Many thanks to Killa for her constant encouragement and endless generosity, and to chelle for the sound beta comments and honesty. 
 

The first time happened in Paris during the drizzling cold of March -- or maybe it was April. He couldn't quite remember, losing those external details of lesser importance, like the date or what the headlines said. But MacLeod remembered other things. He remembered the bitter wind that sliced down the quay. How the frost crept along the edges of the portholes, the cold sunlight bouncing off the granite-colored waters of the Seine. He remembered foggy mornings, puffs of warm breath, long nights filled with the flickering light of flames and coffee and soft conversation. Quiet laughter and silent pain.

He remembered being annoyed -- Methos inviting himself to stay. Methos taking up space on the couch. His clothing everywhere, and his books, in neatly stacked piles that MacLeod knocked over at least once a day. Methos occupying the bathroom for hours, and always just at the moment when MacLeod really needed to go or when, tired from the day, all he wanted was to brush his teeth and tumble into bed. He would wait, tapping his foot impatiently, eventually reduced to thumping on the bathroom door, growling, "Will you get out?"

With perfect innocence and just the barest hint of solicitude, Methos would give him an, "Oh, were you waiting? I'm sorry," delivered with a maddening, completely indifferent smile that left MacLeod with only his sputtering annoyance.

But he could never stay mad for long, try as he might. Not that Methos didn't give him plenty of opportunities. MacLeod had a list of grievances: shattered Ming vases, his appropriated barge, the constant mess in the galley, leaving the cap off the one good sharpie. Yet, there were moments, mostly late at night in the enveloping shadows touched with jazz and strong whiskey, when he would turn and see the pain hidden in the stillness of Methos' gaze.

It wasn't simply that he knew how Methos felt. Or that he was being a good friend. Or that he cared enough about Methos to put up with him when it was obvious the man was hurting, despite the performances and appearances to the contrary. It wasn't any of that, true as it all might be. For that moment, Methos chose MacLeod, over anyone else, over being alone, and MacLeod could never refuse that, even if he wanted to.

It would be a lie to say he hadn't expected it to happen. Some things are inevitable, and from the beginning he and Methos had flared with unspoken tension, a constant layer of energy that grew and expanded between them. But it would also be a lie to say he had sought it out. Sex was one thing. He liked sex. A lot. Sex could mean a great deal, or very little, but he never cheapened it. He never made it anything less than what it was, something he enjoyed, something he enjoyed doing, giving. But with Methos, he knew it would never be just sex with a friend, never limited to casual. And anything more was something neither of them were ready to deal with. So by implicit, unconscious agreement, they let the insanity of their lives pull them in different directions.

Of course, that all looked good in theory, but in practice? In practice, Methos inhabited his barge and lived in his space and drank his beer. He meddled and complained. He told tall tales and libelous accounts of unimportant personages from long ago. He mourned, quietly and with all of his heart. He laughed and made MacLeod laugh.

Methos moved out of the barge the day after Gina and Robert's wedding, and it was a curious, unexplained and perplexing emotion that MacLeod felt as he helped Methos pack and move his things into the new flat. Methos was moving less than ten minutes away and Duncan couldn't quite admit he would miss him. He was certainly happy to have his barge back to normal, to have his couch back, and not to have Methos' things everywhere. Yet, he found himself lingering, helping with the unpacking, staying on as the day ended and night began.

Methos handed him a cool beer, an amused half-smile on his lips. "I'm not going to kick you out."

"I just thought I could help."

"And so you can." Methos nodded.

"You said you hated moving."

"Yes. I distinctly remember that," said Methos, dryly. He took a sip of his own beer.

"It'll go much faster with two people."

Methos looked at him, nodding again. "Very true."

"I can go, if you'd rather be alone."

Methos' knowing smile sharpened into a keen-eyed gaze and he paused before speaking. "You can start with the books," he said, pointing to a very impressive tower of dust-covered boxes with oddly colored labels. MacLeod frowned. Methos smiled, a mischievous light in his eyes.

They conversed pleasantly, talking over the music, bantering in familiar fashion. MacLeod lost several large pockets of time as he inspected each book, falling under the spell of Tolstoy, Whitman, and Descartes. Methos joined him and as the night deepened they lounged in a cleared section of the living room floor surrounded by empty boxes of Chinese food and bottles of wine.

Full and mellow from the wine, MacLeod lay on his back, looking up at the high ceiling, picking out the soft strains of the music that drifted over them. Methos hummed next to him.

MacLeod lifted himself onto his elbows. "It's late. I should go."

Methos turned to look at him, eyes glinting in the darkened room. He rose to a sitting position and his gaze fell to the floor. "It is late. Why don't you stay?"

They hunted around for the box with the bedding and together they wrestled the bedclothes onto the bed. MacLeod, out of some lingering sense of propriety, would have opted for the couch, but the aforesaid piece of furniture stood upright and de-cushioned in a corner of the living room.

There was no awkwardness as they took off their shoes and got ready for bed, familiar now with each other's habits, each other's presence. Methos found some comfortable clothing for them, T-shirts and shorts, and they changed, slipping under the covers and falling still.

The lack of any curtains or blinds on the windows gave the room a stark, bare look, and the lights of Paris filled every corner. MacLeod lay next to Methos, facing his back, not sleeping but listening to their breathing and to the soft noises that drifted in from outside. Without thinking, he reached over, his hand sliding slowly down Methos' side to his waist.

Methos turned and they lay close, their bodies aligned, body heat building between them. MacLeod felt Methos' hand touch his neck and he bowed his head, resting it against Methos' shoulder and chest. MacLeod wondered how it was that Methos knew it was he who needed comfort and not the other way around.

He focused on the way Methos felt in his arms, the weight of him, warm and solid. The smell of him, the hint of sweat mixed with skin and the remnants of deodorant. The looks that passed between them said many things, and MacLeod watched the shifting decisions on Methos' face, felt them reflected on his own. Methos touched MacLeod's nose, his cheek, thumb tracing underneath his eye. And because there was only one possible answer, MacLeod lifted his head and Methos leaned in, their mouths meeting in a kiss.

The slightly roughened slide of Methos' cheek, the press of his nose, the soft insistence of his lips. MacLeod opened his mouth, taking Methos in, meeting him roughly, devouring, and it was a sudden, sweet, devastating rush of arousal that coursed through his chest and down to his cock.

Methos pressed one leg between his legs, against the hardness of his erection, and MacLeod's heart thumped in his chest. He moaned softly into Methos' mouth.

Methos pulled back and MacLeod followed until they were both sitting, parting with a sudden intake of breath. He could hear the beating of his heart and the rasp of Methos' breath. The air crackled, filled with certainty and soul-shattering awareness.

"Methos." MacLeod heard his voice fall in the stillness of the room. Methos looked at him, his eyes wide and unreadable, lips bruised and wet. So many things lay between them, immovable and vast. Old loves and new loves, death and immortality. And then Methos smiled.

"Duncan," he whispered, his lips lightly nipping at MacLeod's neck, and his hands skimmed under MacLeod's T-shirt, touching skin lightly. MacLeod shivered, raising his arms, and the T-shirt came off. Methos' hand cupped the back of his head and their mouths met again. Rasping breath and burning kisses; Methos' tongue caressing his, hungry for more.

Methos' shirt followed and then their shorts and they fell back with Methos on top. MacLeod couldn't stop touching Methos, touching his chest, his arms, thumbs brushing nipples, fingers scraping across sensitive skin, couldn't stop kissing him -- hard, demanding, unsteady kisses. He sucked on Methos' lower lip, thrusting upwards against his hip.

Shifting, Methos' hands cupped his cock and MacLeod bucked into the tight grip. A deep-throated groan escaped his throat, as he concentrated on learning every curve of Methos' neck, nipping with teeth down one collarbone.

"Easy," said Methos. MacLeod's lips moved across Methos' throat, feeling the rumbling vibration. Methos' free hand came up, stroking his face and hair, his thumb across a cheekbone. "Easy. Let me get a look at you."

