Special thanks to Killabeez for beta-ing, helping control my unhealthy obsession for semicolons, and for making me smile. Any remaining mistakes are mine. 
 

Methos swiveled in his chair. Back and forth. He rested one arm on his desk, extended, a pen held loosely in his hand.  He tapped the pen: tap, tap, tap, marking the seconds passing by. Staring out his office window, he noticed the pasty white London skies beginning to darken as day ended and rain threatened. Pedestrians walked underneath his window; a woman with a red scarf did a half-walk, half-run into the building across the street. Cars honked, making their fitful way through the narrow streets of the city. 

The central air vent above his head gave a burst of air. Desire to be outside suddenly gripped him and he wanted to walk along the Thames. Spring approached, although it wasn't obvious at the moment. 

A quiet, insistent knock on his door pulled his attention away from the drama of day descending into evening and onto his secretary's face. 

"Yes, Sarah?"

"Your four o'clock meeting has started. They're asking for you." Prim and plump, and young, there was an undercurrent of hesitation whenever Sarah spoke that Methos found difficult to deal with. She was like that with everyone and had been passed around Lazier until it was Methos' turn. She was a terrible secretary, it was true, but he kept her because she made his coffee the way he liked it and had a sweet smile when she felt comfortable enough to give it. 

Methos looked at his watch and held back a sigh, knowing that he'd deliberately made himself late. The tedium of his current chosen life was beginning to mar its original luster. Gathering the paperwork he needed and a notepad, he stood up, readying to leave. 

Sarah looked like she had more to say but was unsure how to say it. "Something else?" he prodded.

"Phone call, sir, just now." 

"Michael, Sarah, I asked you to call me Michael."

"Yes, sir. Michael--"

"Who is it? Never mind, I don't have time." Methos looked at his watch again. It was quarter past. "Just take a message--"

"It's a Joe Dawson," said Sarah as she moved to do his bidding, returning to her desk and reaching for a message pad.

Methos stiffened, halting mid stride.

Methos paused in the doorway of the dimly lit establishment, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light. A familiar voice floated from the back and he made his way towards it as his surroundings emerged from the shadows: lounge chairs, booths of cracked leather, long low tables, faux Persian carpets. Joe's was becoming positively hip. 

Bathed in light from an overhanging fixture, Joe was behind the bar, talking into the phone. He waved Methos over, all the while muttering "um-hms" and "okays" to whomever he spoke with. Methos sat down on a stool. 

"All right, call me when he gets there," said Joe before hanging up. He turned to Methos. "Hey, buddy. Long time no see."

"Yes, it has been a while, hasn't it."

"Want something to drink?" Joe asked with a smirk as Methos peered over the bar, plucked a glass, and filled it with beer from the wrong side of the bar. 

"Yes, thanks," Methos answered with all seriousness before drinking from his glass.  "Just get back from New York?"

Joe nodded. "Where I thought you were going to stay."

Methos shrugged. "Change of plans."

"What, the office need you to send an urgent fax?" 

"Are you teasing me, Joe?"

"I think I am," Joe said, matter-of-factly.  "Trying to anyway. Seriously Methos, what brought you back so soon?" 

Methos' eyes skidded away, noticing for the first time the few people tucked away in various nooks and crannies.  Joe's new bar was a haven for secret illicit meetings. He looked at his glass, seeing the foam clinging to the sides, listening to the music playing but not recognizing the artist. His fingers traced over a gash in the wood of the counter. 

"All right, have it your way."

Methos smiled, almost sadly, and drank his beer. 

"You might be interested to know MacLeod left New York today."

Methos gripped his glass. 

"He's not coming back here, though," said Joe, keeping his eyes on Methos as he prepped limes for later. "Do you know why Mac would head towards Nova Scotia? We figure Connor must have had property up there, only there's nothing in his chronicles about it."

Probably, thought Methos. He really didn't feel like speculating. Must everything be about MacLeod?

"What do you think?" 

Methos summoned up disinterest. "Why are you asking me?"

Joe shrugged as he spoke. "You knew Connor. You know Mac. I thought you might have an idea."

"Well, I don't," Methos snapped and immediately regretted it. By way of apologizing, he handed Joe his empty glass and with a small smile indicated he wanted a refill. Joe looked at him squarely. Methos held his breath, knowing all too well how perceptive the other man was. It had been a bad idea to come to Joe's.

After a moment, Joe shook his head but filled the glass. Placing it on the counter, he waited for Methos to reach for it before snatching it back. 

"Joe?"

"What happened in New York?"

Methos attempted a scoff. "Nothing." He reached again for the beer. Joe pulled it back even further. 

"Uh-uh. Something happened. You were only with him for two nights, Methos. What did you do?"

Like a dog with a bone, thought Methos. "Nothing as dire as you seem to be indicating. Can I please have the beer now?" Definitely a bad idea. 

"Did you two have a fight?"

"Let it go, Joe."

"That's it, isn't it?"

"Joe," Methos warned. 

"Just tell me. What did you fight about? Your timing is lousy, buddy." Joe shook his head as he wiped the counter. "You always have to prove some point, don't you?"

Methos closed his eyes, hiding from the harshness of the naked light bulb above. He dropped his head. Under his breath, under Joe's accusations, he said, "We didn't fight." 

"You couldn't just let him be. I swear, Methos--"

"Damn it, Joe! Will you please just shut up and give me the beer!" 

The shout took both of them by surprise. Pure unadulterated anger roared through Methos, uncalled for, unasked, like a hot gust of wind at the back of his throat. Methos gripped the edge of the counter until the flush of heat that flamed his eyes cooled and his vision cleared. Joe's blue eyes widened slighty. 

"Sorry," said Methos, clearing his throat. "I didn't mean that." He looked down, relaxing his grip. 

"It's all right. I shouldn't have pushed." 

Methos nodded. Joe set the beer on the counter. 

"Listen Joe, nothing happened. Nothing of any importance, anyway. He just needed time alone." He met Joe's eyes, but found his heart rising into his throat and looked away again. 

"Okay," murmured Joe.

A silence followed in which Methos learned that the clock over the bar could be heard ticking over the jukebox and the street noise that filtered in. He got up. 

"Leaving?"

"Yeah. I'll see you around." The beer remained on the counter.

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Addison has just gone into a meeting. Would you care to leave--?" 

 "Sarah, wait," interrupted Methos. "I'll take it. Send it through. And call into the conference room and tell them I'll be late." As if that weren't obvious already. Sarah looked faintly uneasy about having to call and interrupt the meeting. Not caring if she did or not, Methos shut his door just as the phone on his desk rang. 

"Addison," he stated.

"Wasn't sure you were still taking my calls." Joe's familiar rasp teased his ear.

"Petulance doesn't become you, Joe," he said, a smile crossing his lips. "When have I ever refused a call from you? Besides, one has to actually call in order to be refused."

Joe hurrumphed.

"I'll have you know I'm missing a very important meeting by taking your call. You should feel honored."

"Right. I'll remember that."

Methos chuckled. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Can you come by the bar tonight?"

"Hm, I suppose. Why?" he asked, letting suspicion creep into his voice. He missed teasing Joe. 

"You need a reason?" 

"Generally, yes."

"How about it's been nearly a month since you last saw my shining face? How's that?"

Methos smiled, envisioning the crooked smile on Joe's face. "Well, if that's the best you can come up with, I guess I can arrange to stop by."

Joe snorted. "Thanks, buddy."

"And Joe?"

"Yeah?"

Methos paused. The second hand of his desk clock caught his attention. "Nothing. I'll see you later," he said, hanging up before Joe could respond.

He half expected Methos to be waiting. It would be so like him, MacLeod thought, to know. To be casually leaning against a wall, hands in his coat pockets, watching the airport patrons bustle about with an amused half-smile on his lips. But Methos wasn't there. MacLeod had almost called earlier, to say that he was returning. For some reason it never happened. He wondered if that was regret he felt pooling at the bottom of his stomach, or something else. Something sharper. 

