Speaking of miracles, Mac’s words kept playing over and over in his mind, finally overcoming the simple physical anticipation that had been subliminally driving his actions and motivations ever since it seemed clear that Mac truly wanted to have sex with him. No, not just have sex.  There was that disturbing word he had used: worship. 

He dried off and pulled on the hotel’s thick terrycloth robe, growing ever more convinced that Mac’s Quickening-induced sexual fantasy would far outstrip the reality, leaving only disappointment and regret in its wake. He had failed to live up to Mac’s expectations so many times and Methos knew he would fail miserably as an object of worship.  He had been a god, after all. It was vastly overrated. 

“Methos?” The gentle call was followed by a tap on his bedroom door. 

Methos tugged the robe’s belt a little more tightly and opened the door to find Mac, skin still slightly damp and flushed from a shower, hair curling loosely around his face, wearing only silk pajama bottoms. “MacLeod,” he began, but Mac held up a finger. 

“Shhh,” he said softly. He held out a hand. “Come.” 

When Methos didn’t immediately respond, Mac took the initiative, clasping Methos’ wrist and pulling him into the living room. All the lights had been turned off, but somehow Mac had conjured up about a half dozen candles that illuminated the room in golden, flickering shadows. The curtains on the wall of windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline had been closed, and the couch pushed aside to provide an open space on the floor where Mac had laid out the bedspread from his own bed and layered at least one blanket and a couple of sheets over the top, with pillows scattered about in easy reach. With his next breath Methos caught the spicy aroma of incense. 

“Mac, what…?” 

“I said no talking, Methos.  I wanted a space where we could spread out, move around.  I want you to relax.  Your only role tonight is to experience, to feel.”  Mac stopped tugging him towards the nest he had made on the floor.  “To enjoy,” he instructed gently. 

“And your part in this?” Methos asked. 

“Oh, Methos,” Mac whispered, reaching out and tracing his thumb from Methos’ cheek, down the side of his face to his jaw, then softly descending to the base of his neck. “I intend to make of thee a temple.” 

Methos first instinct was to laugh, the quick nervous laughter that sometimes comes when you're surprised by something both unexpected and emotionally powerful.  But the statement was straightforward and completely sincere, as was the reverence that had reduced Mac’s voice to a whisper. Methos drew breath to protest, but Mac leaned in and pressed soft lips on his. There was nothing left but to open his mouth and lean closer as he felt Mac pull the tie loose on his robe so their chests were bared and pressed flesh-to-flesh at the same time a warm tongue expertly and thoroughly explored his mouth. Mac drew back after a moment, his face slightly flushed, then he pushed at the shoulders of Methos’ robe until it fell away. 

“Mac, please.  This urge, this feeling... whatever it is, was induced by the Witchblade. It's not real.  It can't be.  Believe me, I am no one's object of worship,” Methos said as sternly as he could manage with Mac’s warm hands tracing patterns over his chest and ribs.  “I’m just a man, like other men.”  He made himself take a full step back.  “Don’t pretend that I’m any more than that.  I will only disappoint you and it will end up hurting us both.” 

But Mac just followed, moving close again but not touching, his eyes full of anticipation and… something else.  “You are the one who had faith in me, when I had no faith in myself,” Mac whispered.  “And, trust me, while what happened may have triggered... something, ultimately this has nothing to do with the Witchblade, or with you meeting my expectations.” 

Compelled by the determination and invitation in Mac’s face, Methos found himself sinking down to the nest of covers and pillows where Mac knelt in front of him.  “Mac,” Methos said firmly, “this feeling of euphoria can’t last.  You know that.  You’re high as a kite right now, and at some point you’re going to come down.  I don’t want that crash to find us regretting anything.” 

Mac chuckled gently.  “For once, I’m not worried about what happens tomorrow.  I told you everything feels like it has come to the surface, all the energy, all the emotion, all the intensity of life right here, right now, and I want to share that.  I need to share it.  With you.”  Mac pulled his pajama bottoms off and kicked them away, the silk slithering away like pooling black ink. 

Methos’ mouth went dry with expectation, or perhaps with fear.  Certainly he was almost overwhelmed with the knowledge that there were forces at work here far larger than MacLeod, far larger than himself.  All day vivid, ancient memories had been roiling in his brain, distracting him, spiking the underlying pain of the headache that had refused to subside until moments before, all of them stark reminders of the powerful tides that governed their lives, and which he had spent eons resisting, but somehow could not summon the will to resist now. 

At MacLeod’s urging, Methos mimicked Mac’s position so that they knelt facing each other. 
“When I was at the monastery,” Mac said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, “one of my main tasks was to learn to accept what I had done without guilt and shame and horror.  You know about the chi, of course.  And the seven chakras.”  Methos nodded.  “Well, I knew about them, too, had studied for years, but I had to be taught to breathe all over again, to unblock the flow of energy.”

Methos nodded again, his chest tightening when he thought of the agony his friend had endured.  “No doubt your chi was imprisoned in your chest, where your passion resides, and in your mind,” he observed.  “It would cause you to set yourself impossible goals, and revisit old regrets over and over again.”

Mac nodded.  “You are a master of your own chi, no doubt,” he observed, only smiling at Methos’ snort of self-derision.  “But tonight,” he reached out a hand and placed it over Methos’ sternum.  “I feel your energy, Methos, more clearly than I ever have before.  I can almost see it under your skin, so strong, like a deep, fast-moving river.  It’s so….” Mac groped for words. “Compelling.  But I see in that energy some of that same ...discord... that crippled me for so long. More hidden, perhaps.  More covered over with scars, certainly.  But I think, in some small way, I can help you let your chi flow freely, because rignt now I see what others cannot.  That whatever ironic façade you may wear, however many times you say you gave up guilt long ago – you, like me, have to struggle – every day – to accept who and what we are.”

Mac’s hand on his chest felt as though blood pulsed right through his spread palm, radiating heat outward until Methos closed his eyes and took a long breath, clearing his mind, trying to sooth away the deep reservoir of panic the feeling evoked.  It had been ages since he had allowed anyone to touch him this way, to literally manipulate the flow of energy in his body.   It took enormous trust, and he had never done it with another Immortal.

“It’s not me you need to trust, Methos,” Mac said, as though reading his mind.  “It’s yourself.”

“Mm, hmm,” Methos returned, sub vocally, his mouth almost twisting into its usual dubious smirk, but he managed to stop himself.   Mac deserved better than that.  They both deserved better than that.  What his friend was offering was a gift that, if Methos allowed it and Mac really knew what he was doing, could be a shatteringly pleasurable experience.  It was the ‘shatteringly’ that had Methos concerned.  It would make him utterly vulnerable, physically and emotionally exposed to the most powerful Immortal he knew and one who had just had his Quickening manipulated in a way that, as far as he knew, no other Immortal had ever experienced.

But this was Duncan MacLeod, after all.  Methos took another long breath and gave a quick nod, and had to smile as transparent joy suffused Mac’s face.  Methos could almost believe that MacLeod was right, that his Quickening had been invoked by the Witchblade.  In the candlelight, Mac looked illuminated from within, his skin golden, burnished and shining, his eyes bright, his dark hair still slightly damp, its waves catching the light and giving off a mahogany sheen.  Almost before he realized it, Methos’ mesmerized study of Mac’s features had become a meditation and he had fallen automatically into a posture and a breathing pattern that matched his partner’s.

“Yes,” Mac sighed after several minutes of quiet, concentrated, synchronized breathing.  “I can feel it, even see it,” he whispered.  “Draw your energy up your spine, Methos.  Feel it warm your back, spread through your shoulders and up into your brain.”

As he spoke the words, Methos knew Mac was matching his own action to his words, closing his eyes and letting his head fall forward a little.  Methos shut his eyes and visualized the energy of his body flowing gently upwards, through his spine, warming each vertebra, then to the back of his neck, filling him with a sense of pleasurable lightheadedness.

