Mac had pulled Joe into a long, warm embrace, his eyes glittering with gratitude that encompassed friendship, loyalty, brotherhood and love. That was, of all his many gifts, his greatest. A heart that, over and over and over again, was broken and battered and bruised, but which he still offered up like a gift.

You are a fool, MacLeod, Methos had thought at the time. Why do you do this to yourself? In a few years Joe Dawson will be dead, and then you will be left with the crushing pain and loneliness and helplessness to have prevented it.Of course, then Mac had gone on to declare his love for Amanda and she had reacted like a giddy schoolgirl. Everything Mac had done defied the basic tenants of survival that had governed the actions of the Oldest Immortal over the millennia. It was maddening.

Mac had even tried to pull him into his little sentimental pater familia, determined to strengthen the sense of Clan among its few remaining survivors, even though he knew Methos was still angry with him for offering himself to O'Rourke to begin with. "You know, I don't know who or what you are, Methos," he had said with a sad smile. "And I know you don't want to hear this. But you did teach me something. You taught me that life is about change. About learning to accept who you are. Good or bad. And I thank you for that."

He had just stood there, arms tightly folded. Letting him know through body language and silence that he was not a willing recipient of the Scot's gratitude or affection. Not a member of his clan. It was far too heavy a burden.

He would not be like MacLeod. He would not slice his chest open and lay his heart on the floor for the Highlander to trod on every bloody time he got some fool notion in his head about the "greater good" or that someone else's existence or some great cause was important enough to risk life and limb. The long years, the layers of identity, the multitude of faces that resided in his memory like dust motes, all of them had taught him a lesson, that life was about loss...and survival. If change was necessary to that end, then change was achieved, at whatever cost.

It was only after MacLeod had left to meet O'Rourke -- left him standing there with his mouth open, voicing protests that Mac was walking into a trap, that he couldn't save the world, that people die, mortals and Immortals alike and it was not his job to save them all -- it was only then that he realized he could not let it happen. Yes, people die. Immortals die. But not Duncan. Not the Highlander. When O'Rourke was prepared to use the familiar ancient katana on Mac's own flesh, with the Highlander just kneeling there, chin held high, shoulders square, a willing sacrifice to his own governing purpose -- the protection of those he loved -- the Oldest Immortal, the ultimate pragmatist, had risen up like a demon from hell, firing with uncanny accuracy borne of wild desperation.

But in the aftermath, watching MacLeod stagger under the force of O'Rourke's Quickening, he had come very close to simply walking away, disappearing. He hadn't felt so raw and vulnerable since...he couldn't remember. Not even Alexa's death had left him feeling this wounded because he knew from the start that her time was limited. The cynic in him had even figured out that his attraction to the fatally ill woman was intertwined with his increasing involvement in MacLeod's life. She had been small and fair, frail and shy, but with an indomitable spirit that would soon be snuffed out. Mac was large, dark, strong, aggressive, but with a similar spirit that because of his very nature was always at risk. Some clever therapist would probably say he was subconsciously inoculating himself against the expected pain of Mac's seemingly inevitable demise by falling for a woman who was both the opposite and the same, but who was already dying. But here he was, overanalyzing, when what he should be doing was just walking away, far away.

"Adam?" Joe's voice intruded on his ruminations. The barkeep and Watcher had come around to the driver's side and was looking at him oddly. "Adam, why don't you come inside and I'll ply us both with some decaf coffee."

"What? Oh, that's okay, Joe. It's late and it's been a long night. You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm not sure I can say the same about you. You've hardly said a word all night."

"Me? Why would there be anything wrong with me? G'nite, Joe." Methos pulled away from the curb and down the darkened street without a backward glance.

The place seemed empty and cold with only him to fill up the space. So many of his friends were gone, lost forever, to live on only in memory. And memory was never enough. The dream or vision or nightmare or psychic experience or whatever it was that had left him with enough sense of purpose, enough hope to take on one more battle, one more death, one more Quickening, was still rattling around in his brain. He was more than half convinced now that it was all a construct of his own ego, of a desperate desire to believe that his life had made a difference, that his friends' lives were richer for having known him. But he would never know for sure. That, of course, was the bitterest pill of all. Most of them were dead. And the person whose opinion meant the most to him had remained impenetrably silent on the issue.

Of all the visions Fitz had shown him, the one that made his skin run coldest was that of Methos, face frozen in a sneer of cold, mindless anger, his powerful forearm muscles rippling with well practiced smoothness as he easily and without remorse ripped away the life of Richie Ryan. Was the veneer of civilization that thin? Was Death on a Horse so very close at hand after all?

Mac had seen that dark, cold look in Methos' eyes before. He had conjured it first when he had told him about what being Death meant, the killing of tens of thousands, of the enjoyment of the killing. And Mac had believed him. Then for a long time after Bordeaux he was certain Methos had deliberately mislead him just to keep him at a distance while he maneuvered the Horsemen and the Highlander into a situation where it was possible for them, together, to defeat that ancient scourge. All of that was probably true. But what was also probably true was that Methos, the Oldest Immortal, had ruthlessly slaughtered, raped and pillaged across the centuries without conscience. But that terror had been reined in at last, tethered by a will more powerful than Death itself. Methos had changed...hadn't he?

Methos had been distant and angry after the confrontation with O'Rourke. Mac had wanted to say so much more but the lean form was tight and tense, not meeting his eyes, giving no ground, leaving no opening.

I owe him so much, Mac thought. I want him in my life, but I've always demanded that it be on my terms. My rules. If I've managed to anger him enough that he leaves... the thought made his skin crawl with dread. No, he couldn't let that happen. Whether or not his vision had been real, whether or not Methos had ever benefited from his association with Duncan MacLeod, Mac would not let him go easily. Not for Methos' sake, but for his own.

His head snapped up as the rolling adrenaline rush that always accompanied the sensation of an approaching Immortal hit him like a blow. Bloody Hell! He scrambled, dumping books off his lap, pulling himself up, trying to push a path through the paper and leather obstacle course he had created to the blade he had carelessly left at least two stacks over.

But a large, broad shouldered shadow blocked his path at the far end.

"Have I caught you at an awkward moment?" the familiar baritone sounded amused.

"Bac?!" his sharp tone sounded angry when he had really only been surprised.

The dark figure glanced quickly behind him to see why he should back away. "Sorry, didn't mean to . . ." the shadow exploded in an unexpected sneeze.

"Didn't mean ...ah, aah..." Another violent sneeze, followed by two more in quick succession filled the time it took for Methos to wade a path through the piles of texts to the end of the aisle, where he handed his friend a tissue.

Mac looked at the crumpled white ball a little dubiously before swiping his nose with it. "What are you doig dowd here?" he mumbled.

"Just a little research. More to the point, Bac, whad are you doig dowd here?"

"Looking for you obviously," Mac replied, then exploded through another sneeze. "Can we ged oud of here?" he pleaded.

"BacLeod, I was very edgrossed in whad I was doig. Give be one good reason why I should just pig up and leave!"

Mac sneezed again...and again. "Because I'b dyig here, thad's why! And I deed to talk to you. I've bed tryig to reach you for a week bud you dever return by calls." He sneezed again. "There bust be a thousand years of dust and bold down here!"

"You ged used to it after awhile," Methos lied maliciously. "If you wad to talk to be you can talk to be right here."

"Oh, for God's sake, Bethos. Give be a break!" Mac sounded desperate. "You have adother tissue?" he asked plaintively.