He sighed, shifted the bag he carried, and headed for the taxis waiting outside. He was glad to be moving after the long customs line, and the kink in his back eased. 

Back in London, he thought, as he exited the terminal. The gray-white skies of early evening greeted him. The air felt cold and clammy. Rain threatened. He looked around, seeing people walking, people entering cars, cars driving away. Why was he here? London, for all that it was currently home, seemed distant, unwelcoming. Or maybe it was he who was distant, floating just outside and unable to get back in. 

MacLeod shook the feeling off and raised his hand for a taxi. Two cars approached, one taxi and one mid-sized sports utility vehicle. He headed for the taxi, thinking the other was just another airport patron getting ready to unload, when he heard his name.

"Mac!"

Ah, someone had known. Suddenly everything was all right and he felt unaccountably glad to see his friend's craggy grin. 

"Joe, fancy meeting you here," MacLeod said, grinning, leaning in through the window. 

"Get in, would you."

"Okay." Mac waved to the disappointed taxi driver as he entered the car, thrusting his bag into the back seat. Dawson waited till Mac closed his door before pulling away from the curb. 

"I suppose I shouldn't ask how you knew I'd be here."

"Not unless you want an answer." Dawson gave him a snaggle-toothed smile as he dodged traffic and eased them out of the airport and onto the road leading towards London.

MacLeod smiled. "It's good to see you. Thanks." 

Dawson shrugged, waving the thanks aside. "I almost let you fend for yourself."

"Oh."

They grinned at each other, each taking in the other's appearance. Dawson looked his usual self, a bit more gray perhaps. When Dawson's eyes narrowed, MacLeod looked away, turning to watch the London skyline inch closer. 

Quiet closed in on them, uncomfortable in its suddenness. Was it uncomfortable because they had nothing to talk about, or because there was too much? 

"Go ahead, Joe. I can tell you want to ask, so ask."

Dawson huffed a half-laugh, half-snort, looking over at him. "Think you know me so well, do you?

"When haven't you had at least one question," MacLeod replied. He faced Dawson, trying to open up to his friend, watching him steer the car.

"Fair enough." Dawson grinned and looked at him and then asked, "Where to?" 

There was a glint of mischief in Dawson's blue eyes that said, "heh, got you," and MacLeod chuckled, shaking his head. 

Where to? He thought of his home in London. It'd been four months since he was last there. It seemed like longer and at the same time, like yesterday. Having been in and out of hotels for so long now, it was odd to suddenly have a home again. He'd gotten used to roaming, gotten used to it just being him, his sword, a few supplies, a change of clothes. Gotten used to the new hole in his life. 

Where to, he asked himself again. With an emotion that felt close to panic, he looked at Dawson, blue eyes glancing at him as he drove. London whipped by silently in the background. "I'm hungry. Let's get some food." 

They paused at an intersection. Dawson's direct gaze held him while he felt his heart beat in his chest. He forced himself not to fidget, not to look away. 

Suddenly, Joe smiled. "I know just the place," he said, smartly, with a cheeky grin. 

Feeling the tension leave his body, MacLeod smiled back. Of course he does.

Immortal presence shivered down Methos' spine, causing him to slow to a stop just at the entrance to Joe's bar. Breath left his body. Damn Joe, he thought. The watcher was much too meddling by half. 

Someone pushed him from behind and he moved to one side, letting a young couple pass him. He endured a wrathful look from the girl, her red lips muttered curses under her breath. Methos blinked blankly back at her. 

He looked up, his heart hammering. The sky was dark and the air thick with cold moisture. The street light over Methos made small rainbows; specks of condensation glistened on his coat. As he stood there, larger drops of water began to fall, one after another. 

Swearing he would start refusing calls from Joe Dawson, Methos rushed inside before he became too wet. Practically tumbling down the steps into the bar, he collided with the red-lipped girl, knocking her handbag to the floor.

"Watch it," said the red-lipped girl.

"Sorry," Methos said hurriedly, bending over to pick up her bag. She grabbed it from him, glaring at him darkly. He choked trying to hold back his laughter, amused by her general put-upon attitude. 

"Making friends, I see." 

Methos turned away from the girl and fell still. MacLeod stood before him. He looked much as he had the last time Methos had seen him, months ago. Not quite as weary, though, and for that Methos was glad. 

People moved about them, pushing at Methos, jostling MacLeod. They took little notice. The bar seemed distant, receding. All Methos could see was the charming hesitation in Mac's eyes, in the cant of his head, the rise and fall of his chest, breathing. Methos knew the long span of waiting was over, and still all he could do was stand and stare, his own hesitation rooting him to the floor. Like a spell breaking, MacLeod moved forward and suddenly wrapped Methos in a hug. 

"Methos," MacLeod breathed his name and Methos' arms encircled him. He lowered his head, resting it into the cradle of Mac's neck.

"Hullo, Mac," he said, tightening his arms slightly. 

They parted, eyes downcast, and made their way to the back, to Joe who'd watched and waited.

They sat at a table that had a good view and was near the bar. Long stretches of silence passed. They listened to Joe play, to the snatches of conversations that tumbled into their laps, to the music that played when the house band wasn't. 

"Did you come straight here?" Methos asked, noticing Mac's bag.

"Yes. I was hungry. There's no food at my place."

Methos nodded, noting the lack of evidence, such as a plate, on the table. It must have been cleared away. 

He watched Mac's hands play with the label on his beer. "Did you know?"

"That you were here?"

Mac nodded, eyes and hands on his beer, his elbows resting on the table. 

"No. Not until I felt you."

A smiled twitched on Mac's lips, small and brief. "You looked a bit surprised. It was cute."

"I'm good at cute." 

Mac rolled his eyes, but they both smiled and some of the tension eased. Footing was regained and Methos found his way back to the familiar ground of their friendship. 

"Don't tell me. Something about standard defense technique perfected after several millennia," Mac teased.

"Hardly. Comes natural-like. I don't even have to practice."

"Oh, please. I take it back. It was more like a deer and headlights thing."

"Deer are cute."

"Did I say deer? I meant moose."

They grinned stupidly at each other, their eyes meeting. MacLeod looked down and away, grabbing his beer, taking a sip, and the moment passed. 

The band stopped and it was suddenly quiet. Methos watched the musicians place their instruments onto their various stands. Mac shifted next to him. 

"I looked for you. At the airport," MacLeod spoke softly. 

Methos froze and looked over at MacLeod. Air fled from his lungs and he marveled at how easy it was to regret. 

"I would have been there, if I'd known." 

MacLeod nodded. "I know."

A million unspoken words rushed to Methos' throat, trying to get out. Too many. He shook his head. "Why didn't you call?"

MacLeod shrugged and remained silent for a moment before answering.  "It wasn't until you weren't there, that I realized." He didn't look at Methos and once again picked at the label on his half-empty beer bottle. 

Just then, Joe came and sat down, muttering under his breath about trivial things, of bars and musicians, and especially British musicians, with just enough ire to let them know he was miffed at something. Methos looked at Joe, then back at MacLeod and settled into his chair. With his own bottle he tapped MacLeod's, making a dull tinkle noise. Catching Mac's gaze, he smiled before drinking his beer.

Mac's eyes warmed and he raised his beer, finishing it off. Their gazes met again.

Next time, Mac. I'll be there.

Mac left, citing jetlag, with no more than an awkward pause and a skittish look.

"I'll see you, Methos."

Methos could only nod and then watched MacLeod pick up his things. There was another awkward look that managed to convey how tired MacLeod was and how he needed to go and see his home that he'd ignored for nearly four months, and something else. Something Methos was afraid to interpret. Something that made him halt and hold his breath with its uncertainty, too long. Mac gave a little wave and then left. 

Moments after, Methos sat staring off with eyes unfocused, listening to the warring instincts inside of him. To stay. To go. To follow. 

"You know," Joe's voice cut through and Methos looked over at the other man. Joe rose from his chair, gathering the empty beer bottles on the table with his free hand. "I have one word for you."

