LUCIFER FALLING

by Kitty Fisher

PART III

By the time the trees finally thinned and the path emerged out onto the flat viewing area, Macleod was straining hard to carry the dead weight. The sight of his car was just incentive enough to carry him the last few dozen paces. Breathing hard he made it to the Thunderbird and, with a groan, rested Methos, and his own upper body, on the hood.

He jumped when footsteps sounded behind him, turning his head, wary. "Oh, it's you Joe. Sorry I should have helped."

"Mac, I wanted off that mountain real bad — I was right behind you."

"Great." Duncan bent his head forward for a moment, then straightened, easing his cramped hands from underneath Methos' still body. "I'll put the top down, it'll be easier to get him into the back seat. Keep an eye on him, will you?"

"Sure." Dawson walked the last couple of paces that brought him up to the car, then waited while Macleod wearily climbed into the car turned on the ignition and started the heater blasting out hot air. Then he began the process of folding back the soft–top.

Methos lay where he had been placed, head against the windscreen, body curled, wrapped in wet green wool that smelled about as appetizing as the sheep it must have originally come from. Joe touched the pale skin of Methos' neck, feeling it very wet, bitterly cold. "Mac, can you guys get pneumonia?"

"I doubt it."

"Just as well."

"Yeah." Macleod was there, reaching past Dawson, waiting for him to move before taking Methos' still form back into his arms. "He'll be fine after enough sleep."

"I don't suppose some food would hurt — he's even thinner than before." Joe tutted to himself, and went around to the passenger door, settling himself and his own aching bones with a blissful sigh. Looking back over his shoulder he watched Macleod strip the wet blanket away, covering Methos instead with a coat he'd pulled out of the trunk.

"I don't suppose he's exactly been fed gourmet delight these last few days."

"if he's been fed at all." Joe rubbed his hands together. "At least he's still got his head."

Macleod closed his eyes on the thought, then nodded. "True. It was too close though." He began putting the hood back up, the cold breeze stirring his drying hair where tendrils had escaped from their tie. Then, finally, he got into the car and closed the door, shivering slightly at the rush of warm air hit his legs. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the lack of movement.

"Better?"

Duncan found a smile, and aimed it at Joe. "Yeah. Thanks, by the way..."

"Not a problem." Joe dismissed the thank you with a wave of his hand. "Let's just get back to civilization, shall we?"

Macleod put a hand on the brake, then paused, his face stilling into a sombre cast.

"What is it?"

"Where do we go?"

Joe, not understanding the question, answered impatiently. "Your place — the loft, of course!"

"I don't know..."

"What..?" Joe turned, and met Macleod's eyes, the penny finally dropping.

Duncan nodded. "How can we go back there, after what happened?"

"It's not going to happen again. Besides, you think after all this he'll care?"

"I hurt him, Joe, I..."

"Macleod..."

The sleepy, peevish voice made them jump.

"Methos!"

They both turned, seeing a tousled head half–buried under the dark coat. Duncan opened his mouth to say more, but Joe got there first. "Hi!"

"Hello, Joe. You enjoy the party?"

"Great — I'd've brought a swim–suit if I'd been sent an invitation."

"Sorry, next time." Methos yawned widely, then rubbed his hands over his eyes.

"Hey, don't make a habit of this — I'm getting too old for running around mountains after you."

"Talk to me about it." Methos answered dryly. Then he stirred, drowsy. "Are we still up there?"

"On the mountain, yeah."

"And...?"

"Donal's dead, Cassandra's sulking." Though the question had been aimed at Joe, Macleod spoke. "We're just about to get going."

"Did you really carry me down?"

"Yeah, well, you weren't walking anywhere."

"No." Methos was smiling. His eyes were drifting closed, then he opened them quickly as if remembering something important. "I heard you, you didn't want to go back to the dojo. Why?"

"Because...because..."

"Don't be an idiot!" The abuse was really quite affectionate. "Take me home, Macleod."

Duncan turned to Joe about to object, but Joe shook his head. "You heard him..."

With a soft mutter of disapproval, Macleod faced Methos again, though the other Immortal's eyes were closed. "Methos..."

"Don't fuss, Macleod! I'll cope." He smiled slightly, clearly almost asleep again. "And you know I hate cheap hotels..."

"Methos!"

But Methos was oblivious, he was fast asleep, breath coming slow and even.

Joe shrugged, turning back to face the windscreen "Sounds like he wants to go back to your place to me."

"Yeah, but..."

"Mac, just drive, will you? He knows what he wants — a bath, some food and about three days sleep from the looks of it. Trust him for once..."

The comment cut deep. Duncan flinched, then shook his head slightly. "Joe, I do trust him."

Joe glared at him. "So you should. Come on, lets get out of here."

Duncan hesitated, then slid the car into gear. "I still think it's wrong to go back to the dojo." A flick of the wiper–switch cleared the windscreen, then, handbrake off, he nosed the car towards the road.

"Well, if it turns out to be that bad you can move him to the Regency, how's that? Perhaps two hundred bucks a night will make you feel better."

"Joe, if I though it was best, that's where we'd go." He was utterly earnest.

Relenting, Joe nodded, speaking more reasonably. "Yeah, I know. I'm wet and tired and crabby. A meal wouldn't hurt me either, so don't mind the grouches, okay?"

"Okay." Duncan smiled gently, his eyes softening. "So, to the dojo it is."

"I knew you'd see reason..." Methos voice floated from the back seat. Though when Joe turned to look, he was apparently asleep, his long limbs curled awkwardly in the small space.

Joe nodded in agreement, commenting, "It only takes a little time." Settling back into the seat, his turned his face to Macleod, thoughtful. "Mac, d'you mind if I go back to the bar? I'm kind of busy..."

"Sure, Joe. You've already done more than you should've."

"Nonsense! Like I told the Wicked Witch of the West — Methos is my friend. But now it's over, well, now Kronos isn't a problem, can't you two sort the rest out?" He shook his head. "You wouldn't believe how much I've got to do!"

Macleod nodded. "Yeah, I know — the festival." He knew that what Joe was saying made sense, but to take Methos back to the dojo, after everything that had happened, and be there alone with him. It made his mouth dry thinking about it.

Joe tapped his knee, suddenly staring hard at him. "Do it, Mac. You can't run away from this. I'll only be a phone call away."

"He might hate me, when he comes round."

Joe snorted with unbelieving laughter. "If you believe that, you're crazy — you heard what he said."

"Yeah, but..."

"If he came back after the whole Kronos thing, after you'd doubted him, told him to his face that you despised him, what do you really think he wants?" Joe shrugged. "Macleod. Take him home, and if you can't cope, go and stay in a hotel yourself."

It was a simple, perfect solution. Duncan grinned unexpectedly, "You're a genius!"

"Hah!" With a jaded glare at Macleod, Joe settled back. By the time they reached the Interstate he was fast asleep.

* * * * *

It was early afternoon when Macleod finally brought the Thunderbird to a standstill outside the dojo. For a long moment he sat quite still, wrists resting on the steering–wheel. He felt disgusting, filthy, tired, unshaven and distinctly uncomfortable in yesterday's clothes.

Still, thinking about it would get him, or Methos, nowhere. With a decisive move, he turned to assess his passenger, and found himself watched by slightly dazed hazel eyes. "Hello, Methos."

"Duncan...I though I had been dreaming."

"Depends what you thought you were dreaming about."

"Cassandra, and her blade about to take my neck..." He shivered, then suddenly realised that under the coat spread over his body he was naked. Realisation spread over his face, almost clearing the stupor from his eyes. "It happened, didn't it."

"Yes." Macleod agreed solemnly.

Methos frowned, concentrating. "But you came running from the trees, and..."

"Shot her. You can thank Joe for that, it was his gun."

"I will, I will..." Methos blinked blearily, then he brought his eyes back to Macleod's face and focused. "Thank you, Macleod."

"It was nothing." A wide shrug dismissed the days of fear and misery that had brought him to the mountain. Then he was out of the car, unwilling to speak of thanks any more. "Come on, lets get you inside.

He watched as, slowly, Methos uncurled; a groan making it clear that movement was not exactly welcome.

"You want a hand?"

"Yeah."

Macleod had the front seat already tilted forward, and was reaching in to take Methos' arm as he began the process of extricating himself. But instead of offering a hand, Methos suddenly frowned. "Do you mind about your neighbours?"

"Why?" Then he realised quite how much dirty, bloodied skin was on show. "Oh. You could put the coat on."

"Oh, yes." Methos nodded, as if the idea were one of genius. The dark folds were still across his lap, he picked up what looked like a sleeve then stopped, as a wide yawn struck. Then, finally finding the coat's right way up, he pushed his arms into it, tugging the fabric down and around his waist. "There, that'll have to do."

"Yeah." Macleod reached in again, this time easing Methos out onto the street. As Methos straightened, he swayed dizzily, eyes closing. "Methos!"

"I'm fine..."

As the last time Macleod had heard those words Methos had been soaked in his own blood and a hair's–breadth from death, he ignored them. "Come on, let's get you inside."

"I'm just tired."

"Yeah...I know..."

Macleod got an arm around the bony shoulders and guided Methos up the steps, virtually holding him upright as he unlocked the door. Once inside, he propped Methos against a wall, and secured all the locks and bolts.

"Expecting company?"

"Maybe."

"Oh, joy."

Duncan smiled at the irony. "Better safe than sorry." He put a hand on Methos arm, intending to guide him towards the elevator, but all colour simply drained away from an already pale face, and Methos buckled at the knees. "Hey!" Macleod was there, holding the limp body clumsily upright against the wall. "Methos?"

Methos blinked open his eyes, smiled crookedly, and simply fell asleep.

"Damn."

With a sigh, Macleod shifted his hold, and swung the drooping body into his arms. At least this journey would be shorter than the last. He walked across the dojo, seeing himself briefly in the mirror — a tall unshaven gypsy, carrying a half naked man who looked tired beyond exhaustion. Then he was in the elevator and the image was gone.

The loft was as he had left it, clean, smelling of lemon and beeswax. Macleod carried Methos across the room and put him carefully down on the couch.

He stayed crouched on the floor. "Methos?"

There was a slight stirring, then dilated eyes were open, seeking his face. "Duncan."

"You went to sleep."

"I'm knackered..."

Macleod smiled. "You're not that bad yet."

"No?" Methos stirred, pushing himself up until he was sitting. He put a hand to his head and yawned, scratching his fingers through his hair, down through his beard. "I am so bloody tired." With a rueful sigh he looked at his hand, seeing the dirt ground into the skin, the dried blood. He gave a half–hearted grin. "I don't think I should be sitting on your upholstery — I'm very dirty. Can I have a bath?"

"Whatever you want — shower, bath..."

"Japanese massage..."

Duncan stood, heading rapidly for the bathroom, incapable of thinking of such an intimacy. "I'll start filling the tub."

"Thanks..."

He heard the reply but was gone.

Filling the curving, over–sized bath, Macleod added a few drops of Lavender oil, breathing in the soothing, peppery smell. Swishing it into the water, he stayed where he was for a long time, until the warm water was about half–way up the sides. He was still there when the door opened, and a tousled Methos appeared, leaning on the door–frame, still wrapped in the coat, hands deep in its pockets.

"Are you all right?"

Macleod laughed dustily. "Aren't I supposed to be the one fussing over you?"

Methos considered, then replied pensively, "Maybe we should fuss over each other."

Duncan stood up slowly, pain suddenly open on his face. "I really thought you were dead — you were almost dead..."

"I know."

"And everything else, what I did, what Kronos..."

"Duncan, stop it."

The command was very soft, utterly convincing. Macleod gave a self–mocking twist of his lips. "Can I apologise?"

"Maybe later. At the moment I want to get in that bath and be clean and warm for the first time in days. I'd also quite like a cup of tea or six..."

"Sure, I'll get that now."

Methos smiled, as if at a star pupil. Then he slipped the coat from his shoulders and, moving past Macleod, stepped into the bath. He lay down with a rush of displaced water and a deep, heartfelt sigh. "Oh, that is so good." The water lapped to his neck, he sank even deeper, hands under the water, quite content, oblivious to the accumulated dirt that was soaking from his skin. "I hallucinated about being this warm, when I was in that damned cellar." Eyes closing, he sighed luxuriously.

