild, tangling across the still face. Close to hating himself, Methos reached out with an unsteady hand and slowly fingered strands away from the closed eyes, from the generous mouth.

It was cowardice to stay here. Cowardice and a pathetic hope that Macleod had felt something for himself, not just wanted Methos because he was influenced by a ghost. It would have been a fine thing, to be loved by this man. Oh — he had spoken of love, but that was of one friend for another, and that was nowhere near what Methos wanted from the Highlander. Nowhere near. Staying was hopeless, beyond sanity. Yet somehow he didn't rush to get up and leave.

A coward indeed. All the regrets were catching up with him. Not least that this man would never care, in any way other than for a friend. Methos touched the full lips with the tips of one finger, then bending down, kissed where he had touched, the caress bearing no more weight than a feather. His eyes closed, acrid burning behind them. He wouldn't weep. Wouldn't...

After a moment he sat up, perfectly controlled, and looked around. The room was a mess, as was he. Dried blood was everywhere, darkening the sheets, matted in his hair, on his skin. He reached up and touched his own face, feeling the blood there, thick as paint, so dry it crumbled away beneath his fingers.

If only he had learned how to appreciate the simple things; like morality and truth, like decent lovers who were untouched by darkness. He had tried, so often. He had loved Alexa, though the immediacy of her dying had allowed him to take the instant of love and run with it until she was gone. There had been no room for anything else there, not even sex beyond the most basic, as she had been too frail, too close to the place where the needs of the body had no meaning at all.

Alexa had been beautiful and lovely, fun and innocent. As an antidote to Macleod induced melancholy she had been perfect. Methos had regretted her death far more than almost anything else in centuries. And after it, there had still been Macleod.

Pushing the thoughts away, Methos crawled off the bed and groaned softly as his body straightened. He wanted a hot bath, settled instead for a beer. Pulling a robe, careless that he was quite probably ruining it, he padded to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was Amstel or Bud. he settled for the european one and opened it. The kitchen was a wreck too, a great dent in one cupboard door that explained why his head had hurt so much. He rubbed one temple reminiscently and went back to the problem.

Duncan was taking a long time to come round. In fact he should have been awake long before, his body, less worn by repeated death, by lack of sleep, than Methos' should have come back to life almost at once. Instead he lay still, beautiful, curled half on his side. Methos stared at him, seeing Kronos, and shuddered.

The beer was cold, reassuring as he took a long mouthful. Kronos wasn't here, he was dead. There was a ghost possessing Macleod, one who in time would just go away. This was Duncan Macleod.

Methos put the bottle down and, quite circumspectly, knelt on the bed and pulled Macleod onto his back. Much of his skin was black with dried blood, there was enough for two mortal lives, after all. A knife was still embedded in his side. Methos reached forward tried to pull it free, but it clung with tenacity to Macleod's body. Methos tried again, with one hand flat on the strong chest for leverage. Success, though the blade slipped awkwardly and sliced through his own skin as well.

The cut was deep, and blood dripped immediately onto Macleod's body, just before their healing began. Methos shivered as both wounds slowly closed, the sight darkly fascinating. It still amazed him, this ability he had no control over. He still expected it not to work, for the wound to stay a wound, for the blood to flow and never cease until he was finally and truly dead. Instead he was an eternal Lazarus, walking away from every tomb.

The blade slid into flesh so easily. He ran it lightly up his arm, seeing the skin darken, flower, watching the well of life–force, feeling the itch as the skin closed over. He hardly had time to feel pain. Shallow cuts were always the same. To feel anything keenly, the knife would need to cut deep.

The point rested against his the palm of his hand. A little effort and it would pierce skin and sinew, sever tendons and break small bones. It would hurt, and for a while he would feel every drop of pain. He would feel...

Wide–eyed in fascination, Methos pressed the point down until the skin seemed to flower around it. Lost, he almost didn't realise that Macleod was waking until a hand brushed against thigh.

Shocked into reality, he was off the bed, reaching for his sword, holding it firmly in both hands, the edge now close to Macleod's throat. Breathless, he watched warily, waiting. After a long while the dark eyes opened, hooded with pain.