MacLeod felt the burn of Methos' eyes on him, and he reached between their bodies and found Methos' cock, hard and wet, watching Methos' eyes shine.

Methos moved closer, taking both their cocks together in his hand, moving roughly, fast and sure. MacLeod gave himself up, letting Methos take control. He felt his cock slide against silken hardness and the strong manipulation of Methos' hand.

"Oh, God." MacLeod clutched and came, spilling over their fingers. Methos dropped his forehead against MacLeod's, stroking once more and then again, coming with a groan.

They lay quietly for several moments, sharing idle touches in the blue light that filled the room. Methos moved first, standing by the bed and offering his hand. MacLeod took it; quick looks passed between them, but no words. Methos led him towards the bathroom.

Methos rummaged through a couple of boxes marked "Toiletries" and "Linen," finding a washcloth and some soap. He wet and soaped the cloth, turning to MacLeod.

MacLeod watched him, still gripped by silence, accepting Methos' attention. Wet cloth against his skin, and Methos' fingers raising goosebumps.

He caught Methos in a kiss, and it was like learning anew, like it was the first time, like they could continue forever just kissing like this, under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, naked and bare. He couldn't stop, but then he felt Methos' hands on his chest, on his arms, felt them slide up to the back of his head, and he took Methos in his arms and rested his head against the hollow of his neck.

"Come on." He felt Methos' hand in his, leading him back to the bed.

They lay back down, curled up on their sides facing each other. MacLeod woke that way, with Methos next to him, tucked against his side, the weak gray light of morning draping the room in the harsher light of reality.

Carefully, he left Methos asleep in the bed, and dressed in silence. He stood over him for several minutes, wondering what he should do. In all his long life he had never been in quite this situation, and he was more than a little bit afraid, his stomach turning in knots.

First times leave their mark, like a brand forever across your skin, across your chest. The first time you die. The first time you feel the pain of bitter disappointment. The first time you love. Perhaps it was all a bit too romantic, he told himself -- something he was often accused of. But he couldn't help it, and it wasn't like the romance of it, what romance there was, canceled out the pain and the hurt, the betrayals that life brought. He cared for this man, more then he could possibly acknowledge at that moment, more than they were ready for.

He leaned over, whispering in Methos' ear words of farewell and longing before turning and walking out the door.

The second time happened in Seacouver, when the lingering heat of late summer had faded away and the nights began to frost and chill. In Seacouver, he thought of Paris. He thought of a stark, bare room awash with the light of morning. He thought of the first meeting of two friends after a night of intimacy and need, of skin and heat and desperate kisses.

He thought of the awkward silence and Methos' nervous smile as he prolonged his goodbye a few weeks after that night, on the deck of the barge with his hands tucked into his coat and his eyes falling low. MacLeod's anger had burned bright but, as always, he couldn't hold it for long, could only marvel a bit that Methos had even bothered to come to him before leaving.

"You're going?"

"Yeah." MacLeod watched Methos' profile, the green eyes looking out over the rolling waters of the Seine.

"Bora Bora?" he asked, a sad attempt at levity. He noted the slight tone of annoyance and derision mixed in with the leftover anger in his voice. He bit back a sigh, more annoyed with himself than with Methos.

Methos turned to him with a tight smile. "I thought I'd wander the world a bit."

MacLeod swallowed and then nodded, understanding despite everything. All manner of words died in his throat as he kicked at the deck. What could he say, really? Good luck. Have fun. Don't go. Stay.

Methos turned and walked down the plank and MacLeod remembered watching the way Methos hunched into his coat against the cold wet wind, alone.

After Jacob's death, after Methos' stilted goodbye, after he turned his back on Joe and their friendship, he returned to his loft, seeking its comforting familiarity. He went through his days much as he always had, navigating through the messes and scrapes that always found their way to his door: Cassandra and Kantos, Haresh Clay, Carl Robinson and Matthew McCormick. Richie. The hardest was Richie; healing that rift. He didn't deserve to be forgiven but he fought for it anyway because he had to, for both their sakes. Or perhaps just for his.

He always tried to do the right thing, but the line between right and wrong kept blurring. There was a part of him that felt his hold on his life slipping, and if he stood very still he could hear the soft whisper of threads unraveling. He felt darkness coming like a storm on the horizon.

Amanda swept in at just the right moment, coming to distract and entertain, bringing sunshine and warmth, her presence lighting up the dark moments as it always had. He filled his hands with her and took her in, delighting in her predictable unpredictability, her beauty. There was a moment, perhaps a day, a week, when he thought she would stay, and he found himself wanting that, suddenly really wanting that.

"Hey Mackie boy, see you in Paris?"

"But of course, cheri. But of course."

But of course, it wasn't meant to be, and she left, and MacLeod did not expect to feel such heavy sadness as he sat on the windowsill with the warm sun on his back, hearing the harsh, grinding noise of the elevator descending.

MacLeod ran in the dewy morning with the chill air burning a hole in his lungs, remembering and regretting, wondering where Methos was and when he would see him again, trusting in the circle of their friendship to bring him back. It wasn't like it could be any other way, he told himself, listening to the beat and rhythm of his feet on the pavement speak of things he already knew.

And then, unlooked for, there Methos was, stealing into his home like he owned it, like he could come and go as he pleased, brilliantly timing his arrival with that of his impersonator. MacLeod felt a mixture of irritation and relief as he entered his loft to the vision of Methos draped across his bed, drinking his beer and playing his stereo.

Still muttering about Katmandu, Methos gave him a bland smile and stood up, grabbing his bag. "Mind if I stay here for a few days?"

MacLeod frowned, hands on his waist, watching Methos unpack. "I didn't say yes."

Methos grinned, bending over his duffel bag. He stood up straight. "Oh. I can go elsewhere, I guess." He started repacking. Slowly.

MacLeod frowned further, stalking about the room, stopping to glare moodily from the vicinity of the kitchen, watching Methos restuff his clothing into his bag.

"You can stay here," he said, grudgingly, already mentally preparing himself for the eventual appropriation of his bathroom -- but it wasn't like he could really say no to Methos.

A slow smile spread across Methos' face. "Okay, then." He opened his duffel and started re-unpacking.

"Oh, no." MacLeod threw an arm around Methos' shoulders, ushering him not-so-gently towards the door. "Unpack later. First, we're going to Joe's, where you are going to talk to Richie and help straighten this mess out."

At Methos' outraged yet ultimately resigned glare, MacLeod merely smiled triumphantly before slipping his sunglasses on as they stepped outside. Two could play at manipulation.

It was a matter of "ending the game" and "giving peace a chance" and the rash earnestness of Richie's eyes as they pleaded with him, needing a message of hope that he could grasp with both hands. It was a matter of learning when to let go and when to step in. It was a matter of faith. And Methos was there beside him with that slightly amused attitude of his that said he knew how everything would play out, knew all the different permutations of all the different possible decisions, that he'd seen it all before. Irritating, to be sure, and MacLeod either glowered or scoffed and dismissed him by turns. But Methos' presence gave him something he could put his back up against, helped him see the consequences of his actions.

Methos' words were often harsh and abrupt, but there was more there than just the surface of his meaning: messages given at the end of a look, at the release of a touch.

There should have been uncomfortable awkwardness between them after what had happened in Paris, and perhaps there was, nestled into the long stretches of silence between them. After Richie left, the excitement and distraction of impostors and old enemies left with him, and all that remained at the end of the day was the two of them. That was when MacLeod felt the lingering soreness that touched their friendship.

At the sink washing dishes, he watched Methos amble about the loft, seemingly unable to settle down.

"Restless?" He dried his hands, leaning one hip against the island.

Methos looked over at him, giving him an odd look, moving closer.

"Do you want to do something? Maybe work out? Or go for a walk?"

That same odd look, slightly bemused now. It made MacLeod look away, suddenly feeling the difference in their ages. "Or perhaps chess?" he said, tossing out another suggestion, returning to the dishes.

