NOTES: This is rated NC-17 for M/F sex.  As always, The Highlander characters: Duncan, Richie, Methos/Adam Pierson, Joe et al, are the property of Rysher: Panzer/Davis. This material may not be copied or distributed without permission--Please do not link, publish or post this material without permission.

"Excuse me?" Duncan asked, his eyes wide in astonishment.

"Angie and I are getting married. Isn't it great!" Richie enthused. Richie had dropped the bombshell announcement as the two men were working out alone in Mac's dojo. Mac had stopped short and his body went very still as he carefully schooled his expression. Richie watched him closely, an eager smile on his classic all-American-boy face.

Mac was horrified. All of his experiences during the Gathering had taught him lesson after painful lesson that forming a close relationship with a mortal was a mistake, a big mistake. He knew how tempting it was. He had fallen into the trap himself. He wasn't a naturally solitary person, having been brought up in the close knit comfort of a Clan. But over the centuries, his long and violent existence had made solitude a requirement for survival, relieved only occasionally by short-lived but sweet and comforting relationships with a few special mortal women. But not during the Gathering. It was a disaster to try it while immortals all over the world were actively, obsessively hunting one another, winnowing the survivors down to a precious few, and, perhaps soon, to only one.

Richie was waiting for a response, his lips tightening as he began to anticipate MacLeod's disapproval. Mac turned away, picking up a towel off the nearby bench and wiping off the moisture that shown on his face and neck. "I'm happy for you Richie," he said quietly.

Richie's face collapsed into tight resentment as he followed his mentor, hands tight at his waist. "But you think it's a mistake," he added on MacLeod's behalf. "Look, Mac, just because you screw up your relationships doesn't mean we all do. Angie and I have known each other since we were kids. She's the only family I've ever known." Richie stopped himself as Mac's dark eyes slowly shuttered closed and open again in a subtle reaction Richie had learned was his way to deal with emotional barbs. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded, Mac. I know you and Tess treated me like family from the very first. It's just that . . ."

"You don't need to apologize or explain to me, Richie. You are old enough to know the consequences of your decision," Mac said, sitting and reaching for a water bottle. "Have you told her?"

"I don't think I need to. Not for awhile at least. I've told her I can't have kids and she's accepted that, and I've told her there are some mafia-type bad guys who might come after me from time to time. Nobody will notice that I'm not aging for years. By then I'll have found the right time and place to tell her," Richie explained, eager to justify his actions to the man who was his father-figure. "I'm not important in the Gathering, Mac. They're after you, not me." Richie paused, then sat next to Mac on the bench. "That didn't come out quite right either, did it?" Richie said contritely, watching Mac's rueful smile.

Mac sat in silence a moment, trying to chose his words carefully. If he came across too strong, Richie's independent, stubborn streak would kick in and he would only alienate him. "The Gathering affects all of us, Richie. You don't know if someday soon you will have an uncontrollable urge to hunt. Even to come after me. The reason I can't have a relationship with a mortal is because of the danger to them."

Mac leaned his elbows on his knees as memory intruded on his thoughts. "Tessa and I fell in love without her knowing what I was. Even when I finally told her, I didn't tell her all of it. I've always wondered if that was really fair. Our last two years together were filled with the violence of the Gathering and the Watchers. She never really understood it, but she endured it out of love. And then she was killed." Mac took a deep breath and exhaled to push away the mental vision of his beloved Tessa lying on a cold concrete sidewalk, blood soaking her chest. That was the day Richie had died the first time. The day he became an Immortal. Mac looked Richie hard in the eye. "If you love Angie, you need to be fair to her, to let her make a fully informed decision about her life. Don't delude yourself into thinking that you can lead a normal life, Richie. It will only lead to tragedy and pain."

"Dammit, MacLeod!" Richie jumped up, pacing the wooden floor. "You think that just because your life is bizarre that every Immortal has to live by your rules. Well, you've gotta admit that you're not average, even for an Immortal. Cut me a little slack here! All I ask for is to have a few years of normalcy before I start outliving everybody I know. This is my only chance, Mac. Just because your clan threw you out and cut you off 400 years ago doesn't mean that I have to follow in your footsteps. Nobody around here knows that I died. Nobody is going to accuse me of witchcraft or being a demon. All I want to do is get married and spend the next 20 or 30 years with Angie. I'll open a little bike shop, maybe we can adopt some kids. Why do you begrudge me that, Mac?" Richie's eyes narrowed. " Is it because you're jealous?"

Richie's words were harsh, but, Mac realized, there was a core of truth to them. But there was also a cold, gnawing reality Richie was choosing to ignore. Mac stood, gathering his things. "You may be right, Richie, and I genuinely wish you both all the happiness in the world." Mac's broad shoulders and greater height dwarfed the smaller, younger man. "Just don't ignore the fact of the Gathering, Richie. It's a specter that could intrude on every aspect of your life. It could destroy you. It could destroy you both." Mac walked to the elevator, lowered the gate and disappeared as it rose towards his loft apartment over the dojo.

Richie snatched up his own towel, rubbing his face and arms vigorously, continuing the verbal sparring in his mind. He won the one-sided skirmish, convincing himself that he was doing the right thing, that MacLeod was an old fuddy duddy who had confronted so much death in the past four years that he was incapable of enjoying life anymore. Sure there would be some problems, some awkwardness. Just wait until we have sex after a Quickening, Richie thought to himself with a smile. That might take some explanation. Or maybe not, he decided. His libido was already so constantly charged that the magnification of it from a Quickening might not be so noticeable. So far, he had avoided, or to be honest, not had the opportunity for a sexual encounter soon after a Quickening, so he couldn't be sure. Richie, whose mind was frequently on sex, got hard just thinking about it, so he headed to the showers.