Methos reluctantly handed over his last one, realizing he now had to leave or live with the annoying indignity of a perpetual drip from his not-inconsiderable proboscis.

"You cad be such a paid in the ass, BacLeod!" he growled as he waded back through the piles of books, found his backpack, coat and sword and pushed past the Scot.

"Are'd you goig to clead up this bess?" Mac looked scandalized at the chaotic piles scattered everywhere.

"Dobody comes dowd here adyway," Methos sniped. "They'd catch deboadia."

Methos made himself be still and just watch and wait. Mac had something on his mind. It would take him some time, but eventually he would spit it out. When passion guided Mac's thoughts he could easily mesmerize a listener. But moments like these, where he had planned some query, needed to make some awkward revelation, the Scot became hesitant, terse and taciturn. Words were treated like an enemy with which he must do battle, with the outcome seriously in doubt.

"What were you doing down there?" Mac asked as part of his effort at small talk.

"Just grubbing around, looking for an old lithograph."

"Something of great historical or literary value?"

"Nope. Just curious to see if I could track it down." When Mac gave him a dubious look, he shrugged. "Hey, some people get off on pictures of naked women, I get off on moldy old books."

Mac just sighed and shook his head. "You are a curiosity, Old Man. I don't suppose I'll ever understand you."

The oldest Immortal was silently agreeable on that topic.

After a long, awkward silence, with Methos remaining unrelentingly uncommunicative, Mac took a deep breath and spoke. "Methos, I've wanted to talk to you about the business with O'Rourke."

Methos lips thinned, his eyes narrowed, he crossed his legs, then crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

Mac smiled softly, "I was hoping you weren't still pissed off at me. Oh, well," he shrugged, took another deep breath and went on. "When O'Rourke killed me, I had a very odd experience. A dream or a weird vision."

Methos snorted. "A dream? A vision while you were dead? MacLeod, I've died more times than I can count and I've never had a dream while dead and I've never heard of anyone who did. If you want to tell me something, then just tell me and can the allegorical bullshit."

MacLeod studied his plate carefully for a moment, swallowed and went on. "Okay," he whispered. "Whatever happened, the...experience got me thinking a lot about the impact each of us has on the lives of those around us. We all hope that we make a difference, but we can never be sure. Maybe believing we do is just wishful thinking, arrogance or ego. The truth is, the only thing we can know for certain is the impact that others have on us." His dark eyes rose to meet Methos' distant hazel gaze. "And you have had a tremendous influence on my life, Methos. You have taught me so much more than just about change. You've taught me about the danger in making judgments, about the danger of taking action when no action is necessary, about friendship."

Methos' eyes lost focus and drifted away, scanning the restaurant crowd. "Yeah, well, I'm glad your association with me was useful to you, Highlander. Was there any other soul searching you did that you feel compelled to share?"

Mac pressed his lips together then sighed, reigning in his impatience. "I don't blame you for being angry. I have been a lousy friend. Rejecting you at Bordeaux, not being with you when Alexa died, letting you take Kristen's head. I...I'm not an easy person to be around, I know. I drive you crazy with all my worrying." His voice grew sharp, bringing Methos' focus back to those impassioned brown eyes. "I wish I could say I had changed, that I was somehow different from what I was before, that I would let the world take care of itself without any interference of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. That whatever ugliness inside that leads me to kill again and again had been set aside for good. But I can't! I'm still struggling, Methos. I struggle every day! I don't know what I am anymore. What my purpose is. What I will become. I just know that having you in my life makes the struggle more...tolerable. And I have greater certainty that the person I do eventually become will be someone worth knowing."

Mac seemed to have momentarily run out of words, and both men waited in silence as the waiter deposited their salads and poured the wine.

After the server left, Methos took a delicate sniff of the wine, then sipped at it appreciatively, replacing the crystal goblet gently on the table with an elegant gesture of his long, tapered fingers.

"And am I supposed to be flattered by your dependency on me for personal growth, MacLeod? Or am I just supposed to be compelled to stay close, as your guardian against the next time you're feeling a little out of sorts with life and are tempted to go looking for someone to take your head?" He took another sip of wine.

"That's not..."

"Sounds to me like I've just been appointed Highlander Guardian Ad Litem. Now your well being is dependent on my being around to look after you, is that what this is all about?"

"No! But I never told you how much..."

"And I never told you a lot of things, MacLeod!" Methos voice was harsh. The hazel eyes had turned dark and cold. "You are still berating yourself about the Horseman, about how you didn't react with thoughtful understanding to the shock of learning who and what I was! Well grow up, Highlander! You reacted exactly as I wanted and knew you would! I dumped every awful crime I had committed on you, describing it with agonizing glee, deliberately pushing your every button so that you would believe the worst. And guess what? You were right to believe it! It was only the truth. There are a lot of truths about me that are just as ugly, a lot of history and a lot of acts done and left undone that you would find appalling. And you want me to be the guardian of your precious honor?"

"But you've changed, and I never gave you a chance to explain..."

"There is no explanation for what I did! I was a bad guy! Scum! That's something you seem to want to explain away, like I'm now some new being, a butterfly new born from the ugly cocoon of the worm that I used to be. Maybe it's reassuring to you to believe that. Maybe you think that you can achieve such change in your own soul, that the warrior that lives inside, the one who likes to do battle, who gets off on the adrenaline rush of a Quickening, can be excised forever. Well, I've got a news flash for you, MacLeod! It's something you will have with you always. Your evil twin."

Methos looked down at his hands, his voice losing its edge of anger. "Even so, you were sufficiently appalled by the evil of a Dark Quickening that you defeated it, cut it out of yourself like a cancer. That's the difference between us. I don't care what age you were born in, you would never have done what I did."

Mac leaned close over the table, his big hand clamping hard over Methos' wrist as he became more and more certain the old man was going to flee the restaurant and exit from his life forever. "But you did change! And you're wrong. You think I don't know that you struggle with Death on a Horse even yet? How much harder was it for you to discard such a fundamental part of yourself than it was for me to excise something that you say was foreign to my nature? Although I think my evil twin would disagree," he added trying lighten the mood.

Methos yanked on his arm, the movement dangerously rocking the wine goblets on the table, but Mac refused to let go. "And I don't expect anything from you, except to be your friend. To be someone whose couch you can crash on, someone to occasionally pick up your beer tab at Joe's, someone to share your sorrows and your happiness. And your loss, when it comes, as we both know it will."

Methos free hand finally took hold of Mac's constraining grip and peeled it away. He took a long swallow of his wine, draining the glass, and stood. "Your arrogance is breathtaking, MacLeod. I'm 5,000 years old." He tossed his napkin into his plate and rose to his full height, not as Adam Pierson, but as the oldest Immortal, and the entire restaurant quieted. "Why should I give a shit about whether its you or someone else I've charmed into picking up my bar tab?"

Mac rose with him. "Because without each other, Methos, you will struggle with Death all alone," he whispered. "And I will struggle with life all alone."

"I've been doing that for thousands of years, MacLeod. All alone."

"And is that what you want to continue to do?"

Methos brushed past the Scot to the door. Mac threw some bills on the table and rushed out after his friend.

"Adam, stop!"

But the long legged figure was quickly striding away. Mac had to run to catch up. "Stop!" He planted himself in front of the other man, forcing him to halt.

"Get out of my way, MacLeod. Get out of my life! I don't need your virtuous and honorable self around all the time, ready to jump to judgment about anything I have done or just might do. I don't want to be some spectator on the sidelines of your life, just waiting for you to..." he stopped, ground his teeth, then tried to push past.

