LUCIFER FALLING

by Kitty Fisher

PART II

He woke to the smell of coffee tickling his nose. Opening sleep–gummed eyes he peered myopically over the covers.

"I thought you might like tea, but I wasn't sure, so you got coffee, all right?"

Methos focused. Macleod was sitting on the floor by the makeshift bed, cross–legged, clean and shiny, his hair damply draped around his shoulder, dressed in soft grey cotton jeans and an open knit sweater. He looked rested, easy, ridiculously awake.

"Would you rather have tea? I can make some instead..."

Methos roused himself, working a hand loose from under the cover, shifting so he was half sitting, back propped on the wall, quilt pulled up around his waist. A T–shirt might have been a good idea along with the boxers; it was more than faintly disquieting to be so naked, even though this was Macleod and he was paying no attention whatsoever. "Coffee's fine." He cleared his throat, "Thanks."

"It's a lovely day."

"Oh, good." Methos reached for the mug, picking it up and blowing across the surface before taking a cautious sip. Perfect. "You seem to have slept well."

"I did. I dreamed a lot, but I think most of them were my own."

"That's a good sign." Methos yawned, blinking blearily at his mug. "I didn't even dream, I don't think I moved all night." He still felt tired, felt as if he could have slept for another eight hours.

"You must have needed it."

"Mmm." Methos was drinking his coffee in small mouthfuls, savouring the taste.

"What do you want to do today?"

Sleep. He shrugged, shoulders pale, bones anatomically clear under the smooth skin. "Have you any suggestions?"

"Breakfast first, then I thought maybe a movie later this afternoon. They're showing L'Atalante down at the rep house."

"No thanks." Depressed French visions of lost love weren't quite what he was in the mood for. "What else?"

Macleod searched his memory. "All the new stuff. Oh, and I think Mon Oncle might be on..."

"Dubbed or subtitled?" Methos asked ingenuously.

Macleod laughed, "Just be thankful there's no dialogue."

"I wondered if you'd seen it, though I ought to have known the amount of time you've spent in France. Okay, Mon Oncle it is — I don't know about you, but I haven't seen it in years." And I could do with a laugh.

"Get up then, I'll start breakfast." With a graceful economy of movement, Duncan was standing. "The shower's all ready for you."

"Thanks."

Macleod stood where he was for a moment longer, then reaching down he took Methos' empty mug and, with a quick smile, was gone.

Methos curled himself back under the covers, closing his eyes, shutting out the morning light. How many days of this was he going to have to endure? Too many, for certain. Macleod had looked utterly desirable, smelling of clean skin scented with something lemony. His muscles shift so sensuously when he moved, it was like watching the surface of the ocean where the water was deepest. It would have been so easy to reach out, touch him... Impossible though. Methos bit the pillow under his head. Perhaps if he thought of it as an ordeal, he'd undergone enough of them in the past.

With a grunt he pushed back the covers, despite the sunlight the air was cool against his skin. The idea of a hot shower was extremely enticing.

A day spent Macleod–sitting couldn't be that bad, could it? They only had to do nice, normal, everyday things together — go to the movies, eat, have a drink at Joe's place. Then it would be night again, and then another day, and if all went well, then in a week he could leave.

Though this time it might take more than a couple of months in the Himalayas to sort his head out. Not to mention his body.

Uncurling he climbed out of the nest of bedding, stretching his kinked back. A week. No way could this take longer than a week. So, it had all better be sorted out soon. With that determined thought, he began getting ready.

He showered quickly, soaping his body with little attention, standing under the water only long enough to be clean. Drying off on one of Macleod's enormous and sublimely soft towels, detecting Amanda's hand in their purchase, he dressed himself, black jeans and a dark grey T–shirt under a sweater the colour of the sea at night. A quick check in the mirror and he was ready to face the world.

Or at least Macleod.

He sauntered out, determinedly casual, and sat himself down in the leather chair. Tension made him sigh softly. Hell, he had been fine after the shower, now, back here with Macleod, he could barely relax. It was ridiculous. He put his feet up on the coffee table and closed his eyes, trying to will the tautness from his limbs.

"I suppose at least you've only got socks on."

Eyes still closed, Methos wiggled his sock–covered toes at where Macleod was getting breakfast ready. "You mean you'd shove my feet off here if I had boots on?"

"I was hoping that it you had boots on you wouldn't have them propped on a priceless antique."

Opening one eye, Methos peered at the table in question, dismissing it with a curl of his lip. "It's hardly a hundred years old!"

"Old enough. Not everything can be prehistoric."

"No, but these things were made to be used, and there's plenty of wear in it yet."

"Luckily for it..." Macleod suddenly changed the subject. "Come on, food's ready."

Methos lazily stood up, finding a semblance of ease from somewhere. It was warm enough in the loft, too warm for the clothes he was wearing. Before going to sit at the counter he pulled off his sweater, leaving it draped over the back of the chair. He wasn't hungry. Not at all.

Yet somehow breakfast was delicious; oatmeal biscuits with honey–poached apricots and creme fraiche. Methos finished his plateful, considering that after a week of this at least his digestive system would be thankful, and maybe if it was thankful enough then it would stop throwing back at him nearly everything he ate. That would be quite pleasant. It certainly showed no sign of misbehaviour at the moment.

Over the meal the two men had discussed nothing more than food, the atmosphere constrained, though not exactly tense. They were careful of each other, unduly concerned with every sentence, every word. Afterwards, Methos cleared the plates, while Duncan settled on the couch with a tall pile of unopened post.

The kitchen tidied, there was nothing else for Methos to do. He wandered back into the living area, not quite sure where to put himself. He needed to get out, to find some fresh air and blow away some of the memories. It would do Macleod good too.

He looked at the pre–occupied Highlander and sat down, waiting, watching as the letters were opened, some discarded, some added to a heap of things clearly to be dealt with at a later time. Methos didn't disturb him, just sat quietly, watching. After a while, the dark eyes raised to him, questioningly. Methos shrugged, as if in apology, then asked, "Before we go to the movies, how do you fancy a walk? We could go down to the river, maybe have some lunch at the new sea–food place that's there."

Macleod nodded. "Sounds like a good idea to me, you want to go now?"

"No." He answered hastily, hands miming pushing Macleod back. "Finish that, I can read for a while, no problem."

"Thanks — there's some bills I'd really like to get paid."

"Sure, I understand."

"Great. It won't take long."

Methos nodded, watching as the Macleod began to tear open another envelope. His hands were so sure, not particularly elegant, but certain, skilled. What would it be like to be touched by them kindly, to be stroked, loved? Without Kronos to add a leavening of bitterness, he would be kind, attentive. Amanda wouldn't keep returning otherwise; a pretty face and a fabulous body wouldn't be enough for her. Though the face was very pretty, and the body undeniably...

Methos stood up suddenly, and went over to where his bag was parked on the long pine table at the side of the room, rummaging inside it for a moment. Then, book in hand, he sat in one of the wooden chairs, where he couldn't quite see Macleod, where he couldn't quite be seen. His mouth was dry, and he hid, sure that such blind need could only be blatantly exposed on his face.

For the sake of his own equilibrium, he was glad that Macleod was so engrossed in his papers.

After a little while, Duncan's voice made him jump, "What are you reading?"

What was he reading? Oh, yes. "Herodotus, he's always good for a laugh."

"Where did you get it?" Duncan frowned, leaning forward, trying to see the cover until Methos held it up for him. "It's not mine."

"No. I bought it yesterday."

"You can take anything off the shelves here you might fancy. you know."

"Thanks."

"No problem. I know there's nothing worse than being stuck without anything to read."

"Yeah, thank goodness for the world of the mass–produced paperback." Methos waved exhibit A in the air.

"At least the twentieth century has some good things going for it."

"Macleod, I never knew you were nostalgic for the past."

"I'm not, not really. I just wish sometimes that progress would slow down. I don't know, it just gets harder to appreciate things. Half the time you discover a new invention, then before you can really appreciate it, it's outmoded, outdated and selling for pennies down at your local thrift store."

Methos nodded, agreeing. He was also determined to continue the conversation as Macleod was putting so much effort into it. Not that the effort showed that much, but if you listened it was there. "At least you can catch up that way."

"No you can't, because there's so much else to enjoy. I love CD's, I've no desire to go back and discover 8–Track, even though I missed it at the time."

"No, they took up too much room for a start." Methos shifted in the hard chair, listening to the wood creak, turning sideways to almost face Macleod. "I like this century, I love the speed of travel, the standards of hygiene..."

"Efficient plumbing — a modern wonder."

"That's what you think!"

"What, don't tell me there was efficient plumbing way back when!"

"Knossos had flush–toilets — though after the last earthquake the trick of that was lost. The Romans had central heating, hot water, sewers, daily baths — just because the Barbarian hordes just weren't interested in preserving any of it doesn't mean it wasn't there."

"I can't imagine Goths worrying about cleanliness," Duncan mused.

"Oh, they had their own standards."

Macleod's voice was dark, amused, "Standards? How upsetting — you'll be telling me next that Vandals liked a nice refreshing bath before supper."

"And slippers warming by the hearth when they got home from a hard day's pillaging? Maybe in their own way." Methos shook his head, amusement crinkling his eyes as Macleod laughed softly. He was still chuckling as he went back to his papers.

An hour or so later, engrossed in a description, wildly inaccurate, of Nile wildlife, Methos only slowly became aware that Macleod was saying his name. "What...?"

"I said, I've finished, do you want to go out?"

"Yeah, sure!" Methos hurriedly put down his book and stood, stretching to ease the knots in his spine. He ached, for no particular reason, except perhaps for an excess of tension. Dismissing it, he tried to lighten his own mood. "Did you know that the hippopotamus has a mane and tail like a horse?"

"Huh?"

"According to this revered historian, that is."

Macleod tried to conjure the image, quirking a smile at the image picture he saw of a hippo with a wig on. "No, can't say that I did." He pointed to the book. "Is that what he really says?"

"Yep."

"Is the rest of it just as factual?"

"Better."

"No wonder you were enjoying it."

"It cheers me up — every time."

"Perhaps I should give it a read."

"Be my guest — though for some of it you might just need to have been there to understand." Methos was slipping on his coat.

"You'll have to fill in all the relevant details then, won't you." Jacket on, Duncan was in the elevator cage, waiting as Methos joined him."

"Sure, anytime you want — and what I don't know I can make up, I'm good at that. It's a long book though, it might all take some time."

Macleod blinked, his eyes fixed certainly on Methos' abstracted, averted face. "A thousand and one nights? Could be fun." He pulled the gate down and started the mechanism.

With a sigh that closed his eyes, Methos completely missed the look that was aimed at him. "Yeah, just call me Sheherazade."

"Ok, Sherry, after you!"

Methos blinked, sure that he was mistaken, and that Macleod wasn't really flirting. He couldn't be. Risking a sideways glance he caught the tail end of a look as Macleod opened the screen. His stomach fell giddily away.

He walked out into the dojo, quite bemused and utterly enchanted. It was a delight to think that Macleod might want him here for more than just what he had come to think of as the exorcism process. Delightful and daunting all at once. He trailed Macleod out to the car. What was he to think? Do? Nothing as yet, that was certain. But, soon. After Kronos, after Macleod had forgiven himself, then... Methos walked lighter, allowing himself a degree of hope for the first time in longer than he cared to remember.

* * * * *

Duncan turned the ignition off and pushed open his door, climbing out to stare at the river. It was good down here, the air smelling clean and fresh, especially now they had cleaned up the water and the area no longer stank of rot and refuse. He turned to his companion, catching him staring just before he looked away, pretending interest in the skyline. The breeze was ruffling his short hair, making Macleod wonder what it would feel like under his hand. Soft, textured like rough silk. He must have touched it at sometime, though he had no memory of it, unless the memory wasn't his. Though Kronos didn't seem the type to run his fingers caressingly through his lover's hair. Not unless it was as prelude to something nasty.

"What's the matter, Duncan?"

Macleod shook himself There was no point brooding. "Nothing. Which direction do you fancy?"