Angie moved in with Richie to his small apartment and took to hanging out at the dojo office where the two of them tended to whisper together, constantly touching and laughing. Duncan watched the adolescent display with equal parts amusement, envy and dismay. A part of him was heartsick at what he was certain was in store for the couple. But he also told himself that he couldn't make Richie's decisions for him. Some lessons could only be learned first hand, and they were usually the most painful of all.

Angie and Richie had no money to spare on a wedding celebration, so eventually Mac offered to hold a small party for them at the dojo after a civil ceremony downtown where Duncan was to be Richie's best man and Joe Dawson was to serve as witness. The regular workout crowd was invited along with the kids from Richie and Angie's old neighborhood. The weight benches were pushed out of the way and the night before the wedding a few of Richie and Angie's friends had strewn balloons and banners around, creating a festive atmosphere in the austere old gym.

Mac woke that Saturday morning with a distinct feeling of dread. At first he thought it was because of the wedding, but the sensation was more focused, more familiar than that. As he dressed in his best dark suit, carefully knotting his Versachi tie, he became more and more certain that he was going to have to do battle that day. He called Joe Dawson, the man whose career had been spent observing immortals and recording the events of MacLeod's life and with whom he had developed a peculiar friendship.

"Joe," he began, "are you ready for this thing?"

"Yeah," Joe's gruff voice sighed. "I don't think you've tried hard enough to talk him out of it, though."

"The more I would have tried to talk him out of it, the more determined he would have become. I've just hoped he would come to his senses and at least tell Angie what she was getting into. But this is his decision, Joe."

"I know. I'm glad I never had kids. It's a bitch!" Joe said wryly.

"Listen, Joe, I have a strong sense that there's someone hunting me today. Is there anyone new in town?" Mac asked.

"Mac, you know that's something I can't talk about," Joe replied carefully. His duties as a Watcher and his vow not to interfere in the interactions between immortals frequently created tensions in their friendship.

"This is Richie's wedding day, Joe. I just don't want it spoiled. All I want is a chance to avoid the fight if I can, just for today."

"I'm sorry, Mac. I just can't," Joe said, his voice flat.

Mac lips compressed in frustration. The damn Watchers intruded in his life, spied on him, had once tried to kill him, and it irked him that when he needed something just to avoid unpleasantness on Richie's wedding day, Joe was uncooperative.

"Yeah, well, if I'm late to Richie's wedding or don't show at all, you can explain it to him," Mac said shortly, hanging up the receiver a little more violently than necessary.

Deliberately clearing his mind, Mac brushed his almost black, shoulder length hair back into a pony tail, securing it with a silver Celtic designed clasp. Checking the mirror one last time, he self-consciously smoothed his tie, acknowledging to himself, at least, that vanity was one of his less admirable character traits.

Despite the Spring-like warmth of the day, he secured his 600-year old dragonhead katana inside his overcoat and slipped the coat on over his suit, certain that before the day was out, an immortal was going to lose his head and hoping it wouldn't be his own.

Halfway out the door, the phone rang. He caught it just before the answering machine picked up. "Mac?" It was Richie's voice, sounding strained.

"Yes, Richie. Is something wrong?" Mac asked, suddenly chilled at the thought that his premonition of a battle to come might be for Richie instead of himself.

"Yeah, well. I . . ." Richie struggled for words.

"Spit it out, Richie," Mac admonished.

"Can we talk?" the boy asked plaintively.

"I was just on my way to pick you and Angie up. Is this about the wedding or about immortal business?" Mac asked.

"Maybe both."

"Meet me at Griffith Park, 10 minutes," Mac instructed, then hung up.

On the way to his car, a classic black T-bird convertible, Mac's skin crawled with the sensation of being watched by hostile eyes. Just wait til after the wedding. Mac pleaded silently to the anonymous immortal as he climbed in and headed to the park. Richie and MacLeod met by a small fountain with laughing children sculpted in its center. The warm day had brought out mothers and small children who served as live counterparts to the frozen laughter captured in the statutes. The two men, one very old, one very young, stood and observed the unfettered joy of children at play.

Richie, looking a little uncomfortable in a suit and tie, was obviously agitated, and sat nervously on the edge of the fountain, hugging his arms close to his body. Mac waited patiently for the boy to say what he wanted to say.

"I . . . I think I'm wrong about all this, Mac," he finally blurted. "I felt another immortal yesterday and I panicked, thinking Angie would get caught in the crossfire if he came after me." Richie's face was bleak. "So I told Angie last night."

"What did she say?" Mac asked gently.

"She didn't believe me at first. She thought it was a joke until I sliced my hand open and she watched it heal. Then, well she was quiet for a long time. She finally said she loved me anyway, and if I didn't mind watching her grow old, she wanted to give it a try. She said I was the only person who ever made her laugh, who brought joy into her life, and she wasn't going to give it up." Richie's voice got softer and softer as he related Angie's words, and unshed tears shown in his eyes. His voice finally broke. "Oh, Mac! What have I done? I couldn't bear it if anything happened to her because of me."

MacLeod sat beside his student, thinking how best to counsel the youngster. He knew from long, long experience that no words would relieve him of the worry. He also knew that the few, precious moments of joy he had known in his 400 years were with those who loved him. How could he deny that to Richie when there was so much death in store for him?

"It's Angie's decision, Richie, not yours. She loves you, and now that she knows, she has the right to choose. You'll have to do your best to protect her, to shield her, but ultimately only she knows what's best for her." Mac paused, watching the circles of small children play their magical games. "I made a mistake with Anne by letting her only partway into my life. I should have either not let her in at all, or told her the truth early on. As it was, in the end she couldn't deal with what I was and it was all the more painful for both of us. Now, I just don't let anyone in. But I must confess that there are many times when all I want in life is a simple, straightforward relationship with someone who knows what I am, and accepts it," MacLeod's expression changed from wistful reflection to an encouraging smile for his young friend. "But you were right, Richie, we are not the same. If Angie's willing, by God, take your chance at joy while you can."

