"I really need to get laid," she murmured to herself, and her imagination effortlessly conjured up MacLeod, naked, stretched out on a big bed, his dark eyes devouring her as she…. Stop, she reprimanded herself as she finally rose, stretched and searched among the miscellaneous items strewn around the room for something dark to wear, settling on black leather pants and a dark turtleneck sweater that had only been worn once…or twice.

This time she caught a cab, not wanting to trust that her motorcycle wouldn’t disappear if she left it in the darkness of Central Park for any length of time.  She walked in the grass and dirt beside the path to the Turtle Pond, ironically noting its proximity to the very museum where she had first met, or actually crashed into, Duncan MacLeod.  She stayed in the shadows as she made her way down to the glassy smooth body of water, so popular in the spring and summer in the daytime, but dark, creepy, deserted and dangerous at night.

She arrived a little after 1 a.m. and settled in to wait near the intersection of several paths, figuring she was likely to spot most anyone coming in along one of them.  Two junkies slunk by, shadowy figures passing briefly through the pool of bright light cast by one of the big lamps that gave the illusion of safety.  They were walking fast and talking in low tones, probably on their way to score with a dealer elsewhere in the park.  The night was a little chilly and Sara zipped up her jacket to keep out the chill, and stuck her hands deep in her pockets.  Her service revolver was a comforting presence in the small of her back, but she was more aware than usual of the Witchblade, which was constantly moving and shifting on her arm, driving her crazy.

At last she saw the Indian strolling confidently along through the looming shadows of tall trees and clumps of bedraggled bushes as though this weren't a very dangerous place to be in the middle of the night.  He was still wearing his long coat, his white turban shining like a beacon in the darkness.  He took up a watchful position a dozen feet off the path, leaning against a tree, his head moving as he scanned the darkness around him.

A few minutes later, MacLeod came down the path from the street, his long strides carrying him quickly towards her, his coat billowing out slightly behind.  He looked like a man determined to deal with whatever life presented, and conquer it by main force, if necessary.

Her eyes went to the Indian, who had pushed away from the tree and walked down the small incline, moving away from the pond to a small clearing of smooth grass.  MacLeod followed as though on a pre-arranged signal.

Then she blinked in surprise when both men simultaneously threw off their coats, each now holding a long sword, handling the gleaming weapons with the familiarity of long practice.  Shit.  Sara looked at the Witchblade, willing it to transform, but even though the stone was roiling with life, it stayed firmly in its bracelet form.  With a low growl of frustration, she reached behind her to pull out her gun, ready to intervene, but something stopped her as she was about to step out of the shadows and demand that the men put down their weapons.  She resisted, trying to push past the sense of urgent reluctance that held her in place, but the Witchblade tightened on her arm, growing uncomfortably warm.  Sara broke into a sweat, confused, paralyzed in place and utterly unable to do anything but watch with painfully heightened perceptions.

"We don't have to do this, Singh," MacLeod announced.  He held his sword loosely, its point almost touching the ground. "You can choose to walk away."

Singh smiled, his white teeth almost iridescent in his dark face.  “I choose – not.”  He raised his long, shallowly curving scimitar up, holding it in a graceful arc over his head.

Methos squatted on the top of the pile of boulders overlooking the pond, letting his eyes absorb as much light as possible, scanning the area around MacLeod and Singh.  He spotted Sara Pezzini just as MacLeod and Singh settled into their battle stances.  She was nearly hidden in the shadows of the bushes edging the clearing and Methos moved soundlessly down the rocks towards her, careful of his footing while still keeping a wary eye on the wielder.  She was in an odd position, one hand behind her back, her dark eyes wide with an expression of astonishment as she watched the two Immortals join the battle.

He was halfway to her, and dangerously close to being within sensing range of MacLeod and Singh when the tiniest snick of sound made him freeze.  It was an all too familiar and distinctive noise – the near silent hiss of a sword sliding from its sheathe.  He drew his own blade and turned, scanning the area, feeling for Immortal presence, but there was nothing.  Abandoning Sara for the more immediate threat, he crouched close to the ground and moved towards the noise.

With no warning at all, his arm was grabbed, and he was spun around.  Instinct, and thousands of years of battle training instantly kicked in. He threw himself to the ground, rolling towards the dark shadow he could barely see behind him.  He hit his attacker a glancing blow, and instantly lost track of him, so he darted around a tree trunk for cover and found his feet.  His opponent was silent and virtually invisible, so he could only rely on instinct about his probable location.  He leapt, grabbing a low limb, and pulling himself up off the ground, holding the position for one, two, three, four breathless seconds.  Just as his arms were beginning to tremble, a twig snapped below and to his left and he kicked out with his legs, wrapping them around his attacker's neck and twisting his body as he let go of the limb, bringing both of them to the ground.

He put all the weight of his body on the struggling form as he carefully laid the edge of his sword just above the heavy wool of the man’s coat collar, and below the dark fabric of his knit cap.  He saw a beard, and felt the whipcord, wiry strength of the body beneath him.