Macleod got as far as a hand on the door. Then he turned back, seeing the long body framed in steam and water. A pulse was beating, light and fast in his throat. "Methos..."

"Mmm?"

"I'm glad you're back."

"Me too..."

Duncan took a soft breath. "Don't go to sleep."

"I'll try not to."

"Right, one cup of tea, coming up."

"Six!"

"Six then, a pot, whatever..." Somehow he was smiling as he crossed to the kitchen.

Realisation stopped him short. He turned slowly, one hand resting on the back of the leather chair, and stared at the slightly open bathroom door. Methos was so calm — though that was partially due to exhaustion. Yet, under the tiredness, there seemed to be nothing but a serene delight in survival. The certainty of his own death must have been complete.

Absolute.

Duncan touched a hand to his own neck, feeling the cold edge of blade against it. To have lived beyond that: under the weariness Methos had to be euphoric. Perhaps this absolute ease was born of that.

Hand dropping back to his side, Duncan went into the kitchen area. He prepared the tea with minimum fuss and very little clear thought. Whereas Methos was calm, he felt strung taut with tension. The whole of the last few weeks were there in his mind, the images dancing like shadows in firelight. America, France, the Horsemen, Cassandra, Kronos and above them all, sliding between every thought — Methos.

Methos. Who was lying naked in the wide bath, oblivious to everything, in a way that seemed to say everything was forgotten, forgiven.

Which it couldn't be.

Guilt edged every thought, every feeling. Guilt, and fear that any moment Methos would wake from his happy haze, and instead of contentment and calm, there would be accusation and anger.

Macleod was certain it would come. Certain.

Deservingly so.

It was unbelievably difficult to go back to the bathroom; being so physically close to someone he no longer had the right to touch hurt. Finally, he picked up the mug of good, strong tea, straightened his shoulders and went. He pushed at the half–closed door with his free hand, easing it open.

He was greeted by a mumbled, defensive, "I'm not asleep..."

Both Methos' eyes were closed though.

Duncan smiled with affection so deep it was close to pain. "So I can see." He also saw the state of the water. "I think you brought half the mountain down with you."

"Mmm."

"Are you warmer?"

"Getting that way, I've been topping up with hot."

"Why don't you shower off, get clean, you can have another bath afterwards, or later even, after you've slept for a bit." Duncan put the mug down at the end of the bath, just by Methos' head.

"Can I?" One eye opened, peering up through the steam.

"You can do what you want."

"Wow." Methos sat up, spilling water onto the floor. He paused, leant over the side to see the extent of the damage, then sighed. "I hope the floor doesn't leak." Then he remembered the tea and reached for it, taking the mug between his two hands and sipping happily.

"No, Amanda does just the same thing. Can you stand okay?"

"I'm tired, Duncan, not incapacitated!" He took another couple of gulps, then handed the mug to Macleod.

"Well, next time you try and fall asleep standing up, I'll remember that and let you fall flat on your face." He took the half–empty mug and put it back on the side of the bath.

Methos straightened his shoulders, bracing his arms on the sides of the bath and paused. "I did that?" He looked momentarily confused.

"Yes."

"Oh. Well, you'll just have to keep an eye on me while I shower off." And he began to lever himself out of the water.

Macleod hesitated, then lent a hand, sliding it under Methos arm in assistance, adding his own muscle to a precarious endeavour. When Methos was upright, and seemingly staying there, Macleod bent down and pulled the plug, letting the filthy water rush away. Carefully objective, he turned on the shower over the bath, set the heat, then straightened. Methos was leaning against the tiles, eyes closing. "Hey! Get under the water."

Blinking gently, Methos obeyed. Sighing as he stepped under the shower. "This is a hedonist's bathroom, Macleod." His voice was slurry, deliberate, speaking as if the effort involved in forming words was all that kept him awake. "A shower–stall, a bath with a separate over–head shower, a bidet — all you need is a steam room." He put one hand out, supporting himself against the wall to duck his head under the water. Something must have upset his balance, for he stumbled slightly, righting only when Macleod held his arm. Turning his face, he slowly wiped water from his eyes and blinked at Macleod, saying perspicaciously, "You'll get wet you know."

"It doesn't matter — everything I'm wearing needs to go in the wash, including me." Duncan picked up some soap and offered it to Methos. "Here."

"Thanks." Methos took the soap, dropped it. "Damn..."

"Hang on." Macleod fished the bar from the swirling water and sighed. "Come here..." Carefully, his mind an empty space filled with white noise, Duncan soaped Methos' body. It was as awkward, clumsy process, but he managed.

Despite the fact that it would have been easier by far to simply get under the shower himself, he couldn't bring himself to do it. It would have involved a greater degree of intimacy that he could allow himself. Not now, while Methos was so out of it.

Maybe never, his mind insisted. And that was too appalling, too...

Instead of thinking, he soaped and shampooed from a distance and the water did everything else.

Finally, it was done. Macleod switched off the shower, and guided Methos out of the bath, wrapping him in one of the bath–sheets. Rubbed quickly dry, he was almost asleep again, and in fact was so the instant Macleod lay him down in the wide bed, even before the covers had been pulled up.

Macleod ran his hand over the new sheets where they lay folded under Methos' chin. With his eyes closed, he still looked very tired, the skin around his eyes thin, shadowed. Unable to resist the temptation, Duncan let his finger trace the fine–boned jaw, brushing up lightly into the soft hair. It was wet, dark against his fingers, close to black. Macleod sighed, then straightened, wincing as his neck–muscles ground tight with tension.

He knew a workout was needed, badly. But there was no way he was going to leave this room and spend any time in the dojo, not for a while anyway. He turned away from the bed and considered. Well, the next best thing to physical exercise was a shower. He would hear from the bathroom if Methos wanted him. And it wouldn't take long...

Macleod was almost salivating as he started stripping off his shirt.

* * * * *

Clean, dressed in fresh clothes, his hair damp around his shoulders, Duncan had emerged from the bathroom, checked on the sleeper, then wandered aimlessly around the apartment for a while. There was nothing he really needed to do, certainly nothing that couldn't wait. There were bills to pay, letters to write, but his mind was still too agitated to let him sit and concentrate on anything very much at all. He picked up two different books, one after the other, but neither made any sense, so they were replaced neatly on the shelf. Music would have been a help, but that might disturb Methos, so all the opera CD's stayed in their cases. In the end he went and sat on the spiral staircase, a few steps from the bottom. He sighed, easing the knees of his grey linen pants before leaning back on his elbow. It was hardly the most comfortable place in the world, but he could watch, yet feel as if he wasn't a voyeur, intruding.

Methos was very still, his body a slight disturbance of the expanse of bed, curled slightly onto one side, a hand slipped under his cheek. He was breathing slowly, evenly. Duncan found himself trying to match breath for breath, and shivered, turning to look out of the window.

As the view was hardly exciting, his eyes soon found their way back.

Time went by without acknowledgement. Without Macleod realising it, as he sat entranced, the day slipped into evening. When he finally turned again to look out of the window, the steetlights were bright dark against darkened buildings. He blinked in surprise, in disbelief. For it to be this late, at least two hours had to have gone by. Impossible, but when he went to stand, his muscles had stiffened, as if from long immobility.

Slowly he stood up, stretching, easing both arms above his head and bending back. Well, whatever else had happened, the worst of the tension seemed to have gone. There was something else, he was hungry.

Walking away from the bed, he clicked on a couple of side–lights, then the overheads in the kitchen. Food. But what sort? Going to peer into the fridge, he frowned thoughtfully. Pasta, salad, or there were enough fresh vegetables for soup. With soup, at least when Methos did finally wake up, there would be something for him to eat, something that wouldn't spoil and was easy to re–heat.

And it was something he could cook without thinking.

Pulling out a selection of vegetables, he started chopping. His fingers dealt automatically with leeks, potatoes and sweetcorn, while his brain settled into a sort of freefall. From where he stood at the utility–island, it was possible to keep an eye on the bed and its occupant.

Methos was alive.

What a simple, basic delight.

After a while the soup was bubbling contentedly to itself. Macleod cleared up the kitchen, then wandered back over to the sleeper. No movement. He nodded to himself, then went to one of the wooden chairs and, picking up the nearest book, began to read.

Occasionally he went back to the soup to stir, to taste, sometimes adding a few herbs or seasoning as the whim took him. Once he went to the thermostat and upped the heating in the apartment. Apart from that, he idled, waiting.

When the soup was done, he pulled the pan off the ring and stirred in one last handful of fresh herbs. The potatoes had broken down, leaving a thick — he tasted a spoonful — mouth–watering supper. His stomach grumbled. Loudly. There really was no point waiting. He reached for a bowl, and ladled himself a portion.

Though he had made it himself, Duncan had to allow the soup was delicious. Seated at the pine table, he ate slowly, contentedly, idly reading the thoughts of Milton concerning angels.

Until a low sound of absolute distress splintered the silence.

His thoughts were so elsewhere, so confused, that a second went by before he moved, crossing to the bed on stumbling feet. Methos was still asleep, his body tangled in the sheets as if he had been fighting to escape, twisting and turning, but knotting himself tight instead of finding freedom. One arm was clear, fist clutching hard at cotton, the long muscles knotted as he fought whatever demon sleep had conjured.

Against the dark blue cotton of the pillows, Methos' skin looked stark, slick with sweat. Macleod swallowed dryly, his own face almost as pale. Horror widened his eyes, tied his mind in knots.

What if the demon who tormented Methos was Duncan Macleod? How could he wake Methos, unsure if the face he was seeing was his own? Macleod closed his eyes, the food he had just eaten acid in his gut.

Not often cursed with indecisiveness, now Macleod hesitated, watching, until he could bear it no longer. He had nightmares enough of his own to understand, to know that being woken by far preferable to staying locked inside the terror. No matter who did the waking.

Then Methos twisted suddenly, arcing away from the sheets. The same low sound escaped from his tight–closed mouth, raising the hairs on Macleod's arms, on his neck. It was too much. Leaning forward, he touched a hand to Methos arm.

With a bitten off gasp, Methos woke. He stilled, eyes shut, chest labouring, though he seemed to hardly breathe, as if he was listening.

"Methos.."

If anything, Methos stopped breathing entirely.

"It's all right, you were dreaming." Duncan spoke softly, earnestly. "You're safe, I promise..."

With a long, racking shudder, Methos opened his eyes.

Macleod took his hand away from the cold arm, only to have it snatched back, held hard within Methos' own.

"Duncan!" Methos pushed himself up, fighting free of sheets and blankets, using Macleod as leverage. He was clearly dazed, the dream still dilating his wide, shocked eyes, a trickle of sweat running slowly down his chest. "Duncan..."

"You're safe, it was a dream." Hesitating only for a breath, Duncan sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his thumb over the hand that held his own so tight.

"A dream..."

"A nightmare, I had to wake you."

Methos closed his eyes, then opened them in a hurry. He found enough self–possession to laugh, albeit shakily. "Don't worry, I'm not complaining." He bent his head, avoiding Duncan's eyes, though he seemed to have forgotten the hand he gripped.

Taking a steadying breath, Macleod asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Dark, dilated eyes flashed up at him, pain shivering across them, then turned hurriedly away.

It was as if he had been slapped. Macleod tried not to show any reaction at all. Tried desperately. But Methos understood; despite the fact that he was looking firmly at the bed, somehow, by some strange resonance, some intuition, he knew. Startled, he glanced up. Head tilted slightly to one side, and understanding widened his eyes. He straightened resolutely, took Macleod's hand in both of his own. "I wasn't dreaming about you, you know." He seemed to give a small shrug, then, after a deep breath, went on. "There are thousands of reasons for me to have bad dreams, Macleod, thousands. I've lived too long for it to be otherwise."

Duncan considered his own personal array of nightmares, hundreds from a life a few hundred years long. What must it be like to deal with the same multiplied a hundred–fold? He couldn't begin to comprehend the strength of sanity that would be needed. Yet, why would an old nightmare surface now? Even knowing he was insisting too hard, he had to know. "I can see that, but..."

"I'm telling the truth, I promise you."

"Methos..." Duncan shook his head.

"Trust me."