"Duncan." At the sound of Methos' voice, MacLeod stopped and found Methos next to him, smiling that odd little smile but with a look of such sudden uncertainty that MacLeod's heart stopped and his breath stopped, and he closed his eyes as he felt the heat of Methos come closer. A gentle kiss, not very insistent, and MacLeod's hand came up to guide it. He opened his mouth slightly and the kiss deepened.

A quick, revealing glance passed before Methos pulled away. MacLeod watched him, unable to move from where he stood leaning against the counter.

"A walk," said Methos. "Sure." It could end right here. That was the message read upon the set of Methos' shoulders, in the look of his darkened gaze when he finally turned and faced MacLeod. It shouldend right here.

Gone was the detached amusement of the last few days, and all that remained was simple honesty. It made MacLeod's chest ache.

The light in the loft fell in warm shades and Methos smiled at him briefly, already looking around for his coat. MacLeod swallowed, and with the imprint of Methos' lips still warm on his, the question came to him of which was the easier path, to turn his back on desire or on reason?

He came up behind Methos, placing one hand on his back, just between the shoulder blades. Methos stilled, his head dropping. MacLeod's fingers touched the vulnerable skin at the base of the neck and with one small tug he pulled Methos into his arms.

Methos trailed soft kisses along his neck and under his ear, traveling around to the other side. MacLeod met those kisses, feeding Methos many of his own. They moved slowly toward the bed, fingers busy unbuttoning and unsnapping, mouths kissing faster and harder.

They moved blindly, only half-aware of where they were going before Methos knocked into the bed, falling flat on his back. MacLeod looked down at him, his eyes shining in the dim light, his shirt off and pants unbuckled, and finished undressing before joining him on the bed.

He unlaced Methos' shoes, first one and then the other. Taking hold of Methos' jeans and boxers, his fingers grazed the skin underneath, nudging Methos' hips up. Naked skin, glowing and aroused. MacLeod passed his hand up one leg.

Memory flooded back to him as he touched more of Methos' body, crawling slowly up, hearing Methos' controlled breathing. That night in that bare room they'd spared no time for exploration, and so now MacLeod took his time. He followed his fingers with his lips, pausing when he reached Methos' cock, smiling slightly at the way Methos jerked as MacLeod touched him with his mouth.

Leaning back, Methos watched him. He shifted onto one elbow, reaching with the other hand to thread his fingers through MacLeod's hair, brushing it aside, holding it out of the way. With those eyes burning his, MacLeod opened his mouth and took Methos deep into this throat, his own cock painfully hard. Methos' grip on his hair tightened and his breath hitched and he thrust gently into MacLeod's mouth.

He lost himself in the sensation of Methos' cock sliding in and out, the silken hardness, the wetness. Exploring lower, he felt Methos quicken, felt the jerking nearness of orgasm, and he looked up. The hand in his hair tugged, and he stopped as Methos sat up and kissed him, hard, unrelenting.

"I want this." Methos' voice was low and urgent, hand rough against his skin, grabbing his cock. MacLeod grunted, thrusting into the tight grip.

I want this. MacLeod's heart hammered in his chest. Methos' hand still wrapped around his cock, milking drops of come. He leaned into another hard, all-consuming kiss.

Methos pulled him down to the bed, legs on either side of MacLeod's, hips thrusting upwards. Pausing, MacLeod rested the top of his head on Methos' chest, trailing one hand across a nipple before sliding down to rest a finger against the small puckered entrance. Methos pushed against him, his hands still tangled through MacLeod's hair, holding him.

MacLeod found the lube in the bedside table, coming back to Methos and the burning eyes that watched him with such concentration. He slicked his fingers, pressing in before taking hold of Methos' legs and opening them wide. Holding his cock, he pushed through, slowly, melting down, catching that mouth in a devouring kiss as it widened with a gasp before he rose and sank back in.

He had experienced many perfect moments during sex with lovers now gone or far away, each one special and memorable in their uniqueness. This time, this perfect moment, with his cock buried in Methos, with Methos' arms around him and their foreheads pressed together, this time was no less perfect, perhaps more so, and it etched itself across his skin, imbedding itself into his heart.

The end came quickly, nearly blinding him with its intensity. Feeling Methos spill against his stomach, tightening around his cock, he grunted and came.

He waited for his heart to stop pounding, for his cock to soften and slip out, before reaching for tissues from the bedside table. Methos' hands followed his and they cleaned up together, lying close when they were finished.

"Methos."

There was a pause, and then, "Shhh. Not now." A kiss silenced him, and MacLeod thought of many things to say before letting go and closing his eyes, falling asleep to the touch of Methos' hand sliding up and down his side.

In the morning, the light from the window woke him and he turned to the empty space beside him, hearing noises coming from beyond the bed. Methos stood by the couch with his duffel bag, folding and packing his clothing. Another first time come and gone.

MacLeod sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Hey"

Methos looked over at him, pausing momentarily. A sad smile, a bit unsteady, but he muttered a quiet, "Hi," before pulling the strings on the duffel and tying it off. When he was finished he just stood there.

It hurt much more than he could ever say, watching Methos quietly pick up all the pieces of himself and pack them away, nice and neat. And it wasn't because of heartache or love, or because of the sex, or the possibility of damaging their friendship. Those were all there, but also safe and easy excuses, and only shades of what colored the real pain underneath. And damn it if he didn't know why, it just hurt, like an unseen knife to the gut, a deep ache and sense of loss. All of this reflected back at him from the broken expression on Methos' face, so much so that MacLeod looked away, taking in a breath to steady himself.

He cleared his throat. "You could stay," he said, quietly, forcing his eyes back up to meet Methos'.

A touch of that odd look from the night before came back to Methos' eyes. He walked over, laying his hands on the top of MacLeod's head, fingers through his hair. MacLeod turned his face against Methos' stomach, breathing in.

"I know," said Methos.

He nodded into Methos' stomach because even though it hurt, he understood.

"I'll see you soon," Methos said, before picking up his bag and walking away.

The third time happened months after the blood and betrayal of Bordeaux had come and gone, leaving what remained of their broken friendship behind. Through the haze of lingering anger and hurt, as MacLeod watched Methos walk away from him in the graveyard of the church, some corner of his heart held on to the fact that, although broken, that friendship still existed. They still existed; they were alive. Methos was alive, and for that moment, that had to be enough. It wasn't, of course, but that didn't change things. People spoke of time as the healer of all things. His own experience told him so, but just how something healed was never a predictable thing. Walking across the wet grass, he and Methos went in two different directions, moving apart, and it had the weight and feel of permanence. And that, of all the things that had happened since the day Kronos appeared out of the mist, was what hurt the most.

For days afterwards, MacLeod couldn't get the smell of that abandoned base off his skin, off his clothing. It followed him like a ghost, haunting his thoughts, his actions; it followed him into his dreams, waking him in the darkness of night to the motion of the barge swaying gently in the arms of the river, to the smell of charred metal and the damp wet filth of stagnant water.

He alternated between stubbornly not thinking about it -- pushing Methos and the Horsemen as far out of thought as possible while concentrating on things he could touch and feel that weren't soaked in regret -- and compulsively running over every moment of those terrible days. Everything that was said, done, not done, misjudged, mistaken -- every jab, every blow, every desperate gamble.

Almost obsessively, his thoughts returned to that day outside Methos' apartment building in Seacouver. He saw the wild light in Methos' eyes, felt the slam of his back against the car. It wasn't the hurt or the pain that he sought to understand, or relive, or forget. That was past and done, and whether it could have been different or avoided were moot issues, things he could never fix, or change, or make different. It was that he couldn't walk away from the utter devastation he'd felt hearing Methos' words, knowing them to be true, feeling the helpless wave of hurt and betrayal rise in him and being unable to stop it. That was what he came back to over and over again, alone in his barge. That was what stayed with him.

Then the day came when he found Methos waiting for him on the deck of the barge, Immortal presence grating down his back.