“And down again,” Mac whispered instructions, “onto your forehead, around your eyes, your nose…,” his voice suddenly very close, and as Methos automatically complied, feeling that warmth flow through his face and into his mouth, Mac’s lips touched his and a warm tongue pressed in, generating a wave of pleasure that far exceeded the simplicity of the touch.

Methos sighed, and reached up to cup the back of Mac’s neck, wanting to get closer, much closer.  Mac’s hand slid from where he had held it on Methos’ sternum to around his back.  Both of them rose to their knees, their breaths sighing and mingling together.  It was the oddest sensation – slightly tingling, warm, wet, and magnetic.  Methos decided he could do this for a very long time, and let his hands roam a little, over smooth shoulders to a low-slung waist, but he was pushed back slightly.  He licked his lips, and leaned in, wanting more, but an intruding hand stopped him.

“Too soon,” Mac said with a smile.

“Not soon enough,” Methos groused, and leaned in again.

Mac chuckled, pulling back out of reach and rolling effortlessly to his feet.  “Lie down and let me do this properly.”

Giving in to the inevitable, Methos complied with only a small sigh of disappointment.  He let Mac plump a soft pillow under his head and tuck a rolled blanket under his knees as he arranged Methos’ body to his liking.  “Are you going to tell me exactly what “this” is?” he asked as Mac worked.

“I think you know,” Mac replied as he picked a bottle up out of a bowl of slightly steaming water.  The man was nothing if not prepared.  He uncapped the warmed oil, and the smell of rosewood and other, more subtle scents filled the air, traveling to places deep within Methos’ nose and triggering…something.  A memory?  A feeling?  It was hard to identify, but it was pleasant, oddly titillating.  “It’s about setting your mind free, experiencing life in the moment, not regretting yesterday or contemplating what might happen tomorrow.”

Methos settled in, letting his body retreat from its sexual readiness a little, assuring himself that he could be patient when the situation required it.  “Regret and worry is your forte, Mac, not mine,” Methos assured him, smiling indulgently.

“Aye, so it is,” Mac said softly.  Methos immediately regretted even such mild sarcasm, afraid he had spoiled the mood, but Mac seemed unperturbed.  “But I’m sure you’ve done this before, and know what you need to do.”  Methos felt a gentle finger placed in the middle of his forehead.  As intended, it centered his focus, and he returned to his meditative breathing.

“No judgment about what we’re doing, about yourself, about me.  Simply experience life in the present, accept and enjoy your body and its responses.”  As he spoke, Mac settled in at Methos’ head, and he felt Mac’s fingers gently pinch a fold of skin at his temples and pull, stretching the flesh.  It wasn’t painful because the skin was held with just barely enough tension to maintain pressure.  It pulled Methos’ focus away from his thoughts and to the physical, just as Mac intended.  The tension was held for several long, deep breaths, then Mac moved to Methos’ chest, pulling the flesh there, then to his ribs, his hips and his thighs.  By the time Mac was done, Methos’ mind was clear of his fears, of his doubts, of his concerns and expectations.  He and MacLeod were breathing in synch and his body felt very alive, the nerves tingling with sensation, especially where Mac had touched him.

Methos had been the giver and receiver of such massages before, and it usually required months of patient effort before a level of comfort and trust was achieved that truly eliminated doubt and self-consciousness.  Only then, with raised awareness and sensitivity from both participants, could a partner actually help manipulate his lover’s internal energy flow.  But now he found himself sinking into an easy relaxation and total trust that would have been unusual with a mortal, and was unheard of with another Immortal.  Mac’s hands were strong but gentle and warm, and there was a peculiar power to his touch, as though their energies were aligning wherever their flesh joined.

His thoughts drifted into some netherworld of non-specific pleasantness, until Methos realized Mac had said something, and was no longer manipulating his skin.  “Hmm?” he murmured.

“Turn over, Methos,” Mac instructed softly.  “Slowly,” he added, although that instruction wasn’t necessary.  Methos wasn’t at all anxious to disturb the warm ease that suffused his body.  With Mac’s help, he found a comfortable position on his stomach, and Mac put something soft and supportive under his ankles and head.  Once he had settled in, he felt Mac’s broad palm rest at the top of his buttocks.  It was a warm, soothing contact that made Methos feel grounded and safe.  The palm bore down slightly, so that the entire surface made contact with Methos’ skin, pressing Methos’ pelvis so it broadened and his spine lengthened and as before, it was as though the heat and energy from Mac’s own body passed into Methos’ flesh and spread in a wide circle up and down his spine, and across his back.  The tension he had been holding there began to ease immediately, and Methos pulled in a deep draft of air and let it out in a sigh. 

Once more, his breathing fell into an easy rhythm that he knew Mac was matching.  Mac’s hand was almost hot, but not uncomfortable, and the warmth continued to spread in even waves that matched the ins and outs of their breathing pattern.  It was hypnotic, and Methos briefly wondered if Mac would be offended if he fell asleep.  Then he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be making judgments about either his or Mac’s actions or motives.

“You’re thinking again,” he heard Mac say in a tone of amused affection.

“Bad habit,” he murmured, and would have chuckled except that he was too relaxed.

Methos was occupying a comfortable place between waking and sleeping, vaguely pleased with himself for keeping specific thoughts out of his usually busy brain.  But he was still very aware of the gentle brush of Mac’s thumbs as they swept up between his ass cheeks to his lower back, first one side, then the other.  He knew what Mac was doing, of course, opening the Gate of the Spine, stimulating energy to his groin and abdomen.  The touches were feather-light, barely perceptible, but it seemed as though the lighter the touch, the more aware he was of Mac’s presence, his very being, the aura of his powerful Quickening.  Heat gathered, pooling under Mac’s palms and his cock stirred and filled.  He didn’t resist the pleasant tingling, trusting that Mac would take him on a journey they would both enjoy. 

Mac moved to continue the release of energy up the Channel of Control as he stretched Methos’ back, pushing gently, then stroking his broad palm all along the undulations of his vertebrae, from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck.  Rather than dissipating the sexual energy, it enhanced it, as the tingling warmth spread through his back, and even further until Methos’ nipples tightened into small points of want.  As anxious as Methos was to have this conclude, though, Mac was nothing if not methodical, completing his technique by moving to kneel at Methos’ head, where the scent of the incense and the exotic oils mixed with the human smells of sweat and musk, and the pleasant tingles began to feel more urgent. 

Methos’ hips reflexively pushed into the soft comforters and blankets beneath him, seeking some friction, but as Mac’s hands stroked up Methos’ sides, he paused.  “Easy, Methos,” Mac whispered.  “Everything will come, in time.”

Then Mac began pounding Methos’ upper back in a steady rhythm, beating his fists lightly, the noise and movement effectively distracting him from his momentary lapse.  The tingling became tight little points of sensation across his back, like champagne bubbles popping to the surface of his skin.  It was wonderfully energizing, and Methos found himself smiling at the image of he and Mac frolicking naked in a bathtub filled with fizzy champagne.

“You’re thinking again,” Mac admonished as his steady, rhythmic pounding slowed and stopped.

“Just fantasizing,” Methos sighed.  “You’re really very good at this.”

“No judgments, Methos.  Good or bad.  Just feel.”

“Oh, I’m feeling it,” he couldn’t resist saying, with a smile.  That earned him a hand stroking the back of his head, a gesture of intimate affection that was unexpectedly moving.  Keeping a hand in contact with his flesh at all times, Mac moved again to kneel between Methos’ legs, and proceeded to pound again in a gentle rhythm, this time along the top of Methos’ buttocks and his lower back.  Maybe it was his splayed legs, maybe it was the expansion of all that effervescent energy into his lower body, but Methos was filled with want.  Wanting to touch Mac, wanting to be touched, wanting that ever-accelerating spiral of sexual need to culminate in orgasm.  He squirmed, deliberately signaling his impatience, but Mac appeared to ignore that, silently moving back to Methos’ head, kneeling once more.