Joe's words came back to haunt Duncan. But he did trust Methos, trusted him with life and love and everything that was important. Then why was it so hard to believe this? Duncan shook his head miserably, silently cursing an insecurity he hadn't known he possessed. "I'm sorry. I won't pry...I don't want to intrude..."

"Duncan Macleod, you have a right." Methos, his drawn face animated by emotion, breathed in hard. "If anyone in this whole damn world has a right, it is you."

"Because I saved your life..."

"No!" Methos, exasperation pinching his nostrils, shook his head. Because I love you... he thought. But the time wasn't right to remind Macleod of that, yet his tired brain couldn't come up with any other reason. "Because. Just because, all right?"

"Oh, yeah!" Duncan smiled reluctantly.

Methos shivered slightly, his fingers tight around Macleod's hand. He hesitated, then asked almost steadily, "Was it just my dream, or is she still alive?"

There was no need for a name. "Still alive. Mad, I think."

"Ah."

"So it was her you were dreaming about."

"Duncan!" Methos exclaimed the name in exasperation. He watched his companion shrug ruefully. Then Methos sighed, and answered, "Very well, I'll tell you." He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, staring hard at nothing. When he spoke his words were terse, almost bitten off. "I was being flayed. She was watching, directing every knife cut, every slice. It was something she threatened to do to me. And, you see, I had seen it done, once, a long time ago, and I never forgot. I've dreamed of it before, though never as the victim, before I'd only ever watched, and that was bad enough." He blinked, his face softening as his eyes travelled across Macleod's solemn face. "See, you weren't there at all."

"I'm glad, but what a dream..."

"Donal, her man, was skilled in the art, or so she said. But she didn't do it, the threat was enough. Maybe she looked in my mind and found the fear of it there."

"She can't read minds!"

"No?" Methos looked sceptical. "She had unusual gifts even then. And she has power in her voice, that you have to admit." He shrugged dismissively, suddenly uninterested. "Whatever. Maybe it was just luck. And I could have been dreaming of all sorts of things..."

"He was a Druid." Macleod stated suddenly, finding the memory surface. "As was Cassandra for a time. She wasn't lying, he could have done it, and would have done without a qualm." If anything, he looked even more bleak. "I'm glad I got there, that I found you." He met Methos' eyes. "I'm very glad that you are alive."

The answering smile was a twist of sensual lips. "Me too."

Macleod was suddenly aware of how close they sat, of how near Methos was. He swallowed dryly. "You must be starving. I made vegetable soup."

Lifting his head, as if scenting the air, Methos nodded happily. "I thought I could smell something tantalising."

"Hungry still?"

"Ravenous."

"I'll bring a bowlful over..." He gently slipped his hands from Methos' grip.

"No. I'll get up for a bit." Methos rubbed his eyes, then began to push back the covers.

"D'you want something to wear?"

"Mmm." Methos was standing up, stretching. Duncan realised he was staring at the elegant line of back, buttock and thigh, absorbed by the casual nudity, and turned away.

He came back with a large silk robe. Taking it with a soft word of thanks, Methos slipped it on, knotting the cord around his waist. He lifted his eyes, meeting Macleod's, raising his eyebrows in query when the stare continued, totally unaware that the dark green fabric did subtle things to the colour of his eyes, fading the hazel, making them seem quite emerald.

"Duncan?" He was frowning.

Macleod blinked in confusion, then stepped away. "Come and sit down. Do you want a tray on the couch, or what?"

Ignoring his companion's erratic behaviour, Methos followed in his wake. "The table. Soup's never easy to eat off your lap."

"That's true."

While Macleod busied himself by the hob, Methos settled himself at the pine table, clearing a space ready for the food. There were a few books on the surface, idly he picked through them, but without very much energy, his fingers leafing through pages, the words merely patterns on paper. He was still astoundingly tired, quite drained physically, and not much better mentally. Macleod had been so insistent about the dream, so pressured by guilt. There had to be a way to take that guilt away, it was more than important to do so. But the means to such an end eluded Methos completely. The dream was still in his mind, echoing through his thoughts, tying up any sort of coherency. The pain had been so vivid, her voice controlling the weave of the blade as it peeled away skin...

"There, I hope..." Duncan broke off, suddenly alarmed. "What's the matter?" Methos was grey, sweating slightly.

"Nothing, nothing..."

Duncan put the bowl down on the table, steam and aroma rising into the air. Methos breathed in, images running like a flicker–book through his brain. Then the smell hit him, and though he was in reality smelling only soup, he could almost taste blood and fear, the butcher's–block stench of a distant place. In an instant, he was on his feet, heading rapidly for the bathroom.

He wasn't there long, and when he emerged, far steadier, colour back in his face, Duncan was waiting by the door. He took one look at Methos, seemed to relax, then opened his arms, offering what little comfort he was able. There was a brief second, where Methos stood quite still, then he stepped into the offered comfort.

Macleod held him gently, sighing as the awkwardness faded and Methos softened against him and hands moved to return the hug. Methos lowered his head, resting it in the curve of shoulder, and took a deep shuddering breath. Duncan closed his eyes, rubbing his cheek against the dark, soft hair. He moved his hands, holding tighter. Warm silk was against his palms, he rubbed gently, feeling stark ribs move as Methos breathed.

They stood quite still for a long while, then Methos lifted his head from Macleod's shoulder. Both barefoot, they were enough of a height for him not to have to look up very much. "Thank you." He didn't pull away.

A diffident smile flickered across Duncan's face. "I've never had quite that reaction to my cooking — usually people wait until they've eaten."

Methos smiled, as he had been meant to. "No, I..." He breathed deeply again, shaking his head slightly. "The dream was there. I closed my eyes for a second..."

"Oh." Macleod ran his hands up to Methos' shoulders, holding the solidity of muscle and bone in his hands. "How do you feel now?"

"Fine. It was just a moment."

"You want to try eating again?"

Methos considered, then nodded. "Why not."

"Come on." Macleod guided Methos before him, hands on his shoulders, not letting go until he was seated. He peered over him at the soup. "It is very light..."

"It smells good." And it did. His stomach had settled and all he felt was hunger.

"Methos, I won't be insulted if you'd rather have a sandwich."

A quick grin, then Methos had the spoon in his hand. "No, this is fine. Sit down or something, I'll get a crick in my neck talking to you."

Pulling another chair from under the table, Macleod sat, watching obliquely while Methos slowly ate. After a few spoonfuls, Methos glanced up. "I'm fine. And this is very good, did you make it from scratch?"

"Yeah, I had some spare time this afternoon."

"It wasn't wasted." Methos smiled at the Highlander, then went back to the serious task of eating.

When he was done, the last scrap scraped up, spoon carefully replaced in the bowl, Duncan reached for the empty dish as Methos sat back with a sigh. "More?"

"I couldn't. Thank you, Duncan, that was wonderful, delicious, but enough for now."

"There's plenty if you want some more later." He went to the sink, running water into the dish. He glanced across, seeing Methos rubbing his eyes. "Do you want to go back to bed."

A yawn was answer enough.

"Go on."

"Yeah." Methos pushed back his chair and stood up, stumbling slightly as he moved away from the table. "Gods, I haven't been this tired...ever." He made no move to go back to bed though.

Macleod watched him, seeing the reluctance, knowing without being told that the hesitancy was because of the dream. Wiping his wet hands he walked away from the sink. "Methos, I'll be here for a while, until you go to sleep, then..."

"Where are you going?" The response was immediate, Methos turning in alarm.

"I was going to sleep in the dojo." He shrugged apologetically. "I didn't think it was right that I stayed..."

Methos narrowed his eyes, then sorted out what Macleod meant. "You mean, because of what happened here, don't you. Because of Kronos."

Duncan nodded, standing quite still. "Yes."

"For goodness' sake! Duncan, that wasn't you, not really you!" He gestured emptily, pain just there behind his eyes. "That it happened is something we both have to deal with, and it may take time and patience. But don't let it burn you up inside, don't start believe it was you who did it. Madness lies that way, and I need you sane. I need you."

Duncan seemed to shudder at the raw confession. He looked at Methos' face, seeing the vulnerability behind the arrogance. "Methos, I..."

"You can't be afraid that he's still there, that you might run crazy again?"

"No." Macleod shook his head, tossing the towel to one side. "I'm certain of that."

"Good." Methos nodded intently.

"I am me, I am Duncan Macleod. But..."

"Duncan, sleep with me, please. Wake me when I dream..." He shivered, arms wrapped tight around his body as he stood alone. When he continued, it was as one vanquished in a distant war. "We only have to sleep, if that is all you want."

That was too much. Macleod was there, at his side, hand reaching then hesitating, falling back to his side. "Want... This has nothing to do with what I want! I thought I had lost the right to ever touch you again."

"No." Methos lifted his chin, stating his case. Even tired as he was, with dark shadows under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks, he looked proud as some ancient king. "I don't think that will ever happen."

"Methos... This has been such a mess."

"The worst. But it is up to us to see it is finished, that what happens now is...without taint of the past. If we can forgive each other, then we have hope. And I forgave you a long time ago, Duncan Macleod. I promise you that." He gestured dismally. "Of course, it would help if we could forgive ourselves as well."

Duncan was almost blind with emotion. "There is nothing for me to forgive. You made your choices, you walked away from your past. I know I condemned you, but I was wrong."

"Duncan..."

"Wait." He stepped closer, taking light hold of Methos' arm. "I was blinkered before, I wanted you to be my image of perfection. I have learned that there are others." He stared levelly into calm eyes, wanting to say so much more, to kneel in apology, in repentance, regretting every moment of pain, of distrust, of accusation. But he also knew that now wasn't the time, that this was taxing enough to Methos' strength. He breathed in, long and deep, and took the subject back to where it needed to be. "Methos, please may I share your bed?"

"No more talk of the dojo floor?" His eyes were narrowed, close to mischievous.

Macleod shook his head in agreement. "None."

"Then, yes, my bed is your bed — quite literally in this instance." Methos sagged slightly, shoulders relaxing, the amusement taking the last of his energy.

"You should be in bed."

"I've been trying..."

"Come on."

With the decision made, Duncan seemed lighter. Without relinquishing contact, he led Methos across the room, turning off lights as he went. He drew Methos to the side of the bed, turning him, taking the robe from his shoulders, letting it fall unheeded to the floor. Methos climbed back between the sheets, curling his long body, quite suddenly almost asleep again. He hardly noticed as Macleod stripped off his own clothes, disappeared into the bathroom, then came back and slid in naked beside him. Methos muttered sleepily, closing the gap between them, a hand curving round Macleod's arm. As he stilled, he was asleep.

Macleod watched him for a long time, waiting to ambush any nightmares, but then he too grew sleepy and before very long, his eyes closing as if weighted by stones, he slept.

* * * * *

Macleod woke uncertainly, emerging from a night peopled with the ghosts of the dead. He lay on his side, quite still as his thoughts stirred sluggishly.

Then he remembered.

And opened his eyes to see Methos, sitting cross–legged at the end of the bed. As if unable to help himself, Duncan smiled.

If there had been any lingering wariness on Methos' face, it was gone, almost as if it had never been there. "Morning." All of a sudden, he looked very pleased.

"Morning. You look happy."

Methos smiled, the sphinx incarnate. "Mmm, I suppose I am."

Waking properly, Duncan studied him. Wrapped in the voluminous folds of the silk robe, he seemed relaxed, rested, quite serene. "How d'you feel?"

"Alive!"

Duncan nodded in understanding at the answer, appreciation softening his face. "Yes." He eased onto his back, stretching slightly.

The sphinx closed its eyes, breathing in contentedly through pinched nostrils. "You know, I always forget just how good mornings can be."

"You mean even before eleven? To be awake this early I know it had to be something special."

Methos opened amused eyes. "Yes, survival."

Duncan propped himself up on bent elbows. He tilted his head and pursed his lips, then announced blithely, "It suits you."

"Thank you." Methos bowed his head courteously.

Duncan grinned. "What time did you wake up anyway?"

"About half an hour ago."

"You should have woken me!" Duncan protested.

"Why? You didn't sleep that well."

"How do you know?"

Methos shrugged, his fingers toying with the knotted ends of the gown's cord. "I woke from time to time..."

"With nightmares?"

Duncan sounded so guilty that Methos smiled. "No. I dreamed, but then so did you. You were restless." He paused, the ease somehow slipping away from his demeanour. "Your dreams, they didn't seem very nice."

