Ever since Singh had strapped the bomb into his lap he had felt kind of disconnected from reality, one minute intensely petrified, obsessively watching the slowly flashing red light that told him the bomb was ‘live’, the next thinking about something utterly irrelevant – some report at work he had not quite finished, or the fact that he needed to get to the grocery store sometime soon – then his own body would betray him and for a long time, all he could think about was his ever-more urgent need to piss.  As the hours slowly ticked by that became his focus – an utter refusal to humiliate himself, even though he knew it was a stupid obsession.

Then a sudden blast of sound and air ricocheted through the building and for one awful heartbeat he thought it was the bomb.  It seemed to roll on and on for almost a minute and he went cold with fear that, somehow, there was another explosive device in the building and Sara had set it off. 

The following silence was almost as frightening as the noise.  He yanked uselessly at his restraints.  Maybe the bomb in his lap was a dud, maybe it wasn’t, but he didn’t care anymore.  He tried to yell when he heard running footsteps in the hall, but there was only more silence afterwards.  His eyes closed, his throat closed and his chest was so tight he wanted to scream.  Helpless, hopeless, useless while Sara was probably hurt, maybe dying, maybe dead.  He held himself very still, eyes squeezed closed, and counted.  It was the only thing he knew to do, just to measure time passing.  He counted to 100, to 200, to….

“Jake?”

He held his breath.

“Jake, are you okay?”

He rapidly blinked away the sweat stinging his eyes and the wavering vision of Sara was before him, standing at the door, her face pale, blood spattered across her shirt.  He somehow managed a nod.

“Look what I found.”  With a tight smile, she held up the detonator.  Behind her was that nutcase, Ian Nottingham.  Jake didn’t know whether that was a good or a bad thing.

“I want you to close your eyes, Jake,” Sara instructed.

Close his eyes?  Jake furrowed his brow and shook his head as a signal he didn’t understand.  At the moment, with a live bomb in his lap, his trust quotient was damned low, especially with Nottingham standing in the shadows.

“Trust me, Jake,” Sara added softly, almost as though she had read his mind.  The smile was a little strained, but sincere, nonetheless.  And did he really have a choice?

Jake took a long breath, held it, and shut his eyes tight once more.  He heard an odd, metallic sliding noise and desperately wanted to look, but forced his eyelids to stay shut.  Then he heard and felt the ripping of tape, and suddenly his hands were free.  He couldn’t help himself.  His eyes blinked rapidly.

“I said keep your eyes shut!” Sara snapped, so Jake closed them again and felt the tape come loose from his ankles, then his knees.

The tape was suddenly ripped from his mouth.  “Shit!” he cried, grabbing his mouth where it felt like the skin had been peeled away.

“It’s okay now, Jake” Sara instructed.  “You can open your eyes.”

He found Sara kneeling next to him, the nearly invisible trip wires lying in shiny, looping trails on the floor.  Sara was looking carefully at the bomb in his lap, but at least that damned flashing red light was off.

“Sara,” Jake whispered.  “Please hurry.”

She looked up at him in annoyance.  “Now you want me to hurry?  I’m just trying to make sure there aren’t any booby traps left so we don’t both get blown up.”

“Sara!” His voice came out high and strained.  He was suddenly sure he was about to lose the Battle of the Bladder. 

She sighed, shook her head, took a deep breath and yanked at the tape holding the bomb to his jeans.  Nothing happened.  She picked the bomb up, examining it curiously, but Jake was already up and stumbling to the door, almost landing on his face from having been sitting in the same position for so long.

“What…?” Sara called.

“Bathroom!” Jake said, his voice sounding squeaky even in his own ears.

Sara pointed to the left, and Jake was off at a run.

When he returned several minutes later, weak-kneed with relief, his rescuers had disappeared so he looked around for them, finally entering the factory floor and stopping in the doorway, unable to make any sense of what he saw.  The air was heavy with the smell of smoke and something else he couldn’t identify, and Duncan MacLeod – pale and lifeless – was cradled in the arms of a lean, sharp-featured man who looked grim but hardly bereft.  There were other people moving around the large space, and Jake spotted several over by another body.

“Hey!” he shouted.  “Get away from there.  This is a crime scene.” 

“Let them be!” Sara called. 

Jake turned back to his partner, who was kneeling, her hand resting on MacLeod’s unmoving chest.

“Will he be okay?” she asked the man clutching MacLeod’s body.  Jake’s admittedly slow-moving brain finally put two and two together, and came up with a name:  Adam Pierson, MacLeod’s friend and – evidently – co-conspirator in whatever had happened here.

“Sara,” Jake whispered, moving closer and touching her shoulder.  “I’m sorry but I think he’s gone.  You’ve got to tell me what the hell is going on.”

Sara glanced up at him, but ignored his question, turning back to Pierson.  “Well?” she asked.

“He’ll probably be all right,” Pierson said.  “But I need to get him someplace where I can stabilize his neck and back so when he wakes up he won’t just re-injure himself.”

Just to confirm his suspicions, Jake knelt down and reached out to establish that MacLeod had no pulse.  “Hey, I’m really sorry, man, but I don’t think he’s going to be waking up. This man is dead, and…Hey, there!  I said leave that alone, this is a crime scene!”  Jake shouted, rising and pointing at the darkly dressed men and women who were moving through the factory, putting out a small fire in some crates, and giving every appearance of ‘cleaning up’ a murder scene. 

A firm hand gripped his arm, and he turned to look into Sara’s eyes.  “Let them do what they need to do, Jake.  There’s more going on here than I can even attempt to explain.”

A burly, gray-haired man leaning heavily on a cane approached them.  “We’ve taken away the extra blade, and put Singh’s blood on his own scimitar so it will appear you killed him with it in self defense.”  He looked down at MacLeod’s pale, still face.  “The rest of us need to clear out before the cops and fire trucks get here.  We managed to re-route the original emergency call to a bogus address, but they should be here within ten minutes.”  He turned to Ian.  “What do you want to do about the chopper?”

Jake’s head was swimming.  The chopper?  The room tilted and Sara’s hand grabbed his arm.  “You’ve had nothing to drink or eat for a long time, Jake.  Maybe you need to sit down.”