It occurred to him that if he raised his chin, he could have licked Mac’s cock.  The notion was very appealing and he turned his face a little to actually do it, but Mac firmly placed a hand on his head, holding him in place.  Once he seemed sure Methos was cooperating, he placed his hands on Methos’ shoulders and pushed strongly downward along the sides of Methos’ spine with his palms, then pulled upwards again, now using his fingers.  He did it several times, generating enough heat that Methos’ back grew almost hot, his whole body now ready to move, to act.  Then Mac just stopped, his palms centered at the bottom of Methos’ spine.  He rose onto his knees and rocked forward, spreading Methos’ hips with his weight, and centering all that heat.  The rocking motion went on for a minute or so, giving Methos the friction he had wanted and layering onto it all the heat and energy that was centered in Mac’s hands.

A small, almost sub-vocal groan sounded deep in Methos’ throat.  Mac was cycling through all the body’s gates of energy, opening them, attending to each chakra, stimulating them, and now all thought had faded far into the background, and all Methos knew was the stirring of his own blood in his veins, filling him with warmth and wanting, and thinning all the emotional barriers he kept so carefully constructed around every aspect of who he was.  It was pure pleasure, but some small self-protective core refused to let go entirely, like a guardian, ever-watchful, and now getting rather apprehensive, although Methos diligently pushed away those thoughts in deference to his trust in Mac.

Time began to pass in increments that either dilated to a languid, pleasurable slowness, in which he savored every breath, every touch; or to what may have been complete lapses in consciousness.  For instance, he realized he was on his back again, and had no memory of how that had happened.  Mac was holding his inner ankles, and just rested that way for several minutes.  It centered Methos, held his pleasure and his need in a steady, comfortable state, plateauing his readiness, both emotional and physical. 

Then Mac began to push his palms up the inside of Methos’ legs.  “Breath in,” he instructed, and Methos complied.  He felt Mac’s hands reach his knees and give a small push with his fingers just before he reversed direction, bring his hands down the outside of his calves.  “Breath out.”  The gesture was repeated, each time accompanied by that little extra push at the top of his knees.  The push felt like pure energy pulsing up the inside of his thighs, straight to his groin, and Methos became certain that, far from merely visualizing the freeing of Methos’ energy as a well trained, experienced practitioner might, somehow Mac was actually manipulating it.  Was it truly possible that the Witchblade had affected him this way, allowed him to see and control such things?

“You’re thinking again,” Mac whispered. 

“How…?” Methos had to swallow when he realized he had been breathing through his mouth and it was now terribly dry.  “How are you doing that?”

“Shhh.  Just relax.  Enjoy.  Accept that you have a wonderful body, full of power and energy, life and wisdom,” Mac replied.  “Relish it, Methos.  Savor it.”

Mac moved closer, widening Methos legs even more, and repeated a similar movement as before, except starting on the inside of Methos’ knees, sweeping up, and down his thighs.  “This is called “Awakening the Dragon,” Mac whispered, reminding him that this was a carefully constrained exercise with deeper meaning than sexual arousal, and once again sweeping up Methos legs and down his thighs, each time the touch becoming lighter and lighter.  Methos’ breath came faster and he could feel his erection lengthen, his balls tightening up.  He took long, deep breaths.  Mac wouldn’t take him over the edge at this point, he was sure.  He trusted and relaxed into the rising tide of his body’s surging, tingling energies, although his hands reflexively curled.

Then Mac just stopped, resting his warm palms at the top of Methos thighs.  He could hear Mac breathing, each inhale and exhale matching his own, and he had no doubt that Mac was just as aroused as he was. 

“You are magnificent,” Mac whispered, and Methos opened his eyes a little.  Mac was flushed, his skin shiny with the sweat of his exertions, his eyes wide, dark and glittering in the candlelight.  Surely now, they would….  “It’s as though I can see the energy rushing through your veins,” Mac continued.  “I think if I blew out these candles, you would glow in the dark.”  Methos smiled.  He had been thinking almost exactly the same thing about Mac, and drew breath to say so, but Mac held up a finger.  “Only a little more, Methos.  Trust me.”

With a sigh, Methos closed his eyes again.  The arousal was strong, but each time it had gotten close to the edge Mac had slowed or stopped entirely, deliberately calming him, and now sustaining him just at the edge of pleasurable desperation.  All things considered, he could cope with this kind of treatment for quite a long time.

“What I’m going to do next is not intended to make you come,” Mac informed him.  “So if you feel close, just tell me, and I’ll stop.”

Methos nodded, knowing Mac was watching him, and took several deep breaths in preparation.  He felt Mac take his penis in his hand and pull it up until it was resting in his palm, with the back of his hand against Methos’ stomach, holding it gently, with his fingers circling his glans.  Methos was aware of every feather touch, each gentle hold, like every nerve in his body had gravitated to his groin.  Then he felt a stroke slowly move up from his scrotum all the way to his tip, then down the outside, first on the right, then on the left.  The first few times Mac made the circuit all the way down to his balls, Methos hissed in air as even more blood pumped into his cock, and he felt it throb against Mac’s hold.  But the touch was gentle, consistent and became bizarrely hypnotic.  Having his dick massaged without any real intent to arouse at a time when he was already in such a heightened state of erotic awareness was not something Methos could ever remember having experienced, and he felt himself become so intimately connected to his own body, his own sense of himself, that he was hardly aware of anything else at all.

The intensity of Mac’s presence faded, even though Methos was perfectly aware he was not alone, especially when the hold on his cock changed, and it was enfolded in a warm palm, and he felt his foreskin pulled back while a thumb gently rubbed over the tip, spreading the slick fluid that had been leaking there.  Methos kept expecting his body to rebel at the constant stimulation, but instead he felt more and more relaxed, more free to just let himself enjoy it for what it was rather than for what he it expected it to become.

He barely noticed when Mac moved again, but cracked open his eyes when he felt hands sweep up his legs, pause at his groin, then up and over his shoulders and out his arms.  Mac was squatting over him, reaching all the way from Methos’ ankles to his shoulders in a steady movement that felt like it was sending energy rushing throughout his body, and Methos realized that that was exactly what was happening.  All the places of tension and worry had been released, and it was like being swept clean.  Then Mac leaned in, reaching under Methos’ buttocks with one hand, and holding his other broad palm over Methos’ groin with the other, letting the warmth and energy of both palms ground Methos once more. 

Methos knew the sequence was reaching its conclusion when Mac knelt once again at his head, and spent several long minutes gently manipulating his throat and neck, then his ears, his jaw, circling his fingers around his eye sockets, and finally used his fingers to lightly tap the area in the middle of his forehead, which brought Methos to a much more aware state, even though his body remained completely relaxed.

The gentle taps on his forehead gradually slowed and stopped, and after a few moments, Mac moved away, lying close beside him so their bodies touched all along one side while a hand gently stroked Methos forehead.

“Methos?”

He managed a “Mmm” in reply.

“I’ve been thinking about this all evening, watching as you opened up and relaxed, your whole body filling with freely moving energy, and I think that maybe there is one chakra left to open.”

“One?” Methos murmured, barely able to make his mouth muscles work, they were so relaxed.  “I thought you hit all of them pretty thoroughly,” he smiled.

“Yes.”  Methos could hear the smile in Mac’s voice. “All the conventional sources.  But I can tell there is one left, and I think it is unique to us.  To Immortals.”

Methos opened his eyes, looking up into Mac’s face, which was a joy and a meditation all by itself.  “Mmm?” he acknowledged again, only half listening. He was still deep into his own body and any extraneous stimulus was not really reaching his higher reasoning centers. 

