Thanks go to Killa, Lys, and chelle for beta-ing. Any remaining mistakes are all mine. 

Special thanks to Killa for kindly reading the messy little lumps of story I kept sending her and encouraging me all summer. 

The sky was gray with morning light when Methos left his flat, making his way to his car,  just before six. The cool, crisp air, slightly damp with dew, sparkled with the promise of a pleasant day. The park across the street held pockets of darkness underneath the trees and underbrush and Methos saw early morning joggers, their running clothes flashing in the half-light, and he thought of MacLeod. 

He walked up the stairs of his home, opened the door, and entered. The flat was empty, of course, and Methos shook his head a little at himself for thinking, perhaps, that it would be otherwise. MacLeod had left that morning. He released a tight, controlled sigh. Leaving the files and paperwork he'd brought home from work in the kitchen, Methos loosened his tie and started to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt, heading for the bedroom to change. He tossed his clothes onto the neatly made bed, dropped his shoes, and emptied his pockets onto the bedside table. Right there, beside the lamp, he found a folded piece of paper.

He stared at it for a moment and then sat on the edge of the bed and picked it up. 

His car shimmered with drops of water in the growing light. Methos got in and started the engine, letting it idle as it warmed up. He glanced at his watch and felt a surge of apprehension flooding his stomach. He stared through the windshield with his hands on the steering wheel, feeling the slight vibrations from the engine. With another quick glance at his watch he shifted into gear and pulled out into the street. He was running a little late.

~I'll look for you. DM. ~

That was all the note said. Methos closed it and turned it around, tracing the edges with his fingers. Two weeks, he thought. He'd said two weeks. Methos could do that. He lifted his head and looked at his room, darkened except for the small pool of light from the bedside lamp. He felt the utter silence of his home press into him from all sides.

He came up on a knot of traffic and cursed, impatiently tapping at the steering wheel, waiting for the cars to clear. The rising sun reflected with blinding brightness across his windshield. He squinted and pulled down the glare guard. Seeing an opening ahead, he quickly pulled forward into another series of starts and stops before he finally burst through ten minutes later. He looked at his watch again and bit the side of his lip. His anxiety eased when he left London proper and the traffic disappeared. 

The waiting was everything Methos knew it would be, and then so much worse. It surprised him, after the two weeks time had come and gone, how much he had expected MacLeod to call, and how it hurt when he didn't. Methos became very busy. 

"All the files from last year as well, sir?"

"Yes," he said, ignoring Sarah's bleak expression. He turned away from her and his eyes fell on his phone. A part of him wanted to make bitter jokes about resembling teenaged girls with broken hearts, but he found that it wasn't very funny and he turned back to his work.

He thought about getting away, about taking that business trip to Holland that he'd been putting off. And then there was all the other work he'd let slide recently. And damn MacLeod, anyway. 

Airports are like fingerprints, thought Methos. No two were ever alike, and yet they were all remarkably the same. He walked from his car to Virgin Atlantic's international arrivals. Despite the early weekday morning there were several people there before him, the waiting area filled with a sleepy and bedraggled lot. He saw a long line of limo and car chauffeurs holding up little signs with names on them: Mr. Bertrand, Ms. Thompson, Sir Ashmore. He looked at a monitor and saw the listing for flight 004 out of New York arriving on time at 7:04. He was 5 minutes early. 

It would be a while yet, he knew, before the passengers would emerge from customs. A strong sense of deja vu hit Methos and he thought of New York, wondering briefly if this was his lot, to forever be waiting for MacLeod's arrival. He felt his heart constrict as Immortal presence sliced through him like a flash of brilliant light. 

Just when Methos had stopped anticipating it, when the sound of his phone ringing didn't make him stand still, didn't steal his breath, just when it was well past the stated two weeks and he had quietly laid to rest any expectations, the phone rang.

He was late for a meeting of course, but he answered the phone anyway, almost absently, as he shuffled papers into a folder and grabbed a pad and pen. "Addison."

"Methos."

Methos straightened. He looked out through the glass walls of his office. He blinked for several seconds. "Mac?"

"Is this a bad time? I was going to call you at home, but--"

"No, it's okay." Methos looked up and saw Davies pause at his door with an expectant look on his face. Methos shook his head no. He held Davies' eyes until the other man gave in and left. 

"Methos, I--"

"Don't say it, Mac." Long silence, then Methos spoke. "I'm glad you called."

"I nearly called you a dozen times. I just..."

"I know. Really, I know." And the sad thing, was, he did know.

"Did I tell you I thinking of selling the Hudson property?"

"Connor's?"

"Yeah. That was part of the reason for coming here. Thought it best."

"And?"

Another long silence. Methos stared out his window, seeing clear skies and floating clouds. He listened closely, hearing MacLeod take in a deep breath and then let it out. 

"Mac?"

"I pulled it. I couldn't go through with it."

"So. You keep it, then. Decide what to do with it later. There's no need to rush this, Mac."

"Yeah." MacLeod's voice rasped softly, low and choked. Methos pictured him and knew the pain he would have seen there. Methos touched the glass of the window, seeing his own pale reflection instead. 

Methos started talking. "Well, you know, it's been a lovely couple of weeks, here. You're really missing out. " He rambled on, speaking of the small things in his life, the petty office squabbles, the weather, and how he had put poor Sarah through hell since Mac had left. MacLeod laughed quietly in Methos' ear. "For Sarah's sake, Mac, I do hope you come back soon." The words stuck and he swallowed past the knot in his throat. His heart raced. 

Mac breathed on the other end of the line. "I miss you, Methos."

"I miss you, too."

Methos grew restless waiting. He walked over to a nearby newsstand and slowly perused the headlines. He took his time, picking up one paper, putting it down, feeling the newsstand attendant's eyes follow him. Methos perversely fed the man's annoyance, handling several of the snack food items and then putting them back. He wasn't in the mood for peanuts. He picked up a copy of The Economist and looked more closely at the top news for the day, seeing few things of interest. 

"Are you going to pay for that?" Methos turned to the newsstand attendant, suppressing a smile at the man's unfriendly glare and impatient tone. 

"Of course." Methos reached into his pocket for some change. A hand touched his arm and stilled it. He turned around and found MacLeod, tall and real and very close. MacLeod's hand dropped away and he smiled nervously at Methos. 

"I got it," MacLeod said, speaking to the attendant, keeping his eyes on Methos. He tossed several coins onto the counter. 

Methos couldn't speak at first and just looked at MacLeod. Mac had the tired eyes of a man with little sleep, but it wasn't the same bone-weary look Methos had seen the last time they had both stood in an airport. He saw a thread of sadness, though, woven into the light of MacLeod's eyes, and it pained Methos to recognize it. 

A small smile lifted the corner of MacLeod's mouth. "Hello, Methos." Methos read amusement there, and he felt his cheeks warm slightly.

MacLeod eyes lost their smile. He nodded.

Methos took another long look at MacLeod and nodded back in acknowledgment. His throat felt tight but he ignored it. "Okay." He picked up one of MacLeod's bags and led the way out of the airport and into the open air. 

They walked in silence to the car park, side by side. The air felt cool and fresh and Methos breathed easier. He wanted to look at MacLeod. He wanted to step closer, to feel MacLeod's heat, to take him by the shoulders and shake him, to touch his face, to feel his heart beat beneath his hands. They reached the car.

Methos took out his keys, their light metallic jingle clashing with the double beep of the car unlocking, interrupting the thick silence. He opened the boot, putting MacLeod's bag inside, holding his hand out for the other bag. Their fingers touched. He shut the boot. 

"Thanks," murmured MacLeod. 

Methos looked briefly at him, showing a tight smile before moving towards the driver's side. MacLeod stopped him, one hand on his arm.

Methos found himself taking long, deep breaths, one after the other as if he were angry, only he didn't feel angry, he felt -- MacLeod's hand on his arm and MacLeod's eyes, dark and searching. He noticed that Mac had got a haircut while in New York. Methos' hand reached up and he passed his fingers through MacLeod's short hair. 

"Methos."

Methos met MacLeod's eyes. They stepped closer and MacLeod's hand moved down from his arm to grasp his hand, his other hand reaching around Methos, across his back, drawing him into his arms. He breathed, feeling MacLeod's chest expand against his. 

They parted. Methos smiled at MacLeod, almost shyly, and again made his way to the driver's side. But Mac held onto his hand and pulled him back, holding him tight as their lips met and all Methos knew was the grip of his hands, the rasp of his cheek against his, the smell of his skin. In the distance the faint hum of the airport rumbled on.

A quick kiss, deep and bruising. Mac smiled and pecked him again, on the cheek, walking to his side of the car. Methos remembered to breathe and fumbled with his keys, finally opening his door and getting in. 

He sat there a moment, collecting himself, staring blankly at the concrete wall in front of the car.

"Ready?" he asked, finding his voice. 

MacLeod nodded and they were off, heading towards London. 

MacLeod opened his mouth to speak, knowing he would have to somehow ease them past this, but he was uncertain what to say. He rested his back against the seat, his eyes closing.

"Was your flight okay?"

MacLeod opened his eyes and turned to Methos. He swallowed and nodded. "Yeah. I couldn't sleep, but it was fine."

Methos glanced at him. "Yes, but only for a bit, later. Are you hungry?"

MacLeod shook his head no. He felt tired and he could do with a hot shower, but the thought of food made him faintly nauseous. Methos glanced at him again, eyes quickly shifting elsewhere.

On impulse MacLeod reached over, the back of his fingers brushing down the side of Methos' neck. Methos closed his eyes for a second and leaned into the touch, just barely, before MacLeod dropped his hand. 

With some sense of relief they arrived at his home. MacLeod dropped his luggage by the door. He looked around the still flat; sunlight streamed across the floor in lazy circles. A sharp unlocking in his chest allowed him to breathe in. He turned when Methos entered behind him. He leaned in to brush his lips across a cheek; his hands rested against the sides of Methos' ribs, feeling the gentle swell of breath; their lips met in unhurried kisses. 

"You were gone? I hadn't noticed." 

Methos shrugged, ambling away from MacLeod to look out one of the windows. MacLeod stared at his back for a second before quickly unpacking his bag. This goes into that drawer. That needs to be washed. These go in the closet.

"Do you have to go soon?"

Without turning Methos answered, "In a few minutes."

MacLeod put the last of his things away, moving to stand behind Methos. "I'm going to jump in the shower. Will you be here when I get out?"

Methos turned around and before he could answer, MacLeod kissed him deeply. He pulled Methos in close, seeking answers with his lips, with his tongue. He felt fingers in his hair and along his neck. 

"Methos." MacLeod pulled back, unsure of what to do next, unwilling to push Methos more than he already was. A small sound escaped the back of his throat when Methos relaxed against him. 

Fool, he thought. No other word to describe how he felt. His heart beat furiously against his chest and he wrapped his arms around Methos. Maybe if he didn't breathe, they could just stay like this, and the future and the past would just fade into the corners and disappear. 

"Mac." Methos pulled away, eyes dark and unreadable. MacLeod watched Methos grope for words. 

With stinging eyes, Mac kissed him on the cheek and walked away, withdrawing into the bathroom, knowing Methos would either go or stay and it was ultimately his decision and it would all be fine. It would all be fine. 

Breathing steadily, he undressed and started the shower, welcoming the clatter of water that drowned out the silence. Hot water rushed in his ears, blinded his eyes, and he lowered his head to feel the stinging spray bite his shoulders. Like a whisper barely heard, he felt Methos' presence quietly fade into nothing.

Methos stood outside of Mac's workshop, not actually hesitating, but pausing. The early evening clouds obscured the setting sun and draped shadows over the street and buildings. A chill breeze ruffled past and he looked up briefly, but the sky told him no secrets. 

He entered. The door chimed, closing and locking behind him. The darkened workshop loomed with familiar shadows, smelling of turpentine and sawdust, tickling his nose. He shivered as presence traveled across his spine. Well, at least MacLeod was still home, he thought somewhat sourly. Relief loosened the tight band around his chest and he took a long deep breath. A flare of anger followed, at MacLeod and at himself. 

Swallowing his anger, he continued through the door in the back that led to the flat above, finding there a sudden stillness humming with electrical appliances. Methos listened but there were no other sounds, only the thrum of his heart beating in his ears. Then, a rustle of fabric and --

"Methos?"

Methos looked up to the darkened loft bedroom, catching a glimpse of pale shadows moving. With quiet steps, Methos moved up the stairs and into the room. 

Again, the sleep roughened voice. "Methos?" 

Slivers of pale light from the closed blinds fell bluntly across the bed. Cutting through the darkness, Methos crossed the room, noticing that MacLeod lay in his robe above the covers. He smelled of shampoo and soap and warm sleepy skin; he had rumpled hair and delightful creases down one side of his face. Whatever anger Methos felt bled away into the darkness.

"Hello." MacLeod smiled at him, turning onto his side to look at Methos. 

"I woke you. I'm sorry." Methos' hand moved to make sense of MacLeod's hair. 

MacLeod shook his head. "Been sleeping since about nine this morning." He caught one of Methos' hands, looking at it intently, at each finger and then the wrist. He pushed back the sleeve of Methos' sweater and traced along the soft underside of his arm. He shifted and the robe opened slightly, revealing more sleep-creased skin. 