"Well, if you still like the idea of that restaurant, we'd better go up–stream."

"Fine."

"Did you check what time the movie starts?"

"Yeah, four on the dot."

"Time for lunch, a gentle stroll and then the movies — perfect." Methos closed his eyes, tilting his face to the weak sun for a long breath, before opening them and grinning. "Come on then."

Macleod watched him walk off, long coat billowing around his legs, hands firmly deep in its pockets. He was so self–contained, so contemptuous of any approach that went beyond the simple level of friendship. And he offered that to so few, just Joe and himself. The carapace of pride and mockery put off any but the most determined. If he was lonely, it showed in his arrogance. The only times Macleod had ever seen him utterly at a loss were after Kronos had appeared, and then really only once, when he had wept as if his soul had been torn loose from his body after killing Silas. Not even Kronos' memories told him why that had been so devastating. Maybe one day, Methos would explain himself. One day, when they could be more than friends. Macleod had truly hated very few people in his life, but Kronos was one of that select list. He hated him for what he had done to Methos, for what he had done to any hope there might have been for an easy relationship between them. An easy relationship — the euphemism made him smile. Love, reciprocated, was what he had wanted. Now he would almost settle for seeing Methos at ease again in his presence, though in truth he still desperately wanted more. One day it might still happen. One day when Methos had forgiven him, and he had forgiven himself.

"Come on!" Twenty yards away, Methos turned on his heel, walking backwards to call out, "Or have you changed your mind?"

"No. I want Sea Bass for lunch!"

"I ought to have known it was your stomach that was egging you on."

Macleod jogged to make up the distance between then, slowing to a walk as Methos turned around, stepping forward again. "Have you eaten here — what's it called — before?"

"Tagliani's, and nope, I haven't. But I hear that it's good — Joe liked it anyway — and at least it'll have a nice view."

"Joe recommended it did he?"

"Mmm, said he came here opening night — some sort of trade freebie."

"Lucky him."

"He didn't seem to think so. He loved the food, but got cornered by some other bar owner who wanted to talk shop all night. If it had been Blues talk he might have enjoyed it, but..."

"Not bar–talk."

"You know Joe, he'd rather have teeth pulled!"

"I'm surprised he spared enough attention to enjoy the food."

"That's what made me think it must be good."

"Aha! Well deducted, Holmes."

"Thank you, Watson."

Macleod had settled into a pace that seemed to suit the other man, their stride easily matching, Methos legs as long as his own. It was good to be outside, to be together with him. As long as he concentrated, the memories stayed away. It was getting easier by the hour to see around them, easier to deal with, Kronos fading as he was accepted into Macleod's own memories. It was even getting easier to see around the issue of Methos' past, his willing participation in so much that made Macleod's skin crawl. Of course, there was incentive... It was difficult to be in love with a man you thought you despised.

"Here we go..." Methos turned off the path, taking some steps up that led to a chrome and glass building, quite at odds with the converted warehouses around them.

Macleod stayed where he was, looking up. He was clearly unimpressed. "It looks like an architect's vision of a bank."

"It could be worse..."

"How?"

"It might look like an architect's vision of a restaurant. Come on." He was pushing at the door, smiling over his shoulder.

Macleod was smiling too, amusement making him shake his head. He followed Methos inside, resigned to overpriced, overcooked nouvelle cuisine.

Stunningly, he was quite wrong.

The food was mouth–wateringly good, served by a charming waitress who was clearly dazzled by each man in turn. Flirting his way through the menu, Methos ordered for himself, and Macleod settled on the same. They wouldn't be able to taste each others' meals that way, but at least there would be no sulking if one dish turned out miles better than another.

Not that there was such a problem. Replete, Duncan sat back and lifted his wine–glass. The monkfish parcels had melted in the mouth, and he would almost have been happy with that, but then the sea bass arrived, and he had been incapable of speech until the dish was finished. He smiled happily and raised the glass towards a smug Methos, "To Joe, perhaps we should bring him here one day, and not talk shop at him."

Methos returned the toast, "To Joe." He drank the last of the Chablis, tipping his head back, his throat long and pale, the muscles rippling as he swallowed.

"Aye." Duncan averted his eyes and finished his own wine, inescapably aroused.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"How could I not?"

"Well, you might have needed your taste–buds removed first."

"What an awful thought!"

"Indeed." Methos carefully replaced his glass down amongst the meal's debris on the table. He leaned on his elbows and considered. "Imagine, never to taste a fine wine, or a delicious meal — what a waste."

Or taste a lover's skin... Macleod thought the words, but couldn't say them. Not yet...but soon, when this was done, when Kronos was buried once and for all in the depths of his psyche. Which would be soon. He needed it to be soon... "Do you want anything else?"

"No, couldn't fit it in. What about you?"

"No. Coffee?"

"No."

"That's simple then, I'll get the check."

"Which we'll split!"

"Oh, no. This is on me — you can buy lunch tomorrow or something."

"What this going to be — gourmet week?"

"Nothing wrong with that — you could do with some extra layers of insulation."

Methos tutted softly. "You and Joe are worse than a couple of mother hens, anybody'd think you were the old ones."

It felt just that way sometimes, Macleod realised. Sometimes he felt older than Methos, sometimes younger than Dawson. Today he felt...young. Very young... But he answered sweetly, "Just looking out for you," in his best scots old lady voice.

Methos spluttered with laughter. "We'd better go. The walk back to the car might just make you sober enough to drive!"

"I'm sober as a judge!"

"That's what I'm worried about..."

"Ha, bloody ha!" Macleod grinned, and stood up, scraping his metal chair back on the tile floor. He rummaged in his pocket for his bill–fold as the waitress appeared, the check folded on a small chrome plate. Duncan took one glance at the total and selected a note. "Don't worry about the change."

Methos was still laughing as they walked out of the restaurant. "Macleod, you can not impress everyone with money!"

"Ah, but it works so often..."

"At least she'll remember you."

"And we'll get a good table again."

"I should hope so!" His amusement was still bubbling a few moments later, until he checked his watch. "Hell, do you know what the time is?"

"No." He didn't care either.

"Ten to four."

"Oh."

"Exactly. Not even you drive that fast."

"I could try..." Duncan grinned evilly.

"No."

"No?"

"No. We'll take a leisurely drive down to the multi–plex and see what's on there."

"What's come out recently?"

"And you're the one always complaining about my knowledge of popular culture!"

In the end they went to see the remastered Star Wars, and loved it. Sitting amongst kids of every age imaginable they sat spellbound, nudging each other at the new bits, falling in love all over again with all the characters, hating Darth Vader and sighing when it was all over.

Afterwards, they strolled back to the car in complete accord. "I wonder what it would be like to use a light–sabre." Methos mocked a parry in the air.

"Fun. Less heavy to carry around as well."

"That's true."

"I wonder if you could get..." Methos broke off the speculation, hands falling away, his skin was goosefleshed, expectant. He turned, wary, seeing Macleod react the same way. They scanned the area around them, but there were too many people. It was twilight, the lot was packed with cars, with maybe a hundred people milling around after the movie. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the feeling went away. Methos relaxed, pulling his coat close around him. "Well, I wonder who that was."

"No one who wanted to be introduced." First outside the dojo, now here. It was almost too much of a coincidence. Macleod pulled his keys out of his pocket and opened up the car.

"Maybe they've gone in to see the movie, we can't be the only ones to lust after light–sabres." Despite the levity, Methos still looked slightly unsettled.

"Yeah, that must be it." Macleod slid into the driver's seat, waiting for Methos to get in before turning the engine over and asking, "You still want to go to Joe's for a drink?"

"Might as well. The night is still a baby."

"Okay." Besides, he would know about stray Immortals in the area.

* * * * *

Joe's was packed. The two Immortals had to fight their way through too many people to the bar, where they finally caught Joe's attention.

"Hi, Joe! What's going on — you giving away free beer?" Macleod had to speak up over the hubbub.

"It's a party."

"I can see that..."

"A private party — I just didn't realise there were going to be so many of them."

"Well," Methos leaned on the bar and joined the conversation. "It must be good for profits."

There were two barmen working flat out, and Joe was studiously ignoring a customer to talk to his friends, watching the two of them curiously, seeing what a difference the day together had made to their ease with each other. This morning they had hardly acknowledge each others existence, now they seemed relaxed. Relaxed without effort. Joe nodded to himself, then answered Methos. "Yeah, bad for my ulcer though. Let me get you a drink, I'll leave fighting for a table to you."

"Beer please, Joe."

"And me."

Dawson nodded at the pair of them, and went off to pour two schooners. At that moment, Methos spotted an emptying table. "Mac, you get the drinks, I'll be over there." And he was gone, staking his claim under the nose of a pin–striped young man who looked as if he should have been behind a phone on wall street. Methos merely sat down and grinned at him, teeth glinting whitely in the shadowy light.

Macleod took the beers over, careful not to get jogged. He sat down. "I see you're winning friends then."

"Mmm, he asked me to marry his sister, but I had to decline."

"If the sister looked like him, I'm not surprised."

"Thanks for the beer."

"Fine. I asked Joe about strangers, he says he hasn't heard of anyone new around. Apparently Cassandra's still in Europe."

Methos looked up, his eyes narrowed. "I wondered if you'd think it was her."

"Seems obvious." Macleod shrugged and fingered his glass. "She wasn't happy about you being alive."

"No."

"But can't have been her. So, maybe it was just coincidence, or a newbie."

"Or freak weather conditions."

"Oh yeah." Macleod didn't believe a word of it. "That happens so often!"

"Well... Thank you for worrying though."

"You mean you think I have a choice?"

Methos lips twisted wryly, almost smiling. "Thanks."

"No problem." He opened his mouth to say something else, but a microphone was switched on, humming a moment of feedback into the air. Almost immediately it was gone, replaced by a voice Macleod didn't know, announcing a band he hadn't heard of who played electric blues. He groaned. "What is Joe thinking of?"

"It might be all right." Methos settled back in his chair, seemingly content to wait and see.

"You like the Manic Street Preachers, you'll probably love it!"

"Don't knock the Manic's — they're almost Scots."

"Really?"

"Well, they're Welsh..."

"Oh, really Scottish, Methos."

Methos just grinned, as, with a slide of electrified guitar the music began.

In the end, Duncan had to admit that he'd heard worse. But then as he'd heard some bands who could make your ear–wax curdle, that was hardly an accolade. When they lurched into a third number, he nudged Methos. "Shall we go?"

A nod was his answer. It was late, they'd drunk a couple of beers each, and Joe was too busy and the music was too loud to encourage them to stay. Methos stood up, just as a woman came by with two glasses held at waist height. Somehow, in a comedy of bad timing, Methos turned straight into her, knocking both glasses out of her hands.

"Damn, I'm so sorry..." There was wine all down his coat, all over the floor. Luckily, she seemed to have avoided all but a few tiny splashes. "I'm so clumsy!"

"It's not a problem, honestly!" She was crouching down, picking up pieces of glass. "I'd better get this off the floor though."

"Let me..." Methos was at her side. "Duncan, will you get a dustpan from Joe?" He turned his head to ask the question, then winced sharply, cursing abruptly.

"Oh, you've cut yourself!" The woman was watching blood drip from long fingers. "That could be nasty, let me..."

Macleod lent over the tableau. "Let me." And he wrapped Methos' hand in a large white handkerchief, which immediately began to stain red. Though curiously, the blood never spread any further. "I'm a doctor." He smiled warmly at the woman, who coloured, quite flustered. "I'll take him home, make sure he's okay."

"Home?"

"Mmm, we live together."

"Oh." She looked from one to the other, blinked, then smiled almost wryly, standing up as one of the bar–staff came to deal with the mess. "Well, look after that, make sure all the glass is out of it. Though I guess you don't need to be told that, being a doctor and all..."

Macleod upped the wattage of the smile, whilst pulling a mildly bemused Methos to his feet. "I'll take great care. Let us buy you some more drinks before we go."

"Thanks, you needn't..."