“I’m going to try something,” Mac said softly, putting an arm underneath Methos’ shoulders and lifting him up so he was cradling Methos in his lap.  “It isn’t anything the monks taught me, but it feels right, and it is almost as though I can see where to touch, where an eighth chakra resides.  You’re guarding it so closely, Methos.  But it is just energy, and it, too, perhaps more so than any other, needs to be released.”  It felt really good to rub against Mac’s flesh.  It was energizing and soothing at the same time, like iron filings all aligning in the same direction.  “Focus your attention here,” Mac whispered, his head bent close so his lips almost brushing Methos’ ears, and Methos felt fingers placed on the nape of his neck.  “Deep inside, a place of power, of secrets, but secrets that no longer need to be kept.  Not from me.  Not from yourself.”  Mac’s hand grew very warm against his neck, and Methos felt his breath quickening, and he didn’t know why. 

Then all the energy that had been freed throughout the previous hour of steady, patient effort expanded in his veins, whirling until he was dizzy with it.  His breath came faster.  “Mac, I….”

“Let it go, Methos,” Mac whispered, and Methos felt an arm tighten around him.  “I’m here.”

The erotic energy was intense, but not centered in his cock at all.  It seemed to be in his chest, his heart, his head, even his fingers.  He gripped an arm that was circling his chest.  “Oh, Mac,” he breathed.  Then the fingers moved slowly in an ever-widening stroke, first a small circle then up into his hair, and down his back, across his shoulders, drawing the energy out, opening that final gate gradually, gently.

With a gasp, Methos arched back.  It was like a Quickening, with absolutely none of the soul-wrenching agony.  He cried out as his entire body was filled with such pure pleasure it bordered on pain, but it was accompanied by such a feeling of wholeness, of peace, of unfettered joy, Methos could barely stand it and reached out, finding Mac’s hand and holding on tight.  It was like suddenly finding both the physical and emotional comfort of the womb – utter acceptance, complete safety, absolute love, of himself, of life.  He held his breath, not wanting it to end, but hardly able to contain the sensations, as though if he weren’t careful he would shatter apart from the strength of it.  Gradually, the sensation ebbed, and Methos realized he was weeping, clutching Mac like a child clings to its parent.

Mac kissed his temple and just held him.  At last, even the aftershocks had faded and Methos was left exhausted, relaxed and as utterly sated as if they had made love long and hard.  But he also felt more at peace than he had felt in a very, very, very long time.  He knew he should say something profound, or at least witty, but mere words seemed trivial in the face of such a powerful experience, and in any event his brain failed to find anything relevant to say before it just shut down and he sank into the velvet depths of deep sleep.

Sara shut her loft apartment door behind her with a metallic clang, and leaned against it, eyes closed. 

Sleep.  She really, really needed some sleep.  God, how long had it been since she’d had more than two hours of sleep at a stretch?  Since the night of the reception – what was that – only two, three nights before?  Seemed like weeks, at least.  She groaned as she pushed away from the door and pulled off her jacket, yanked her gun clip from her belt, pulled her badge and cellphone out of her jacket pocket, and dumped them all on the coffee table, falling onto the couch with a whoosh of expelled air.

Now that she thought about it, she realized she really had gone three days with little sleep or food, using a level of effort that should have left her practically comatose after the first 24 hours.  She looked at the quiescent, harmless looking bracelet on her arm, and shook her head with a sigh.  Her unlikely stamina had been another ‘gift’ from the Witchblade, no doubt.  Except that now she felt like death warmed over.  “It’s a shame you can’t give me a hot bath and a massage, as well,” she murmured.

The ruby cabochon glimmered slightly, and Sara gasped as a warm rush of energy suffused her body, and the persistent aches and pains faded, leaving her tired, but relaxed.  For a moment her mind was blank, then she smiled.  “Well, well, well,” she sighed.  She had at last actually called forth something from the Witchblade when there wasn’t an immediate threat to life and limb, something useful.  “About time.”  She leaned her head back and instantly fell sound asleep – for maybe ten minutes.

Some asshole was pounding on her door.

“Go away!” she yelled, not even bothering to raise her head off the arm of the couch.  Whoever it was, they weren’t easily discouraged, and she would never get back to sleep if they didn’t stop the damned pounding.  At last she forced herself to her feet.  “Either I’m not buying any or I gave at the office!” she yelled as she stomped over to the door, released the lock and pulled the heavy door open. “So take whatever it is you’re peddling and….”

Ian Nottingham stared silently back at her, his dark eyes studying her as though he could see clear through her skin to the bones beneath.

“Hello, Sara,” he said softly.

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Sara almost laughed.  “I wasn’t the one who was kidnapped and tied up with a bomb on my lap, and I didn’t get electrocuted, or have my back broken or my head chopped off.  Seems to me that I’m the last person you should be worried about.”

“No, Sara,” he said softly, moving closer, crowding the doorway.  “You are always the first person I worry about.”

“How touching,” she answered with a twist of her mouth.  She gave up on keeping the persistent man out, and went to her refrigerator to pull out a beer, deliberately not offering one to her unwelcome ‘guest.’  “I forgot that your employer wants you to keep tabs on me at all times.  Correction:  keep tabs on the jewelry I wear.”  She pulled off the cap and drank down several large swallows.

He silently moved into the room and gently closed the heavy metal door front door.  “Whatever Irons wants, my first concern will always be your welfare, Sara Pezzini.”

“Really?” She asked, taking another long swig of beer.  She met his eyes for a moment, but had to look away.  Such an intense, introverted man.  Dark and dangerous.  Powerful and – yes – attractive, in a scary way.  Not at all like MacLeod, who for all his dark power, seemed inherently warm and gentle.  Not at all like sweet, caring Jake, who was far more conventionally attractive.

Nottingham’s appeal was that of the forbidden, the unknown.  Unfortunately, she had always been attracted by the forbidden.  He stepped close and she looked up into his eyes.  Her heart skipped a beat or two, knowing that he wanted to kiss her, and she was sorely tempted.  With a quick breath, she stepped away.  No.  Every relationship she had attempted in the last few years had ended in disaster, and she didn’t know if she could stand another.

“Are you?” he asked.

“Am I what?” she snapped back as she sat heavily on the couch, diligently studying the label of her beer bottle.

He moved to the other side of the coffee table, standing at almost military attention, his hands held behind his back.  “Are you okay?  You mastered the Witchblade today, I believe.  For the first time, you fully controlled it, became a part of it.  How does it feel?”

“How does it feel?” she repeated, her jaw tight with emotion.  She wanted to fling the beer bottle across the room and watch it smash against the bricks, but she gripped it tightly instead, and finished off its contents.  “How does it feel to almost kill a man?  Someone who has been nothing but kind to me?  How does it feel to have my life totally ripped apart by a… a thing that chose me to do its bidding, against my will?  How does it feel to be haunted and stalked by people who believe killing is a perfectly acceptable way to solve problems?  How does it feel to have my career thrown into the crapper when I see things, do things, feel things, know things that no sane person should see, do or know?”  She was standing, shouting before she realized it, and stopped to take a deep, calming breath.

“Yes.  All those things.” He stepped around the table, and held her arms.  His dark eyes were full of some unnamable emotion, perhaps sympathy, perhaps only curiosity.  “You need to tell someone, to trust someone.  You can trust me, Sara Pezzini.”

“Can I?” she asked, studying his face.  She wanted to.  Oh, God, she wanted to.  “Can you promise me that, whatever I tell you, none of it will ever get back to Kenneth Irons?”

He blinked… and she pulled away with a hard smile.

“Yes, Sara.  I promise.”

“Riight,” she answered, and tossed her beer bottle into the garbage can a few feet away.  “Well, it’s been nice chatting, Nottingham, but I’m really beat, and I’d like for you to leave.”

He held her eyes in a way only he could do.  “I am my own master now, Sara.  I keep my own counsel.”

“Do you still work for Irons?”

“I believe staying close to him will help me protect you.  If I leave, he will simply find another.”