He noticed several things. He noticed the cold redness of Methos' nose. He noticed the startled way Methos looked up at him, the flash of hesitation quickly hidden beneath a mask of neutrality. He noticed that Methos had waited outside, even though he had a key to enter and it was freezing cold. That last realization hurt more than the others, showing in a simple way just how much they had lost. He wondered how long Methos had waited.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. Methos' face tighten, his darkened eyes shifting away to look over the quay. Watching Methos find words to speak, MacLeod suddenly knew the answer to his question, as he flashed on the memory of a similar scene between the two of them, another goodbye. "You're leaving."

Methos looked up, his eyes showing just a hint of his usual sardonic attitude, but his voice was soft. "Not much of a reason to stay."

MacLeod stared hard at Methos, the words hitting him uncomfortably, somehow unexpected despite everything. But he saw nothing he could say in return. What was it to him if Methos left? After all that had happened, it only stood to reason. He told himself, it hardly mattered, but his thoughts only left a desperate sort of anger burning in his stomach -- the tight grip of panic. "So, you're here to say goodbye?"

The sardonic look fell away, but MacLeod did not have words to describe what he saw replace it in Methos' face: a still look, penetrating yet masked. After a moment Methos simply nodded.

"Why? Why come here?" The question was out before he had a chance to think.

"Good question." Methos crossed and uncrossed his arms, rubbing his hands together. MacLeod noticed he had no gloves. "Why, indeed." He looked everywhere but at MacLeod, finally facing him with his gaze shifting away. MacLeod waited, then Methos spoke and it was that quiet voice again, somehow more cutting than if Methos had decided to yell. "I thought we owed each other that much, at least."

Their eyes locked then for a long moment, with nothing and everything passing between them. Methos looked away first, once again wrapping his coat closer.

For a man who was leaving, Methos did a good job of remaining where he stood, and MacLeod found himself walking past him to the door of the barge. "Come in," he said. "You can say goodbye inside, where it's warmer."

Taking off his outer clothing, MacLeod moved to start a fire before going to the galley to put coffee on, unsure if Methos would follow him in or not. He heard the door close and looked up to see Methos standing in front of the fire, staring into the flames.

They said nothing as the coffee brewed. MacLeod poured two mugs of the hot liquid and, taking a sip from one, he brought the other to Methos. Methos murmured his thanks.

Still they remained silent, the buffer of coffee, fire, and damp wool between them, a gulf ever-widening. Minutes knocked into each other. MacLeod felt the cold slowly leave his bones and noticed the fine flush of red across Methos' face as he, too, warmed after his long wait.

Eventually, Methos moved, breaking the spell. He finished his coffee, handing the mug back to MacLeod. "I'd better go."

MacLeod took the mug. He waited for Methos to say goodbye, but nothing was said and he was nearly to the door before MacLeod finally managed to speak. "Methos."

He wanted to say more, but he couldn't make his throat work. It was a question. It was a plea. For what, he wasn't sure, the rush of anger and regret bleeding away and leaving only sadness. He didn't want Methos to leave.

Methos paused on the stairs, his back to MacLeod, and many long moments passed before he turned his head slightly. "I'll stay in Paris," he said, quietly. Then he continued up the few steps and out the door.

MacLeod sat on the couch, his head in his hands, the sound of Methos' steps receding above him.

A few days later he received a call in the middle of the night. Amanda, asking him to come to her, a trace of something hard in her voice that told him this was more than just her usual games.

So he rose and went to her, not knowing what he would find. Not knowing what manner of specter from his past awaited him, to once again mock him for thinking he could ever run away from what he was.

"Do you remember how many men you slaughtered? How many lives you destroyed?"

He did.

"Six a.m. The Luxemburg Gardens."

He dreamt of Culloden, and the thunder of a thousand feet echoing. The cries of war and the grip of his sword. The red-hot anger, rage, and fire. The blood of his people flowing into the darkened soil. He saw that man, Dunbar, the murderer of his people. And then he saw himself, a splash of another man's blood across his face. The memory reached down deep and shook him awake, and he came up fighting. Through the haze of war he felt Amanda smooth and pet him as his heart beat wildly in his chest.

And yet, although he loved her, they could not seem to reach each other. MacLeod withheld a sigh as Amanda fled from the barge, the weight of his past deeds anchoring him.

Six a.m. in the Luxemburg Gardens, and there was Methos, appearing from between two bushes. Always there just when you needed someone to meddle, thought MacLeod, almost tired as he listened to Methos argue (for his life? for his honor? for his peace?). It was somewhat reassuring that the most prevalent of emotions he felt as he argued back was annoyance -- some things never changed. Methos spoke to him of Darius and acceptance, stepping in front, not letting him pass. Irritation surpassed annoyance, and MacLeod pushed past Methos only to be stopped by a silenced gunshot to the back.

"You kill him, I swear, Methos, you face me."

"Fine. It's your funeral."

MacLeod looked at Keane and saw something of himself there. He saw a good man (was he a good man?) who thought he was doing the right thing, the only thing possible. How many times had he done the same? Always for a good cause, but not always with good results. At Culloden, he'd killed men with his bare hands, watching their eyes bulge before death took them, only to feel empty afterwards. It should never have been, and he was overwhelmed with exhaustion. So tired of the killing.

He told Methos and Amanda he'd needed to face Keane, to resolve things between them - as much as they could be resolved -- on his terms. He had to see it through, and that if it went to the death, so be it. Looking into their faces, he wasn't sure if they truly understood. These two were the closest friends he had, and one of them had shot him in the back and the other had him thrown in jail. There was a lesson there, but it slid away from him as he smiled at Amanda. She had that gift -- she could always make him smile. Methos stood by the fireplace, more silent than not, his hazel eyes dark and unreadable. MacLeod shied away from contact, still unsure of Methos, still too raw.

"And we all have mistakes to forgive."

MacLeod looked up then, hearing Methos' words and something sharp and penetrating passed between them. And then Amanda was on his lap, a willful diversion, and he turned all his attention to her, grateful for the respite. From the background came the familiar sounds of Methos leaving.

The day after the fight with Keane, Amanda left. A kiss and a promise and he was once again alone. He waited it out for a few days, staring at the phone or toying with the chess set, moving pieces fruitlessly around the board. When he felt he had waited long enough, he went looking. Passing by Methos' apartment, MacLeod found it empty, lacking one sorely missed Immortal presence. He wasn't sure what he was doing, what he wanted, or what he would have said to Methos if he had found him, only that something had to be done to break through this constant cage of frustration and regret. So he decided to wait, and wait, and he waited till the sky went dark and the streets echoed his loneliness. Then he could wait no more and he rose and started the walk back to the barge, the silent stars his only company.

As he walked up the gangplank onto the barge, Immortal presence stopped him for a moment. Of course, he thought through an uncontrolled wave of relief and familiar irritation, almost sure that Methos had planned their identical but separate vigils just to be perverse. He entered quickly only to find Methos asleep on his couch, the remains of food and drink scattered around him. MacLeod approached and Methos shifted in his sleep as the insistent droning of Immortal presence did its work and warned him he was not alone.

Methos woke with a start, reaching blindly for his sword, knocking over a plate and a couple of books.

"Easy, easy. It's just me." MacLeod stepped back and ducked.

"Mac." Methos' rather wild eyes caught his before he let out a disgusted sigh, deflating and dropping back onto the couch. "Christ."

MacLeod chuckled, finding the situation funny. Must be the lack of sleep and the late hour, he decided, leaning over to move aside his dishware before any more harm could come to it. "Serves you right. Not very smart, Methos."

"Yes. Thank you. Where the hell have you been?"

MacLeod looked down at Methos before moving to the galley with an armful of dishes and empty beer bottles. "Your place," he said. He put the dishes in the sink and moved to the coffee machine to start a pot brewing. He registered only silence behind him. Turning, he saw Methos standing at the other end of the small kitchen, uncertain, and MacLeod felt a dull familiar ache.

"Mac, I, um..." Methos paused. His eyes refracted the light, shimmering. "I wanted to, um--" and then he stopped again. MacLeod felt a wave of heat flush behind his eyes.

"Methos."