Mac put both hands on Methos' shoulders, holding him firmly in place. "I'm not going to promise not to die. I can't. I know that frightens you. Probably as much as the thought of losing you frightens me. We live in a terrible time, Methos. We live a terrible life. I have only one lesson that I can really rely on. And yes, I really did have a vision when I died. I saw Fitzcairne and Amanda and Tessa. I saw Richie, and I saw you. You were all living your lives as though I had never existed. And you were Death, once again. True vision or just fantasy, it did teach me that the only reality we have is each other. It was the threat of Joe and Amanda dying because of me, of being left behind again that drove me to into O'Rourke's blade. But I was wrong. We can't live in fear, Methos. That's not living at all."

The thin man backed away, eyes clouded with panic. How did Mac know? How did this youngster ferret out his darkest nightmares. "I was Death?"

Mac nodded. "You had fallen in love with a woman in the Watchers. Horton had taken them over and was pushing the organization into a war with the Immortals. Your fiancé had approached him, to convince him that not all Immortals were evil, using you as the example. Horton killed you, killed her, and Kronos rescued you. You were angry and bitter and Kronos offered you the opportunity to take that anger out on an uncaring world."

The two men had begun to walk again, slowly weaving their way through the tourists and shoppers crowding the sidewalk.

"Doesn't sound like all this had much to do with you."

Mac chuckled. "As far as you were concerned, it didn't. My pursuit of Darius' murderer forced revelation of the rogue Watchers before Horton had built any real support base in the organization and, with Joe's help, they cleaned house." He shrugged. "But even assuming the vision was anything more than my own imagination gone haywire, I wasn't the one who did anything to make or prevent you from letting Death ride again."

"What about Joe?" Methos asked. The tale had an odd effect on him, as though he had heard it before.

Mac scowled. "That's the hard part. Joe gave up, decided the problem was too big for him to tackle, that he couldn't make enough of a difference. You can probably imagine the rest."

"And Richie? You said Richie was in your vision."

"You killed him."

"I killed him?!" Methos paused in his steps, a sudden, vivid picture appearing in his mind. Richie in a leather jacket, on his knees, begging for his life. Kronos watching...smiling, as Methos pulled the blade back and swung... He shook himself and continued walking. How had he let MacLeod pull him into this fantasy?

"And I suppose Amanda had become some sort of low life and your Tessa had died in miserable poverty in a painter's garret?" Methos spat, glossing over his uncertainty with anger.

"Actually, Tessa had married, had children and was running an art gallery in Paris."

"That's a bit of an odd turn for your fantasy to take," Methos smirked. He looked over, but Mac's face had filled with an ineffable, distant sadness.

Mac stopped, and Methos stopped with him. "Methos," he almost whispered. "I will not force my presence on you if you don't want it. My whole purpose was simply to tell you how much you mean to me. How much of a difference you make in my life so I wouldn't regret never having told you. I wish I could know whether anything I have done has made a real difference to the people I've loved, but I can't. Most of them are dead."

He reached out his big hand and deliberately closed it around Methos' in a firm grip. "I hope I see you around sometime."

He turned and quickly slipped away around the corner.

Methos stood for a long while, then slowly walked back towards the library, deep in thought. It didn't change anything, he told himself. Mac was going to die one of these days. Maybe soon, given the Gathering and Mac's inability to stay out of the middle of the firestorm and his suicidal outlook on life. He couldn't possibly keep up the pace with all his friends dying around him. The man needed people to love like I need to have my books, Methos thought. They are essential to life. Without them, there is no point.

That's what was at the heart of the issue, wasn't it, a quiet voice in his head nudged him. It's not your sword arm or your wit that protects him, the voice declared, its his love for you, you bloody twit. As long as he has someone he loves to protect, he has a reason to keep going. Methos paused, then stopped on the crowded sidewalk. Someone ran into him from behind, cursing him, but the Oldest Immortal barely heard.

A steady stream of curses fell from his mouth in murmurs. He started walking again, spitting out a new word with each step. After a moment it became a game, something to keep his mind off the path it was seeking. Passersby looked at him oddly and once in awhile when he used a more modern term, eyes widened and people began to skirt widely around the muttering man spouting profanities in an astonishing variety of languages.
 

"Hello, Methos. What..." but his words trailed off when the thin man shrouded in an over-large black coat swept past him and down the stairs to pace in the center of the nearly empty barge, hands buried deep in his pockets. Back and forth he went, the coat swirling with each turn, his eyes focused on the bare wooden floor. Mac stood at the bottom of the steps, waiting, thick arms crossed over his chest.

"Okay, MacLeod, here's the deal," Methos finally began talking, never looking up, continuing his almost frantic pacing. "You've got Joe. You've got Amanda. You've got...Maurice." Methos appeared to be searching for more names. "You've got that doctor woman, Grace. You've got your kinsman, Connor MacLeod. Even Cassandra, for God's sake. You've got lots and lots of people who care about you and who...and who need you around."

"What are you talking about?" Mac sounded mystified and a little concerned at his friend's odd behavior.

"I'm talking about you, of course!" Methos spat as though stating the obvious. "You wanted to know whether you made a difference. Okay. You made a difference, all right? To lots of people! And...and they need you to stick around, okay? Our Race needs people like you, or we'll be reduced to the meanest, nastiest, lowest common denominator. And believe me," he continued his pacing, shaking his head, "for us, low is really, really low. I should know." He finally stopped near the wall and stared out a porthole. "I was one of them."

A dozen possible reasons for Methos' odd declaration swirled around in Mac's brain. He padded thoughtfully over to the small galley area, reached into the small refrigerator under the counter and pulled out a beer. Methos didn't even seem to notice his presence until he tapped the bottle gently against his shoulder.

"What's all this about, Methos?" Mac asked, not even certain the eldest was listening.

There was a long silence. Methos took a pull on his beer and turned around, his eyes moving restlessly over the rather barren space, now warmed with the flickering lights of a dozen candles. "Lord, MacLeod, when are you ever going to get some decent furniture again? Is there some monk's rule about making sure your guests are uncomfortable?"

Mac waited another moment, hoping, but not really expecting the old man to explain what had brought him here, so agitated, hours after their relatively brief conversation. Well, at least he was here. That was enough reason for celebration.

"I think I'll have a drink," he declared, moving to the small galley.

"Your Dahli Lama wouldn't be pleased," Methos warned. He circled the pile of pillows on the floor like a dog chasing its tail, finally discarding his coat and settling down, his long limbs appearing to take up at least half of the open space. "Don't suppose you've got a TV?" he asked. "There's an X-Files marathon on tonight. Might be fun to watch Mulder and Scully argue in French."

"Fraid not. But it's been a long time since we've played chess. How about I fix dinner and you set up the board?"

They played until after midnight, when Methos fell asleep as Mac took a particularly long time on a turn when it became apparent that, once again, the older man was going to beat him. Mac looked over at his lean friend lounging against the pillows. The candelight warmed his pale skin even as it accented its alabaster texture. The mouth was slightly open and the 5,000 year old man looked about twenty years old. Mac smiled. It felt right to have this enigmatic wonder here, sleeping in his home. He found an afghan and laid it gently over the recumbent figure, watching as he turned into the warmth of the blanket, tucking it under his chin and snuggling into a pillow.
 

Finally he threw off the afghan that MacLeod had evidently tucked around him and disengaged from the multitude of pillows he had embraced in his sleep. The fire had died down to mere embers and the room was damp and chilly, another reason Mac's choice of living arrangements mystified the Oldest Immortal. He padded quietly to the bathroom and did his necessary business, tiptoeing carefully past the bed so as not to wake the other man. Immortals were light sleepers. They had to be if they expected to live very long.