“A dangerous game to play,” she said softly, wondering if she dared believe him, dared trust him.

“It’s a dangerous world.”  He stood silently for a moment, but when she didn’t respond, he moved to the door.

“How’s MacLeod, by the way?” she asked as he opened it to leave.

“He’s a survivor,” he answered.  “I suspect he and his friend Pierson will be around long after you and I are both dust.  It’s good to know, actually,” and a small smile warmed his features for a moment.

“Yeah,” she nodded, relieved that she hadn’t done Duncan any permanent damage.  The door was closing when she suddenly realized there was unfinished business between them.  “Nottingham!” she called.

The door slid open a little, just enough to see Ian’s face.

“Thank you,” she said softly.  “I… you gave me strength, helped me control the Witchblade.  I don’t know how you did it, but… I’m grateful.”

Ian smiled again, and she was struck by how shy and young he looked, not so dark and dangerous, after all.  “We are of a kind, Sara Pezzini.  Linked in more ways than you know, and I hope I will always be there to give you strength when you need it.”  He stepped back, and the door closed before she had a chance to respond.

“I’d sure like to do something about that asshole police captain,” Joe muttered as he walked with Lazar towards his car.  They had been keeping an eye on events all that long day and into the night, making sure whatever evidence was found involving Singh’s death was consistent with Sara Pezzini’s story of self-defense.  Lazar had revealed his belief that Captain Dante was corrupt, and that Irons was behind it, none of which had surprised Joe in the least.  “Seems like there ought to be some way we could expose him.”  Joe had to smile as he imagined Dante going up against MacLeod, or even better – MacLeod and Methos teamed up.  Now that would be worth watching.

“We watch,” Lazar said tersely.  “We don’t interfere.”

Joe smiled to himself, wondering if Lazar was aware of just how much damage that particular Watcher concept had sustained in the past few years.  He opened his trunk and carefully laid Rebecca’s sword inside.  He would return the blade to Gabriel, even though protocol dictated it should be returned to the Watchers.  He’d leave Gabriel’s involvement out of his report.  What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

“Seems to me you did a little interfering this afternoon, yourself,” Joe commented, at last. 

Lazar opened the driver-side door for Joe, who carefully maneuvered his prosthetic legs into his modified car.  “All I did was tell Sara what she already knew, in her heart,” Lazar responded softly.  “Since the beginning, the Wielders have been held back by their own ignorance of who they are, what their purpose is, and what the Blade can do.  That may have been appropriate when times were simpler, when events moved less quickly and there was less evil actively working against the Blade.  But times change, and we must change with them.”

“Amen to that, Brother,” Joe sighed.  He reached his arm out the window and shook Lazar’s weathered, callused hand.  “In our business, we never know whether we’ll meet again, but either way, it’s been… interesting.”

“That it has,” Lazar’s wrinkled face was wreathed in a broad smile.  “I think you and I have been blessed, or perhaps cursed, with watching history unfold before our eyes.”

Joe had to laugh.  How many times had he witnessed the tide of history turn on the fates of the Immortals he knew and watched?  But he, like Lazar, would always be invisible, anonymous, unknown.  “The trick is not letting history roll over us and knock us flat,” he responded dryly, and that made Lazar throw back his head and laugh out loud.

“True enough, Joe Dawson.  True enough.”  With that, the Witchblade’s Watcher stepped back and turned, instantly disappearing in the steady stream of pedestrians crowding the sidewalk.

Methos awoke hours later, tucked securely under a couple of layers of blankets.  The candles had long since gone out and the room was suffused with soft gray light from the windows where the curtains had been drawn back, letting in the pre-dawn light.  He just lay quietly for a while, hugging his pillow and savoring the sense of well being that came with being relaxed, well-rested and worry-free.  The evening hadn’t exactly been a fulfillment of his expectations, but in some ways it had been even better.   Even now, the openness, the sense of being both completely exposed and completely accepted made his throat close.  He also still felt like an emotional wet noodle. 

He smiled ruefully into his pillow.  A little straightforward sex would have been really, really nice and wouldn’t have left him feeling quite so raw, but trust MacLeod to always go for something unexpected.  He raised his head up off the pillow, knowing MacLeod was not far away by the vibration of presence.  “Mac?” he called quietly, in case the man was asleep.

“I’m here,” the familiar voice replied, only a few feet away.

Methos rose, pulling a blanket around his shoulders and walked around the slightly displaced couch to find Mac nominally dressed in his black pajama bottoms, sitting on the floor, watching the sunrise over the city landscape.  Methos studied Mac’s face before he sank down beside him, but didn’t find any signs of distress.

“You okay?” he asked.

Mac’s smile was gentle, but genuine.  “Yes, I’m fine.  Did you sleep all right?  The floor was a little hard, but I hated to disturb you.”

“I slept better than I have in a long time.”  Given his own conflicting thoughts and raw emotions Methos was suddenly unsure of what to say, so he fell back on their usual bantering style.  “That’s a hell of a massage technique you’ve got there, MacLeod.  You should go into business.”

Mac turned his head slightly, looking at him with a tolerant raised eyebrow and responded in the same light, almost irreverent tone.  “I’m afraid my client base would be pretty limited, and the tip I might get would be a sword at my neck.”

Methos sensed that Mac would follow whatever lead he wanted to set, and that – once again – they both deserved better than to make light of what had occurred.  “You really think that there is an eighth chakra, just for us?” he asked in a more serious tone.

“You tell me,” Mac responded, also completely serious. 

Methos took a long breath and closed his eyes, remembering the remarkable sensation of those final moments.  “Yes,” he finally answered.  “And I suppose it makes a lot of sense. I certainly felt… something.”  He looked at Mac, watching his body language closely.  “How about you?  Did it affect you at all?” 

That made Mac laugh.  “Oh, yes.”  Mac turned his body towards Methos, examining his face with rapt attention.  “You… glowed, you know.”

“I glowed?” Methos snorted.  “Seriously, Mac, I think you were occupying your own unique reality last night.”

“I’ll have you know that I was very aware of what I was doing,” Mac insisted with a half smile.  “I just wish….” Mac’s voice trailed off, and he shook his head.

“Wish what?”  Methos waited, but Mac just shook his head again, cutting off the thread of conversation.  “Look, MacLeod, no one can be as high as you were and not come down pretty hard.  So if you’re feeling some regrets, it’s perfectly….”

“I regret nothing about last night,” Mac said a little sharply, pinning him with a hard look.  With his own wistful wishes still so fresh in his mind, Methos found himself looking quickly away, his eyes shifting to watch the brightening sky outside the window.

“What’s wrong, Methos?” Mac asked softly.  “Do you regret what happened?”

Methos actually felt a blush creep into his face.  “I… no, of course not.”

“Then what does that look on your face mean?”

“You’re imagining things, MacLeod. Can we get some coffee up here?” He started to rise, but Mac grabbed a forearm and pulled him back down.

“Tell me, Methos.”

“Jeez, Mac, do you always have to take things so bloody seriously?”

Mac studied his face for a minute, then his eyes narrowed in sudden, enlightened suspicion.  “Oh, for…! I give you a spiritual experience, and you’re disappointed we didn’t have sex?” 

Methos was horrified that he couldn’t stop the heat that rushed to his face.  “Well,” he equivocated, then decided with a sigh that denial was pretty damned pointless, even counterproductive.  “A man can’t be faulted for… ambition,” he said, and let a slow smile curve his lips.

“That’s not ambition.” Methos was deeply relieved when Mac just laughed.  “That’s just being a dirty old man.”

“You have something against dirty old men?” Methos asked. 

“Not at all,” he answered. “Especially since I’m a card-carrying member of that particular club, myself.”

Methos heart skipped a beat.  “I must’ve missed out when they issued cards,” he replied, consciously trying not to read too much into their light-hearted repartee.   “I’ll have to look into that.”  But here they were again, back to casual bantering when Methos didn’t really want that.  Not any more.  “I’d really like to know, Mac.”