Through all the distance, and all the pain given and taken, and through the chokehold of stubborn silence, they met in the middle of the small galley. MacLeod reached for Methos and took him into his arms, blinking back tears. Methos' hands gripped his shirt and his head rested against MacLeod's neck and shoulder. MacLeod squeezed for a moment before pushing back, and with one hand on Methos' head, brought him in for a blind kiss. Painful, needing, full of sorrow and apologies, their wet cheeks and wet mouths met with ragged breaths.

MacLeod tore Methos' shirt off, pushing him across the barge. He felt Methos' hands reach his skin, skimming under his sweater, dipping below his belt. They fell onto the bed and MacLeod pulled Methos on top of him. He lost his breath and he didn't care under the endless weight of soul-reaching kisses that moved and changed and turned into more.

A knee edged between his legs, pressing against his cock, and he pushed his hips up to meet it. A noise escaped his throat, low and jagged, his hands coming to rest against Methos' sides. He let his legs fall open and he groaned as Methos thrust against him. It was almost painful through the coarse containment of their jeans, but MacLeod gripped Methos tighter and thrust harder, biting with his teeth. And he did it again and again. It felt sudden, this hard need that was trapped and caged, and he was unable to control the emotions welling up behind his breastbone or the wave of near violent arousal that brought him close to completion.

He could have come right then, a strangled, painful orgasm, his need so strong and so close, but then he heard his name on Methos' lips. "Mac. Duncan. My Duncan, my Duncan, my Duncan." A sort of litany, barely audible, muffled against his skin.

And he heard from his own lips an answering whisper, "Methos." Low and rumbling, his voice veiled with uncertainty and a questioning awe that pulled them apart and halted their actions.

Methos knelt between MacLeod's legs, his chest rising and falling with his breath, his eyes bright and shining in the dark. They finished undressing each other, MacLeod's hands on Methos' pants, Methos' fingers on MacLeod's sweater and undershirt.

Free of any and all barriers, they fell back into bed, side by side, and MacLeod sighed softly as he felt the full length of Methos lying next to him. Skin on skin, hands roaming gently and thoroughly. MacLeod leaned closer and caught Methos' lips once more, slower this time. MacLeod felt fingers touch his cheek, damp with unseen tears, sliding down to cup the back of his neck.

MacLeod explored with his lips and with his fingers. He felt the tip of Methos' cock touch his and he moved closer so that he could repeat the sensation, cupping Methos' ass, pulling him in, their legs becoming tangled, and he could feel his breathing. MacLeod rolled on top, slowly moving back and forth. With his thighs, he nudged Methos wider, moving further up, reaching between to push his cockhead lower. With his hands bracing his weight on either side, he rubbed gently against the softness of Methos' balls, thrusting slowly. Methos arched and his head fell back with a swallowed groan. MacLeod bit his neck, licking the area afterwards as he lifted his hips and pushed his cock against Methos a second time.

Methos bucked and grabbed MacLeod's hips, his breathing urgent. MacLeod struggled, leaning and crawling away to the side of the bed and the small table there, finally finding what he needed and quickly coating his cock.

"Hey," Methos said, his lips quirking into a small smile, hand coming up to touch his face, his hair, and down one cheek. MacLeod moved his head slightly and kissed the palm of Methos' hand.

With their eyes locked, Methos hooked his legs over MacLeod's thighs, taking hold of MacLeod's cock and guiding it between his legs. With their eyes open and seeing, stinging from tears and sweat, MacLeod pushed into Methos' body.

His heart pounding in his chest, he lowered his head to kiss Methos on the cheek as he lifted and thrust back in, shivering a little at the low groan that spilled from Methos. He thrust in again, sinking into him, over and over, swallowing a moan at the tightness that surrounded his cock. Methos' hot breath touched his face, his hands gripped him hard, bruising, his hips rising to meet MacLeod in ungentle slaps of skin.

Faster and harder they moved. Methos licked his lips; he arched against MacLeod, and MacLeod felt him come, tightening even more around his cock, a splash of hot wetness between their bodies. MacLeod felt like he was drowning under desire and blinding pleasure, his climax coming in wave after wave, and he collapsed onto Methos.

He knew nothing more for several minutes, coming to awareness through the soft touch of Methos' fingers through his hair and the steady beat of his heart under his ear. He shifted to the side, not moving again until he felt Methos fall asleep.

Carefully, he rose from the bed and turned off the remaining lights in the barge. He turned off the forgotten coffee machine and started another fire before returning to bed. Tucking one arm around Methos' still figure, he took a long, slow breath before falling asleep.

In the morning, MacLeod woke to the gentle sway of the river and to the silent pressure of eyes watching him. Methos lay on his side, awake, his head resting on one arm. The morning light began to spill across the barge, filling each and every shadow. MacLeod shifted and turned, and they both lay on their sides facing each other. One more first time, waking together in the morning.

"Good morning," said Methos.

"Hello." MacLeod smiled, drifting in and out of sleep, lulled by Methos' touch.

"Duncan."

"Hm." He opened his eyes.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"I don't know, can you?" MacLeod said smiling, almost laughing, moving closer.

"Mac." Methos rose up on his elbow, one hand against MacLeod's chest, stopping him.

"What is it?" One of Methos' hands remained over his heart, and he could feel the warm weight of it, fingers moving over his skin. "Methos," he said, taking Methos' hand in his.

Methos took a slow, deep breath. "That day, in Bordeaux, you didn't kill me. You could have."

There was something squeezing his lungs and his heart, a weight so heavy he knew he would never, could never escape from under it. He heard the question that lay within Methos' words -- why? What stayed your hand? Why didn't you? Could you?

Will you kill him, Duncan? Can you kill him?

If I have to.

You will.

He was blinded by Methos' words, and by the memory of Cassandra's, her voice filling his head. But then he felt Methos next to him, felt his touch on his face and on his chest, over his heart. He heard words that said it was okay, it was okay, it's okay, whispered in his ear and over his skin. He could see again and he saw that Methos' eyes shone but he was smiling.

MacLeod pulled Methos down onto him, desperately seeking his lips and his mouth, and he opened himself. He clutched and tugged, nearly feeding himself into Methos, who took him in, meeting every touch, every brutal kiss, every rough and needy caress. He let his legs fall open, gripping Methos with his thighs. There was barely a pause, the cool touch of slick fingers and lube, before he felt Methos push in, stretching and burning, filling him. It was an all-consuming sensation, and he gasped at the burst of light that exploded behind his eyes with each thrust. Face buried in Methos' neck, MacLeod came in a blinding flash. He opened his eyes and watched Methos, devastating above him, sink down and capture him in a kiss with a groan and one final thrust. He was held in Methos' arms as the last spasms left his body.

Afterwards, they lay silently, the morning turning and passing on, leaving them behind.

Their first time, in a bare room in the middle of Paris, turned into three times, turned into several, and mornings became a common thing. In the early hours MacLeod would lie on his side with Methos next to him reading a book, dozing while an idle hand passed through his hair. Or sometimes there was less reading and more touching, stroking, and breathless completion. Other times, there was food and drink and morning laughter. Through the many nights and mornings and quiet stolen moments, there were few words spoken beyond those needed for touch and affection, for idle talk and passing fancy. More was said with their silences -- sharp clear moments with penetrating looks, honest and bare, full of too much emotion.

On the outside, they were much the same as before, their nighttime selves not following them into the day. They lived two realities, that of the real world of Immortals and Paris and Joe and everything else, and the other more quiet, subtle, hidden life that was kept to the night and the early morning, when it was just the two of them. A world of warm skin and sex and companionship.

At night, MacLeod would open the door to the quiet knock at two o'clock in the morning, stepping back as Methos brushed past him. Sometimes Methos wouldn't even knock, coming to MacLeod's bed in the middle of the night and slipping in without a word. MacLeod always waited a moment or two before he turned around and sought the touch of his hands.

MacLeod was unsure which one of them held on tighter to the façade, moving through the days with their other life just a shadow. Which one was the stronger, the day or the night? During the sunlight hours he could smell Methos on his skin. The more days passed, the more they didn't speak of it.

In the red-tinted world of the blues bar, with Joe's music falling between them, their two separate realities merged and tripped over each other with the presence of Byron walking through the door, another bruise to their friendship.