"Hello Macleod." If there was a question there, he didn't allow it to be heard.

"Methos."

"That's me." He watched Duncan focus on the blade, and frown.

"What..." Macleod blinked in confusion. "What happened?"

"Well, that is a good question. What do you remember."

Duncan considered, then his lip curled miserably. "Rage. And you, kissing you..."

"Yeah, you did that." Methos nodded. "And what else?"

"Nothing..."

"Ah."

"What happened?"

"Macleod, I'm not sure you want to know." Methos took a step back and let the sword fall to his side. "But we have a problem."

Duncan levered himself up until he was sitting, he surveyed the wrecked room with a frown of disbelief. Then his gaze went to Methos, seeing the robe, the blood it couldn't disguise. "Jesus! What did I do?"

"Not you, Kronos."

Macleod swallowed, and hesitantly recalled more, "I kissed you, even though I was angry. He...I...wanted you so badly, and you wanted me back. Didn't you?"

Methos heard the agony of doubt and couldn't refuse the truth. "Yes."

They held a long glance. "Then..." Macleod struggled to find what happened next. He could feel the warmth of Methos' lips against his own, the rage burning up as desire fought it and won. Then nothing... "Methos, tell me what I did?"

"You won't like it."

"I became him, didn't I." Never one to spare himself, Macleod took a deep breath. "I raped you."

"No. But you tried."

"Jesus!" Macleod buried his head in his hands.

Methos watched him, seeing a naked man in the depths of despair. Compassion brought him a hesitant step forward. Despite everything he did know that this was still Duncan Macleod, still the man he loved, wanted to sit close to, to hold. A knee on the bed took his weight, then he was there, touching from a distance a body tearing itself apart with tension. "Duncan?" Methos whispered the name softly. "It wasn't you..."

"No?" Macleod raised his head. "I remember cutting your clothes off." A hand went suddenly to the crossover of the borrowed robe, seeking skin, scars, though he knew there would be none. He backed off in shame as Methos ineptly controlled a flinch. "I nearly gutted you, didn't I?"

"Not you."

"Not me? What are you saying, that I am possessed?" Macleod's voice rose on the word.

"It had occurred to me. Kronos was very strong, very old."

"Older than you?"

"No, he was still young when he found me. I'm sorry, Duncan." Slowly, as if performing a ritual act, he reached out his hand and touched the broad stretch of Macleod's shoulder. The skin was warm again, life in full spate under his hand. He shivered slightly, almost hurt that such a meagre contact could provide such a vast well of reassurance. This was Duncan Macleod, no one else. Blinking, he remembered what he was supposed to be talking about and went on. "Unlike me, Kronos from his youth was a warrior, independent, powerful. He understood how to manipulate people — almost the same way Cassandra tries, though she had no luck with him. All those years of evil, of absolute control. I didn't understand what his quickening could do, I am very sorry."

"You really thought I could take him and not suffer any consequences? You must have had great faith in me."

"Yes."

"You know what? So did I." Macleod laughed harshly. "So don't blame yourself for that."

Methos had no easy answer, no glib explanations. He held his peace and fought the desire to draw his fingers through the loose strands of Macleod's dark hair. Sun was streaming in through the windows turning the dark mass brilliant with chestnut and gold lights. It was so unfair that he could still want Macleod, still desire him. Macleod as he had been before the Horsemen; before Kronos had taken defeat and turned it into victory. In another time and another place... somewhere Macleod wouldn't look at him and remember. He started when Macleod spoke again.

"I wonder when he'll come back?"

It was an impossible question. Methos straightened, his hand falling to his side. "Maybe he won't, you can assimilate him."

"Since when were you the optimist?"

"Since..." Methos sighed, and decided against saying anything that might be incriminating. "Since I needed a shower. I feel...disgusting." Macleod opened his mouth, but Methos stalled him. "And don't apologise again."

Macleod almost smiled. He looked down at his own body, seeing the blood, his own nakedness seemingly a surprise. His face took on an embittered cast. "I wish..."

"Don't! Nothing can be changed."

"You think I don't know that? When I asked you about Cassandra, you said she was one of a thousand regrets, well I have almost as many."