“Know what?  How to get a membership card?” he laughed.  “You’re the founding father, aren’t you?”

Methos smiled, but then let his expression turn a little more serious.  “Probably, but that’s not what I meant.  You said you just wished… what?” 

Mac looked away, towards the windows with its view of the brightening sky, and shrugged, his smile fading.  “It’s hard to put into words. It felt really good to be able to do that for you.  But… it’s taken me too long to learn how to be a friend.  To learn to reach out.  There is so much that I don’t learn until it’s too late!” he whispered, closing his eyes with a sigh.

“That’s probably life’s most bitter lesson,” Methos agreed.  These days, all things for MacLeod came back to Connor MacLeod and his regrets about his teacher, brother and dearest life-long friend.  That wound would be years in the healing, if it ever healed at all.  “The hardest lessons always come from ignorance and failure.  Believe me, I know.”

Mac’s eyes swiveled to look at him, a sad smile quirking his lips.  “I guess you just might.”

“First I’m a dirty old man, and now I’m an ignorant failure,” Methos shot back.  “You’re just full of compliments this morning.”  Then realized he was, once again, taking their conversation back to the banal, and that Mac would, no doubt, let him. 

Mac chuckled though, and shook his head.  “Okay, Methos,” he said.

“Okay… what?”

Mac placed the back of his hand against his forehead.  “Have your way with me.  Just be gentle, dear sir,” he said in a high falsetto.

Methos just studied his friend in puzzlement for a long, silent moment.  “It isn’t supposed to be an ordeal, MacLeod,” he said carefully.

Mac’s left eyebrow rose in a high arc, and he cocked his head.  “Oh, really?” he asked, looking puzzled and concerned.  Methos immediately composed a “we don’t really need to do this” speech to get them both graciously out of an impossibly embarrassing moment, but before he could form the first word, Mac’s face dissolved into a huge grin. “Now who’s taking things too bloody seriously?” Mac asked. But Methos had finally decided enough was enough, and when he didn’t laugh, Mac quickly lost his smile.  “What’s wrong?” Mac asked softly.

“This is wrong,” Methos answered.  “This… joke we’re making of everything.  It’s not a joke.  At least, I don’t want it to be.”  When Mac didn’t answer, Methos stood and went to the window, pulling the blanket closely around him.  “I know I’m usually the one to make light of everything, but we’re past that, I think.”  He turned, looking Mac in the eye.  “Way past that.”

“I know,” Mac said softly, his eyes crinkling up in a warm smile.  “I was wondering when you’d figure that out.”

Methos’ bed was a surprisingly short distance away, and Methos managed to back Mac through the bedroom door and to the bed, all while tasting every inch of Mac’s lips and jaw and forehead, and then his mouth again.  Mac tried to give as good as he got.  Methos tasted so good.  Slightly salty, with an interesting undertone from the oils Mac had used the night before.  They bumped into the bed and Mac abruptly sat, but never loosened his hold on Methos’ neck, pulling him down with him.  Methos used his free hands to yank on Mac’s pajama bottoms, where they disappeared into the shadows beneath the bed.  Then he pushed Mac back until he was lying beneath him.  They were both panting a little, and Mac could feel the heat shimmering between them, and while sometime in the night, his ability to actually see the energy beneath Methos’ flesh had faded, Mac was very aware that it was still there, and he couldn’t get enough of it.

“You want me… this,” Methos said breathlessly, unexpectedly, but the only surprising thing to Mac was that Methos seemed at all surprised.

They were both a little breathless, a little sweaty, more than a little excited and aroused.  Mac was sure Methos was just as aware as he was that this was a turning point, one of those subtle shifts in the space-time continuum, the long time-line of their lives.  After all this, nothing would be the same.

Mac chose to answer Methos’ observation in actions, not words.  He grasped Methos’ shoulders and turned them both, rolling until Mac was on top.  He drew in a long breath, prepared to kiss Methos speechless, but discovered a self-congratulatory smile on those mobile lips.  “What are you looking so smug about?” Mac asked.

“You,” Methos answered.  “You’re so bloody macho.”  Then he reached up and yanked Mac down.  God, the man could kiss.  There was just something about him, something strong and fierce and immutable, yet yielding and giving, all at the same time.  They parted again to catch their breaths as Mac moved his hands over that smooth flesh, pliable and still slick from all the oils he had rubbed into it the night before.  Broad, muscled shoulders, well-defined chest and rippling abdomen.  Not a spare bit of flesh.  There wasn’t a single place on the man’s body that wasn’t hard and strong.

Methos had a lovely cock as well, with a thick foreskin that pulled back easily.  For a moment, Mac was just fascinated with that bit of male anatomy.  It was different from his own, and frankly, while Mac had seen many cocks in his day, and handled his own often enough, the touch and feel of another man’s penis, specifically Methos’, was a little unusual, and he slid his hand up and down its length, running his thumb over the tip as he had the night before, but this time with far more carnal intent.  Last night had been an exercise in looking inside Methos’ spirit and releasing all that energy to run free and strong.  This was more about pleasure, his own as well as Methos’.

A hitched breath and a hiss brought his attention back to Methos’ face, which was tight with strain, and he immediately eased off on his ministrations to that fascinating cock.  He leaned forward, resting his weight on his hands.  “We can do this a lot of different ways.  Do you have a preference?” he asked.

The color was high on Methos’ hard cheekbones, and he took a long, deep breath.  “Well, uh, I suppose I do, but both of us need to be comfortable with it.”  He took another deep breath.  “And right now, just about anything you want to do would make me,” he paused for another unsteady breath, his wide nostrils flaring, “very satisfied.”  Methos hissed again and arched back when Mac stroked Methos’ cock again before he even realized he was doing it.

Mac paused, just holding Methos’ cock in a firm, sure grip, and leaned over to look Methos in the eye.  Methos’ careful phrasing told him all he needed to know, but that the man felt such care was necessary also told him Methos still had a few things to learn about Duncan MacLeod.  It was a private thrill to know he might still be able to surprise this very experienced, wise, infuriating man.  “Well, we certainly want you to be satisfied,” Mac assured him softly. 

Mac must have had a peculiar gleam in his eye, because Methos looked a little taken aback, but Mac just surged off the bed to pad quickly back into the living room to snatch up the bottle of oil, checking to make sure there was still plenty left.  He returned to the bedroom, leaping back onto the bed, suddenly feeling very young and very happy, like a page in his life had been turned, a new and very promising chapter begun.  He was so tired of dwelling on all the failures of his past, but if he was lucky and tried very, very hard, maybe with Methos’ help, he could do better this time.

“Mac,” Methos said, and the hand on Mac’s wrist made him pause as he poured the oil onto his palm.  “Are you sure?  You don’t have to feel obligated to do this.”

Mac just smiled and recapped the bottle.  “Methos, my friend,” he replied as he warmed the oil between his palms.  “As wise and as perceptive as you are, you still have a few things to learn about me.  Turn over,” he instructed. 

“Hmph,” Methos grumbled.  “I think you like bossing me around.”  But he complied, and once Methos was comfortably settled on his stomach, Mac put a palm on each of the round globes of Methos’ lovely, perfect ass. 

“Whatever preconceptions you may have about me, if you believe for a moment that I don’t revel in the touch and feel of a beautiful body, male or female, and that in 400 years I haven’t learned to enjoy all its possibilities…” Mac spread the oil around a little, pulling Methos’ cheeks apart to run his oil-slick thumbs up and down the crack between them, finally pausing at Methos’ anus, where he ran both thumbs around and around that pucker of sensitive skin.  He leaned forward as he pressed in slightly with one thumb, pleased when Methos’ breath hitched and his neck arched a little. “Then you have been seriously mistaken.”