He was headed back to his pillows once again, seriously considering slipping away, back to his own place when another moan sounded, this time with a distinct undertone of distress.

"Mac?" he whispered, peering through the shadows to the sleeping form.

Moonlight outlined the hills and valleys made by the satin covers. The shadows moved, another murmur, almost words, but not decipherable, could be heard and the shadows moved again, restlessly. Mac turned his face toward the moonlight and the vision made Methos catch his breath.

The quintessential warrior lay on his back, the covers thrown off his chest and shoulders, the golden flesh almost iridescent in the soft light reflected from the street lamps, the water and the bright moon. A fine sheen of sweat covered his torso, neck and face and the satin surface rippled as tremors passed just underneath the skin. The broad, warrior's hands clenched and unclenched and lips moved soundlessly as a furrow of unease drew the dark eyebrows together. Mac's eyes moved behind closed eyelids where dark lashes feathered against cheekbones, softening the carved symmetry of a face most artists would sell their souls to capture. The head jerked, his dark hair spilling across the pillow. "No!" he moaned, his shoulders bunching and twisting.

Methos debated his best course of action. To wake Duncan MacLeod out of a nightmare held a certain risk.

"Mac," he called gently, stepping to the side of the bed.

MacLeod was panting now, his head moving slowly back and forth. The words were incoherent mumbles, but the tone was obvious.

"Mac!" he called a little more loudly. As lightly as most Immortals slept, the sound should have startled the man straight up in bed, but the thrashing only accelerated. Not just a nightmare then, Methos realized. True night terrors. Gods knew he had had them often enough. Images and visions that sucked you into a terrifying near-reality that, even though you knew you were dreaming, you could not escape. Dreams where your most horrifying fears were played out while you helplessly looked on. With a grim set to his mouth, Methos sat on the edge of the bed and carefully folded each long-fingered hand over the thick wrists and took a deep breath before he leaned in, putting all his weight on his hands.

"Duncan!" he said, his voice cracking like the first snap of thunder from a summer storm. "Duncan MacLeod, wake up!"

Mac twisted violently in his arms one last time. "No!" he screamed, coming fully awake even as the sound echoed and faded in the dark. His eyes opened, pupils dilated to black as he looked into Methos' concerned swirls of green and gold. For a few seconds, both men held their breath. Methos could feel the violence trembling within the powerful body, the automatic reaction to lash out. And he could feel Mac tame that urge by sheer force of will.

"Methos!" Mac gasped at last, taking in the Oldest Immortal's reassuring smile. "Oh, God, Methos!" he said again, reaching up to touch the side of his face, running his hand first into his hair and then to the back of his neck as though reassuring himself it was still firmly attached. Then he was shivering and Methos grabbed the duvet and pulled it around damp, cold shoulders.

"Hush, Mac. It was just a dream," he whispered.

"Just a dream," Mac echoed his whisper, almost convulsing with another shiver. Methos rubbed him through the covers, trying to warm him with the friction of his hands. "Just a dream," Mac said again, but his eyes never left Methos' face.

"Here, let me get you a brandy or something and light some candles," Methos offered, wanting to do something to erase the horror etched in his friend's face.

"No!" Mac grabbed for his arm, holding him down.

"Mac, what...?"

"Just stay here for a minute. Please. I'll be fine. I don't need a brandy."

"Okay, I'll stay right here. You want to talk about it?" Methos asked gently. "That was a hell of a lot more than just a nightmare, wasn't it?"

"It just..." his voice caught and he had to swallow. "That vision I told you about. It seemed so...real." He shivered again. His eyes kept traveling over Methos' face, down to his own trembling hands and back again. It was a painful glimpse into a soul that perpetually walked the edge of disaster. No one loved like Duncan MacLeod. No one cared like the Highlander. Methos had never been able to decide whether Duncan was the most foolish or most courageous man he had ever known. Maybe it was that uncertainty that kept him coming back again and again and again.

"And you killed me for killing Richie," Methos whispered, enlightenment dawning as all the pieces of MacLeod's story and his reactions to the dream fell into place.

Mac's breath caught once more. He paled and for a moment, Methos feared the man was going to be ill.

"Breathe," he instructed gently. "It's okay, Mac. You didn't kill me. I'm right here." He stroked the dark, damp hair.

Big hands, trembling and chilled, grasped each side of his face and held him still. "I don't want to lose you!" Mac whispered desperately. "Please promise me, Methos! Don't ever let me hurt you!"

"Let you?" Methos smiled indulgently. "Oh, Mac," he sighed and pushed a sodden, unruly curl away from the high forehead. "I don't have that kind of power. Almost from the moment we met you've had more capacity to hurt me than anyone I've ever known." The words had slipped past his lips before he realized what he had said.

Both men stopped breathing. Mac's eyes widened and grew even darker. The long look that passed between them said more than the thousands of words they had tossed back and forth like shuttlecocks feathering and drifting in the wind of their mutual uncertainty and fear. Methos' gaze drifted down slightly, fixing on the slightly open mouth, the exquisite lips he had watched trace gentle kisses on so many foreheads and lips and hands and necks. But never on his own.

Never before.

Methos found them, touched them. They were every bit as soft, as warm, as generous, as responsive as he had always imagined. Then they opened so invitingly and he accepted, finding smooth teeth and moist, moving tongue. He needed more leverage, wanted to feel more flesh so he gently pushed back until Mac was prone and he pressed hard, now capturing the mouth more fully, tasting the lips, the rough stubble of hard cheeks, the broad brow, the meltingly expressive eyes.

With a soft gasp, Mac pressed his hand against Methos' sternum, and the man stopped. Both of them were panting slightly, faces flushed, lips swollen.

"This is insane," Mac whispered.

Methos slowly nodded his head, unable to take his eyes off that remarkable face. "Yes, it is. Do you want to stop?"

For about five long heartbeats Methos waited as eyes searched his face, wondering what the Highlander was seeing, what he was feeling. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he heard the answer.

"No."

Suddenly there were too many blankets, too many clothes and there was a frantic struggle to remove all obstacles to the maximum contact of flesh against flesh. Two bodies sought each other like twin stars drawn by the inevitable pull of gravity. One slim and pale, lean and long, all flesh and bone and essential energy. The other, sunlight captured in a vessel of golden flesh. Somehow in the confusion Methos was turned and moved, Mac's silk pajama bottoms were discarded, Methos' teeshirt and pants were gone and Mac's heavy body was pressing Methos deep into the covers.

Methos closed his eyes, deliberately discarding the doubts and fears of thousands of years of loss. The moment was too precious to taint with any thought, so he just felt. Felt satin smooth skin glide over his own. Felt the heat of a heavy body enfold him. Felt the gentle tickle of warm, soft lips and moist tongue as it traveled over his mouth, his cheeks, ahh, down his ear. There, right there on the neck, yes. So sweet. And down, sharp teeth scraping against a collar bone, then more lips. Arching back as teeth made bright points of delicious pain on nipples that demanded to be stimulated, then the soothing balm of a tongue, only to be followed by the agony of cool air as Mac's sweet breath blew across his sensitized skin. How many nights had he dreamt of this?