“Nottingham!” he snapped, keeping his voice low, both of them breathing harshly.  “What the hell are you doing here?”  He made the mistake of moving the blade a fraction of an inch away from mortal flesh, and in a heartbeat, he was thrown off and slammed against a tree, with the blade of a katana pressed against his throat.

Even as he tensed at the sharp edge biting his neck, Methos looked beyond Nottingham, keeping a wary eye on the Immortal battle raging below.  Either Singh was better than he had expected, or MacLeod was still trying to convince the man to give it up without losing his head.

“I could ask you the same thing, Dr. Pierson,” Nottingham answered.  “But I have more pressing business at the moment.”  He raised the hilt of the katana to knock Methos out, but Methos twisted away, and all Nottingham managed to hit was the rough bark of the tree. 

“You mustn’t interfere,” Methos snapped.  “You’ll only distract him!”  But Nottingham backed off a step, then moved away with a speed that defied explanation or description as he closed in on Singh from behind, the katana raised to strike.

MacLeod spotted Nottingham and yelled for him to stop, but the split second of inattention cost him as Singh swung hard underneath Mac’s defenses.  Even from a distance, Methos could hear the scimitar bite deep into the flesh of Mac’s shoulder, and Methos’ stomach lurched as he watched MacLeod curl over with a grunt of pain, momentarily going down to one knee.

Nottingham cried out and Singh turned toward the sound.  Nottingham’s katana flashed, slicing across Singh’s chest.  The immortal gasped and staggered, but still managed to flail out in an instinctive defensive strike.  Ian was caught in the unexpected back swing of the deadly scimitar, and he spun to the ground, but instantly rolled again to his feet, one hand reflexively clutching his side. 

Singh was momentarily torn between his two attackers, but clearly felt more threat from MacLeod, who had shouted in concern, and pushed himself to his feet when he saw Ian was hurt.  Singh turned again towards MacLeod, but Mac closed the distance between them with a vengeance, now concerned only with ending the battle, and skewered Singh through in one powerful stroke.

Singh looked down in agonized outrage at the ivory hilt protruding from his sternum.  “You bastard!” he choked, blood dribbling out of his mouth. “You promised…no interfer….” His eyes rolled up and he tumbled to the grass before he got the words out.

“All right!  That’s enough, all of you,” a sharp voice yelled.  “MacLeod, hold it right there. And you, Pierson, is it?  Drop that sword and put your hands in the air,” Sara ordered as she advanced on them, her arm extended, pointing the business end of a large automatic pistol in their direction.

“Oh, fuck!” Methos murmured, carefully lowering his broadsword to the grass.  “Could this get any worse?”

Evidently it could, because Pezzini pulled out a cell phone to call for backup.  But once again, even injured, Nottingham seemed to defy the rules of time and space as he moved across the clearing in a flash and knocked the gun away, giving Methos the opportunity to grab the hand holding the cell phone, twisting it hard up behind her back.

“No police, Sara!” Methos ordered, keeping her firmly in place with a chokehold.  For a second, he thought she had capitulated to his larger size and strength, then she twisted and effortlessly threw him over her shoulder, where he hit the ground with a breath-stopping thud.  But at least he still had the cell phone and he successfully rolled away out of her immediate reach. 

“God damn it, Pierson, at least call for an ambulance!  They both need medical attention,” she demanded as they watched Ian stagger and fall, clutching his side.

“No…ambulance,” Nottingham gasped, panting with pain.

Mac went to Nottingham and dropped to his knees, trying to pry Ian’s hand away from the wound to see how bad it was, but Ian jerked away.

“Ian,” Mac whispered.  “Let me see!"  He raised his voice.  "Me..Adam,” he called.  “Get Sara out of here.” 

“No one is going to get Sara out of here, MacLeod,” Pezzini snarled, and she glanced down at the Witchblade, her eyes narrowed in concentration.  Methos’ vision flickered and he could have sworn he saw the twisting band of jewelry begin to move and shift, growing along her arm.  He rolled to his feet and reached out, placing his hand over the bracelet, holding it with all the strength he could muster.

Sara looked up at him and froze, her eyes wide, as though she saw something utterly unexpected, alien and inexplicable.

“Listen to me, Sara Pezzini,” he hissed softly.  He could feel the blade writhe, but he forced himself to consciously let the power of 5,000 years of life and the urgency of the moment surge to the surface. The bracelet went cold and still under his hand.  “This cannot be explained to the police or to doctors in any way that makes rational sense.  That is something I think you can appreciate.”

She looked deep into his eyes, her face a study in curious fascination.  She nodded slowly.

“Then you will have to trust me.  We’ll take care of Ian, but I swear to you there will be no dead body to explain.  No need for the police.”

“But how…?”

“No time for that,” he snapped.  “Mac,” he called.  “Take your katana, and get Ian to safety.  I’ll take care of the rest.”

“But, you’re hurt,” Ian whispered, reaching up to touch Mac’s blood-soaked sleeve.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Mac assured him.  He rose, yanked the katana out of Singh’s body with a liquid slide of steel through flesh, then pulled Ian to his feet, supporting much of his weight, and moving quickly down the path, leaving Methos and Sara staring at each other.