"But what if something happens to her? What if something happens to me?" Richie sighed.

"Inevitably, Richie, something will happen to one of you. You and she will do the best you can," Mac said softly. "This is life, Richie. Our life. Sometimes it's hard."

They sat together for several minutes in silence. "Thanks, Mac," Richie finally said, some of the tension going out of his body. It had been the answer he wanted and needed to hear. Then he turned to his teacher with a mischievous grin. "You ought to take your own advice, man. Find a little joy. You can be such a worry wort!"

"Speaking of that," MacLeod said, keeping his voice casual, "who was this other immortal you felt?"

Richie shrugged. "Turned out to be a fairly friendly guy after we got past the initial are you here for me' bit. Name of Fleming. Said he just blew into town and wasn't looking for me. You know," Richie said softly, "there was a time when finding other immortals, going into combat, was all I thought about. Even now, sometimes, I get itchy for it. But . . . with Angie in my life, all I want is a little peace."

Mac thought about the immortal lurking just outside his senses and smiled without humor. "Peace is a rare and precious thing for us, Richie. Take it while you can. Here," he said, tossing the boy the keys to the Thunderbird. "You should go to your wedding in style. I'll meet you at the courthouse later." Richie's eyes lit up.

"Really? You sure? That's great! Thanks, Mac. I'll see you later." Having momentarily vanquished his doubts, Richie, with all the resilience and self-delusion of youth, bounded away.

Mac sat by the fountain, waiting. After about five minutes, he felt the cold wash of awareness of thepresence of another immortal. A slim man in a long leather jacket was walking up the path through the trees. He was lean and hard, with an outward appearance of an age of about 25, with sandy hair and light colored eyes. He kept coming until he stood about 5 feet away.

"My name is Randall Fleming," he said. His eyes were cold. "Where do you want to do this?"

"We don't have to do it at all, Fleming," MacLeod said quietly.

"You're supposed to say, I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,'" Fleming said flatly. "I've heard you've taken quite a few heads in your day, Highlander." Fleming gazed coldly around the budding greenery of the park. "Everybody says you're the one to beat. I actually thought about waiting longer, training more, but something told me now was the time." Fleming gave MacLeod a cold smile. "I'm not afraid of you, MacLeod. I was a fencing master even before I became an immortal. I was on the Olympic fencing team in 39, and I've been getting better every day since then."

"Son," MacLeod said softly, "That compulsion you feel is the Gathering. It can be ignored. Come back in a hundred years or so." Mac stood. "A close friend is getting married and I don't want the day disturbed by death. Let it go, Fleming. Save it for another day."

Fleming barked a harsh laugh. "First you imply that you can easily beat me, then you ask for clemency. Great strategy, MacLeod. I never heard you were a coward!"

Duncan sighed in resignation, then nodded toward the northwest and headed down a path leading to the warehouse district. A few blocks later, the two men stepped into a large, deserted parking lot of an abandoned factory. Trash traveled on the wind over the broken pavement as both men took off their coats, their long lethal blades glinting in the morning sun. Fleming nodded at MacLeod's tailor-made designer suit. "Already dressed for your funeral, I see," he smirked, taking a classic fencing stance. MacLeod swung his katana over his head, coming to a ready position with his weapon held high, tip pointed down.

They exchanged thrusts and parries, feeling out eachothers' styles. Fleming's fencing technique was superb, even world class, but was no match for the infinite array of combinations available to MacLeod, who for hundreds of years had studied every conceivable method of swordplay devised. After a few minutes, Fleming's strokes were getting desperate, jerky, and his face shown with sweat as he strained to breach the Scot's impenetrable defenses. Mac ultimately let his hard-won stamina overcome his opponent, waiting until Fleming's arms began to droop with fatigue, leaving him an opening to lunge forward, pushing the sharp steel of his katana throughribs and cartilage and out his back. Fleming stared at him in slack-jawed surprise as MacLeod yanked his sword free and Fleming sank to his knees. Stepping back and upwind, Mac raised the katana high for the final stroke.

The Quickening surged through him as Fleming's life force enveloped MacLeod's body, penetrating his skin, sending every nerve ending singing in a discordant chorus of agony and ecstasy. The rising wind kicked up huge clouds of dust and debris in the trash-filled lot as blue-white energy arched through the air and slammed into him, sending its tendrils burning through his veins. As it ended, Duncan caught a brief sense of Fleming's life, full of promise, love and excitement, brought to its first, ugly end by the most brutal war man had ever inflicted upon himself. Now that life was over, permanently. In the aftermath, Duncan struggled against the disorientation of the electric pulses still firing in his brain and body to force himself to function, to deal with the all-too-familiar problem of disposing of the body, and to get himself together enough to make an appearance at Richie's wedding.

Richie and Angie sat on a long, dark wooden bench outside the City Clerk's Office, nervously holding hands and whispering together as they waited. Joe Dawson stood at the window of the echoing marble corridor, looking out, gray-bearded face pale and grim, hand tightly clutching the cane he used to maneuver on his two artificial legs lost to artillery fire in Nam. Richie looked at his watch for the fourth time in the last ten minutes.

"I don't know what could have kept him," Richie said nervously. "I spoke to him not an hour ago."

Angie patted his hand reassuringly. "He'll be here. That man always keeps his promises."

They sat in silence for a few minutes more until Richie finally noticed Joe's tension. He joined the Watcher at the window.

"What's going on, Joe?" Richie whispered.

Joe shook his head wordlessly.

"Come on, man, it's my wedding day! If something's wrong, you've gotta tell me."