The pressure in his groin was building and he pressed his hips into the powerful thigh that lay between his legs. The mass of muscle above him turned and he gasped as he felt Mac's sex directly for the first time. Oh, gods it was frighteningly thick and hard, throbbing into his crotch. His cock was insistently pounding its own rhythm and he pushed up, reveling in Mac's gasp as their cocks met and rubbed together, come seeping from both of them to moisten their bellies.

Methos opened his eyes at last. Mac was staring down at him, hair a tumbling mass, lips slightly parted and swollen, dark eyes wide and glazed in shock or lust or both.

"It's okay," Methos whispered, speaking to what he knew were Mac's deepest fears. "You won't hurt me." He couldn't stifle a groan of pleasure when he felt Mac's big, callused hand reach between them, folding over his shaft. It was too much and he had to close his eyes again. His head dropped back, knowing he was exposing his long neck to the most powerful Immortal he knew, and trusting absolutely. The hand moved across his aching flesh, building the pressure inside until it was intolerable, but Methos didn't want it to stop and pressed harder, gasping, so close, so very close.

But Mac froze, leaving both of them hanging on the edge, then rolled away with a groan. He slid off the other side of the bed, disappearing from sight.

Methos had to discipline himself not to growl or scream in frustration. Even so his teeth made a creaking noise as they ground together. At last he took a deep breath and scooted to the far side of the bed, sitting up and letting his legs dangle, studying his distressed friend. Mac had his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, his forehead pressed to his knees. Methos' hand reached out, resting gently on the silky dark tangles. He could feel the tension vibrating through Mac's body as though Mac's grip on his legs was the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

"It's okay," Methos whispered. "I didn't mean for you to do anything you didn't want to do. I shouldn't have started this, Mac. I'm sorry."

The broad shoulders shook slightly and Methos was afraid he'd said the wrong thing, but the sound that eventually rumbled out of Mac's chest was a strangled chuckle. "No, Methos. You didn't make me do anything I didn't want to do," he said softly at last. "But you said it yourself. I have such a gift for hurting people. If we do this, I'll only end up hurting you...losing you." He stopped, his voice tightening until he couldn't speak.

After a long pause, Mac raised his head and swiped at his eyes with a big palm. "I've gotten weak," he stated flatly. "I've lost too many. Killed too many." The dark head under his hand shook slowly from side to side. "Now I don't trust myself to know what's right or wrong, when it's time to fight or to surrender." The meaty hand reached up, capturing Methos' wrist and entwining his fingers among those of the slender man before pressing the hand to his lips. "Or when to love," he added at last.

Methos slid down to the floor so they were shoulder to shoulder. He was afraid to open his mouth, given the combination of irritation and frustration he was fighting, which left marginal room for sympathy. "Well, here's a how-de-doo, as Mr. Sullivan would say," he sighed. "You know, Mac, you're not the first person in the universe to have a few of their beliefs challenged. Most of them don't give up on themselves the way you seem to have."

Mac let his hand go, stiffening and squaring his shoulders. "You're right, of course," he said, more to himself than anyone else present. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have started something I wasn't prepared to finish."

Methos rolled his eyes and laid his head back against the bed. "And now the martyr speaks. What are you going to do, MacLeod? Offer yourself to me just to prove you are prepared to go to any lengths to fulfill your obligations? Well, this isn't some onerous duty you have to fulfill, for God's sake!"

Methos made himself stop and take a breath before he started screaming at the man. "Mac, you have to ask yourself why you are apologizing," he observed softly after a moment of thoughtful silence. "Why do you think it's your fault that I practically inhaled your tonsils at a moment when you were confused and barely awake out of a night terror? Why do you assume you have disappointed or failed me, when in fact...oh, Mac," he sighed. "You don't have to carry the world on your shoulders all the time. You are the only one who thinks..." his voice drifted off, the words sounding empty and meaningless. How could Mac let himself show weakness when those he trusted offered only anger, rejection or vapid cliches?

Methos turned sideways, sitting with his legs crossed, gathering his wits about him and consciously setting aside his usual emotional shields. Finally he reached out, just resting his hand on Mac's shoulder. "I'm the one who should apologize," he said softly. "Ever since you asked me to..." an involuntary shudder passed over Methos' shoulders at the memory of Mac's plea that Methos end his life. "It frightened me," he admitted at last. "It made me angry and defensive and ...distant."

Mac shook his head quickly. "No! You've always been my friend, Methos. You've saved my life and my soul so many times. And you've had your own grief to bear. I wanted to be as good a friend to you, but..."

"But I wouldn't let you," Methos finished for him softly. "I never let you get that close. I never let you see that you mean...a lot to me." Mac's shoulder tensed under his hand. "You mean a lot to all of us, including those you've lost."

"How can I ever know?" He whispered, "They're all dead and gone," then shook his head angrily and started to rise, but Methos pulled him back down. "Don't, Methos, please. Just let me be for awhile. I know I'm impossible when I get like this. Just give me a few minutes."

Methos watched as Mac closed down, his eyes shuttering away pain.  The pain of remembrance, of guilt and regret and something else, Methos realized with a quiet epiphany.  "You've never let yourself grieve, have you?" Methos asked.  Suddenly it all made sense, including MacLeod's long period of emotional distance and distress, and his near suicide with O'Rourke.

"I don't want to talk about this," Mac insisted, his breathing suddenly shallow with fear, the head turning away. He struggled to rise again, but Methos cruelly kicked out, knocking his legs out from under him, and grabbed the bigger man around the torso, holding him with wiry and determined strength.

"Where do you think that dream, or whatever you want to call it came from?  You've never let them go, have you?  How can you understand or accept the deaths of those you loved if you never let yourself mourn their loss? Let it go," Methos whispered into the dark hair.

"Don't be kind to me, please!" Mac gasped. "Don't do this. It...it feels too much like...dying! If I ever start I won't be able to stop and..." he ran out of air and words.

"I'm here. It's okay. I won't let you fall. For God's sake, let go. Let yourself remember how much you loved them. How much they loved you."

A choked sob escaped. It was several seconds before another gasp was taken and a second sob sounded. "Oh, God, Methos, I don't think I can," Mac whispered.

"Yes, you can. You have to. For us both. Please," Methos pleaded, realizing his plea was as much for his own redemption as MacLeod's.

A small cry squeezed out of the great chest and Methos hung on as Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod folded over into a tight ball, wracked with painful dry sobs.
 

He also felt emotionally drained. Being around MacLeod tended to do that. There was more angst in one evening with Duncan MacLeod than some entire centuries he had lived. Well, not lived really, more like...existed. Sleepwalked? Whatever it was, being around MacLeod was exhausting...exhilarating, exciting, threatening; maddening, challenging.... He closed his eyes and drifted for awhile as sensual images of their interrupted encounter roused his usual morning hard-on to near-painful proportions.

A gentle but almost rhythmic slap of bare feet above him brought him out of his sweet reverie, and confirmed that the object of his imaginings was probably working out on deck. Methos dragged himself out of bed, pulled on his jeans and slipped his sockless feet into his boots without bothering to tie the laces. He dragged the duvet off the bed and wrapped himself in its feather-laden warmth, shuffling over to the small galley area where, blessedly, a fresh pot of coffee nestled in a warming burner. Burdened with the precious, warm fluid, he carefully balanced two mugs all the way up the stairs without spilling a drop or tripping over his shoelaces or the blanket and poked his head out into the quickly dissipating morning fog.

Sure enough, Mac doing Tai Chi. Methos recognized the slow, methodical dance that required infinite patience and absolute control. MacLeod had both. The man's movements had a touch of mysticism about them, transcending both the form and the performer. Methos found himself holding his breath, thinking how easy it would be to believe that one of the Sidhe of ancient Celtic lore had taken up residence on a barge in downtown Paris, France.