“And I’m not about to leave the scene of a crime just on your say-so,” Sara stated with flat determination.

Methos gritted his teeth in frustration.  Was he somehow now destined to deal with people whose stubborn sense of honor and obligation was strong enough to tell Death to go to hell?  It almost made him laugh.

He sighed, closing his eyes and trying to come up with a viable plan that would get them out of the park without spending half the night trying to explain the unexplainable.  Nothing brilliant immediately came to mind, so he just knelt by Singh’s body.  One thing at a time. It only took a moment, and the man gasped back to life, with a matching gasp of shock heard from Sara.

Singh’s dark eyes stared up into Methos’.  “You son of a bitch!  MacLeod promised there would be no interference,” he gasped, clutching at the still-healing wound in his chest.

“This wasn’t MacLeod’s doing, or mine,” Methos explained calmly.  “It was a mort...an outsider who didn’t know the rules.  Consider yourself lucky, Singh.”

“Lucky!” Singh pushed himself up.  “I was about to…”

“Die,” Methos finished for him.  “MacLeod was just letting the fight continue long enough to convince you that walking away from the battle was a good idea.  If he hadn’t been distracted and ended up with witnesses, it would have been over in minutes.  Let it go, Singh.”

The dark-eyed man just stared at him malevolently, and Methos decided it was pointless to waste any more time with him.

He stood, picked up his broadsword from the grass and walked down the path towards the street, tucking his blade into his coat as he did.  He looked back once, and Sara was still staring at Singh, watching as the formerly ‘dead’ man climbed to his feet and stumbled away.  Maybe she would be so stunned to see the dead rise, he could get away cleanly. Not likely, but even so, Methos hurried his steps.  He was hardly surprised when Sara caught up to him, tucking her retrieved pistol into the holster at her back as she matched his long strides. 

They walked along in silence for a minute until they reached the street, where Methos raised his hand for a cab.  Even at this hour, finding a cab on 5th Avenue took only a moment, but Methos gave Sara an annoyed look when she climbed in with him.

“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?” he asked.  “Some criminal to apprehend, some helpless victim to rescue?”

“If you think you can just walk away from that,” she jerked her head back towards the park, “without an explanation, you have another think coming.”

Methos leaned his head back and closed his eyes.  “Gods, that’s all I need, another stubborn hero who doesn’t know when to quit,” he sighed, and gave the cabbie instructions to take them to his hotel.

Mac bundled Ian into a cab, helping him hold his coat closed.  He started to give instructions to get them to the nearest hospital, but Ian grabbed his arm in a painful grip.

“Take me to my place in the Village,” he insisted.

“Are you sure?  You need….”

“It will be okay, I promise,” Ian whispered.

Reluctantly, he gave the cabbie the Village address.  He could see Ian’s pale, sweaty face, could feel the warm blood oozing from his side.  It had been impossible to examine the wound in the darkness of the park, but he had seen enough to know it was serious, so he kept an arm around Ian as they moved through the gym’s alternating patterns of dark shadow and bright light cast by the streetlights, and through a door on the other side.  Mac found himself in a small, Spartan living area, with a double bed tucked away in a corner, a small kitchenette, and a seating space with one chair, one book-covered table and a lamp. 

“Your private haven?” he asked as he got Ian over to the bed and carefully lay him down.

Nottingham didn’t answer, just closed his eyes and looked uncomfortable as Mac gently pulled up the dark sweater and folded back the torn, blood-soaked fabric.

He found a bowl in the kitchenette and filled it with water, appropriating a washcloth from the small bathroom.  He returned to the bed and sat, wetting the cloth and carefully wiping away the worst of the blood so he could examine the wound.

He paused and leaned closer.  The scimitar’s point had caught the skin of Ian’s side, ripping through and slicing well into the muscle wall, but the ragged edges of the tear had already stopped bleeding and the injury looked days old.  If he hadn’t watched his own injuries heal so often, and known accelerated healing was possible, he would have called it a miracle.

He looked up at Ian, meeting his eyes, and Ian gave him a wan smile.  “I told you it would be all right,” he said.  “Frankly, I’m more concerned about your wound,” he said, reaching out with one hand and tugging at Mac’s coat sleeve, still soggy where blood had soaked through.  “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“No,” Mac assured him, still stunned by what he had seen.  A mortal with near-Immortal healing ability.  “It wasn’t as bad as it looked.”  He shook himself, carefully examining the wound again.  “I can stitch this, if you like.  I’ve had a fair amount of medical training.”

Ian chuckled, then winced as the movement tugged at sore, bruised flesh.  “Just put some butterfly bandages on it to hold the edges closed.  It will heal on its own in a day or two.”

“A day or two?” Mac inquired with a dubious raised eyebrow.

“It’s hard to explain,” Ian answered, “and I’m not sure I can.”