Wary, Duncan asked, "Did I...say anything?"

"You called my name once. It woke me."

"Sorry..."

"No matter. Whatever it was you were dreaming about, it went when I touched you, said your name." Methos looked down, weaving the cord through his fingers, sliding it back and forth. He studied the silk intently, feeling the way it rubbed, soft and sensuous, against his skin. "And you were meant to be the one fending off nightmares, not having them!"

"They happen." Duncan sat up, reached across the bed. Methos blinked then, letting the cord fall, took Macleod's hand. He did nothing. Then Duncan drew Methos forward, pulling until he moved, long legs uncurling, shifting up the bed until he was sat close by. Even then Duncan didn't let go. Instead he nodded gravely. "That's better."

"I was quite happy down there."

"Were you?"

Methos smiled, his eyes crinkling. "No." He leant forward, tilting his head to one side, his eyes without any trace of cynicism, without a trace of levity, without any of the diffidence that made him seem so arrogant, and met Macleod eyes. "I prefer it here." Another inch and they were breathing together, lips almost touching. "Much more..."

A slight tilt of his body, a minute change of balance, and the closeness was a kiss, mouth meeting mouth, warm, dry. They brushed together, feeling skin tease against skin, watching; desire like greed in their eyes. Methos nibbled gently at the soft pout of Macleod's mouth, flicking it gently with his tongue. Then, closing his eyes, he slid in deep, commanding, drawing a soft groan from Macleod, a sound so erotic it sent the muscles of his back rippling with need. Eager now, he moved without breaking the kiss, shifting to one side, bringing Macleod down with him until they were lying flat, impeded by bedding, by clothes, but pressed tight together, mouths wide, devouring.

Methos groaned when a hand stroked down to brush against his nipple, touching through the silk. His tongue stilled as overwhelming sensation rippled through him. He knew Macleod was smiling as he lapped at his mouth, tongue delving, exploring, but response was beyond him. It was slow, tantalizing and Methos couldn't move, as if turned to stone by delight. Breathing was impossible. But it was too much, too much... His eyelids flickered, then Methos broke away, a hand on Duncan's wrist, his eyes glinting through hooded lids. "Don't..."

"Don't?" Macleod lazily enquired, but his fingers were still rhythmically moving, just touching at each stroke. "You like this..."

"Yes!"

"Then why?"

"Because." Methos wriggled, and suddenly Macleod was on his back and Methos was bending over him, hands pressing his shoulders into the bed. "Because I couldn't think!"

Duncan grinned. "That was the idea."

"Just you wait..."

And he bent his head to the beautifully defined chest, taking one puckered and eager nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, making Macleod arch into the caress. Methos grazed his teeth across the skin, twisting his body so his legs held Duncan pinned. Then he began to lick, very slowly, very lightly. After a moment, Duncan was breathing hard, his hands gently stroking through Methos' hair. He groaned again, then whispered his lover's name, "Methos..."

Eyes, almost black with desire, lifted to meet his. Methos nodded, point made. "This is too much, isn't it?" Methos was so close to coming, he was trembling. Macleod was almost as bad. Lightly shifting, he was off the bed, letting the robe fall to the floor. "Shove over..."

He slipped inside the covers, the expanse of naked flesh that greeted him making him moan as if in pain, the pleasure as acute a sensation. Hands touched flesh, skin pressed to skin. Macleod cupped his palms around the curve of Methos' arse and pulled him close, sliding heat against heat. Methos' eyes were open, alight with need, though when Macleod eased away and then pushed close again they flickered shut in concentration.

Somehow, they were kissing again, a gentle, almost careless opening of mouth to mouth, tongues barely touching. They were both far too close for subtlety. Sweat prickled where they touched, belly to belly; skin became slick, sticky with the first of more viscous fluids. Breathing erratically, they whispered broken phrases softly, urgently around open mouths. Lip to lip, sucking clumsily at skin, suddenly quite oblivious to any words at all, Macleod stilled, muscles quivering, mouth wide. His head went back and he shuddered once, unaware that Methos was biting his shoulder, coming hard himself, groaning in lush abandon.

The aftermath left them weak, though they still moved slowly around the last echoes of pleasure. Slick with semen their cocks nuzzled together, all urgency gone. Methos kissed the skin he had bitten, then eased his hands from Macleod back, relaxing slowly. He looked dazed, though his companion was in no better state. They stayed close, unwilling to part.

After a moment to allow his breathing to recover, Duncan shifted onto his back, sliding one arm up to let Methos settle against it.

"I was going to make sure you had breakfast before anything else." Duncan announced in tones of one surprised at himself.

Comfortable, content, Methos sighed happily. "I ate some biscuits."

"You mean you cooked?"

"No!" Methos pinched him lazily. "I ate some cookies, okay?"

"Bloody language barrier..."

"You knew very well what I meant. Actually, I was just happily surprised that Mr.Healthy had any in his cupboards."

"They were probably Richie's."

"Oops. I'd better get some more, or he'll really think I'm a villain."

"He'll cope." Duncan licked his lips reminiscently. "You know, I wondered why you tasted so sweet."

"Biscuits and juice. I was hungry."

"You must have been — when did you last eat real food, anyway?"

Methos considered, then gave a sort of one–sided shrug. "I had something at Joe's, but before that..." he tailed off vaguely.

"We could go out, eat breakfast properly somewhere?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Or I could cook?"

"No, lets go to a diner." He didn't make a move to get up though, quite content where he was. "That way there's no washing up."

"True."

"Then we can come back, have another little nap, then see how long we can last in the next round."

"The next...Methos, are you plotting to get me into bed again today?"

"Yes." Methos nodded, unrepentant. "I have plans." He was dark and mysterious.

"Have you." Duncan sounded very interested.

"Lots of them."

"Lucky me..." Duncan kissed the blunt tip of Methos' nose, making it wrinkle in a way he considered quite fetching.

"Hey!" Methos objected, maybe to the wetness of the kiss.

"It was the nearest bit of you."

"It would be..."

Duncan heard the wry tone and protested. "It's a great nose."

"It's a big nose..."

"I like it."

Methos smiled. "Very sweet of you, Duncan, but it is a veritable prow of a nose." He turned sideways. "I fitted in well in Rome, at least."

"I bet. Mmm, I like the idea of you in a toga..."

"Very drafty things, togas. Give me jeans any day of the week."

"Me too. Kilts were just as bad. "

"At least when the Romans moved to Britain they adapted their dress for everyday — the Scots chose the kilt!" He clearly thought this a sign of national insanity.

"Ah, but it proves our hardihood, wearing just a length of wool in all weathers."

Methos shivered. "Crazy..."

"This from a man who likes to listen to his Walkman in the rain — without benefit of an umbrella."

"I like the rain!" Methos poked Duncan's side. "You can't tell me you like being cold."

"No. But then I don't wear a kilt anymore."

"Never?"

"No."

"I'd like to see you in one — a proper plaid, not a modern kilt though."

"Only if you wear a toga."

They both laughed softly, amused, almost aroused. Methos found himself plotting, he liked the idea of unwrapping Macleod. In fact, he just liked the idea of Macleod.

There were so many possibilities. Though most of them could be saved until after Cassandra had been sorted out.

Cassandra. She slipped into his thoughts like a shadow. They needed to talk about her, but it seemed so mean to spoil the moment. Impossible.

Instead he lifted shifted, propping himself on one elbow, resting the other on Macleod. "Duncan."

"Yeah?"

Methos stared down at him, seeing the uncertainties behind the contentment. Time would sort it all out. Just time. Methos smiled, but all he said was, "I'm very sticky."

"Me too."

"Bath, shower?"

"Shower." Macleod touched a hand to Methos arm, running a finger up the soft, almost hairless skin. "Together?"

"No!"

"Why not?" Macleod's finger stilled in mild offense.

"Because I want a real breakfast, and if we shower together I probably wouldn't even have the energy to eat a lightly boiled egg if you fed it to me."

"Food then. It will help improve your stamina..." He broke off with a sound remarkably like a squeak. "I'm sorry, it was a joke!"

Methos removed his hand and smiled sweetly. "Good. Though you might regret that comment later on." Then he grinned, properly, sitting up. "You know, when we met — and I was busy fancying you something rotten — I really wondered if you weren't used to men."

"I've had my share." Duncan grinned back. "Did you really think I was a virgin?"

"Of a sort. I'm very glad I was wrong..."

"Mmm, virgins need too much work."

"That's true." Methos nodded in agreement.

"I never had that problem when I thought about you."

Methos groaned. "Don't tell me, I came on like an old queen."

"No. You don't differentiate between the sexes, you see people not gender. I like that."

"Duncan, I have lived in very different times. I've known cultures where men took male lovers as a matter of course, where brothers in arms shared their swords, their bed, everything." He sighed softly. "And I lived with Kronos for a very long time."

Duncan hesitated, then took advantage of the ease with which Methos had spoken of Kronos. There was a question which had been bothering him, he hoped it might be answered. "Was Silas your lover too?"

"Silas?" Methos looked surprised. "No. Why?"

"You hated to kill him, I thought..."

"I don't remember much of that afternoon." Methos drew up one leg, wrapping his arms around it. "Silas was an innocent. He liked me, and I liked him. But he would no more of thought of trying to sleep with me as try and fly. He knew I belonged to Kronos, and he worshipped the ground Kronos trod on."

"But..."

"I know." He sighed. "You see, Silas was kind to me. When the Horsemen were breaking up, when there was nowhere left for our particular style of mayhem, Kronos became quite unbalanced. For a time it had been good. I thought I loved him, you know, for a while. Then the world progressed, and he changed. And I bore the brunt of it." He shrugged. "Silas was the only one who cared. He helped me when I wanted to die, and in the end he helped me finish the Horsemen off, helped me leave it all behind."

"I'm sorry."

Methos made a disgusted noise. "It was a long time ago, and Silas is better off dead. He never adjusted to the changes, he hadn't been happy for nearly two thousand years. I didn't know I'd told you anything about him."

"After the quickening, you were upset, you just said you regretted killing him."

Methos narrowed his eyes as he remembered. "We shared a quickening. It was a bad one, I felt as if my nerves had been scoured with sand."

"I've never known that before, the sharing, the energy was incredible." Duncan shifted onto his side, head propped on a crooked arm. His free hand traced patterns on Methos' thigh, stirring the scattering of hairs. "You don't recall it at all?"

"Just fragments." One hand lifted in apology. "It was the end of a pretty awful couple of weeks."

Duncan nodded. "Yeah. Silas helped you again, didn't he."

"Mmm." With a sigh, Methos tried not to remember. "How do you know, more of Kronos' memories?"

Duncan nodded. "Yeah. I wish I didn't have them."

Methos seemed taken aback, then he simply stated, "Then forget them. You've done it before."

"I'll try." But so many of the memories concerned Methos, and Duncan wanted to understand the ancient Immortal he had fallen for, and every scrap of information was to be hoarded, kept and poured over. Even Kronos' memories were precious, because they were of a time he would never be able to share. Besides, they also showed him what Methos would enjoy in bed. If he could ever gather up the courage to try any of it.

"You dealt with Kalas' memories without a problem, didn't you?"

"Sure. I'll work on Kronos'." Duncan's hand sneaked upwards, and flaked dried semen off Methos' belly. "Come on, let's get clean."

"And go eat. I'm starving!"

"Steak for breakfast?"

Methos made a face. "Do you mind! I'm not madly keen on steak for supper, let alone first thing in the morning." He bent sideways and kissed the rising curve of Macleod's shoulder. "I want a bath, okay?"

"Fine, there's plenty of hot water. I'll take the shower."

"I love your bathroom!"

"Hedonist."

Methos was half out of bed, he turned to look over his shoulder. "You only just noticed?"

"Nope, I've been pretending, get on with you."

Methos grinned and walked away, quite aware of Macleod's admiring stare as he went.

* * * * *

By the time they were ready, it was time for lunch rather than breakfast. Duncan drove them down to a diner he liked, and they ate a long, leisurely meal. Methos consumed more that he had in almost the whole of the previous week, though that was still not exactly a huge amount. The food was well cooked, fresh and plentiful: their waitress smiled, cheerfully efficient, and happily brought them refills of water and then coffee. They picked off each others' plates, and idly discussed anything from literature to sport, as long as the topic was neutral, and the name Cassandra wasn't involved at all.