Methos’ groan was as lush and sexy as the curve of his back as he arched, pushing himself onto Mac’s thumb.  Mac had to take long breath as lust spiked deep in his groin and his cock jumped and strained.  He pressed in further, past the first ring of muscle and felt the warm, soft flesh wrap around him, as if it was welcoming the intrusion and wanted more.  He gently probed with his other thumb, stretching the opening a little, assessing the subtle tension in Methos’ body like a sailor reads the slightest ruffles of a sail to gage the wind.

Methos took a long breath and pressed back a little, and Mac heard a small sound, like a subvocal plea, so he withdrew his thumbs and used his fore and index fingers, turning them gently and reaching further in.  It felt so good, that slick, warm place.  He had one hand resting on the middle of Methos’ back, where he could feel the sweat gather, the uneven breaths, even the vibrations from Methos’ soft sighs and needy groans.  The other was feeling, turning, reaching.  Ah, there it was, that little nodule he was looking for.  He stroked it gently and Methos instantly arched his back, then pressed his hips up.  Mac even thought he heard a choked cry, perhaps his name, called out.

His own breath was coming fast now, and he decided both their needs were more urgent than this enjoyable but maddening exercise was able to satisfy.  His hands were still slick with oil, so he carefully withdrew, generating another groan from Methos, whether of relief or dismay, Mac wasn’t certain anymore as his own drives were overwhelming his previous sensitivity to Methos’ slightest move.  His tip was already wet and slick, and stroking his cock in his oiled hands made him gasp with pleasure.  But Methos was now up on hands and knees, panting, pushing towards him, so Mac rose up and pushed the head of his fully engorged cock against that welcoming opening and pressed.

The head of his cock was suddenly inside and he grabbed Methos’ ass to hold him still.  They were both so close to the edge now, if he let either of them take the pace too quickly it would all be over in a matter of seconds.  He took several long breaths and pushed in slowly, slowly, even though it felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room to breathe, even though every instinct was screaming at him to thrust, and thrust again.

Methos was saying something.  It sounded angry and guttural, but the words were incomprehensible, and Mac refused to be distracted until he was finally fully seated inside Methos’ body, when he let out a long sigh, and leaned forward, his chest to Methos’ back, his weight held on his arms.

“Damn you, MacLeod,” Methos grumbled.  “Where’d you learn to fuck?  Miss Whistlepenny’s School for the Slow?”

Mac chuckled, his laughter making him jerk inside Methos a little, and that felt good, too.  He eased his weight down, pressing until Methos was flat against the bed, then took one of Methos wrists in each hand, holding him in place.  Then he pressed in his hips where Methos was trapped against the bed, knowing he was rubbing Methos’ cock against the sheets, as well.

Ah, yes, there was that groan again.  It felt wonderful, and sounded so luscious he did it again.  And again.  And again.  It became a meditation, that wonderful velvet heat, the groans, the sweat-slick, rippling skin under his chest.  Finally, Methos was gasping too fast to groan and Mac knew it was time.  He let go of one wrist and wriggled a hand underneath Methos’ body to find that cock, now so hard it felt like a broom handle – a slick, velvet-covered broom handle.  That made him smile, and instead of his slow, steady pushing he rose up a bit and thrust harder.

“Yes!” Methos finally uttered an intelligible word.

So he did it again.  In only a few thrusts, his body just shoved his intellect aside and he was jamming his cock in that hot, sucking space over and over and over again as the tension rose like a tide, making him push harder and faster.  Dimly, he heard Methos yell, felt the cock he was holding jerk and pulse, but his body was still too driven by its own needs to even pause.  Then a flash of heat surged and he jammed home hard, rigid with relief and pure, hot, exploding ecstasy.  Two more long, hard thrusts and his body just let go, and he collapsed, gasping for air and utterly swamped in the tingling aftermath of orgasm.

After a minute or two of deep breathing, Mac carefully, reluctantly slid away, rocking back on his knees.  He was still a little breathless and dizzy with the aftershocks of pleasure, but took a moment to take an edge of the sheet to gently wipe clean Methos’ very pink bottom.  It was a truly lovely ass and he couldn’t resist running his hands over it just once more.  His fingers lingered over that loose opening, and he let a finger slide slowly inside.  Methos took a long breath, but didn’t resist him.

Now, without the lust coloring everything, this was just exploration, just pure sensory enjoyment.  It was looser now, his finger sliding in without resistance, the inside velvet soft, warm and slick.  Methos hummed a little, his head turning to look back, his eyes holding a sleepy, amused expression.

“You are amazing,” Mac said softly.  “Do you mind?” he asked, letting his finger move inside Methos’ body a little.

“Not as long as you don’t expect any serious response, at least for a little while,” Methos answered languidly.

Mac pulled his finger away and lay down at Methos’ back, draping an arm over his chest in lieu of blankets.  “It’s not about that, at least not at the moment.  I just enjoy knowing your body, feeling it, touching it.”  He matched action to his words by stroking well-defined pectorals and gently touching soft, supple nipples.

“MacLeod the Sensualist,” Methos sighed with an amused, tired smile.  “Candles, massages, incense, and sex.  I guess I can managed to put up with that, even at the price of the occasional bizarre, life-threatening crisis.”

Mac let the silence extend, his mind reluctantly turning to more serious subjects, but not really wanting to spoil the post-orgasmic, euphoric mood.  But after a few minutes, Methos exhaled a long-suffering sigh.  “What is it, MacLeod?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You create the loudest silences of anyone I know.”

Mac smiled at the ceiling.  Living with Methos was going to be a trial.  Interesting, exciting, thrilling, but a real trial.  “Speaking of bizarre, life-threatening crises,” he began casually.

“Oh, fuck,” Methos rolled away, and sat up, looking back at MacLeod over his shoulder.  “Don’t tell me.  You’ve decided to rid the world of evil and save the soul of Ian Nottingham by taking on that burgeoning bastion of badness, Kenneth Irons.”

Mac laughed out loud.  Yes, living with Methos was going to be interesting.  “Well, the man certainly deserves to be dealt with, but, no, as a matter of fact, I think both of us ought to stay far away from anything or anyone having to do with the Witchblade.”

Methos cocked an eyebrow at him, then busied himself finding a clean corner of sheet and using it to wipe the stickiness off his chest.  “Then to what crisis are you referring?”

“The one that has been plaguing me for the past decade.”

Methos snorted his disdain.  “That is generally known as ‘your life’, MacLeod.  You are a black hole of crisis, an Immortal Typhoid Mary of Trouble.”

Mac scooted closer.  “But perhaps that has changed,” he suggested carefully.

“Really?  Could have fooled me,” Methos replied.  “Let’s see, in the past two days we have had two Immortal battles, a beheading, two kidnappings and an attack by a mysterious, magical weapon.  Oh, yeah.  Things have gotten a lot more peaceful.”

Mac had to chuckle.  “Well, when you put it like that…”

“I can’t imagine how else to put it,” Methos snapped back.

“It’s called the Gathering, Methos.  It began almost exactly ten years ago and it has hardly even paused for breath ever since, at least for me.”

“So?”

“So, maybe,” Mac sighed, unsure of exactly how to say what he wanted to say.  “Maybe now it will stop.”

Methos turned on the bed, looking at Mac as though he had just sprouted wings.  “And maybe the Witchblade really did mess with your brain, as well as your Quickening.”

Mac smiled and shook his head.  Once again he had taken the wrong tack.  “Why didn’t you tell me what the Witchblade really is?” Mac asked.

Methos’ face momentarily blanked at what must have seemed like a complete change of subject.

When he didn’t answer, Mac moved closer.  “Were you afraid I’d try to take it?  Try to control the Wielder?”

“It can’t be used in the Game.”

Mac raised an eyebrow.  “It is the Game, Methos.”

Methos’ expression went utterly blank, then he sat back on the bed and gathered up a blanket around his body, like he had gotten a sudden chill. “Bright boy,” he whispered.  “How’d you figure it out?”