“Yeah,” he said weakly.  The next thing he knew, he had been led to the wall, and he slid down to the floor.  “What the hell is going on, Sara?” he asked, realizing at last that he was trembling uncontrollably.  She knelt beside him, examining his face with a concerned affection that tugged at his heart.

“MacLeod and all those other people really are sort of a, uh, secret organization that deals with some really bad international terrorists, and Singh was one of them.  We can’t let Dante or anyone else know about them, Jake.  They’re going to remove any evidence that anyone but you, Singh and I were ever here.  I need you to go along with this.”

“But Sara…”

“No ‘but’s,’ Jake.  I’m asking you to trust me on this.”

A secret organization?  Jake frantically searched his memories of his FBI training in such things, but couldn’t come up with anything that made sense.  Besides, he was beginning to feel a little ill.  More than a little ill, actually, especially when the group working over by Singh’s corpse moved away, revealing the man’s head lying about ten feet away from the body, brown eyes still open in amazement.

“Did MacLeod do that?” he asked softly, swallowing the bitter bile that rose in his throat.

“No,” she answered.  “I did.”

He looked into her eyes, and what he saw made his blood run colder than the decapitated remains of Rahvi Singh.  Sadness, resignation, and a hard certainty that he had never seen before.  “Because he killed MacLeod?” he asked.

That hard certainty wavered for a moment, and she lowered her eyes.  “No,” she whispered.  “I did that, too.”

Jake’s head swam with questions, but his mouth was too dry to form words.  If Sara killed MacLeod, was that why she wanted everything all cleaned up, with only Singh remaining, and that death clearly done in self-defense?  But MacLeod’s friend Pierson certainly didn’t seem hostile to Sara, so that didn’t make sense.  This whole scenario just wasn’t adding up at all.

A choked cry echoed in the big room, and Jake looked up to see a dead man’s neck arch back and his eyes open wide. 

“Damn!” Methos cursed under his breath as he felt the barest jerk of muscles, and grabbed Mac’s shoulders and pressed as MacLeod reflexively arched back, trying to get air to breathe.  Mac’s face contorted with strain as he attempted to use paralyzed diaphragm muscles, his face momentarily flushing as his heart started up once more.  But Methos had been too slow, and the marginally healed break in MacLeod’s spine gave way under the sudden movement, again severing critical nerves.  Then, deprived of oxygen once again, in about a minute that seemed an hour long, Methos murmured reassuring words of safety until Mac’s staring, desperate eyes fluttered closed.  At last, Mac passed out, then died for the second time in less than half an hour. 

Methos sighed, remembering one truly awful recovery from a fall some time in his distant past.  He had broken his neck, and it took over a day of gasping back to life, and dying in agony over and over again before he managed to truly heal.

“What the fuck!?”

Methos looked over to see Sara Pezzini’s recently freed partner staring, wide-eyed, at Mac’s limp body.  Oh, wonderful.  Well, explaining all this was going to be Pezzini’s problem, he decided.  Right now there were more urgent issues to consider.  “I need to get him to a private place where I can deal with this, or he’s going to die over and over again. Believe me, it’s almost as painful to watch as it is to go through.”

“But…,” the detective started, pointing at Mac and looking to Pezzini for an explanation.

“Take him to my building in the Village,” Nottingham offered.  “You can pull straight up to the loading dock and an elevator there will take you directly to my floor.”

“I need transportation,” Methos snapped.

“Here,” Joe dropped a set of keys into his hand.  “It’s what Singh was driving.  It’s just outside.”

“Hey, that’s my car!” the detective insisted, struggling to stand.

“Good, you can help me with the body,” Methos replied.  He drew a short blade from the depths of his coat, then pulled up Mac’s sweater, slipping the knife in carefully.  With its point firmly embedded in Mac’s heart, it should keep him from prematurely wakening before they got him someplace more secure.  He looked up to see the detective standing over him, looking astonished, outraged, and ashen-faced. 

“You can’t…just…,” the man sputtered, but he looked none too steady on his feet.  Well, that was understandable.  No telling what Singh had put the man through, and now…well, there was no help for it.

“On second thought, maybe one of your people can help me, Joe,” Methos decided.  “I think he needs to sit down again,” he observed, jerking a thumb towards the detective.

“Jake,” Sara took the man’s arm, leading him gently back towards the wall.  “I told you there were things I couldn’t explain.  Now just sit, put your head on your knees and all this will be taken care of.”

Methos almost laughed at that.  Taken care of?  What a fucking mess!  They’d be lucky not to have this all over the New York Post’s headlines by morning.  He could see it now in large type:  “Headless Sheik Electrifies Brooklyn!!” 

“I’ll meet you there,” Nottingham said as he brushed by.  “I may get there first, actually, since I’m taking the chopper into the city.”

“Then why don’t you take him with you?” Joe inserted.  “Be a lot faster and easier.”

“Because dragging a dead body through a 60-story building might cause a few complications,” Methos growled irritably.  “Besides, Iron’s people would be there, and this is no one’s business except MacLeod’s and mine,” he finished, glaring meaningfully at Nottingham.

“As I said, Pierson, I’ll meet you there!” Nottingham met Methos’ eye with a hard, uncompromising look, then turned and disappeared out the door.

Sara leaned against the wall, watching as Pierson and some anonymous big-shouldered man picked up MacLeod by the shoulders and knees and hauled his limp body out the door.  In less than five minutes, Ian was gone, Dawson and his minions were gone, and the odd but familiar-looking man who had counseled her about the Witchblade had disappeared before she even had a chance to ask his name.  Now she was left alone with Jake and Singh’s decapitated body.  Even that strange electric smell in the air had dissipated, and the only smells were dust, smoke and the familiar ugly odors of death.

She realized her knees were shaking a little, so she slid down the wall to sit beside her partner and listen to the wail of approaching sirens.  Soon the room would be filled with firemen and policemen, giving her no real time to catch her breath, to think, to even begin to understand what had happened.  She was shaken to the core at what she had almost done – what the Witchblade had almost made her do, and she hadn’t begun to consider the consequences of at last accepting the Witchblade as part of herself. 