A twitch of Methos' fingers on the tie of the robe and it opened. He pushed the fabric away. His hand traveled up from Mac's knee, over his thigh, past the dark patch of hair and sleeping cock to a rounded cheek and up along the sensitive ribs. "Hm, that wasn't very smart. Now you're going to be up all night." 

His thumb caressed a nipple, mesmerized as he watched it harden, and he thought, only a month and how could he have forgotten? Only he hadn't, and wasn't that the problem?

MacLeod chuckled, his hands sliding underneath Methos' sweater. "I can think of worse things."

Methos leaned in to kiss and bite a nipple. His belt clinked as it came undone and he shivered at the slide of fingers across his stomach. 

Methos moved out of reach and MacLeod rumbled a protest, relaxing back down when Methos climbed onto the foot of the bed, his hands never leaving MacLeod's skin. He parted MacLeod's legs, kissing his way up one inner thigh, lingering where thigh met groin, his lips and teeth nipping, enjoying the way MacLeod shivered and tensed. 

Musk and warmth, intoxicating as he stopped to nuzzle and lick. He could hear MacLeod's deep, steady breathing, interrupted with a gasp here, a moan there. MacLeod's cock rose and nudged him, damp and silken, and Methos took it deep into his throat, welcoming the grip of fingers in his hair, sharp and almost painful. MacLeod moved, thrusting into his mouth, and Methos let him. He gripped at Mac's thighs, pushing and opening, seeking more.

Lost in the taste of Mac's arousal, hard and desperate, some part of Methos' brain registered movement when MacLeod made a noise of protest. Hands on his shoulders pulled him up. Mac's cock was replaced by a tongue and lips and wet, shuddering kisses. 

His sweater was ripped from him and he found himself on his back, a dark and fiery MacLeod on top of him, pinning him. Rough fingers unfastening, pulling, tearing the rest of his clothing off. Mumbled curses at his shoes. Unbroken kisses, dancing while the last of their clothing disappeared into the dark of the room. 

"God, I've missed you." Slick fingers opened him; Methos held his breath, letting himself be pushed onto his stomach. "Is this okay?"

Methos nodded, biting his lip, forcing his lungs to work, gulping in air as a second finger entered, burning across his prostate. Mac's heat surrounded him, holding him close with a strong arm around his chest. Searing heat, and Methos felt the sweat lining his body sliding against MacLeod's. 

Hot hands on his ass, parting, and Methos opened his mouth, soundless, as Mac's blunt cock slid in. A gasp when Mac became fully sheathed and then, "Fuck," muffled. Almost breathless, Methos turned his head into the shelter of his shoulder. 

A burning kiss on the back of his neck and MacLeod paused. Methos could feel Mac's quickened heartbeat as a silent tattoo on his back. 

"Methos." A plea. MacLeod withdrew and entered, making Methos gasp, again. He raised his ass, changing the angle, and MacLeod growled, clasping him with hard fingers. Steady and only a breath faster. 

"Mac -- Jesus." Methos couldn't control his breathing, erratic and wild. 

"Shh, I've got you." Mac purred, thick with lust and heat. He started moving faster and Methos moved with him, a slight counterpoint. He felt teeth on his neck, biting. He felt slick thighs pressing his legs apart, hands sliding along his back, one reaching around to hold him, lower, grabbing his cock with slippery heat. Faster and faster and Methos shook, his cock hard and needy, pulling his orgasm out from his feet. 

"Methos--" A warning in his voice and MacLeod came in jagged thrusts as Methos gave in to the last shudder of his orgasm. 

MacLeod moved first, carefully withdrawing, falling to one side, his arm thrown over Methos. 

Slowly Methos returned to his body. Shifting, MacLeod reached for him and Methos moved to fit his head into the hollow of Mac's neck. "You need another bath."

MacLeod snorted and Methos smiled. Lazy hands caressed Methos, up and down his back. Long moments passed. 

"Are you still mad at me?" MacLeod asked, breaking the silence, his hands pausing.

Doubtful silence. 

"Okay, maybe I was a little angry." Methos moved back, his lips pressing against the steady pulse of blood at Mac's neck. "But I always understood."

Mac's hands resumed. Slivers of light from the blinds disappeared into darkness. Smoky blackness enveloped them. "I know," whispered Mac into Methos' hair. 

And they eased through it, slipping uncomfortably under an awkward mantle of domesticity, finding again a familiar rhythm to their days and nights. Days spent more together than apart, but MacLeod didn't question Methos about it. Didn't ask, on those mornings when he did leave for that job of his, for him to stay. Didn't say anything when Methos didn't leave, or when he would go only to come back and spend the afternoon with Mac in the shop or at Joe's or sometimes on outings to the various antique markets. 

MacLeod took to cooking breakfast for Methos, taking a bizarre sort of pleasure from watching Methos grumble through the morning. 

"More?" MacLeod offered the last of the pancakes he had made. The pale morning light peeked though the window into Methos' kitchen. The clock read seven in the morning. 

"I don't have time," Methos muttered, pouring himself a cup of coffee before moving to the mirror in the hallway to tie his tie. 

MacLeod nibbled on one of the pancakes, still in his robe and bare feet. He watched Methos for a moment, walking over to stand behind him. Their eyes met in the mirror and Methos quirked a smile at him, a trace of a question. 

Holding the pancake in his mouth, MacLeod reached around, removing Methos' hands to tie the tie himself. Over. Under. Around and through. Tug. Pat. Pat. 

"Thanks for getting grease all over my clothing." Methos said, dryly, still looking into the mirror. 

MacLeod smiled around the pancake, then took a bite. "You're welcome. And I wiped my hands first." He gave Methos a quick peck on one cheek. 

With smiling eyes, Methos turned around and MacLeod leaned in, catching him in a pancakey kiss. 

"Wait," said MacLeod. "You're forgetting this." He handed Methos an important-looking folder. 

"Thank you. See you tonight."

MacLeod nodded, standing by the counter amidst the breakfast leftovers. Methos paused at the door of the kitchen. MacLeod almost spoke. Methos almost turned around. 

Methos took to making dinner and often, after an evening run or a long day spent in a cloud of saw dust and varnish, MacLeod came home to the smell of spices and the sizzle of good things cooking. A different meal every night. Sometimes just take-away and a bottle of wine. Or sometimes the meal was chosen around the wine: different wines from different parts of England -- always from England. MacLeod thought it a bit strange, but he'd come to expect this sort of thing from Methos and so he merely commented on the wines, showing his amusement but never questioning. 

"Here, try this one." Methos poured a glass of red wine from a bottle with a glossy purple label.

"Do I have to?" MacLeod asked, looking with trepidation at his glass. They sat in his kitchen, the early evening settling into darkness. English wine was often quite good, but after weeks of sampling one after the other MacLeod was beginning to get a little tired of wine, to be truthful. A beer sounded good. Or whiskey. Brandy? Anything but wine. 

"English wine goes back a long time, Mac. There's tradition there," Methos instructed from the general area of Mac's kitchen where he concocted what looked like stir fry from yesterday's leftovers and a bunch of fresh vegetables.

MacLeod made a 'talk, talk, talk' motion with his hands. 

Methos frowned, pointing a carving knife at MacLeod in a comical yet threatening manner. "Will you just drink?" 

MacLeod scrunched his nose but picked up the glass anyway and took a sip. Berry, a bit fruity and dry, and then a truly horrible after-taste. He swallowed and managed a polite, "It's very... um."

"It's terrible," Methos said matter-of-factly while slicing red peppers into perfect strips, moving on to to a stalk of broccoli. 

MacLeod paused and then narrowed his eyes. "If you knew it was terrible, why'd you make me try it?" 

Busy chopping broccoli, Methos didn't answer except for a sly smile that crept across his face. MacLeod moved next to Methos, watching him tense slightly as he leaned against the counter and swiped a red pepper slice. He snapped it in his mouth. 

"Methos." Casual.

"What?" Innocent query, only Methos couldn't hold it and MacLeod watched the same sly smile tug at the corners of Methos' mouth. 

"You did that on purpose."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Chop, chop, chop. 

MacLeod attempted to catch Methos' eyes but he appeared fascinated by the vegetables, studiously refusing to look up. "I don't believe you." 

"MacLeod, you're not making any sense." Methos did look up then and quickly dissolved into laughter, dropping all pretenses. 

"Why you--" MacLeod grabbed at Methos.

"MacLeod," squawked Methos. "Knife!" But Methos laughed and he dropped the knife with a clatter as he twisted out of MacLeod's grasp.

MacLeod chased Methos around the kitchen and into the living room. Methos, who still had a stalk of broccoli in his hand, threw it at MacLeod as he leaped over the coffee table. 

"Ow!" MacLeod rubbed his broccoli-decorated shoulder. "Oh, you're dead."

Methos merely continued his choked, maniacal laughter, a wicked gleam in his eyes. 

"Not funny," MacLeod growled, but it was more of a laugh-growl and not very convincing. 

"Oh, yes it is," said Methos, breathless from laughing. 

They squared off with Methos trapped between the coffee table and the couch, having no means of escape except through MacLeod. 

MacLeod let a feral grin cross his face. "You wanna play, huh?" His voice became low and threatening. He feinted to the left, testing Methos' reflexes. Another feint, this time to the right, calculating weight and strength and weaknesses, plotting how best to take down his prey.

Methos' eyes glittered. He raised an eyebrow slightly in a silent challenge. A frisson of heat bloomed across Mac's groin and his heart pumped with adrenaline. 

MacLeod watched Methos closely, waiting for signs of his next move. Methos edged around the table slowly, but MacLeod wasn't fooled -- he let Methos advance, biding his time for the right moment. Just when Methos was inches away from freedom, MacLeod leapt onto the much abused coffee table, grabbing his prey and--

Like a flash, Methos rolled into MacLeod, knocking him off balance and neatly tripped them both safely onto the couch. 

"Oof." MacLeod found himself on his back with a bright-eyed Methos on top of him. Pinned and captured, MacLeod blinked and then laughed low and rumbling.

"Hello there," said Methos, smartly.

"Hey." They both started laughing, their voices mingling. MacLeod grinned at Methos, seeing the shining eyes and the mussed hair and the glisten of sweat across his nose. 

A nearby lamp lined Methos' profile in a warm wash of yellowed light. MacLeod felt some of Methos' strength and power holding him, claiming him, and he hardened in response, his breath hitching. He raised a hand and touched Methos' hair. He watched his thumb follow the line of Methos' eyebrow, across a cheekbone, down the length of his nose. 

Methos' eyes darkened. MacLeod held his breath, his erection brushing up against Methos'.

Silently MacLeod watched Methos sit back, straddling him, and with deep controlled breaths begin to unbutton Mac's shirt. 

Whisper touches across his chest. Pressure on his side, telling him to sit up, and the shirt found the floor. Another touch and he relaxed back down. Methos looked at him, eyes lit with flame and wrapped in smoke, burning though him. 

Making a noise deep in his throat, MacLeod opened his mouth to Methos. Lips and tongue and rough, deep kisses that touched MacLeod's soul down to the end of his cock, to the ends of his fingers that dug into the muscles of Methos' waist, to the ends of his legs entangled with Methos'.

Clever fingers opened his pants and he arched upwards. Methos pulled back, taking hold of his pants and underwear, pulling them down, fingers scraping along Mac's skin. 

MacLeod watched Methos remove his clothing, slowly but with an edge of determination that made Mac's heart beat hard in his chest. He drank in Methos' pale skin, kissed with the warm light of the single lamp. Methos' eyes never left his.

Skin sliding against skin. Methos touched MacLeod, sliding his hands over leg and thigh, making MacLeod shiver as he parted his legs. MacLeod begged with his eyes and Methos answered, moving to capture him in a kiss. He gasped into Methos' mouth when he felt a finger press into him. 

Their kisses turned desperate and MacLeod couldn't stop himself from thrusting upwards, from staring into Methos' eyes when a second finger entered. Mac kissed Methos along his neck, across a shoulder, biting and sucking and then kissing again. Methos grasped Mac's leg underneath the knee. 

Methos pressed his forehead against Mac's, withdrawing his fingers and positioning himself. Mac held his breath, feeling the blunt end of Methos' cock, the slow burn of entry. 

MacLeod took Methos inside. He whispered into Methos' ear, "More," and, "Harder," and felt almost incinerated by the heat in Methos' eyes. With barely a breath taken, Methos began to thrust in hard, pounding the air out of Mac's lungs. MacLeod pressed his head back and his ass up, meeting each thrust. A spark of light blinded him with each burning press across his prostate and he swore, "Fuck," his hands on Methos, wanting more and more and more. His orgasm ripped out of him in waves of painful ecstasy.

Above him, Methos watched, waiting to come, finally closing his eyes and letting go with a cry and a gasp, burying his face into MacLeod's neck. Mac caught him and held him close. 

The air became chilly and MacLeod held Methos closer for warmth. Slowly, they began to move, shifting a little. Mac felt Methos laugh -- more of a snort, really -- into the crook of his neck. Then again. And then another and another until Methos shook them both with laughter.

"Just what is so funny?"

"The broccoli," managed Methos.

MacLeod chuckled. Methos moved, shifting to cover him completely. "Sorry about the wine."

"No, you're not."

Methos smiled, a little laugh escaping. MacLeod smiled too, raising his hand and letting it slide down the smooth skin of Methos' back to the swell of his cheeks. He almost spoke then, but stopped, his throat squeezing shut. 