With Byron's blood freshly wiped from the blade of his sword, MacLeod felt the wall of silence wrap itself around both of them. Seeing Methos next to him, steadily drinking his way to the end of a bottle of whiskey, MacLeod took up a glass and did the same.

Methos accidentally knocked over the half-empty bottle and it fell. It wasn't a long distance to the floor, but it hit in just the right way and shattered in a sudden spread of glass and amber liquid.

"Damn." Methos pushed his chair back, bending over to pick up the broken pieces of glass, reaching for napkins from the table only to knock over both his glass and MacLeod's. "Fuck." He caught one of the glasses but the other quickly rolled and fell over the edge, rolling across the floor.

"Methos." MacLeod moved out of the way of the spreading liquid running down across the table. He reached for Methos, taking the broken pieces of bottle out of his hands. "Come on. Time to go."

Abruptly, Methos pushed back against MacLeod, hard, their chairs scraping across the floor. A piece of broken glass sliced through the fleshy part of MacLeod's palm and he hissed in pain, pulling back.

Silence, with Methos' eyes wide and staring and red blood dripping down to the floor. Somewhere in the back of his awareness, MacLeod knew that Joe had stopped playing and was probably watching them. Even the street noises faded and disappeared.

MacLeod took up one of the many napkins and wiped the blood away from his already healing hand. "It's okay, Methos," he said, although his voice was shaking.

Methos reached for his blood-smeared hand, his eyes still wide, his face pale. MacLeod breathed in, watching Methos finish wiping off the rest of the blood. Methos looked up, and before MacLeod knew it he was kissing the look on Methos' face away, his fully healed hand reaching to hold him. When they finally parted, MacLeod looked over at Joe, who met his eyes briefly before getting up and leaving, saying more with his silence than he could have said in words.

They cleaned up the broken glass and the spilt whiskey, closing up the bar and locking the door behind them. Back at the barge, MacLeod removed Methos' clothing and then his own. He turned off the lights and they lay in the dark for a long time before eventually turning to each other.

The day world and the night world bled across each other in sudden unseen touches, in the light of a smile or the breath of an embrace, until MacLeod was unsure where one ended and the other began. Which one was real and which one shadow?

When the red, creeping fog drifted across the quay, seeping into the barge, into his life, and under his skin, he felt the presence of darkness and evil like the touch of a cold hand against the back of his neck. Always there, it separated him from the world with a veil across his eyes. He lost track of what was real and what was illusion, and one by one they went away, the bits that made the whole, and he was left with only a fractured understanding.

He could feel Methos close to him, feel his touch and his presence, but he turned away from the look of uncertainty and gentle disbelief he saw there, no longer able to be certain what he felt was really Methos. Even the solid presence of him, the heavy weight of him in his arms, faded and lessened, falling second to the faces of his enemies, and they were parted by the river of red fog.

"Mac, you need help." Methos' eyes, earnest, reaching for him and yet so distant, as if he was afraid to come too close.

"Look, if this is all in my mind, if I'm crazy... it's too late. If not, then there's nothing you can do."

He had tried to hold the pieces of his life together with his hands but he felt it finally unravel, failing to understand what it was that was asked of him -- his name in an old man's book with the word Champion written next to it.

The only bright spot was Richie, faithful at all costs, so determined to help him, to believe in him. He remembered the helplessness in Richie's eyes as his belief in the false Methos was shattered. He remembered his darker self in the dojo and how his sword had flashed as it arced through the air, swinging down to take Richie's head.

When he heard Richie's voice on the other end of the phone, knowing he was being tricked by Ahriman, all he could think was that he had to get to him, that he had to protect him. Ignoring the protests from Joe and Methos, MacLeod ran after him, out into the night.

The racetrack was dark, full of live shadows and the smell of urine and garbage. When he finally found Richie and looked into his eyes, he saw Ahriman there instead, lying in wait like a wolf. Anger and fear flooded him and he turned towards the changing face of his enemy, the sneer of Kronos, the disdain of Horton, and Richie, but not Richie, taunting him, encircling him.

With a burning anger that the demon would use the image of his friend against him, he swung with all his force, feeling the sword pull at the muscles of his arms as it went through muscle and bone. There was a stark moment of understanding just before the first spike of quickening fire obliterated all thought.

When he fell to his knees, he told himself it was just another nightmare, another false vision like all the others. But as he felt the presence of an Immortal and heard the footsteps of Joe and Methos, he crawled on his knees to the still body and knew what he had done. Something precious broke inside him and all he could think was that he couldn't live with this, can't live with this, oh my God what have I done, and he held up his sword and bowed his head.

"Absolutely not."

He heard Methos' words and then a low keening, a sound of pain. He dropped his sword. Taking one of Richie's gloves, he left.

All the way back to the barge, he could feel the breath of Ahriman kissing the back of his heels, congratulating him on a job well done. When he got there, he could hear the demon laughing at him from dark corners and hidden spaces, mocking him. He stumbled and fell. He squeezed his head with his hands. He yelled and knocked things down.

The laughing grew louder and louder, bouncing off the hull of the barge, reverberating until it came at him from all sides. From up, down, from inside. And then he felt hands on him, shaking him, and he heard a voice calling his name and the laughing stopped, dropping into sudden silence.

"Mac! Mac! It's me." Bright hazel eyes and strong hands. Methos' beloved face looked into his.

MacLeod's eyes widened and he grabbed Methos, clinging to him. "Methos." He let his weight go and Methos caught him. "What are you doing here?"

"You need help." Methos' voice shook, and although his hands held MacLeod firmly, they were also gentle, soothing his hair back.

"You can't help me." He sank a little more, unable to stop himself, shaking his head.

"Mac." MacLeod felt Methos' hands touch him, a thumb across his cheek, and he wanted so very much to let himself go, to let Methos hold him while he cried his out his heartbreak, but was this real? It smelled like Methos, it felt like him. MacLeod shivered as he heard an echo of laughter in his head.

"No." He pushed Methos away. "You have to go."

"Duncan, you need help."

"No, Methos. You don't understand. You have to go." He pushed at Methos with his hands.

"You're not right, Mac. Let me help you." Methos' voice rose in frustration.

"Methos, please, just go. It's too late for that. Don't you understand? I wish to God I was crazy, Methos. But I swear I'm not. I can't control this. You don't know what he can do. I killed Richie, don't you understand! I killed him, and I can kill you too. So please, for the love of God, please just go. Go, damn it. " He shoved at Methos.

Methos took a couple of steps back, breathing heard. Tears fell down his face, which contorted in anger and grief. He shook his head, no.

MacLeod fell to his knees. "Please, please, why won't you go?" He dropped his head, unable to stop the crying once it began. He felt a touch to his head and then nothing, and when he finally looked up, he was alone, with only the simmer of laughter to keep him company.

He sat on the floor of his barge until the silence melted into his bones and the pain sank down, deep and buried. He sat until he became numb, until who and what he was lay dormant and hidden. He gathered what little he needed before shutting the barge and walking out into the graying light of morning. He didn't return for a year.

He went to a place he knew. An isolated monastery where he was left alone, where he meditated with sweat pouring down his face and back, disciplining his mind and his body. He spent hours going over forms and katas, sometimes all day without food or water, until his body twitched with exhaustion and his sleep held no dreams, over and over again, feeling his muscles burn and his head become clear of all shadows. He couldn't forget, however, and every day he thought of that racetrack and Richie's body, still and empty.

He lived with what he had done and made it part of him, breathing it in, until he learned not to shy away from it. This was his whole life, this constant effort, until one day he knew his time of hiding was over. He felt it, an unsettled feeling in his chest. He could feel Ahriman calling him back.

Was he ready? He couldn't say, but he had no choice, and he cut his hair as a sign of the change within him. On the journey back, he thought of Methos, remembering the way he'd looked that last night in the barge, and he wondered where he was, what he was thinking, and if he'd ever see him again.