Duncan paid, and afterwards they strolled back to the car. The weather was cold, Winter close by. The parking lot was strewn with rotting leaves, the few trees' branches quite bare. Methos pushed both hands deep into his coat's pockets, waiting for Macleod to unlock the car.

He felt strangely detached from unease, from the fears he would normally have tried to outrun. Nothing mattered, not now. It was as if his feelings for Macleod curled around everything; a pillow against despair. So much had happened, so much emotion and pain had rocked him in the past few weeks, that it was as if he had reached saturation point, and all he was capable of feeling was the emotion of the moment; and that emotion was Macleod. In fact, Duncan Macleod was all that mattered in the whole world.

Already the return of Kronos was seeming like a dream, which was fine. He didn't want to pick over the dead bones of that time. He wanted to deal with it the way he had learned to deal with anything that might prove dangerous to his sanity, to bury it deep and pretend it hadn't happened.

What did it matter, any of it. Kronos was dead, and, for the first time in longer than he could recall, Methos knew himself to be happy.

The rest was mere self–indulgence.

Methos breathed in the cold air and admired the world. Even the fact that Cassandra lived was little more than a shadow at the edge of his thoughts. He was optimistic enough to hope she might forgive and forget, though in truth he knew that was next to impossible. She would come for her vengeance, sooner or later. Though later might be better, it didn't really matter. As long as Macleod lived, nothing much mattered at all.

He realised that the engine was running, the door was open, and that from inside Duncan was peering up at him strangely. "Sorry..." Pulling the door wide, he slid into the passenger seat, closing himself in. "I was day–dreaming."

"Yeah, well, it didn't look that happy to me."

"In fact, I was just thinking that I am happy."

"Really?"

"Yes." He nodded, settling the folds of his coat about his knees.

"Despite everything?"

"Maybe because of it." He turned to face the Highlander, seeing him clearly, loving the ease of his body, the way he sat, strong hands loose on the wheel. Methos smiled gently, desire a tendril that wove through his veins. "Because of you." The simple truth tasted very sweet on his tongue.

Some memory of sadness flickered behind Macleod's melancholy eyes. "Methos, I..." He broke off, then gave a rueful, twisting smile and admitted, "I feel the same."

"Good." Methos held the lingering stare, shivered, then settled back into his seat. "I never fancied unrequited love."

"Me neither. Good job it isn't a problem then."

They smiled secretly, intent. As professions of love went, it was hardly the most flowery, but the sentiments rang clear and true, and neither man felt any doubt about the others' veracity.

Methos reached out a hand and touched Macleod's arm, tapping it lightly with his finger. "Do you think we're always going to choose car–parks as places for baring our souls?"

"As long as that's all we bare." Duncan gave a quick, wicked grin. "I don't care."

"Good. Shall we go home?" Methos tried not to ask too eagerly.

Duncan was about to nod, then he stopped. "We really should go and see Joe first."

With a sigh, Methos agreed. "Mmm." The he considered, thoughtfully. "I suppose that way lunch will have more time to digest."

"Yeah. I don't fancy acrobatics at the moment." He put the car in gear and started to pull away.

"Who said you were getting acrobatics? I might want you lying still, not moving a muscle — except one of course."

"You might want..." Duncan emphasised the personal pronoun.

"Oh, yes. I might want." So did Methos.

"Going to be in charge, then?"

"I told you, I've plans."

Duncan clearly had problems negotiating a left hand turn as well as contemplating the glint he had seen in Methos' eye. He was grinning, though a certain tendril of wariness wove through the humour. "I'll look forward to them."

"So will I!" Methos rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, his sharp face clearly amused. "I'm sure the anticipation will be good for us."

"Yeah, how long do you think we have to stay at Joe's?"

"That depends what he's up to. There might be some band playing as part of this festival he was talking about."

"Could be interesting."

"Yeah, maybe."

Duncan heard the doubt and asked, "Don't you like live music?"

"Not much. I prefer it on tape so I can utilise listener discretion with such things as the volume control, and the off switch."

"Bet you were fun in the fifties and sixties..." Duncan's voice was dryly amused.

"I spent most of those decades in the Himalayas, Lhasa doesn't have much of a live music scene — not electric, anyway."

"You missed a lot of fun."

"I know. But I wasn't feeling particularly sociable at the time, and before I even knew it was happening, it was gone."

"That explains Chubby Checker."

"It certainly does!"

It took about twenty minutes to get across to Joe's, the traffic light and all the lights in their favour. Macleod turned into the parking–lot by Joe's, easing into a space. He was smiling reminiscently as he switched off the ignition.

"You're looking uncommonly smug, Duncan."

"Mmm, I was remembering."

Methos peered around. "I suppose we could have chosen a more romantic location."

"Hey, don't knock it! At least it happened."

"Very true, O Wise Philosopher!"

"Yeah, you read enough Sartre, it rubs off eventually."

"Sounds very nasty."

"It can be."

They climbed out of the car and wandered into Joe's, pushing into the dimly lit bar find a mass of people and the stage set for a performance. Duncan looked at Methos and raised an eyebrow in query. A resigned shake of the head was his answer.

They walked over to the bar, avoiding tables, people, and a waiter moving at full tilt with a loaded tray, to find Joe waiting for them, standing tiredly at the counter. "Hi."

"Joe." Duncan nodded, and Methos raised a hand in vague greeting, turning back from his inspection of the crowd to smile.

Dawson looked at them, and knew there was too much that couldn't be said in public. "Come back into the office." He moved away, not waiting for a reply.

With the door shut, the decibel level fell considerably. Joe sat himself at the desk, while Methos sprawled on the couch and Macleod perched on its upholstered arm.

"You both look better."

"Sleep and food — nothing like them." Duncan agreed.

"And friends. Thanks Joe."

"Hey! It was Duncan did it all — I just climbed up the mountain to find it was all over."

"You were there, that was enough — thank you."

"And he gave me his gun." Duncan pointed out quietly. "It would all have been pretty futile without that."

"I knew they were invented for a reason." Methos stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle. "You look tired yourself — how's the festival."

"You mean apart from the bands who haven't shown and the histrionics of a blues diva young enough to be my granddaughter? It's been great — I can't wait for the next one."

"Fun, fun, fun, then."

"Oh yeah!" Dawson grinned all of a sudden. "Well, some of it has been great, and if I wasn't on the committee I'd've enjoyed this a hell of a lot more. Guess what I'm not doing next year."

"Being on the committee?" Methos hazarded mildly.

"Right." Dawson nodded. He glanced between the two Immortals and paused. "You heard from the Witch?"

Duncan shook his head, but Methos asked, "The Witch?"

"As in Wicked Witch of the West — its what Joe calls Cassandra."

"Good heavens, I didn't see the resemblance until you said that."

"Yeah, yeah. But have you seen her?" Joe asked impatiently.

Methos made a face. "Nope."

"We're not going looking for her, Joe." Duncan picked up a match–book from the table at his side. He examined it very closely. "But we'll be waiting."

"You'll have to do something, surely? You can't spend all your time looking over your shoulders, because from what I saw that was one determined lady, and she was after you, Methos, no question."

"I know." Methos sighed, looking up obliquely. "I don't think either of us want to challenge her though."

Duncan nodded in agreement.

"She won't go away." Joe tapped a finger on the desk, emphasising his point. "She was mad, maybe insane."

"No, she was pissed, I'll give you that..."

"Duncan, I saw her close to." Joe was insistent. "That was one unwell lady."

"I still don't want to track her down." Duncan tossed the matches down and looked at Methos.

Who nodded. "She might calm down, go home."

"And pigs might fly. What's happened to you two?" The Immortals looked at each other. Joe sighed. "Okay, I get it." Joe muttered something under his breath, then spoke very clearly, as if to two congenital idiots. "Just because you are living in a little cloud of happiness, it doesn't mean that the world has gone away. I'd bet good money that she's plotting something."

"Maybe." Methos was apparently quite unconcerned. "We can sleep with the alarm on."

"Yeah, that'll really help. You two are hopeless." Joe sighed. "I've arranged to get her Watcher back from Europe, he should be here in a day or so. That way at least I'll know where she is."

"Joe." Methos spoke the name quietly, straightening.

"What?"

"I know we all want it to be, but it isn't as easy as that. What are we meant to do, go and find her, execute her?"

Irritated, Dawson met Methos' face, and finally saw the fear and uncertainty behind the facade. He glanced at Macleod and saw something similar in his still face. Joe grimaced, acknowledging their point. "So, you pretend nothing is wrong, rather than deal with her death."

"Unless she comes to us, yes," Duncan agreed. Though he and Methos had never discussed this, he was certain they both felt the same, and a glance confirmed his guess. "There's been enough death."

"Methos, I thought you were the one who believed in dealing with these things, getting them out of the way as necessity demands."

"You mean because I killed Kristen?" Methos asked.

"And you were quite sure what Mac there should have done about Ingrid, the assassin, why's this one different?"

Methos sighed. "Do you really want to know?" He sat quite still.

"Yes."

"Because, whatever she has become, I made her. If she is insane, then I made her insane. How can I go and take her head, knowing that? I may be callous, but..." Methos went to say something more, then simply shrugged and looked at his boots.

Duncan touched his shoulder, eliciting a glance, and what might have been a smile. "You're not callous, just realistic."

"So I used to think."

Duncan looked at Joe in a moment of silence. Then he spoke, hand still resting on Methos. "Cassandra was my friend, or at least I believed so. Maybe she just used me, I don't know. What I do know is that if she challenges either of us, she'll die. We'll be careful. And there are two of us, it'll be harder for her to take us together."

"She managed last time."

"Joe, has anyone every told you that you're a cheerful bastard."

"All the time, Mac, all the time." Joe grinned, unrepentant. "I don't believe in pussy–footing around. Facts are facts and let's face it — she's dangerous. Hell, I don't want either of you to end up neatly trimmed at the neck."

"Yeah, thanks Joe." Duncan nodded, quietly acknowledging the friendship that ran between the three of them.

"Damn it, this is getting mawkish — I want a drink, how about you two?"

Methos looked up at Macleod, who shrugged as if to say, up to you. Methos turned back, his face softening. "Thanks Joe, a beer would be good."

"Fine." He glanced at his watch. "Okay if we have it in the bar?"

"Sure." Duncan stood up, straightening his dun–coloured coat as he did so. "Why?"

"The next set's due to start — if the artist feels up to it."

"The blues diva?" Methos asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, or the spoiled brat, depending on your point of view." There were clearly no doubts as to his own. "Come on, I should get back anyway."

The Immortals followed their friend into the bar, the noise hitting them as they entered the room. Joe made a face at them, then was claimed by one of his staff.

Methos looked at Macleod, and together they headed for the bar.

* * * * *

In the end they stayed about another hour. The singer may have been the bane of Dawson's life, but she had a clarion–clear voice that sang of heartache and longing with more understanding than her youthfulness should have allowed. The crowded place quieted as she sang, in itself a tribute to her skill and her ability to conjure emotion. When the last chord faded away, the room held itself breathless, then there was a barrage of applause, of whistles and cheers.

Methos put his beer down and clapped enthusiastically, a hard lump in his throat. He turned to Duncan, and caught the answering look. There was a lingering melancholy in the hooded eyes. It wasn't the place, but Methos wanted to take that strong body into his arms and offer comfort, be comforted in turn. They held each others eyes, stilling, silence pooling around them despite all the noise.

It was time to go home.

They walked back to the bar. In the middle of serving a string of thirsty customers, Joe looked at them ruefully, shrugged, then hardly managed to say goodbye. They left as the music began again.

The journey home was silent, a fine ribbon of awareness weaving between them as they approached the dojo. Nothing mattered but the wanting. Even the unresolved, raw matter of Cassandra faded; there were others details to occupy their thoughts.

Duncan parked the car, killed the engine and climbed out. It was late afternoon, the breeze was harsh, blowing paper and leaves down the street. He had left the heating in the loft on high, it would be warm, inviting. He shivered slightly, wondering what was planned.

Methos was just by him, asking softly, "You okay?"

"Yeah." Duncan turned, serious. "Thinking of you."

"Good things?"

"Yeah."