He felt Methos take a deep breath, making their stomachs press together. Their eyes caught and Methos looked like he was going to speak, only he lowered his head instead. 

A stomach growled and they both laughed softly. Methos sat back and picked up his shirt to use as a towel. "Come on. Let's finish dinner." 

The weather turned cold, inviting brisk walks and scarves, chilly noses and wind-rumpled hair. As they walked across Westminster Bridge towards Big Ben, the wind blew a whistling tune. Methos stepped closer to Mac, avoiding a couple walking hand in hand, blissfully ignorant of the nuisance they made. Methos looked back at them briefly, her golden hair and flushed face, his equally blond head gazing with a tourist's awe at the river and the boats and the big buildings. He felt Mac's hand on his arm, getting his attention. Turning, he smiled and they continued over the bridge. 

To spite the wind, the sun shone with impunity. They paused, looking out over the swirling water. MacLeod leaned close to the railing. A small cruise boat motored past, its decks empty and slick with river water. Methos shivered slightly, the cold cutting through his clothing. He brought his hands up to his mouth, blowing on them for meager warmth. MacLeod smiled at him, taking his hands--

"Here." MacLeod pulled him in close and Methos slipped his hands under Mac's sweater. They ached slightly from the sudden warmth of MacLeod's skin. "Cold? You should think about gloves." 

Methos shook his head and smiled. "No, I'm okay." But he moved closer, telling himself it was only for a moment. 

A touch of lips against his ear and he turned his head towards it and before he could stop they were kissing, the wind on their faces and the sun in their eyes. 

--warming them. Methos watched MacLeod. That expressive face, the saddened eyes touched with joy. And he looked away, finally, but MacLeod held on to one of his hands and Methos lacked the strength to remove it. 

In the dark of night, they lay side by side, unclothed, facing each other. By the shadow light of the outside street lamp bleeding in through the drapes, Methos could just make out MacLeod's profile. An eyebrow, a nose, the curve of a cheek as he talked or smiled. Skin made pale by the ghostly blue light. Dark eyes that nevertheless managed to seem so bright. 

They talked of many things. Of their days and moments apart. Of the stupid and silly every day occurrences that served to amuse. Of things past and long gone, like small gifts laid across Methos' chest, across MacLeod's heart. 

Methos listened to MacLeod's voice that never failed--

"Methos." MacLeod rumbled a whisper. "Am I boring you?"

Rough hands shook Methos awake. "Hm?" Methos opened his eyes. MacLeod eyed him critically. "What?"

"You fell asleep." 

"It's one o'clock in the morning, Mac."

"But I was talking to you."

"I'm listening. Ow! You pinched me." Methos rubbed his right buttock.

"Oh, sorry. Just making sure." MacLeod chuckled, unapologetic.

--to make him smile or laugh; never failed to make him shiver or hold his breath. They fell asleep near each other's hearts, listening to the other and drifting into sleep, sometimes touching, sometimes not. 

MacLeod often made Methos go running with him in the park during the early mornings. On these occasions, Methos scowled and grumbled, protecting the image he'd carefully cultivated of someone above such strenuous and odious activities. But the look on MacLeod's face told him his ruse wasn't working, and he always turned away for fear of revealing how much he looked forward to those times when it was just the two of them moving in silence.

Still and hush, the gray light and crisp wet air of morning clung to his skin. The beat of their feet kept time, the stink of their sweat rising like a cloud around them. The cold air burned in his lungs, his muscles becoming warm and loose.

Often, MacLeod dragged Methos onto the roof of his building or to the nearby park to go through forms and katas. Like windows into MacLeod's soul, Methos watched the fluid flow of muscle, the look of concentration set into MacLeod's face. Meditation in movement.

They mirrored each other, finding a synchronicity in breath and pacing, sympathy in the beat of their hearts and the strain of muscle. The wind whipped around his head and around his legs and sunlight occasionally blinded his eyes.

MacLeod often insisted they practice sparring, renting time from a fencing club in North London that had large studios and didn't ask questions. Sweat stung his eyes and the bones in his arms--

Methos cursed, his sword falling from nerveless fingers after a timely kick from MacLeod, sucking in air when the katana came flying to his neck. Suddenly his legs where knocked out from under him and he lay on his back, blinking at the fluorescent lights glaring above him. "Fuck," he croaked. 

"You should have blocked that." Anger colored Mac's voice. 

"Well, I didn't." Frustrated and tired after several hours of fighting, Methos rolled over and onto his feet, meeting MacLeod's stormy eyes. 

"Again," MacLeod stated, moving to the center of room.

"Mac, we've been at it for hours." He didn't move.

"Come on. You're getting soft in that office of yours," Mac teased.

Methos stilled, his blood running cold in his veins. His stomach clenched and he couldn't move. He stared at MacLeod.

"One last time. Come on, it won't kill you," MacLeod coaxed. Methos just stared, working past the sudden irrational flood of fear. "Methos?" 

Mac approached him, suddenly concerned. Warm fingers lifted his face, touched his neck, all traces of anger gone. "Hey." Uncertain. 

Methos swallowed and closed his eyes as MacLeod leaned in and kissed his cheek softly, his arms coming around. He let himself be pulled into Mac's embrace.

--jarred with each parry and thrust, the light and crash of their swords a reminder of the constant shadow in their lives that was never very far away.

They sat reading in MacLeod's living room late into the evening. Music played, piano and violin. Between them sat a bottle of wine and two glasses, empty, and the remnants of dessert -- a chocolate cheesecake.

Hearing a noise, MacLeod looked up from his book. Methos sat fiddling with what looked like a palm pilot, an expression of deep concentration on his face. At least MacLeod thought it was a palm pilot. He could never be too sure. Methos had a new toy every week: the latest cell phones, gizmos to play music, email pagers. 

Methos moved, making room on the couch. "It's a prototype educational software for PDAs. For children. See?" Methos used the pointer to change options. "You have the choice of different games -- word games and math games, simple trivia. And look, when you complete a set of problems this little guy here does a dance."

Methos tapped one or two things and then a crude looking stick figure with a top hat and a cane appeared and made an awkward dance and sang a song. Methos chuckled at the little dancing man, who did a fine impression of a hula dancer on speed. 

And maybe, thought MacLeod looking quizzically at this enigma of a friend and lover and trying not to snort a laugh, maybe Methos was just who he said he was. Maybe it wasn't so complex a question.

MacLeod took the palm pilot and poked at it, still wearing a bemused expression. "You've been playing with this all night? How's your spelling?"

"Very funny." Methos snatched it back. "This is really quite useful for parents."

Looking over Methos' shoulder, he pointed at the small screen. "You misspelled 'accommodate'."

"Don't you have something better to do?" 

"No."

Methos lowered the palm pilot so MacLeod couldn't look at it. "And I didn't misspell it. I'm testing the product."

"Are you done testing?" MacLeod smiled, loving the faint brush of color along Methos' cheekbones. He took hold of Methos' legs, swinging them around to lie lengthwise on the couch. Straddling, he began unbuttoning and unzipping. 

"What are you doing?" asked Methos, persisting stubbornly to look only at the palm pilot. MacLeod grabbed it and tossed it on to the floor. Thud. He claimed Methos' mouth, forcing it open with lips and tongue. Methos tasted sweet, like chocolate.

He licked and bit his way down the side of Methos' neck. "That answer your question?" 

"Hm." Methos arched. "I'm not so sure I can accommodate, however."

MacLeod groaned, dropping his head. Methos laughed. And then laughed again, deeply amused with himself. 

Sitting back, MacLeod narrowed his eyes, wondering how best to retaliate. "I'll accommodate you," he growled low, moving to cage Methos with his arms. He watched Methos' laughter die down to occasional small outbursts, then stop altogether. They stared at each other.

Without words, they moved, meeting in panting kisses and rough caresses. Methos grasped at MacLeod's clothing. MacLeod slid his hands over Methos' chest. 

Standing abruptly, MacLeod pulled Methos towards the stairs. They dropped shirts and shoes as they moved awkwardly through the loft, stumbling over an end table, knocking a pile of papers and books. They tumbled into bed.

MacLeod lay on his back with Methos on top, pulling Methos down into a desperate kiss. His hips rocked underneath, desperate for contact, his aching cock thick with need. Methos moaned, working the last of MacLeod's clothing off. 

Cool air kissed his body and MacLeod let his hands roam across Methos' skin and up into his hair. Methos kissed his way down MacLeod's body, biting and sucking.

Trying to control his breathing, MacLeod watched the tip of his cock disappear into Methos' mouth. He bent his legs, fingers still in Methos' hair. He looked away before he came just from the sight of Methos going down on him. Fingers on his ass pushed him up and he gasped out loud, arms pressing into the mattress, hands gripping fists full of bed sheets.

"Methos," he rasped. 

Looking up, Methos gently sucked the tip of MacLeod's cock before crawling up. Eyes burning, he kissed MacLeod -- long, tender kisses. 

A nudge here, a tug there, a quick application of lube, and Methos carefully positioned himself over MacLeod's erection. Mac's eyes never left Methos', watching in fascination as he felt his cock breach and then slowly slide in. 

He took a shuddering breath and then thrust upwards. Methos furrowed his brow and grunted softly, closing his eyes before lifting and meeting MacLeod's next thrust.

MacLeod grabbed the headboard. The tight grip around his cock made it difficult to go slow, but he wanted to see that look on Methos' face for as long as possible. 

Again, Methos rose and MacLeod pushed upwards and they both grunted, gasping for air.

"God. Do that to me again," Methos said, bending over to nuzzle MacLeod's neck.

As if his words tightened the hold around his cock, MacLeod gave a strangled cry, one hand still gripping the headboard. Barely controlled, MacLeod quickened the pace, holding back his orgasm by sheer will. Methos murmured into his ear, panting damp heat, nearly wild, finally muffling a shout as he came. MacLeod growled, thrust once more, and followed, his orgasm spilling out wave after wave. 

Shuddering, MacLeod held onto Methos, the last of his spasms easing. Still semi-hard, he jerked involuntarily when Methos moved. Sheepish grins, and then a kiss. MacLeod slipped out. He shifted and they lay side by side, barely touching. MacLeod listened to the dull, distant noise of the city, to the drift of the music that still played downstairs. 

Methos spoke, cutting into the silence. "That was amazing." 

MacLeod chuckled, looking sideways at Methos, grinning. Methos rolled a little closer and they settled into each other's arms, him on his back and Methos tucked along his side. He picked up Methos' hand, threading his fingers. 

"I'd like to do that to you forever." 

"Hm." Methos moved, shifting to look at MacLeod. "That's a tempting offer." 

MacLeod smiled and Methos nipped him gently along his jaw. 

"I'm serious." His voice was light-hearted, but he immediately regretted his words, and he felt his stomach become tight and knotted. 

Methos stiffened and MacLeod swore silently to himself, his heart thundering against his chest. 

Silence, thick and unmoving. Methos moved and then paused as if to speak, but he remained silent. 

"Or not," Mac said quietly.

"Mac."

"It's okay, Methos. I didn't say anything."

Silence again, and then Methos kissed him quickly on his forehead. "Are you hungry? I'm going to make something real quick." He got up, hesitating, putting on a pair of sweat pants. "I'll be downstairs."

MacLeod nodded, looking up at the ceiling, unable to watch Methos walk away, hearing his footsteps travel down the stairs. He lay still, wishing desperately he could take back the last five minutes and never repeat them. 

Methos wasn't hungry, but there he stood in Mac's kitchen, staring at unappetizing food in the fridge and in the cupboards. He felt a pain in his chest, indefinable, and he rubbed at it absently. Dirty dishes, left over from their meal, piled high in the sink. He picked up a plate and looked at it, a distant part of his brain noting that it shook slightly in his hand. Taking a dishcloth, he started cleaning, methodically. Water and soap. Rushing water. The overhead light felt harsh and stark, and he brought one hand to his forehead as if to shield his eyes. 

Turn around.

He washed another dish, concentrating on the simple tactile feel of soapy water and the tickle of the detergent in his nose. 

Go back.

He paused, blinking absently at the dirty water, as if it held the answer to the pain in his chest. With a quick intake of breath, he made a decision. Drying his hands he turned to see MacLeod come down the stairs, dressed to go running. 

Methos made his throat work. "Mac."

MacLeod moved past him to fill a glass with water. Just before drinking he looked quickly at Methos. "It's okay, Methos. Forget I said anything, okay?"

MacLeod walked to the door, then paused. Without looking at Methos, he turned slightly. "I'll be back." 

"Duncan, wait." But it was too late; the door shut between them. Methos turned in frustration, throwing the wadded up dishtowel. It hit the back wall of the sink, falling in a soundless clump. A wild anger pulsed through him and a plate followed the towel, shattering against the wall and counter. With the sound of breaking glass in his ears, he leaned against the counter, his weight resting on his hands, dropping his head. 

Impossible, he thought, finally standing straight. He surveyed the mess and sighed, then began to clean up.

Outside, the dark night settled heavily on MacLeod's shoulders. He felt his heart pound in the pit of his stomach and it made him ill. Stopping himself from turning around and going back in, he put one hand on the door. 

He couldn't do this. He didn't know what to do. Instincts warred against each other, panic and a deep heartache that left him blind and fumbling. A sudden longing for air and space made him look up to the empty starless sky. He turned and started running, crossing the street into the embracing darkness of London at night. Small circles of light from the streetlamps lit his way and he followed a winding path through the patchwork of dark and light to the river.