"We live and learn, we change in order to deal with the things we do, the things that happen around us. If we are lucky, life will go on regardless." He smiled self–deprecatingly. "Philosophy a la Methos."

"Better than some I've heard."

"Mmm." Methos stepped back off the bed. He wrapped his arms around his body, he asked, "Can I borrow some clothes?"

"Sure, but what happened..." Then Macleod saw them, a pile of blood–dark rags on the floor. He swallowed hard and raising his head, met Methos's gaze, questions in his eyes, none of which he could bring himself to ask. "Take whatever you want..."

"Thanks." Methos shrugged slightly. Then, turning on his heel, he walked away.

* * * * *

Stepping into the shower–stall, Methos slid closed the doors and turned the shower on, setting the water pressure onto high and sighing as it hit his body. He turned under the flow, letting the needle sharp points hit his head, his shoulders, his body, watching as the clean water touched him, then swirled away rust red with blood. It took a long time before it ran clear. Only then did he take the soap that Macleod used and wash himself, finding a sponge and scrubbing every inch of his body until he tingled, his skin pink.

The temptation was to stay where he was, to hide in the steam and the warmth, but that was impossible. For a start, Macleod would be wanting some hot water. Ruthlessly, Methos turned the shower off, and sliding back the doors stepped out. Brisk now, he dried himself, slipping his body into clothes that were borrowed, that bagged around his slighter frame. A quick towel of his hair, and he was done.

He paused at the door, one hand braced gently against the condensation–damp wood. A thousand thoughts fought in his mind, unease and indecision trailing around them. It had been easier before Macleod. When he had been alone with his demons, waiting for Kronos to come and end his life. For hundreds of years he had been solitary, reclusive from his own kind. Then Macleod had found him, and suddenly that life had shown itself empty.

He had a duty now to this man. A duty that meant he had to stay, to see the end of this through, to deny Kronos anything resembling victory.

There would be no escape until this was over. So the sooner it was all begun the better. Methos straightened his shoulders and opened the door.

Macleod had begun to tidy things up, there was a plastic sack filled presumably with what couldn't be salvaged, a pile of bed–linen all waiting for the wash. Methos walked past it and commented, "Was much ruined?"

"Not really." Macleod turned from where he was finishing re–making the bed. He had washed his face and hands at least, and put on a long green robe. He nodded in approval at what his companion was wearing. "You found something that fitted, then."

"Yes." Methos fingered the clothes, a dark grey sweater over old black jeans, the latter cinched in at the waist with a belt and rolled up once at the cuff above his bare feet. It felt strange to be wearing things he had seen Macleod in. Not unpleasant though. Not at all. "I'll get some more of my own stuff later."

"Okay." Duncan nodded, wanting to ask if that meant Methos was going to stay, but couldn't bring the words to his lips. He smoothed the last pillow into place, then slowly walked across to where Methos stood, looking very slightly lost. He stood in front of him, waited until the abstracted gaze lifted, and wide green eyes met his own.

Words were hopeless. Macleod reached forward and delicately touched his fingers to Methos skin, just where a pulse beat erratically under the jaw. He felt it under his fingers, hurrying, though Methos didn't move, and the green eyes only darkened, didn't look away.

They held still for the space of a dozen heart–beats, then Methos blinked, breaking the spell. "Go and get that shower, I'll see what I can do out here."

Duncan took his had back, and nodded. He looked around, distractedly. "I've thrown most of it away — you could take that sack out to the trash if you want?"

"No problem."

"Yeah." Macleod still paused though, his hands yearning to take the still figure into his arms. Instead he briefly rested his hand on a thin shoulder. If he felt the answering shudder he said nothing, just silently let the hand fall to his side, then walked away.

Alone in the wide room, Methos listened for the sound of the shower. Only then did he move, listlessly. Most of the destruction had been cleared, and if you hadn't known, it would be difficult to tell that a fight to the death had wrecked its way through the room not many hours before. The knives were gone, the swords put away. Probably just as well.

Put the garbage out. That was what Macleod told him to do. He looked down at his feet, wondering where his shoes were. In the end he couldn't be bothered, and, still barefoot, picked up the unwieldy sack and headed downstairs.