Joe swallowed, unhappy at the necessity of what he had done. "He asked me this morning if there was another immortal in town. He said he was sure he was being hunted, and he didn't want to fight today because it was your wedding."

"And?" Richie prompted.

Joe looked the young redhead in the eye. "And I didn't tell him anything, Richie. I couldn't."

"Great!" Richie snarled. "You guys kill his friends, try to kill him, and when he asks for a little help for a special occasion, you clam up. Thanks a lot!"

Joe's sudden exhale of breath drew Richie's attention to MacLeod quickly coming up the Courthouse steps. "Well, at last!" Richie said in relief. "Looks like you dodged a bullet on this one, Dawson."

Duncan was flushed and slightly breathless when he stepped into the corridor with an apology for being late. Richie reached out to shake his hand in thanks for coming, but Mac carefully avoided him. Richie's eyes narrowed as he observed his mentor keeping a careful distance from everyone. To another immortal it was obvious that Mac was still struggling with the aftermath of a Quickening. Richie knew from his own vastly more limited experience that, for awhile, every touch would send tendrils of nearly uncontrollable energy vibrating through MacLeod's nervous system.

The ceremony in the City Clerk's Office was brief and simple. Richie and Angie looked deep into each other's eyes, pledging a life long vow that now took on additional special meaning for each of them. Despite his misgivings, Mac had to smile at the joy of the moment, which was too precious to not be savored for its own sake, no matter what followed. On the way to the party, Mac sat in the back of the Thunderbird and let Richie drive. He closed his eyes, taking the time to meditate, to ease the buzzing sensation in his head. He knew the party was going to be a trial to get through. Normally he tried to spend some time in solitude after a Quickening, but he wasn't going to get even a moment of privacy.

The crowd at the dojo burst into applause at their entrance and suddenly everyone was kissing and hugging everyone else. Angie came to him in the general confusion and pulled him aside for a quiet word. Her sweet, young face was glowing with happiness.

"I just wanted to say how much I appreciate what you've done for Richie, Duncan," she said. Tears were in her eyes as she went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "I know you had doubts, but Richie told me what you said in the park this morning." She reached up and put her small, soft hand against his face. Her brown eyes were serious with concern. "Richie thinks you ought to listen to your own advice, Duncan, and find a little happiness for yourself."

Her touch left him tingling and erotic visions suddenly flashed unwanted in his mind. He tenderly removed her hand from his face, kissing it and letting it go. He had heard that bleak sounding admonition too much recently. "I appreciate the sentiment, Angie, but this is your day for happiness. Enjoy it." He turned her around and gently guided her back to her new husband, and the two of them were quickly drawn together like opposite poles of a magnet, obliterating their awareness of anyone else in the room.

Duncan took a deep breath and found some champagne, striving to dampen his inappropriate reaction to Angie's touch. He felt like he must radiate heat, and he blotted his forehead with a napkin as he looked for an isolated corner. The party surged and waned as crowds of people gathered then parted, many of them trying to pull Duncan into their conversation. Shelley Martin, one of his martial arts students, hovered nearby, repeatedly drawing him into clusters of partygoers, always bringing him a fresh glass of champagne which he accepted gratefully. He was perspiring a lot and her touch was very distracting. He needed the champagne both as liquid replenishment and as a prop to keep himself from putting his hands where his imagination kept picturing every time Shelley got near him.

In the midst of the noise and confusion, Joe Dawson leaned against the dojo wall, quietly nursing a glass of champagne, watching the youngsters at their adult version of play. He and MacLeod exchanged long looks across the room. Their relationship waxed and waned as the conflicts of their roles as Immortal and Watcher heightened or diminished. There was a great deal of mutual respect and admiration there, but their friendship would always be tenuous. Right now, MacLeod knew Joe would not apologize for what he had done, and Mac couldn't quite forgive him either.

An hour or so into the festivities, Mac felt the distinctive mental chill of another immortal's presence as Adam Pierson sauntered into the dojo. Pierson was a Watcher, who, unknown to anyone in that secretive organization except Joe Dawson, was also an immortal, and not just any immortal. He was Methos, the oldest man in the world. Despite his almost 5,000 years, he looked -- he had always looked -- to be a youngish, bookish, tall, thin graduate student with short, dark hair and sharp, aquiline features.

Methos first located Richie, who had paled when he felt another immortal's presence, then relaxed to see it was MacLeod's strange friend. Methos congratulated young Ryan and gleefully kissed the bride. Then Pierson made his way to the food and drink that was spread out on several tables. An inveterate moocher, Pierson gathered an admirable stash of goodies on the small plates provided by the caterer, then looked for MacLeod, who had retreated to the glass-walled office at the rear of the dojo.

Duncan gulped down his umpteenth glass of champagne, wondering if the buzzing in his ears was still from the Quickening or from the liquor. "What're you doing here?" MacLeod asked rudely.

"Oh, I'm just here to congratulate the groom, kiss the bride and check on the best man," Methos retorted. He popped a piece of cheese into his mouth, noting Duncan's loosened tie, glazed look and feet propped up on the desk. "Something happened. You look . . . you've taken a Quickening today haven't you?"

"Its seems a rare day that I haven't, doesn't it, Dr. Pierson?" Duncan said lazily and with a slightly bitter tone. "My friends do research, my friends get married, my friends have lives, while I . . . I specialize in the taking of heads!" Duncan waived his glass, sloshing its contents slightly.