The pounding of his feet matched the beat of his heart and the steady rhythm gave him comfort. Cold wind off the river pushed at him, the biting chill countering against the heat in his chest spreading to his sweat-dampened limbs. 

He picked a direction, not caring as long as he didn't think, running till he was out of breath, finding himself in the dark of Battersea Park overlooking the Thames. He came to a stop, finally, resting -- solitary, with only his labored breath for company. He noticed the moon, half-full and lonely with only a handful of weakened stars to keep it company, pinpricks of light. 

Dark green and moving shadows. He listened, as if the answer to his heart lay in the rushing of the river and the slap of its dark waters flowing along under the silvery city lights. 

He'd gone and done it. The very thing he had been avoiding for months. He'd kept thinking, if they didn't say anything, if they just kept going as they were, if they didn't make real what was real in their hearts, then it wouldn't change. It wouldn't end. It wouldn't be sacrificed for the sake of survival. Or in the name of some other greater need, or for the Game -- the ultimate betrayal.

It was a desperate attempt, he knew, recognizing it for what it was. He had almost succeeded in fooling himself. Although that, too, was a lie, for he'd never truly stopped being aware -- not for a minute, not for a second. Not during each touch and each lingering kiss. But still, next to his fear lay hope. 

He shivered, the heat from his run cooling under the greater strength of the wind and the night. An airplane or a helicopter made a lazy circle over the city, a spot of moving light. As if it were a sign, he started back.

The dishes were done and the broken plate discarded, the kitchen returned to its normal pristine state. Methos cleaned up the remains of their dessert and the empty wine bottle and glasses. He changed the sheets and made the bed, picking up their clothing and putting it away. He righted the knocked-over end table, returning the books and papers to their former place. He showered and changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. 

When he was done he waited for MacLeod in the living room, sitting in the near dark nursing a bottle of whiskey, welcoming the familiar burn down his throat that heated the cold pit of his stomach. The music had changed to mellow jazz. He sat, his gaze falling on the gold highlights of the amber liquid sloshing in his glass. He stubbornly refused to look at the clock, knowing MacLeod would return when he was ready.

After he filled his glass a second time he felt the familiar rush and tingle of Immortal presence. He lifted his head when Mac walked in, ignoring the sudden lurch of his stomach.

"I broke a plate."

MacLeod raised his eyebrows, a question and a spark of amusement glinting, but he didn't say anything. Instead he got a glass and poured himself a whiskey, sitting down heavily opposite Methos. They sat while the music wove through their silence. 

"We have to talk," Methos said softly.

MacLeod nodded. He took a sip from his glass, his face expressionless. 

Silence, and Methos almost started laughing at the absurdity. So much to say and no words to say it with. He set his glass down and pressed the palms into his eyes.

A few quiet moments and then, "What are we doing, Methos?"

Methos looked up and saw the starkness in Mac's dark eyes: confusion and fear. Uncertainty, and the knowledge of impending loss. 

The pain in Methos' chest returned. "I don't know," he finally answered. "What do you want, Duncan?"

"What do I want? What do I want?" MacLeod almost laughed, his voice rising with each word. He stood up and started pacing. For one brief moment Methos thought he was angry enough to throw his glass. But as suddenly as it came, the anger left. MacLeod set his glass down on the coffee table. 

Methos closed his eyes, hoping his heart remembered how to pump blood through his body. When he opened them he found MacLeod kneeling in front of him, brown eyes uneasy with color. Mac smelled strongly of sweat from his run and his hair curled at the ends. 

"Mac."

"What do you want, Methos?"

"It's not that easy." Now it was Methos' turn to pace. He escaped from MacLeod's presence and gulped for air. 

"Don't you think I know that? If it were at all easy would we be having this conversation?" MacLeod rose to his feet again, and they faced each other. "You're the one who asked the question."

Caught, Methos blinked. Yes he had, hadn't he? 

"Everything I know tells me it's impossible. I know that. But we're here, and," MacLeod whispered as if his throat hurt, "I'm not sure I can go back." 

The brightness in MacLeod's eyes shimmered and Methos felt an answering heat burn across his gaze. "It's not impossible. It's just --" Methos trailed off. "There's a very good reason why I've never truly committed to another Immortal. I told you the truth that time. I never have. If Kronos taught me one thing, it was that. Five thousand years, MacLeod, and not once have I seen it end well. And it always ends. The few times I've come close nearly destroyed me. It nearly destroyed you." He breathed in deeply. "I could never go through that with you."

MacLeod nodded, swiping at his eyes. "So, what are you saying? Are you saying we should end this? Is that what you want?"

The strong grip around Methos' throat made it impossible to answer. He felt wetness slip down his face. Swallowing, he spoke, "No. I don't want that."

He wanted to say more but instead walked into MacLeod's arms, burying his face into his scent. Strong hands pressing against the small of his back. He took in a shuddering breath and felt MacLeod's arms tighten. 

Lips against the pulse at his neck and along his jaw. Methos sighed, raising his head. "I can't do too many more of these," he said, wiping away the last of the tears.

MacLeod snorted, and there was laughter through tears as he, too, rubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The jazz music continued to play. 

He moved to separate but Mac stopped him. Dark, sorrowful eyes, heavy with regret. Methos shook his head. He took hold of MacLeod and brought him close and held him. Long silent moments passed with only the music a reminder of time and place. They began to sway, gently, almost dancing to the soft strains of guitar and piano. Light from the kitchen bled across their feet. 

"Do you have anything planned for the next two weeks?" 

They picked their way carefully through MacLeod's new warehouse. MacLeod, preoccupied with finding a set of fiddle-back chairs he knew were lost somewhere in the sea of Connor's things, looked quickly over at Methos. "What do you have in mind?"

Methos didn't answer and MacLeod continued his search. 

"Are these them?" Methos asked.

MacLeod walked over, finding Methos uncovering a neatly stacked set of six chairs hidden behind several larger pieces. 

"Yeah. Thanks. I should probably do a proper inventory of this stuff."

"Probably," said Methos with more than a trace of bemused indifference. The chill in the warehouse made his breath fog and his nose and ears turn red. 

Under MacLeod's stare, Methos gave an awkward smile, scratching his head. "What are you going to do with these again?" 

A week had passed since their talk and they still had moments of uncertain fragility balanced with a stubborn sort of resolve. MacLeod kept reminding himself that they'd survived worse than a lover's squabble in the past and had come out okay. 

MacLeod smiled back. "First, I'm going to do some work on them. Then, they go to a dealer, if I can't convince a client of mine to buy them."

"Oh," remarked Methos, obviously preoccupied with something else. MacLeod held back the question, letting Methos come to it on his own time. 

They carried the chairs two at a time out to the hired truck, working wordlessly side by side. He kept touching Methos randomly throughout the day, reaching over to casually knock shoulders or touch a hand. Sometimes just a hand on his back or maybe a quick nuzzle when no one was looking. He couldn't stop himself and Methos didn't try. 

MacLeod broke the silence. "Thanks for coming with me today." 

Methos shrugged, lifting the last chair onto the back of the truck. Before he could turn away, MacLeod stopped him. Giving into an earlier urge, he tweaked Methos' nose before giving it a quick, sloppy kiss. 

Methos glared a lopsided smile, wiping his nose. He looked at MacLeod, shifting as if to continue around to the passenger seat, only he remained where he was. Lifting his head, he spoke. "Do you like your life here?"

MacLeod's heart skipped.

"I mean, do you like what you're doing?"

Leaning against the truck, MacLeod looked down at his feet, then up to the spare and abandoned streets of south London. The weak sun, a flat white disk, gave meager light. He kicked at loose gravel, spraying it across the road. 

"I'm not sure I've really thought about it. You?"

Methos didn't answer. Instead, he moved next to MacLeod, also looking down at his feet. 

MacLeod nudged closer. "There are some things I like a lot, " he said with a slight waggle of his eyebrows, pleased that Methos gave him a knowing smirk. 

They fell silent and MacLeod wondered where Methos was going with these questions. "What did you mean, about next week?"

Methos looked at him briefly. "Would you like to go away for a while? Get out of the city? A road trip, maybe? When was the last time you visited Cornwall? "

MacLeod lifted his eyebrows in a question. He stared at Methos, who seemed unsure of his response. "All the way to Cornwall, huh?" Swallowing, he smiled and then leaned over, touching his nose to the warmth of Methos' neck. "Yeah, okay," he whispered.

A few days later, they left, taking Methos' car and heading out of town towards Kent and Surrey. Methos appeared to have a plan and a destination so MacLeod just followed his lead, content to sit back and watch the countryside drift by. They spoke a little. Sometimes they laughed or traded friendly verbal barbs, falling back into familiar patterns.

MacLeod liked to watch Methos as he drove, light dancing across the windshield. He thought a lot about them, about the changes in both their lives. He thought about how attractive Methos was to him. 

He leaned over and licked Methos' ear. 

Methos jerked his head away. "MacLeod." He rubbed his ear dry on his shoulder. 

Attractive in a way that took MacLeod completely by surprise, that left him feeling nervous and shaky, laughing and breathless. 

Undaunted, he licked again, then nipped gently with lips and teeth.

They stayed at small country inns and bed and breakfasts, occasionally earning a few curious looks or an uncomfortable stare, but for the most part were left alone. It was nice, MacLeod decided, enjoying the change of scenery and the quiet, steady movement of the days and nights. They stayed along the coast, taking a few day trips inland when fancy struck. 

"MacLeod. I'm driving." Methos shifted as MacLeod's hands weaseled their way under his arms, attempting to undo the snap on Methos' jeans and succeeding only in eliciting a choked squeal as they accidentally tickled Methos instead. 

"Uh-huh," he said. "Pull over." He was laughing now. Methos did as he was told, giving himself up to MacLeod, although MacLeod assumed it was more from a sense of survival than anything else. 

Methos spoke around a mouthful of MacLeod. "Mac, hm, anyone can--" The seat back suddenly gave and they bonked heads. Methos grunted and then grunted again when MacLeod resumed kissing him. 

There appeared to be little rhyme or reason to their daily destinations. Sometimes they stayed in one place for only a day, sometimes for longer. Lazy mornings waking up with Methos beside him. Afternoons spent viewing whatever local attractions there might be, perhaps a long walk under the changing canopy of autumn or a casual perusal of a museum or a quaint town center. In Dover they walked along the white cliffs. In Brighton they sat and gazed over the mostly empty beach, eating a breakfast of fruit and croissants. 

The car honked and it was a tangle of legs and arms and stifled snorts of laughter. "MacLeod. You're crazy. It's the middle of the day. Anyone can walk by." 

MacLeod beamed at Methos, kissing swollen lips one more time, fingers once again busy unsnapping jeans. They were on a quiet road, miles of green fields as far as the eye could see. "You keep watch then," he said, and grinned, freeing Methos' cock. 

"Oh God." Methos sucked in air, one arm bracing against a window. 

They visited several vineyards and the trip became rather more an extended tour of England's wineries than anything else. MacLeod looked curiously at Methos, wondering just where he was going with this particular preoccupation. He could guess, but where that guess left him in regard to his and Methos' life made him wary of the answer. He recognized several of the labels from wines Methos had brought home.

MacLeod lifted Methos' hips higher and took him into his mouth. Hard and soft, thrusting. He ran his tongue over the head of Methos' cock, down the length to the base, swirling across the heavy balls. 

It was awkward, cramped, and more than a bit uncomfortable, but all MacLeod knew was how Methos tasted, the slide of his cock against the roof of his mouth, the grip in his hair as Methos thrust, gentle and steady. He nibbled on the foreskin, he sucked on the tip, he opened his throat and took the entire length in. Methos gasped and thrust harder. MacLeod relaxed into the assault, wanting more. He devoured Methos whole, nearly exploding himself when the rush of hot semen hit the back of his throat. 

"Christ, Mac." Methos' voice shook slightly. 

MacLeod licked one last time before unfolding from his cramped position. He banged his knee and then hit his head. 

"Ow." 

"This was your bright idea." Still flushed, Methos snickered at him.

MacLeod frowned, rubbing his head. 

"Couldn't wait, could you? This isn't a bloody limousine, if you hadn't noticed." Methos sat up gingerly before lifting his hips to shimmy back into his jeans. 

For some reason, Mac found that funny and he started giggling. "I'm sorry." 

Methos' look told him he wasn't buying the apology. The late afternoon light fell in bright rays, making Methos' eyes glow with hints of color, shimmering. MacLeod felt the steady beat of his heart pulsing from his erection. 

Methos moved, taking MacLeod in a gentle kiss. "Come here, you." 

There was no way to get very close with the gearbox and steering wheel in the way, but Methos managed and MacLeod leaned into him. His pants were opened and he felt one of Methos' strong hands grip his cock. Helpless, he shut his eyes, holding Methos, biting his neck. Already so close, he came in a rush of blinding light, crying out into the hollow of Methos' neck. 

Soft lips brushed against his forehead, across a cheekbone. Methos' hand ruffled through his hair. The smell of sex and semen permeated the small space. MacLeod lifted his head, meeting impenetrable hazel eyes, knowing and mirthful, piercing and... 

He knew what this was, his heart whispered in his ear. It made blood thump in his chest and light flash in his eyes. 

"Are we quite done now?" Methos said softly, his tone contradicting the impatience of his words. 