What was just as distracting were the intense images that had flooded her senses as that strange energy had been pulled from Duncan – flashing swords and epic battles, and so many faces, men and women, old and young, grand vistas of green valleys and snow-capped mountains, and with it all, an emotional blast of overwhelming, crushing grief.  She felt a tear escape and brushed it away, ashamed at her lack of control.  These emotions weren’t even really hers, although she certainly had enough grief of her own to merit more than a few tears.

“Are you okay?”

She looked over at Jake.  His pale face was rough with over a day’s worth of beard stubble, his lips were cracked and bleeding, and his clothes were dark with sweat.  She had to smile.  “I think I’m supposed to be asking you that,” she said softly, reaching out to touch a reddened place near his mouth where tape adhesive had torn away his flesh.

“I didn’t behead anybody to save my partner,” Jake replied.  “Thank you, by the way.”

Sara chuckled tiredly and leaned her head back against the wall, taking a deep breath to calm her churning emotions.  “You’re welcome.”

“Are you going to explain that?” Jake asked, pointing towards the exit where Pierson had taken MacLeod’s body.  “Or is that another one of your mysteries?  You can trust me, you know.”

Sara closed her eyes, suddenly too tired to even think anymore.  “I know, Jake.  But these are not my secrets to reveal.”  She opened her eyes again, looking deep into her new partner’s curious face, aware now that her perceptions had expanded beyond the few hints the Witchblade had forced upon her in the past.  Now they came easily and naturally, and she saw that, contrary to the careful image Jake had cultivated and which Sara had so blithely accepted, her new partner was no rookie police detective.  Those curious blue eyes were perceptive, knowledgeable, experienced and hiding some fundamental aspect of his identity.  Oddly enough, Sara didn’t get any sense of threat from the sudden knowledge.  “After all,” she added with a deliberately raised, knowing eyebrow.  “We all have secrets to keep, don’t we?”

Jake’s focus slid away towards the factory floor, unable to meet her uncompromising gaze, and thereby confirming Sara’s suspicions.  “Yeah, well, some secrets are more mysterious than others,” he groused.

Then the sirens were blaring at the door, and shouting voices and the pounding of footsteps rattled the building.  Sara dragged herself to her feet, steeling herself for a long ordeal of difficult interrogations and awkward explanations.  But she knew she could do this.  She had proven that the Witchblade could be controlled if she was prepared to exercise enough will to do so.  It would give her the strength, and her own wits would give her the answers. 

Nottingham was squatting at the top of the loading dock steps when Methos arrived, hovering like some black crow watching out for fresh road kill.  He stood and punched in a code, allowing the loading dock door to slowly rattle open.  It closed behind them once Methos had driven in, giving them privacy from prying eyes. 

Methos got out of the car and opened the trunk, examining its contents with a tired sigh and rubbing absently at the base of his neck where a headache lingered.  He had tried to ignore the periodic spikes deep in his head that splintered into breathtaking agony, but it had made the drive from Brooklyn seem to take forever.  Mac was folded up into a fetal position, and getting him out of the small space was going to be a real pain.  Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that Nottingham was there, after all. 

“Well, my friend,” Methos murmured to the body, reaching in and grabbing a wrist.  “I guess we’d better get this over with.”  Nottingham joined him and between the two of them, they muscled MacLeod’s body into the service elevator.

Methos was not inclined to conversation and Nottingham was blessedly silent as they heaved Mac out of the elevator and into a large exercise room.  By that time, Methos was out of breath and losing his grip on Mac’s knees, so he let the body down with a grunt and a gasp.

“You’re going to leave him here?” Nottingham frowned, still holding Mac under the arms.

“Might as well,” Methos shrugged.  “It’s easier to do this on a hard surface anyway.  Bring me some towels.”

Nottingham gently lowered Mac to the floor, his dark eyebrows furrowed in a troubled, distrusting look that was all too reminiscent of Mac in his less appealing moments.  Methos ignored the man, and busied himself peeling Mac’s coat and sweater off.  Disrobing a dead body was hard work, but Methos was damned if this was a task he was going to share with Ian “Oh, Duncan, please be my teacher” Nottingham. 

By the time he had peeled the sweater off, Nottingham had returned with an armful of towels.  Methos rolled a couple of them up tightly, pushing them against Mac’s head on either side.  He then folded one lengthwise and stretched it over Mac’s forehead, directing Nottingham to pull it tight, and put his weight on his hands on each end of the towel, stabilizing Mac’s head.  Then he did the same thing with a towel stretched across Mac’s shoulders, which Methos intended to hold down with his hands, using the rest of his own body weight to anchor Mac’s torso to the floor.  As ready has he would ever be, he gently slipped the knife out of MacLeod’s chest.

There was only a small leakage of blood, then a few moments of tense silence, where the only sound was Nottingham’s and his own breath.   Then there was a tiny crackling, hissing noise and Methos saw the small, blood-rimmed tear in Mac’s chest close in a shower of blue sparks.  Nottingham breathed in sharply, drawing back a few centimeters, “What…?”

“Be still!” Methos ordered as he felt Mac’s Quickening surge back to life.

The vein at the base of Mac’s neck throbbed once, twice, three times.  “Now!” Methos said, yanking down hard on the towel spread across Mac’s shoulders, and putting all his weight on his hands as Mac took in a huge, noisy gulp of air and his deeply dilated eyes flew open. 

“Mac, don’t move!”

Mac’s wide, staring eyes blinked, and Methos could feel strength flow back into the body beneath him as he took in another gasp of air.  Methos knew the sense of panic, the pain, the need to defensively strike out, to rid oneself of any constraints, especially with another Immortal present.  “MacLeod, it’s Methos,” he said, leaning close, letting his face fill his friend’s range of vision.  “You must stay absolutely still, just for a few minutes, or you’ll break your back again.”

Would he hear?  Would he understand, given the scrambling his Quickening had just undergone?  Even if he did hear and understand, could he comply when every survival instinct would be screaming to move, to defend, to escape?

The big vein in Mac’s neck engorged and throbbed madly and Mac’s face flushed bright red.  “I…have to…” he choked.

“No!  I know you want to move, but it takes forever to heal unless you stay still,” Methos insisted.