When he returned, he knew the city was the same as always, shining in the summer sun, warm and bright, but it felt different than he remembered. The barge felt different, too. He stood on the quay for a long time before going in. A breeze came and ruffled through his short hair, a new sensation. There were memories, so many memories, of Tessa and Richie. Of Amanda and Joe. Methos. He knew that the differences he felt were in him and not in the city or the barge. Yet, there was something comforting in its metal hull and familiar outline against the Seine and the Paris sky. So he went inside and he changed the interior, making it fit to reflect the changes within him. Sitting in meditation in the new space of his home, he knew it was time to look for an old friend. He found Joe at Richie's gravesite.

"You disappear for over a year. No one knows if you're alive or dead. And then you pop up out of nowhere and you want me to get the Watchers to help you? Well, you don't want much, do you?"

"When Richie died, I wanted to die. Then I realized that if his death was to mean anything I had to survive. I had to understand what happened, I had to believe what happened. This thing is evil, Joe. And I'm the only thing that can stop it. And I will stop it. I'm going to find it, and I'm going to destroy it." MacLeod looked at Joe. "Will you help me?"

He watched Joe struggle and say, "I don't know," before walking away.

Joe walked away but he came back, his friendship a precious gift. With him, he brought MacLeod's sword. The katana was part of him, an extension of his arm. It was his will, his guard; it held so much of himself, MacLeod felt his throat close and heat gather behind his eyes at the memory of the last time he'd held it in his hand. Turning his back on it, he turned his back on a part of himself.

He told Joe he didn't need it, that he'd manage, but the truth was, he felt adrift without the comfort and safety of the sword, for though it represented the violence of his life, there was no uncertainty in it. You fought and you either won, or you didn't. But this was not the game. His sword couldn't help now.

Ahriman showed its patience, waiting for him, lurking in the shadows near Richie's grave and nesting in the unsuspecting breast of a young woman. He searched for answers, for enlightenment, to know what it was he should do, how to fight it. He pored over the book left by Landry. He asked Joe for help, until he saw the damage in Joe's eyes. He used the Watchers, stopping when Watcher after Watcher died. He watched young Sophie Baines give up her life for the love of her brother; he held old Father Beaufort as he cried over his loss of faith.

The call of his sword was strong, the need to fight overpowering. It was what he wanted; it sang in his blood, to fight and kill his enemy. To stand over its body and know, to conquer and win, to protect those he loved. How does one fight a shadow? How does one protect against the turning of the world, against death and destruction, against the presence of fate? Ahriman was real, an ancient evil, but evil was often matched with good.

In the end, Ahriman followed him into his meditation. With sudden understanding and great faith, against every instinct, MacLeod refused to fight him. He felt Ahriman's anger, a hot, rolling wave flowing out and around him, but MacLeod only looked to himself, taking what he'd learning in his year of solitude as his only weapon. With a scream of anger, Ahriman faded.

"I'm a part of you now." In Horton's voice, Ahriman's last words surrounded him.

"You always were."

It was in the fading light that MacLeod spied the familiar figure moving towards him through the throngs of people on the street, along the river and on the quay. Tourists and Parisians laughing, talking, walking, and the figure was often lost amid the crowd, dark head threading in and out. But MacLeod had keen eyes and it was the certain turn of a profile or the gait of a walk that gave the figure away, down the steps and onto the stone pavement. MacLeod waited for the touch of Presence and held himself still before the deep, rushing vibration sang down his spine.

MacLeod walked to meet Methos on the stone quay. He drank in the sight of him, hazel eyes and an enigmatic smile, only then realizing he'd had no hope of ever seeing Methos again, the echo of their last goodbye ringing through his memory. Months, since Ahriman, and MacLeod still carried the weight of the experience with him, the wounds only now healing. Seeing Methos again brought some of the pain and fear of that dark night back. But MacLeod smiled. It had never been easy for them; there was no reason for it to suddenly start being easy now.

"Hello, Methos," he said.

"Mac." Methos eyed him. "You look good."

"Thanks. I think," he said, the smile on his face fading as he saw the question in Methos' eyes.

"All good?" Methos asked, quietly.

The sun set, drowning the sky in color. MacLeod's heart thumped in his chest. He swallowed, the back of his throat hurting and nodded.

Methos' bright eyes continued to look at him, unreadable as ever. "Okay," he said. Then he smiled, his expression changing to one of injury. "Are you going to invite me in, or do you like to keep your guests hovering outside your door? Have you always been this rude?"

One of the bands around MacLeod's heart broke, and he felt a sudden freeing. He laughed softly at Methos. "I don't know what makes you think you were ever a guest." They smiled at each other.

"Coming in?" he asked, already heading towards the barge, but Methos didn't move.

A hand on his wrist. He looked down at it and then at Methos. MacLeod went still when Methos pulled him into a hug, still not quite believing it was true, that this was real and that Methos had chosen to come back despite everything. MacLeod turned his head slightly into Methos' neck, breathed in one long breath, and then he believed.

His arms went around Methos and he couldn't help but crush him in his arms. "You're here."

"Observant as ever, MacLeod."

MacLeod squeezed a little tighter and laughed.

They talked until Methos fell asleep on a pile of cushions and MacLeod found himself dozing with his head resting against Methos' hip. In the night, he woke to Methos watching him, the only light a dim glow from the windows. Methos passed his hand through MacLeod's short hair.

"I'm sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

MacLeod shook his head. "You didn't." He closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of Methos' touch. He might have dozed again, he wasn't sure, the sound of Methos' voice bringing him back to awareness.

"Where did you go?"

MacLeod shifted to look at Methos better. "To a place I know, in Malaysia."

Methos nodded. His hand moved, almost hesitant, as it slid down MacLeod's chest, slipping under his T-shirt. "Joe looked for you."

MacLeod's hands copied Methos', finding the smooth skin of Methos' back, tugging his shirt off. "I know. He told me." He paused as a hand reached into his pants and cupped his cock and balls, pushing his pants down. He breathed in sharply and laid his head against Methos', panting against his skin.

Methos' hand moved faster. With effort, MacLeod lifted his head and looked up into Methos' eyes, glittering in the dark. He could feel Methos' hard erection digging into his side, thrusting against him while his hand worked up and down.

"Methos." His heart in his throat, hands reaching up to either side of Methos' face, feeling as if he were going to shatter and fall apart at any minute. He opened his mouth and moaned as their mouths met. He thrust into Methos' hand, aching, coming with a sudden, shuddering gasp.

MacLeod didn't let go as he caught his breath, but only held on tighter. He nuzzled Methos' forehead and stroked his back, reaching between their bodies and down Methos' pants to take hold of his hard cock. Methos grunted as he came.

Their skin cooling as the heat from their bodies bled into the night, MacLeod turned to Methos. "Did you look for me?" he asked.

Methos shook his head. "No." He paused, shifting to look at MacLeod. "No, I didn't. I had no hope, Duncan. I left." With his last word, Methos' voice cracked.

Stinging tears sprung up in MacLeod's eyes and he pulled Methos into a tight embrace. A long silence and then MacLeod spoke into the darkness. "I missed you." It didn't cover much of what needed to be said, but it was true.

As he closed his eyes, he wondered if Methos would leave and felt a stab of certainty that when he woke again he would be alone. But in the morning, Methos was there, with a cup of fresh coffee for him and a genuine, if fleeting, smile. They cooked breakfast together and then Methos left with a promise to call.

Methos didn't leave Paris, but he stopped coming around the barge. They saw each other often, but never alone. He knew Methos followed him with his eyes when he thought MacLeod wasn't looking, and even when he was. MacLeod could feel him, his body heat and the way he smelled, even from opposite sides of a room. They never touched except casually, and then always with full awareness. And it wasn't out of avoidance, or anger, MacLeod knew. It was simply out of fear -- fear of the unknown and of the known. MacLeod longed for Methos, a deep, constant longing, a dull ache in the center of his bones, but he knew fear as well, and he didn't know how to release this guard around his heart.

Sometimes, in unseen and unexpected moments, they would find themselves alone.

"Methos." He said an entire conversation in just his name.