"Oh yes we do." He found some money and handed it to a waiter who had wandered over to see if he could help. "Another round for the lady." With a nod, the man was gone. Macleod put a hand under Methos' arm and gently tugged. "Good night."

"'night!"

Joe was waiting by the door. "You're off then."

"Before someone claims they've seen a miracle — don't suppose you fancy the bar being a sight of pilgrimage, Joe?"

"No thanks, Mac. What happened."

"I cut myself," Methos sighed.

"I see." Dawson glanced across the bar, and saw the woman still staring at his friends. "And what else did you tell her."

"Duncan managed to suggest that we were lovers." Methos was studiously picking at his makeshift bandage.

"Well, " Macleod shrugged. "It was one way to stop her noticing you."

"Mac, I've bad news for you, I don't think it worked." Joe was watching over their shoulders, seeing the direction of the woman's fascinated glances as she talked animatedly to her friend.

"Damn!"

"'night, Joe." Methos was leaving.

"Yeah. See you..."

Duncan waved to Joe and headed through the closing door. Outside it was dark, cold enough to mist his breath on the air. "Methos, wait up!" He jogged a few paces, then fell in step.

"Sorry, Duncan, that was very clumsy."

"It could have been worse, at least she didn't actually see you heal."

"No." Methos unwrapped his hand, holding it up, letting the street–light fall on the long, strong fingers, the un–wounded palm. "Good as new."

"I wonder if that would shock her more than the idea that we were an item," Duncan mused.

"I don't think she was shocked.."

"No?"

"Not in the slightest. Titillated maybe..."

"Come off it!"

"Well, she was looking at us in a certain way. Of course," he stopped in his tracks. "If you want to go back and see if my theory pans out..."

"No thanks."

"Macleod, I'm surprised at you. We could make her evening."

"No thanks." Macleod watched the teasing smile, loving the amusement that softened what could be a sombre, ascetic countenance. His breath was suddenly shallow, quite erratic, and he knew what he was going to do, every consequence be damned, every theory of what was right torn up and cast aside. Nothing mattered but this, not any of the past, not Kronos, not even the fears he had about Methos' dark and undoubtedly perverse sexual inclinations. All that was important was here. Everything else just happened to be details.

"Methos, I'd rather make our own evening." And in the shadows, he took a step forward, hands gently reaching to hold the long face still. "Much rather..."

The kiss was little more than a breath of skin against skin, yet it made his body shudder.

"Methos..." Air was impossible to find, the axis of the universe dependent on the man he held in his hands; the man who moved to mould his body to Duncan's, strength to strength, heat to answering heat.

"Macleod?"

Their was uncertainty in the single name, something close to fear painted in the wide eyes. At that moment, Macleod despised himself, hated his own treatment of this man, his own stubbornness, hypocrisy. "Methos... I've wanted to do this for so long." A start of surprise left him breathless.

Methos was whispering, as if in disbelief. "Duncan... I thought you despised me."

"What you were, yes, not what you are."

"I was certain..."

"I don't understand you, Methos, but I want you very much. Anything else we can just work out, can't we?"

Methos voice was thickened with desire. "Yes. I'm sure we can do that. I never guessed, you know. Though I wanted... Why did you wait?"

"I don't know, I don't know." Macleod's voice was low, the soft accent strengthened with emotion.

"Idiot." Affection lingered long after the single word had slipped gruffly from Methos' lips, doubt slowly fading from his eyes.

"Aye." Macleod ran a finger down Methos face, feeling the faint smile the touch solicited. "Will you kiss me again, forgive me?"

"You don't really have to ask..."

They both were smiling, intent on each other, arms wrapping around solidity, assurance in the touch. They kissed, skin against skin, heat enough to spark electricity taking their breath. Lips parted softly under Macleod's, a hand pressing the back of his head drawing him closer. Methos tasted honeyed, tasted of desire. Macleod, eyes closed, understood nothing but the moment. Blind and deaf, his senses focused on feeling, on the warmth of skin, the heat of tongue and soft mouth, the roughness of wool against his fingers, he buried reason in need.

Somewhere in the rational part of his brain, he did know that they were standing outside in the cold night air, that even though they were in shadows, anyone might see. Even more importantly, this knew this was too soon, that he should have waited until everything was resolved and they were free of the past. But rationality could all go to hang. Ruthlessly, he closed off all thought, kissing as if his life depended on it, shivering as Methos nibbled his lip before pressing his tongue deep again; pleasure taken, given, savoured.

In the end it was laughter broke them apart. Guilty, they parted hurriedly, but no one had seen. A party was coming out of Joe's, their drunken hilarity carrying on the chill air. Macleod breathed again, grinning like a boy. "Want to go home?"

Methos nodded emphatically. "Yes!"

"Will you sleep in my bed tonight?"

Methos had half turned away, but he spun back, intently searching Macleod's face. After a moment he nodded, then suddenly his eyes were smiling, devilry dancing in their green depths. "Yeah, why not!"

"Come on then." A quick kiss and he was gone, hand rummaging for his keys. At the car he paused, leaning on the door, suddenly intent. "Methos..."

"Yes." Another smile.

"This is me, you know."

"Oh, I know Macleod. I know."

"I wouldn't want you to think it was him..."

Methos nodded. "I know this is you, I promise you that."

"How?"

"Instinct, memory, technique..." Methos sighed softly, tilting his face up to the stars before facing Macleod again. "You know, I have wanted you since the first time you came looking for Adam Pierson and found me instead. I thought you weren't interested, so I backed off, kept my distance..."

"What a waste."

"Yes. You once asked me if I like normal sex. Well, the answer is yes."

"Good."

Methos wondered what Macleod really thought, what he really wanted. Whatever it was, there was only one way to find out if it was the same as his own desires, his own dreams. And they certainly needed to be somewhere other than a car park in the middle of nowhere. "Macleod, let's get in the car and go home?"

"Continue in comfort?"

"Mmm." Methos nodded.

"Sure."

They both climbed in, and putting the car in gear, Macleod headed homewards. They were silent for a while, content. For Macleod, driving through the city at night was a strange pleasure, one added to by the quiet presence at his side. Anticipation made him smile into the night, though in the end he needed to talk. "Go on, tell me more about Paris."

"Well, you never made as much as a move. And I thought I was just imagining things, indulging in wishful thinking."

"You weren't. Though I wasn't sure enough to make a move, and then somehow things got piled on top of how I felt, what with Jacob, and Alexa.."

"...and Amanda."

"Yeah." Macleod waited at a cross–roads for traffic to pass, then continued. "I guess that Kronos made me really examine how I felt. Even when I hated you for what you'd done, underneath all that confusion, I still wanted you, loved you..."

"No, you hated me so much! When you found me trying to leave, and asked if everything Cassandra had said was true, then walked away telling me it was done, that we were through..." He shook his head, emotion cracking his voice. Methos stared out of the window, street–lights flashing past as they drove along, each one highlighting his face in turn before it plunged back into shadow then back into light. "I wasn't sure if I could go on." "It hurt so much to walk away." Macleod shrugged slightly, his hands tight on the wheel. "I'm sorry. I still find it hard to know about the past, but I can't deny the truth of what else I feel. I couldn't let Cassandra kill you."

"Something I am extremely thankful for," Methos murmured.

Macleod frowned into the path the headlights made. "I will try and understand."

"Well, when you do, let me in on the secret."

"Don't you..?"

"No. I spent hundreds of years trying to forget what I had been, the only time I remembered was at night in dreams, and then I only really saw Kronos, damn him. I honestly didn't recognise Cassandra you know, not for the first few seconds, anyway."

"I did wonder."

"First Kronos and then her." He blinked, remembered horror shadowing his eyes. "It was if the world had gone mad."

"It had, for a while." They were home. Macleod drew the car up outside the dojo, and carefully switched off the ignition. "You know, I haven't felt him all day."

"I know, you've been quite yourself." A soft smile.

"Do you think it's over?"

Methos shifted slightly, one hand on the door, his face appraising. "I don't think I should tempt fate by answering yes, do you?"

"Maybe not."

"But I hope so... I want you as you, Duncan Macleod. I buried Kronos a long time ago, I don't want him back yet again." With that he was climbing out, walking away to lightly run up the steps. "Come on, Duncan, it's bloody nippy out here!"

Macleod slowly uncurled from the driver's seat, locking up before walking across to his doorway. Methos was bouncing on his toes to keep warm, arms wrapped around his torso, shoulders hunched. Macleod realised he often stood the same way, tightly isolated, wrapped in on himself in a way that kept the world out. It all made sense if you saw him as quite alone.

Five thousand years alive.

Alone...

"Methos?"

"Mmm."

Macleod hesitated, then merely smiled. "Out the way, I can't get the key in the lock."

Methos gave him a look, but said nothing, following him inside.

* * * * *

It was wonderfully warm in the loft. Methos stripped off his coat and sitting down to unlace his boots, tossed them haphazardly to one side. From the corner of his eye he watched Macleod, watched the economy of movement, the grace that should have been a dancer's, but in fact belonged to a far stricter discipline. He wanted to taste that body so badly; wanted everything, now. Instead he stood casually, "I'll take the shower first, okay?"

"You're the guest."

Methos smiled, "So I am." He disappeared, unsure quite why he was running away, unless it was doubt at his own skill, his own lack of recent practise in matters such as this.

Stripping quickly he stepped under the water, sighing. He really would never lose the this sense of luxury; it was so sensuous to stand and be soaked by limitless hot water. Closing his eyes, he let it cascade over his head, turning the world into darkness and rushing sound, like standing at the bottom of a waterfall. Though any waterfall he had ever known was cold, and this was warm, so utterly, delightfully warm.

It really shouldn't have been a surprise when the door was pulled open. Methos blinked water out of his eyes and regarded Macleod. "Hello."

"Can I join you?"

Macleod was naked, splendidly naked. Wide shoulders, slim hips, sleek muscle, skin just golden as if tinted by the sun. Methos swallowed incoherently and nodded.

"Thanks." He stepped in and slid the door closed. "Well, this is cosy!"

"Mmm." Suddenly the world was full of Macleod, skin that wasn't his own seemed to be touching Methos everywhere.

"Want me to scrub your back?"

"Duncan..." Methos was shivering, his arms textured with gooseflesh despite the steam that rose around them.

"Yeah...?"

"You're a right bastard, know that?"

"So I've been told." Duncan was grinning, desire rather than humour glinting in his eyes. One finger reached out and tilted Methos' chin up, making him blink water off his dark lashes. Then, controlled as a hunter, Macleod leant forward and kissed one eye, then the other, only then placing a soft kiss on the expectant lips. He sighed heavily, and taking Methos in his arms, held him.

Every desire Methos had ever possessed burned away in that moment. This was what he had wanted for as long as had been alive, longer than he could remember. A sound escaped his mouth, unformed, and he stifled it against the solid muscle of Macleod's shoulder, biting the skin with gentled teeth. Water surrounded him, skin surrounded him. Destiny held in his hands, naked as his desire.

After a while they moved, thigh sliding against thigh, hands touching, touching. Water sparkled around them, cascading off skin as they found soap, turned, moved, touched, washed each other; the simple act of becoming clean, enough of a reminder of what this was all about to banish any insecurity Methos might have felt. He wanted this too much for a few millennia without practise to get in the way.

When they were clean, Methos turned off the shower. In sudden silence he met Macleod's heavy gaze with level candour, water dripping down his face. "Not here. Let's go to bed..." A low, throaty growl of desire almost changed his mind. Fingers brushed a nipple, leaving him breathless. They were going to kiss again. He shook his head, "No! Bed...please?"

Macleod kissed him hard, tongue sliding past the barrier of his lips, commanding. Then he pulled away, leaving Methos open mouthed with wanting.

Duncan murmured innocently, "But I thought you wanted to go to bed?"

"Bastard..."

The chuckle was as sexy as the kiss. Methos, followed him out, only to be enveloped in a wide towel, rubbed hastily dry.

"Ouch! Careful..."

"I'll be careful, sorry." Macleod swiftly knelt, kissed the offended organ, then swallowed it whole, making Methos shudder convulsively, wondering why he had ever doubted Macleod's expertise.