Mac was trembling and Nottingham’s face was grim with the strain of keeping Mac’s head immobile and pinned to the floor.

“Breathe, Mac.  In and out.  It’s okay.  That’s it.  It’s just Nottingham and me.  Trust me.”  Methos kept his weight on his hands for another full minute as Mac gradually relaxed, and his breath evened out.  Eventually, the panicked look resolved to grim exhaustion, and the dark eyes closed with a sigh.  Methos nodded to Nottingham, and both men leaned back, releasing the tension on the towels.  “Stay still,” Methos instructed.  “Give it several more minutes just to be on the safe side.”

Mac started to nod, but Nottingham wisely laid his hand on Mac’s forehead to stop him, causing Mac’s eyes to flutter open again at the touch.  Methos moved, taking his weight off his friend and sitting more comfortably on the floor beside him.

“Where…?” Mac muttered, straining to see his surroundings without moving his head.

“You’re in Nottingham’s, uh,” Methos looked around, “dojo, I guess.”  When Mac just looked even more confused, he added, “Remember?  New York City?”

“What happened?”

“What do you remember?” Methos asked cautiously. 

“New York?  Oh, that’s right, I… I was going to meet Connor,” Mac said softly, his thick brows furrowing in confusion.

“No, Mac. We’re here for an exhibit at the museum, remember?  We went….”

But Mac’s eyes had taken on a puzzled, questioning look. "Connor?" he whispered, cocking his head as though listening for something, waving off Nottingham's restraining hands as he pushed himself to a sitting position. 

“Oh, shit,” Methos whispered to himself.  If Mac had to relive the pain of the last few years because Sara Pezzini had fucked around with his Quickening, Methos might just consider whacking the meddlesome woman and throwing the damned Witchblade into the East River.

“Duncan?” Nottingham edged a little closer to Mac.  “Duncan, what’s wrong?”

"Something... something's different," Mac said softly.  "I don't..."  He looked up at them both, his dark eyes wide in an expression Methos couldn't identify. 

“What’s wrong?” Nottingham demanded, again, looking angrily at Methos.  “What did you do to him?”

“Me!?  It was your precious Sara and the damned Witchblade that did this,” Methos growled.  He went to Mac, kneeling beside him, speaking gently.  “Mac, Connor died, but it’s over.  You moved past it.  Come on, let’s get you back to the hotel.  You can clean up and get some rest.”  He took Mac’s elbow, trying to pull him up, but Mac, his eyes closed tight as he fought whatever visions or demons or emotional turmoil was boiling inside, held up his hand and Methos stopped.

I'm okay,” Mac said so softly that Methos had to lean close to hear.  “It's okay.”

Nottingham knelt on Mac’s other side, resting a hand on Mac’s bent head, as Mac appeared to go through some internal meditation ritual, taking long, slow breaths.  “Are you sure?” Nottingham asked gently.

Mac took a final deep breath and let it out slowly, looking up.  It was a strange moment.  Nottingham and Mac had similar, deep-set, dark eyes, thick dark hair and olive complexions, and they gazed at each other with an intensity that could have sparked a bonfire.  Methos didn’t know whether to laugh or to make a sarcastic comment or to just leave before the situation got even more intimate than the look implied, especially when Mac unexpectedly reached up and touched Ian's face and... smiled.  It was a warm, open, almost joyful expression that lit up his entire face.

My God, that thing should be registered as a weapon. 

“I’m sure, Ian.  You don’t need to worry about me.  I’m indestructible, remember?”

“You didn’t look so indestructible lying dead on the floor with your back broken,” Ian responded, now so close their foreheads were practically touching.

“Sorry to break up this charming tête-à-tête,” Methos interrupted dryly, “But can we move this someplace other than the floor?”

There was that smile again, but this time it was directed right at him.  “That’s my Adam, ever the pragmatist.” 

Nottingham and Methos both reached to help Mac up.  “Whoa,” Mac murmured, swaying alarmingly.  Methos gripped a bicep, Nottingham grabbed Mac’s other arm and between the two of them, they managed to keep MacLeod on his feet.

“I thought you people were supposed to heal instantly,” Nottingham murmured, his expression grim with concern.

“Yeah, well, fuck around with a Quickening, and you never know what’s going to happen,” Methos responded irritably.

“A Quickening?” Nottingham asked, and Methos almost groaned aloud at his own lack of discretion.  “You said that was what the Witchblade was trying to get.”

“What?” Mac asked in confusion.  “The Witchblade?”  His eyes suddenly widened in recollection.  “Sara!  Is she okay?  She killed Singh!  And then…” he blinked several times and frowned.  “Then… I don’t remember.”

“Just as well,” Methos observed.  “Now can we get you seated before you fall down?  I, for one, don’t have any desire to drag your carcass around any more than I already have.”

“But is Sara all right?  And that detective, McCarty?  Is he okay?” Mac insisted. 

“Yes, Sara is all right.  Yes, her partner seems perfectly fine, if also a little confused,” Methos reassured him as they steered towards a door on the far side of the dojo.

Mac sighed and shook his head distractedly, which was a mistake since that sent him stumbling off-balance.  They hustled him through the door into a small apartment, where Methos and Nottingham half-dragged him to the bed, sitting him down quickly before he ended up on the floor.

They got him more or less stable, sitting with a dazed look on his face.  “I need to get him back to the hotel,” Methos announced curtly.

“Why?” Nottingham asked.

Methos opened his mouth, expecting some perfectly obvious answer to emerge, but no words came to mind.

“Because Irons probably has this place watched, if not bugged?” MacLeod offered.  He looked up at Nottingham’s doubtful frown with a smile and a shrug.  “I should have thought of it before, but you seemed so sure the place was secure.”

Nottingham crossed his arms tightly, looking defensive and irritated.  “He has never said anything about this place, and I’ve been very careful….”

For once, MacLeod was absolutely right. At least the man’s wits hadn’t entirely deserted him.  “He had you following Pezzini everywhere.  Do you honestly think he doesn’t have someone following you?” Methos insisted.  “How often have you checked this room for hidden bugs or cameras?”

Nottingham opened his mouth, then shut it again.  “Probably not often enough,” he finally admitted.