Methos smiled. Then he turned and led the way up to the door.

They stepped out of the elevator into warmth. Methos sighed happily, then, as Duncan followed him, he turned in ambush. The kiss began as sweet, then as they melted into each other, deepened into passion. They stood just there for a long time, arms wrapped around each other, bodies close. Then Methos lifted his arms and wrapped his fingers around the sleek head, ending the kiss. They both looked drugged, eyes heavy, pupils wide and dark. Methos kissed Macleod's mouth, once, chastely. Then he smiled, and stepped away.

Stripping off his coat he tossed it, sword and all, across the couch. Duncan's followed. In turn they used the bathroom, Methos the last to emerge, walking out to find Duncan waiting for him, still dressed, though his feet were bare. He had stripped the covers off the bed. Methos went to him, stood a hand's span away, and reaching out with one finger, ran it across the curving swell that marred the line of Duncan's pants.

When Macleod reached for him, he held up an admonishing finger. "No, Duncan. Patience..." He stepped closer, running his hands up the soft wool of Macleod's sweater, feeling the heavy muscle, pressing a palm to the beat of his heart. He whispered softly, "Let me...let me..." and his hands were under the wool, touching flesh, making them both tense, anticipation tingling through their veins.

Methos, slowly moved his hands, the wool lifting around them as they slid upwards, golden skin baring. He rubbed the tight nipples between finger and thumb in passing, a smile just there, behind his eyes. Then the sweater was off, peeled away, leaving Duncan ruffled, moaning slightly as Methos bent and put his mouth to skin. He licked at the firm body, tasting it, wetly sliding up until he was nibbling gently at the throat, running his tongue over the collar–bones, then slowly retreating, bending further, until he had to kneel, his tongue snaking into the tight curl of navel while his hands deftly released Macleod's belt. A slide of zip, a button released, and he pulled all the remaining clothes down with one movement, letting the hard cock spring free to bob close to his face.

Methos looked up, his eyes wicked. He cupped a sure hand around the full, tight sac, rubbing his fingers lightly between the clearly defined balls. The cock he left alone, bringing his other hand around to stroke the back of Macleod's thigh, fingertips tracing small circles. After a moment, he breathed on the heated arousal, the impossibly soft caress enough to make Macleod's knees begin to buckle.

"Lie on the bed..." The command was soft, yet Duncan shivered, fear adding a certain frisson to desire. He backed away, almost in relief, sure that another breath would have made him come without having been touched once. He stepped out of the pool of clothing, moving until the back of his knees hit the bed. He sat, pulling himself into the middle of the wide, wide bed, then lay back.

Methos was naked when he joined him. Duncan reached for him, held him close, skin to skin. With a shift of muscle, Methos was across Macleod, weight on knees pressed either side of the taut belly, his buttocks rubbing tantalisingly by the eager jut of Macleod's cock. He ran his fingers over the beautiful face, seeing the grain of the fine skin, smelling the shampoo Duncan had washed his hair in that morning. When Macleod tilted his head invitingly, Methos bent down, and they kissed again, soft, easy, wet kisses that lasted seemingly forever.

Until, lithe and agile, Methos was gone, off the surprised body, kneeling by its side. He touched a finger to Macleod's lips: silence. With a smile of reassurance, he slid down the bed, mouth trailing little kisses, licking at skin as he went. There, without any preamble, he swallowed the slick head, breathing deep of arousal, then he was diving down, opening mouth and jaw and throat to take the length and width of Macleod's far from inconsiderable cock. It took three attempts, but by the third his nose was pressed to dark hair and he swallowed, again and again, until Duncan was moaning incoherently, hips lifting off the bed. Only then did Methos pull back, letting himself breath. He flicked his tongue over the spongy glans, dipping into the slit, sucking the first few drops of bitter seed as if they were nectar. Hands were stroking his hair, and taking pity, he slid his mouth around the straining heat, going down hard, fucking his own throat ruthlessly until Macleod was shuddering, calling out in Gaelic, fists clutching at hair, at the sheets. Then, at that point, when all it would have taken was one last swallow, Methos pulled away, climbing back up the sweating body to kiss the open, desperately panting mouth.

This time it was wild, abandoned. Methos used deceptive strength to keep Macleod flat, pressing his wrists to the bed while their mouths met and desperately ravaged each other. When it was too much, Methos drew back, his mouth reddened, eyes slitted with need.

Releasing his hold, moving away, Methos watched curiously, but Macleod didn't move, his hands staying flat above his head. He was lost, gone far into a world where only touch had meaning. Running a finger down the sculpted chest made the heavy body arch invitingly. Addicted, Methos bent again and tasted skin, licking at a nipple. Duncan moaned, pushing his chest up, seeking more, harder sensation.

Instead, his own body only just under better control, Methos reached under the pillow for the tube of lubricant. Moving carefully, he climbed between the strong thighs, pushing them further apart, making room. With gentle fingers he stroked the quivering belly, gentling, arousing. His own cock was impossibly hard, arcing upwards, slick with his own need.

To fuck Duncan Macleod...

He couldn't think about it, could only do it.

Muscles rippling, he eased Duncan legs up, sliding his knees underneath, tilting the pelvis to make the angle right. When he pressed the cold gel to the secret entrance to Macleod's body, they both shuddered. He watched as slitted eyes opened, and with a shift Macleod was easing his legs onto Methos' shoulders, offering himself completely.

Methos swallowed hard, running a hand up one thigh in thanks, in reassurance, in the need to simply touch. Then, with fine control, Methos pressed into the dark opening.

He held his cock in one hand, weight balanced against the bed on the other. Breathing evenly, he felt the body give, felt the first slide of his flesh into his lover. Slow and even, slower, he eased insistently inwards, feeling Duncan's body shifting around his, the play of muscle, of tension, of pain overcome, telling him that this was right, this was delight. If there was discomfort, it mattered less that nothing, and as he pushed home, Macleod groaned lushly.

Sweat trickling down skin, Methos paused, erratic breaths lifting his chest, hollowing his belly. Here and now, this moment in time, this was what he wanted to remember. Being part of Macleod for the first time. This act which made them one.

He met Duncan's dazed, faintly enquiring gaze and managed to smile in reassurance. Then, sure and certain, knowing the angle that would bring pleasure, he moved. Reaching to take the slightly softened cock into his hand, Methos pushed home again, feeling the response through every part of Duncan's body and his own. Again, and the hardness pulsed back, filling his hand eagerly. Again, and Duncan moved with him, mouth open, arms wide against the bed as he clutched wantonly at cotton, the muscles in his arms, in the curve of his belly, rippling.

Methos watched him, moving more certainly, pushing deeper, loving the immediate response visible in every ecstatic line of Macleod's body. Methos was shaking, a fine tremor running through every limb as he fought for control. There was such heat, such tightness holding him, and it was Duncan. He groaned out loud, closing his eyes, sliding his knees apart, finding greater leverage, impossibly greater depth.

Lost to any ability to prolong the sweet torment, he fucked hard, taking pleasure as he gave it, feeling the response, knowing that Duncan was urging him on, calling his name again, and again. Pistoning now, hard and fast, their bodies slick, sure, it was close, closer.

Then the world fined down to a single need and Methos, head thrown back, shuddering as if mortally wounded, slammed home, screaming aloud as the body he fucked came, wet heat spilling over his clutching fingers. Pressure around his cock milked him, pushed him way over the edge, savagely stealing any choice away as the world span out of control, shattering into a thousand pieces, each one of them brilliant with glory.

There were tears on his face, though he was quite oblivious. Stunned, he held quite still, the silence broken only by their desperate, erratic breathing. With a strength of mind he was blind to owning, he slowly slid free of Macleod's body, sobbing as the contact was lost. Hands were reaching for him, and Duncan was there, kissing his face, hands holding him, bringing him near. He collapsed brokenly, falling into warm arms that held tight, was stroked with hands that felt unsteady. Burrowing into skin, he hid the tears. In the sweat–scented darkness, he felt the covers drawn over their bodies, and breathed shakily.

For a long while, they simply lay together, skin weighted to skin, no single thought clear in the aftermath of such intensity. They held each other, as gradually heartbeats slowed, breathing became normal, and sweat dried on skin.

Then Methos swallowed, and turning his head, freed a hand to wipe across his eyes. Cautiously he focused, and met Duncan's eyes.

The Highlander was looking at him, warmth and affection, and something that might have been called love, soft in his eyes. Methos blinked, breath catching in his throat. Leaning back in the curve of a solid shoulder, he managed a single shaky word, "Hello."

Duncan gently tightened his hold. There was comfort and more in the simple gesture. "Hello yourself."

Curled together, side by side, they smiled.

Bringing a hand from the covers, Macleod touched Methos' face, fingers delicately touching the damp skin around his eyes. "Are you all right?"

Methos gave a half–hearted, disconcerted laugh. His voice still sounded choked. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just been a while...and, well..." He shrugged apologetically. "It was you."

Duncan nodded, understanding. "And it was you..." He gave the taut body a gentle squeeze. "Methos, it was incredible."

Blinking uncertainly, Methos saw sympathy, amusement, and deep satisfaction in the warm brown eyes. "Duncan..." He could feel tears itching at the back of his eyes again and closed them, resting his head on the solid curve of Macleod's shoulder.

"Hey! Wasn't it good for you?"

Methos gave a choked laugh, and chidingly pinched some skin where his hand lay. "Oh, yes, I suppose you could say it was good."

"There."

"It's just that," Methos swallowed, sniffing gently, all cynicism gone. "I don't normally go to pieces."

"Methos, I don't mind! Anyway, I felt pretty emotional myself."

Narrowing his eyes, Methos looked at the close face, and finally understood that his own, intensely emotional reaction, had not been alone. "Duncan..."

"Yeah, well..." Macleod moved slightly, nearing their mouths. His eyes were dark, unending refractions of burnt–umber and ebony. "I love you, Methos."

"Duncan..." Methos took a ragged breath, blinking away moisture. "I love you, have loved you, will love you...always."

"Aye." Duncan nodded as if taking a vow. Then his eyes fell closed and he brought their mouths together. The kiss was sweet, tasting of salt. Afterwards they wrapped together, lying close. There was silence around them. Quite still in each others arms, they neither slept nor woke, the world a thousand million miles away from their contained contentment.

Shadows had filled the room when they stirred, almost together, lifting their eyes to see the elusive reality of happiness.

Methos smiled, "My own tame Highlander..."

"Tame?"

"Only sometimes..."

"Only when you want me to be."

Duncan..." Methos hesitated, then turned his head and kissed the hand that lay close by. He smiled as it curled around his face, thumb stroking his cheek. "Duncan." It was affirmation, acknowledgement.

"Yeah." Macleod pulled Methos into an embrace, body to body, heads tucked against shoulders. After a while he pulled back, a rueful smile in his eyes. "Let's get up, or I'll want to do it all again."

"That's a problem?" Methos asked with amused curiosity.

"No. But I want a shower, and something to eat, and then maybe we can start over."

"Sounds good to me..." A finger ran up Macleod's back, as Methos' eyes narrowed smokily. "We could share a shower?"

"Could do," Duncan nodded gravely.

"Or a bath. I like baths..."

"Messy..."

"We could be careful?"

"Highly unlikely, but if you want a bath..." Duncan shrugged, quite clearly ready to agree to anything.

"Yes." Methos quickly kissed Macleod's mouth, then slid out of bed. Naked he stood by the side, one hand held out invitingly. "Come on then."

Duncan stared at him, smiled. "Do I get to wash you?"

"If you want." Methos opened his hand, the gesture of amused acceptance.

"Really?" Duncan sat up.

Methos nodded, teasing. "Mmm, I haven't had a body slave in a very long time."

"Poor you..." Duncan grinned, then pushed back the covers and climbed out of the bed. He took the offered hand, drawing Methos close. "We'll have to see what we can do about that, won't we...as long as we take turns."

Methos breathed in abruptly, then answered softly, "I think that could be a mutually agreeably arrangement."

"I thought so." Duncan ran his hands down the long back, letting his palms cup around curving flesh. He shivered when Methos' cock stirred against his own. "Bath?" He licked his lips.

"Mmm." Methos closed his eyes, tilted his head. Through dark lashes he was aroused, amused, in love. "Whatever you want."

"Come on..."