The exercise ended and Mac relaxed into a moment of meditation. Methos waited, huddling in the warm comforter, sipping at his coffee. At last the dark eyes opened, their focus moved and their eyes met. Methos wasn't certain whether it was the company or the smell of hot coffee that brought the smile to a face marked by lines of exhaustion and hollow eyes.

"Good morning," Mac said in his soft, musical baritone, conveying clearly that it was the company that had brightened his day. Methos loved the tiny hint of brogue the Highlander had never quite been able to erase from his speech.

"Coffee?" Methos asked, holding out the second cup. The comforter slipped from its precarious perch on his shoulders and revealed his unclothed torso.

"Thanks." Mac gratefully took the offering and folded his hands around it...at least until he had to make a quick grab for the sliding blanket. "You shouldn't be out here without more clothes on," he observed, gently re-tucking the material around the other man.

"Look who's talking," Methos smiled, nodding down at the Highlander's bare feet. The rest of him was clothed in ancient sweats, now damp with perspiration and morning fog. "Come on inside. We wouldn't want you to die of 'deboadia,' now would we?" he smiled.  The haggard face relaxed into an answering grin and they retreated inside to a companionable breakfast and a warm fire.

Gradually Methos became aware that his companion's breathing had become deep and regular. Time to slip away, he decided. He rose, looking around for his shoes and finding them across the room next to Mac. He tiptoed over, sitting to put them on, and paused to study the other man. With a surge of tightness in his chest, the Oldest Immortal realized just how truly ensnared he was. This constricting warmth he felt inside, this need to protect, to sooth, to comfort, to touch...this wasn't just lust for a desirable face and form. I love this man, he thought to himself, admitting the wonder, the fear and the joy of it to himself for the first time. He waited for the wave of panic to hit, but...he found himself smiling instead. A silly smile prompted by nothing other than his own folly. But it remained, nevertheless. A long finger reached out to move an errant curl away from tickling the Scot's eyelashes. The dark eyes opened and met his.

"What are you smiling about?" Mac asked, his voice deep and rough with sleep.

"Can't a person just smile?" the Oldest Immortal inquired, still unable to uncurl the corners of his mouth.

Mac rolled over on his back, locking his hands behind his head, his own face warming in amusement. "You were thinking some devious thought, weren't you? Some dire thing that I need to be manipulated into doing, and you're going to enjoy every minute of it."

"I hope so," Methos said. His bright eyes traveled up and down the long length of the man stretched before him like a buffet, realizing that Mac was right, but not in a way he might have expected. "But even more, I hope you enjoy it."

Mac's eyes widened slightly as Methos leaned over him. "If you don't want this, Mac, you have to tell me," the older man said softly. He lowered himself slowly, holding his breath, waiting for the slightest sign to stop. He could feel the soft exhalation of Mac's quickening breath, could see the myriad of swirling colors in irises that weren't just brown, but contained flecks of green and gray and gold. The perfect lips parted slightly just as Methos reached them. Just a gentle kiss, answered equally gently. Methos looked again into the swirling autumn-colored eyes. They had dilated even more. A tear had formed at one corner and slowly trickled down into the dark hair. Methos caught it with his thumb.

"If you're going to weep every time I kiss you, I'll start to feel like this is a bad idea," he whispered.

"No," Mac breathed softly. His broad hand came up to hold the side of Methos' face, trailing his fingers through the soft short hair. "In the monastery I wept a world of tears, until there were no more. I thought I could never cry again. But they were tears of anguish and anger and despair, not of grief. You've let me grieve at last, Methos. To remember Richie and Sean and Tessa and Darius, to remember all of them with love instead of guilt. Now I feel so..." he seemed to grope for words, "...light and...slightly disconnected and easily moved because...you cared," he said. The tears were now running freely, unheeded. He laughed, his voice catching in his throat. "It was like a huge weight lifted, a barrier inside broke and now," he wiped away the moisture with the back of his hand. "Now, it's hard to stop."

Methos traced his fingers over the damp cheeks, brushed the wet lashes, then followed with his lips and his tongue, tasting the salt of Mac's tears, washing them away like a cat, gently moving his tongue over the delicate lids, the smooth high cheekbones, the rough stubble of a day's growth of beard, memorizing the feel and smell and taste of MacLeod flesh.

As he pulled the sweatshirt off the torso, slipping his hands over smooth rippling flesh, Methos wondered why it had been so difficult all these years. Suddenly it seemed so obvious. So simple. He needed MacLeod like a reptile needed a warm rock in the sun. A safe place to rest, to be safe and coveted and cosseted. To nurture that small, near-quiescent capacity for joy. And Mac needed him. That was what was such a miracle. Not for protection, not to nag him or bully him or manipulate him. Just to care.

Methos watched in fascination as his long fingers traced the hills and valleys of Mac's torso. Long frustrated desire and need flooded through his system, pounding in his ears and filling his cock to a painful tightness. Already he felt the tell-tail damp spot where fluid was so very, very anxious to press its way out. Wait, wait, he subliminally addressed his own willful anatomy. He didn't want a repeat of the previous evening's aborted seduction. Mac had to want this, need this, as much as he did.

So as much as he wanted to examine every crevice, to spread those hard thighs, to touch and see and taste all those secret places he had visited only in his imagination, he forced himself to be still, to rest his long, searching fingers lightly on broad shoulders and concentrate on the face. He held his breath and moved his focus upwards, to gleaming throat, to hard jaw and a mouth that made him lick his own lips in anticipation, to the wonder of those eyes. Their expression baffled him and he paused. "What? Tell me what you want," he whispered.

The broad warrior's hand reached up, cupping the side of his face. The touch was rough with calluses, but gentle as down. "I haven't had anyone look at me like that since Tessa." And he smiled, looking oddly surprised at his own comment. "You would have liked her," he added, then took a deep breath and let it out, then laughed with relief and real joy. A sound Methos had not heard in far, far too long. And in the six years he had known Duncan MacLeod, he had never, ever talked about Tessa, as though the pain of her loss was too intense to share. "Actually, she would have driven you crazy...but you would still have liked her."

Suddenly Mac had rolled them both and had pinned him to the floor, the brown eyes shining with mischief and...if Methos was not mistaken, and he rarely was, ...lust. "Now let's finish what we started," he growled. Lips descended, met and merged, molded together like one, writhing tentacled entity. Methos long-untended erection roared to life, pushing it's determined, hot swollen mass into the heat of Mac's body. He had to suck in air at the sheer power of the drive that wrenched his hips up off the floor, except that he could barely breathe with Mac's mouth pulling all the oxygen, the very life out of his body. Then the hot mouth moved down and Methos gulped in a deep gulp of air, holding it again as he felt a tongue slicking his neck, then his ear at the same time hands were yanking at the front of his jeans.

Oh, Gods, at this rate he was going to lose it before Mac even got his clothes off of him, Methos thought in a panic as hands brushed against skin that was stretched so tight...then his hips were free of cloth hindrance and he cried out as strong fingers closed over his aching cock and the world contracted down to a very small place, all concentrated within the circle of that broad palm.

Now it was his turn to push away, to gasp, "Wait, Mac. Stop!"

The Highlander instantly froze, staring down at Methos, an expression of distracted surprise on his flushed face.