A tall, athletic looking blond stuck her head in the door. "Duncan," she called musically, "People are asking about you. The best man is supposed to make a toast!" She moved past Methos, ignoring his presence, and leaned up against the desk near where Duncan's feet were propped. She was wearing a diaphanous dress patterned with a spray of colorful spring flowers, with an intriguing dip in the bosom. Her long hair was up in a chignon, but a few tendrils had escaped and were hanging deliciously, Duncan noted, along her neck. She reached down and took his broad, callused hand in her soft one and pulled him to his feet. "Come on, MacLeod," she said, her breath sensuously touching his neck as her body brushed against his, "say something profound." She pulled him out of the office, leading him by the hand. As they were sucked into the center of the loud and now fairly drunken crowd all Duncan could think of was how much he wanted to put his hand on her beautiful round backside. Methos followed, watching in fascinated bemusement. It was a rare sight -- to see MacLeod so close to out of control.

Shelley turned down the music pounding from the boom box and waived her hands for silence. She finally resorted to banging two glasses together until they were in danger of breaking, before the crowd finally quieted down. Richie and Angie were ensconced on two folding chairs, gripping each other's hands like they had been surgically joined.

"Attention! Attention!" Shelley called. "I have appointed myself emcee of this illustrious event, since our host, Duncan MacLeod . . ." a loud cheer and scattered applause accompanied the announcement of Duncan's name, " . . . has proved too shy to make a spectacle of himself, although in my opinion, he's always a spectacle no matter what he does." A chorus of teasing, bawdy comments accompanied her innuendo. Duncan's face tensed at her words. Fortunately, his dusky complexion and already heightened color hid most of his flush of embarrassment. You would think, he speculated, that he would become used to female attention.

"Uh, Richie and Angie," he said, trying to ignore his body's responses and searching for a viable beginning, "You deserve every happiness life can bring." The dearth of joy that life had brought him suddenly focused his mental energies, and everything else was forgotten as he looked into the eyes of the two incredibly young people he was talking about. They had so much ahead. So much joy, so much pain. This moment, this suspended moment in time should be cherished, held, made holy.

He raised his glass to them, tears gathering in his eyes. "You have so much to experience, so much to look forward to. May the road ahead guide you towards mutual love, mutual growth, mutual happiness," he said. "Cling to your love. Cling to each other. Find happiness in the small things you share together. Look for simple pleasures, for those are the ones that last a lifetime." He raised his glass higher. "To Richie and Angie," he offered. "To a lifetime together."

"To a lifetime together," the group intoned, all drinking in unison. Richard Ryan and Angie Ryan gazed with love into each other's eyes and drank deeply from their glasses.

Duncan gulped down his champagne and suddenly realized he had had enough, maybe too much, that he was in danger of embarrassing himself and others if he stayed another moment. He politely edged his way through the crowd and slipped quickly out the side door and up the stairs, letting himself into his apartment, gratefully soaking in the solitude. Desperate to cool his body and his mind, he yanked off his tie, jacket and vest, slipped off his shoes and leaned both palms against the cool brick wall while he concentrated on a meditation exercise. He blotted out the party noise drifting up the elevator, focusing on the need for calm, for control. He lost track of time as his mind drifted, until he heard a small noise behind him. He whirled around . . .to see Shelley standing near the door.

"Wha . . ." he started.

"Your door was open," she announced. She was carrying two glasses of champagne. "I thought you might be lonely." She walked slowly closer, handing him the extra glass. The smell of her perfume reached him as their hands touched and the calming effect of the meditation was erased in one quick heartbeat.

"Uh, you shouldn't be here, Shelley," Duncan stammered.

"Why not?" she asked. "Afraid being alone with you will damage my reputation, or yours?" Her green eyes danced with amusement as she deliberately drew closer and closer while MacLeod backpedaled until he was against the wall.

"No. I mean . . . Yes. I . . . Shelley!"

She put her hand on his chest, feeling the soft silk still damp from his sweat. His skin radiated heat and her touch sparked a visceral response as MacLeod's groin tightened painfully. She moved closer, putting her hand behind his neck to draw his face to hers. Her lips were soft against his own and his arms moved of their own volition to circle her back and pull her closer. His thin shirt and her thin dress did little to mask the contours of their bodies as they pressed together. The intense desire that had been sparked moved dangerously toward conflagration until MacLeod gasped and pushed her away, unnerved by the raw power of his need.

Her eyes reflected confusion as she stepped back. "What's the deal, MacLeod? It's not like you're not interested," she said, unabashedly pointing to his straining pants. Shelley had never been one to mince words and her directness had previously been something Duncan admired.

MacLeod turned away to hide the signs of his discomfort, rearranged himself to relieve the pressure in his crotch and gulped down the champagne. "It's a little more complicated than that, Shelley. Besides, you're my student. I don't have affairs with students," he said with greater firmness than he felt.

She put down her glass with a smile, watching his jaw and neck muscles bunch and loosen as he ground his teeth. " That's bullshit, Duncan. You obviously want it as much as I do. What's the matter," she teased, "got the clap, venereal disease, what?"

"No," Duncan said with a gruff laugh. "But . . . something happened today that makes me a little . . . I don't know how to say this, actually, more than a little out of control. I could easily hurt you, perhaps badly."

"Hurt me?" she said incredulously. "We spar once a week for an hour where I work very hard at trying to hurt you -- not that I'm ever very successful," she murmured. "I can take care of myself, MacLeod." She came up behind him, put her arms around him, then moved her hands down, slipping them inside the waistband of his pants. "Think of this as a lesson, Duncan," she whispered. "I'm asking you to teach me something new." Her touch made him swallow convulsively and his body refused, absolutely refused, to pull away no matter what his mind was shouting.

"Frankly," she murmured, her soft breath fanning his neck, "I'd love to see you a little out of control." She slid around in front of him, carefully taking the empty glass from his hand, setting it on the coffee table and putting her hand provocatively against the hard ridge of the penis straining rhythmically against the confinement of his pants. Sweat trickled down Mac's back as he tried to find words to argue with her but his intellect seemed to have fled. He wanted her. No, he needed her, to touch her, to be inside her. He pulled her to him, pressing the length of his body against hers, opening his mouth to hers, feeling it inside with his tongue, tasting her.