"Mac..."

"Is that better?"

A nod.

"Right then."

By the time Methos staggered after him, Macleod was on the bed, lounging with all the smug arrogance of a sultan. The light by the bed was on, casting a golden glow across a body Michelangelo would have died to carve, or paint...or fuck.

Methos stalked towards him. "Duncan Macleod..." He tossed the towel to one side, playing at indignation. "Are you going to finish what you started?"

Macleod watched the slim body approach the bed and gave up on all the games, gave up on everything but need. He came up to his knees, held out a hand. "Come here."

Their hands meshed, fingers weaving together. Pulled gently forwards, Methos knelt and slid into Duncan's arms. He closed his eyes, head falling back and Macleod kissed his neck, licking the skin, roughly drawing his teeth across fine muscle. A whispered command, "Lie down..." and he obeyed. Stretching his long body across the bed, knowing he was too thin, but that his cock was curving, hard and beautiful, in the air. He gasped when Macleod straddled him, but reached up and was touching the golden skin, hands smoothing across the wide chest, feeling the nipples harden under his touch, feeling Macleod moan almost silently before he bent forward and took a kiss, the weight of his body pressing them cock to cock, the sensation rendering all thought void.

Methos, skin burning, arched upwards. He almost cried out when Duncan moved backwards, knew what was coming, bit down hard on his own hand as that wide mouth enclosed him. This was sweet, sweetest. He tried not to sob, failed, clutching hard at the dark head that took him so deep, gave such expert pleasure.

Like a pearl–fisher he came up for air, then was back, diving, taking Methos deep into the wide, tidal sea of passion. Again and again, until all Methos lived for was the feel of that throat tight around his cock. The ocean was swirling in his head, the sound a roaring that built around him, piercingly sweet. Words spilled from his lips, commands, obscenities, a name. Until the world narrowed to the sea of desire, to the name he whispered. He had wanted this too long. The tight throat slid around him once again and he was lost, a sailor without a sail, borne by currents he had forgotten existed to a place he had never been.

If the world had ended, he would not have cared.

Time drifted, and he opened his eyes, meeting a worried gaze. Languorous he reached out, and touched the reddened lips, blinking drowsily. "Wow."

"Good, I thought I'd killed you!"

"If that was heaven, take me now..."

"Again?"

Methos smiled. "Well, maybe not yet. Come here..." He tugged gently at Duncan's ear until they were pressed together, limb to limb. Methos slid his thigh between the solidity of Macleod's and sighed, wondering at the men who must have taught such skill, jealous, relieved. He ran his fingers along warm skin. "Your turn." There certainly did seem to be an urgency in the heat that pressed at his belly. "What do you want?"

Macleod was kissing a bony shoulder. "Whatever..."

"So decisive." He considered, then tapped Macleod with a pointed finger to get his attention. "Move off me a minute."

Curious, but obedient, Duncan moved, watching as Methos padded silently into the bathroom. When he came back he tossed a tube onto the bed. Propped on an elbow, Macleod reached for it, held it in his hand, then looked up questioningly.

"Only if you want..." A shrug accompanied the offer.

"Want?" Macleod moved before the other man was aware, pulling him to the bed, pinning him down. "Don't come all coy with me, of course I want! How could I not, but..."

"But what?"

Macleod was shaking his head, pain darkening his eyes. "I hurt you, tried to force you. How can you offer this?"

"Because I trust you, Duncan Macleod. And I need you to trust yourself."

The tube was cool in his hand, warming though as he held it. He blinked, met Methos' eyes. "You are sure?"

"Duncan, I wouldn't have offered if I was uncertain. I want this, I want you..."

They kissed again, slow and easy, until Duncan shivered. Then Methos pulled back, taking the near face in his hands, studying it closely. His voice was soft, thick as honey with desire. "I want you as well, you know."

"Yes."

"But this first." He placed a kiss on the end of the neat nose, then wriggled around until he was on his belly, sighing luxuriously, lifting his arse in invitation.

Macleod ran a hand down the line of long spine, letting his hand cup delicately around the curves offered. The spirit of generosity in which this offer was made came close to unmanning him. There was hope, here. More. Now all that mattered was to make it good enough to wipe out the memory of everything that had gone before.

Gently, he urged one leg up so it lay bent, opening everything to his touch, running a finger the length of the crack. His mouth followed his hand, kissing the pale inner thighs, licking at the softened balls, sucking at the perineum until Methos groaned, lifting his pelvis with a husky murmur of need, of offering. Macleod let his tongue travel slowly upwards, circling. Very slowly he licked deep into the tight, wrinkled skin, feeling the muscle clutch wantonly at even such a slight penetration. A kiss, then he continued, until he was nuzzling the soft, almost invisible hairs and the base of Methos' spine.

Curled there, his cheek to the warm skin, he opened the tube, and with shaky fingers spread the clear gel on his own cock, glad of the coldness, as it took away from the edge of need that almost upset his purpose. He could hardly bear to touch himself any further. Instead he knelt, taking his weight on one hand, his cock in the other, Methos' throaty voice an encouragement he didn't need, but loved, and pressed into the tight entrance.

Macleod gritted his teeth as Methos' body was slowly broached. It was almost beyond his powers of restraint not to come, but he breathed slow and deep, moaning softly as he inched slowly inside. The slim body was taut under him, tension humming through every muscle. Macleod braced himself on both arms, hands pressed close to Methos' sides, then bent his head and kissed the curve of one shoulder. With absolute control he eased out of the tightness, then pushed back in, deeper this time. Then again, until he was entirely inside, the root of his cock buried, the tight need of his balls pressed close against heated skin.

Methos gasped as Macleod flexed his hips, what had to be pleasure shuddering at last through what must have been pain. When Duncan moved again, wanting this to be delight, needing it to be so, he found himself pushed back against, as Methos offered complicity as an aphrodisiac. Lost, Duncan listened to words that urged him on. There was nothing he could do but obey. Pushing deep as muscles tightened around him, the pleasure came hard out of nowhere, until forbearance was no longer even a dream. Far too soon he cried out loud, sobbing as he lost control, spilling his seed in racking waves deep in his lover's body.

Time paused around them, then Methos licked dry lips and groaned softly. Pressed hard into the bed by the weight of Macleod's body, he smiled secretly, loving the dying spasms of pleasure that sparked through them both. Duncan's hardness was still deep inside him, hard though beginning to soften. Very gently, Methos flexed his muscles around it, shivering as sated sensation rippled through his body.

It was wonderfully good, to lie here. He didn't want to question why, didn't want to analyze or understand anything beyond this undoubted, unseen happiness. Kronos hadn't managed to stand between them. His own confused desires, or Macleod's limited understanding of them, hadn't complicated such feral simplicity. For the first time in far too long he had loved, been loved in return. It was enough to make him want to be everything that Macleod wanted him to be. Anything. Enough to make him want this to last forever.

The thought made him smile; the pragmatist turned romantic.

Just then, Macleod moved, his cock slipping wetly from tightness, making Methos shiver as surprise pulled a soft whimper of loss from his lips. A kiss on the back of his neck, then Macleod was gone, flopping to one side with a groan. After a moment he found his voice. "Methos..." he stretched out one arm, the invitation obvious.

"Mmm." The owner of the name turned onto his side, and settled in the crook of Macleod's arm, feeling it curl around him as he stilled.

"That was..."

"Mmm..."

They had the energy to smile, at least.

Macleod stroked the smooth skin under his fingers. After a while when he thought of nothing at all, he said, "We should go to bed."

"I know."

"But we're lying on the covers."

"You noticed."

"Yeah. We'll get cold if we stay here."

A long suffering sigh. "Oh, all right." Methos slowly sat up, ruffled, dissipated. He bent close to Macleod and kissed his mouth briefly. "You know, that was really very pleasant."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes." Methos stretched reminiscently. Not a twinge. Shame, really, it would have been good to feel the imprint of Macleod on his body.

Slowly he stood up, pleasure still too heavy in his body for sudden movement, and tugged at the bed–cover where it lay under Macleod, making him move with a grin. In a moment the light was off and they were together under the sheets. Methos pulled Macleod close, loving his warmth, his solidity, taking him into his arms. "'night, Duncan."

"Good night. We'll stink in the morning."

"What the hell..."

"Yeah." Macleod settled down in the shadows, gently stroking his hand across the curving line of Methos' ribs. After a moment, very serious, he said, "Methos, thank you for trusting me."

"I have always trusted you, Duncan." He sighed, softly. "Kronos, though, is a different matter."

Macleod stirred uneasily, then stilled as a hand pressed comfortingly against his shoulder. "If you have to kill me again — just do it."

"You think I'd have any qualms?"

Macleod smiled at the mild, outraged amusement in the drawling voice. "I just want to be sure."

"Rest easy, Duncan. I have no interest in meeting Kronos again. I'll do whatever I can..." He broke off with a wide yawn.

"Sleep well, Methos."

"I intend to." A wide yawn.

Macleod shifted, curling onto his side. He murmured contentedly when Methos spooned around him, an arm tucked around his waist. Not much later the breath warming the back of his neck became soft and rhythmic. Close to sleep himself, it was all he needed.

* * * * *

Methos woke to an unaccustomed feeling of well–being that was as close to happiness as he could imagine. He stretched slowly, luxuriating in contentment, running his hand across the sheet, searching for Macleod. All his fingers found though were cold linen and the edge of the bed. Curious, he slowly sat up, wiping his hands over his stubbled face to clear the sleep from his eyes.

"Duncan?"

No answer. Methos scanned the room, finally seeing Macleod sitting on the couch. He was bent over, head in his hands.

It was as if the contentment had never existed.

Methos stared across the room, silently cursing himself and his lack of self–control. He shouldn't have slept in this bed, shouldn't have allowed himself to be so enamoured, so persuaded.

He climbed slowly off the bed, padding barefoot across the polished wood floor to stand, quite lost, by Macleod. "Duncan...?"

Slowly, the dark head lifted, and in a moment of recognition Methos was taught the true meaning of despair. Fast, he turned on his heel, running for the door, but hands were on him, a fist setting his senses spinning, taking the strength from his legs, spilling him bruisingly to the floor. He lay there, stunned, watching bare legs walk around him. "Macleod?" It was a whisper, born of a spark of hope that guttered as he was hauled upright, tossed casually towards the bed.

"Silence!"

The roar was Kronos, come for his revenge.

Clutching the floor, Methos lay still, waiting. Sweat, cold with fear, glistened on his skin. Everything he had learned last night had to be forgotten — this was not Macleod. This was not...

"Get up, Methos."

If he closed his eyes, time could fold back. The voice, the intonation... Deprived of grace, Methos stumbled to his feet and faced his nemesis. "What do you want?"

"You."

"Macleod, fight this!" Methos ducked the blow and almost made it, a foot tripping him only at the last moment. He ignored the pain and went on talking, convinced if he spoke long and loud enough Macleod would hear. "You are not..."

"Shut up! I know you only pretended to enjoy last night, well, now I'm going to give you what you really want."

"I don't want..." A casual slap across the face tried to silence him, splitting his lip but not halting his words. "Duncan, fight him! Don't.."

This time the blow came close to knocking him senseless. Dazed, he felt strong hands take hold of his wrists and begin to drag him across the floor. Sickeningly, he realised he had two choices, fight or submit; neither of which would be easy. He tried to gather his scattered senses, to find words that would reach Macleod rather than Kronos. His voice was slurred, halting, "Duncan, this isn't you, remember last night..." Released close to the bed, Methos curled onto his belly, found strength to reach his knees. He shook his head, trying to clear it, speaking the words carefully, as if to a deaf man. "Fight him, you are strong enough!" He came up onto his feet, crouching, straightening, knowing a window was behind him. If he could...

Methos turned, leaping for the glass, almost reaching the freedom that lay two floors away. Almost. Hands held him, taking him down, crashing him painfully into the floor.