Mac shook his head with a sigh.  “That’s okay.  Life is full of little mysteries, eh?”  He went to the bathroom and found a complete stock of first aid supplies, as though this were not the first time Ian had dealt with serious injuries. 

He carefully cleaned and bandaged the wound, taping clean gauze over the area.  He looked up from his task to find Ian watching him with an odd expression.  “What?” he asked.

“You have very gentle hands,” Ian observed.  “Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you,” Mac said with a smile, “except that you should not have interfered tonight.”

“But he attacked you,” Ian looked puzzled.  “Together we could have easily defeated him.”

“It was an honorable challenge,” Mac replied sternly.  “Win or lose, no intervention is allowed.”  He got up from the bed and pulled off his coat, draping it over the room’s only chair.  “Mind if I use your bathroom to clean up?”

“Of course not,” Ian answered, watching him closely.

Mac stepped into the bathroom and gratefully closed the door, leaning up against it.  What a total disaster.  If he had managed to talk Singh out of fighting in the first place, this would never have happened.  Or if he had dealt with him back in England when he realized the man was tracking him, or if he hadn’t let himself get distracted maybe he could have still convinced Singh to give up the fight and walk away.  Or if he had just taken the bastard’s head right off, instead of letting the fight continue, maybe…oh, hell, then they would have seen a Quickening and maybe that would be even worse.  Who could tell? 

Mac swallowed the harsh dryness in his throat, running his fingers through his hair in frustration, forcing himself to stop.  Second guessing and self-recrimination would serve no purpose. When he dropped his hand, he noticed it was painted with half-dried blood.  Great, now he had blood in his hair.  He stepped over to the mirror and noted he had somehow also managed to streak his face and neck with the stuff.  He pulled off his ruined shirt, threw it in the trash, and ran water in the sink, scrubbing away the blood and splashing his face, watching the pink water circle and go down the drain.  He leaned on the sink, closing his eyes, suddenly feeling dizzy and sick.  So much spilled blood in his life, on his hands.  And now Ian had been hurt, caught in the cross-fire of his violent life, like so many others….

“Are you all right?”

Mac jerked, looking up into the mirror at Ian’s concerned face.  “Yes,” he said hurriedly, pushing himself up straight and forcing a small smile.  “I’m fine, Ian.  You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“I told you I heal remarkably….” Ian was looking at the clean, unblemished flesh of Mac’s arm.

Their eyes met, Ian’s growing wide and dark.  “Like I said,” Mac said softly, “Life is full of little mysteries.”

Ian blinked several times, and leaned heavily up against the doorframe, his face even more pale than before.

“You should stay off your feet,” Mac advised, gently taking Ian’s arm and guiding him back to the bed.

“I’m fine, really,” Ian protested, but let Mac sit him on the side of the bed and then silently watched as Mac knelt to pull Ian’s shoes and socks off.  Mac stood and reached for his coat, preparing to leave.

“Get some rest, Ian,” he admonished as he moved towards the door.

“Duncan,” he called.

Mac closed his eyes for a moment.  It seemed ages since anyone had called him that.  He turned, and Ian was looking up at him with such longing, such loneliness on his face.  It was an expression he had seen all too often in his own mirror.

“Don’t go,” Ian whispered, reaching out a hand.

He moved closer and took the outstretched hand, intending to just to reassure that he was not offended at Ian’s obvious efforts at seduction, but Ian tugged even more, pulling him until he was standing between Ian’s knees.

“Please,” Ian asked.  “Stay.” And he reached up to tug at Mac’s coat.

“Ian,” Mac said softly, cupping the side of a sweet, intensely appealing face, “I…can’t,” he finished lamely, his body already reacting to a hand exploring his chest. 

“Why not?” Ian insisted, then pressed his lips to Mac’s sternum, tickling with his tongue and working closer and closer to Mac’s nipples.

Why not, indeed?  Why did this feel vaguely like Mac was cheating on someone, when there was no one to cheat on?  He had been celibate for over a year, ever since Connor’s death.   It was, he supposed, some kind of penance, but at the moment his cock had decided it was time for the penance to be over.

“Ian, this isn’t…”

“Hush,” Ian whispered.  “I’m very good at this, you know.  It’s no problem.  No commitment, no entanglements.  You took care of me, now let me take care of you.  Please.”  He pushed on Mac’s coat and it slid away, the weight of the katana in its lining thumping onto the floor.  Ian sighed, pulling Mac close and folding his arms around him until Mac gave into the irresistible urge and leaned into the warm, solid flesh.

God, it had been so long since anyone had done this, given him this intimate sense of caring, not since Tessa…  His throat closed at that memory, and he barely felt it as Ian unzipped his pants and they fell silently to the floor.  Then there was a slight shift of air, and he looked down.  Ian had slipped off the bed and was kneeling, untying Mac’s shoelaces and gently tugging on his knees so he would lift his feet.  It seemed so odd that in seconds, he was effortlessly naked.

“Ian,” he still managed to start a protest.  “You’re hurt, and I’m not….”

“I’m fine.  And I have no expectations, Duncan,” Ian said softly, rising and letting his own trousers fall to the floor while Mac watched.  “I just want to please you.”