"Oh. Only one? Must be my lucky day."

Joe ambled over to the bar and placed the empties there, picking up another pair of fresh ones from the bartender. He ambled back. 

"Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?"

Blue eyes gleamed at him; a small, knowing smile played on Joe's mobile face. The watcher placed one of the beers on the table. He moved closer to Methos, leaned over, and said simply, "Liar."

Joe saluted his beer towards Methos before drinking, and then with an air of dismissal ambled his way to the stage area where the musicians starting back up for their second set of the night. 

Methos watched Joe walk away. Yes, that was true enough, he thought. 

He listened to the music with eyes half closed, picking out Joe's guitar riffs, pinned down by indecision. To stay. To go. To follow. Moments slipped into songs and soon half the set was over. 

Abruptly, he got up. Waving a good-bye to Joe, he left the bar. Outside, rain fell softly, like a wet haze. He stood still, listening to the whisper of water falling on stone and pavement. The night sparkled. 

The bar was close to his flat and despite the rain, he decided to walk. Only, he found himself turning east, towards the Thames instead of west and home. Well, he'd wanted to walk along the river earlier, now was as good a time as any.

Because he was too old to fool himself, he stopped thinking and let his feet guide his way. He walked along the London streets. He kept his mind blank, one hand in a coat pocket, the other absently twirling the umbrella he'd pinched from Joe. Over a bridge and down a few more streets, Methos suddenly found himself very near MacLeod's flat without recalling much of how he got there. 

Far enough to avoid Immortal presence, Methos cursed himself silently as he paced and paused and paced again. Feeling every inch the coward, he watched late evening pedestrians mill about: a couple holding hands, an elderly woman with a plastic rain hat and a small dog, a young man with fuchsia hair and a black guitar case running into a nearby building. 

No lights were on in MacLeod's building. He must have gone to sleep already. Unnamed emotions roiled in his stomach, finally settling on resignation. Joe was right; his timing left much to be desired. He left, making his way back up to the Waterloo station, choosing the drier way home. 

Inside the tube it was warm and steamy, the stink of wet wool all around him. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the vibrations, feeling his seat shake ever so slightly. 

The Hyde Park stop came and he got out. The rain still fell, slightly harder than earlier. The park loomed dark and impenetrable on his left. He walked, umbrella in hand, and soon came upon the familiar shape of his home. He slowed as he approached, spying a lone figure sitting on the steps, wrapped in shadows. 

As Immortal presence spiked through Methos, he watched the silent figure lift his head and catch the light from street lamps, profile revealed. 

Methos paused at the foot of the stairs, staring silently. MacLeod was drenched, and his skin shone pale in the meager light. Brown eyes looked at Methos, waiting, uncertain, and just the slightest bit lost. 

Without a word, Methos started up the stairs, pausing to pick up Mac's bag, and led the way to his door. MacLeod followed behind him. 

"Wait here."

MacLeod obeyed, dripping in the foyer while Methos turned the lights on and took their coats and his bag, returning with a towel. 

"Here."

"Thanks." MacLeod smiled weakly and started rubbing his hair dry. 

He followed Methos into his kitchen and sat on a stool. MacLeod watched and Methos made coffee. The air felt chilled against his damp skin and he ruthlessly suppressed shivers. Setting the towel aside, he looked around. Methos' kitchen was small but well laid out, utilitarian and barely modernized. A struggling potted plant sat unhappily on the corner of the windowsill, framed by pale yellow curtains with small white flowers. The curtains made MacLeod smile and he wondered if the previous tenants had left them or if Methos had picked them out himself. 

The sounds and smells of percolating coffee pulled his attention back and he realized that Methos was watching him.

"Nice curtains."

Methos looked over to the window with a lopsided smile but said nothing, busying himself with coffee mugs, milk and sugar. Soon, MacLeod held hot coffee in his hand and was nibbling on digestive biscuits. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Methos asked, one hip leaning against the counter, stirring his coffee with a swirling sound. 

Talk about what, exactly, wondered MacLeod. There was so much to choose from. Bits of his biscuit fell and floated in his coffee. He felt Methos approach. 

"Mac."

MacLeod looked up. Methos faced him and he expected to feel crowded and penned in, only the gentle acceptance on Methos' face took him by surprise. 

"Methos," he said, for no reason. Rain pattered against the windowpane. MacLeod breathed, and spoke. "I don't think I can go home, just yet. Thought I could, but..." He shook his head. It made no sense to him, why his silent and still home had been so desperately uninviting when all he wanted was to return to his life. 

Opaque hazel eyes stared at him. "It would make it very real, wouldn't it? Real, and over."

Over. MacLeod blinked and then nodded. "It isn't--" He cleared his throat. "It isn't the same, like it was after Richie -- that time." 

The opaqueness faded slightly. "Sometimes it's the same. Sometimes it's different. You can't direct how you're going to feel." 

A sudden wind came and rattled the windowpane. The coffee maker hissed steam. MacLeod looked down at the mug in his hands.

"And sometimes," Methos spoke, breaking the eerie quiet that had settled, "you don't have to do everything alone. I'll go with you, if you want."

MacLeod smiled. "I'd like that."

They finished their coffee in silence. Moments slipped past. The night was no longer young but the rain still fell, ever present, like white noise in the background. 

"Are you tired?"

"Yes." The word sighed out of him, weighted by the heaviness in his limbs. It had been a long day. 

"Come." 

MacLeod followed Methos to a bedroom where his bag waited. Passing Methos in the doorway, he stepped into the center and spun in a slow circle. Small and comfortable with few furnishings and low lighting, it was clearly a spare bedroom. MacLeod looked at Methos standing in the doorway.

"There are towels in the top drawer. Bathroom's down the hall. Make yourself at home," Methos said, his voice low, his eyes flittering around the room. Uncertainty hung in the air.

"Thanks." MacLeod barely got the word out. He stood in the middle, a steady pressure growing in the center of his chest.

"See you in the morning." Methos turned to leave, stepping away, withdrawing.

"Methos, wait." The words were squeezed from MacLeod. Methos turned back. Their eyes met. Two steps each brought them together. MacLeod reached for Methos, hands taking hold of Methos' face and with a smothered moan, he kissed him. MacLeod shook. Their noses crushed against each other, against cheeks and stubble and tongues. 

His hands moved down and he gripped Methos around his chest, fingers digging deep, pulling close. Hungry kisses, back and forth. MacLeod couldn't stop, filled with a welling of such need he heard himself whimper. Gentle fingers caressed across his cheekbone and he was suddenly undone. He buried his face into Methos' neck, arms squeezing tightly. 

They stood, each gripping the other. Methos petted, gently, fingers sliding through his hair. MacLeod felt Methos' heart beating. Softly, he started nuzzling and kissing Methos' neck, the desperation passing. Kisses along the jaw line, and around the neck and Adam's apple. Methos lifted his head, exposing his neck, while his hands unbuttoned and pushed Mac's shirt open. 

The shirt dropped to the floor. Methos pushed Mac backwards onto the bed, and they kissed again, wet and deep and hungry. Methos' shirt was tugged off. A series of thuds resonated in the room as shoes fell to the floor. Both pairs of pants followed.

MacLeod grabbed Methos, naked and smooth, and gripped him at the hips, thrusting upwards, his cock sliding against Methos' cock, both hot and hard. He gasped and he kissed Methos with his mouth open and his heart in his throat. Arousal spiked through him and he hardened even more. He clutched at Methos, lifting him with his thrusts, crying out as he came, shuddering in waves, shaking. 

A moment of stunned quiet passed. MacLeod looked up and saw eyes feverish but smiling. Methos planted little kisses across Mac's cheeks and nose. He felt the wetness between them and Methos' still hard cock gently prodding his hip.

MacLeod touched Methos' face and then spread his legs, watching Methos' eyes darken and flame at the same time. It was fascinating and frightening and MacLeod found he had to look away, unable to meet them. 