Outside, Methos was surprised to see that the day was well past its best. A sharp breeze whistled around his body and it was cold, despite the sun. Evening wasn't all that far away. Time had disappeared, folded in on itself. He wasn't even sure which day of the week it was. Not that it mattered. It never had, very much.

On his way back into the building he paused, sure he'd heard his name being called. Turning, he scanned the street, relaxing when he realised who it was. Waiting until the slow, halting walk brought the other man closer, he smiled in greeting, "Hello, Joe."

"Hello yourself." Joe Dawson gave his friend a top to toe inspection and frowned critically. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, more or less. Did Mac call you?"

"No." Joe tapped at the ground with his cane. "I thought I'd stop by, see how things were. I was wondering, did you have any trouble?"

"Trouble." Methos slid his hands into the jean pocket and stared at his toes. "I suppose you could say that." He laughed, though humour was clearly as alien concept. "You'd better come inside..."

He was silent all the way across the dojo to the elevator. Joe watched him, seeing him so withdrawn, so preoccupied was strange. He hardly looked up at all, his shoulders hunched, his hands deep in his pockets. "Adam..."

After a moment, Methos blinked and looked up. "Joe?"

"Mac came round to my place last night, he was looking for you. I guess he found you."

"I was here. At the time it seemed the sensible thing to do."

Dawson considered what was left unsaid behind the words, waiting for more explanation. None was immediately offered, so he asked outright, "But it wasn't?"

Methos gave a slight twist of his shoulders that might have been a shrug. "Probably, maybe...no."

"Is this to do with what happened in France?"

"Oh, yes." Methos nodded.

"Methos, is Mac all right?"

"He will be, I hope. Kronos has left more of himself behind than any of us would like."

"Mac asked me if I thought this was a Dark Quickening. I told him no, was I wrong?"

Methos pulled one hand out of a pocket and ran his fingers through his short hair. It was still damp. "I don't think so. I've never come across anything like this. But then Kronos was quite unique..."

"So's Macleod."

Intense, darkly shadowed eyes met Dawson's. "I know. That's why I'm here." An undefinable emotion shimmered across the high–boned face. Then Methos turned away, saying in a dry voice, "Come on, you can help tidy up."

Macleod was out of the bathroom and dressed by the time they reached the loft. He turned, raising a brow in surprise as Methos walked in with Joe. "Hello, what brought you over here?"

"My thumbs itched."

Macleod flinched. "Something wicked's about right. Maybe you should take up a new career as a psychic." He obliquely watched as Methos walked across to the kitchen, before turning his attention back to Dawson. "Anyway, come in and sit down."

Joe obliged him, taking a good look round as he settled in the high–backed leather chair. "Looks like you two had quite a party!" He received two glares for his trouble. "Sorry, I was trying to lighten it up a bit in here."

"Yeah, thanks Joe. But I don't think either of us is in the mood for humour." Macleod sat down opposite Dawson, in the farthest corner of the couch.

"What happened."

Macleod closed his eyes, then briefly shook his head. "I don't really know."

"Methos?" Joe called over to the kitchen, from where he could smell the beginnings of coffee.

"Don't ask me, I don't understand anything."

"Come on guys! This is me. What happened!"

"Kronos is what happened." Macleod let the words fall from his mouth, bitter as aloes. "Kronos... I let him take me over. I let him..."

"Shut up, Duncan!" Methos was striding across the room to stand close by where they sat, anger made him very pale, his hands fisted at his sides. "You didn't chose to let him do that, so don't talk such utter nonsense!"

"I should have been able to stop him."

"How? This wasn't a Dark Quickening, this was something else, some little surprise that Kronos had up his sleeve."

Joe watched them, seeing the wariness in Methos, the shame in Macleod. He no longer needed to ask exactly what had happened. Pity, for both of them, made him look away, wondering if he should be here at all.

Methos was continuing, in the voice of reason, "Duncan, you are not mad, you are not suddenly transformed into a psychotic. Not at the moment, anyway," he amended.

"Oh thanks for the vote of confidence. So, I just have to wait for him — for Kronos — to sneak up on me and turn me into one, do I!"