“Not so bright,” Mac answered.  “When I realized it fed off the power of a quickening, it all seemed to add up.  But I don’t know what the hell happened with Sara yesterday, or why.”

Methos looked off in the distance for a moment.  When he spoke again, his voice was very soft.   “The Blade has been around as long as Immortals have existed, so far as I know, driven by the same energy that keeps us alive.  I think it is protection against the possibility that some really sick bastard like the Kurgan or Kell might be the last Immortal, mitigating that darkness a little, perhaps, so whoever won the Prize wouldn’t be some scourge on the face of the earth.”  Methos shrugged.  “It’s a theory.”

“You don’t know?” Mac asked sharply.

“No, I don’t know!” Methos snapped.  “I only figured out what it was after that business with Zenobia.  I waited until a hundred or so years had passed, then broke into her tomb to take it.  I suppose that’s why they ended up moving her body to that cave where I found the etchings on the walls.”  He paused for a moment, his eyes distant as though he were seeing the dark, suffocating tomb lit only by a dim, smoky torch, of pushing back the shrouds winding around the body of an ancient, powerful queen, and on her wrist, shining like newly minted silver – the Witchblade.  “I only knew it was a powerful magical weapon.  And yes, I was going to use it in the Game!  I’m a survivor, remember?”

“But you didn’t,” Mac prodded.

Methos shook his head with a sigh.  “Not for lack of trying.  But when I tried to pick it up, I couldn’t move the damn thing.  At first I didn’t believe it.  I could move it easily with a stick, and I actually knocked it off the body onto the ground, kicked it along until I got it out of the cave, but every time I actually tried to pick it up… it might as well have been a boulder.  Then one of my servants came and lifted it like it was nothing.”  Methos met Mac’s eyes.  “And I knew then that the Blade was not meant for us.  It took me a few centuries more to figure out why,” Methos smiled sadly.  “But that’s why I didn’t tell you.  It wouldn’t have done you any good, and if word got out about what the Witchblade truly was, the Wielder would become a target.  No doubt one of us would try to take it, or at least attempt to control the Wielder.”

“But that doesn’t explain why it went after me, tried to take my quickening.”

“It’s been operating independently for eons, MacLeod.  It moves from Wielder to Wielder, probably absorbing and using knowledge and power from each of them.  Through the centuries it has gotten stronger, its influence more direct, more calculated.  Now the Gathering is close, the line of Wielders has gotten more formidable with the passage of time, and I’m sure it sensed that one Immortal was becoming the clear leader in the Game.  It might have gone after Kell in the same way, but after you ended up with Kell’s and Connor’s quickenings, plus your own strength, you clearly tipped the scales, Mac.  The Gathering was going to end, and the Prize would be won.  And then the Witchblade would only be a tool, subservient to the last Immortal.”

“You’re saying the Blade has a will of its own?”

Methos nodded.  “I don’t think it wants to be the Prize.  It would rather remain as it is, perhaps to even dominate the Wielder and become its own master.  Maybe that is why it tried to take your power,” Methos shrugged.  “We may never know, or maybe Sara knows, but I think you are absolutely right.  You, more than any other, had best keep your distance from the Witchblade until the end of the Gathering, anyway, when it will come to the last Immortal.”

Mac pursed his lips and shook his head.  “Like I said, maybe there won’t be a Gathering, now.”

“The Highlander Speaks,” Methos snorted.  “So it is written, so shall it be.”  Methos shook his head.  “You could be the One, Mac, a veritable Superman with the Witchblade.  It’s the ultimate protection, providing impenetrable armor against any threat.  It can alter reality, channel your quickening into useful energy that could save lives, stop wars. You could make a real difference in the world, Mac.  I would think that would be worth almost any price, especially to someone like you, who thrives on that kind of thing.”

Mac put a hand on Methos’ shoulder, turning him.  “Look at me,” Mac whispered urgently.  “I’m no Superman, and no amount of Quickening power, or even the Witchblade is going to change that.  And I don’t want to be Superman, Methos, with no one, no family, no real peers, no one to tell me I’m a fool, no one to spend my life with.”  He stroked the side of Methos’ neck with his thumb and was gratified when Methos leaned into the touch.

“What are you saying, Mac?” Methos asked cautiously.

“I’m saying that maybe,” Mac took a big breath before he went on.  “Maybe the Witchblade bled off enough power so that I’m no longer such a threat to it, to other Immortals.  For whatever reason, maybe it did exactly the right thing, and if so, then I wish Sara Pezzini and her line a long and healthy reign as Wielders for many generations to come.”

“Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” Methos murmured, leaning in until their foreheads were touching.  “You are the only Immortal in the world who would actually be glad that someone reduced their chances of winning the Prize.”

“It’s a small price to pay for a chance at a real life,” Mac whispered.  “And that’s all I really want, Methos.  Even if it’s only for a while.”  Mac moved closer still.  “Maybe a century.”  Mac raised his chin, and his lips brushed Methos’ temple as he spoke.  “Or two.” 

“A real life,” Methos echoed.  “That would be… nice.”  But then Methos chuckled and shook his head, pulling away a little. 

“What’s so funny?” Mac asked.

“You.  Me.  Us,” Methos smiled.  “Talking about a real life.  I’m the world’s oldest cynic and you’re the world’s oldest do-gooder, two men destined to kill each other, male lovers in a world of homophobes.  It’s so utterly bizarre it almost makes sense.”

“Well,” Mac said, puzzling over that for a moment.  “Yeah,” he finally agreed.  “There are probably a few minor obstacles, but nothing we can’t handle together.”

Just then a hard knock sounded, and both men looked at each other in surprised concern.  While the sun was now fully up, it was awfully early either for housekeeping or visitors. 

“You order breakfast?” Methos asked.

“Nope,” Mac answered, and slipped out of bed, groping for his pajama bottoms while Methos reached for a robe.  Both their blades were in the living room, and by the time Mac had reached the door, both had them in hand.  “Who is it?” Mac called as the knock sounded again, this time harder and faster.

“It’s me, dammit!” a familiar gruff voice shouted.

With a sigh, the two Immortals looked at each other in chagrin.  Methos started to quickly re-order the room, but Mac just shook his head and opened the door, pulling the katana up out of the way, behind his arm.

Joe Dawson stood in the doorway, studying Mac closely for a minute.  “Well, you look a hell of a lot better than you did yesterday.”  He turned and his eyes found Methos standing in the middle of the room wearing a loosely tied bathrobe, leaning on his broadsword.  “So do you, for that matter.  Why the hell didn’t you call me and let me know what was going on?  One of you assholes put ‘Do Not Disturb’ on the phone and I couldn’t get through.  I must’ve left about five messages,” Joe protested, stepping into the room so Mac could close the door.  “I’ve been…  worried…  sick,” his words slowed as his focus shifted around the room to the many candles, the bowl of water on the floor, the moved couch, the pile of rumpled blankets and sheets, the pillows scattered about.  “What the hell?” he said, his eyes wide.  Mac didn’t say a word.

Joe finally just shook his head, blinking rapidly, color quickly staining his bearded cheeks.  “You know, the very idea of this is so nuts, it almost makes sense,” he sighed, almost to himself, and looked even more perplexed when both men folded over with laughter.

It took a few minutes for Mac and Methos to stop laughing and explain the joke, but in short order, the room was straightened, breakfast was ordered, showers were taken, clothes were donned, and life – ordinary, real life – began at last.
 
 

Author’s Note:  The massage Duncan does is a combination of techniques, and not exclusively associated with the influences of the Chakras, but also incorporates Taoist concepts of chi and channels of energy.  In my view, Duncan would always have his own way of doing things, incorporating the many cultures with which he has come in contact.

The lovely images of the Chakras used are from The Book of Chakras, by Ambika Wauters.
 
 

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