"Mac?" His name hung in the air of the quiet room. 

Mac answered with kisses, with his hand wrapping around Methos' erection, slick with MacLeod's come. He answered with his legs widening. Methos made a strangled noise and then sat back some, grabbing MacLeod's legs, pulling them farther apart. Mac felt the slide of thighs against the back of his own. Arms caged him and he kissed a convenient shoulder as Methos' slick cock nudged against the entrance to his body.

In and out and across the prostate. Faster, until Mac stopped breathing, bucking slightly when Methos grabbed his renewed erection. Mac bit down on Methos' wrist and Methos gasped and cried out and convulsed as he came. 

MacLeod whispered into Methos' ear that he was going to take a shower. He wondered if he should take Methos with him, but it didn't look like Methos was moving anytime soon. So Mac just kissed him on the shoulder and grabbed some towels as he slipped out of the room. 

The hallway was cold but the floor in the bathroom was colder. Mac quickly jumped onto the bathmat while the water heated. He stepped in, hot water thundering down around him, the rain outside echoing faintly. He bowed his head, feeling the water travel down his neck and back.

Washing and scrubbing, his mind touched on many things. On Methos and Connor. On Joe and briefly on Kate. Water pooled at his feet and he thought Methos should fix it so one didn't find themselves wading in a pool when they took a shower. 

The water cooled. MacLeod stepped out, toweling dry. He found Methos' robe hanging from a hook and put it on, smelling Methos. 

He padded down the hall and back to the room. The rumpled bed was empty. It was not what he expected and it made him stand still and silent. Digging into his bag he pulled out his pajama bottoms and put them on, tossing Methos' robe onto the bed. Turning the light off, he left the room, leaving the bed unmade. 

It took him only a moment to find Methos' bedroom. Silently, holding his breath to keep from making any noise, he slipped in. The room was completely dark, except for the weak light of a street lamp filtering in through the curtained window. Ghostly shadows crowded. Quietly, MacLeod walked around the bed to the side that had the silent lump he assumed was Methos. He knelt down beside the bed and slowly placed his hand on Methos' head, thumb touching just between the eyes. They opened and smiled at him. 

"Hello," whispered Mac, his thumb tracing an eyebrow. 

Methos rose onto his elbow. MacLeod could just make out his look of silent amusement. Seconds passed and then Methos lifted the blankets and MacLeod scrambled in beside him. 

"And you're warm, " MacLeod murmured, smiling, nuzzling, but after a moment he withdrew his hands. 

Methos stopped him, whispering, "It's okay," and he relaxed next MacLeod. They lay quietly, legs tangled, arms loose around each other. MacLeod started to drift towards sleep.

"Mac?"

"Yes."

Methos shifted and looked down at him. Mac turned onto his back, meeting Methos' eyes in the darkness.

"Duncan," said Methos, breathing his name, and although he did not want to, although he tried not to, MacLeod understood. Tonight, they'd stepped over some invisible line and if there was to be any going back, it would be hard won. 

"I know," he said, his voice breaking. Methos dipped down and kissed him on a cheekbone before settling next to him. Darkness shrouded over them as they drifted off to sleep. 

Weak sunlight fell gently across MacLeod's face, waking him. Warm and sleepy, he turned and stretched, noticing he was alone. A furnace hummed to life and he heard Methos' voice floating in from somewhere. MacLeod listened to the familiar comforting rumble. The rain had stopped, he noticed. Smells of breakfast drifted in and his stomach rumbled. 

With a gust of a sigh, MacLeod rose and made his way through to the kitchen, bright with morning sun. Methos stood cooking with one hand while the other held a phone. He had the look of someone listening to a lengthy talker. Mac smiled slightly as their gazes met before grabbing a mug and pouring some coffee. He sat on a stool, wondering who Methos was talking to and noticing the other man was fully dressed. MacLeod looked down at his pajama bottoms and bare chest, knowing his hair stood at all ends, and laughed inwardly at the interesting reversal of positions he suddenly found himself at with Methos. 

"Mm-hm," said Methos into the phone, placing a plate in front of MacLeod. Eggs and bacon, tomato slices, sausages, toast. "And the third quarter earnings reflect that? Right."

MacLeod tried to remember who Michael Addison was and what he did. No bookseller, that much he got. He salted his tomatoes and started on his eggs, longing for some orange juice. It appeared before him, like magic, and MacLeod looked up in time to see Methos return the juice to the refrigerator. 

It struck him at that moment that he knew very little about Methos in his current life. Where did he work? Did he have friends? How did he spend his time? Obviously Michael Addison was quite different from Adam Pierson. MacLeod thought of the expensive apartment and the nice clothes, remembering New York and Methos' hotel. MacLeod had been in London for a few years now, still spending time in Paris, but mostly in London. In all that time, had he never inquired about Methos' life? How was it that he didn't know the place where Methos worked, or even what he did there? MacLeod tried to think of the times since he'd moved to London that they had come together, as friends. Once or twice at Joe's. An occasional visit to their respective homes. Precious little, he thought, his throat dry. 

Methos ended his call and MacLeod opened his mouth to ask Methos why that was so. Only before he could say a word, Methos was on another call. MacLeod thought maybe he should be annoyed, thinking all this phone calling was rather excessive, if not at the very least rude. Then he remembered it was Thursday and Methos was here, with him, and not at work, wherever that was. 

"That's right," Methos said as he poured more coffee for himself. "Cancel everything for today. Reschedule what you can." Methos paused, listening, as he took the plate he'd prepared for himself and, holding his phone with his shoulder bunched up to his ear, he carried his food and coffee and sat across from Mac. 

"Just tell them it can't be helped. And don't forget to tell Davies I can't meet with him today. You can send him an email if you prefer." Methos sounded a bit exasperated, and MacLeod wondered again who he was talking to. Sounded like maybe an assistant this time. 

MacLeod couldn't stop staring at Methos. The differences from Adam were subtle and at the same time, they nearly shouted. 

Methos caught his attention and smiled at him, continuing his call. "Send all my calls to voice mail. Yes, and call me on the mobile if there's a problem, but don't give the number out. Right. Okay, got it? Talk to you later." Methos sighed as he ended the call. 

"Last one?" MacLeod asked and resumed eating. 

"Not bloody likely," Methos said, with a sigh of resigned annoyance. "My secretary is seriously not happy with me. I wouldn't be surprised if she calls every five minutes."

Secretary. Methos had a secretary. Somehow MacLeod thought that should be funny, only it didn't make him laugh. It made him sad. Sad to think they'd been living in the same town, could call each other friends, and yet MacLeod knew next to nothing about Methos' life. 

"What is it?" Methos asked, coffee cup half way to his mouth. 

MacLeod fiddled with his egg and a piece of toast. "What do you do?" he asked, looking up. "Where do you work?"

Methos sipped his coffee, smiling wryly as he set the mug down. "Ever hear of a company called Lazier?"

MacLeod's eyebrows went up. "You're kidding."

"So you have heard of it?"

"Only in passing. Investment banking, right?" 

"Yes. Among other things. There are larger firms than ours. We're actually quite small, considering. Still global, of course. I mainly work in a special division, developing technology funds."

MacLeod furrowed his brow and sat and stared at Methos, a perplexed look on his face. 

"Didn't your mother ever warn you about making faces? It'll stay that way, you know." 

"I'm just trying to figure this out."

"Well don't try too hard. You'll scare the natives."

MacLeod picked up his toast, buttered it, and munched pensively, brows still furrowed. "It's not a life I would have guessed you'd choose," he said, looking at Methos. 

Methos shrugged, looking out the kitchen window. "I've been many things, MacLeod."

"So you've said before. I suppose business tycoon is nothing new to you. Hostile takeovers and what not." 

A curious light entered Methos' eyes as he looked briefly at MacLeod. "Actually," he said, almost quietly, "it's rather undiscovered country for me. This is my first go round as business tycoon."