"Hey, excuse me interrupting, but I want to say something." They both stilled and turned to where Joe sat. "Yesterday you were mad as hell at everything, Mac. Next thing I know you've done something neither of you will talk about but that I'll presume had something to do with Kronos, right?" Two nods, one more definite than the other. "So, I would suggest, humbly as I'm able, that you calm down and stop letting your anger get the better of you. You might just not like what happens."

They thought it over for a second, then Methos turned away, heading back to the kitchen, saying coolly, "Sounds like good advice to me."

"But...I can't spend the rest of my life without getting upset occasionally. I'm not like that!"

"Well you might have to try doing something for a while."

Methos was clattering around in the kitchen, then he walked back, carrying a tray loaded with steaming mugs. "I could teach you to meditate."

"Oh, you're a great help, thanks a lot, swami."

Sliding the tray into the table, Methos sat down, choosing a place on the couch with Macleod, but in the opposite corner. He didn't meet Joe's eyes, just picked up his mug and curled his long legs up beside him. He sighed, very thoughtful. "Seriously, I do think Joe's right. You get angry, you lose control, Kronos pops up and takes over."

Macleod ran his hands down the cotton of the old sweatpants he was wearing. "I don't remember much about last night," he explained to Joe. Then he asked painfully, "Was I really him?"

"Yes." Methos looked away, then spoke softly, his low voice very controlled. "You spoke with his inflections, you used your body the way he did. When I looked in your eyes I saw him, not you."

"Hell..."

"Macleod." Methos paused, then it seemed as if he was going to reach out, but in the end his hand only made a small, ineffectual gesture of defeat. "It was better than if it had been you."

Methos was looking at him, grave and still. What he said was so clearly the truth that Macleod almost wanted to cry. He took a deep breath, and replied, his voice thickened, "Thank you."

A weak smile was his answer, then Methos turned back to his coffee.

Joe shifted uneasily, feeling as if his presence was an intrusion. He cleared his throat. "Mac, I promise you, when you were influenced by the Dark Quickening, it was different." Joe reached for his coffee, stirring in cream before settling back, waiting for the both to find their equilibrium. "With any luck, this won't need a holy spring."

"Mmm." Methos nodded unsteadily in agreement. "Which is just as well as, though I'm sure there must be something equivalent on this vast continent, I haven't a clue where to look for it."

"So what do I do?"

"Wait." Joe was definite. "What do you say, Methos?"

"The same, wait until he has been assimilated into you. You're strong enough to take him, or you wouldn't be yourself now and this would be worse than anything that had been before." Methos took a sip of coffee. "And I would probably be without my head."

Joe watched Macleod shudder. "But he's not. So you must have some control!"

"No, I had no control at all, you have no idea what..." Macleod broke off.

"No, I haven't because you won't tell me!"

"Joe, leave it." Methos ordered.

"Why? The more we all know about this, the easier it'll be to deal with."

"Will it? Okay, I survived by killing him, that's all it was. It seemed the sensible thing to do at the time." Methos shrugged, and putting his mug down on the table, sat back, wrapping his arms around his body. In the borrowed clothes his thin body looked all long bones; sticks bundled together. "He never threatened my life." Just my sanity... "And I don't think he will."

Joe watched him carefully, reading between the words. "Which one are you talking about here, Macleod or Kronos?"

Methos grimaced in distaste. "Both of them."

"So you don't think Kronos would want you dead, not even after you betrayed him?"

"No, I think he'd want me to suffer."

"Ah." Joe nodded to himself. "And Mac just wouldn't kill you." He looked thoughtfully at the mug full of congealing coffee. "So, what is needed here?"

Methos replied, quite firmly. "Time."

"Fair enough."

Macleod nodded. "Yeah, I have plenty of that."

But Joe was frowning. "You'll need more than just time, you'll need a minder, just in case." He looked at Methos.

"Oh, no." Methos slowly uncurled as he realised exactly what Dawson wanted. "What about you? You could do this."

"I can't do it, I need to be at the bar — half the staff are ill with some flu–bug, and the Blues festival starts next week. Methos..."

"Joe, I can't!"

"Why not?"