MacLeod closed his eyes, dropping his head, waiting a moment for his heart to calm. "Yeah," he said, even laughing a bit. He was a mess, he realized, looking with distaste at the state of his crotch. Adding insult to injury, Methos wiped his hand clean on Mac's trousers. "Hey."

"Your idea, remember." Methos grinned, unrepentant, before righting his seat, opening his window, and starting the car. MacLeod sighed, looking around for something to clean up with.

He liked to drive for stretches in the morning with Methos dozing next to him, looking perfectly comfortable in the less-than-spacious seat. Or in the evening, with the sun sinking before him, Methos chattering about this or that. In the first day or so, Methos kept his mobile phone on, taking frequent calls from his office. It appeared, to MacLeod's one-sided understanding of these conversations, that Methos had left at an inopportune time and was not very popular with whomever it was that kept calling.

With restrained irritation, one hand touching his forehead as if he had a headache, Methos looked apologetically at MacLeod while speaking into his phone. "Two weeks, Davies. I think you can manage. [Pause.] Nothing is that urgent, don't be ridiculous. Most of the work has been done already. You don't need me. [Long pause. Slight jaw tightening.] I remember. [Pause.] It is, is it? No, I didn't check. [Pause.] You know very well it wasn't my idea, Davies. Don't shove it over on me. Your decision, you deal with it. Listen, the world won't end in two weeks. I'll talk to you later." He ended the call.

Cryptic, to be sure. MacLeod was inclined not to meddle too much in Methos' work, although truth be told he was more than a bit intrigued by this side of Methos. "That was pleasant."

Methos grumbled and muttered, looking darkly out the window. MacLeod would have laughed out loud at the familiar sight if he hadn't been certain it might have cost him his life. So he bit his lip instead. 

"Did you leave poor Sarah there to fend for herself?" MacLeod was quite fond of Methos' shy and hapless secretary. Thought she could do far better than to work for an old grouch like Methos. 

"What? Oh, God, no. She's off on holiday. Not even I'm that cruel." 

This made MacLeod snort. Then he sort of chuckled. He chuckled again, and then again, till he was truly laughing -- a low belly sort of laugh which he couldn't control and which made his eyes water, despite the threat to his life.

"I'm not sure what you find so funny." 

Methos' indignant look made MacLeod laugh even harder. 

"MacLeod," Methos said very sternly, but it was a losing battle. His lips twitched. A smile escaped. He refused to laugh, however, and slowly MacLeod's infectious snicker eventually dwindled. Then MacLeod made the mistake of looking at Methos and they both lost it, laughing uproariously at nothing at all. 

It wasn't very funny. Nor did it make much sense. But for the rest of that day there were spots of absurd hilarity springing up unannounced and unforeseen at odd times, making for some awkward moments when they found themselves once again in public venues. 

Soon after, the mobile phone was turned off and then packed away, disappearing for the rest of the trip. 

They went all the way to Penzance and then made their lazy way up into the midlands, hitting a few more vineyards that lay in that direction. MacLeod was happy. Happier than he had felt in a long time, the shadow of the past easing under wind and sun, under the rhythm of their days, the light of morning and the slow, steady descent of evening into darkness. 

Finding themselves near the Peak District National Park, they spent their last few days admiring the startling beauty of that ancient land. High atop a hard rock edge overlooking rolling hills and meadows and gentle pockets of towns and dwellings, the wind beat mercilessly against them, making their eyes tear and their noses redden.

MacLeod was reminded of the Highlands. The park held the same majesty, the same timeless beauty. He could almost feel the slight pull of the land, reaching up through his feet to his heart. 

Reading his thoughts, Methos turned to him, speaking over the constant murmur of the wind. "Would you like to return to the Highlands, Duncan?" His bright hazel eyes looked straight through MacLeod to his very center. 

MacLeod's felt a pressure squeeze his chest and a sudden blindness crowd his eyesight. No, he couldn't go back. Not now. He blinked and felt Methos' hand take hold of his. Knowing eyes, green from the meadow and bright from the sun telling him it was okay. He nodded, letting the silent tears dry in the wind. 

Methos entered his flat and shut the door with his foot, hands occupied with his coat, a few files from work, his laptop, and a bottle of wine. The slow slide of presence flared across his spine. The flat appeared empty, but standing still in the foyer he heard faint noises coming from further in. He dropped his coat, the files, and the laptop in the kitchen but kept the bottle, reaching for two wineglasses and fishing around in a drawer for the corkscrew. 

"Mac?" he called. 

"In here," came the reply, from the bathroom. 

The first thing Methos noticed when he entered the bathroom was the thick, wet warmth of steam in the air. The second thing he noticed: MacLeod, naked and wet and apparently soaking in the bathtub. The third thing he noticed was that Mac appeared to be singing. If it could be called singing, that is.

"Hi." MacLeod sat up, smiling cheerfully, the water sloshing and splashing around him. His hair curled at the ends, two bright spots of color on each cheek, lips red, his skin flushed and glowing. The image itself was so arresting Methos stood speechless for a moment before finding his voice. It was very warm, and he undid his tie and loosened his collar. 

"Hello," he finally managed, walking over to sit on the edge of the tub. 

Merry brown eyes twinkled. "Let me guess. Wine, right?" 

Methos leaned over, one hand against the wall, meeting Mac in a kiss. He opened his mouth to Mac's tongue. Splash of water on his face, wet fingers touching his neck. They parted. 

"Wiseass." He smiled at the slight wrinkle of MacLeod's face, putting the bottle between his legs and applying the corkscrew. "We're celebrating."

"We are? What are we celebrating?" Slosh of water against the sides of the tub. MacLeod leaned closer, reaching to hold the bottle as Methos tugged. 

A faint pop as the cork gave way and Methos poured, handing one glass over to Mac. They each took a sip. Methos watched MacLeod's face closely. 

Mac's eyes lit up. "Not bad."

"You like it?"

"Yeah." MacLeod turned the bottle to read the label. "I know this, don't I? Must have been one of the ones we visited." 

Methos smelled his wine, spinning the red liquid gently, watching it cling to the sides of the glass. "I bought it," he said, taking another sip. 

Realization dawned and he raised both eyebrows in surprise. "You bought the vineyard?"

"Yeah." 

MacLeod looked at him hard for a moment, then his eyes narrowed. Methos smiled, almost laughing. He could watch this all day. 

"Is that what all this is about?"

Methos just shrugged. "One must do proper research." 

MacLeod raised himself onto his knees, eye level with Methos. And suddenly there was lots and lots of slick golden skin, interrupted with hard little nipples already tight and begging to be touched. Methos started where neck met shoulder -- first a little wine, watching it spill like a bruise, following with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. Down to the crease between arm and torso, over to the swell of Mac's chest, biting a nipple, salty and sweet. 

Hands gripped his arm tightly, wet soaking through his shirt. Methos looked up. "Methos," growled MacLeod. Liquid heat, golden and dark fire, both questioning and knowing. 

Methos breathed in, gulping moist air. He looked down and realized that part of the wetness he felt was the wine bleeding dark red and purple across the front of his white shirt. 

"Oops. Sorry." MacLeod smiled, looking not the least bit apologetic over Methos' ruined shirt, his eyes sparking mischievously. "Guess it needs to be washed."

A slight push and down went Methos, splashing into the tub ass first, bumping against the side. MacLeod, thinking quickly, managed to grab their wineglasses before they shattered, setting them down safely while Methos sputtered and thrashed, his legs in the air. 

Water, water everywhere. Methos opened his mouth to yell and got a mouthful instead. Finally getting a hold on the sides, he pushed himself up to sitting, which was made more difficult by MacLeod who, doubled over in a fit of laughter, was holding one of his feet and attempting to remove a shoe before it became soaked. 

Being two full-grown men, there was rather more of them than space and water flowed over the side of the large -- but not that large -- tub. 

"Duncan," said Methos, as coldly as he could, glowering under the fringe of wet hair in his eyes. 

MacLeod chuckled. "Oh, put away the daggers." Removing the second shoe, Mac climbed over Methos' body, bringing his face right up to Methos', rubbing noses. 

Still glaring, Methos turned just enough for MacLeod to slide his lips down his neck. "Hurrmph," he said.

"We're celebrating, remember?"

Oh, right. That's right. Methos turned his head back the other way, catching Mac's lips, and there was smooth skin under his hands, slick and wet. His hands slid down, feeling each dip of muscle and ribcage. Down and around, cupping Mac's hot hard length, smiling as MacLeod rumbled pleasantly, thrusting into his hand and nipping at his neck. 

Celebrating. Yes, of course. 

He got his revenge anyway, when MacLeod found that a wet shirt was much harder to remove than a dry one. 

Methos stood in darkness, alone. He could see his hands and his feet, but there was nothing but darkness in front. Darkness behind. Darkness above and below. He walked forward and bumped into a wall that wasn't there. Turning around he walked in the opposite direction. One step, two steps, three steps. Bump. He walked to his left. Bump. He turned around again. Bump. 

Reaching with one hand he felt for the wall. Smooth, like glass. With one hand as a guide he walked the perimeter. He found one corner. And then another. A third and a fourth. 

A box. He contemplated this box. Could he break it? Could he push it? He tapped on the glass. Then he pounded. Then he used his arm and elbow and tried to shatter it. Pain, bright and piercing reverberated up his arm and into his shoulder, and he decided to wait on that theory and see if maybe perhaps something else developed. Something else almost always develops, he thought wisely. 

That's when he noticed Duncan, standing almost out of sight in the darkness. 

"Duncan!" he called. "Duncan, can you hear me?" He pounded on the glass. 

Duncan's lips moved but Methos couldn't hear him. Not caring about the pain, he ran into the glass with his shoulder, teeth jarring as he bounced off. Again. And again. Desperation seized him and he was certain Duncan would disappear at any moment. He braced himself, ready to throw his body against the glass. Crouched, preparing to push off and--

A cry cut through the air. Not just a cry, a scream, a shriek that expanded and grew and grew and reached inside of Methos and shredded his heart and squeezed his mind. At once, the walls of his cage shattered, falling in slow motion around him and he--

Methos woke with a sharp quick intake of breath. His heart pounded and he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body, could smell the stink of fear and sweat. The shriek reverberated in his ear, still vibrated across his body.

He was in his bedroom, MacLeod pressing up against him, warm, almost hot, not quite snoring but making a soft sort of whuffling noise. They had left a window open, and it let in weak light from the street lamps and a cool breeze that rustled against the drapes.

MacLeod moved and his arm reached for Methos, pulling him even closer. Unable to stop himself, Methos turned his face and touched his lips against the steady pulse at MacLeod's temple. With Mac's pulse beneath his lips and his heart beating against his side, Methos felt calmness return and the strange dream began to fade. 

In the kitchen, pools of moonlight gathered on the floor, lighting his path. He turned the oven on for warmth, comforted by the sounds of metal expanding. He put water on to boil and retrieved cream and a scone from his pantry. Turning his laptop on, he settled on a stool and poured himself some tea. His hand shook slightly, but he ignored it. 

He sat in darkness, staring at his computer screen, tabbing from a spreadsheet to the Internet and back again. He could still hear the dream shriek in his head.

The sound of bare feet on tile made him look up, and he found a sleepy-eyed MacLeod wrapped in a blanket and blinking blearily at him, eyebrows furrowed and hair standing on end. Very solid and not imaginary, not fading, not almost gone. But he stood a distance away from Methos, frowning, switching from foot to foot, no doubt because the floor was cold and he hadn't put on any slippers. Methos thought to speak, but his throat would not work and so he just looked, the reality of his dream still whispering in his mind.

MacLeod continued to frown. Then, "That's my robe." 

Finding his voice, Methos felt his lips curl in a half-smile. "I'm sorry. Can I borrow it?"

MacLeod huffed a response, moving closer. Methos held himself still, feeling the warmth of another body press against him from behind. MacLeod leaned over his shoulder so their cheeks touched. Methos turned his head, lips grazing MacLeod's slightly roughened skin.

"Are you searching for porn?" 

It made Methos laugh out loud, turning in his seat to face MacLeod and capturing him in a desperate kiss, his hands holding him close. MacLeod pulled back and Methos followed until they were both standing.

"Hey," said MacLeod, breaking the kiss, his brown eyes looking quizzically at Methos, questioning. Moonlight danced across his golden skin; Methos watched the shifting expression. "Hey," repeated Mac, rumbling against Methos, opening his arms and wrapping Methos in his blanket, inside his embrace. 

MacLeod was naked, his smooth skin smelling of sleep and warmth and soap and sweat. Methos felt his hidden trembling ease. He dropped his head onto MacLeod's shoulder, touching as much skin as he could with his hands. 

They remained like that for several minutes, maybe swaying, maybe touching lips to skin, maybe just silent and still under the light of the moon. 

MacLeod pushed at the robe, exposing Methos' shoulder and collarbone, chest. Lower, till the garment fell, untied, to the floor. The blanket followed. 

Kisses constantly moving -- lips, neck, ear, chest, shoulder, neck -- growing in need and intensity. Mac's hands cupped his ass, hard cock sliding along his, slick with pre-come. He groaned, deep into MacLeod's mouth. 

He looked into dark brown eyes, seeing love and lust pulsing in Mac's heated gaze. Breathing hard, he turned around, hands evenly spaced, bracing against the counter, legs spread apart. He dropped his head and closed his eyes.