Methos nodded, looking at him clearly. "I know," he said, with a sad smile.

That was all that could be said, and Methos would lean in to brush his lips against MacLeod's forehead, brief and sweet, the moment passing.

They spent more time apart, if only to break the spell. MacLeod went away to London, returning to find Amanda back in town. She was bright and beautiful and a rush of energy and laughter. Her smile lit up his heart, and there was the old feeling between them, a fleeting possibility. But no sooner had Amanda arrived than she was ready to leave. There was no regret as he watched Amanda dress, only a slight wistfulness. With a sigh, he was left alone.

Not a moment passed before he heard her cry out.

He went to Joe for help and found Methos there, feeling a rush of gratitude as Methos fell into step beside him.

Outside Joe's, pausing by the Citroen, he turned to Methos. "Thanks."

Methos merely looked at him, squeezing MacLeod's arm before passing to the other side of the car.

Together they went looking, making their way back to the barge only to find a note left by O'Rourke, on a coaster from Joe's bar and written with Amanda's red lipstick. The message was clear.

Never again, thought MacLeod. It was a simple decision; there was no way he would let Joe and Amanda die because of him and his mistakes. He turned to go despite the rising protests from Methos.

"I'm getting them out."

"Are you playing the hero here, or are you being the martyr?"

"Whatever it takes. Whatever I have to do, I'm keeping them alive."

"People die, MacLeod. Immortals die."

"Yeah. But not because of me. Not anymore." Emotion choked MacLeod's throat, and he turned to leave.

"Goodbye." Methos said, quietly, with something like defeat.

MacLeod stopped at the door to the barge. "I think you mean good luck, don't you?"

Methos blinked, dropping his voice. "Of course. That's what I meant."

MacLeod left, walking away from the confusing emotions that Methos' words and his presence brought. The only thing that mattered was saving Amanda and Joe. When he saw his friends bound and held captive, he knew he would do anything to save them. He couldn't think past their imminent deaths. There was so much blood on his hands.

"Tell her I love her," he said to Joe, and then turned to kneel before O'Rourke. In the next instant a shot rang out, and pandemonium followed.

In the confusion, MacLeod rolled out of the way, ready to go to Joe and Amanda, but he felt the burning pain of a gunshot and fell to the ground. Darkness embraced him, and then there was Fitzcairn, bright as day, showing him what the world would be without Duncan MacLeod. Joe, reduced to a beggar. Amanda, somehow a murderess. Beautiful Tessa, alive but unhappy. Richie, also alive, but nothing more than a common punk, a tool for the likes of Kronos and the Horsemen. And Methos, filled with anger and hatred, falling in line with Kronos because he had nothing else. Seeing that Methos, so close to his own, watching him cut Richie down in cold blood, filled MacLeod with such a sense of wrongness that he picked up a sword and fought the other Methos until he won and it was only him standing there, with Fitz scolding him, telling him it wasn't his time, telling him to look up.

Methos, he thought, as he opened his eyes to the real world and saw his beloved friend above him, impatient, but real.

Out of desperation and loss of hope was born a second chance and MacLeod grasped it, taking the katana in his hands and finally fighting O'Rourke and ending his petty bid for revenge with a swift, sure stroke.

After the quickening released him, when Amanda ran into his arms and Methos and Joe stood next to him within easy reach, whole and alive, he felt the lesson of the strange dream settle into his chest. That this -- his friends close to him, Amanda's smile, Methos' irritation, Joe's good humor, even Richie and Tessa and Fitz, and all those he had lost and mourned, and would always mourn -- was all worth it, no matter the pain, no matter the loss. Sometimes it will be too hard to go on and he won't have the answers, and he will make mistakes. His best will not always be enough. His strength will sometimes break. His love will fail to protect. And even so, even so, to go without all that, to be so afraid of the pain that you cease to exist, is worse than bearing the burden.

Back on the barge, he wiped away the sudden tears in Amanda's eyes and felt a slight twist to his heart, knowing it was a hard lesson to learn, one he would probably forget, and even that was part of it, even that was okay.

He looked at Methos who held himself apart from the impromptu celebration, hovering on the outside with a look in his eyes both musing and distant, as if it were already a fond memory, and it made MacLeod panic a little bit. Because despite everything, despite their arguments and different natures, despite their history both together and apart, he was desperate for this man, as a friend, as a lover, as whatever and whomever and however and in any way possible. He thought of that old cliché so oft repeated, the one about loved and lost and better than never at all, and he was afraid it was too late for them. They'd gone through so much that maybe asking for more was simply asking for the impossible. It wasn't his call. He had to let Methos come to him, and even not come at all if that was his choice.

Joe left, and then Amanda left, and MacLeod was alone with a silent Methos who had wandered up to the deck of the barge some time ago. More nervous than he could remember being in a long time, MacLeod joined him, breathing in the brisk night air. Methos looked at him with a quick smile on his lips, turning back to gaze out into the night, but he offered MacLeod a sip from the bottle of champagne. Sitting down, MacLeod accepted the bottle gratefully, taking a swig before giving it back.

Paris was a jeweled tapestry of velvet darkness and starry strings of light, stretching all around, with the dark ribbon of the Seine disappearing around the bend.

"Are you still mad at me?" MacLeod asked.

Methos snorted. "It's a perpetual state, MacLeod. Not likely to end any time soon." A bright-eyed glower was thrown at MacLeod, gentle in its familiarity.

MacLeod smiled. "I could say I'm sorry," he offered. Earlier he had said his thank you, knowing Methos didn't care to hear it, but it was honest and heartfelt.

"You could. You could also say you were wrong and I was right," Methos said, very matter-of-factly, taking another drink from the bottle. Their words were teasing, but the flavor of honesty in them took much of the humor away. Methos turned away again, taking a breath before MacLeod heard him ask, quietly, "Are you?"

"Sorry?"

Methos nodded.

"Yes. And no." Methos tilted his head slightly, almost a question. "It's been a very strange night, Methos. I..." He shook his head. He could never explain it, and then he realized it wasn't meant to be explained.

"What?"

MacLeod looked at him. The barge dipped and swayed beneath them. He reached out and touched Methos, his thumb tracing the sharp cheekbone, the fair skin glowing in the silvery light that bounced off the river. "Methos."

"What is it, Mac?"

MacLeod took a deep breath. "Are you leaving?" Will you go away? Will you stay?

Methos' brows creased for a moment. Then, almost in a burst, he started laughing. A trying-not-to-laugh laugh.

MacLeod frowned. "What is so funny?"

Methos laughed harder. And also louder. "Duncan," he said, finally getting some breath, grabbing MacLeod's arms in a tight grip. "I don't think I could leave, even if I wanted to."

MacLeod blinked. He opened his mouth, to speak. Methos lunged for him, catching him in a hard, wet, open-mouthed assault. MacLeod tumbled onto his back, with Methos on top of him, kissing the breath from his body.

"Methos," he said, muffled and incoherent. As abruptly as he had started, Methos stopped, pulling up a little, his weight resting on his arms, his body sliding in between MacLeod's legs.

Methos' breath skimmed across MacLeod's skin, their lips just touching. The rush of joy in MacLeod's chest made him smile, and he pulled Methos close, arms wrapping around, giving into his need to feel Methos in his arms.

"What are we doing?" he asked. "What is this?" Methos shook his head, looking up at him. They slid apart.

"I don't know what this is, aside from complicated, anyway," said Methos. MacLeod chuckled. Methos took his hand again. "It is whatever you want it to be."

MacLeod nodded, blinking past the tell-tale heat behind his eyes. "And you?"

"Me? I--" Methos' eyes glimmered with sudden wetness, and his voice cracked. "I just--" MacLeod felt the heat in his face sharpen, and a thickness in his throat threatened to squeeze it shut. It was his turn to lunge, and he swallowed the rest of Methos' words, whispering "me too" in between the kisses and the tears, and the laughter and the pain.

With the dotted luminance of Paris all around, they moved together, heedless of place or time, finding for that moment -- and maybe for longer still -- themselves, and each other, and a little bit of forever.