Duncan released him, all except for one hand. Leading him into the bathroom, he set the bath running, added a few drops of oil, then took back the embrace as if he hungered for touch.

"Perhaps I should wash you." Methos rubbed the back of Duncan's neck, then unfastened the tie securing Macleod's already loosening hair. He combed it with his fingers, letting it spill darkly over the golden skinned shoulders. Steam was curling around them, the noise of the large bath filling loud in the room.

"Perhaps we should wash each other."

"A brilliant idea." Methos nodded abstractedly, concentrating on the silken feel of the unbound hair sliding through his fingers. "Can I wash this?"

"If you want."

"I want."

"I can do yours too." Duncan brushed a hand over the ruffled crop.

"There's not much to worry about."

"Is that why you had it cut — convenience?"

Methos blinked, realising that Macleod's knowledge of what he had looked like came from Kronos' memories. Kronos, who had loved it long, loved winding his hands in it... It had seemed as good a reason as any to cut it short. Methos shrugged, dissembling. "Fashion changed. And I like it like this."

"He liked it long, didn't he?"

Startled, Methos couldn't answer.

"Kronos." Duncan stated the name, as if the personal pronoun hadn't been explicit enough. He went on, his voice rough with sympathy, his words warmly accented. "I'm not surprised you prefer it short. Besides, it must be much easier."

"Much." Methos agreed. He stared into the near, intent eyes. And smiled. If Duncan could learn to deal with his memories so matter–of–factly, then he could to.

Wreathed by steam they smiled, their mouths joining in a kiss. For a while they stood, forehead to forehead. Then a trickling sound broke them apart, laughing. Duncan hurriedly turned off the water, then released the plug to let a large amount run away. He grinned back over his shoulder. "I knew we should have had a shower."

"It's only a little water, and there'll probably be more on the floor soon."

"Really?"

"Mmm." Methos stepped into the water and lay down with an ostentatious sigh. The level rose alarmingly, but stayed within the confines of the bath. However, when he shot out an arm and pulled Macleod in after him, it didn't.

Macleod wiped water from his face and, peering over the edge of the bath, sighed.

"Well, you did say the floor doesn't leak..."

"Well, this will certainly test it!" He turned back, his body sliding closely against Methos. Even though the bath was large, they were both tall men, and there wasn't an awful lot of room. Duncan flipped hair out of his eyes and smiled. "This is intimate..."

"Isn't it."

"What was it you wanted? Oh, I remember, a body slave. Now, what exactly would a body–slave do..." He moved an arm, ignoring the rush of water onto the floor, and cupped his hand around Methos genitals. "Get you clean, yes, I can see that, but what else? This?" He squeezed, gently.

"Duncan..."

"Methos?"

"You're wicked, you know that?"

"I think I do. Come here, I want to kiss you..."

"I'm not very far away."

"So you aren't..."

Somehow, they were giggling like kids; arousal suddenly there, out of nowhere. And a lot more of the bath–water spilled unnoticed to the floor. Slick and slippery, they kissed again; wide, open kisses that quickly made them both aroused. Without finesse, they took each other in hand, legs wrapped together, feet jammed against the end of the bath, mouths joined. Climax came with shattering speed, hardly giving either of them time to think, to do anything but ride the rush of sensation as their bodies arched together. It was hard and fast, laughter still there on their faces as they broke apart, wide–eyed, breathless.

Methos turned slightly to one side and peeled his hand away from softening flesh, wincing in surprise as his own body was released. He licked sweat from his upper lip and closed his eyes, groaning in happy exhaustion.

"You can't go to sleep here." Duncan was grinning, lazily splashing water over Methos' groin, teasing the milky threads of semen from the dark, curling hair.

"No?"

"Well, you can if you want, but," there was a rush of displaced water and he was standing up. "But I'm hungry."

Methos opened his eyes, clearly finding the sight of Macleod quite gratifying. "You going to cook?"

"No, I thought we might take some crackers and cheese and stuff to bed, eat there."

"Sounds good to me." Methos nodded, then with a surge of energy he was standing as well. Shin deep in water they smiled at each other, content. Methos nodded as if answering some silent, internal question, then touched Duncan's chest, running gentle fingers up the sculpted contours. "Come on, turn the shower on, you wash. I'll clean up the floor and shower when you're done."

Duncan looked at the floor, making a face at it. "All it needs is a mop. I'll do it in a bit."

"No." Methos used Duncan for balance and stepped onto the floor. The water lapped at his toes. He wriggled them, splashing gently. "I think I'd better do this, don't you?"

"There's a mop in the kitchen, by the side of the fridge." Duncan considered, then turned the shower on, shivering as cold water hit him before it turned warm. "If I ever do any rebuilding, I'll have a bigger bath installed."

"Much bigger than that and you could swim in it." Methos opened the door and walked into the main room. Only a small tide of water followed him, along with the sound of Macleod singing. Pausing for a moment to identify the song, Methos laughed, then went off to find the mop, joining in the chorus as he went.

After their energetic bath, and the cleaning up operation, neither man wanted to do very much. Duncan changed the sheet and Methos piled a tray with easily eaten food. He also opened a bottle of wine, and the two of them settled in bed, pillows heaped behind them. They talked idly while they ate and drank, then read, until, at a not very late hour, they grew sleepy. Duncan took the almost empty tray back to the kitchen, tossing the empty bottle into the trash, leaving the rest on the side to be dealt with in the morning.

He returned, clicked off the light, and slid under the covers. Taken into warm arms, he sighed his contentment into the darkness, and slept.

* * * * *

For some reason, Macleod woke early. It was light, but he knew it was closer to dawn than any hour Methos would prefer to wake at. So, with a possessive smile at the curled form of the sleeper, he slid from the bed, found a pair of gi trousers and walked down to the dojo, whistling, binding his hair back as he went.

He warmed up slowly, quite at ease, body responding to his inner contentment. Gradually he worked up to more strenuous forms of exercise, performing a kata of attack, block, defend, parry, attack, bare handed, empty minded. This was meditation. He centred himself through movement, through the easy stretch of muscle and sinew, the resilience of bone.

Breathing evenly, drawing energy through his body, he performed the exercise that was dance macabre, a single note of joy humming in his mind.

Methos was waiting upstairs.

Methos.

This was happiness. Something he hadn't felt since Tessa,not like this, not like this... Maybe it was all the sweeter for being something he had almost thrown away. It had been so close; so terribly close to being destroyed by his own stubbornness, let alone anything else.

They had come through it. And Methos loved him.

He spun and kicked, battling an invisible enemy with joy, hands reaching into the air with a grace such strength belied. Sweat ran freely from his pores, glistening on his skin, taking the perfect body and making of it something unreal, something mythical. His bare feet sounded a rhythmic accompaniment on the boards, the swish of cotton as he moved, the deep breathing. All else was silence.

Until the prickling awareness of another Immortal close by, finally stilled movement into wariness. "Methos?" He looked towards the stairs, then turned, skin prickling with unease, towards high–pitched laughter.

Cassandra.

Standing by the door, she was watching him with dark amusement in her eyes. "Hello Duncan."

Shocked, Duncan blinked at her, at the woman he ought to have known would come, seeing with dismay the wildness in her disordered hair, her dirt of her gown, and the fine sword held so easily in her hand. "Cassandra."

"Didn't you expect me? I told you it was all unfinished."

She was bereft of cosmetics, thin–faced, almost old, her expression quite unsettling. Duncan looked at her, sorrowing for the person he had thought she was, and wondered if there would ever be a possibility of reasoning with such obduracy. "Cassandra, can't you let it go, let Methos be?"

She shook her head slowly, absolute certainty in her eyes. "You must think me very weak, to believe I would do that."

"No, not weak." He took a step towards her, stilling as her blade came up. "Forgiving."

"The same thing."

"Do you want my head as well?"

"No, just his. Tell me, where is the last of the Horsemen, in your bed? You panted after him even when I told you how depraved he was, didn't you. Even after I had slept with you to bind you to me. So much for honour!"

"Cassandra, we could argue over this for hours, but Methos is different, he isn't the man you knew, the same way you aren't the slave girl he taught all about Immortality."

"Methos taught me more than that — he taught me to hate!" She straightened, a certain triumph in her eyes. "And now he will finally die. Is he upstairs?"

Duncan shook his head.

"Listen to me, Duncan, listen to me well..." Cassandra moved forward, still talking, her gaze intent, her voice suddenly deep, sultry, going on and on. The hairs on Macleod's neck shivered on end and he tried to turn, to run, to warn Methos. But her words were a spell winding around his mind, twisting into his thoughts until he could think nothing, was nothing. He heard her laughter and everything turned to darkness.

Cassandra was whispering now, laughing as she wove her voice around the weakness of Macleod, binding him to her, making him her own. When he stood quiescent, only then did she still her tongue.

As if on a chain, she led him through the dojo, walked him up the stairs. Ahead of him, sure of her power Cassandra entered the loft, walking soft–footed into the room. If her heart leapt when she saw the still form in the bed, she showed nothing, merely touched Macleod, making him stand. Reminiscently, she ran her palm across his skin, before pinching hard, to be certain that all his strength was hers. Only then did she turn to the bed.

Methos came out of sleep slowly, feeling Macleod close by. Reaching out a hand he drifted it across the sheet, frowning slightly when he realised the cotton was cold. He rubbed his face against the pillow, he sleepily uncurled, turning onto his back. Only to still absolutely as, unmistakeably, steel came to rest against his throat.

"Good morning, Methos..."

"Cassandra!" Shaken from sleep, he croaked her name, opening his eyes to stare up the length of metal at her exultant face.

"I didn't think it would be this easy." She smiled, leaving no doubt as to her pleasure.

Fear pinched his eyes, and he asked hoarsely, "Where's Macleod?"

"Still alive. Under my command. I won't kill him you know; I only want you dead." She frowned. "For him, it will be punishment enough to live on, when you are dead. Though how he can feel anything but disgust for you..." Her mouth tightened bitterly.

"He'll kill you, if you go through with this." Methos threatened, though his own confidence was hollow.

She merely smiled in derision. "Macleod? He has too many moral scruples; he might hate me, but he wouldn't execute me, not even to avenge you."

"Don't be so certain."

"But I am, remember,I can control Macleod, I have power he has no defense against."

"Cass..." Methos swallowed, his words dead in his mouth as the blade nicked deep into his skin. He arched back into the pillows, the sharp edge following.

"Quiet! You are to die, Horseman, and nothing you can say will change that."

The hilt was held between her two hands, a broadsword, not unlike his own. Except his own was on the couch, wrapped in his coat, though it may as well have been on the moon. Every sense screaming at him, skin itching as sweat beaded through his pores, he lay still, waiting for any opportunity, any moment when he might be able to seize his life from her grasp. She was too close to kick, and too much movement would simply make her task easy. He couldn't even swallow, though he tried to speak.

Intent, she moved slightly, changing her balance. "What, Horseman, don't you want to beg? It would change nothing, but I would find it very sweet to humble you."

He couldn't answer. Wouldn't have anyway. He was beyond fear, beyond anything but a desire to live.

A nerve pulsed by her eye, the skin pulling erratically. Disgust, anger, hatred, all were there in her face as she strengthened her grip on the hilt. "This is for me, Methos..." And she drew back her sword, triumph in her eyes, certain. But at the blade's highest point, Methos flung his pillow in her face.

He scrambled to one side, crying out as the edge of her sword sliced his arm. Suddenly he was free of the bed–clothes, crashing naked to the floor. He caught a glimpse of Macleod, and his gut twisted at the sight of him standing quite still, in glassy eyed oblivion. Methos called out as he stumbled to his feet, "Duncan! Fight her power. Duncan!" There was no response, though Methos was still shouting as he lunged blindly for his sword.

His coat was still there. He pulled it off the couch, fumbling, backing away, then the blade was loose, the leather–bound hilt fitting sure and welcome into his palm. Turning, left–handed he blocked a killing blow. Too close. He couldn't spare any thought for Macleod. Not if he was to survive. "Cassandra, it doesn't have to be like this..."

"Why, Horseman, afraid I might win?"

Another blow parried, he backed away, using the furniture as defense. His right hand just wouldn't work, the wound she had sliced into it cutting deep to the bone. Blood ran fast from his body, dripping from his useless hand to slick the floor at his feet. He knew that if he was to live this had to be finished before too much of his own blood was lost, before she took him down like a huntsman finishing a wounded stag.