Methos chuckle was more like a hiccup as his body screamed an objection to the sudden lack of stimulation. "I didn't really mean...stop," he gasped. "Let's just slow down a little. And as much as I admire and enjoy spontaneity, these old bones prefer a little cushioning," he added, nodding toward the huge platform bed so invitingly located at the far end of the large room.

Mac took a deep breath, closing his eyes and for a moment Methos' heart sank, afraid he had broken the mood and with it, Duncan's released inhibitions. Now that his body's and...he had to admit...his heart's desire was within reach, he was afraid of his own reaction if MacLeod balked again. Latent frustration at the man's irritating over-analysis of every situation surfaced and an ugly surge of old, familiar violence churned in his gut. The Highlander had been right, Death was on a very short leash.

But Mac opened his eyes and the boyish smile that always demanded a smile in return was firmly in place. "That I can understand, Old Man," he grinned, moving so close their noses almost touched, "since those old bones have no padding at all to speak of!" With that his powerful legs pushed upward and he lifted them both to their feet, pulling him close and holding Methos around the waist while he discarded the last of his companion's clothes.

"Ready?" Mac asked, that playful look still glittering in widely dilated brown eyes.

Methos' looked dubious, leaning back a little. "Ready for what?" But Mac just ducked down and grabbed the lean ancient around the waist and lifted, then adjusted the weight a little over Methos' colorful protest as he carried the man, fireman style, up to the wide platform bed. He unceremoniously dumped the still-protesting ancient onto the covers before he leapt on top, holding the sputtering Methos down with his considerable bulk.

All curses and protestations to the contrary, Methos could not keep the grin off his face and the laugh out of his voice. This was the Highlander he loved. This beautiful man with the dark eyes full of passion for life. This strong, violent, naïve, conflicted Immortal control freak whose insecurities were legion, and whose capacity for love was unbounded.

And who was, distressingly, still mostly clothed. He started to voice his protest but was cut off as his mouth was claimed for another purpose. Sensory input overloaded as the wet warmth and rough stubble burned and scratched and licked and sucked and murmured wonderful, erotic, nasty things about heat and cocks and fucking. Such a sensualist, this man. Something he had always known instinctively, but was still somehow surprised at the depth and breadth of terms used and explicit descriptions that floated to his ears between the slippery noises of flesh and sweat and hickies and hard bites. The hands wandered as the busy mouth said and did all of its adventurous, naughty things. Oh, my. There was a wonderful pressure, right there on his cock. Mmm. Oh, he needed to push. Hard.

His own mouth sought flesh and found it, but tension and lust and the stream of descriptive metaphors coming from the other man stripped him of his usual, more colorful vocabulary, leaving him with a repetition of some iteration of "For God's sake, Mac, Fuck me, Now!" as the only words that seemed to want to come out of his mouth over and over again.

But the dark eyes glittering with boyish glee were his only answer as the hands moved lower, stroking his balls, fondling, cupping, pinching until they were so tight he was sure they would implode from the pressure. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to come. Anything, anything to end this incredible, wonderful torture. Then he was left bereft. No mouth, no words, no touch. It was even worse than the exquisite agony and he reached for his cock, desperate for relief, but his hands were stopped with a sharp slap and he opened his eyes to see Mac reaching towards the nightstand.

"Mac," he gasped. "You can't leave me like this! Christ, I'm..."

"Shhhh," the sweet mouth was back, nipping, kissing, sweeping long electric waves across his forehead, his ear, his neck. "Patience, Old Man. We've both wanted this too long to rush it."

"Bastard!" Methos choked. "You never told me you could do this!"

"You never asked," Mac purred in his ear just before the tongue took up near-permanent residence there, wet and noisy and slippery. Then hands, hard and strong, lifted his ass. He was rearranged over a pillow and...stroked...and touched...and, oh my god, a thick finger pressed lightly against his most private, sensitive opening and gently rested there until he wanted to scream and he pushed himself against that delicate pressure. Pressure that thankfully increased at last and moved inside, oily and smooth, ahh, gods, yes. More. His silent prayer was granted as a second intruder joined the first. Again he tried to press forward but a huge paw gripped his thigh, holding him in place as the intruders did their work, pushing, feeling, wriggling just inside.

"MacLeod!" he gasped at last, totally out of patience, only to be answered with a menacing low chuckle. What depraved, sadistic monster had taken over his noble, generous Highlander?!

The intruders slipped away and he had to choke back a growl of frustration as his face was once again the repository of warm breath and a trail of kisses, ending on each eyelid.

"Look at me," was the whispered command.

The late morning sun streamed through the portholes so that reflections off of the river sent prisms of light dancing through the barge interior, breaking into dazzling sparks that moved like hyperactive fairies across every surface. Mac stood, his golden skin a perfect canvas for the sun's magic. He kept his eyes locked with Methos' as he smoothly pulled the tie free from his soft gray sweat pants. The string loosened and the cloth slipped lower on lean hips. The slightly paler skin was the first tantalizing glimpse, and Methos reached out and touched, following the dark line of hair sensuously snaking from the soft curls scattered lightly across the sculpted chest to the suggestive dark indentation of the navel in the midst of a flat, hard abdomen. The pants slipped lower, now urged down further along with the white briefs, and more dark curls came into view.

It wasn't just beautiful. It was a reincarnation, a rebirth and a revelation and Methos' lust turned and altered through the kaleidoscope of that magical light. It was in his eyes, it danced over his skin, it glowed like an inner fire. Suddenly the tears were Methos' own.

"Ah, Duncan," he whispered. "Do you know...?" he wanted to say so much, so many things but didn't know where to start. Did he know how beautiful he was? Did he realize how he made this old, cold, hard soul melt and soften and see the world through new eyes? Did he realize how much he had almost lost, but found again? Did he know that, somehow, he made the Oldest Immortal better, more human, more connected with the world?

But Mac knelt beside the bed, reaching out and trailing his blunt fingers through the ancient's soft, silky hair, his eyes glittering, not with mischief or lust or even tears. It was something else entirely and it stopped Methos' tongue before any more words could form.

"Yes, Methos," Duncan whispered. "I know. Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Know that you've made me want to live again?"

Methos started to object, not wanting to hear, not wanting to feel responsible, but Mac covered his nascent protests with the most gentle of kisses. "Shh. It's alright. You've given me hope, is all. That love is still possible. That my heart hadn't gotten so tight and hard that anything other than despair could ever enter in. I think it's the greatest gift anyone has ever given me." He kissed him again, lightly, on the forehead. "Thank you," he whispered, then his lips moved down to just beside his eye. "Thank you." They pressed and moved down again, now to his chest, the tongue slipping warmly across his nipples. "Thank you," drifted up, the voice now distant, beginning to be drowned out by the sound of the blood pounding in his veins. His eyes drifted close of their own accord, just so he could concentrate on the sensations his flesh was sending him.

But the effect of all those wonderful touches and words were lost in the rush of laughter that bubbled up from his chest, and then - of course - they stopped.

Methos opened his eyes to see two dark orbs staring at him curiously.  "Have I done something particularly amusing?" Mac asked.

It took a moment, but finally, Methos' choked laughter came under control, all the while his bed partner seemed to be getting less and less amused.  "I know my experience is small compared to yours, Old Man, but..."

"No!" he gasped.  He took Mac's head in both hands and pulled him in for a hard, brief kiss.  "I'm laughing at us.  All this talk about change and here we are, you doing what you always do...taking charge, taking the lead, taking control.  And me doing what I always do best...as little as possible."  He surged up and pushed the other man back, then rolled over on top, Mac landing underneath with a surprised grunt.  "Time for another change," he murmured.  "Time for you to do nothing but enjoy, and time for me to do the other thing that I do best.