He yanked his head back and swallowed convulsively, eyes suddenly coming into focus. "Dammit Shelley, this isn't right!" he gasped, stepping away. Women had always been almost sacred to him, with intercourse being an act of worship, of love. This ran the risk of being nothing more than . . . he didn't want to put a name to it. Oddly, for all his centuries of experience, he had never shed the conservative influence of his very religious mother, Mary MacLeod, and as a result had never been comfortable with the crude, gutter references to nature's most basic functions.

Shelley felt warm all over just looking at him. His face was flushed and damp. Tendrils of his long hair had come loose and were plastered against his temples, those wonderful, dark eyes heavy lidded, mouth slightly swollen. Her determination to get him alone had been building for months and today he exuded an animal sexuality that she found positively irresistible.

"Oh, stop being such a tight ass," Shelley whispered impatiently. "You know, MacLeod, sometimes we want it just as much as you do. There's nothing wrong with that. I don't want to marry you or have your children. I want this!" She gently ran the back of her hand up and down his straining zipper.

"Shelley, you don't know what . . ."

"Shut up, Duncan," she ordered, reaching for him again, hooking her finger in his pants and pulling her to him. His eyes shuttered closed, helplessly caught in the power of his own heat and the strength of her determination. Shelley unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it off his shoulders, then used her mouth and tongue across his chest, nibbling gently on his nipples.

She felt his chest heave in a gasp, then the air was squeezed out of her as he crushed her against the rough brick wall, pulling her chin up so his tongue could delve deep into her mouth. He tasted of champagne and she could smell the male musk of desire rising in waves off his body. His erection throbbed against her abdomen, and her own insides clenched in response. His hand trailed down her neck toward her breasts as his mouth and tongue roughly explored her face, her ears, her shoulders. His touch was electric, as though sparks of energy flowed from his fingers and traced along her nerve endings. An animalistic need rose in her with startling intensity. She had wanted MacLeod since the day she first saw him, but nothing had prepared her for this terrible sense of urgency. Her body craved him inside her, right now. She reached for his pants, her hands suddenly trembling so badly she could hardly deal with buttons and zippers. Then she felt the velvet of his skin throbbing hotly in her palm and he jerked at her touch as slick semen leaked into her hands.

A soft growl sounded low in her throat as his hand yanked up the skirt of her dress and moved up inside her thighs. He found the thin nylon between her legs and pulled hard, ripping the crotch out of the way. His fingers found their way inside her, where she was already so wet that she could feel her juices trickle down her thighs. Some distant part of her mind was shocked at the desperate urgency consuming them both, but neither of them could stop, wanted to stop. She pulled him onto the couch, impatiently pushing away the confining pillows as they used tongue and teeth to devour each other. His tongue dove into her mouth once more as he entered her and she instantly exploded in a fast, white-hot orgasm. Her back arched as she pressed herself into him and she cried out when he touched her core as she continued to throb with powerful contractions that were almost painful in their intensity. Then she became solely a vessel for his need as he slammed into her again and again, then quickly spent himself, leaving them both breathless and stunned.

He held her there, his ragged breathing burning hotly into her neck. She could feel his body tremble as though he were willing himself under control. Then, with a deep intake of breath he carefully moved off of her, turning away to rearrange himself and his clothing. He sat far away from her on the end of the couch.

"Shelley, I'm so sorry," he said softly after a moment, his face in his hands. "I don't know what to say. I'm not . . . that's not who I am."

Shelley slowly sat up, muscles trembling. The intensity of it all was still making her skin tingle, and the burning desire he had kindled in her seemed only marginally quenched. She pulled in a deep breath and took a moment to rearrange her dress, trying to gather her wildly frayed thoughts and her restore her dignity. He remained turned away from her, his body rigid.

"Look at me, Duncan," she finally said, still breathless. "Look at me." She moved to his side but he wouldn't meet her eye until she took his face in her hands and forced him. Then she couldn't resist tracing the line of his lips with her thumb, his hard jaw, his hair that had come loose from its fastener and hung softly around his face. "You didn't tell me I would be affected, too. Whatever happened that caused that, Duncan MacLeod, if you could bottle and sell it, you'd be a millionaire," she smiled, placing her hand on his chest so she could experience the magical tingle of sexual energy he still exuded.

"I'd be in jail is what I'd be," he said bitterly. Duncan carefully removed her hand, mortified at what he had done. He had had sex this soon after a Quickening, but only with women who knew what he was, had known what was coming, what to expect and how to deal with it. With Shelley, who was ignorant of what was going on, he was ashamed and embarrassed. That was not how he made love. The person that just did what he did was not someone he wanted to be. Shelley pushed her loosened hair back out of her face, took a long breath and looked at him in growing puzzlement. He leaned forwardwith his elbows on his knees, effectively cutting her off. "That wasn't what I call making love, Shelley," he observed, then took another deep breath, running his palm across his damp forehead. "I think you ought to leave before this goes any further, and believe me, it could go further."

Shelley picked up one of the couch pillows and threw it at the stubborn man sitting next to her. Then she grabbed another pillow and hit him with it.

"You bastard!" she yelled. "If that wasn't making love, then I want to know what is, and I want you to finish what you started!" She hit him again until the corner of his mouth curled up as he fended off her blows. She went up onto her knees on the couch to get a better angle, so he grabbed the pillow she had already thrown to use as a shield. The next few minutes were a mock battle raged throughout the living room. Shelley's infectious laughter finally broke through MacLeod's reserve as she tackled him on the king size bed at the far end of the one room apartment. She tried to tickle him, but he rolled on top, captured her hands, and then pinned her arms over her head. Her heart skipped a few beats as the full force of his rare, magic smile appeared. He kissed her then, a real kiss, an expert kiss. He kissed her eyelids and ran his lips along her hairline and down to her ears, where he nibbled gently on her earlobes and ran his tongue inside. Gooseflesh rose on her arms as he rolled them both over so they were on their sides, moving his explorations downward, finding wonderful sensitive places to use his mouth and his fingers.