Methos opened his mouth to answer, but all the answers sounded puerile, even to his own ears. It was impossible though. How could he? It was wrong, he was wrong, when the ghost was Kronos. "But as it is me that Kronos wants, surely I'm not the ideal candidate?" he asked the question beseechingly.

Joe nodded. "You're not ideal, but lets be honest here — you're the only candidate. Unless you want to play blues for a couple of weeks?"

"No, you know I couldn't."

"That's settled then."

"But..."

"But?"

Methos looked from one man to the other. Joe, satisfied and content, Macleod miserable and remarkably quiet. "What do you say, Duncan?"

With very little animation, Macleod nodded. "I can see that this is the best thing to do. And yes, I'm sorry Methos, but Joe's right, I think someone should be here."

"What about Richie."

"I've no idea where he is."

"Amanda?"

Macleod smiled softly. "She's on her honeymoon with Corey. I don't think she'd come back to nursemaid me."

"So," Methos sighed resignedly. "That leaves me."

The human and the Immortal nodded at him.

"Hell and damnation." There wasn't really a choice. If only his belly didn't feel as if he'd been swallowing razor–blades. Methos stared hard at nothing. The presence of Macleod, so close to him, defied reason. It was ridiculous to love anyone so much, yet he did. Enough to stay, to risk another night like the one that had gone. If truth were told, he wasn't sure anything could have persuaded him to leave, though he had no inclination to tell either of the other men that little fact. Instead he nodded, finally raising his head, his face dispassionate. "All right, I'll stay."

"We don't have to be here, we can go somewhere else if you'd rather?"

"I don't know..."

"Somewhere warm." Joe suggested.

"Or I could take you to Scotland, if you don't fancy warm?" Macleod offered with wry helpfulness.

Methos muttered something under his breath, then called a halt to the humouring. "Okay, okay! Enough from the pair of you. I don't want to go anywhere else, we stay here."

"A decision!" Joe applauded. "And it means that you might get to come and hear some of the festival."

"Oh good."

"I knew that would cheer you up."

"Thanks, Joe."

"No problem, Methos!"

"Hah!"

Joe pushed himself up to his feet and stared down at the pair of them. "I'll come back tomorrow, check out how things are going. I guess you'll manage shopping and such?"

Methos smiled nastily, "Yes, Joe, we'll manage just fine."

"Good." Joe paused, seeing the seeming unwillingness in Methos, believing this wasn't what he wanted. Even thinking he understood why. Yet this was still the best solution from a strictly limited choice. At least Methos understood Kronos, would know if and when Macleod was in danger of slipping into that other, dangerous personality. Besides, just having Methos here might be all Macleod needed to hold on to his own personality. Hurting Methos was just about the last thing he would really want. Anyway, if they spent some time together then maybe they could work everything out, maybe end up less unhappy. Joe looked from one to the other, seeing each enclosed in his own world. Well, it would be interesting to see what they were like after this was all over. Make or break. That was it. He shook his head, and said, "Just call if you need me."

Methos nodded, his face without any sign of emotion. "I will."

Though Joe knew he was lying, he said nothing, just headed for the elevator. "Right, I'm off."

"Bye, Joe."

"Bye."

They waited in silence until the mechanism of the lift halted, and Joe was gone. Only then did Macleod turn, pale and serious. "Whatever he says, I should think I can cope."

"Maybe. I don't think we should leave it to chance though. Kronos liked the occasional mortal to torment — I don't want you arrested on rape charges..."

Macleod cursed softly. "No." He leant forward, ran a hand across his neatly tied back hair, then looked Methos straight in the eye, courage summoned and held in both hands. "But I don't want to rape you either."

"Trust me, Macleod, nor do I want that to happen." Weary beyond belief, Methos took a long breath. "But, better me than someone who might be killed. As long as you — or he — don't decide to take my head as a bit of post–coital merriment, we'll be fine."

"Thanks for the comfort."

"Mmm, I'm cheering myself up too. Come on, lets get some food in — there's nothing in your fridge I'd eat." He stood up, avoiding walking in front of Macleod. A few feet away he paused, looking down. "And maybe we should get to a mall — I need some clothes."

"Whatever, we've time en