This time he barely stayed conscious. Macleod's face was grinning at him as he was tethered; a leather belt held close making him flinch, before it was simply bound around his wrists. There were no preliminaries. He was turned, pressed viciously into the wooden floor, and Kronos raped him with Macleod's body.

Methos lay still as the dead. Drawing his consciousness away to the distant place where he knew he could hide, he left everything behind. As pain shuddered through his body, he retreated from it all, turning to the shadows inside himself, to the place he could hide; the soft, ugly sounds an evil counterpoint to his own silent mantra of denial. There was nothing he could do but let his body be used, and try and remember the sweetness of the night, before this horror obliterated it altogether. His last true thought was to hope dimly that Macleod was still fighting. Then he was gone, turned inward, leaving his body to Kronos' mercy, knowing he would have none.

* * * * *

The first sensation he knew was that of a body under his own. Sleep–drugged, he smiled, remembering making love to Methos, remembering how sweet it had been, how right. Macleod awoke and, for a brief second of confusion wondered why, if it was still night, the room was so bright. He frowned, disquieted.

Blinking sleepily, he opened his eyes. Horror brought him to his knees, wrenching him painfully away from the body he had clearly just fucked. It had been night when he last remembered anything, now sunlight spilled into the room, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Kronos.

Sickened, eyes hooded in pain, Macleod saw the bindings around bloodied wrists, the stillness. Lowering his head, he saw bright blood on his own body, blood that wasn't his own. Shame flamed in his face.

Very carefully, unsure if he was quite sane, he moved to crouch at Methos' side. His fingers were clumsy on the leather belt that had been twisted hard around both wrists, the leather dug deep into skin by either struggle or design. After seemingly minutes of struggle, he was close to sobbing, then finally the thin strap twisted loose, knots giving way, and Methos was free. He tossed the belt away in revulsion. Macleod eased him onto his back, bringing him up to rest against his lap, holding him, keening softly under his breath.

Methos was open eyed, quite unresponsive. Bruises mottled his body, circled his throat. Macleod stroked his hand through the sweat–matted hair, whispering his name, again and again, hating Kronos, hating himself more for allowing this to happen.

The body against his skin was very cold. Maybe...

Macleod eased him to the floor, placing a kiss on his forehead, whispering still, then went hurriedly into the bathroom. He filled the bath with warm water, waiting urgently until it was half–full, then almost ran back. Methos was still the same, lying where he had been placed, eyes open, face calm and still. Duncan picked him up tenderly, and carried him into the bathroom, lowering him slowly into the water, careful that he didn't slide under.

He lay where he had been placed, an effigy carved in wax.

"Methos?" Macleod softly called the name, repeating it again. He had never seen anything like this, even the wounded wrists were not healing, blood slowly staining the water. He poured more hot into the bath, washing the blood away until at least it ceased to flow. He talked all the time, words spilling from his lips as he soaped and rinsed. Finally, he pulled the plug, and, as the water spiralled away, eased Methos awkwardly to his feet. "Come on, now, that's right..." Macleod stepped into the bath and, carefully holding the dead weight upright, turned on the shower–head, letting the clean water spill over them both, rinsing the last of the blood away.

Towels were there, just within reach. Water switched off, he wrapped Methos in a bath–sheet and, lifting him again, carried him back out to the bed. He was warmer, but it was as if the warmth was superficial, only borrowed from the heat of the water. Duncan lay him down and towelled the pale skin, rubbed the spiky hair dry, then carefully pulled the covers up.

It was too much like laying out the dead.

There was nothing else he could think to do. Nothing he knew how to do. Panic gnawed at the edges of his reason, made it impossible to think with any clarity. He couldn't do this, couldn't. Certainly couldn't be alone here when Methos came round. Not alone. The thought of seeing fear... No, he needed someone else: Joe.

Roughly drying himself on the towel he tossed it aside. Ignoring the fact that his hands were shaking, he pulled on the first clothes he could find, loose sweat–pants and a black sweater. Pushing his feet into sneakers, he found the phone and rang Joe's mobile. It was switched off. He cursed, bitterly, and tried the number for the bar. After an age a young voice answered, "Joe's, can I help you?"

"Is Joe there, this is Duncan Macleod."

"Sorry, he's at a meeting with the Blues Festival committee."

Duncan bit his lip, all the while watching the still form in the bed. "Do you know what time he'll be back?"

"In about an hour, I guess."

"I see." Macleod ran a hand over his face. There had to be a way round this. "Do you know where the meeting's being held?"

"Sure, it's over at Blue Note, it's club over..."

"I know — thanks." And he disconnected abruptly.

An hour. He wasn't sure if he could wait that long. Wasn't sure that Methos could. Quite what Dawson could do if he was here, Duncan wasn't sure. But he might know something, his understanding of Immortals greater than almost anyone Macleod had ever met.

Besides, he was Methos' friend. A safe friend who hadn't just raped...

No! He couldn't allow himself the luxury of guilt, not yet. The decision had to be made. He went back to Methos, sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking a light, uncertain hand over his forehead. "Can you hear me? If you can, I'm going out to find Joe. I'll be back soon, and I'll bring him with me."

The still face didn't move, the eyes staring glassily open.

Duncan reached under the covers and found one hand, easing it free. Bruising was dark around the bones, the broken skin still unhealed. He briefly closed his eyes, grief almost taking away his ability to function. Then he tucked the hand back and stood up. "I won't be long."

It felt like talking to the dead.

Macleod trailed his fingers across the rough blanket, then turned on his heel. Finding the car key, he took one last glance into the long room; the bed isolated in the distance, its shape barely disturbed by the man within. Then he was gone, running down the stairs, locking up obsessively before jumping into the car, gunning the engine and skidding away.

* * * * *

The Blue Note was more up–market than Joe's, a designer facade of chrome and glass showed the interior, exposing the occupants like ants in a vivarium. As Macleod pushed open the door, he could see Joe Dawson standing with a cluster of men and women; he was holding court, telling some story that made them all smile and nod, laugh. Some sixth–sense must have made his skin itch though, for as Macleod brushed past a waiter, he turned, smiled, and excused himself from the group.

"Mac, what's up?"

"It's Methos..." He blinked, words failing suddenly in his throat.

"Hey, hang on, you'd better sit down!" Concern creased Dawson's face, made him reach out and grip Macleod's arm, feeling the muscle knotted tight with tension.

"No, there isn't time. Come with me, Joe. I don't know what to do..."

"Sure I'll come with you, but give me a hint, Mac, what's happened. Is Methos okay?"

"He's alive."

"Well, that's a start. Where is he?"

"At the dojo. Joe, please, just come..."

The urgency was unmistakeable. Joe nodded. "Hang on, I need to say goodbye — go out and I'll meet you in the car."

Macleod nodded, walking back to the car, thinking nothing much other than concentrating on keeping his breath even, regular. After a while, Dawson emerged, his halting gait carrying him across the street. "Right..." He settled into the passenger seat, hardly there before the car was moving. He sighed, turning to look at the driver. "Was it bad?"

Macleod nodded. "Kronos came back. And now Methos is...he's... Hell, I don't know what he is, but close to catatonic."

"What did you — he — do?"

"Hurt him. Badly. I don't know what else — I wasn't there."

The dry delivery didn't fool Dawson at all. "It wasn't you, don't believe otherwise."

"No, just my hands, my body, my..." Macleod pushed away the anger, concentrating on driving through the traffic as fast as safely was able. "I thought I had it under control, I was so bloody certain."

"And now?"

"I'm me."

"And Methos is unconscious."

"His eyes are open, but he didn't hear me when I spoke to him, or respond at all." Macleod shivered. "Joe, he has...bruises, wounds on his wrists, they weren't healing." Misery clogged his voice, and he shook his head. "You heard of anything like this before?"

"No." Joe, utterly serious, searched his memory, but there was nothing. "Sorry. Maybe he'll be fine by the time we get there."

"If not, well I was thinking maybe he might respond to your voice, instead of mine."

The idea was clearly painful.

"He might." Joe rubbed a broad hand through his beard. "You try anything other than talking?"

"No." Macleod pushed the car through a few corners at a speed it wasn't built to take, then continued. "He was cold, I warmed him up a bit, made sure he was wrapped up before I left." They were nearly home; anxiety twisted in his belly like a thousand spiders crawling.

"Even he would have problems dealing with what happened. Maybe it's just shock. He loves you too much, you know, for it not to have been pretty awful."

"Jesus! Even if he'd hated me it would have been terrible!" Macleod stilled the engine, anger coldly controlled. "I know he doesn't hate me, didn't..." He swallowed hard, then was out of the car. "Come on."

"I'm hurrying..."

"I'll open up." Macleod loped across the street, then stilled, calling out, "Joe?"

"I'm hurrying!" Joe moved as fast as he was able.

"The dojo's been broken into." Macleod was staring at the splintered door, body braced to fight.

"Hell!"

"Yeah. Stay here..." And he slipped away, ghosting silently through the door.

Despite the warning, Joe followed him inside. There was no noise, but after a while the elevator descended. Macleod was there, sword unsheathed in his hand. "What's happened?"

"Methos has gone."

"Gone as in left, or gone as in taken?"

"Taken. There's blood all over the place."

"Shit."

Macleod opened the cage, his face quite without emotion. "I'll kill whoever did this, Joe."

"Any ideas?"

"Some. We felt someone around a couple of times, maybe they were watching us, waiting." Macleod gripped the hilt of his sword "You remember I asked you about strangers around?"

"Yeah, but there wasn't anyone."

"There is now. Are you sure Cassandra isn't around?"

"Certain." Joe watched as Duncan raised his head, seeing pain and more in the hunted dark eyes. "I'll check again though. See who else might be here."

"A friend of hers, it must be. Someone she's told, or ordered. No one else would know — and she would certainly guess to look here."

"Because she knows you and Methos are friends?"

"No, because I wouldn't let her kill him. She'll know I'll be guarding him." He shrugged faintly. "Cassandra thought Methos and I were lovers."

"Was she right?"

"Not then, but...yes."

Joe whistled. "That was quick work."

"It seemed right. Now I don't know..."

"Trust yourself, Mac. And trust Methos, he didn't exactly go into it blindly." Dawson turned away, slowly heading towards the door. "I'll get a cab at the end of the street, and I'll call when I know something."

"Use the mobile number. I'm going to scout around, see what I can find."

"Be careful."

"They won't be after me."

"Yeah, but they could get you by what you might call accident. Cassandra didn't strike me as someone you cross idly."

"No." Macleod lowered his head, studying the intricate carvings on his katana's hilt. "She was always on my side before. Joe, I hope it isn't her."

"Don't count on it." Joe walked away.

"No."

Macleod listened until the building was quiet, feeling the silence build around him. Too much had happened, he felt pulverised by circumstance. By what he had done. By what Kronos had done...

The idea of Methos hurt was acid under his skin. The idea of hurting him with his own hands, his own body, was pain of the bitterest kind. To have committed such a crime, to have stolen what had been simply given. And now Methos might be truly dead.

Sorrow burned like fire, that possibility sharding pain through his mind. Images forced their way into his thoughts, appalling, that long neck sliced through by sharp steel... Shakily, he wiped his hands over his face, feeling the damp slide of unaccustomed tears under his fingers. For a long moment he stared at his hands, then cursing his own weakness, began the search for any clues.

There were none, none that helped. The main door had been splintered off its hinges. He fingered the old wood, feeling it soft and spongy under his fingers. One man could have done it, if he was strong enough, or two, working in tandem. There were no marks on the door, no sign that any implement had been used. Macleod walked out into the sunshine, casting around. A car had recently been parked there, leaking a small amount of oil. It might have been his, or it might be someone innocent. There was no way of telling.

Inside, the cool building was no more helpful. There were no footprints, no sign that a stranger had been here. All there was, was blood. Walking across to the bed, Macleod fingered the sheets, finding them sliced through by whatever blade had wounded Methos, as if he had been taken unawares. Had he been conscious at that moment? Perhaps he had woken and fought... Unlikely. Macleod saw destruction everywhere, but all of it had been there before he'd gone to find Joe; all of it from Methos' desperate attempts to fight him, not any intruder.