She caressed the smoothness of his neck and shoulders, running her fingers through the soft, dark hair covering his chest. In a few seconds, they had ridded themselves of clothes. As her mouth nibbled and licked at his chest, her hands closed around his penis and he had to clench his teeth against the urge to immediately dive into her. Duncan moved on top, trying to regain some control over the energy that made him feel like he was ready to crawl right out of his skin. He lay against her, feeling her breasts press against his chest, the fast rhythm of her pounding heart, watching the veins pulsing at her neck. Determined to make it last this time, he reverently touched her, running his fingers along the curve of her breast, gently rolling her nipple in his fingers, feeling it harden under his touch as his tongue traced the line of taunt muscles of her neck. Then he reached down between her legs, caressing the warm, wet flesh, listening to her breath as it caught in her throat, intensely aware of her hips deliberately pressing into his hand. Each move, each touch, fed the aching, rebuilding urgency of his need until he forced himself to stop, to separate from her. He looked into her eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked softly. "I must have hurt you before. Are you sure you want this?"

"That's what I'm here for," she whispered, placing her hand on his broad chest, marveling at the wonder of his incredible body fully revealed. This time he entered her gently, using his motions, his hands, his tongue, with a knack for building her desire, watching her expression as her breath came in gasps. He used his thumb to massage her clitoris as he moved in and out slowly until she strained against him, willing him to move faster, harder, to make her come. Instead, he stopped completely, pulled out and hovered over her, his tip just barely brushing against her. Then, exercising intense, careful control, until sweat was pouring off of him, he moved just barely inside her and out again, building her need until she was nearly frantic. When he persisted in his slow enjoyment of her, she finally growled in frustration and with a mighty heave and twisting of her torso, pushed him sideways, rolling triumphantly on top. Now in control, she came down on him hard, grinding her hips into his as her nails raked his chest. He leveraged himself against the back wall with his outstretched arms and now it was her turn to watch as his expression lost focus and his eyes half closed. Their hips movedtogether with increasing speed and force until he arched back and cried out. His climax finally triggered her own and Shelley gasped as his hands reached out to circle her waist, holding her tight to him, filling her utterly. As their convulsions at last spent themselves, she relaxed against him, and his arms folded around her back, their sweat mingling and soaking into the tangled sheets.

As their breathing returned to normal, Shelley listened to the slow beat of Duncan's heart. It would be very, very easy to fall in love with this man, she thought. I'll have to be very careful. Shelley was not only determined not to ever become dependent on a man for her happiness, but she had also long ago sensed that MacLeod was not ready for any kind of long term relationship. Even if he had been, the man was far too serious for her taste. But, she sighed to herself, Maybe I could learn to live with that. There are other compensating assets. Shelley got warm inside all over again just thinking about it. She smiled at her own licentious thoughts, shifting slightly away from him. She was a little sore.

As if reading her mind, Duncan sat up on one elbow. "Are you okay?" He gently traced a finger along the line of her upper arm.

Shelley smiled. "I'm terrific!"

Loud laughter and cheers from the party downstairs intruded on their reverie. "God, it's still going on down there," Duncan said with a sigh. "I ought to take a shower if I'm going to put in an appearance before the bride and groom leave." He got up, fastidiously picking up the various articles of clothing strewn about the room. Shelley lay on her stomach, watching his naked body in fascination.

"Do you know how gorgeous you are, Duncan?" she asked.

Mac stopped in his tracks, turning his face away, then busied himself picking up his pants and underwear.

"Oh, stop it, MacLeod. You've got to know the effect you have on us poor, weak women," Shelley derided. "Don't be coy!"

"I have been accused of being vain," MacLeod acknowledged, carefully hanging up his suit and brushing out the wrinkles. "It's not fair and a little sad that people who are considered attractive are accepted more easily, believed more readily. But you must know that, Shelley." He moved back to the bed, languidly stretched out beside her and stroked her face with his hand. "You're beautiful." He felt her smooth shoulders and ran his square, callused hand along the fair, soft, downy skin of her back. He wanted to make love again, but knew he had probably pushed her limits. He made himself stop, moving away again to pick up her clothes.

"This is not about me, MacLeod. Women are expected to be beautiful, while your beauty is quite unusual."

Mac smiled that sweet smile. "It has its advantageous and disadvantageous. Male reactions are mixed, varying between desire and hostility, women sometimes treat me like a sex object." He looked unabashedly into her eyes. "Isn't that what you just did?"

Shelley picked up a bed pillow and threw it at him. "Oh, you poor, used thing, you!" she laughed, a little embarrassed at the truth of his words. He just smiled and retreated into the bathroom.

After a few minutes she heard the shower running and, unable to resist temptation, stepped into the steam-filled room. MacLeod was standing under the stream of hot water, eyes closed, palms against the wall, his body appearing and disappearing in a steamy outline through the glass shower door.

Duncan let the warm water envelope him, helping to dispel the lingering remains of the incredible sexual charge generated by the Quickening. The guilt and embarrassment he had begun to feel had been washed away by Shelley's unabashed enthusiasm and unquestioning participation in their rough and tumble sex. She had made no emotional demands and displayed neither shock nor shyness about what had happened. He tried to let his mind wander, but it was still stubbornly focused on the miracle of the female form, which for him never seemed to lose its fascination.