Pause. The dinging of the stove and the slight rattle of the windowpane were the only sounds. Then, breathing, not his own. He felt MacLeod's rough, broad hands caress down his back, across the swell of his ass, up his sides. He shivered at the touch of lips on his neck and down his spine. 

Cold air brushed against him, coaxing gooseflesh, and Methos waited, knowing what was next. Warmth returned, followed by slick fingers on his ass and he held his breath, feeling the slow invasion. His balls were encased in the slick warmth of Mac's other hand, sliding to his cock. He pushed into the tight grip, swallowing a moan as MacLeod pressed against his prostate. He thrust again, making a noise, leaking come into Mac's hand. 

The blunt end of Mac's cock made him gasp. "Ready?" MacLeod's rough voice rubbed against his hyper-sensitive skin. He nodded. A soft kiss on his shoulder blade, then the slow burn of entry.

Mac grunted. Methos felt his cock jump. "Methos," Mac murmured, pushing in all the way, covering Methos with his body, their arms and legs lining up, one hand gripping his, the other encircling his chest. 

MacLeod stroked his cock, faster now, pulling his orgasm out in wave after wave of blinding light. He gasped his release. 

MacLeod waited for him to finish before thrusting in again. He gripped Methos, hard around his waist, damp forehead pressing against his back. Threading his fingers through Mac's, Methos held on and MacLeod shuddered against him, coming in jerky, uncontrolled movements, his knees buckling. 

Long moments of silence, followed by Methos turning to gather MacLeod, still unsteady, into his arms. He picked up the blanket, wrapping it around them, the air suddenly much chillier than previously. They leaned against the counter, regaining strength. 

"Are you okay?" MacLeod spoke into the hollow of his neck, lips brushing against his shoulder.

Methos breathed. "Yeah." He turned and kissed Mac above one eye. They left the clean up for later, stopping only to turn off the oven before returning to the bedroom.

Bent over, scrubbing the front of the kitchen counter, MacLeod looked over his shoulder and glared at Methos.

"You missed a spot," commented Methos, helpfully pointing to a whitish mark. 

MacLeod glared again. "You could help," he grumbled. "It's your mess."

"I'm helping," protested Methos around a mouthful of toast. "Look. See?" MacLeod watched Methos pick up the extra sponge and with one hand start wiping the counter. "And as I recall, you had a hand in it as well."

MacLeod choked, sputtered, and glared for a third time. Methos laughed. The phone rang. Still chuckling, Methos dropped the sponge and walked over to answer it. 

"Addison." A pause. "Joe!" Methos held his hand over the speaker. "It's Joe."

"Really? I couldn't tell," he said dryly. 

"He's right here, scrubbing the kitchen counter," said Methos to Joe. 

By this point the glare was automatic. But MacLeod couldn't hold it for long, seeing the teasing smile on Methos' lips and the light of amusement in his eyes. He straightened, more or less finished removing all evidence of their previous night's entertainment. 

"Tonight? I think so. Let me ask." Methos held the receiver against his chest. "Are you up for the bar tonight?"

MacLeod moved closer to touch his lips to the back of Methos' neck. "Sure," he said between kisses.

"Sure," repeated Methos into the phone. "Is something up?"

MacLeod stopped, moving around to watch Methos' expression. He asked a question with his eyes. Methos shook his head no.

"All right, we'll see you later, then." Methos hung up the phone, hand pausing before letting go. He turned and looked at MacLeod, his eyes showing a stark look of apprehension.

MacLeod felt a chill brush across his neck.

It was early yet, just after the close of business, and the bar had a mix of regulars and random people lurking in its dark corners: one or two businessmen and women; a young American couple sitting with maps of London and two oversized backpacks; several individuals of no significant distinction. 

MacLeod sat sideways on a stool with a glass of whiskey. Methos stood next to him, leaning against the bar on his elbow, holding his beer by the bottleneck. He stood close, almost between MacLeod's legs. MacLeod found it hard to look anywhere but at the way Methos swallowed. The way his face creased when he smiled. How he looked with unending curiosity at all the different bar patrons, smirking quietly at the young couple who appeared to be squabbling over something. Easily entertained, thought MacLeod, and he smiled. 

He touched Methos' arm, casual yet intimate, leaning in a bit closer. "He asked us here. It's rude of him to disappear." Dawson had waved to them upon entering, but business had called him away and he hadn't come back yet. 

"Hm. It is rude. And I plan on telling him so." Methos eyes shone amusement and ire at the same time. "Or maybe you'd rather."

"Be my guest," MacLeod said. 

Methos smiled, then took a sip of his beer, turning back to face front. Something he saw made him stiffen. "Damn," he said under his breath.

"What?" MacLeod looked over to the door, seeing two men in business suits walk in. 

Methos radiated irritation and anger. He nodded towards the two men entering. "That's Davies -- the tall one. The other guy is called Hoskins. Wonder what they're doing here?"

Ah. The infamous Davies. MacLeod looked and saw a tall, balding man of middle age who walked with an air of ownership. "Probably just wants a drink."

Methos scowled. "Did he have to come in here? He's going to show up at my launderette next."

MacLeod watched Davies recognize Methos, giving him a slight nod in acknowledgment. Methos nodded back before turning away, and it looked like that was all it was going to be. 

"He doesn't seem so bad," MacLeod teased.

Methos looked aghast. MacLeod chuckled. Just then Joe returned, appearing from the back office, walking over to them with his steady gait.

"Nice of you to join us, Dawson," remarked Methos.

Not rising to the bait, Joe grabbed himself a beer. "Sorry to keep you gentlemen waiting. Come on over here." He moved to the booth he kept reserved for himself and his friends. 

MacLeod looked at Methos, whose sharp eyes narrowed as they followed Joe. He knew that tone in Joe's voice that spelled bad news. A whisper of unrest settled across his chest.

They sat opposite Joe, sliding along the cracked red leather seats. 

"It's been a while. How you two been? How was the trip?" Joe asked, taking a long pull of his beer.

"It was good. We sent you a postcard." MacLeod answered, assuming Dawson knew all about their trip and was merely asking to be polite. Methos remained silent, staring hard at Dawson.

Dawson showed his snaggle-tooth smile. "Yeah. I got it propped up against the register to brighten my day." Then he rubbed his face, the brief amusement passing. "Listen, I have to tell you something."

"Spill it, Joe," Methos said quietly. MacLeod watched Methos and Joe exchange looks, their long friendship allowing for unspoken understanding. MacLeod felt his chest tighten.

Joe nodded. "I got a call this morning from John Hunter. He watches an Immortal called Christopher Monluc. Ever heard of him? Used to go by the name of Chréstian de Monluc?"

MacLeod shook his head. Methos creased his forehead in thought, but also shook his head no.

"He's young, relatively speaking, about five hundred or so. Died the son of some low-level aristocrat. He doesn't fight much, only when pressed, and then reluctantly. Lives in Belgium, just outside of Brussels. Owns a small international marketing and PR firm. "

"Joe," Methos said impatiently.

Joe sighed. "This Christopher Monluc doesn't hunt, he seduces. He finds Immortal women, initiates a romantic relationship, wines and dines them, the whole deal, and just when they're least expecting... He's good. Knows who to pick and how to approach them, each one a little differently. He makes it an art piece, a dance. Something." 

MacLeod pursed his lips. Methos spoke. "That's very nice, Joe. What do you want us to do about it?"

Joe looked from MacLeod to Methos, his blue eyes understanding and even a little sympathetic. "About six months ago, he met Cassandra."

MacLeod heard Joe's words, the full meaning hitting seconds later. A complex rush of emotion flooded across his throat and he sank slightly in his seat. Cassandra's name brought up so many different feelings, about himself, his past. It colored his relationship with Methos. It brought back the pain and the anger, the fear of that moment in the submarine base just before he'd heard the sound of an axe clattering to the floor. 

"When?" Methos asked, his voice low. MacLeod turned to him, seeing how pale he looked, eyes dark and unreadable.

Joe paused before answering. "Last night, around one in the morning."

MacLeod felt his heart clench, realizing what Methos meant by the question. Something had woken Methos last night. Methos merely nodded, his jaw tightening.

"I'll be outside." Methos rose, leaving the table. 

It took MacLeod two seconds before he got up and followed. "Methos," he said, grabbing Methos' arm. 

Methos stopped and looked at Mac's hand, shaking it off before resuming for the door. 

"Wait." MacLeod held on. "Don't do this."

"MacLeod, you mistakenly think I care." He shook Mac's hand off a second time, again turning for the door. MacLeod moved ahead of him, blocking his way.

"No. Methos, I know it's not as easy as caring or not caring." Methos attempted to go around MacLeod. "Will you just stay put?" 

Stopping, Methos radiated hostility. His eyes snapped at MacLeod; he took deep angry breaths, his chest rising and falling as if he had just run a marathon, nostrils flaring. 

MacLeod breathed in, his hands held out in front of him. "There's no way I can know what you're feeling right now. I understand that. I'm not asking for you to sit and talk about it. Just, don't run out, okay?" MacLeod felt the back of his throat close. 

The anger in Methos' eyes shifted and disappeared, replaced with understanding. He held his hand out, touching MacLeod's face, pulling him into a hug. It took a minute before MacLeod realized that nearly everyone in the bar now looked at them, not even pretending to look elsewhere. 

"Holy shit."

MacLeod turned, stepping out of the embrace, and found Davies and that other guy staring at them with a look of amused shock. He felt Methos become very still next to him, only this time his breathing was calm and even. He looked at Davies with a hard, impenetrable gaze.

"This is none of your business, Davies."

"Oh, I'm sorry, man," said Davies, sounding almost honest. "I don't mean to be rude, or anything. I'm just a little surprised. Not that I have a problem with you being... " Davies waved his hand at them. MacLeod stopped himself from sighing loudly. "Honest. I couldn't care less. Just had no fucking clue. Could have sworn you were banging Sarah--"

Methos stepped up and punched Davies, hard. Hard enough to make Davies snap back and nearly fall, holding his nose and jaw. 

A stunned moment. Then, "You little shit." They both lunged for each other just as the rest of the bar suddenly came alive. Joe yelled, as did several others, and two men stepped in, grabbing Davies and hauling him off and to the side. MacLeod grabbed Methos around the waist. Tables and chairs were knocked over. The young tourist couple scrambled out of the way. 

"Get him out of here," Joe yelled at MacLeod, waving his cane and walking as quickly as he could over to Davies.

"I'm trying," he said. Breathing hard, he dragged Methos forcibly towards the door and out into the cool air of early evening, walking a good distance away from the bar. 

"Let go. I'm all right." Methos tugged at MacLeod's arms, struggling. After a moment, MacLeod let go.

With a wary eye, MacLeod watched Methos pace up and down the curb, calming down slowly. The sky darkened into night. Methos looked at his hand and shook it out. "That wasn't a very smart thing to do." He laughed weakly, finally looking at MacLeod. 

MacLeod lifted his eyebrows, blowing air out of his mouth, and moved his head side to side, answering both yes and no. "He's an asshole."

"Yeah." Methos laughed again, nervous, lifting his hands up to his head. "Oh, God," he said realizing the consequences of his actions. Dropping his hands, he turned and walked down the street.

Methos walked and MacLeod followed, not too close at first. Down streets and up streets, into secluded parks and skirting crowded venues. MacLeod watched the path of changing emotions on Methos' face -- mostly anger, some resignation, a touch of fear like an accent mark. He didn't know how to feel about Cassandra, except maybe regret -- but regret for what he couldn't say. He thought of the dream Cassandra of his childhood and felt his heart break with the memory.

Into the night they walked, slowly, until finally Methos stopped and sat on a bench in a tired looking street; they were somewhere near Regent's Park he thought, maybe, having lost track. MacLeod sat next to Methos.

The night was noisy, contrasting with the heavy silence that lay between them until Methos turned and spoke. "That time in New York, when you told me about Kate, I'm sorry I didn't appear more understanding."

MacLeod felt a blow hit his chest at the mention of Kate, still a raw wound. He blinked at Methos and shook his head.

"I know how that feels, losing the chance to be forgiven." Methos looked away again, out into the dense darkness of the park. "Only, I never asked to be forgiven. Certainly not by Cassandra. I never wanted forgiveness. It wouldn't have helped her, I don't think. And besides that, it wouldn't have changed anything. There were hundreds of years when I never thought of her, maybe even moments when I couldn't remember her name. If I never saw her again it would have been too soon." He paused, taking a breath. "But I never wanted her death. As much as I tried to accept and forget, move on." Methos voice dropped to a whisper. "A debt that can never be repaid." 

It was cold on the bench, their breath fogging in the air. "You can never know how you're going to feel until afterward. You can't control how you feel, you said that to me once."

Methos' bright eyes looked at him, nodding. "Now, of course, I'm angry at her. Typical."

"Methos, about last night."

Methos looked at him again and then looked away. He said nothing, rising instead, holding out his hand. MacLeod took it, allowing himself to be pulled to standing. "Methos," he tried again.

Methos sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "Ask me again another day." And he said no more, the subject dropped.

MacLeod stood silently in the enshrouding darkness, letting the moment pass. He reached tentatively for Methos, finding his hand again. Methos' grip was tight.

They hailed a cab back to the flat, quietly unclothing and slipping into bed, exhausted. In the morning, Methos was gone. 

"What do you mean left?" MacLeod paced back and forth, winding the phone cord around his legs, the morning light streaming in through the small window in Methos' kitchen. 