An odd sound emerged from the direction of the bed, and Methos observed Mac attempting to smother a laugh.  “You find something amusing?” Methos asked.

“Can you imagine,” Mac stopped to chuckle, “Irons sitting alone, watching that night you and I….” For some unfathomable reason Mac was overwhelmed with amusement at the image of Irons’ lascivious view of Nottingham and MacLeod in flagrante delecto, and fell back on the bed snickering to himself.

“MacLeod!” Methos didn’t see the humor in the situation at all, and would have expected Mac to be incensed at the thought of Kenneth Irons surreptitiously observing such a private moment.  Come to think of it, Methos realized he was a little ticked off at the thought.

“Oh, lighten up!” Mac chuckled.  “What?  Are you jealous?”

Methos rolled his eyes at that.  “Of whom?  You with Neanderthal?  Don’t be ridiculous.”

Mac shook his head, his lips still bowed in amusement.  “It’s Nottingham, you twit.  And I think you are jealous.”  Mac wagged a “naughty-naughty” finger at him.

“Now I know your brain is fried,” Methos growled.

“I must confess I’m feeling a little… disconnected,” Mac admitted, struggling to sit up.  He ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh.  “I think… I don’t know.”   His voice trailed off, and a gentle smile played around his mouth.  “I’m not sure my feet are quite touching the ground.”

Of the many possible reactions to what had happened, this was not one Methos had anticipated.  “Great!  Maybe you can save the price of a plane ticket then, and float all the way to London,” he said, pulling up on Mac’s arm to get him to his feet.

“Oh, that’s right,” Mac replied, blinking rapidly at the sudden change in position.  “We were going to catch our flight tonight.”  He sighed, then frowned.  “We'll have to change our reservations.  We can’t just leave Ian to deal with Irons alone.  Especially not after what he did for you.”

“For me?  What did he do?  Decline to kill me? Great. I’ll put him on my Christmas card list,” Methos snapped, tugging Mac towards the door, only to have him turn in his arms, putting his palms on Methos’ shoulders and holding him, staring into his face with almost comical concern.

“Are you okay?” Mac asked.  “I don’t know what Irons did to you, but it must’ve been…”

“I’m perfectly fine, obviously,” Methos snarled, pushing Mac’s hands away, but he could have kicked himself for not realizing before why the whole first half of the day seemed to have disappeared from his memory. 

But Mac wasn’t put off by Methos’ hostility, reaching out again and cupping his neck, a slow, impish smile warming his face.  “Well, you certainly proved that all the rumors about your survival instincts are true.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? What happened?” Methos asked suspiciously, but Mac just pulled away, moving to Nottingham and placing a hand on his shoulder.  The man couldn’t seem to keep his hands off people, Methos observed.  Constantly touching, holding, stroking.  It was an irritating habit. 

“You owe Ian a lot more than a Christmas card, you know,” Mac said over his shoulder.  “He risked everything to save you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Methos responded, folding his arms and waiting impatiently.  Being in debt to Ian Nottingham was not on his agenda, no matter what the man had done.  The pain in the back of his head stabbed once again, reminding him that there was much he didn't know about what had happened after Dr. Immo and his thugs had knocked him out.  Given the implications of Mac's statement, that ignorance would have to be rectified, and soon.

“What are you going to do now?” Mac asked Nottingham, who stared at the floor for a moment before he raised his eyes.

“I’m going back,” Nottingham stated.

“No!” Mac whispered, gripping Nottingham’s shoulder tightly.  “Irons believes he owns you.  You don’t have to.…”

Nottingham smiled, shaking his head firmly.  “No, you don’t understand.  I need to go back.  I have a responsibility.  To him.  To myself.  He created me, Duncan.  I’ve allowed him to use me, so in a way, that makes me responsible for what he does.”

“Ian,” Mac sighed, “what happens when he demands that you do something you know to be wrong?”

“I’ll face that when it happens,” Ian replied, ignoring Methos’ snort of derision.  “And I’ll remember what you’ve taught me.” 

Methos almost groaned aloud.  A MacLeod clone.  That’s all the world needed. 

Mac gave Nottingham a long, intense look then folded him into his arms for a hug.  “Just don’t let him dictate how you value yourself, my friend,” Mac whispered.

Nottingham closed his eyes tightly as Mac hugged him, and his fingers dug into Mac’s back.  “No,” Nottingham replied, then pushed away, looking into Mac’s eyes.  “You’ve taught me that, Duncan.  But Irons has taught me, as well.  You and Sara tend to see good and evil so clearly, and that's a blessing for the world.  But for most of us, between the black and the white, there are many shades of gray," he said.  "But you have taught me to be far more aware of my own ability to influence those shades.” He smiled and started to say more, but then glanced over at Methos waiting grimly for them to finish their goodbyes and just shook his head.  “Goodbye, Duncan MacLeod.  I still wish you could be my teacher, you know.”

Mac laughed gently.  “Oh, I don’t know.  Seems to me you've done pretty well on your own.  Stay safe, Ian, and help Sara when you can.”

Nottingham just nodded, and Methos decided that was as good a cue as any to get the hell out of there before both men started blubbering on each other’s shoulders and professing undying love and loyalty.  Only MacLeod could manage, in the course of only a few chaotic days, to soften the heart of a man whose sole purpose from birth had been to follow orders and to kill without conscience.  It was slightly ridiculous and  needlessly dangerous, and Methos wanted nothing more than to hustle MacLeod back to England and get them both safely ensconced in his house, eating Mrs. Harris’ quite tasty cooking and having a dull, boring, sane life. 

They made it to Hudson Street without major incident, other than Mac accidentally stepping off the curb, stumbling into traffic and almost getting killed by a speeding delivery truck.  The man seemed to be wandering around in some alternate reality, not paying the slightest attention to where he was going – or maybe it was that he was paying too much attention to everything but where he was going. 

They walked several blocks east, with Mac seeming to get his bearings a little more with each step, although he seemed far more chatty than usual, commenting on everything from flowers in window boxes to the various aromas wafting from the small restaurants they passed on the way.  They reached 2nd Avenue, where Methos raised his arm to get a cab, but Mac wandered north, towards a small triangular park in the middle of the stream of heavy traffic.  “MacLeod, where…?” but the man had managed to cross the street and stood, staring at a life-sized bronze statue of a man sitting on the bench, reading the paper.  Mac sat down, spread his arms across the back of the bench and smiled up at him as Methos trotted across the street, dodging traffic. 