Ian had a beautiful body, and it was such a rush to hear someone call him Duncan again.  It had almost become like a secret name, something used only by those who let him be real, be human.

Ian laid back onto the bed, holding out his arms in silent invitation, his impressive cock already erect.  The sight sent small shockwaves through Mac’s system, and he could feel even more warmth in his belly and his cock throbbed in response.  Yes, it had been far, far too long. 

He sat on the bed and leaned over this beautiful, troubled man, so pleased to see nothing but desire in those intense, dark eyes.  Ian pulled him close, and they just held each other for a moment, breathing softly into each other’s necks.  Then Ian kissed his shoulder, the sensation almost a tickle of pleasure.  He swiped Mac's bare skin with his tongue, and moved up to the base of Mac’s neck where he suckled gently.  It was an electric sensation and Mac’s hazy sense of relaxed pleasure instantly graduated to hard, hot lust.  His cock expanded even more, and Mac pulled Ian’s face up to his, needing to kiss, to suck those lips with his own, to slip both his hands under that firm ass so their cocks could slide together.

“Yesss,” Ian hissed, taking Mac’s head in both hands, their tongues tangling in a rush of aggressive lust. 

Somehow Ian turned them, and Mac let him, mindful of the man’s injury, letting him set the pace.  Mac found himself pushed onto his back, his nipples pulled into hard points by strong hands, and Ian slid down his body, never losing eye contact, until he was kneeling between Mac’s legs.  He licked delicately at the sensitive skin between Mac’s thighs, tickled with his tongue even more at the base of his cock, wetting his balls, finally taking one testicle in his mouth and sucking until Mac couldn’t stand it any more and let his head fall back with a groaning sigh. 

Then warm, wet heat enclosed his cock, and he reached down to feel the springy curls of Ian’s hair as the man expertly set an irresistible rhythm.  In less than a minute, Mac felt the muscles of his ass tighten and his back arched as an electric heat danced in his belly.  So close.  He panted for air, desperate for relief and then a finger found the sensitive skin at his center and pushed in.  It was all he needed to send him spiraling over the edge and he came with a shout, one hand holding Ian’s head, the other clutching the covers in a death grip.

For several wonderful moments, he just floated, his eyes closed.  His breath evened out and he felt like he was sinking deep into the bedcovers, weighted down, perhaps never to move again.  And that was a good thing.  It had been a long time.

The bed shifted and he opened his eyes.  Ian was watching him, his face flushed, his eyes bright, but his brow furrowed with concern.  “Are you all right?” he asked.  “Did I please you?”

“Please me?” Mac had to chuckle.  “What do you think?”  He reached out, encouraging Ian to scoot up the bed so they could lie side by side, then couldn’t resist stroking Ian’s bearded cheek.  The hair was soft and springy under his hand.  “Come here,” he whispered, pulling the man down to him for a long kiss, this time a little less desperate, a little more tender.

Mac stopped to take a long breath, running his hand gently down the lean torso, but stopped when Ian looked oddly surprised and a little uncertain.  “What?” Mac asked, with a smile.  It had been so long since he had been intimate with anyone, the body-to-body contact was an intense pleasure all by itself, and he relished feeling Ian’s hard cock throb against his belly.

“I just…wanted to please you,” Ian answered.

“Ah,” Mac said in response, pushing an unruly curl away from Ian’s face.  “Let’s see if I can return the favor.”  He pushed himself down Ian’s lean body, letting his fingers drift over all the sensitive, erotic pressure points he had learned in his long life, a small brush here, a gentle push there, his tongue doing much of the work, and in a moment Ian’s eyes glazed over and he was gazing at the ceiling, his breath coming in small gasps.

“What are you…?” Ian managed to say, but couldn’t seem to finish his question when Mac pushed Ian’s thighs apart, nudged the quickly tightening balls aside with his cheek and slipped his tongue along the sensitive flesh, making smaller and smaller circles until he was moistening the tight aperture beneath.

“Oh!” Ian said softly, arching his back a little.

Mac pushed his tongue in a little further, and heard a strangled gasp in response, so he set up a rhythm of minute pulses with his tongue until Ian started making incoherent begging noises.  In response, Mac sat up, replaced his tongue with a finger and pushed gently inward.  Ian gave him no opportunity for subtlety this time, pushing himself hard onto Mac’s finger.  He decided any further foreplay would just be a torment, so Mac leaned down and took that desperately hard cock deep into his throat, while he reached with his finger deep into Ian’s most intimate places.  In three strokes, Ian came with a keening cry, thrashing so hard Mac had to use his heavier weight to hold him on the bed until Ian finally sagged limply into the mattress and went completely still except for the fast rise and fall of his chest.

Mac crawled up and flopped down on the mattress, taking pleasure in just looking at the fine features and beautiful form of the body next to him.  Ian’s eyes were closed, but his face was still flushed and sweaty.  At last the dark eyes opened and turned to him. 

“Why did you do that?” Ian asked, his expression one of puzzled wonder.