She came at him again, laughing; a Fury, her face wild. He managed to block again, ineptly, his sword unbalanced for one–handed fighting, his skill reduced to survival. Snarling, all technique gone, the taste of his death strong in her mouth, she attacked again, great two handed blows that smashed against his sword, rocked though his body. Backed against the wooden table, Methos fought for his life, fought for his life with Macleod. He wasn't going to die. Not now. Not now...

He ducked past Cassandra. She spun about, following, but her feet slid where his blood lay bright on the floor, and for a second she lost her balance. There was a moment, just a moment, and somehow his sword was in her body, twisting into her gut. He looked as surprised as she did, watching blood well around the wound. With a gasp he pulled the blade free, and she fell to her knees, sword clattering to the floor. Methos kicked it away and stood, sword point touching the floor, spent, unable to do anything but breathe in great gulps of air, and stare at a woman he had no desire to kill.

"Methos!"

He turned wildly, then sobbed in relief. "Duncan..." The Highlander was at his side, holding him up, dismay on his face. Methos tried to reach for him, but his right arm still wouldn't work, and his other hand was ferociously gripping the sword. Instead he leant into the offered comfort, and asked weakly, "Are you all right?"

Duncan nodded. "Her hold broke when you wounded her." He touched Methos' arm; it was still dripping blood, though just beginning to heal. Duncan had seen nothing of the fight, but he had no need to, meeting Methos' eyes, he could see all the horror there, quite clear. He spoke very softly, empathy in his eyes, in his touch, in the emotion that roughened his voice, "What about you?"

Methos had no chance to answer. A voice viciously spat a single word. "Bastard..." He jumped, and turned to find Cassandra reaching forward. Bringing the tip of his sword to her neck, Methos shook his head. "No, don't even think about it."

She ignored him, keeping moving, ignoring the pain as metal scored her skin. Duncan quickly was past them both, picking up her sword, backing away with it in his hands. She snarled at him, then turned her hatred back to Methos. "You should have killed me!"

Methos blinked, and shook his head. "Cassandra, why can't you understand, I don't want to. Why does it have to be like this, can't you let the past be?" He was pleading with her, though his sword was at her throat and one move would take her head from her shoulders.

"No. I will never forgive you, Horseman."

"Why?" Methos, pain dark in his eyes, glancing from her to Macleod, tried to strike a bargain. "Cassandra, I will let you live, if you swear never to come after me, or after Macleod."

"Methos, I will kill your friends, I will kill your lover, and then I will kill you." The words spilled out, hot and bitter. All the while her fingers were scoring her arms, long nails digging blood–deep into her own flesh. "Not one will be an easy death, this I swear, in this blood, in this blood which you have spilled, here, where your death should have been mine."

"Cassandra..." Duncan took a step forward, appalled at the viciousness that ripped her own skin.

"What?"

As she turned to look at him, he saw nothing in her eyes, nothing sane. He shook his head in pity, wincing as her nails dug deep; deeper when she realised it disgusted him. "Cassandra, do you really want to die so much?"

For a moment it was as if she didn't understand, then, frowning, she answered. "What makes you say that? I don't want to die at all, I just want him to die!"

"Don't you see, you have to give up on this!"

"Give up?" Outrage widened her eyes, flecks of spittle white around her mouth. She held up her hands, blood and skin black under the nails, then brought them to her face, scoring them down her cheeks in answer.

Shaken, uncertain, quite out of his depth, Duncan looked at Methos.

Cassandra saw the glance, and hatred made her scream, "You love him!" Laughter pealed from her mouth, as if it was all some great joke. "You love him, what a fool! He is a murderer, a torturer, willing catamite to sadist. I loved him once." She blinked as if in pain, doubt momentarily clearing her eyes. "But he betrayed me, gave me to that foul, evil..." Anger was suddenly howling in her face, all reason gone. "How can you bed him at all?"

"Because I love him." Macleod looked over her at Methos bone–white face. "Because of what he is now. Though I might have loved him anyway."

She spat.

"Cassandra!" Shaken by Macleod's words, yet unable to answer them, fearing that she might curse the Scot, Methos drew her attention back to himself, though it felt as sensible as reasoning with the wind. "I spent a thousand years regretting what I had been, regretting almost everything I had done. It took me that long to be able to say I was free of the past — or as free as it is ever possible to be. You thought I was dead for millennia, I was nothing to you, nothing. Why can't you forget me now?"

Kneeling on the floor, Cassandra rocked with laughter. Which suddenly stilled into eerie silence. After a moment she spoke. "Men are such fools. Duncan, you thought I needed your help when I came to you. Each time I used you, used your strength. Fool! Methos, you killed the person I was, your lover killed Donal. Now end it here, or I will come like a Sidhe in the night and rip your eyes from their sockets, your guts from your body and then tear your throat apart. Kill me Methos, and know exactly what it felt like to be your slave!"

Anger was suddenly there in Methos' hollow face. He crouched by her side, his voice strung tight. "Now who's the fool, Cassandra. You think I need lessons in what it was like to be a slave? Do you? Everything I did to you was done to me, and worse, far worse. When you ran from our camp I watched you go, I let you go, even knowing what would happen to me. Because I had to stay, to pacify Kronos, to stop him coming after you." His face twisted, and he took a deep breath, blinking away the memory. His voice was even, though emotion made every word terse, final. "I may regret what I did to you, but the debt is paid."

Cassandra stared at him as he stood up, naked, covered in sweat and gore. For a moment, just a moment, it was as if she believed him, as if reason had found a hold in her distracted mind. Then she spat at his feet. "You're lying!"

He shook his head, patience wearing thin. "You wouldn't recognise truth, Cassandra."

Vicious, she clawed her fist against her own thigh. "Truth? The only truth I need is your death!"

Macleod watched Methos shiver, turn his head away. Pain filled his eyes as he watched emotion tearing Methos apart. Into silence, he spoke quietly, earnestly, certain beyond any doubt that there was only one way out of this. "Methos, you have no choice..."

"What?" Methos head snapped back.

"Look at her."

Wincing, Methos did as he was bid, and saw nothing of the woman he had known as his slave, not even of the woman he had held captive in France. Shaken, he realised exactly what he had done, what insanity he had spawned.

"Methos, take her head, finish it here."

"But..."

Absolutely sure, certain, Duncan took a deep breath, then stepped forward, her sword light and deadly in his hands. "Methos, do it, or I will."

"Duncan!" Methos met his eyes, and the bitterness of the choice was there in his face. "No..."

"Why, d'you think I wouldn't?" He took another step, determined.

"No, I think you would." Misery bled from every inch of Methos' skin. He was pale as a ghost, jaw clenched tight at the thought of Macleod taking her head. It even more appalling than the idea of doing it himself. "No, I can't let you. I started this, I should finish it."

"Then do it."

Methos shuddered, but his sword lifted. He knew she was laughing, knew in his heart she was mad, that if she lived he would never have a moment when he wasn't waiting for her. He breathed in deeply, face twisting in grief, in regret. Then he let the sword fall, cutting swift and sure, taking her head with a single blow.

He had time to meet Duncan's eyes, then the first lick of her quickening caught him.

It was far from easy. Racked by a bolt of lightning Methos cried out, sword dropping from his hand. He arched back, silver darting through his body, tearing a soul–deep scream from his lungs. All at once, the lights fused, and the windows rocked, glass shattering. Crucified by light, Methos spread his arms, every tendon in his body strung tight with tension. As the false storm howled around him, his face twisted in agony and his knees buckled. He fell to the floor heavily, forcing his eyes open to see Macleod backing away, his hands up to protect his face from a shower of sparks. Then every particle in his body convulsed, and pain took away any faint coherency of thought.

When it was done, when the howling light had run its course, Macleod walked back across his ruined loft, and knelt at Methos' side. He was curled on his side, hands pressed around his skull, knuckles white. Duncan hesitantly touched his arm, and felt the fine, invisible tremor that ran deep in his body. "Methos..."

There was a shift of muscles under his hand and somehow Methos relaxed. He uncurled slowly, easing over–strained limbs, lowering his hands. Without another word, Duncan took him into his arms, and held tight: held him for a long time, the silence flowing around them like balm.

After a while he began to gently stroke the sweat–matted hair, until Methos shifted, sitting up, still close, still in contact, and met his eyes. Duncan reached out and cupped his fingers around the long, vulnerable neck, rubbing his thumb across the unmarked skin. "You did the right thing."

"Did I?"

"You would have been looking over your shoulder until you died, as would Joe, anyone else she knew you cared for."

"You."

Duncan nodded. "Me too."

Methos shivered, glancing warily to one side, not really wanting to see her body, but needing to know she was dead. Seeing her body, revulsion, self–disgust, compassion, all flickered at the back of his eyes, before he looked hurriedly away. "What a waste." He wiped his fingers over his face, then asked, "Was she insane?"

"Yes." Duncan nodded, certain.

"Then I made her so."

"No. I think it was being taken by Kronos that pushed her over the edge." Duncan squeezed the curve of Methos' shoulder. "Another crime to lay at his door, not your own."

Methos gave a slight nod of fellow–feeling. "I still wish it hadn't been necessary."

"Another regret, for us both."

"Yes."

Duncan sighed and looked around at the disaster that had been his home. "Come on, let's get cleared up."

"Do you have a place to bury headless bodies, Macleod?" Methos asked caustically. "Or shall we just pretend it was an accident." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Methos blinked, then gave himself a little shake, cross at his own sarcasm. He gave a small shrug of apology. "I'm sorry, her quickening wasn't...pleasant."

Duncan winced understandingly, he'd experienced enough himself to know the difference between some, which could be almost sensual, and this which had been quite cruel. "No."

Methos stared at his hands. He seemed bruised, enervated, but he suddenly looked up at Macleod, head tilted to one side; he was almost smiling. "But we survived." As if abruptly aware of more than the misery of her death, he took a deep, exultant breath.

Macleod smiled. "Yes."

"Right then." Methos was suddenly all energy, he looked around the loft, seeing the destruction caused first by the fight, then by the quickening. "What a mess."

"Yeah." Duncan climbed to his feet, bringing Methos with him. Upright, they surveyed the room, seeing the broken windows, the smashed lights. The bed was ruined again, and a great slice was cut through the back of the couch. Blood was seemingly everywhere, and a dismembered body lay cooling on the floor.

"Do you know any good cleaning companies, Duncan?" Methos asked. "Ones who don't mind a little blood..."

"Nope. This will just be hard work and elbow grease."

"Wonderful!"

"I could tell you were the sort who liked housework!"

Methos made a face. Then all the humour ran from him, and he closed his eyes. "Seriously, what about Cassandra?" His voice stumbled just the once on her name.

Duncan sighed. "I don't know..."

"I'd rather not just dump her in the river — besides, the river authority might object."

A snort of unwilling amusement came from Macleod, then he considered thoughtfully. "When I first met her, she lived in a forest, she loved it there."

Methos closed his eyes, remembering the place he had been taken to in order to die. She had seemed at home there, in the wild. He searched for a memory, in the mass of incoherent images he had taken from her. Amongst the bitterness, the scheming, the howling of a wolf, it was there, a time of peace in a house deep in the woods. "We could take her up to the cabin where they held me, find where she buried Donal, put her in the same place?"

"I think the Cassandra I knew would like that."

"Today?"

"Yeah." Duncan agreed. It needed to be done, to be finished. "Go and get cleaned up, I'll start here."

Methos nodded, but didn't move, watching Macleod.

After a moment, Macleod turned inquiringly. "What's the matter?"

"Did you mean it, when you said you might have loved me, even then?"

Macleod took a sharp breath, then nodded. "Yes. You are you. I may not have liked you, but the rest..." Then he smiled wickedly. "Besides, I'd probably have thought I could reform you!"

"You mean, the love of a good man, and all that sort of thing?"

"Mmm..."

"It might even have worked." There was a certain hollow ring behind Methos words. He shrugged.

"Maybe — now go and get clean." Duncan looked at him, understanding, love, forgiveness, all held in a single glance. "There's lots to do out here."

Methos nodded, then turned away, all of a sudden quite unreasonably happy.