“Mac, we need to get back…”

“Isn’t it fascinating?” Mac asked, reaching out to pat the bronze statue.  “They put art in such an unlikely place, where thousands of people walk by each day, absorbing the meaning without ever even realizing it.”

“You mean they ignore it,” Methos observed, tucking his hands in his coat pockets.  “Most people don’t see, understand or appreciate beauty even when it is right under their noses.”

Mac gave him a long, searching wide-eyed look, as though Methos had just said something incredibly profound and moving.  Methos finally shook his head and laughed.  “You, Duncan MacLeod, are totally fucked up, and I need to get you back to the hotel before you get us into any more trouble.”

Mac stood, moving close – too close.  “I see, Methos.  And I understand.  But sometimes, my friend," he added softly, "I think it is you who does not truly appreciate what is right in front of you.”  Then he reached out and stroked a finger straight down Methos' nose.

Methos jerked back a little in surprise, batting away Mac's hand. “Yeah, yeah, Mr. Tambourine Man,” laughing at Mac’s serious tone.  The man was clearly under the influence of… something.  “Come on,” he tugged at Mac’s arm.  “Let’s go.”  He put his arm around Mac’s shoulders, forcibly steering him towards the curb to catch a cab when he felt Mac slip an arm around him underneath his coat.  It was an oddly intimate gesture, especially when Mac squeezed his waist.

“Let’s walk back,” Mac leaned in close to whisper.

“Walk!?  It’s over 40 blocks to the hotel, and several long blocks east.  And they’ve invented these marvelous things called taxis.  They can whisk you wherever you want to go, just so long as you can speak some third world language, have lots of money, and are prepared to die in a car wreck.  Since we are uniquely qualified in all those areas, I suggest…”

“Methos.”  A tug from Mac brought them to a halt.  “I just miss spending time with you without any crisis looming or Immortals threatening.  You center me in a way I don’t think anyone else ever has.  Not even Tessa, and I never thought I’d say that about anyone.”

"So you want to walk 40 blocks back to our hotel, just so we can spend time together?" Methos asked.

Mac shrugged and grinned at him.  "It's a start."

Methos smiled indulgently at the hopeful look on MacLeod’s face.  For a 400-year-old man, sometimes Mac could seem awfully young.  “Mac,” he leaned in, “you’ve just taken a Quickening, then had your neurons all rearranged by the most powerful weapon in the world.  All this,” he shrugged, “bonhomie you seem to be feeling for me and the rest of the world is probably just endorphins released by the Witchblade and by the Quickening.  While I’m glad it didn’t leave you brain damaged, or worse, let’s not say or do anything either of us will be embarrassed by later, all right?”

Ah, there was that lethal smile again, forming slowly, crinkling Mac’s eyes and curving his mouth. 

"I'm not embarassed, Methos," Mac said softly, wanting desperately to reach out, to touch him again.  "Are you?" he couldn't resist asking.  Mac studied Methos' face in fascination.  It was all angles and planes in the stark lighting from the streets and like everything he was experiencing tonight, it stood out in sharp relief, each detail a marvelous blend of color and light and imbued with meaning, sometimes hidden, sometimes clear, but always with the power to move him.

Methos predictably just snorted, then stepped to the curb to flag down a cab.  Mac was too overflowing with energy to stand still and wait, so he slipped past Methos, stuck his thumb and index finger into his mouth and produced a whistle that could be heard a block away.  Connor had taught him that back in the 1930's and the action brought back a rush of memories of his best friend and brother almost prostrate with laughter as Duncan time and again tried unsuccessfully and quite messily to reproduce Connor's sharp whistle. Eventually, through sheer stubborn persistence that drove his teacher to distraction, Duncan mastered the technique and now, sure enough, a yellow taxicab veered across the street towards them and came to a screeching halt about six inches short of his toes.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Methos asked drily.

Feeling terribly pleased with himself, Mac moved to the back door and opened it with a flourish, gesturing grandly for Methos to enter, meeting Methos’ raised eyebrow with a  grin. “I am a man of many talents,” Mac announced as he climbed into the car after Methos.

“What you are is a man who seriously needs to get….” Methos didn’t finish his thought and his normally pale face flushed slightly.

Mac swallowed a chuckle, fully aware of the obvious implications of the conversation, plus Methos' own very intimate acquaintance with the after effects of Quickenings.

“Yes?” Mac asked, putting an arm over the back of the seat.  “Needs to get what?”  The cab jerked as it pulled away, throwing Methos against Mac’s body, so he used the opportunity to tuck himself closer. 

“What the hell is going on, MacLeod?” Methos finally asked.

The chuckle finally escaped, and even to his own ears the low laughter sounded lush with possibilities.  He let his arm descend so that it was now casually draped on Methos’ shoulders.  “Don’t mind me,” Mac replied.  “Just feeling full of bonhomie.” Mac left his arm right where it was, and watched out the window with a private smile.

Methos sat quietly on the ride to their hotel, trying not to think too much.  He should have shrugged Mac’s arm off, told him to take a cold shower, or maybe a long hot shower, whichever suited his current needs.  But he hadn’t, and he felt his belly flutter in anticipation – of what?  Of sex?  In and of itself, that was hardly sufficient cause for this particular anxiety.

This man had turned his life upside down and inside out, had made him laugh and get angry and irritated and frustrated, had frightened him, surprised him, challenged him and maddened him and delighted him more than anyone in many lifetimes.  And now, in the midst of some emotional upheaval caused by the Witchblade, they were going to add lust to the mix?  Did he really want that?  His mouth suddenly went dry.  How many times had the notion ocurred? How close had he come to doing more than teasing, more than suggestively draping himself on Mac's furniture, more than finding lame excuses to be in the same city, in the same building, in the same room as Duncan MacLeod. 

Whatever the Blade had done, for good or ill, Mac seemed intensely sincere, and intensely... intense about his own desires.  Whatever the Witchblade had done, Mac was a man who trusted his feelings, and was nothing if not honest with himself and his friends, sometimes painfully so.