Mac tucked his chin down in surprise.  “Because…I wanted to please you?” he answered tentatively, echoing Ian’s earlier turn of phrase.  “And because I enjoyed it,” he added with a small grin.  He reached out to trace a finger along the smooth flesh of Ian’s arm, unwilling to relinquish the precious sense of intimacy.  “Didn’t you?”

“I…yes, of course,…but…,” Ian seemed confused, his focus wandering around the room, and a small knot of worry and even anger formed in the pit of Mac’s stomach.

“But what?” he asked, half sitting up.  “But you are only allowed to give pleasure, not receive it?”

“No!” Ian answered, but his eyes wouldn’t meet Mac’s.  “It’s just…you were injured…, and then you healed immediately, and…I don’t know,” he ended with a whisper.  “I just wanted you, and I didn’t expect….”

“You didn’t expect me to want you?”  Mac asked, but Ian didn’t answer.

“No, that’s not it,” Ian replied, turning at last to meet Mac’s eyes once more.  “You were so…tender,” he whispered.  “That’s what I didn’t expect.”

Mac chuckled, pulling Ian close so he could rest his head on Mac’s shoulder, and Mac could feel the comfort of another’s steady heartbeat against his flesh. “That’s the best part.  Didn’t you know that?” he asked, a little chilled when Ian just gave him a blank, curious look.  “Sex is just sex – a release of tension, a nice form of exercise.  But tenderness, sharing the joy – that’s the difference between having sex and making love.  I learned that a long, long time ago.”

Sara followed Pierson into the elaborate suite, watching as the man carelessly tossed the plastic room key onto the coffee table, then carefully hung up his coat in the closet near the door.  Now she understood why the Indian, MacLeod and Pierson wore those long coats.  They all carried swords.  Of course, exactly why they all carried swords, and seemed to have no hesitation in using them against each other was another question entirely, and one to which she intended to get an answer.

“Drink?” Pierson asked, leaning over and opening the minibar.  “I’ve some beer, and various little bottles of booze, and Mac has a bottle of good scotch I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing.

“Beer would be good,” Sara sighed, and flopped into a chair, exhaustion suddenly setting in with a vengeance.

“A woman after my own heart,” Pierson replied, pulling out two bottles of Heineken and handing her one.

She twisted off the cap and tossed it towards the trash.  She missed, and the cap bounced off the rim and onto the carpet.  She was unaccountably amused when Pierson did exactly the same thing. 

“First things first,” she announced, intending to take control of this interview, and keep it.  “Both MacLeod and Nottingham were hurt, but you seemed to think they would be okay.  Why is that, and what assurances do I have that MacLeod isn’t going to just off Nottingham and dump him in the East River as an unwanted witness to attempted murder?”

Pierson laughed out loud, then took a long drink of his beer, and took over the couch, plopping his feet noisily onto the coffee table.  “First, MacLeod doesn’t just 'off' anybody,” he said.  “The man is notoriously reluctant to harm anyone not an immediate threat to himself or someone he cares about, or sometimes even someone he doesn’t care about.  He’s just that kind of guy.”  He looked over at Sara with an annoying, condescending expression.  “And second, Mac is quite capable of rendering excellent first aid, and if anything beyond that is required, he will move heaven and earth to ensure Nottingham’s well being.”

“And who is going to render first aid to MacLeod?” Sara insisted.  “I saw him take a bad cut to his arm.”

Pierson shrugged.  “The man’s tough.  He’ll be fine.  Just like Mr. Singh recovered in short order.”

“Damn it, that’s not good enough,” Sara barked, sitting forward.  “What the hell was going on tonight, anyway?  I could have sworn that man was dead!  Are those trick swords you guys carry?  But why would…?” the illogic of her own words brought Sara to a halt. 

“Sara, how would you explain the powers of that bracelet you wear?” Pierson asked.

“I…” Sara stumbled over her response, suddenly on the defensive.  “How do you know about that?” she demanded.

Pierson sat forward, cradling his beer in both hands.  “If there can be a mystery like the Witchblade in the world, then obviously there can be other mysteries.  This is one of them, and one you don’t need to know any more about.  My advice to you, Sara Pezzini, is to forget this night ever happened.  Let MacLeod be, let me be, and go back to dealing with what must already be a very complicated life.”

For one long moment of silence, Sara seriously considered doing exactly that.  She truly didn’t need any more bizarre, unexplainable conundrums in her life right now.  She let her head fall back and closed her eyes.  Damn, but she was tired.  But there was that Interpol report.  MacLeod and international criminals, swords, blood, the vision of death head masks.  Her eyes flew open as her mind sorted through the night’s events.

“You stopped it,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?” Pierson asked.

She looked up into his eyes, but saw only the calm warmth of a harmless academic.  But that wasn’t what she had seen before.  “You put your hand over the Witchblade just as it was about to transform,” she reported.  “And you stopped it.  It went icy cold on my arm, and I felt – it felt – afraid.”

Pierson stood and crossed to the window, pushing back the gauze curtain with a clatter and staring out into the lights of the city.  “It’s not something you need to concern yourself with, Sara.”