For a second time, MacLeod's eyebrows went up. He cleared his throat. "And how do you find it?"

Methos thought for a second. "It's interesting. A lot like chess, in a way, only with companies and money. Breeds a curious sort of people. I knew Jacques Lazier, you know. Nice man. He went from trading dry goods to trading gold during the California gold rush, and before you knew it, he was one very rich man. I've watched his company grow, through the years. I own a good portion of it." Methos shrugged. "It's not a difficult life, but it does demand a lot of time. I'm not sure that I like it, but they make a hell of a lot of money. Developing technology funds involves a fair bit of research, which I like, into the companies and the people who run them. Some of the companies do some fun things, interesting software or Internet ventures, that sort of thing. I have a lot of free rein. No hostile takeovers, though." He paused, shrugging. "I was curious. The way of the future, and all that."

MacLeod nodded but felt only slightly more enlightened. Moments slipped by. 

"Seriously, Mac. That must hurt." Methos reached over and with his fingers, he massaged Mac's eyebrows and between his eyes, smoothing them out. 

"I'm still putting it all together." MacLeod consciously relaxed his face, closing his eyes briefly. Methos' fingers trailed down the side of Mac's face and around to cup the back of his head. Mac leaned across their unfinished breakfast and they kissed, sweetly, mouths barely open, tongues just touching. Methos tasted like coffee and tomatoes.

The kiss ended and MacLeod suddenly thought the kitchen was very bright. He looked away, getting up. He walked over to the little window and saw clear sky and stark bare trees, branches shuddering in the wind. It looked cold outside. It had stopped raining. 

Turning back, he saw Methos sitting, eating his breakfast. He looked alone, his back facing MacLeod. MacLeod had no words for the emotions knotting in his stomach. He moved to stand behind Methos, placing one hand where neck meets shoulder. Bending down slightly, he touched his nose into the crook of Methos' neck. 

His heart beat against his chest. Methos' hand reached up, caressing his neck. They remained like that, still, letting the morning move forward.

They finished breakfast, the mood somewhat broken but not completely lost. 

"I'll clean up. You go and get ready," said Methos, rising and clearing plates. 

"Okay." MacLeod hurried off. Methos watched him go and then stared at the dirty plates. His hands rested on the cool porcelain of the sink. He gripped the edge tightly and felt the ungiving smoothness marred by tiny imperfections. His head dropped and he leaned all of his weight onto his arms. Sharp edges of tile cut into the fleshy part of his palms and the small bite of pain drew him back and he relaxed. Scraping the dishes clean, he rinsed them quickly before MacLeod jumped in the shower. 

He cleaned the kitchen and was soon finished, just as MacLeod returned smelling of fresh steam and aftershave. Mac carried his shoes and a clean pair of socks in his hands. He flashed a smile at Methos and then sat down and started putting on his socks. Methos watched him, but looked away before MacLeod could see. 

"Do you want to do this today? You don't have to."

MacLeod stood, a reflective look crossing his face. "Yeah, I think so." 

Methos eyed MacLeod critically. Gone was the lost look from the night before. He smiled easily. There was less strain around the eyes. Okay, thought Methos.

"Well, let's go then." He handed MacLeod his coat and grabbed his own and MacLeod picked up his bag. Methos held the door, following MacLeod out. Cool spring air ruffled his hair. The skies were filled with white clouds. 

Methos hailed a cab. "In Lambeth, 16 King Edward's Walk." They settled into the back seat and then his phone rang. With a brief apologetic look to MacLeod, he answered. 

"Addison."

It was his secretary. He looked at his watch. 9:24. Not bad, he thought, almost forty-five minutes. "Yes, Sarah."

"Sir, Mr. Davies needs the contact information for the Vlieland Group. I've looked everywhere for it, but I can't find the file."

"That's because I have it." Hm, he thought, probably should have left that at the office. Too late now. "Is he right there?"

"Yes, sir."

Methos sighed. He hoped Davies wasn't giving her a hard time. "Try the Rolodex?"

"Rolodex?"

"Yes, you know, the twirly thing on my desk where I keep all the important numbers? And you should find everything you need in the database. At least, it was there yesterday."

He held while she switched phones and went into his office. Hearing something that sounded suspiciously like a snicker, he looked over at MacLeod. 

"Are you laughing at me?" he asked. 

"Yes," said Mac, not even trying to hide it. His eyes sparkled with restrained humor.

"Oh. So long as that's clear."

Sarah came back and Methos spend the rest of the cab ride explaining to her just where in the database all the contact information could be found.

"Under 'V'. That's right." Methos refrained from knocking his head repeatedly against the car door.

He ending the call just as they turned down MacLeod's street. 

"She's quite a find."

"Hey, only I'm allowed to make fun of my secretary." He poked MacLeod on the shoulder, twice. 

"Sorry," chuckled MacLeod. They exited the cab and stood on the street and MacLeod turned to face his building. A clouded expression pushed the mirth out.

"Come on." Methos took MacLeod lightly by the arm. This was better done quickly. 

In traditional MacLeod fashion, the man lived above his work -- a small restoration and refurbishing workshop. The chime on the door jingled hollowly and Methos let MacLeod lead, following behind. Inside it smelled like lacquer, sawdust, and turpentine.

Methos had only been here a handful of times. Each time it was a little different. Everything was neat and clean. The floors were swept and all the tools where tucked away. He walked over to an old industrial Singer sewing machine sitting in the corner. He ran his hand along the refinished wood of the worktable that housed the machine. 

The damaged door rattled closed as Immortal presence shivered across and down his back. He looked around, but no Immortal immediately made themselves evident, so he waited, poking his way around the workshop. It was a mess, dusty and half-rotted, smelling strongly of damp cat piss. Various mementos left by previous owners lay tossed and forgotten. It must have been an old tailor shop, he realized, noticing the broken sewing machine lying on its side and the bolts of decomposing fabric. 

"Methos?"

Methos turned around, catching sight of MacLeod, just as dusty as everything else in work jeans and a torn T-shirt, but thankfully not smelling of cat piss. "Duncan MacLeod. Hello."

"What are you doing here? MacLeod looked honestly surprised and Methos wondered why that bothered him. 

"It's nice to see you too, Mac," Methos said, dryly.

MacLeod's jaw tightened. The noxious smell seemed to get stronger and Methos dropped his head, biting his lip. 

"Joe tell you where I was?" MacLeod's voice was quiet, reconciliatory. 

Methos nodded, keeping his eyes averted, making lines in the dust with his shoe. He was being slightly churlish and he didn't want to be.  It was only that when Joe had told him Mac was moving to London, he'd thought...

"Ah, I didn't really mean to bother you. I know you must be busy--"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Excuse me?"

"You're not bothering. Come, I'll give you tour." MacLeod touched his shoulder, leading the way.

"Oh, God, don't tell me there's more." Methos noticed the smudge of dust streaking Mac's face, like war paint or a scar, as he gingerly made his way through the tailor shop remnants. 

"Funny. Keep that up and you'll find yourself helping."

Methos felt MacLeod come up beside him and he turned his head to face him. "Okay?" he asked. 

MacLeod nodded. "Let's go upstairs." 

MacLeod turned away, heading for the stairs. Methos caught his arm. They looked at each other, silently, and Methos took Mac's hand and squeezed it.  

Up they went. MacLeod, with sudden determination, rushed up the steps and opened his door. Slightly stale air greeted them as they entered. Methos watched MacLeod, mouth tight with control, look around. Methos thought it was a bit unfortunate that this place in so many ways resembled Connor's place in New York. It wasn't quite as lofty and perhaps about half the size, but the styles were similar. A small second floor alcove served as Mac's bedroom and the living room was underneath, low and comfortable. The rest was open and airy with a small kitchen off to the side. What sunlight there was streamed in from the large windows lining the east wall. 

MacLeod began whipping dust coverings off. 

Methos looked bleakly around. "You plan to live here?"

"Yes," stated MacLeod, as if anyone would want to. 