His eyes snapped open as he felt the change in air temperature, then widened further as Shelley's busy hands reached out to explore his body. This time the warm wetness of the shower lent a leisurely feel to their mutual investigations, relishing the slippery, soapy feel as they rubbed together. The party downstairs was forgotten as she meticulously washed his chest, shoulders and back, then knelt, carefully lathering his hips, his legs, his feet, lingering between his legs, running her hands over his hard calves and thighs, making sure every inch was clean, finally taking him into her mouth until he leaned his palms against the wall for support, groaning low in his throat. She stopped just before he came again, and now it was his turn to playfully soap her all over, gently kneading, then suckling at her breasts, massaging her smooth, well muscled shoulders and back. He knelt, washing her silky legs, her feet, running his tongue along her belly, licking and nibbling delicately between her thighs, finally ending with a gentle exploration there with his fingers. She arched her back, allowing him to lift her to ride his hips. She grasped him around the neck, kissing him deeply. He held her against the cool tiled wall, entering her, watching closely to see if he was hurting her. This time both their eyes were open, each monitoring the other's expression as he rocked back and forth. She was already sensitive, her flesh rubbed and sore, but his body still leaked a sexual energy, which soaked into her skin and her psyche. Unbelievably, she felt her excitement rise again. It was almost frightening. She didn't know if she could handle another climax so soon, but he seemed to know exactly what she was feeling, feeding his own excitement, which then fed them both in a cycle of accelerating desire. He moved inside her faster and harder as he pressed her against the wall until she could barely breathe. The orgasm when it came was gentle, sweet, lifting her out of herself as she clung to him, intimately aware of his climax throbbing inside her. He held her close, folded in his arms as she caught her breath, then kept her there just for the comfort of the touch of her body. Then, when he at last let her down and stepped away, he had to hold her steady as her legs threatened to fold up.

He was a little rubbery-legged himself as he rested, letting the cooling water sluice down his body. "Are you okay?" he whispered.

"You keep asking me that," Shelley sighed, leaning heavily against the wall. "If I were any more okay, you'd have to surgically remove the smile on my face."

Eventually the freight elevator clanked down to the dojo and Shelley emerged. The party was over and only Methos, Richie and Angie and the caterers cleaning up the mess were left. The bride and groom and the oldest immortal sat in the office finishing off the champagne. The three watched curiously as Shelley came off the elevator. They had all engaged in amused speculations about where she and MacLeod had disappeared to and what they were doing. In answer, Shelley's damp hair, flushed complexion and distant look in her eyes spoke volumes. Her careful, slow walk said even more as she stopped by the office to say goodbye and wish them well.

As she disappeared out the front door, Richie and Angie exchanged knowing glances.

"Looks like Shelley finally got what she wanted, and then some," Richie smirked. He had wanted to get into Shelley's pants since the day she had brought her beautiful body into the dojo looking for a tutor, but the gorgeous blond had only been interested in her teacher. The idea of working off a Quickening-induced sexual charge with Shelley for an entire afternoon sent his own imagination reeling. He reached out and took Angie's hand.

"Well, I think we ought to be going," he said, anxious to be alone with his bride. "Mac has arranged for us to have a few days at a little resort down the coast and we need to get back to the apartment and . . . uh, . . . pack."

Methos unfolded his long frame from his chair and solemnly took Angie's hand in his. "Don't put up with any shit from him," he intoned as though imparting words of great moment and wisdom.

Angie flushed and smiled. "I never have. That's the reason he married me, you know," she said. She stretched up and pecked Methos on the cheek. "I guess we'll be seeing you around for a long, long time," she said meaningfully.

"I certainly hope so, child," he retorted. "I certainly hope so."

Methos took the elevator to the loft, feeling MacLeod's strong presence as he rode upwards. He stepped off the elevator and surveyed the usually tidy room. Couch pillows were scattered everywhere except on the couch, the bed was a rumpled mess, with most of the sheets, pillows and blankets on the floor, and wet towels were draped over the bathroom doorknob and lying on the floor by the bed. MacLeod was in a long hooded robe, fixing tea in the kitchen.

"Looks like you've been a busy boy this afternoon," Methos remarked, picking up the couch pillows and rearranging them so he could take a seat. "Have a good time?"

"Come on in, Methos," Duncan said dryly. "Make yourself at home."

Methos took a deep breath, smelling the strong, pungent perfume of sex in the air. "I suppose you're going to go all dour and solemn on me with guilt about sex with a mortal, and after a Quickening, no less." Methos had gotten used to MacLeod's overwrought conscience. It was a tiresome aspect of his personality.

He was surprised to not get a rise out of his friend as Mac continued to bustle about, heating his water. After a minute of silence, Methos wandered into the kitchen, watching Duncan move with efficient, relaxed grace in the small space.

"Well, well, well," he said softly. "You actually let yourself enjoy that, didn't you?" Mac didn't reply. "This is a first since I've known you, Duncan MacLeod. Enjoyment without guilt. Was it hard?"

Mac gave him a sharp look and a raised eyebrow. "Well, yeah, I guess it would have to be wouldn't it?" he said with a sly smile. Then his expression changed, becoming wistful. "That's too easy," he said softly, damping Methos laughing response.

He took his cup and sat in the ornately carved chair opposite the couch. "It's important," he said, "to take joy where you can, and recognize it when it appears. I confess am not very good at that." He gazed speculatively at the lean figure leaning against his kitchen counter. "But then again, neither are you."

Methos started to respond with a flip comment, but recognized suddenly that MacLeod was quite serious. "Joy," he sighed, "is indeed a rare and precious commodity. Perhaps, Highlander, we are leery of it because it creates such a depressing contrast with so much of the rest of our lives. Some of us ask no more than to avoid despair."

Mac smiled, taking a sip of his tea. "Be careful what you ask for, old man. Without a little joy in life, everything else *is* despair."

The End
 

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