Macleod let the sheets fall back to the bed. There had to be a way of finding him. He stood for a long time, staring into space, but nothing slipped into his mind, no answer whispered from the silence. It was quite simple, success or failure hinged on Joe, and how accurate the Watchers records were, how up to date. Other than to hope and wait, there was nothing he could do. Waiting had never been easy, and as for hoping...

Cursing, he pulled the covers off the bed, sheets and cover and blankets all together, bundling them up tight, dragging them over to the elevator. They could go out as garbage, he never wanted to see them again.

Very slowly he walked back through the still room, seeing the path of a fight he couldn't remember. Yesterday, he had been so convinced that Kronos was gone, eradicated from his consciousness. Such egotism! But if he had realised the truth, he would never have allowed himself to kiss Methos, to make love to him. He would have done nothing to jeopardise the beginnings of love, let alone the fragile ties of a much abused friendship. This was a relationship he wanted, a lover he needed, a friend he valued more than he had ever told. Someone he might never see again.

But that evening had been so right; it was hard to deny that, to wish it had never happened. If it came to it, then that memory was all he would have. Something worth having, worth treasuring.

Unlike Methos who would have the memory of violence.

Macleod shuddered at the thought, sickened. He wiped his hand across his mouth and focused on the first thing close at hand; the stripped bed, its mattress dark with great patches of blood.

There was no way he wanted Methos to see that when he came back. No way. In fact the whole place needed clearing up. Macleod looked around at the devastation, and pushed his sleeves back. At least work would help stop him thinking.

Three hours later, the room was spotless, and the garbage was overflowing. Macleod had ordered a new mattress over the phone, paid way over the odds to have it delivered immediately. They had even taken the old one away — the stains accounted for in a glib way, the explanation oiled by a substantial application of cash.

He wandered through the room, touching his fingers against wood, against metal, fingering the spines of a row of books. All that was needed was Methos. Yet Dawson still hadn't phoned. Duncan took a long breath, then made a decision. There was no point sticking around here, so he would go to Joe's. After a cleaning himself up.

Stripped of filthy clothes, hair unbound, Macleod went into the shower. He stood for a long time under the water, letting his mind float free. Even though he searched deep within himself, there was no sign of Kronos. Though as that had meant less that nothing before, he didn't make the mistake of trusting it now. Instead he dried off, found underwear, topped it with jeans and sweater and walking–boots, and, locking up his newly mended door, got into his car.

It had to be worth checking out the places they had felt the presence of an Immortal. Duncan tapped the wheel with his fingers. Joe still hadn't rung, so there was time. Decision made, Macleod turned the ignition. It couldn't hurt just to drive around, see what he could see. And if Joe still hadn't been in contact, then a visit to the bar wouldn't hurt.

* * * * *

For a long time he was aware of being scarcely alive. He lived, but that was the beginning and the end of knowledge.

Alive.

There was a reason for it, he knew that much, but it quite eluded him. After a while he ceased to care.

Time neatly folded around him, giving no perception of itself passing. He curled in on himself, sheltered. There was no unpleasantness here, really no feeling at all. He lay still, basking in ignorance.

Then pain fought its way into his hiding place. He snarled at it, tried to twist away, but it forced it's way through him.

After that, there was nothing at all.

* * * * *

He shuddered back to life unaware that he had even been dead. Lying still, he burned as sensation flooded through nerves and muscle, healing searing through what must have been the death blow, deep in his side. Pain held him for a long while, then it eased and he could think again.

What had happened? He searched his ragged memory, found a moment of absolute happiness when Macleod had kissed him outside Joe's bar, then shuddered as he found Kronos, staring from Macleod's intense eyes. After that came the memory of misery, then escape into a trance that brought, eventually, the blessedness of nothing.

The only problem with retreating so completely from the world was that things happened without your knowledge. Methos cautiously opened his eyes, to find darkness and unnerving uncertainty. Wherever he was, it wasn't the dojo, unless that building had a cellar. An absence of light surrounded him, the blackness shimmering in its intensity. Listening, he heard no one close. Safe, perhaps. Safe enough to move. He tried, and knew bleak despair as, with the movement, he felt the unmistakeable weight of fetters around wrists and ankles, woke achingly twisted muscles. He laughed softly, despairingly to himself, mocking his own sudden fear.

Prison.

He had been here before, or a place like it; lain in darkness and waited for whatever was to come. Facing it often took more courage than was easy to find, but there was rarely any choice. Especially if this place belonged to Kronos.

If Macleod belonged to Kronos.

Try to find it as he might, there was no memory in him of Macleod coming back to himself. All remembering brought him was the shadowy breath of recalled pain, of Kronos laughing.

What if he had won a battle Macleod hadn't even really known he was fighting? What if there was no more Macleod at all?

He pushed the thought away violently. It couldn't be true. But if it was... He was certain his own sanity would never survive.

Whatever sanity he had left.

Kronos stalked his memory, every recollection Methos thought he had destroyed.

Shuddering, he gripped hard onto reality. Where was he? There was silence around him, no traffic, no sirens. Wherever he was, it had to be out of the city.

Or in a sound–proofed room.

He concentrated, scenting the air. Everything smelt of wood, of earth, all layered over the unwashed stink of his own body. He was definitely somewhere in the country, maybe a forest for there was pine, sharp and sweet in the air. The knowledge brought a breath of relief. But a forest where? For all he knew he could be anywhere, any state, any country.

Licking dry lips he miserably wished for water, wished for light. If truth were admitted he wished most of all for Macleod, sane and whole. Though none of the wishes seemed likely to be granted. Macleod, before Kronos. The image helped.

There was one other alternative, Macleod could be dead.

The effect on him was devastating. For a moment he believed that possibility with utter conviction, and he had to lock his jaw tight to stop from keening out loud.

Then he remembered. It wasn't certain. Nothing was certain. Sanity shivered back, wary.

Ruthless with his own weakness, he buried every thought that wasn't of now, of survival. He would cope with this; he would cope.

He shifted again, trying to find the boundary of his freedom. Despite the metal which tethered him, wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, he could move slightly, though as the floor was concrete and he was naked, every movement needed care. After a moment he made it onto his side, taking the weight off his abused hands. It was a marked improvement, one he scarcely had time to appreciate for, almost immediately, came faint awareness of another Immortal.

Wide eyed in the darkness he was blinded when light flooded the room. Methos tried to bury his face in his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. After a moment he slowly opened his eyes, wincing at the neon glare, to focus blearily on a tall, heavily muscled man who was staring down at him.

It was a stranger.

Not Macleod. Not even as himself.

Methos sniffed and awkwardly pushed himself up until he was sitting, taking a moment to look around. He was being held in what appeared to be a cellar, one he was tethered to quite securely by a chain linked by a short length from his ankles to a dishearteningly solid hook, set deep in the concrete.

After considering him, roughly in the manner a visitor at the zoo might watch a particularly unexciting exhibit, the man decided to speak, his voice close to disinterested. "You're awake then."

Methos buried all the discomfort, all the private grief, and forced himself to be deal with this, with now; "Yes, I'm awake. Why am I here?"

No answer, but Methos had hardly expected one. The man was dressed in anonymous jeans and workshirt, a broadsword dangling from his hand as lightly as a foil. He had red hair, pale skin, and mustaches that made him look like some casting director's version of Finn Mac Cumhaill. Methos asked wryly, "And which one of the four kingdoms do you come from?"

"Connaught. I was wondering when you'd come round."

Such verbosity. "How sweet to be worrying about me! I could almost think you cared."

"I do. She'd be bitterly disappointed if you were dead before she got here." Light blue eyes regarded him without curiosity. "And I'd hate to disappoint her, Methos the Horseman." A smile, small, quite unnerving, came with the name.

"Ah, you know me."

"She told me all about you."

"Cassandra." It had to be. Methos dimly wondered if he looked as scared as he felt.

"Aye, the Lady."

"And what are you?" Methos asked wearily. "Her lover?"

"I'm her sword, her arm, her anger. Don't forget it."

Methos slowly shook his head, muttering almost to himself. "I really don't think I'm likely to." Then, with a determined setting of his shoulders he tried again. "What is your name?"

"You can call me Donal."

"Donal. Well, I don't suppose I could have some water, could I?"

The man walked easily across to a table, where he poured water from a plastic bottle into a paper cup. Methos watched as, light–footed, he came back. The sword tip was suddenly close to the prisoner' throat.

Backing away as well as he was able, Methos tilted his head and spoke quickly. "Even if you hadn't tied me quite so effectively, which you have, I am not going to try anything. I'm not sure how I could. I really am just thirsty." The sword pulled back, and Donal bent to place the cup close to his prisoner before moving away. Which still left the problem of drinking it. Methos swallowed. "Ah, I don't suppose you'd untie my hands?"

"No."

"I can't drink like this." He could, but it would mean almost crawling in front of his captor, a thought so humiliating it made his flesh creep. There might come a time when thirst outweighed such an indignity, but he was a long way from that yet. He tried again. "Look, I'm chained up like a dog here! What difference can it make to let my hands be tied in front of me?"

"She says you're dangerous, as well as being an evil bastard. Bend down, you can cope."

"But..." Methos stared at the cup, wondering if the man would take it away if he didn't drink.

"What'll you do for it, beg?"

Even bound as he was, Methos managed to convey contempt, arrogant dismissal of that idea. "No."

"Didn't think so. And make the most of it, that's all you'll get."

"No food?"

"No."

Methos sighed and asked politely, "Is there a reason you want me to starve?"

"Who says you're going to be here long enough for that ti happen?"

Oh, well, ask a stupid question... Methos would have laughed, had it all not been so disastrous.

"I know all about you, Methos the Horseman. I know what you did to her. So, apart from the occasional glass of water, you won't get anything from me."

Methos half closed his eyes, weary. Then he lifted his head, levity quite gone. "Not even some clothes?"

"You don't need them."

"I suppose not." Though it was cold enough to make him uncomfortable, he wouldn't die of it. And even if he did, clearly that wouldn't matter much either. Methos tilted his head and asked, as if it meant nothing, "When will Cassandra arrive?"

"When she gets here."

"News and information 24 hours a day!" Methos muttered sarcastically.

"Be thankful, Horseman — I could make this far worse."

Methos looked around him, and knew that was true. He nodded. "I suppose you think I should be grateful?"

A smile, almost with humour. "Maybe I wouldn't go that far..." Then Donal turned to leave.

"Hey!"

"What?"

"What about, well, bathroom facilities?" Methos shrugged helplessly.

"There's a bucket. You were born long enough ago for that to be a luxury."

Methos listened as the door closed, muttering, "I wouldn't quite say that." A moment later and the light clicked off, completing a perfect day.

* * * * *

It was very late when Macleod finally walked into Joe's basement. Dawson took one look at him, and poured a large measure of Tallisker into a glass. "Drink that..."

"Thanks." Macleod took the glass in his hand and, with only the smallest hesitation drank it in one long swallow.

"You haven't found him."

Dawson's words were a statement, though Macleod shook his head. "No, I found how he broke in, where he parked his car, and I can tell you he's a big bastard from the size of his shoes. But I've no idea where he went or where he's hiding." Duncan stared into his glass. "What about you?"

"Ten minutes ago I'd've said nothing, then I got a call. There's an Immortal just arrived, he's Irish, Donal Heffernan he's calling himself, though he's had a good few names in the last thousand years or so."

Duncan considered thoughtfully. "There was a Donal who new Cassandra, he had a different last name, but," he shrugged, "we all know names mean nothing."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"Once, a long time ago."

"Take a look at his picture." Joe keyed in a command and the database flashed up a photograph and potted biography.

Duncan nodded decisively. "No question, that's the man I met. What's he supposedly doing here?"

"We've no idea. He flew in from London a couple of days ago, he's been staying out at a house by the river."

"Perhaps I should pay him a visit."

"Yeah, but be careful, he's a mean fighter."

"I've seen him at work." Duncan frowned. "I won't fight him unless I have to. Anyway, he might not be the one we're after."