"There's a hole in the ceiling." Methos looked up and saw through to another floor. 

"I know. I put it there. I'm going to gut the whole place. You won't recognize it when I'm finished. It's going to be great." MacLeod walked into rooms and hallways, knocking on walls. "This wall's coming down. That wall's coming down. They're all coming down."

Methos followed around, nodding expertly as MacLeod prattled on about his various plans for the space. He was obviously in his element, practically reveling with project happiness. Methos tried to recall the last time he was as excited as MacLeod seemed to be. He was certain whatever it was, it hadn't been anything quite so labor intensive. 

"And downstairs?"

"Don't know yet. Haven't gotten that far."

"You know Mac, these types of places come ready-made these days." Methos couldn't resist one tiny little jab. 

"You don't say," said Mac, deflecting with ease. 

Methos shook his head, dismissing MacLeod as hopeless. "Where are you staying during all this?" He waved his hand in a sweeping gesture.

Mac's eyes skidded away, turning to inspect a big gash in one of the walls. "Uh, Claudia keeps a flat here. She's touring Europe now, so I'm staying there."

"Oh," said Methos, swallowing, nodding. "That must be nice."

Methos helped and soon they'd made big dust clouds and were both sneezing. MacLeod vacuumed and Methos made the bed while music blared. Cushions were turned and beaten. Windows were opened and the stale air began to smell like wet car exhaust, but a small breeze blew and the rooms were soon freshened.

Methos opened and closed kitchen cabinets. "You need food."

MacLeod handed him a beer. "Later. Here."

"This is warm."

"Very good. Sorry, the fridge was unplugged." 

Methos smiled at Mac's mirthful eyes and obediently accepted the warm beer. They took long swigs, maintaining eye contact. 

"Thanks," whispered MacLeod. Methos simply nodded, holding his breath as MacLeod came close and embraced him, feeling soft lips behind his ear. He dropped his head, resting it on Mac's shoulder. 

MacLeod squeezed him and then pulled back, taking his hand, kissing him, leading him to the stairs and up to the freshly made bed, kissing him more.  

"Call in sick."

"Mac, I can't."

"Yes you can."

Days, weeks now, since his return, and MacLeod spent almost every day with Methos. He would come home and find Methos there, cooking dinner. Or it was Methos coming home to find MacLeod waiting for him. In the morning, Methos would leave for work and MacLeod would go running in the park. They met at Joe's or at other bars. Joe looked at them with eyes that knew too much. On weekends they took long drives. They were mostly quiet. Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they didn't get out of bed, or out of the house. 

"Do you realize I only went in two out of five days last week? I can't keep doing that to Sarah. She's afraid to schedule anything, she has to keep canceling them."

So, MacLeod wanted to say, but thought better of it. 

Occasionally, as if by mutual agreement, they purposely wouldn't see each other. With perverse determination, abstaining. Two days, three sometimes, and then one or the other would break down and call. They didn't talk about it. 

"But look, the sun is shining. It won't last long. Come on. I know you want to," MacLeod needled. He was good at it. He prided himself on his needling abilities. Methos looked at him with steely resolve. 

"MacLeod, no. What could you possibly have planned that can't wait until this weekend?"

Nothing, he had nothing planned, but he wanted Methos with him today. "Please?" he asked.

Methos gave a little irritated up and down and around shake of his head. "Oh, all right."

MacLeod smiled and Methos made a face at him. They sat in bed, naked, and he reached up and touched Methos' face, suddenly shaken. What were they doing?

"Mac·" 

MacLeod held himself still. Not today. He couldn't have that conversation today. Tomorrow maybe. Not today. But Methos said nothing and sighed in his arms.

They got up and got dressed, going out into the world. The sun shone and MacLeod was delighted. They wondered through Mayfair into Soho. Through Covent Gardens, full of people. They ate and watched the Londoners and tourists. The sun continued to shine and they strolled down the Thames. 

MacLeod liked having Methos walk next to him. He'd find himself looking over, watching Methos watch everything else. Sometimes he would come close and brush against Methos. Again and again he did this, just the barest of touches. More than that would be too much. Methos always stood still, holding his breath. Sometimes MacLeod could see Methos reach for him and then stop himself. 

It was strange, he thought, as they wove through the crowds they found everywhere they went, full of people soaking up the sun. It was strange to find himself hardening because of a mere touch from Methos, a brief moment of skin contact outside a store. It wasn't something he was used to. It took his breath. 

Methos bought two ice creams and gave one to MacLeod. They looked out over the steel-gray river, crossing over to the South Bank. Big Ben boomed behind them. Wind fluttered their hair. MacLeod watched Methos lick an errant drip of melted ice cream that had fallen onto his hand. He swallowed back the sudden rise of lust, wanting to kiss Methos, to know just how cold the ice cream had made his mouth. He gave Methos the rest of his ice cream, just to watch him eat it. They sat on a bench near Lambeth Palace and let London walk by.

He thought of all the wasted time. Years of it. Years gone by when he could have looked for Connor. Could have had more time with him. He looked at the man at his side and thought of those years when they'd first met and how it seemed that Methos had changed. He wasn't as snide, as prickly as before. He didn't push at MacLeod like he used to. This Methos reached for wine as often as beer. Paid for dinner more often than not. What had happened to the Methos he'd known? What had happened to the smart alec old fossil who always knew better? Where had he gone? MacLeod was startled to realize just how much he missed that Methos. Missed those times they'd had, the good and the bad. He tried to remember just when the change might have happened, but he couldn't decide. 

"For chrissake, MacLeod." 

Methos' angry exclamation brought MacLeod out from under the weight of his thoughts. Methos twitched with ire.

"You're gathering storm clouds. And you're giving me a headache. I didn't come with you today to watch you mope, you know. I have better things to do. What, in the name of all that's holy and unholy, are you glowering about now?"

Ah, there he is. A wave of pure joy flowed through him and he smiled.

"Stubborn Scots, always--" Methos stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening when he looked at MacLeod who couldn't stop smiling. He could feel the force of his own smile, like a lantern shining upwards into the sky, announcing for all the world "Here. I am here." A smile strong enough to silence Methos. 

Methos gaped at him, taking one quick little breath before turning his head away. MacLeod's smile began to fade. They sat side by side. Birds squawked above. The river slapped loudly near by. Methos kept taking short quick breaths, eyes roving over the rolling river, unseeing, shiny. He looked back at MacLeod, opening his mouth to speak, but then only looked away again. 

MacLeod's throat hurt. Methos touched him, taking his hand and MacLeod looked at him and his eyes stung. Oh God, he thought. 

They sat on that bench for a long time, Methos' hand over his, finally moving when the sunshine passed. They walked to MacLeod's. Before the door closed, Methos was on him. Fingers touching all over, unbuttoning and pushing clothing away. Kissing. Long sweet kisses of breathtaking uncertainty and fragile need. They stumbled across, barely making it up the stairs to the bed. 

Methos was shaking, clinging to him, and all MacLeod could do was hold him. And love him. He parted Methos' legs and entered, gently, stroking him with his hands, with his cock. He kissed Methos' nipples and along his collarbone and then, with his heart pounding, he looked into those painfully familiar hazel eyes. 

He moved within Methos, losing himself in the gripping warmth of Methos' body, in the heat of his eyes. He choked out sounds, incomprehensible syllables, moving faster and faster. Methos' hands ran resting on his face, caressing, smoothing. He looked down and saw the moment Methos came, clutching around MacLeod, panting hot breath into his neck. 

The next morning, Methos was gone, like he always was. Only, this time, MacLeod knew, was not like the other times and his heart ached. Methos was gone. Away on a business trip, his secretary said, when he finally couldn't handle it any more and called his office.

"Did he leave any message? Anything for Duncan MacLeod?"

"No sir, I'm sorry."

"That's all right. Thank you." MacLeod sighed, placing his phone back in its cradle. It hurt, more than he could describe, but he also understood. It was too much sometimes. 