Sarah's nervous voice reached out to him through the phone. "He left, sir. Called me this morning, early, and asked me to come in and pack up his things and told me where to ship them. Then he said to go home right away and not speak to anyone, especially Mr. Davies." She lowered her voice. "The entire office is talking about it but no one knows anything. They say Mr. Addison must have been let go, but I know that's not possible. Mr. Davies is madder than I've ever seen him and he has a black eye. Since he got in this morning all he's done is yell at everyone."

MacLeod breathed slowly through his nose, his mind racing. His gut told him one thing, but his heart feared another. Both options made his stomach twist with anxiety. He felt fate, like the kiss of a sword, touch his neck. Methos, Methos, where did you go? "Thanks, Sarah. If you hear from him, ask him to call me?"

"Wait. Mr. MacLeod?"

"Yes?"

"He did leave a message for you."

MacLeod stood up straighter, closing his eyes. "Yes." His voice sounded rough to his ears.

"He said to tell you he's gone to pay a debt. That's all."

MacLeod felt his stomach untwist and then twist back up again. Damn him. Furious relief made it difficult to speak. He swallowed, moving his throat. "Thanks."

"Mr. MacLeod? He's not coming back, is he?"

The dappled sunlight made a pattern across the floor, bright and cheerful. He looked out through the window and saw cars driving and people walking, life moving, blissfully ignorant of the turmoil roiling around in his stomach. "I don't know."

With luck he could catch a flight out to Brussels by early afternoon. He called Joe on the way to the airport.

"Joe, I need the address for Monluc." He drove with one hand, weaving carefully through traffic and out of the city.

"Do you know how long it took to get that guy out of my bar last night? Next time you two decide to pick a fight, do it somewhere else."

"Joe."

Silence. MacLeod heard Joe sigh. "He left, didn't he?" 

MacLeod couldn't answer. He breathed in slowly. "Did he call you?"

"No. What are you thinking?" 

MacLeod had about a million answers to that question. "Monluc, Joe. Where is he?"

Joe sighed. "Hang on." Joe set the phone down. MacLeod waited. Through the phone he heard music in the background. Blues -- the slow dance of guitar and piano. He ignored the pulse beating in the back of this throat. Joe returned. "It's 36 Rue de Lombard, Brussels. He also has an estate in the small town of Ottignies, about 20 minutes outside of the city."

"Thanks." MacLeod hesitated. "I'll call you."

"Yeah. Watch your head, MacLeod."

There wasn't a flight out until three o'clock so MacLeod waited. He waited, pacing up and down the concourse, having too much energy to sit still. Stubbornly, he refused to give into the bite of anger that ate at him, unable to fault Methos. He would have done something similar, he knew, if Methos hadn't beat him to it. But it wasn't anger he felt, watching the clock tick closer towards departure, and he cursed himself as he cursed Methos. Sitting, finally, he touched his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.

Methos waited patiently, well out of sensing range, outside a tall modern building that looked out of place in the old gothic heart of Brussels. This was Monluc's place of business, according to the early morning research he'd done before leaving London. One eye watching the front door, Methos shifted through the crowds of tourists and Belgians, listening to the smattering of French and Dutch that floated past his ears. 

He estimated he had about four, maybe five hours before MacLeod appeared. Hopefully, this would be over by then. MacLeod knew MacLeod would be angry. Yes, but hopefully he would also understand, and forgive. Methos felt a brief, familiar pain in his chest, knowing it wasn't a question of understanding or forgiveness. 

A tall, dark-haired, somewhat handsome man exited the building, camel hair coat flapping in the breeze. Monluc. Methos paused, his eyes carefully watching every move, look, and gesture. Monluc reached into his coat, taking out a cigarette case and lighter. After he lit up, a dark car drove up and stopped in front of Monluc who got in the back seat. 

Methos took note of the car's direction, watching it leave before heading towards the entrance of the building. 

It was dark when MacLeod arrived in Belgium, and he waited while someone brought him a car. A growing sense of running out of time nipped at his heels and he hurried, racing towards Brussels, the twilight descending in darkened hues of blue. 

Winding through the narrow streets, he reached Rue de Lombard. It was quiet, not a sound out of place or a ripple of presence to be felt. MacLeod stood still, almost testing the air, expanding his senses as much as he could. Around the block. Close to the building. Nothing. No one. Empty, despite the fact that pedestrians filled the streets.

Methos, Methos, where did you go?

Debating whether to go try the estate or remain in Brussels and continue searching, he felt a faint brush of something and he turned around. 

"May I help you?" 

MacLeod looked down and found a severe-looking older woman in a blue business suit exiting the building. She locked the door behind her.

MacLeod smiled his most charming smile. "Do you know where I can find Monsieur Monluc?"

"I am sorry. M'sieur Monluc left hours ago. Is there something I can help you with?" she asked, her words friendlier than her manner. 

"He did?" MacLeod looked at his watch. "But he told me to meet him here." He made a show of searching his pockets, throwing careful smiles in her direction hoping to soften the pinched look on her face. "We have this big dinner planned." He looked through his wallet. "Very important. I can't believe I got the location wrong. Just like me." He smiled again. "I don't suppose you would know where we were supposed to meet?"

"Yes. There appears to be some confusion. You're the second young man to come asking for M'sieur Monluc," she remarked dryly, turning to walk away.

Methos, he thought. Must have been. "Ah, but--" MacLeod quickly stepped in front of her. "Surely you must know something. This is so important. Christopher and I haven't seen each other in years."

"M'sieur Monluc did not inform me of his plans for this evening," she sniffed haughtily. 

"Madame. S'il vous plait."

She looked at him with small hard eyes, and something in his face must have spoken to her because she sighed. "I did overhear him mention dinner at Comme chez soi this evening."

MacLeod felt a rush of gratitude. "Thank you." On impulse, he kissed her forehead before walking back to his car. 

Methos stepped forward into the light of a street lamp and presence rippled down his spine. He looked across the street. Monluc, standing in a crowd of well-dressed individuals just outside the doors of a fancy French restaurant, lifted his head and looked around. 

Their eyes met, Monluc's narrowing as he looked Methos up and down. With a slight bend of his head, Methos watched Monluc excused himself from his present company and moved onto the side street away from the lights and into darkness. Methos followed.

"This is not a good time." Lightly accented, softer than a Parisian's. Monluc was handsome, no denying that -- dark-haired and dark-eyed, aristocratic. "I have no wish to fight."

Methos almost laughed. He nodded and then took out his sword from the inside of his coat. "I sympathize, really." 

Monluc narrowed his eyes. "Do I know you? You seem familiar."

Methos lifted his eyebrows. "Do I?" 

Monluc continued to stare at him. "Yes, you do. Christopher Monluc." Monluc bowed his head, unsheathed his sword. Something about the way Monluc carried himself reminded Methos of MacLeod, a similar bearing that gave off the impression of trust and friendship, but it was superficial and the light in Monluc's eyes betrayed him. Methos had known eyes like that before -- the eyes of a killer. 

Methos breathed in. "I know." And he attacked with a lateral slash, the loud clang of their swords sudden in the night stillness. 

MacLeod stopped in front of Comme chez soi. He felt it, palpable like a constant thrum pulling at his center. Turning to his left, he walked onto the side street, following his instincts. Three blocks down, he heard the ringing of steel. 

He ran, turning a corner and then another but coming up empty. Moving slowly in a circle, he listened closely. To the right and a little in front of him, down a narrow alley that opened into a courtyard. There, he found Methos, caught in a shaft of moonlight, falling to his knees before Monluc, his sword clanging to the ground.

The moment froze before him. Methos on his knees, looking up and seeing MacLeod, his eyes piercing straight through to his heart; Monluc standing above him, sword catching the light from the moon, ready to bring it down and strike.

There was no way out. Inevitability like a blanket smothered MacLeod's cry of anguish. 

Chilled air burned his lungs as he breathed, jarred by the hard landing on his knees. He looked out and found MacLeod standing half in shadow, a look of pain and despair in those familiar brown eyes.

A far-off police siren broke through the unnatural silence. Monluc turned his head. Seizing the opening, Methos picked up his sword and slashed across Monluc's stomach. He stood up, chest heaving from exertion, staring as Monluc clutched his stomach, entrails spilled through his fingers. 

"Who are you?" gasped Monluc, predictably.

"No one you'll ever know." And Methos swung, distantly registering the dull thud as the head fell and hit the ground. He turned and sought out MacLeod before the first jagged spear of quickening sliced through him. 

He had never wanted Cassandra's quickening, but now it was his. Swallowed up and shadowed by Monluc she was still the stronger, and the power of her quickening brought him to his knees for the second time that night. Overwhelming and painful, the world disappeared in a rush of light and sound and white, hot pain coming in waves until a final jagged thrust pinned him to the ground.

Momentarily blind, the edges of his vision returned and he felt hands clasp under his arms. Gasping air through seared lungs, he looked up. "Mac."

"Come on, they're almost here," Duncan said, hauling Methos to his feet and dragging him across the courtyard. "This way." 

"Duncan." He held on to MacLeod, clinging to his solid strength and warmth, shaking. 

"Shh."

MacLeod's hands kept him upright, guiding him, pushing him this way and that. He stumbled as they ran, slowly regaining the use of his legs. The sirens grew louder and louder and appeared to surround them from all sides. By some miracle of chance or MacLeod's quick thinking and good instincts, they slipped down streets and into shadows, escaping detection. 

Methos stood in front of a car, shaking off the last of his disorientation. He watched MacLeod clean off his sword and then Monluc's, stashing them in the boot, all the while avoiding his eyes.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

MacLeod nodded, face expressionless and pale, looking elsewhere. "We'd better get out of the area."

Methos got into the car, attributing the churning in his stomach to the unsettled quickening. 

MacLeod entered and shut the door behind him. Despite the urgency, he hesitated a moment before starting the car. Leaden silence filled the small space and Methos swallowed, desperate to speak but lacking words. He cleared his throat. 

"Mac. I..."

"We should find a hotel," interrupted MacLeod, starting the car.

Methos nodded, something squeezing his heart. They drove in silence, the lights of the city streaking colored lines across his vision. Twenty minutes later they stood outside the hotel Auberge de Souverain, on the other side of the city.

"Wait." MacLeod's voice made him jump and he turned towards him. "You can't go in like that." Methos took notice of his clothing, sliced and bloody.

He watched MacLeod's face while MacLeod took off his own coat and wrapped it around Methos' shoulders, fingers buttoning up a few of the buttons. Small lines showed around MacLeod's eyes and mouth that hadn't been there before. Methos' heart rose into his throat.

Their eyes met briefly. MacLeod's were expressionless, distant and almost blank. Something behind MacLeod's mask broke and Methos saw a flash of such incredible sadness it felt like a physical blow against his chest and stole his breath. 

"Come on." MacLeod's voice cracked, the unsteady facade falling back into place. They retrieved the swords and entered the hotel. Inside, standing by while MacLeod made the arrangements and got them a room, Methos tried not to shiver in the frigid lobby air, wrapped in MacLeod's coat. He shut his eyes against the glare of lights, harsh and disjointing. His stomach twisted in on itself.

Up the elevator and into their room. The hotel was nearly full, so it was just an average hotel room with a bed and a few furnishings. The decor went unnoticed, mere peripheries to the ever-widening ocean of laden silence. Methos could hear muffled sounds from other rooms, the tick tock of a clock, MacLeod's breathing as he undressed, his own breathing as he followed suit. 

Methos stood in the bathroom, glad to rid himself of the sweat and blood that clung to his skin, that he could still smell with every move he made. He didn't think, couldn't think, his movements mechanical and exact as he washed and cleaned, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. 

Walking out of the bathroom he stopped at the sight of MacLeod sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but his underwear. He looked alone and lost, their eyes meeting again in a spark. 

MacLeod quickly rose and started pulling back the blankets, the air filled with silent screams and silent begging. Talk to me. Look at me. Methos climbed into bed after Mac. Click went the light and they were plunged into darkness. His eyes stung. His throat hurt.

Two stiff figures lying side by side, MacLeod facing the window, Methos facing Mac's strong back. Dark stillness all around. 

Finally unable to bear it, Methos took a deep breath. "Duncan," he choked out. Talk to me. 

Moments as long as centuries. MacLeod turned over and reached for Methos, taking him in his arms. Ragged breathing and wet cheeks pressing against each other. 

"I'm sorry," said Methos.

MacLeod shook his head. "I'm not angry at you. I would have done the same thing. I can't be angry at you for that."

Methos nodded. "Tell me, then." He could feel MacLeod's racing heart against his chest. In the darkness, Mac's wet eyes caught the little bit of light left in the room. 

He felt MacLeod take a deep breath, his voice a quiet rumble. "I..." Methos felt Mac's fingers tighten, digging into his arms. "I thought I could do this, Methos."

Methos closed his eyes. 

"I thought I could. I want to, more than anything. But, I saw you die tonight. You were dead and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Do you know what that felt like? Do you have any idea? It's impossible, Methos. I'm not sure I can survive your death. I'm not sure I want to. It's different, this time, with you. I don't know why, but it is." He paused, wiping his eyes. "So many times throughout the years I have been the one left standing while someone I love is killed. Or, God help me, dies by my hand. I would give my life for them, ten times, a hundred times over, but that doesn't ever happen. I always live. I always survive. And I... just can't if you're dead. I couldn't do it. I'm sorry."