"And if he isn't?"

"Then I'll keep looking."

"And if it turns out Methos is dead?"

"Joe, I won't believe that until I see his body." He rested a hand on Joe's arm, squeezed gently, and was off, walking towards the door.

"You want any help?"

Macleod paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Thanks for the offer, Joe, but I'd better go alone."

Just then the phone rang. Macleod listened to Joe's part of the conversation, which told him almost nothing other than that the Watcher wasn't at all happy.

After a minute, Dawson cradled the receiver and looked up at Macleod. "We've lost him. That was Donal Heffernan's Watcher, he just came to after being blind–sided, rang in immediately. He's gone."

"So, he must be the one."

"Yeah, Cassandra must have told him about us."

Macleod walked back to the desk, and leant against it, weight on both hands, "Did your Watcher say anything about where he might have gone?"

"He's outside the house. He won't search it, but he'll wait for you, show you where it is."

"So I can search."

"Yeah."

"You coming this time?"

Dawson nodded. "There's no point staying here." You never knew, he might be able to help. Besides, the thought of waiting was almost more than he could bear.

* * * * *

The house Donal Heffernan had been staying in was sparsely furnished, as if the owners were away and would be so for a long time. Macleod prowled around, stripping dust–sheets off furniture, looking for anything that might prove any use at all.

From the doorway, Joe watched him, seeing contained anger, not all of it directed outside of himself. "You found anything?"

"Not in this room."

"It doesn't look as if he used in here."

"He didn't, but you never know what might be around."

Joe sighed. "What have you come up with?"

"He lived in the kitchen and one bedroom. There's fresh garbage outside in the bins and he wasn't too interested in the shower–room. Oh, and this is definitely linked to Cassandra — the redial on the phone accessed one of her numbers."

"That's great. Isn't it?" There was sudden doubt in Dawson's voice.

"Yeah. Except that she wasn't there." Macleod walked towards him. "Go through to the kitchen."

Obedient, Joe turned, walking away. "What's there?"

"Chairs, we can sit down."

"Oh."

There were pine chairs around the wide table. It was quite dark, and Joe clicked on the overhead light before settling himself down, watching Macleod sit opposite him.

Macleod ran a finger over a smooth knot in the table's surface. "She must be going to come in tonight, if she isn't here already."

"That's unlikely. She only slipped away from her Watcher about six hours ago."

"You just found that out?"

"Mmm, I made some calls while you were searching."

"So, it is likely she'll arrive either late tonight or early tomorrow morning?" Macleod raised an enquiring eye–brow, waiting for confirmation.

"Yeah. Most likely tomorrow, from where she was staying she'd have to change airlines at London Heathrow."

"Good. Can you watch for her?"

"You mean, can I get a Watcher at the airport?"

"Yes."

Joe held Duncan's gaze, then nodded. "The guy we had on Heffernan, he'd go if I ask."

"Where is he now?"

"Still outside in his hire–car. But Duncan, we can't tell him who has been taken." He leant across the table, earnest. "Remember, the Watchers don't know who Methos is."

Macleod closed his eyes wearily. "I know." Then he was staring at Joe again, sure and certain. "But neither you nor I can be at the airport, Cassandra would pick up my presence immediately and she'd recognise you. What other option do we have?"

"You want me to bring him in, ask him?"

"If you think we can get round the issue of Methos' identity..."

"Hell, we can just go back to calling him Adam, if we have to call him anything."

Macleod nodded. "Yeah, do it."

He watched as Dawson dialled on his mobile. "Alexi, get in here, will you?"

There was some sort of reply, then he rang off.

Macleod stared intently at the table, still fingering the grain. "It is the only way — we've got to get to her before she finds Methos."

"I don't want him dead either, you know!"

The solemn eyes lifted. "I know. He's your friend too."

"I like him a lot, Mac. I don't want either of you hurt."

It was a point carefully made. Macleod nodded his understanding, then stood up as a knock came at the door. Crossing over to open it, he greeted the stranger. "Hi, you must be Alexi."

"Yes, Mr. Macleod." The man was about fifty, he must once have been blond and his accent was from somewhere around Gdansk.

"Call me Duncan, I don't think formality is needed here." Macleod gestured, indicating that the room was there to be entered.

"Duncan. I am sorry about your fellow, I am even more sorry about loosing Heffernan." He rubbed his head tenderly.

"Did he hurt you much?"

"No, a crack on the head, not even concussion. I was just so surprised that he knew about me."

"Someone told him."

Joe nodded, shuffling his chair sideways to allow Alexi more room. He sat, spare and self–contained, quite easy. Joe made a face, "We let the wrong person know about our set–up. "You just happened to be on the wrong end of that decision."

"I am still alive. It could have been worse."

Duncan sat back in his chair, nodding. "That's true. What's like, this Heffernan?"

"Quiet. He keeps to himself, never picking too many fights. We think he became one of you a thousand years ago, though it might be longer. He fights well, though not with inspiration. Most of all, he loves Cassandra, and without doubt would do anything she asked."

As a thumb–nail sketch, it said quite a lot. Macleod nodded. "Has he done anything like this before?"

Alexi shrugged, countering with, "Has Cassandra wanted this ever?"

"Probably not." Macleod exchanged a look with Dawson; it would be hard to come out of this with the true identity of the man Heffernan had kidnapped still under wraps. Yet it was impossible that they did otherwise. "Alexi, we need you to do us a big favour."

"I thought as much, or you would not have asked me here."

"Cassandra will be flying in at some point in the next twelve hours, we need someone to watch the airport."

"Me?"

"Yes. If you wouldn't mind. It would be for us, not exactly for the Watchers." Joe lifted his hands apologetically.

"You must need her very much."

"Yeah, she has someone we want, a friend."

"And my Immortal has taken him for her."

"That's the idea." Duncan nodded.

"He is a fool for her, my Immortal. No man should bow so before a woman. I will go." He drew back his chair, standing slowly. "I know nothing though, if I am asked, yes?"

"Thank you." Joe nodded. "Alexi, this means a lot..."

"I know — you would not have asked me otherwise. Give me all the phone numbers where you might be."

Joe almost began to say more, then reached for pen and paper and started writing. Duncan stood up, and reaching over shook the Watcher by the hand. "Thanks."

"No problem. let us just hope I find her."

"You know what she looks like?"

"Oh, yes — beautiful, with the eyes of a seer."

"That's her. Good luck!"

"Thanks, I will call when I find where she goes."

"Oh." Duncan stopped Alexi at the door. "Has your car got a cell–phone in it?"

"No."

"Here, change it for one that does, it'll save time." He handed over a handful of high denomination bills.

Alexi took the money, and after a moment folded it into the top pocket of his suit jacket. "Very well. Goodbye, gentlemen. I will call."

With that he was gone, pulling the door firmly closed behind him.

Duncan looked at Joe. "Will this work?"

"Christ knows! But I guess it'd better. Come on, let's go and get something to eat — you can cook."

* * * * *

It was really very cold, lying on the concrete floor. Methos tried to keep warm by reciting every curse he had ever known, which though it was a reasonably long–winded process, didn't seem to make much difference to his lack of core body heat. He knew he should be trying to meditate, knowing from experience that it was the easiest way of dealing with extremes of temperature. But he was too on edge, too wound up with the skeins of speculation and memory, of fear, for any clarity of thought. Despite all the years living in the East, he had never quite managed to master the art of disassociation.

Besides, at least this way he was certain he was alive. He had no desire to be out of it when Cassandra came to chop off his head.

If that was all she intended doing.

He opened his eyes, knowing there would be no difference to the utter solidity of the darkness, but feeling a small part reassured by that basic ability still left to him. The dark was unshadowed, though it sparkled through with the abstract creations of his own mind's–eye. The dark. He hated it. Hated the way it made him giddy, the way it took him back too far into the past when all it meant was evil. Kronos had loved the night, loved the shadows. Whenever he had come to Methos, it had been after the sun had set, when the shadows were deepest, and fear of the unknown most sharp. Superstition perhaps, but he had lived with those feelings for many hundreds of years, and all the science in the world couldn't completely banish them.

The silence was just as absolute. In a way it was quite as unnerving. He had never cared for anything that smacked of sensory deprivation, valuing every one of his senses far too much.

Shifting slightly awoke discomfort, all the aches and pains talking loudly at once. It also reminded him that the darkness had proved awkward. He had already spilled the last of the water trying to find the cup in order to take a drink. Lying on wet concrete was even more uncomfortable than lying on dry. It really was quite silly how far a small drop of water could spread.

At first, when the Irishman had left him alone, he had tried to free himself from the cuffs. They were too tight fastened, and after a while he had lost all feeling in his hands, then his arms. It was about then he had started reciting curses. It was almost a surprise to himself to realise how many he knew.

At least the lack of liquid meant he hadn't needed to try and find the bucket. Though that wouldn't last all night. If it was night.

It felt like hours that he'd been here, at least a whole day, but he knew all too well that in this sort of situation time took on a completely new set of values, not all of which could be relied upon to do anything but cheat.

Without meaning to, he wondered where Macleod was. Then shied away from that subject. Wishful thinking, that was all. Profitless. Concentrate on the hardness of the floor instead, or on exactly what turn if phrase Vortigern had been so fond of throwing at Vortimer. Was it...

Abruptly he stopped thinking, the noise of a key turning in a lock concentrating every atom of his being. Someone, but who?

The light was as blinding as before. Worse. It seemed to take an age before he could squint through watering eyes enough to focus. It was the Irishman, sword in hand. At least he was alone.

Methos forced himself to speak, hating the disused sound of his own voice, hating the fact he was shivering, that it might be mistaken for fear rather than cold. "Hello, come to let me go?"

"No."

"Shame. It's really very chilly in here."

"That's true." Donal it appeared felt the same, for he was now wearing a thick sweater that made Methos feel even more naked than he had before, if that was possible. The big man took a couple of steps towards his prisoner, then stopped. "I was thinking about you."

"How nice."

"About what you said about your hands."

"Mmm." Curled on the floor at his captor's feet, Methos sincerely hoped that the man wasn't suddenly going to turn out to be a sadist.

"Sit up."

Methos closed his eyes wearily, resting his head back on the floor. If he had considered any god might have listened, he might even have prayed.

"Go on."

Well, it was certainly a command. And the boots so close to his head seemed to be steel–capped. Not a nice thought at all. Methos tried to obey, but ended up flopping uselessly to one side. After a moment he collected himself enough to say, roughly, "No, I don't think I can."

"Can't or won't?"

"Oh, definitely can't!" He spoke through gritted teeth.

"Try again."

It really was quite unpleasant, floundering around, but after a struggle, he made it, using the hook tethering his ankles as leverage. At least the exercise had made him warmer, even if it had left a distressing amount of skin on the concrete. "There." He looked up in satisfaction, just seeing the pommel as it smacked hard into his face.

Stunned, he lay still, the world a bleak mass of nausea. He could feel hands on his body, not really wanting to know more. Then his arms were suddenly loose, pulled forward. The pain of that movement made him cry out, almost lost him the thin vestige of consciousness he was holding onto. Dizzy, he was pushed back. Somehow, he kept his eyes open, and was rewarded by the sight of his swollen hands being refastened in front of his body.

He could almost have wept in relief, if the distress the change caused hadn't been so brutal.

"There, after a while that should be easier. Sorry I needed to knock you out, but I needed to be certain you wouldn't escape."

Incapable of speech, though words of thanks, of damnation, skittered giddily through his thoughts, Methos lay still. Escape? he was scarcely capable of thought. He blinked in bemusement as his water cup was straightened and refilled, before the boots walked away and started up the stairs

"Donal!" Methos only knew he had spoken when the broken name spilled from his lips.

Stopped in his ascent, Donal turned with a frown of enquiry.

"Thank you..."

A shrug was his only answer. Though when the man was gone, the door locked, Methos counted himself almost content; for the light had been left on.