Sara had to laugh at that.  She had been desperately trying to control the Blade for months, and this man had but to lay his hand on the damn thing and it instantly obeyed him.  A man – when the Blade was said to never respond to the male of the species.

“That’s bullshit, Pierson, and you know it.”

He turned around, and the harmless academic had disappeared.  The face was hard, the eyes cold and glittering.  “All right, Sara Pezzini, you want to have all the mysteries revealed?  Then listen carefully.  There is a race of people hidden among us all, a race who live long lives, accumulating a certain kind of power as they do, a race that exists amidst the chaos of perpetual, imminent personal combat to the death.  The Blade recognizes them, and knows better than to interfere in their battles.  That’s why you couldn’t act while MacLeod and Singh were fighting, and that’s why it stilled under my touch.”

“A…race?” Sara struggled to comprehend.  “A race different from humans?  Aliens?”

“No!” Pierson snapped, turning back to stare out the window.  “Human.  Just…different.”

“Irons,” Sara whispered almost to herself, then louder, “Kenneth Irons is rumored to be much older than he appears.  He is one of you!”

Pierson’s laugh sounded dry and dusty and old.  “No, Sara.  Irons is not one of…us.  But exactly what he is I couldn’t say.”

Sara ran both hands through her hair, tugging at it distractedly, trying to understand.  “But if the combat is supposed to be to the death, then why…I don’t understand!” she insisted.  “He was stabbed through the chest, then got up and walked away, damn it!”

“We are very hard to kill,” Pierson said softly.  “Permanently, that is,” he added almost as an afterthought.

The words hovered in the air.  Sara felt like they were bouncing off her brain without sinking in.  “Permanently,” she repeated mindlessly, then her thoughts drove her straight to her feet.  “Oh, fuck!” she whispered.  “He was dead, and he came back!”

Pierson turned to look at her, one corner of his mouth turned up in an off-center smile.  He raised his beer in a congratulatory salute and took a long swallow.

Dawn light was beginning to show through the curtains as Mac let himself into the suite.  He expected Methos to stir at his arrival, but was surprised to see a lumpy, blanket-covered form on the couch.

“Shhh,” a soft voice whispered, and he looked up to see Methos in his bedroom doorway, his finger to his lips.  “I think she just finally got off to sleep.”

Mac moved lightly across the floor and Methos followed him into Mac’s bedroom, shutting the door soundlessly behind him.

“How's Nottingham?” Methos asked.

Mac shrugged out of his coat, throwing it across the bed and sitting down heavily.  He was exhausted.  “Amazing,” he answered, reaching down to pull off his shoes.  “He heals twice as fast as I would have expected.  By the time I cleaned the wound, it had completely stopped bleeding and was starting to close.”

Methos stuck his hands in the pockets of his robe and leaned against the wall, saying nothing, just watching as Mac pulled off his shoes and socks.

“And how much did you have to tell Sara?” Mac asked.  “What was she even doing there in the first place?  Nottingham said he had been following her, and she led him to the park.”

Methos was studying him with an intensity that was making Mac uncomfortable so he went into his bathroom to pull off his pants and put on a robe, leaving the door open so he could hear Methos’ reply.

“She was in the lobby when Singh made the challenge.”

Mac shoved open the bathroom door even before he had managed to tie his robe closed.  “What? What did you say?”

“I said she saw Singh make the challenge.”

Mac felt his mouth tighten in disgust. “Damn it, I should have seen her!  All this could have been avoided if….”

“You were a little preoccupied at the time, Mac, and she was standing on the opposite side of the lobby, in the shadows,” Methos interrupted.

“How do you know?”

“Because I spotted her there.”

“And you didn’t tell me?  Why the hell not?”

“Would you make yourself decent and calm down?” Methos nodded at Mac’s open robe, and Mac angrily pulled it closed, yanking the tie into a knot.

“If I had known she was there, I would have…”

“Have done what, Mac?  Been sufficiently distracted that you lost the fight – which is what almost happened, by the way.”

“As I recall, Methos, I killed Singh, even with the distraction.”

“But it was a close call, wasn’t it?  You were more concerned with Ian getting hurt than the actual fight.  And where, by the way, have you been for the past three hours?  Surely dressing Ian’s wound didn’t take all that long.  Or did you dress more than his wound?”

The sardonic tone of Methos’ words stopped Mac short and he looked into his eyes, barely visible in the shadows of the corner where the man had taken refuge.

Mac refused to reply.  It was certainly no one’s business what he had done with Ian, except that Methos seemed to think otherwise.  But if Methos thought otherwise, then what did that say about their complex relationship?  That thought made something in Mac’s belly flutter. 

“We’re both tired, Methos,” he finally answered softly.  “We’ll talk about this later.”

Methos pushed himself away from the wall and headed to the door.  “Yeah, later,” Methos replied over his shoulder.  “Get some sleep, MacLeod.  I think it’s going to be a long day.”