So, Methos asked himself again.  Did he want this?

He had to smile.  Yes.  Oh, yes.   He had wanted it for a long time, and there was unlikely to be a more opportune moment, because once this strange mood wore off, who knew if MacLeod would be willing to take this kind of risk again, especially with someone who had hidden so much from him, had tested his trust to its limits, and beyond?

He settled back a little, relaxing against Mac’s arm, his mind brushing briefly against another, more disquieting possibility, that this wasn't just lust - for him or for Mac -  and that was the real reason for the nervous fluttering in his gut.  But his mind had been made up before he had made any serious effort to be logical or rational about the colder, uglier realities of the two of them becoming intimate.  Not that logic couldn't sometimes be a real pain in the ass.  The aptness of that thought made him smile even more.

Mac looked over at Methos’ profile starkly outlined against the various garish storefront lights, headlights and streetlamps they passed.  His face was impassive, slightly tense, but otherwise unreadable for most of the ride, then just before the cab turned the last corner towards their hotel, a small smile twitched at the corner of Methos’ mouth, the lean body leaned back a little and Methos looked over at him.

“You’re being insufferable, you know,” Methos said.

Mac laughed.  Methos always knew how to make him laugh.  “I’m just doing it to amuse you.”

“Really? And here I thought you were just interested in amusing yourself.  Since, after my comment about public art, you implied that I don't truly appreciate you.” Methos threw him a wry look as he climbed out of the taxi, leaving Mac to pay the fare.

“If that's what you thought I meant,” Mac called after his companion as he strode into the hotel, past the nodding doorman, “you’re wrong.” 

“Am I?” Methos replied.

Mac just smiled enigmatically, even though part of him wanted to tell Methos then and there just how wrong he was.  Instead he turned away, going to the front desk to make sure their room hadn’t been given away, to get the concierge to rearrange their flights back to England, and to ask that some special items be acquired and sent up to their suite.

He slipped the electronic key into the door, waving Methos in ahead of him and watching appreciatively as Methos strolled into the room, his hands hanging heavily in his pockets.  Then Methos turned and faced him, cocking his head curiously.  “You might want to take a shower,” Methos suggested, his eyes lively with meaning. “Then we can order dinner in or go out, if you like.” But the voice was pitched low, potent with possibility, while that sharp chin was tilted up just a bit in a subtle look of challenge.

Mac pulled his coat off, throwing it over the nearest chair.  “A shower?" He smiled and casually tossed the room key on a table. "I can think of better ways to deal with my… bonhomie.”  He deliberately moved close, but Methos didn’t budge.  It was nice they were of a height.  He could look straight into Methos’ eyes, equal-to-equal, strength-to-strength.  What a truly wonderful and unique circumstance.  “The question is, are you willing?”

Methos’ laugh was a short bark, but small spots of color gave away the fact that there was more emotion churning inside than the man was acknowledging.  “Has anyone ever turned you down, MacLeod?  Did you expect me to blush and stutter like a schoolgirl, thrilled to be the sudden object of your amorous attentions?  Or maybe that I’d tear off my clothes and ravish you here on the rug?  Don’t flatter yourself.”  He turned away, taking his coat off and meticulously hanging it up in the closet.

Mac just waited until Methos turned around to face him again.  “You misunderstand.”  Mac moved close again, and again Methos stood his ground and crossed his arms defensively, but that only made Mac chuckle.  “But then, I seem to be babbling a lot tonight, and I can't say I blame you for being confused.  You’ve said Sara did something to my Quickening, and I need you to explain that... later.”  Mac’s hand seemed to be irresistibly drawn to touch Methos’ cheek.  It was smooth, barely any trace of beard stubble, the high cheekbone hard and sharp under the pad of his thumb.  “But right now...," he let the remainder of that thought go unsaid for the moment, swallowing past the dryness in his throat.  "For months – years, even – I’ve felt this weight inside.  I don’t know what it was.  Maybe guilt, maybe too many Quickenings that I couldn’t seem to handle well, maybe just time itself.  After Connor and Kell it only got worse, until all my time was spent finding ways to get from one day to the next without being crushed by it.”

Mac backed off a little, afraid he was explaining too much, pushing too hard, but he needed to say this because maybe saying it out loud would help him understand it a little better. At least Methos had uncrossed his arms, and that wary look had softened a bit. “But tonight,” Mac closed his eyes and took a long, shaky breath. “Tonight, all that pressure, all the sense of doom… is gone.  And in its absence, it is suddenly so clear to me just how precious some of life's more conspicious gifts are.  Whatever Sara, or whatever the Witchblade did, Methos, I can only be grateful for it.”

“I don’t want to destroy the mood, Mac,” Methos frowned and reached out, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “But the Witchblade tried to take your Quickening.  It immobilized you so you couldn’t resist and I could see it pull the energy away, like it was draining you.” Methos’ grip tightened.  “If Sara hadn’t been able to stop it, I don’t know what would have happened.”

That revelation made Mac’s stomach drop, but the anxious look in Methos’ eyes moved him even more.  “But she did stop it.” Then Mac had to smile.  “Or you did.” 

Methos shook his head, turning away.  “I didn’t do anything!” he said bitterly.

“Somehow I doubt that.”  Mac reached out to turn the man back around.  “Whatever was done, it triggered something.  Whether it just rearranged things, or simply pulled away enough Quickening energy to make it all manageable, I don’t know, and I’m not sure I care.”

Methos studied him for a moment, and Mac could have sworn a brief affectionate smile twitched at the corners of that mobile mouth before Methos turned away, shaking his head, and poured himself a drink at the bar.  “Well, MacLeod, I have to congratulate you.  Once again, you have turned lead into gold.”

Mac followed, irresistibly pulled towards his friend, laughing softly.  Laughter was suddenly coming so easily, and it felt really good.  “I think you get the credit for that.”

“Me?” Methos turned, but looked a little taken aback my Mac’s close proximity. 

“You were there.  You think I don’t know that you would have done whatever it took to protect me?”