Mac's mouth formed a soundless 'oh' as the long, elegant fingers traced perfect patterns along his skin and into his groin.  He had been hard and hot since they started, but so concerned about doing it well, doing it right, making sure Methos was satisfied and pleased, he had studiously ignored it, until now.

Methos studied the matter in his mind for a moment as he let his hands find all the nerve points they knew so well, feather touches designed to both relax and distract.  MacLeod was a man of contradictions, a gentle spirit with a frightening capacity for violence.  Ergo, a control freak.  So, the oldest Immortal decided with a private, conspiratorial smile, maybe it was time for some lack of control.

He slid to one side of the wondrous golden body, stopping for a moment of visual appreciation, before embarking on his campaign.  Then he leaned down and breathed softly on Mac's chest, letting the warm passage of breath be the only stimulation on the smooth, sweat slicked skin, except for the gentle touch of fingers between hard thighs, tracing along the join between his legs and hips just at the crease.  As he moved lower, he brushed Mac's cock with the same agony of soft sensation as his fingers tickled through the curls below.  Mac's low moan, and the convulsive clenching of his hands into the covers made him smile, but when Methos saw and felt Mac's swollen cock bounce and throb he had to take a deep breath to keep himself from closing his hand around it and sucking it dry.

Instead he let his cool fingers cradle the hot, damp balls, massaging them gently, knowing as Mac writhed and twisted beneath him that the man was no longer interested in gentleness or restraint.

"Methos, enough!" Mac gasped, evidently losing the capacity for all those seductive phrases he had been so busy whispering in his lover's ear before.  Mac reached for him, but Methos pushed the meaty, grasping paws away.

"Shh," Methos let his voice go deep and rough, "Patience, MacLeod," he whispered, and with the whisper came another puff of warmth, then it became moist heat as Methos licked ever so slowly all..the..way..from..base..to..tip of his cock, pausing at the small slitted opening, lapping at the pre-come gathered there.

Mac groaned deep in the back of his throat, his fists closing convulsively over the sheets, arching back as the mouth gradually closed over him, taking him in further, then further, then starting a slow suction that was intended to drive him right out of his mind.  He gasped, pushing, needing to set a rhythm, but Methos pressed him down, forcing him into thrashing, gasping passivity.

Then Methos' cool hands stroking those smooth, tight balls moved lower, pressing for entry.  The older man's moves were deliberate and slow, knowing that the dual sensations he was imposing were too electric to leave room for fear or uncertainty.  Mac stretched back, his neck arching as he was simultaneously driven to push into the warm cavern of Methos' mouth and into the intruders below.  Blood flushed the golden skin and Mac was mewling small cries of need and desperation. The vision was so utterly abandoned and erotic Methos had to stop at last, holding Mac's purpled shaft still with his hand to take a long, calming breath.  He had been in immediate danger of coming himself.

When the urge passed, as he continued his explorations into the hot, tight space he wanted so very badly, he leaned over his lover.  The eyes were closed, the head was moving slowly back and forth, the swollen mouth murmuring broken phrases.  "What do you want?" Methos goaded deliberately, inserting a third finger into the hot cavity and watching as the man gasped again and the eyes flew open.  "You have to tell me."

"I want you," Mac grated out.

"What do you want me to do?" Methos insisted, deliberately wriggling his fingers, brushing against the cluster of nerves of Mac's prostate.

"Oh, God!" Mac cried, reaching up and grabbing Methos' arms, his hips heaving upward.  "Please!"

"You have to tell me, Mac," Methos purred, continuing his stimulation, wanting the Highlander to relinquish himself, to give himself over at last, to confess his needs.

"Methos!" Mac gasped, "You know what I want!"

Methos tsk, tsked, shaking his head, and removed his fingers.

"Damn you!" Mac wrenched Methos forward, crushing him against his chest.  "Fuck me, you bastard!"

"Well, why didn't you say so?" Methos smiled, eyes wide with innocence.  "All you had to do was ask."  Before the bigger man had a chance to answer he was pushed on to his side and Methos slipped behind him and pulled his top leg up high to his chest.  As he did he appreciatively ran a long-fingered hand down the smooth, damp bumps of the long spine to the small of the back.  One long arm slipped underneath the heavy body and Methos could feel the fast thrumming of Mac's heartbeat.  Whether it was from fear or uncertainty or lust or all of the above, he didn't know and right at the moment his own needs were getting so fierce, now that the moment was here, he wasn't inclined to try to find out.

He had already surreptitiously slicked his own cock with lubrication and used it to circle then to press gently into the slightly stretched and eager opening between the golden cheeks.  He wanted to push and push hard, to sink himself deep into flesh, but he took a long breath and held it, finally urged on by his partner as Mac reached behind him, grabbing for anything he could hold and yanked them together.

"Do it!" he growled and Methos did, moving in harder and faster than he had planned, but once there, it was impossible to stop.  Oh, gods, it was so tight, the resistance so great it hurt, but even the pain could not stop him as his hips seemed to have developed an imperative of their own and slammed forward with a second thrust, until he was all the way there and his arms were clutched around the massive torso, both of them frozen, afraid to move, gasping with the pain and the ecstasy.

Methos knew what he should do now. He should murmur reassurances, help Mac to relax, to give himself over to the sensations, but all of his words failed him.  He was here at last.  They were joined, a fantasy he had never really expected to fulfill.  He could hardly breathe with the enormity of it, the pleasure of it, then the big body was rocking, easing away and back again, away and back, and Methos could feel Mac's whole body trembling out of control.  This was an animal response to an animal need, a push towards an ancient urge, and the thought that he, Methos, had brought the Highlander to this point was the final stimulation that pushed him past coherence and into frenzy.  He felt his hand close around Mac's which was already grasping his massively swollen cock.  He felt his hips start to pump in synch with Mac's and soon he was thrusting into that hot, tight space hard, then harder, jamming himself in with every once of force his muscles could muster.  It was beyond good, it went so far beyond pleasure as to render the term meaningless.  He heard the guttural grunts and cries from both their throats but didn't know who was making what sounds, only that they seemed unavoidable, absolutely necessary with each thrust.  Oh, he didn't want it to stop, but if it didn't stop soon he was going to die from it.

Then he felt Mac's whole body seize, heard a wild cry and felt the first spasm of come explode from Mac's cock, and the second, and the third.  And his own cock answered at last, spilling itself hard and deep in long waves of relief and such...joy.

It could have been a minute, it could have been an hour later when a soft brush of lips caressed his forehead and he opened his eyes. Ah, another miracle, he thought, looking into deeply dilated, utterly sated chocolate eyes, thrilling with the knowledge that he had put that dazed, wondering expression there.   Equally heartwarming was what he didn't see.  No pain, no regret, no guilt.

"You look happy," Mac observed, sounding very pleased at the thought.

"So do you," Methos replied, reaching up to brush a silk strand away from the flushed, damp face. "Quite a change."

Mac lay his head on Methos chest, pulling him close and snuggling in to get more comfortable. "It was time," he sighed.

Methos wrapped his long arms around the other man in silent agreement.  After so very, very long, the Oldest Immortal had learned to recognize those odd, seminal moments that most of humanity let slip by, not seeing their importance until the passage of time and events had thrown them into stark relief.  This was such a moment, when the world shifted and settled into a new place for both of them.  Where it would lead he could not begin to guess, and did not want to try.  That was, after all, what kept life interesting for a 5,000 year old man.
 

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