He realized MacLeod kept wiping his eyes, the silent tears endlessly falling. "Shh, it's all right. I'm still here." 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Shh." Methos choked on his words. "I'm not dead. I didn't die. It's all right."

MacLeod nodded. "I keep thinking of Connor. Of how he was at the end."

Methos felt MacLeod's fear. "You're not like Connor. You're stronger." 

MacLeod's fingers dug into his arm, his wet face burrowing into the hollow at Methos' neck. 

"I would give anything to change it. I almost fooled myself into believing it would work, but you're right, and I'm sorry too." Methos said the words quietly, fingers threading through MacLeod's hair. MacLeod remained silent.

They held each other until the tears ended, leaving only salty trails as memory. Sleep came, stealing the last few moments of consciousness. When Methos woke, he found himself alone. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, cultivating a nice numbness. He rose and began to dress, staring blankly at the clean set of clothing MacLeod had left for him. 

He took a moment to step outside onto the balcony. It wasn't a very tall building, so the view was limited, but the fresh air was nice. He felt detached from the world, only -- he rubbed at the center of his chest, pressing slightly -- the pain lingered. He closed his eyes and turned away.

Methos walked into the murky depths of Joe's, moving straight for the bar. He sat on a stool, exhaustion from the past two days tugging at him, pulling him down. He watched while Joe talked to another bartender about a coming shipment of liquor or the cash drawer or some other detail specific to the bar. 

Joe looked over his shoulder at Methos, pinning him with a stare. Methos tensed, wondering why he had chosen to come here. It was dangerous. Joe was dangerous.

Dismissing the other bartender, Joe approached. Quietly, without speaking, he reached for a bottle of whiskey and poured Methos a double, placing it on the wooden bar. 

"You look like you need it."

Weak smile. "Thanks." 

Joe's gaze intensified and Methos tensed again, sure he was in for a string of questions and accusations. Only, Joe remained silent and perversely the silence made Methos panic further. As a cover, he picked up the drink and gulped half of it down, wincing slightly at its fiery path. 

That left him with his thoughts. An uncomfortable pressure squeezed his chest and he breathed slowly. He still wore the clothes MacLeod had left him and they smelled of him. 

The bar was moderately full for that time of the day. All around he saw people, the city teeming with humans. He saw people coming and going. He saw them live their lives. He saw them die. He saw them born anew.

Methos existed outside of the mortal world. An observer, always. Even Joe, who in some ways was closer to him than any mortal he had ever called friend, was separated from him. For five thousand years he had done this, watched from the sidelines. Sometimes from very close, nearly living their lives. Sometimes from afar, merely spectating. 

At the far end of the bar sat an old man, his face lined with deep wrinkles, hands knotted and twisted. He sat staring at the row of bottles with watery gray eyes, a pint of dark ale half-empty in front of him.

If you didn't want him to leave, why didn't you ask him to stay?

Because it would have ended. Because how could either of them survive that? Because letting him go was the best option.

The other bartender, whose name Methos had forgotten, stood flirting with a woman over by a darkened corner of the bar. She laughed, tossing her black hair. He smiled and moved closer.

If you didn't want him to leave, why didn't you ask him to stay?

Because it was never that simple. Because wanting is not the same as having, and having is never forever. Because he was afraid.

Joe wandered back, throwing him a look before turning to fiddle with the register. Silver-gray hair, more silver than gray, but the face was very much the same as the first time Methos had met him. 

He stood up, seized with a surge of urgency. He needed to get out of here. He needed to go. He had to tell Mac. Joe turned to him.

"Where is he?" Methos could barely keep the panic from his voice.

Joe gave him a level stare and Methos refused to look away despite Joe's uncanny ability to know exactly what he was thinking. "He has a flight out of Heathrow at 5 pm. Going to Quebec, British Airways." He looked at his watch. "You have forty-five minutes."

Emotion welled up in Methos' throat. He looked down. "Thanks, Joe."

"Yeah, yeah." Joe shooed him off and Methos ran, out into the waning day. 

Back to the airport. This was rapidly becoming a theme, he thought, giving in to dark humor as he anxiously rushed to where he had parked his car, thankfully not very far. 

Forty-five minutes. Plenty of time to get to the airport. He started the car and pulled out into the London streets, promptly hitting an impenetrable tangle of traffic.

Methos tapped at the steering wheel, marking out the passing seconds. He changed from lane to lane. His heart lodged itself at the base of his throat and wouldn't move. No sooner had he made it through one snarl of traffic than he came upon a red light, and then another pocket of stagnation just behind that.

This was why relationships were impossible, he thought, falling even further into dark humor, staving off the fine edge of panic, the need to scream bloody murder at the countless automobiles that had thought it a fine day to all come out and get between him and his destination. 

The waiting ate up minutes. Thirty-five. Thirty. Twenty-five. In a burst of sudden freedom Methos broke free of London, flying at top speed towards Heathrow. 

He only heard the constant droning of the car's engine, saw only the road before him. He came upon the airport suddenly, carefully choosing the proper lane that lead him to the British Airway departures. A squeal from the tires cut through the air as he braked and got out of the car, not daring to spare time for parking. 

Upon entering the terminal, Methos walked quickly towards the gates, tripping over the luggage-burdened travelers. Nearly there, he came up short, suddenly facing several stern looking security guards and a wall of metal detectors. He had forgotten about security. A hand on his chest stopped him. 

"Sorry, sir, but you can't go through. Only ticketed passengers beyond this point."

"I understand that, but I just have to find my friend. It'll only take a minute." He tried walking past. Ahead, he could see the start of the gates, but there was no sign of MacLeod.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"But this is very important. The flight to Canada? Has it left yet?" He tried again.

"They're boarding now, sir. Please step aside." The guard held out his arm, pointing away from the security area.

Methos deferred, moving as instructed, cursing beneath his breath, the fine grip of urgency and panic threading up and down his spine. He didn't have time to buy a ticket. The security officer turned to another passenger. Methos waited for the appropriate moment, studying the situation. The net of security in airports had tightened in recent years, but he still saw holes and gaps in their armor. Carefully, he slipped past the first security officer and through to the other side. He moved quickly.

Immortal presence splashed like cold water over his head. "Mac!" he called, running down the wide concourse. 

At the back of his mind he was completely aware of the risks he was taking. At the back of his mind he knew he didn't care, all that mattered at that moment was finding Mac and making sure he knew that Methos didn't want him to leave. Yelling followed him and he knew he only had a few short moments. He ran up to the gate with the flight leaving for Canada, the last of the passengers disappearing down the boarding bridge.

"Mac!" Methos knew he was near, he could feel him. Perhaps already on the plane.

"Me-Michael?" Methos turned around and there he was, appearing at his side, his dark eyes concerned but Methos saw the flash of joy there.

They spoke at the same time. "Don't go."

"I'm not leaving."

Stampeding feet made him turn and the next thing he knew he was surrounded by a small army of airport security all pointing various automatic weapons right at him. The singular sound of weapons loading filled the sudden silence.

It took an act of God and a really good lawyer but Methos managed to avoid arrest for his run through the airport. Barely. After many hours of detainment and exhaustive interrogation in a small back room in the bowels of the British Airways terminal, the police and airport security determined Methos essentially harmless and not a terrorist. 

He agreed to pay whatever fines they asked of him and they agreed arresting a high level financial executive in a major corporation with a lot of clout for running after his male lover would only increase the media frenzy already beginning, and only serve to call more attention to their faulty security. 

By the sixth hour he was left alone in the small back room while his lawyer negotiated on his behalf. Methos stared at the beige walls feeling foolish and alone and very, very tired. The door opened and MacLeod walked in. Methos straightened and drank in the sight of him. 

"Hey. They finally let me in to see you."

Methos cleared his throat. "Hi."

An awkward moment. Then MacLeod smiled. "You should see it outside. You've really done it this time."

Methos winced. "Is it very bad?"

MacLeod nodded, ruefully. "Reporters. News cameras. Lots and lots of people. You're lucky you didn't have your sword on you. What were you thinking?"

Methos felt ill. "I wasn't thinking."

"Well, that much is obvious."

They fell silent. Methos felt MacLeod's eyes on him and he raised his to meet them. MacLeod smiled a little, more amused by the whole thing than Methos thought he had the right to be. But in truth, he was glad to see the smile.

MacLeod's eyes turned dark and reflective, making Methos' heart pound in his chest. MacLeod moved and sat in the chair next to him, facing him.

They looked at each other for long moments until Methos finally spoke. "I can't promise anything. I don't know the future. I'm as much a slave to the Game as you are. This is madness, this thing between us. We both know that." Methos felt heat gather across his face. "But, even so, I don't want you to go."

MacLeod's eyes glistened, but a fond smile played on his lips. Taking a deep breath, the smile melted back into his deep sorrowful eyes. "Couldn't get on the plane. I stood there in line with my boarding pass, hearing my seat being called, and I couldn't move. We're quite a pair, you and I."

The corner of Methos' mouth rose in a lopsided smile. Gathering the remnants of his courage, he took a controlled breath, in and out. "After five thousand years everything becomes patterns, repetitions. People, relationships, events, all permutations of the same thing over and over again. We've joked about it, but it's true. Only the details change. But in all those years, in all that time, I've never known anyone quite like you. I'm in uncharted waters here, Duncan, and that scares the shit out of me." Methos' voice roughened, receding to a whisper. 

MacLeod's eyes widened. Methos watched MacLeod digest his words, his expression shifting and changing as he understood fully what Methos was saying. Uncharted waters. Floating free of any bindings, any restraints or old curses. There was no pattern here, no obvious outcome, no inevitability. The edge of truth, only a vast sea of unknown before them. He watched MacLeod know the truth of his words and something, some unseen force lifted and they were free. 

The door opened and several people entered, reminding Methos of the world outside and the strange predicament in which he currently found himself. However, he could only look at MacLeod's burning gaze across the small distance, telling him things that only he could hear and understand. Methos breathed through the strong need to touch MacLeod. Under the table and hidden from sight, MacLeod's hand found Methos' and squeezed it.

MacLeod nodded and Methos smiled and nodded back. 

Methos stood near the pier, the wind off the water strong and cold, ruffling his hair. In the distance, the sandy winter-brown bluffs of Nova Scotia shone in the bright sunshine. A lone lighthouse kept guard over the few boats bobbing in the ocean. The air smelled of rain and snow mingled with the sea, wet and damp. Turning away from the stark beauty, he looked across the street and spied MacLeod walking towards him, dark hair contrasting with the fresh seaside brightness of the day and the colored houses of the small town. Methos shivered a little in the cold.

They'd decided after Methos' little airport incident and the business with Davies that it was best if he left the country and disappeared for a while. Particularly since it seemed he had become something of a news item, much to his complete horror. Quietly, he resigned from Lazier, retiring Michael Addison early but not regretfully. He gave his flat to Sarah, making sure she needn't rely on secretarial work if she didn't want to. Sarah had cried and it surprised Methos how much he missed her.

MacLeod stopped halfway to him, helping a small child who had fallen and sat crying on the sidewalk, large wet tears streaming down her small face. He picked her up and set her right, squatting down to her level. Tears still streaming, the child pointed and cried. Methos watched MacLeod turn and walk the child to her mother who appeared, breathless, taking the child from MacLeod. Methos watched their expressions, too far away to hear their conversation.

After a suitable period of non-existence, he thought he would return to England. MacLeod appeared to like it there, not ready to let go of his shop and loft just yet. Methos had the vineyard to think of, also. It had been a very long time indeed since he had tried his hand at viticulture. Many things had changed; he thought it would be interesting. So they would return, MacLeod to London and Methos to his small vineyard just south of Dover.

The young mother, a delicate blonde of perhaps thirty years, smiled at MacLeod, laughing at something he said. She picked up her daughter who had stopped crying, and MacLeod helped her get into her car, holding her shopping bags and the stroller. 

One day, Methos thought, watching MacLeod charm the pretty blonde woman and her daughter without really trying. One day, perhaps he and MacLeod would part. He wasn't so befuddled with love to think this would last forever. That was fantasy. 

The blonde woman drove off and MacLeod resumed walking towards Methos. He caught Methos looking at him and he smiled. Methos watched him, taking in every detail -- the way his coat caught the wind and how that lock of hair fell just over his eye. Finally reaching him, MacLeod took his hand and smiled that knowing smile of his. He leaned in and whispered in Methos' ear.

Yes, perhaps one day they would part, but not today, nor for a long time still. 

Still smiling, MacLeod leaned back and looked inquiringly at Methos. "What are you thinking?" 

"That it's bloody cold here. Rain, snow, wind. We might as well have stayed in London."

MacLeod laughed. "You should see it during the early summer."

"I'm sure it's wonderful. Only thing is, it's winter." Methos thought he made a very good point. "How long do you plan on staying?"

MacLeod's eyes twinkled and he leaned in, catching Methos in a kiss, stealing his breath and making his blood pound in his chest. MacLeod kissed him again, deeper, and then drew back. "I don't know. Until spring?"

Methos blinked. "Oh. Okay. No rush or anything." MacLeod chuckled, delighted. Methos frowned. Cheeky bastard. But he smiled also, and then found himself leaning into MacLeod, and they stood watching the dark blue waters toss and turn, breaking against the jagged rocks of the coastline in a brilliant crash of light.