Methos snorted, sipping at his drink.  “You really do have a pretty high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”

“I have a pretty high opinion of you,” Mac whispered, pleased when two spots of color blossomed on Methos’ cheeks.

“So this is your seduction technique - blatant flattery?  Well, I suppose the tried and true is always best, although I would have thought that after 400 years of intensive study of the subject – at least if your Chronicles are any guide – you might have come up with something a little more original.”

Methos looked him straight in the eye, a blatant challenge on his face.  Seduction techniques?  That topic seemed far too prosaic for Methos.  The silence grew, and the tension grew, until Mac again felt a smile stretch his face.   “This isn’t about seduction technique,” he observed at last.  “You just don't want me to ever be able to claim this was only a whim triggered by what happened with the Witchblade.”

Methos’ shoulders lowered a fraction, but there was no other clue that Mac had guessed accurately. 

“And you know it's not that simple,” Mac heard his voice lower and get husky even as his body warmed and tingled in anticipation.  “I don't want to seduce you, Methos.  Our lives are too intertwined, too precarious, too complicated for shallow, meaningless sex.  What I want to do has far less to do with Quickenings or lust than it does with,” he reached out a finger, running it gently along Methos’ clavicle, pleased when gooseflesh rose on pale skin, “worship.”

“Uh, Mac,” Methos’ eyes had widened and he stepped back.  “I don’t think.…”

But Mac just followed him until Methos bumped against the bar, rattling the bottles musically.  “I need to do this, Methos.  For once, I want to celebrate what's right under my nose."  Mac grinned at his own unintended pun.  "Or more accurately, what is right under your nose.  But it means you have to trust me not to hurt you in any way.”  The two spots of color in Methos’ face had faded and his eyes had grown wide, the pupils dilating until there were only two thin circles of green-flecked brown irises around shiny pools of black.

Methos took a large gulp of his drink and set it carefully down on the bar before he looked up again.  He took a long, deep breath and held it for a moment before he spoke.  “I… this is not exactly what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

Methos’ smile was crooked, and he shrugged with one shoulder.  “A little lust, a little rough sex to work the post-Quickening charge and this weird euphoria out of your system.  Seemed like it might be fun as long as we're both really aware of what was going on.”

“Oh, I’m very aware,” Mac whispered.  “That's the point, Methos. And I want to share that awareness.  With you.”  Mac held his breath, waiting.  Methos still looked a little pale, and even though his face was carefully impassive, Mac saw the tiniest hitch of breath, the slight tensing in the tendons of his neck, and he knew – or at least hoped – that Methos understood that this was no flight of fancy, no casual seduction to be dismissed with the dawn.

“You know you can be bloody overwhelming, don’t you?” Methos asked with a sly smile.

Mac shrugged.  “It’s not intentional.”

“Bollocks,” Methos laughed, and the tension eased a little. 

Ian stopped in the doorway to the study, certain Irons knew he was there, even though he was seated facing the fireplace, his head bent over a book.  He stood for several minutes before he started tracking the time.  The antique clock over the mantle swung its golden pendulum back and forth, back and forth.  Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen.  Thirty.  The pages of the book didn’t turn, but neither did Irons acknowledge Ian’s presence.   Finally, Ian decided he was tired of being a source of amusement. He turned to leave.

“Where do you think you are going?” Irons asked without turning his head.  His voice was strained and hoarse, still damaged from the encounter earlier in the day with Pierson.

“It’s been a long day,” Ian answered.

Irons rose and turned.  He was wearing a blood-red smoking jacket, and a creamy silk ascot hid the bruises Pierson had left on his flesh.  “You think so?”  Irons dropped the journal onto a side table.  “What would you know of a long day, Ian?  I had bodies to dispose of, and an entire laboratory was destroyed that will take millions to replace.  Years of research gone!”  Instead of getting louder, the voice got lower and rougher, almost unintelligible.

Ian almost smiled, but managed to keep his expression neutral.  “Yes, well, Dr. Pierson seems to be a remarkable… hmm,” he considered before going on.  “The most appropriate word I can think of is – adept. It would seem that he, MacLeod, and others of their kind are not individuals it would be wise to antagonize.”

“Adept?  Your exposure to the Witchblade has shaken your hold on reality, Ian.  Pierson is no more a magician than you are.”  Irons stepped a little closer, his face twisted with a hatred Ian had rarely seen on those aristocratic, smooth features.  “But evidently you need to be reminded that the person not to antagonize – is me!” 

Ian caught Irons’ wrist a few centimeters before the hand struck his face.  “And perhaps,” Ian said softly, “You need to be reminded that there are forces in the universe more powerful than you.  We all need to understand our place in the food chain, Kenneth.”  He squeezed Irons wrist a little tighter, but the only reaction he got was a slight thinning of Irons’ lips.  “You created me to help you control the Witchblade, but the Witchblade will not be controlled by anyone but its Wielder.  It is more powerful than you, than me, even than Pierson or MacLeod, I think.  Sara struggles to master it, though, to use it’s power wisely and well, and I will do everything in my power to see that Sara is protected, even from herself.  That, at least, is part of the mission for which you created me.  Do you still wish me to do that, Kenneth?”

“You are right about one thing, Ian.  I created you!” Irons growled.  “How dare you try to tell me what you will or will not do?”

Ian finally allowed a smile to touch his lips.  “Yes, Kenneth, you did create me, and you had the foresight to create someone with a discerning mind, someone who can learn and grow and change, adapting to new circumstances, making his own choices.  And I have made my choice, Kenneth.  I came back.  If that isn’t good enough for you, then there are different choices I can make.”

Irons snatched his hand away from Ian’s grasp and went to the fireplace, his fingers touching his throat where he must still be feeling the pain of the day’s events.  For several long, silent moments, Irons contemplated the crackling, snapping fire.  When he finally spoke, he first had to clear his throat several times. “I heard Sara killed that man Singh this afternoon.  I want a full report.”

“I will look into the matter, and let you know anything relevant,” he answered.  Irons looked at him sharply but Ian just lowered his head in obeisance as he always had before.  His head and shoulders straightened though, as he then turned and left to consider how best to fulfill his master’s order and still keep covenant with his own conscience.  For certain, it would not be the last time that balancing act would have to be done.

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