* * * * *

Macleod stirred sleepily. It was amazing that he had slept at all, but he must have done so for daylight was streaming through a gap in Joe's curtains. He lay still on the couch, listening, seeing the room around him hardly at all. Joe must still be asleep. The mortal had been exhausted when they'd reached his home. Seeing lines gouging their way under the neat grey beard, Duncan had made him turn in, more or less having to force him to take the bed, refusing it himself, truly content with the couch. He had been so certain he wouldn't sleep anyway, though better by far that he had.

He would have to fight today, fight a skilled warrior, maybe two of them, if Cassandra proved impossible to reason with.

He hoped passionately that it wouldn't come to that. There was no way he wanted to fight her, because he knew he would win, knew he would have to kill her if it went that far.

If he was able to actually bring himself to bring down that final blow. He had loved her, held her naked in his arms and shared such intimacies... But if it was a choice, if she left him with no choice, then Methos' survival was more important. Whatever they had shared in the past, Cassandra couldn't be allowed to kill Methos. It was unthinkable.

With luck, she would see reason. Yet, he really knew so little about her — the Witch of Donan Woods. He knew she was lovely beyond dreams, had power in her voice, and that one of her pupils had been evil. What did that all add up to? Nothing much. She had come to him when she was in trouble, and she hated Methos, though that did seem to be understandable. Yet Methos had also been the one to let her go, way back when she had been his slave. He had also saved her life when she had been determined to fight Kronos. Was any of that in Methos' favour? Or did all the years of abuse mean that she could never forgive him, not least of all for the fact that she had fallen in love with her master.

Duncan frowned at the ceiling. Methos had tried to explain, but he hadn't wanted to listen, and when he had asked again, Methos had turned the question away.

He should have listened more, but he had been so angry; so jealously outraged that Methos could be anything other than his own vision of perfect. Well he knew better now. And knew he didn't care. Not about any of it. He wanted Methos back, wanted everything that their day together had promised — which had been a great deal indeed.

Whatever Methos was, Macleod wanted.

Without doubt, Macleod wished he had never met Kronos, never taken his memories, his darkly possessive soul. Never been used by him, never allowed his anger to wreak such havoc on Methos.

But regrets were just that, regrets. What mattered was the future, and that began with finding Methos and making sure he lived.

Making sure he had survived.

Duncan shuddered, remembering the glassy eyes, the cold, still body. What if he had never come back from that?

Yet Cassandra wouldn't be bothering to come for a dead man. That was certain.

So he lived. So far.

Why hadn't she arrived yet? Macleod sat up and unpeeled the sleeping bag he had been wrapped in. Getting slowly to his feet, still only in shorts and T–shirt, he padded into the kitchen and set the coffee–maker on to do its work. He was really very quiet, but after a while Joe came and joined him, fully dressed, his clothes all rumpled as if he'd slept in them. He was rubbing a hand through his disordered hair.

"Morning, Joe."

"Yeah. Is the coffee ready?"

"Sure." Macleod poured a mug–full, handed it over. "Any news?"

"Nope." Joe sipped thankfully at his drink, then looked up. "Did you sleep any?"

"After a fashion. You?"

"Same." He pushed the mug away, slopping coffee onto the table–top. "God, I hate waiting!"

"Me too." Duncan leant on one of the kitchen units, sipping from his own cup. "Nothing we can d..."

He broke off as the phone rang shrilly.

Fumbling in his haste, Joe answered, "Dawson."

Duncan watched for a second, waited for the flare of success in Joe's eyes, then went to dress in yesterday's clothes.

He was slipping on his coat, checking his Katana, when Joe joined him. He turned, expressionless. "Where's she headed?"

"Out on the interstate towards the mountains. As she's coming all the way from the airport, if we go now we won't be too far behind her."

"Are you ready?"

"Sure."

Macleod was outside, revving the Thunderbird as Joe joined him, taking the brake off almost before the door was closed. They had been driving for twenty minutes when a another call came through. Duncan listened to Joe's monosyllabic responses and fought the urge to press the pedal to the floor. "Well?"

Dawson slipped the phone into his pocket. "You know the tourist cabins out by the lake? She's there. Alexi says she's just arrived, and hasn't spotted him."

"Great."

"Yeah. He's parked up on one of the higher viewing areas and'll wait to show us which cabin. He'll leave then, he won't help."

"I didn't expect him too, I owe him as it is."

Joe nodded. "He won't collect."

Macleod was silent for a moment, then he asked, earnestly. "What about you, Joe, shall I leave you in the car? I won't mind, I do understand about loyalties."

Rubbing the scar on his wrist, Dawson narrowed his eyes. "Mac, Methos is my friend. My personal friend. That goes beyond any loyalty to any organisation." He lifted his head. "I won't let her kill him, but I might get in the way. You run it how you want, I'll obey orders."

"Thanks, Joe. Methos will appreciate it."

"He'd better!" Joe growled. "You just make sure he stays alive to do so."

Macleod nodded and, with a quick check of the mirror, pulled off the highway onto a side–road that led up into the mountains.

The neared their destination became, the less they spoke. The road began to twist and turn, climbing high above the city, above the ocean, taking them through dense patches of pine forest, higher and higher. As it was out of season, there were hardly any tourists around, no walkers, almost no other cars.

The closer they came, the slower Macleod had to drive, until, engine purring softly, they reached the place where Alexi was waiting, the red metal of his hire–car stark against the scenic backdrop.

Letting his eyes scan the terrain, Macleod saw two other vehicles, both dark, tucked away almost out of sight; Cassandra and her Irishman. The forest rose above, forbidding even though he knew this land, had tracked across it many times. Now the enemy was certain, the stakes impossibly high. Methos was here. Alive, he had to be alive.

He was out of the car, pulling his sword free as Alexi came across the gritted ground. He nodded at Joe, but addressed his comments to the Immortal. "There's a cabin just up that path, maybe ten minutes walk. She went in there."

"Thank you, Alexi, if there is anything you want, or need..."

"Nothing. This was no matter. Good luck." He held out his hand, and smiled as Macleod clasped it firmly. "I will return to the house, it will be as if I was never here." He smiled, and turning on his heel with a gesture of farewell, walked to his car and was gone.

"He's a good man."

"He sure is. One day I'll tell you some stories about him."

"Yeah." Macleod looked around, scenting the air, his face quite pale. "I'll go ahead, follow as you can."

"I'll be on your tail, but wait." Joe reached into his jacket pocket and drew out his gun. "Take this, you might need something that works at a distance."

Duncan reached out and took the weapon. It slid heavily into his hand. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I've another..." Joe grinned awkwardly. "You can't kill her with it, after all."

"No." Duncan nodded. Then, with a quick clasp of Dawson's arm, was gone, loping silently up the track.

* * * * *

There was no pleasantness in Donal's face when he unlocked Methos' cellar. Sitting up, awake as he been all night, Methos saw the change and knew that something had happened. He cleared his throat, using irony as a way to keep calm. "Donal, how nice to see you..."

"Be quiet, Horseman."

"Aren't you even going to ask if I slept well?"

No answer. Methos watched the man as he reached the bottom of the stairs and approached, seeing the clean clothes and just washed hair that meant a new day. They probably also meant that Cassandra was on the way — this oaf would need to be clean for his mistress.

"Where..."

"I told you to shut up!"

"But..."

The blow silenced him quite convincingly, knocking him hard to the floor.

"That's all right, Donal."

Tasting blood, sure his cheek–bone was broken, Methos blinked up at the doorway and saw Cassandra, smiling at him.

"Hello, Methos, how pleasant of you to come and visit."

"Cassa..." Methos couldn't finish the name, grunting as a heavy fist casually slapped his face back into the concrete.

"Don't speak before the Lady, Horseman!"

"Thank you, Donal." Cassandra slowly walked down the stairs, her long, birch–grey gown trailing behind her, moonstones netted in silver at her throat, her long hair clouding darkly around her face. She looked beautiful, but then she always had, even when they had found her, filthy and ignorant in the desert sands. Even when Kronos had imprisoned her behind bars. Now her beauty was intensified, happiness sparkling in her eyes as she stared at her prisoner. Methos refused to shiver.

She watched him, eyes lupine with desire. Then she smiled, seeing deep into his soul. "You expect to be tortured, don't you?"

Methos swallowed, found a voice he was allowed to use. "It had occurred to me."

"The way you tortured me, when you trained your poor, pathetic slave?"

Methos made as if to move, but Donal was crouching by his side, a hand holding him still. "How else was I to save your life?"

"Save my life! How can you talk such lies..."

"If I hadn't taken you, Kronos would have."

"And at least he would never have pretended to love me." Cassandra broke off, collected herself, long nailed fingers meshing tightly together. "It would have been easier that way."

"I'm sorry..."

"Regrets are not enough!"

"No."

She stared at him, curled naked on the floor at her feet, blood glistening on his face. Her eyes were hard, certain. "Your death will be enough. Donal, take him outside."

"Lady!"

"What?"

Donal frowned, shaking his head. "Do it here, in private."

"No. I want his soul to be an offering to the Goddess. Outside, in the air and the sun, with the clouds to watch and the trees as witness." She turned back to Methos, lowering her gaze, running it slowly across his body. "You never know, I might even simply take your head. Pray for that, if you can remember how..." Crouching suddenly, she touched his skin, just where his neck joined his shoulders, her nail sharp against the jut of bone under skin. "Do you recall the old ways?"

Hardly able to breath, the touch like spider's legs crawling down his body, Methos asked hoarsely, "Which ones?"

"Indeed, there have been so many." She considered, her hand running across his flat belly, nails scoring the white skin, down to the dark hair that curled around his groin. "The ways of the Goddess have been varied...bloody." She smiled again when he hissed in pain as her nails found soft, tender tissue. "Would she like these, I wonder?" He jerked, biting his lip as she pinched, then the hand was gone, crawling back up his skin. "Or I could order Donal to flay you. He was skilled in that art once, a long time ago. And I'm sure he has forgotten nothing of it, have you?" She turned her head, smiling beguilingly across Methos' body.

He nodded proudly, touching his hand to his heart. "Whatever you ask, Lady."

"See?" Her pale eyes were back, intent, seeking fear as nourishment. "What, no reaction?"

Methos said nothing.

"Surely you know about flaying? Was Marsyas maybe a friend of yours, are you that old? Did you watch him die, hung like a butcher's carcass? I could do that to you — except you wouldn't die. Not for a long while..."

"Cassandra..."

"Yes, do you want to beg for your miserable skin?"

Methos met her gaze, then shook his head, all the words dust in his mouth. He had loved this woman, in his own way. Then he had betrayed her. He didn't want to die, but if he had to, at her hand, then he wouldn't beg for any mercy. He was strong enough for that.

He hoped.

Half closing his eyes, then opening them wearily, he answered her question with as much conviction as he could manage. "No."

"I could break you, given time. You would beg then."

"Anyone can break, we both know that."

They held each other's eyes, then Cassandra abruptly stood. "Bring him." And was gone, walking away in swirl of misty velvet.

Donal stood, then moved to unlock the cuffs around Methos ankles. Straightening he gestured with his sword. "You heard, on your feet!"

Methos closed his eyes, wincing when a kick declared unhappiness with his lack of enthusiasm.

"Stand up, or I'll knock you out and drag you."

That was almost an easier option, but it seemed churlish to go to your death without at least a semblance of self–respect. It took a while, but he did make it to his feet, his body all aching bones and recalcitrant muscles. A push almost upset him again, but he clutched at the bannister and held on with cuffed hands, keeping his feet.

The stairs looked about as steep as Everest, but he climbed the risers one by one, walking into the cabin he had never seen and out into the bright freshness of daylight. It was a disarmingly lovely day; bright, clear skied, though bitterly cold. The mountains rose above them, shadowing the winter–blue sky, and far away he could almost imagine he saw the glint of the sea. Methos brought back his gaze from the distance, and saw Cassandra. She was standing alone on a stretch of grass that ran from the cabin to the forest, her feet were bare, a naked sword was held easily in her hand. Methos paused, seeing her.

"Come, Horseman, it is time to die."

A push urged Methos on, the breeze suddenly s