A week passed. Two. MacLeod continued much as he'd always done. He made plans for Connor's things, figuring out what to do with the bulk of them. He worked in his shop. It still wasn't quite how he wanted it. 

Mostly, he meditated or did katas in a nearby park or sometimes on his roof, recalling Paris and the barge. He liked it on the roof where the wind whipped around him furiously. 

He did the rounds at the various Antique markets, but his heart wasn't in it. It hurt a little, and he recalled how Connor had gotten him started in the business all those years ago.

Learn to appreciate old things, Duncan. Sometimes, they're all that's left.

Still, he went and found some things worthy enough to work on. One day, he struggled to get three large picture frames he'd found tucked away in the Bermondsey market into his shop. They were unwieldy and heavy and he couldn't quite get all three of them inside at the same time, nearly dropping all when he felt Immortal presence wash over him. 

Methos sat in his shop, looking tense and alone. They stared at each other until Methos dropped his gaze, fidgeting with his coat pockets. 

"Help me with these," MacLeod said, working past the lump in his throat.

Methos came and took one of them and they touched briefly in passing. 

"Over here." MacLeod indicated where he wanted them and they heaved them up onto a table. 

That done, they looked at each other again. "Mac..."

"Wait. Don't, Methos. It's okay."

MacLeod couldn't handle that look in Methos' eyes. He reached for Methos. "It's okay, Methos. It's okay."

"I..."

"I know. Me too. It's okay." It was all he could say, all he could do. And he repeated it over and over again, quieter each time, whispering it as he held Methos. 

He could feel Methos' chest expand and contract, Methos' fingers gripping his sweater causing it to bunch and pull at his neck. They held on for long moments, listening to the cars and the people that passed by outside. 

"Can you stay, or do you have to go?" MacLeod asked, trying not to choke on his words.

"Do you want me to stay?" 

The hesitation in the question broke his heart. "Yes. Stay."

They continued much as before, only now the times apart had much more meaning. 

"Michael, can I have a word with you?" 

Cornered at the photocopy machine, Methos cursed under his breath. "Of course. Let me just finish this set." He looked up at Raymond Davies, the Principal for his group and the man he reported to. A big, burly man, originally from Lazier's New York office, Davies had the look of a man who had once reigned king on the American football field and was now quietly diminishing, losing his hair and growing a belly. Methos knew Davies was phenomenally wealthy and very good at what he did.

"Why don't you have Sarah do that?" Davies gruffed, looking at the pile of documents Methos was duplicating. 

"She's working on something else for me. It's quicker if I do it."

"Not good for much, is she?"

"She's not that bad, actually." Methos kept his voice as neutral as he could. Sarah had been Davies' secretary before Methos'. It had taken weeks to get her to look him in the face instead of at his feet. He didn't blame her. He wouldn't want to look Davies in the face either. 

"Sure. Does she still drop things whenever you talk to her? That was annoying as hell. Although watching her bend over wasn't so bad."

Methos lowered the top of the copier with a loud bang, almost catching Davies' fingers. "Done. Did you want to meet with me?" 

Davies smiled slowly and Methos knew the man provoked him on purpose. Damn it. 

"In my office."

Methos followed the short distance to Davies' office and sat down. Immortal presence flared, itching up and down his skin, and he tensed. Great. Wonderful.

Looking at him with less concern than curiosity, Davies asked, "Everything okay?" 

"Yes, why wouldn't it be?" Methos asked, innocently. 

"You don't seem to be yourself lately, that's all."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Methos had been expecting this conversation for a few weeks now, although he'd hoped he could avoid it all together. Davies had only nominal authority over Methos and, aside from a constant underlying level of tension between them, both of them preferred it that way. When they had to, they worked well together, and that was it. However, Lazier was Davies' life, and making money his religion. He couldn't have failed to notice Methos' growing lack of interest, not to mention his lack of attendance.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence while Davies stared at Methos. "Okay, here's the deal. Whatever's going on with you, I know I can't do anything about it. And what's more, I don't really want to. You're pretty much untouchable. You know that and I know that. Fine. Up until just recently, that was all justified. You're quiet, but you get in there, you know people, you make shit happen. So whatever the fuck's going on, I don't want to see it. I don't want to know about it. It doesn't exist. Got it? And try to make it in more often than not, if you can." 

Methos kept his face neutral. "Is that everything, then?"

"Yes," Davies waved his hand, dismissing him, already picking up the phone and turning his back to Methos.

Exiting quickly, Methos hurried back to his office. "Well, that was unpleasant," he muttered to himself.

The floor was shaped like a doughnut and his office was on the other side. As he turned the corner, Methos spotted MacLeod by Sarah's desk, talking to -- Good Lord, was that Sarah? She smiled and laughed and Methos almost didn't recognize her. Sarah hardly ever smiled. She never laughed. She certainly didn't get all flushed and breathless like she was at that moment. He approached them quietly, frowning. He didn't know who to frown at more, MacLeod or Sarah. MacLeod couldn't have picked a better day to pop by unannounced, he thought sourly.

"Visiting, are we?" Methos asked, frowning full force, looking from one to the other. Sarah jumped and shrank, paling considerably. Methos frowned even more, if possible, at her reaction. Did he really make her that nervous?

"Michael!" MacLeod proclaimed with glee, and Methos' resolve to continue frowning began to waver. 

"This is unexpected," he said, taking in MacLeod's smile.

"I thought I'd come by and say hi and treat you to lunch." MacLeod beamed at him. The frown crumbled completely. "Is this your office?"

"Ah, yeah. Come in. Sarah, no phone calls, please?"

"Yes, sir," she said meekly, handing him several messages from earlier.

"Thank you."

MacLeod waved a cheery good-bye to Sarah who smiled tentatively back. Methos' frown made a quick return. 

"You know, MacLeod," he said as he closed the door to his office. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't corrupt my secretary. She's difficult enough as it is, I don't need her mooning all over you as well."

MacLeod chuckled, eyeing Methos up and down. "Nice suit."

Methos felt his cheeks become hot. "I had a couple of meetings this morning." He felt curiously off center and MacLeod's blatant appraisal wasn't helping. He sat down at his desk, using it as a shield. He looked blankly at the phone messages he held in his hand. 

"Can you get away for a couple of hours?" MacLeod sat in the guest chair, taking his coat off, and Methos felt a little better at the distance and the formality of their positions. 

"Yes, maybe. I mean, no, I can't." It was MacLeod's turn to frown. "This isn't a good time, Mac. I've already called too much attention to myself. I have got to keep a low profile."

A gleam entered MacLeod's eye. Methos became distinctly uneasy. "Oh? Something happen?" MacLeod picked at bits of lint on his pants and sweater. 

"No."

MacLeod's eyes narrowed. Methos sighed and suddenly got angry. "It's very easy for you, isn't it MacLeod? You know, it's a lot of work, creating and maintaining an identity. Not everyone can be Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I can't just traipse around, willy-nilly, whatever strikes my fancy." Methos' hands flailed in emphasis, his voice rose. "I've got responsibilities." He pointed to his chest. "Delicate business negotiations to handle. Arrogant jack asses sniffing around to appease. My life is complicated enough, thank you, without you coming in here and making it worse. And what, exactly, are you smiling at?" 

"You. Someone give you a hard time?"

"Yes, dammit. No thanks to you, I'll have you know."

"Me? What have I done? I'm not the one calling in sick every day. I don't have to call anyone."

"Exactly." But the anger had fled and he said it without conviction. He sat there, annoyed because he wanted to go out to lunch with Mac but couldn't quite justify it. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?"

"Smile at me like that. Like you know some secret about me that nobody else does."

"But I do."

"Well you don't have to advertise it."

"Methos, we're alone."

He couldn't think of anything to say to that so he tried a different angle. "What are you thinking when you smile like that, anyway? Fifty ways to Ruin Methos' Life?"

"Well, right now I'm thinking you're very adorable when angry. And that I like you in a suit. Only I think I prefer you in dark blue, rather than gray." 