Irons had read the Wall Street Journal from cover to cover over his breakfast, then dressed in the fresh shirt, suit and tie his manservant had set out for him.  He looked in the mirror closely as he shaved and combed his hair, looking for any new signs of aging.  The serum his doctors had concocted from Elizabeth Bronte’s carefully preserved remains had been recently exhausted, and he was now dependent on Sara Pezzini as a source.  The Witchblade’s unique effect on its wielders made them a walking medical wonder, enhancing their strength, their speed, their intuitive and psychic ability.  It also allowed them to heal virtually overnight, as well as stave off the ravages of old age.  Irons' long-ago attempt to wear the Blade had almost driven him insane, but it also bonded him to the Blade and to its wielder.  Sometimes he could feel what she felt, almost see what she could see.

With Sara’s blood and the research he had funded over the decades that had led to the development of a life-prolonging serum, he could extend his life almost indefinitely, but in order to do that, he needed to control her, to tie her to him in irreversible ways, the way he had Elizabeth Bronte.  He had courted Elizabeth, swept her off her feet, and even loved her in his own way.  After her death, her remains had provided the stems cells that had gone towards creating Ian Nottingham, giving him some small measure of her special abilities, and binding him to Sara Pezzini on a cellular level.  Irons leaned closer to the mirror, thought he saw a few tiny new lines around his eyes, and frowned.  Soon.  He needed to gain control of Sara very soon.

He took the private elevator down to his offices and began his morning routine, irritated and mildly concerned when Ian didn’t report in first thing.  He checked his monitors, but Ian was not in his apartment or the exercise room.  Then he checked the recordings over the past few hours at Ian’s hideout in the Village….

It was after 10 am when Ian finally showed up at his office, dressed in his usual dark, cloaking attire.  He stood in front of Irons’ desk, hands folded behind his back.

“You’re late,” Irons observed, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingertips.

Ian ducked his head in acknowledgement.  “I am sorry, master.  Last night I followed Sara Pezzini into Central Park, and…it is difficult to explain.”

“Try.”

“MacLeod and Pierson were there.  MacLeod was fighting another man with a sword, and I feared for his life, so I stepped in.  I was injured, and MacLeod tended to me.”

“And what happened to Pierson, the other man and to Sara?”

Ian’s head ducked even lower.  “MacLeod killed the other man, but Pierson stopped Sara from calling for backup or for medical attention, assuring her that there would be no dead body, and that MacLeod could competently deal with his and my injuries.  Then MacLeod took me away.  I don’t know what happened in the park after that, although I checked this morning. Sara is not at her apartment, and there was no report of any death or assault in Central Park last night.”

“So MacLeod was injured, as well?  How is he?”

Ian looked up at him, and down again, and silently shrugged.  “He is fine.”

“Really?” Irons insisted.  “How badly was he injured?”

“He was cut on the shoulder with a scimitar.”

“And you tended to his wound, as he tended to yours?  How sweet,” Irons smiled.

“He…his wound….”

“His wound…what?” Irons insisted.

“It disappeared.”

Irons sat forward in his chair.  “Are you certain?”

“It healed almost instantly,” Ian whispered.  “There was no trace of any injury, although his sleeve was cut through and soaked with blood.”

Irons stood and went to the window, stuffing his clenched hands into his pockets.  Could it be true?  Could there be some source other than the wielder for his serum?  Perhaps an even more potent source?  “Instantly, you say?”

“Yes, master.”

Irons turned, studying his minion closely.  “And have you convinced MacLeod to be your teacher yet?”

Ian’s head ducked even further down.  “I…am making progress.”

Irons managed a hard smile. 

“I have every confidence in you.”  He moved closer, and stroked the back of Ian’s neck, leaned close and kissed him gently on the temple.  “You are a good boy, Ian,” he whispered into Ian’s ear.  “You please me very much.”  Irons watched carefully as Ian went very still under his touch. 

“Thank you, master,” Ian replied evenly. 

Was there a minute note of irony in that response?  Was MacLeod tainting his carefully molded prize?  If so, he would pay dearly. 

Both of them would pay dearly.

After Ian left with his instructions to track down Sara Pezzini, and keep an eye on both her and MacLeod, Irons went back to his monitor.

The men were stretched out on a double bed, Ian’s familiar body tucked up against MacLeod’s, both of them flushed and gleaming with sweat.

“You didn’t expect me to want you?”  MacLeod asked.

“No, that’s not it,” Ian replied, turning at last to meet MacLeod’s eyes once more.  “You were so…tender,” he whispered.  “That’s what I didn’t expect.”

MacLeod chuckled, and pulled Ian close so he could rest his head on MacLeod’s shoulder.  “That’s the best part.  Didn’t you know that?” he asked.  “Sex is just sex – a release of tension, a nice form of exercise.  But tenderness, sharing the joy – that’s the difference between having sex and making love.  I learned that a long, long time ago.”

Irons frowned and stopped the recording, freezing the image of the two men lying comfortably together.  “And just how long ago was that, Mr. MacLeod?” Irons whispered into the silence as he studied MacLeod’s unblemished body.