Methos' ears felt warm and his mouth dried. 

"I'm also thinking it's a shame modern offices are so fond of glass walls." MacLeod turned around in his seat. "Oh look! Blinds."

With a look Methos could only describe as evil, MacLeod got up and began to close the blinds, those for the glass walls as well as the windows facing the street. In horrified fascination, mouth falling open, Methos watched as the rest of the world disappeared and he and MacLeod were left alone. 

The click of the door lock reverberated in the sudden rush of silence. "MacLeod," he squeaked. 

He should stop this. This couldn't happen. Not here. Not now. MacLeod traced his lips and Methos opened his mouth, measuring his breaths to the rise and fall of Mac's chest. 

A hand found his crotch and he moaned, leaning in to capture Mac in a bruising kiss. His belt was opened. Soft clinks and then the quick, harsh sound of the zipper, like a stab in the air. 

Urgently, he pulled back, lifting his hips into the air. MacLeod grabbed his pants and underwear, yanking them down, quick enough to give Methos a slight burn. He panted, the air grating his lungs. He could hear far-off telephones ringing and the dull thud of furniture moving on the floors above him; faint conversations, like a low hum, drifted in. He could hear Mac breathing in his ear.  Cool air kissed the damp tip of his cock.

MacLeod put both hands on Methos' face, one on each side. They looked at each other and kissed and then MacLeod licked his lips, lowered his head, and Methos watched as his cock disappeared into Mac's mouth. 

A strangled whimper escaped and he slid in his chair as hands parted his legs further. Mac's tongue and lips swirled around his shaft, across the sac and further down. Rough and wet.  Methos dug his fingers into Mac's shoulders and Mac moved up and swallowed his cock again.  Hot, wet mouth, sucking the tip, playing with the tiny hole, and then plunging down. Again and again.

MacLeod thrust a finger into him, pushing along his prostate and Methos came, shuddering, shooting against the back of Mac's throat, fingers grasping the side of Mac's head. One last shudder, one last suck, and then MacLeod lifted his head, panting.

"God," Methos croaked, gasping in air, his arms seeking the hard surface of an armrest or a desktop. Looking down at himself, bewildered, he saw his pants around his ankles; his cock soft and spent. He took in a shaky breath, his chest aching from trying to hold in air and breathe at the same time. The phone finally stopped. Methos fumbled as he reached for it, seeking the button that made it shut up, settling on leaving it off the hook.

"Methos." MacLeod's eyes were wide. His mouth was bruised and wet. 

Methos tugged MacLeod to his feet, fingers shaking as he undid Mac's pants, pulling them down. Mac's hands were warm and damp on his shoulders. He grabbed Mac and took him into his mouth. 

Methos placed both his hands on the cheeks of MacLeod's ass. Pulling them apart slightly, he opened his throat, taking Mac deep, burying his face, smelling musk and sweat. The grip on his shoulders tightened and MacLeod jerked involuntarily, curling around Methos as if in pain. As if protecting. He pounded into Methos' mouth and Methos let him, although it hurt. Although he couldn't breathe. With a harsh guttural cry, MacLeod came.

With less grace than previously, MacLeod dropped to his knees, grabbing Methos and kissing him, licking his own come from where it had spilled. 

"Jesus, Mac." Methos shook, holding on to MacLeod, each leaning on the other. His mouth was sore. MacLeod was hot and sweaty in his arms. 

He should move. Do something. At least pull his pants up. Anything. He pulled Mac closer, inhaling him like a drug, like looking down a waterfall. 

"Take the rest of the day off," MacLeod said, sounding breathless.

It felt like his world kept tilting and everything rushed to one end, leaving him hanging, without steady ground. He could still feel Mac's cock thrusting into his mouth. 

"Let's go." His voice broke.

Late afternoon light cast moody shadows across Mac's bed. Methos looked up as MacLeod drove into his body, coming as MacLeod rammed into him. MacLeod hiked Methos' legs further apart, pinning Methos, pistoning until he came, collapsing in a sweaty heap. 

They lay there, the light slowly darkening, MacLeod on top of Methos. 

"Mac?"

"Hm?" came the muffled response. 

"You're heavy."

Mac rumbled a deep chuckle and it made them both shake a bit. 

"I'm serious. I'm having trouble breathing."

"You are?" Methos noted that Mac didn't sound very concerned. 

"I'm being crushed here."

"No you're not."

"Yes. I am."

"No. This is being crushed." And then MacLeod bounced on Methos, full body bouncing, sweaty and slick, soft cocks smooshing together. All the air huffed out of Methos and he choked out a laugh.

"Quit it."

"What? This?" Mac bounced some more. 

"Oh, God, I'm dying." Methos thought he saw stars. One more big bounce and MacLeod bounced off altogether. Methos inhaled deeply, coughing and laughing, cool air rushing over his body. 

Unable to open his eyes due to lack of strength, Methos felt rather than saw MacLeod hover over his body and he tensed. Suddenly, an open wet mouth planted itself on his belly and gave him a big raspberry, causing him to involuntarily contract. 

"Mac!" God help him, was he actually giggling? That's what it sounded like and he found he couldn't stop until Mac mercifully pulled away. 

"Sorry, couldn't resist."

Right. Methos was going to have to show Mac just who was who around here. As soon as he remembered how to move. The bed shifted and Methos heard bare feet moving over wooden floors. Where was he going?

Plastered into Mac's bed, Methos decided that movement, as a whole, was an entirely overrated concept and he was perfectly happy lying boneless just where he was for all eternity. It sounded like a good plan. Then his nose itched. 

The bed shifted again. Ah, his savior. 

"MacLeod, my nose itches."

"So scratch it."

"Can't move. I think you broke me."

MacLeod snorted. More bed shifting and then Methos felt Mac kiss his nose, nibbling it and the itch eased. Of course, now it was wet, but he could live with that. He mumbled his thanks. 

"You're welcome."

He felt a hot, wet washcloth on his stomach and thighs and tensed briefly before relaxing. Gentle and soothing, Mac massaged as he went over Methos body. Methos felt sleep begin to tug. 

MacLeod rubbed down his legs and then began to clean one spot over and over, then finally stop. It took Methos a moment to notice. He opened his eyes and saw MacLeod lost in thought, holding one of Methos' legs, foot flat against Mac's chest.

Moving his leg, Methos got MacLeod's attention. Nudging him with the captured foot, Methos indicated he was clean enough and MacLeod tossed the washcloth, crawling up to lie next to Methos. 

"What is it?"

MacLeod sighed. "I was going to tell you at lunch. I have to go back to New York." 

Oh. "When?"

"Soon. Tomorrow. The next day at the latest. Not for long. Just a week, or so."

Methos shifted and they both faced each other. "What for?"

"Remember the warehouses? I'm having some of that stuff shipped here and I'd like to be there for it."

"I knew you'd figure out what to do with them," he said, wryly. 

MacLeod touched his face, brushing his hair back. "You could come with me."

Methos shook his head. "No, I couldn't. And even if I could, I don't think I would, or that you really want me to."

"Methos."

"Go, Mac. Just, come back." The catch in his throat surprised him. 

MacLeod pulled him close, nodding, his eyes a bit shiny. 

Somewhere, a cell phone rang. "Damn, what time is it?" Methos hopped out of bed, trying to recall where he'd left his pants. He turned in confusion until he noticed MacLeod holding them out to him. "Thanks."

"I'll start dinner." Grabbing his robe, MacLeod trotted down the stairs to the lower level. Methos watched him for a moment and then answered his phone. 

Methos stayed the night, and in a morning that streamed in like ribbons, before Mac could wake--

"Methos?" Mac called and Methos returned. "I changed my mind. I don't want to go." He pulled Methos down and Methos let him despite being fully dressed.

"No, you're right to go." He petted Mac, spooning up behind him. 

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He held Mac until he dropped off again, and then rose, feeling the weak sunlight cut across him.

--he left.